CHAPTER LX.
THE BRIDGE AT LAST.
The group which Lord Ascot had seen through the glass doors consisted ofCharles, the coachman's son, the coachman, and Mr. Sloane. Charles andthe coachman's son had got hold of a plan of the battle of Balaclava,from the _Illustrated London News_, and were explaining the whole thingto the two older men, to their great delight. The four got enthusiasticand prolonged the talk for some time; and, when it began to flag, Sloanesaid he must go home, and so they came down into the bar.
Here a discussion arose about the feeding of cavalry horses, in whichall four were perfectly competent to take part. The two young men wereopposed in argument to the two elder ones, and they were having a rightpleasant chatter about the corn or hay question in the bar, when theswing doors were pushed open, and a girl entered and looked round withthat bold, insolent expression one only sees among a certain class.
A tawdry draggled-looking girl, finely-enough dressed, but witheverything awry and dirty. Her face was still almost beautiful; but thecheekbones were terribly prominent, and the hectic patch of red on hercheeks, and the parched cracked lips, told of pneumonia developing intoconsumption.
Such a figure had probably never appeared in that decent aristocraticpublic-house, called the Groom's Arms, since it had got its licence. Thefour men ceased their argument and turned to look at her; and thecoachman, a family man with daughters, said, "Poor thing!"
With a brazen, defiant look she advanced to the bar. The barmaid, a verybeautiful, quiet-looking, London-bred girl, advanced towards her,frightened at such a wild, tawdry apparition, and asked her mechanicallywhat she would please to take.
"I don't want nothing to drink, miss," said the girl; "least-ways, I'vegot no money; but I want to ask a question. I say, miss, you couldn'tgive a poor girl one of them sandwiches, could you? You would never missit, you know."
The barmaid's father, the jolly landlord, eighteen stone of good humour,was behind his daughter now. "Give her a porkpie, Jane, and a glass ofale, my girl."
"God Almighty bless you, sir, and keep her from the dark places wherethe devil lies a-waiting. I didn't come here to beg--it was only when Isee them sandwiches that it came over me--I come here to ask a question.I know it ain't no use. But you can't see him--can't see him--can't seehim," she continued, sobbing wildly, "rattling his poor soul away, andnot do as he asked you. I didn't come to get out for a walk. I sat therepatient three days, and would have sat there till the end, but he wouldhave me come. And so I came; and I must get back--get back."
The landlord's daughter brought her some food, and as her eyes gleamedwith wolfish hunger, she stopped speaking. It was a strange group. Shein the centre, tearing at her food in a way terrible to see. Behind, thecalm face of the landlord, looking on her with pity and wonder; and hispretty daughter, with her arm round his waist, and her head on hisbosom, with tears in her eyes. Our four friends stood to the right,silent and curious--a remarkable group enough; for neither the duke'scoachman, nor Mr. Sloane, who formed the background, were exactlyordinary-looking men; and in front of them were Charles and thecoachman's son, who had put his hand on Charles's right shoulder, andwas peering over his left at the poor girl, so that the two faces wereclose together--the one handsome and pale, with the mouth hidden by amoustache; the other, Charles's, wan and wild, with the lips parted ineager curiosity, and the chin thrust slightly forward.
In a few minutes the girl looked round on them. "I said I'd come here toask a question; and I must ask it and get back. There was a gentleman'sgroom used to use this house, and I want him. His name was CharlesHorton. If you, sir, or if any of these gentlemen, know where I can findhim, in God Almighty's name tell me this miserable night."
Charles was pale before, but he grew more deadly pale now; his hearttold him something was coming. His comrade, the coachman's son, held hishand tighter still on his shoulder, and looked in his face. Sloane andthe coachman made an exclamation.
Charles said quietly, "My poor girl, I am the man you are looking for.What, in God's name, do you want with me?" and, while he waited for herto answer, he felt all the blood in his body going towards his heart.
"Little enough," she said. "Do you mind a little shoeblack boy as usedto stand by St. Peter's Church?"
"Do I?" said Charles, coming towards her. "Yes, I do. My poor littlelad. You don't mean to say that you know anything about him?"
"I am his sister, sir; and he is dying; and he says he won't die nottill you come. And I come off to see if I could find you. Will you comewith me and see him?"
"Will I come?" said Charles. "Let us go at once. My poor little monkey.Dying, too!"
"Poor little man," said the coachman. "A many times, I've heard youspeak of him. Let's all go."
Mr. Sloane and his son seconded this motion.
"You mustn't come," said the girl. "There's a awful row in the courtto-night; that's the truth. He's safe enough with me; but if you come,they'll think a mob's being raised. Now, don't talk of coming."
"You had better let me go alone," said Charles. "I feel sure that itwould not be right for more of us to follow this poor girl than shechooses. I am ready."
And so he followed the girl out into the darkness; and, as soon as theywere outside, she turned and said to him--
"You'd best follow me from a distance. I'll tell you why; I expect thepolice wants me, and you might get into trouble from being with me.Remember, if I am took, it's Marquis Court, Little Marjoram Street, andit's the end house, exactly opposite you as you go in. If you stands atthe archway, and sings out for Miss Ophelia Flanigan, she'll come toyou. But if the row ain't over, you wait till they're quiet. Whateveryou do, don't venture in by yourself, however quiet it may look; singout for her."
And so she fluttered away through the fog, and he followed, walking fastto keep her in sight.
It was a dreadful night. The fog had lifted, and a moaning wind hadarisen, with rain from the south-west. A wild, dripping, melancholynight, without rain enough to make one think of physical discomfort, andwithout wind enough to excite one.
The shoeblacks and the crossing-sweepers were shouldering their broomsand their boxes, and were plodding homewards. The costermongers wereletting their barrows stand in front of the public-houses, while theywent in to get something to drink, and were discussing the price ofvegetables, and being fetched out by dripping policemen, for obstructingher Majesty's highway. The beggars were gathering their rags together,and posting homewards; let us charitably suppose, to their bit of fish,with guinea-fowl and sea-kale afterwards, or possibly, for it was notlate in February, to their boiled pheasant and celery sauce. Every onewas bound for shelter but the policemen. And Charles--poor, silly,obstinate Charles, with an earl's fortune waiting for him, dressed as agroom, pale, wan, and desperate--was following a ruined girl, moredesperate even than he, towards the bridge.
Yes; this is the darkest part of my whole story. Since his misfortuneshe had let his mind dwell a little too much on these bridges. There arevery few men without a cobweb of some sort in their heads, more or lessinnocent. Charles had a cobweb in his head now. The best of men mighthave a cobweb in his head after such a terrible breakdown in hisaffairs as he had suffered; more especially if he had three or foursplinters of bone in his deltoid muscle, which had prevented hissleeping for three nights. But I would sooner that any friend of mineshould at such times take to any form of folly (such even as havingfifty French clocks in the room, and discharging the butler if they didnot all strike at once, as one good officer and brave fellow did) ratherthan get to thinking about bridges after dark, with the foul waterlapping and swirling about the piers. I have hinted to you about thiscrotchet of poor Charles for a long time; I was forced to do so. I thinkthe less we say about it the better. I call you to witness that I havenot said more about it than was necessary.
At the end of Arabella Row, the girl stopped, and looked back for him.The mews' clock was overhead, a broad orb of light in the dark sky. Tenminutes past ten. Lord Asco
t was sitting beside Lord Saltire's bed, andLord Saltire had rung the bell to send for Inspector Field.
She went on, and he followed her along the Mall. She walked fast, and hehad hard work to keep her in sight. He saw her plainly enough whenevershe passed a lamp. Her shadow was suddenly thrown at his feet, and thenswept in a circle to the right, till it overtook her, and then passedher, and grew dim till she came to another lamp, and then came back tohis feet, and passed on to her again, beckoning him on to follow her,and leading her--whither?
How many lamps were there? One, two, three, four; and then a man lyingasleep on a bench in the rain, who said, with a wild, wan face, when thepoliceman roused him, and told him to go home, "My home is in theThames, friend; but I shall not go there to-night, or perhapsto-morrow."
"His home was in the Thames." The Thames, the dear old happy river. Thewonder and delight of his boyhood. That was the river that slept incrystal green depths, under the tumbled boulders fallen from the chalkcliff, where the ivy, the oak, and the holly grew; and then wentspouting, and raging, and roaring through the weirs at Casterton, wherehe and Welter used to bathe, and where he lay and watched kind LordAscot spinning patiently through one summer afternoon, till he killedthe eight-pound trout at sundown.
That was the dear old Thames. But that was fifty miles up the river, andages ago. Now, and here, the river had got foul, and lapped abouthungrily among piles, and barges, and the buttresses of bridges. Andlower down it ran among mud banks. And there was a picture of one ofthem, by dear old H. K. Browne, and you didn't see at first what it wasthat lay among the sedges, because the face was reversed, and the limbswere----
They passed in the same order through Spring Gardens into the Strand.And then Charles found it more troublesome than ever to follow the poorgirl in her rapid walk. There were so many like her there: but shewalked faster than any of them. Before he came to the street which leadsto Waterloo Bridge, he thought he had lost her; but when he turned thecorner; and as the dank wind smote upon his face, he came upon her,waiting for him.
And so they went on across the bridge. They walked together now. Was shefrightened, too?
When they reached the other end of the bridge, she went on again to showthe way. A long way on past the Waterloo Station, she turned to theleft. They passed out of a broad, low, noisy street, into other streets,some quiet, some turbulent, some blazing with the gas of miserableshops, some dark and stealthy, with only one or two figures in them,which disappeared round corners, or got into dark archways as theypassed. Charles saw that they were getting into "Queer Street."
How that poor gaudy figure fluttered on! How it paused at each turningto look back for him, and then fluttered on once more! What innumerableturnings there were! How should he ever find his way back--back to thebridge?
At last she turned into a street of greengrocers, and marine-storekeepers, in which the people were all at their house doors looking out;all looking in one direction, and talking so earnestly to one another,that even his top-boots escaped notice: which struck him as beingremarkable, as nearly all the way from Waterloo Bridge a majority of thepopulace had criticised them, either ironically; or openly, in anunfavourable manner. He thought they were looking at a fire, and turnedhis head in the same direction; he only saw the poor girl, standing atthe mouth of a narrow entry, watching for him.
He came up to her. A little way down a dark alley was an archway, andbeyond there were lights, and a noise of a great many people shouting,and talking, and screaming. The girl stole on, followed by Charles a fewsteps, and then drew suddenly back. The whole of the alley, and the darkarchway beyond, was lined with policemen. A brisk-looking, middle-sizedman, with intensely black scanty whiskers, stepped out, and stood beforethem. Charles saw at once that it was the inspector of police.
"Now then, young woman," he said sharply, "what are you bringing thatyoung man here for, eh?"
She was obliged to come forward. She began wringing her hands.
"Mr. Inspector," she said, "sir, I wish I may be struck dead, sir, if Idon't tell the truth. It's my poor little brother, sir. He's a dying innumber eight, sir, and he sent for this young man for to see him, sir.Oh! don't stop us, sir. S'elp me----"
"Pish!" said the inspector; "what the devil is the use of talking thisnonsense to me? As for you, young man, you march back home double quick.You've no business here. It's seldom we see a gentleman's servant insuch company in this part of the town."
"Pooh! pooh! my good sir," said Charles; "stuff and nonsense. Don'tassume that tone with me, if you will have the goodness. What the youngwoman says is perfectly correct. If you can assist me to get to thathouse at the further end of the court, where the poor boy lies dying, Ishall be obliged to you. If you can't, don't express an opinion withoutbeing in possession of circumstances. You may detain the girl, but I amgoing on. You don't know who you are talking to."
How the old Oxford insolence flashed out even at the last.
The inspector drew back and bowed. "I must do my duty, sir. Dickson!"
Dickson, in whose beat the court was, as he knew by many a sore bone inhis body, came forward. He said, "Well, sir, I won't deny that the youngwoman is Bess, and perhaps she may be on the cross, and I don't go tosay that what with flimping, and with cly-faking, and such like, shemayn't be wanted some day like her brother the Nipper was; but she is agood young woman, and a honest young woman in her way, and what she saysthis night about her brother is gospel truth."
"Flimping" is a style of theft which I have never practised, and,consequently, of which I know nothing. "Cly-faking" is stealingpocket-handkerchiefs. I never practised this either, never having hadsufficient courage or dexterity. But, at all events, Police-constableDickson's notion of "an honest young woman in her way" seems to me to beconfused and unsatisfactory in the last degree.
The inspector said to Charles, "Sir, if gentlemen disguise themselvesthey must expect the police to be somewhat at fault till they open theirmouths. Allow me to say, sir, that in putting on your servant's clothesyou have done the most foolish thing you possibly could. You are on anerrand of mercy, it appears, and I will do what I can for you. There'sa doctor and a Scripture reader somewhere in the court now, so ourpeople say. _They_ can't get out. I don't think you have much chance ofgetting in."
"By Jove!" said Charles, "do you know that you are a deuced good fellow?I am sorry that I was rude to you, but I am in trouble, and irritated. Ihope you'll forgive me."
"Not another word, sir," said the inspector. "Come and look here, sir.You may never see such a sight again. _Our_ people daren't go in. This,sir, is, I believe, about the worst court in London."
"I thought," said Charles, quite forgetting his top-boots, and speaking,"_de haut en bas_" as in old times--"I thought that your Rosemary Lanecarried off the palm as being a lively neighbourhood."
"Lord bless you," said the inspector, "nothing to this;--look here."
They advanced to the end of the arch, and looked in. It was as still asdeath, but it was as light as day, for there were candles burning inevery window.
"Why," said Charles, "the court is empty. I can run across. Let me go; Iam certain I can get across."
"Don't be a lunatic, sir;" said the inspector, holding him tight; "waittill I give you the word, unless you want six months in Guy's Hospital."
Charles soon saw the inspector was right. There were three houses oneach side of the court. The centre one on the right was a very largeone, which was approached on each side by a flight of three steps,guarded by iron railings, which, in meeting, formed a kind of platformor rostrum. This was Mr. Malone's house, whose wife chose, for familyreasons, to call herself Miss Ophelia Flanigan.
The court was silent and hushed, when, from the door exactly opposite tothis one, there appeared a tall and rather handsome young man, with agreat frieze coat under one arm, and a fire-shovel over his shoulder.
This was Mr. Dennis Moriarty, junior. He advanced to the arch, so closeto Charles and the inspector that they could hav
e touched him, and thenwalked down the centre of the court, dragging the coat behind him,lifting his heels defiantly high at every step, and dexterously beatinga "chune on the bare head of um wid the fire-shovel. Hurroo!"
He had advanced half-way down the court without a soul appearing, whensuddenly the enemy poured out on him in two columns, from behind twodoorways, and he was borne back, fighting like a hero with hisfire-shovel, into one of the doors on his own side of the court.
The two columns of the enemy, headed by Mr. Phelim O'Neill, uniting,poured into the doorway after him, and from the interior of the housearose a hubbub, exactly as though people were fighting on the stairs.
At this point there happened one of those mistakes which so often occurin warfare, which are disastrous at the time, and inexplicableafterwards. Can any one explain why Lord Lucan gave that order atBalaclava? No. Can any one explain to me why, on this occasion, Mr.Phelim O'Neill headed the attack on the staircase in person, leaving hisrear struggling in confusion in the court, by reason of their hearingthe fun going on inside, and not being able to get at it? I think not.Such was the case, however, and, in the midst of it, Mr. Malone, howlinglike a demon, and horribly drunk, followed by thirty or forty worse thanhimself, dashed out of a doorway close by, and before they had time toform line of battle, fell upon them hammer and tongs.
I need not say that after this surprise in the rear, Mr. PhelimO'Neill's party had very much the worst of it. In about ten minutes,however, the two parties were standing opposite one another once more,inactive from sheer fatigue.
At this moment Miss Ophelia Flanigan appeared from the door of No.8--the very house that poor Charles was so anxious to get to--and slowlyand majestically advanced towards the rostrum in front of her own door,and ascending the steps, folded her arms and looked about her.
She was an uncommonly powerful, red-faced Irishwoman; her arms werebare, and she had them akimbo, and was scratching her elbows.
Every schoolboy knows that the lion has a claw at the end of his tailwith which he lashes himself into fury. When the experienced hunter seeshim doing that, he, so to speak, "hooks it." When Miss Flanigan'senemies saw her scratching her elbows, they generally did the same. Shewas scratching her elbows now. There was a dead silence.
One woman in that court, and one only, ever offered battle to theterrible Miss Ophelia: that was young Mrs. Phaylim O'Nale. On thepresent occasion she began slowly walking up and down in front of theexpectant hosts. While Miss Flanigan looked on in contemptuous pity,scratching her elbows, Mrs. O'Neill opened her fire.
"Pussey, pussey!" she began, "kitty, kitty, kitty! Miaow, miaow!" (Mr.Malone had accumulated property in the cat's meat business.) "Morraow,ye little tabby divvle, don't come anighst her, my Kitleen Avourneen, oryill be convarted into sassidge mate, and sowld to keep a drunkenone-eyed old rapparee, from the county Cark, as had two months forbowling his barrer sharp round the corner of Park Lane over a ouldgineral officer, in a white hat and a green silk umbereller; and asmarried a red-haired woman from the county Waterford, as calls herselfby her maiden name, and never feels up to fighting but when the licker'sin her, which it most in general is, pussey; and let me see the one ofMalone's lot or Moriarty's lot ather, for that matter, as will deny it.Miaow!"
Miss Ophelia Flanigan blew her nose contemptuously. Some of the lowcharacters in the court had picked her pocket.
Mrs. O'Neill quickened her pace and raised her voice. She was beginningagain, when the poor girl who was with Charles ran into the court andcried out, "Miss Flanigan! I have brought him; Miss Flanigan!"
In a moment the contemptuous expression faded from Miss Flanigan's face.She came down off the steps and advanced rapidly towards where Charlesstood. As she passed Mrs. O'Neill she said, "Whist now, Biddy O'Nale, medarlin. I ain't up to a shindy to-night. Ye know the rayson."
And Mrs. O'Neill said, "Ye're a good woman, Ophelia. Sorra a one of mewould have loosed tongue on ye this night, only I thought it might cheerye up a bit after yer watching. Don't take notice of me, that's a dear."
Miss Flanigan went up to Charles, and, taking him by the arm, walkedwith him across the court. It was whispered rapidly that this was theyoung man who had been sent for to see little Billy Wilkins, who wasdying in No. 8. Charles was as safe as if he had been in the centre of asquare of the Guards. As he went into the door, they gave him a cheer;and, when the door closed behind him, they went on with their fightingagain.
Charles found himself in a squalid room, about which there was nothingremarkable but its meanness and dirt. There were four people there whenhe came in--a woman asleep by the bed, two gentlemen who stood aloof inthe shadow, and the poor little wan and wasted boy in the bed.
Charles went up and sat by the bed; when the boy saw him he made aneffort, rose half up, and threw his arms round his neck. Charles put hisarm round him and supported him--as strange a pair, I fancy, as youwill meet in many long days' marches.
"If you would not mind, Miss Flanigan," said the doctor, "steppingacross the court with me, I shall be deeply obliged to you. You, sir,are going to stay a little longer."
"Yes, sir," said the other gentleman, in a harsh, unpleasant voice; "Ishall stay till the end."
"You won't have to stay very long, my dear sir," said the doctor. "Now,Miss Flanigan, I am ready. Please to call out that the doctor is comingthrough the court, and that, if any man lays a finger on him, he willexhibit croton and other drastics to him till he wishes he was dead, andafter that, throw in quinine till the top of his head comes off._Allons_, my dear madam."
With this dreadful threat the doctor departed. The other gentleman, theScripture reader, stayed behind, and sat in a chair in the furthercorner. The poor mother was sleeping heavily. The poor girl who hadbrought Charles, sat down in a chair and fell asleep with her head on atable.
The dying child was gone too far for speech. He tried two or threetimes, but he only made a rattle in his throat. After a few minutes hetook his arms from round Charles's neck, and, with a look of anxiety,felt for something by his side. When he found it he smiled, and held ittowards Charles. Well, well; it was only the ball that Charles had givenhim----
Charles sat on the bed, and put his left arm round the child, so thatthe little death's head might lie upon his breast. He took the littlehand in his. So they remained. How long?
I know not. He only sat there with the hot head against his heart, andthought that a little life, so strangely dear to him, now that allfriends were gone, was fast ebbing away, and that he must get home againthat night across the bridge.
The little hand that he held in his relaxed its grasp, and the boy wasdead. He knew it, but he did not move. He sat there still with the deadchild in his arms, with a dull terror on him when he thought of hishomeward journey across the bridge.
Some one moved and came towards him. The mother and the girl were stillasleep--it was the Scripture reader. He came towards Charles, and laidhis hand upon his shoulder. And Charles turned from the dead child, andlooked up into his face--into the face of John Marston.