THE BEATING OF THE PULSE.
Being thrown upon his own resources, Felix employed his time in
looking about him--not in the most industrious fashion, it must be
confessed, but after the manner of one who was entirely independent of
the world, and who had merely to make up his mind which of the many
good things by which he was surrounded would be most suitable to a
young gentleman in his position. The weapons with which he was armed
to fight the battle into which he had thrown himself were
trustfulness, simplicity, and faith in human nature. These weapons are
good enough, in all conscience, in themselves; but we are not content,
nowadays, as we were of old, to fight a fair fight, man to man.
Torpedoes and other infernal weapons have come into fashion; and a
man, unless he be crafty, has but a small chance of victory when he
throws down his glove.
One of the first things Felix did when he came into London to conquer
it was to make himself comfortable. He established himself in a
capital hotel not half a mile from Soho, so as to be near his friends;
for it may be truly said that the only friends he had in London lived
in the little house in Soho inhabited by the Podmores, and the
Gribbles, and Lily and her grandfather. He found plenty of excuses for
going there often: Gribble junior was an umbrella maker, and Felix's
umbrella was so continually out of repair, that it became quite a
source of revenue to the bustling frame mender.
"What! another rib gone!" Gribble junior would say, with a look of
astonishment, not suspecting that Felix had broken it purposely, so
that he might have an excuse for calling at the house in the middle of
the day; "it'd be cheaper to buy a new one, sir."
But Felix protested that he would on no account part with so old a
friend; and the repairs continued to be made, until not a particle of
the original structure was left. There was no necessity for these
small subterfuges on Felix's part, for after a time he was always
welcome in that house, and his happiest hours were spent there. They
all liked him; and as for Pollypod, her mother declared, in the
pleasantest of voices, that she was as jealous as jealous could be,
her little girl was that fond of him! All this was very agreeable, and
Felix decided that his new career had commenced in the most
satisfactory manner. His training had not been of such a nature as to
cause him to value money, or to be careful of it; and while he had it
in his purse, he spent it freely. He did not do so from recklessness,
but from a largeness of nature (although he himself would have
disputed it warmly and with a quaint logic), in the light of which
small matters of feeling were ridiculously magnified, and the world's
goods dwindled down to insignificant proportions. Therefore, while he
had he spent; and it was fortunate for him that his tastes and desires
were simple and easily satisfied, for he grudged himself nothing. The
present being amply provided for, he had no fears and no anxiety for
to-morrow. His nature was one which it was easy to impose upon, and he
did not escape the snares set in the public thoroughfares for liberal
hearts. The piteous eyes and faces of beggars that were raised to his
appealingly were never raised in vain. When he was told that these
were part of a trade, he refused to believe. Arrows tipped with doubts
of human goodness glanced from off his generous nature, and left no
wound behind. And yet, as will be seen, he was keen enough in some
matters concerning which men who knew infinitely more of the world
than he (priding themselves upon it) were blind. Speaking upon the
subject to Lily's grandfather, the old man said,
"If you thought a man who begged of you was an impostor, you would not
give."
"I don't know that," replied Felix. "I am selfish enough to think I
should."
The old man smiled at this reference to one of Felix's pet theories.
"It does not so much concern them as me," continued Felix, with sly
gleams. "I give to please myself. Is not that a selfish motive? Not to
give would be to deprive myself of a gratification. I say to myself
sometimes, almost unconsciously (but the sentiment which prompts it
belongs to my nature, or I should not have the thought), 'Bravo,
Felix! that was a good thing to do. You are not a bad fellow.'"
The old man was amused at this.
"The thought comes afterwards," he said.
"But it comes," insisted Felix, as if determined to deprive the kind
promptings of his nature of grace--"it comes, and that is enough. It
is an investment. I give away a penny, and receive the best of
interest. Pure selfishness, upon my word, as is every other action of
our lives. But apart from this, I don't believe that these men and
women are not in want."
"Ah, well," said the old man, looking in admiration at the animated
face of Felix; "it is better to trust than doubt. Suspicion ages the
heart, and robs life of bright colour."
Satisfied that he was spending his time profitably, Felix found life
very enjoyable. He did not trouble himself about the past; the world
was before him, and he was observing, and studying, and preparing
himself to open his oyster. His hotel was in the Strand, and he soon
became well acquainted with the phases of life presented in that
locality. The streets were so full of life, and there was so much to
see. The shops; the theatres; the conveyances the streams of people
flowing this way and that, a few smiling as they walked, some idling,
some talking eagerly to themselves, unconscious of the surging life
through which they make their way--each man perfectly engrossed in his
own personality, each a world, the secret ways of which were known
only to himself. He was soon quite familiar also with the singular
variety of street-shows which can there be seen daily. With the
broad-shouldered, frizzly-haired Italian with his monkeys, residents
of Short's-gardens, where probably the dumb brutes are not so tenderly
treated as strangers, who see them hugged to their master's breast as
he walks along, might suppose them to be. With another monkey also, a
poor little creature, who, being pulled this way and that by a chain
attached to its master's wrist, capers on the pavement (generally at
night) to the dismal moaning of an organ, upon whose grinder's face a
ghastly smile for ever sits, suggesting the idea that it must have
been carved upon his features in infancy. With the melancholy-looking,
straight-haired young man who plays operatic selections upon the spout
of a coffee-pot and through the nozzle of a bellows, and who selects
the widest of the side thoroughfares for his entertainment, seldom
commencing until a perfect ring of admirers and curiosity-mongers is
formed, and who, while his island is being made, stands with an air of
proud humility, as who should say, "I am the only and original player
upon the spout and nozzle in the kingdom; all others are counterfeit."
With the inconceivably-maniacal Swiss quartette, who shout and caper,
and produce hideous sounds from throat and windbag. With the Mongolian
impostor who sits upon a doorstep, uttering never a word, with a look
upon his face as of one suddenly stricken with fatal disease. With the
poor miserable woman, whose thought may soar upwards, but whose eyes
never see the sun, for her body is literally bent in two, who creeps
almost daily along the Strand; and with many other forms of beggary,
even less attractive than these.
What Felix saw in the streets were not his only studies; he read the
newspapers carefully, and not seldom was he amazed at the inequality
of things. He found it difficult to understand how, in one shape, a
certain thing was held up for public censure and condemnation, while
in another shape precisely the same thing (in a worse form perhaps)
was quietly tolerated, and even admired. As thus: He read in the
papers from time to time accounts of proceedings taken against the
publishers and venders of a weekly illustrated sheet, against which it
was charged that it contained objectionable pictures. When he saw the
illustrations he at once acquiesced in the justice of the proceedings,
and decided in his own mind that they pandered to the worst taste, and
were calculated to do much harm. But looking in many of the shop
windows in the locality of the Strand, he saw pictures infinitely
worse in the effect they would be likely to produce than those which
were published in the objectionable paper. The portraits and
full-length pictures of nearly naked women, taken in every attitude
that the lascivious imagination could suggest, and paraded
conspicuously in these windows for public admiration, were worse, in
their insidious badness, than anything that Holywell Street ever
produced. There was no disguise of what are called "female charms" in
the pictures; they were displayed to their fullest extent to feed the
sensual taste, and neither art nor any useful purpose was served by
these degrading exhibitions. On the contrary; they tended to mislead,
in their incongruous mixture of worth and shamelessness. For here was
an actor deservedly popular; here was a courtesan, deservedly
notorious; here was a statesman and a poet, whose names add lustre to
the history of the times in which they live; between them a shameless
woman, bold and lewd, and almost naked; above _her_, a princess,
worthily loved, with her baby on her back, clasping the mother round
her neck--a picture which the poorest wife in England feels the
happier for looking at, so much of homely love and wifely virtue and
sisterly kinship does it suggest; while below was paraded the
painted face of a wanton, whose name is shame. In one window of a
semi-religious kind, in which the frequenters of the May meetings at
Exeter Hall might be supposed to gaze without fear of contamination,
the very worst of these lewd pictures were displayed in the company of
Bibles, and Prayer Books, and Church Services; an association which,
by any sophistry, could not have been proved to be a good one.
In the study of these and other matters Felix found the time pass
rapidly away. Something else passed rapidly away also--his money.
Calling for his hotel-bill one day, he found that, after paying it, he
would have scarcely twenty pounds left. This set him thinking. If he
continued to live in the hotel, he might not be able to pay his next
bill, and the dishonour attaching to such a contingency caused him to
resolve to adopt a more modest mode of living. The gravity of the
position made him serious, but not for long. His idle days were
gone--well, he was glad of it; he was tired of idleness, and longed to
be up and doing. "If I were a rich man," he thought, "and could not
get work without paying for it, I'd pay for it willingly, rather than
be idle." Yes, it was time for him to set to work. He would first take
lodgings in some cheap neighbourhood, and there he would look things
straight in the face. It is amazing what comfort is found in metaphor,
until the time for action arrives. In making this resolution Felix
worked himself into such a state of excitement that he really believed
he had already commenced life in earnest. At first he thought of Soho,
but very slight reflection induced him to forego the temptation of
living in the neighbourhood of Lily. "Whatever struggles I have," he
thought, "I will keep to myself." Chance directing his steps to
Vauxhall, he saw there numbers of bills in the windows announcing
rooms to let. Seeing a decent-looking woman with a baby in her arms
standing at the door of a house in which there was a first-floor to
let, he spoke to her, and asked for particulars. The rent for
sitting-room and bedroom was very moderate, he found. Upon inquiry he
learned that there were other lodgers in the house, that indeed it was
filled with lodgers. The landlady and her husband lived in the
basement; a married couple occupied the parlours; and four or five
persons, perfectly independent of each other, lived on the second and
third floors. "You'll find us very quiet, sir," the landlady said,
looking with an eye of favour upon Felix, and wondering why so smart a
young gentleman as he should desire to live in that poor
neighbourhood, "and you'll have no call to complain of the
attendance." Felix, perfectly satisfied, pinched the baby's cheek,
paid the first week's rent in advance, and received his latch-key. It
was characteristic of him that when he left the hotel he was as
liberal to the attendants as if he had been a gentleman of independent
property.
When he was settled in his new lodgings, he bethought himself of his
promise to Martha Day, his father's housekeeper, to let her know his
address in London. He had written to her from his hotel, and had heard
from her there. As he wrote now, he thought, "If Martha knew how poor
this neighbourhood is, she would guess the reason of my moving; but
she cannot know much of London, and will not be able to learn anything
from the address." He wrote his letter, and went out in the afternoon
with the intention of posting it. But wandering about in idle humour
he forgot it, and at about nine o'clock in the evening he found
himself at his street-door with the letter still in his pocket. He was
about to put his latch-key into the lock when he remembered the
letter, and he was turning away, thinking how stupid he was to be so
forgetful, when the door opened from within, and the very woman in his
thoughts passed swiftly into the street. Martha Day! To see her in
London, away from his father's house, with whose gloom her own joyless
gloomy manner was so thoroughly in unison that they might have been
deemed inseparable, would have been surprise enough in itself; but to
see her there, in that house, so suddenly and strangely, was so great
a surprise that for a moment he thought he had seen an apparition.
When the first shock of the surprise was over, he looked after the
woman, and saw her turn the corner of the street. Then he knew that he
was not mistaken--it was Martha Day he had seen. He hurried after her,
intending to speak to her; but when he turned the corner, he could not
see her, and although he ran hither and thither, he could find no
trace of her. Strangely perplexed, he walked slowly back to the house.
Perhaps she had come there to see him--but how could she know he lived
in that house, having been in it only a few hours? He questioned the
landlady, but she could not enlighten him. She had seen no particular
woman pass in or out of the house. There were so many lodgers, you
see, sir, that all sorts of strange people come in and out. Had any
inquiry been made for him? he asked. No; how could there be, was the
reply, when the landlady didn't know his name? That was true enough;
he had not given his name when he paid the week's rent in advance.
Then he described Martha Day--her face with no trace of colour in it,
her eyes nearly always cast down, her hands nearly always hidden, her
black dress and bonnet--and asked if the landlady knew her. No, the
landlady never remembered to have seen her; and when Felix went
up-stairs to his room, the landlady thought it was singular that he
should be so anxious about the woman--and not a young woman either,
according to his description, she added mentally.
Felix in his room re-opened the letter he had written to Martha, read
it carefully, and put on his considering-cap. But the more he thought
the more he was perplexed. "She cannot have come here for me," he
thought; "and she cannot have come here without a purpose. If I write
to her from this address, it may disturb her, or cause her annoyance
in some way." He tore up the letter, and wrote another, giving his
address at a post-office in the locality. As he went down-stairs in
the dark to post the letter, he brushed somewhat roughly against a
lodger who had just entered the house, and something which the man
carried in his hand dropped to the ground. It sounded like a bottle.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said Felix, groping in the dark for
what had fallen; "I hope it is not broken. No; here it is." He handed
a flat bottle to his fellow-lodger, who received it eagerly, and
feeling with trembling fingers for the cork to assure himself that the
liquor had not escaped, muttered humbly, "No offence, sir; no
offence," and passed to his room.
Felix was in the humour to be irritated by trifles, and this small
incident vexed him unreasonably. He was annoyed with himself for being
vexed, but he could not shake himself into good-humour, and as, in his
present mood, sleep was impossible, he walked along the Embankment and
over Westminster Bridge towards Soho, and thence to the Royal White
Rose Music-hall. It was in the full swing of prosperity, and the usual
audience was present. Composed of pale-faced young men without
whiskers, of fuller-fleshed and older men with much whisker, of boys
sharply featured and men richly lipped, of young men naturally old,
and old men artificially young; of work-girls and servant-girls, and
other girls and other women. There were many hats of the kind called
Alpine, with peacocks' feathers in them, of course; there were
many overcoats with sham fur collars and cuffs; there was much
cigar-smoking and whisky-drinking; and there was generally a large
amount of low swelldom in a state of assertive rampancy. In a certain
respect the audience resembled the audience which was assembled in
Noah's Ark--there was a great deal of pairing. As Felix entered the
music-hall, there came upon the stage a very stout and very short
female vocalist, between thirty-five and fifty years of age, dressed
in a gown which appeared to have been made out of faded bed-hangings.
She was by no means attractive, having bad teeth and a peculiar habit
of squeezing the corners of her eyelids, as if she had some nice
things there which she wanted to keep all to herself. She sang a song,
and there was no applause. Whereupon, the Chairman struck on his bell,
and said she would oblige again. She obliged again. The audience did
not seem to mind her, one way or another. She obliged a third time,
and the refrain to her third song catching the sympathy of her
hearers, she finally retired in triumph, and then the audience wanted
to see her again, and she didn't come. Felix did not like to think of
Lily in association with these things, and he walked away from the
place in nowise soothed by his visit. Naturally light-hearted as he
was, a strange sadness was upon him to-night, and whether it was by
chance, or because his gloomier mood induced him to observe them more
closely and take them to heart, the darker shadows of life forced
themselves upon his attention; turn which way he would, he could not
escape from them. He had just passed a throng of night-birds, dressed
in gay plumage, when sounds of mirth arrested his attention, and he
saw before him a child-girl, perhaps fifteen years of age, with blue
ribbons in her hair, with mocking flowers in her brown hat, with a
white cloud round her throat, with a green dress, and with a petticoat
marvellously fashioned and coloured, staggering along drunk, swaying
her body, waving her arms, and protesting with feeble imploring, even
in the midst of her helpless degradation, against the gibes and
laughter of a grinning mob. The men and women composing the mob
laughed, and nudged each other in the ribs with a fine sense of
humour, and made witty remarks, and winked and flashed their fingers
at the girl, and pointed her out to chance acquaintances, and indulged
in other expressions of delight at the piteous spectacle. An omnibus
conductor jumped down to have a look, and jumped up again, refreshed;
a man with waxed moustaches followed the girl with undisguised delight
and admiration; a cab-driver stopped his horse, and laughingly pointed
at the girl with his whip; a beggar stamped his curiously-clothed toes
in approval as the mob scrambled past him; and a fair-haired girl
smiled pleasantly to herself, and hugged her furs as she walked
through the crowd. Not one stopped to pity; not one among them stepped
forward to save the miserable drunken child-girl from the taunts and
word-stings which were flung at her from all sides, until a policeman
came, and, with a merciful harshness, seized the girl's arm, and
pushed her before him to the police-station.
O! London's Heart! Laden with the sorrow of such lifeblood as this!
What purifying influences can be brought to bear to lessen the pain
that beats in every sob? In this great land, filled as it is with
preachers social and political--in which every hour children are born
to suffer, to grow up to shame and sorrow--can no medicine be found to
cool your fevered blood, and no physicians, unselfish, wise, and
merciful enough, and sufficiently regardless of the pomp of power,
capable of administering it? Some few healers there are, who toil not
in the light, and whose earnest lives are devoted to their work.
Blessings on them, and on every heart that dictates benevolent remedy,
even although it can only reach a few out of the many suffering!
Blessings on the head that devises it, on the hand that administers
it! You who walk through life wrapped in the cruel mantle of
selfishness, heedless of the wails of your helpless brothers and
sisters, stand aside; you who only heed your own comfort, your own
ease, your own well-doing, who have no ointment for your neighbour's
wounds, stand aside; let the gloom of night encompass you and hide
your faces! But you whose hearts bleed at the sight of suffering,
whose nerves quiver at the sound of it, whose hands are eager to
relieve it, come into heaven's light, and let it shine upon you and
the aureola which crowns you, in which every kind impulse that finds
life in action gleams like a blessed star!
It was past midnight when Felix made his way to his lodgings. The
humble streets through which he walked as he neared his home were not
quite deserted. Night-birds were there also, but of a low degree;
night-birds with soiled plumage and ragged feathers; night-birds whose
voices grated upon the ear, like the harsh cawing of crows. High up,
from dingy garret windows, glimmered pale gleams of light. What
mysteries were being wrought within those chambers? How beat the
pulse of London's Heart? What links in the greatness of the mighty
city were there being woven? Perchance within sat some poor seamstress
stitching for bread sleepily through the night, wearing--O, dreadful
paradox!--wearing her life away so that she might live. Not fables,
not legends of the past, are such life struggles--they are of to-day.
Perchance within was hatching some crime, the execution of which would
quicken for a day the pulse of the great City's Heart. Who knew or
who could tell? Crime and patient endurance, purity and vice, are but
divided by a narrow strip of wall, and none can see the mysteries that
lie beneath a single roof but the sleepless Eye which shines above
them all!