Christmas gold, p.774
Christmas Gold, page 774
"Halloa!" I ejaculated, "you've taken down the birdcage."
"Birdcage, sir?" whined the gaunt woman, deferentially.
"We ain't got no birdcage," burst out the small child of the door-step, "nor never haven't had none—nor yet no bird neither."
"Will you hold your tongue, miss?" interposed her mother.
There was an awkward pause. I looked again about the room, I looked at the woman, I looked at her husband—he had no beard, I now observed. I had, however, presence ot mind enough not to ask after that missing .appendage as I had done after the birdcage. I determined to make assurance doubly sure, and walking towards the window and pulling aside the blind, observed, as an excuse for looking out:
" I am afraid you must be a good deal choked up at the back with houses. Isn't that rather unwholesome?"
A voluble answer on the subject of confined lodgings, their advantages and disadvantages, followed, but I did not hear it. I was looking for my own window in the house opposite. I had left the lamp alight and the blind half drawn up. The window before me, exactly in front of that which I was looking from, was fastened up and secured with shutters. Stretching my neck, and glancing in a slanting direction towards the next of the opposite houses, I saw that the second-floor window was illuminated, and that the blind was half lowered.
"Your supper is getting cold," I said, coming back to the table, and exchanging a glance of meaning with my companion; "my friend and I only wished to come in and see how you were enjoying yourselves, and so now we will leave you to do better justice to the fowl than you could if we remained here."
So saying, and resisting all entreaties to stay and take a share of the good things, I made for the door, and was soon on the staircase, followed closely by Mr. Pycroft, who, speechless as long as we remained in the room, did nothing now but repeat, "Wrong people, eh? —been feeding the wrong people, haven't we?" in a loud and perfectly audible whisper. The gaunt woman was, however, too loquacious herself to hear what was said, and during the time that she lighted us down the stairs, never ceased whining out her gratitude for a single moment.
When we got into the street I turned round and looked my companion in the face.
"It is some comfort, at any rate," I said, "to think that you have been assisting people who were really in need of help, but it is evident that every penny of your bounty has gone to the family we have just left."
"And how do you account for the mistake?" asked my old friend.
"I can only conclude," was my answer, "that by a curious coincidence there have been two second-floor lodgers ill in two houses next door to each other; that after my seeing Dr. Cordial at the window opposite to mine, he had gone from the one house to the other; that he had had time to pay a short visit to the invalid we have just left; and that then I had met him coming away, as I thought, from attending on our poor shadows, but in reality from the deserving personage whose supper has been supplied by your benevolence."
"And the shadows?" gasped Mr. Pycroft, utterly aghast.
"Have, through my unfortunate mistake, not received a single shilling," was my answer.
Mr. Pycroft stared at me for some time in petrified amazement.
"We can never leave the thing like this," he said, at last. "Do you think you could be sure of the house this time?"
"I can understand your feeling some mistrust about it," I said, "but I own that I feel none myself. This is the house beyond a doubt." I looked up as I spoke at No. 5.
" Then let's bring the matter to a conclusion at once," said the old copper-plate printer, stoutly; and with that we actually rang at the second bell handle on the left hand doorpost.
After the proper amount of delay the door was opened by a slatternly woman.
"Second-floor back?" said I, in a mellifluous voice.
" Front," replied the slatternly woman, in rather an injured tone; "you should have rung the bell on the right doorpost."
I begged pardon with all humility, and the slatternly woman relented a little.
"The two-pair-back's at home, I know," she said, "and if you're coming up I may as well light you."
We availed ourselves of this offer, and, in a few seconds, we were on the second-floor landing. The slatternly woman pointed out the door at which we were to knock, and opening her own, and letting out in so doing a blast of onions that almost made my eyes water, she disappeared into the refreshing vapour, and shut herself in with it.
My curiosity was now powerfully piqued, and I felt as if some great stake hinged upon the opening of the door at which we stood and knocked.
A clear, cheerful voice called to us to enter, and in another moment we stood inside the room.
Two people, a man and a woman, occupied the apartment. One of them, the man, was at first hidden from view, but in the other, as she rose upon our entrance, I recognised at once the shadow with which I was so familiar.
The room was a great contrast to that which we had just left, which was tolerably well provided with furniture. This room was utterly bare, looking as if all available objects had been removed, as probably they had, to be turned into money. A mattress and some bedding were on the floor at one end of the room. The table, and a couple of old chairs, were the only articles of furniture I could see. The engraver's lamp was on the table, and the materials for a very poor meal which the two had evidently just been cooking—a very little scrap of bacon and some boiled rice. The birdcage was hanging in the window, if I had wanted any confirmation of my conviction that I had found my shadows at last.
Of course, all these things were taken in by me at a single glance, it being necessary that I should at once account for my visit and that of my friend. I had begun to do so in a few hurried words, when my attention was suddenly arrested by an exclamation from Mr. Pycroft, who had followed me. The second occupant of the room, whom we had at first seen but imperfectly, had now risen to his feet, and stood with the light full upon him, straining his eyes into the shade where my companion stood behind me. I turned hastily round, and met the stern gaze of my old friend.
"If this is a trick, Mr. Broadhead," he said, speaking very thick, and with choking utterance, "I can tell you that it does you little credit."
"What do you mean?" I asked, in utter bewilderment.
"I mean that if this has all been a planned thing to bring about a reconciliation between me and my son——"
"Your son?" I gasped.
"I can only say," continued Mr. Pycroft, "that it shall meet with the success it deserves."
He turned as he spoke and made for the door, but I was beforehand with him.
"Stay, Mr. Pycroft!" I cried. "If you choose to retain this feeling of animosity, which so ill becomes you, you must, but you shall not go away with a false impression of this matter as far as I am concerned in it. I swear to you that your suspicions of me are false, that when we came to this room I had no more idea of who were its occupants than you had, and that I never knew your son was living in this abject misery; though, if I had, I would certainly have done my best to rouse you to a feeling of what, under such circumstances, you owe to one who bears your name."
Mr. Pycroft had glanced once searchingly towards me when I denied his imputation of having been concerned in a plot to trick him into a reconciliation, and now his eyes were directed towards the place where his son stood before him.
He was a fine manly-looking fellow, and as he stood there holding his wife's hand in his, and with the refining influence of recent illness showing on his worn but handsome face, I could not help feeling that surely this picture must complete the work which the shadows had so well begun.
"Look at them! " I said—"look at this room—look at that meal! Can you see such wretchedness and not be moved? If your son has displeased you, has he not suffered? If he has disobeyed, he has paid the penalty."
I looked in my companion's face, and I thought that I saw some shadow of compunction working there.
"Do not," I said, "let the sympathy which you bestowed upon the shadows be wanting for the realities which cast them."
The little wife at this moment left her husband's side, and, advancing to where we stood, laid her hand timidly on that of my old friend. I looked at him once more, and then, beckoning the poor engraver to his father's side, I passed quietly from the room, where I felt that my presence was no longer needed.
* * *
About an hour afterwards I was sitting disconsolately in my room, reflecting on the loneliness of my own position, and rather envying my opposite neighbours, when I heard my own name shouted in a cheery voice from without.
I looked in the old direction, and saw my friend Mr. Pycroft standing at his son's open window.
"We want you to come over," said the old gentleman, "and spend what is left of the evening with us."
I assented gladly, and was just drawing in my head, when I heard myself called once more by name.
"And I say," said Mr. Pycroft, in a stage whisper, "as we are rather short of liquor here, perhaps you wouldn't mind bringing a bottle of brandy in your pocket; and if you happen to have such a thing as a lemon——"
In a few minutes I was sitting one of a comfortable party in the room opposite.
"Do you know what is one of the first things we intend to do now?" said the little wife, smiling as she looked at me.
"I have not the least idea," was my answer.
"Why, we are going to nail up the thickest curtain we can get, in order to prevent our opposite neighbour from seeing what we are about whenever our lamp happens to be alight."
"You need not be afraid," I said; "and you may save yourself the trouble of putting up the curtain, for the opposite neighbour hopes henceforth to see so much of his new friends in their Substance, that he is not likely to trouble himself much more about—their Shadows."
Chapter III.
Picking Up Terrible Company
Table of Contents
Amelia B. Edwards
While the artist was still engaged in telling his story, another visitor had come in at the gate, and had politely remained in the background, so as not to interrupt the proceedings. When the story was over, he came forward, and presented himself (in excellent English) as a Frenchman on a visit to this country. In the course of an eventful life, opportunities had occurred to him of learning our language, on the Continent, and necessity had obliged him to turn them to good account. Many years had passed, since that time, and had allowed him no earlier chance of visiting England than the chance of which he had now availed himself. He was staying with some friends in the neighbourhood—the Hermit had been mentioned to him—and here he was, on the ground of Thomas Tiddler, to deposit his homage at the feet of that illustrious landed proprietor.
Was the French visitor surprised? Not the least in the world. His face showed deep marks of former care and trouble—perhaps he was past feeling surprised at anything? By no means. If he had seen Mr. Mopes on French ground, he would have been petrified on the spot. But Mr. Mopes on English ground was only a new development of the dismal national character. Given British spleen, as the cause—followed British suicide, as the effect. Quick suicide (of which the works of his literary countrymen had already informed him) by throwing yourself into the water. Slow suicide (of which his own eyes now informed him) by burying yourself among soot and cinders, in a barred kitchen. Curious either way—but nothing to surprise a well-read Frenchman.
Leaving our national character to assert itself to better advantage, when time had given this gentleman better opportunities of studying it, Mr. Traveller politely requested him to follow the relation of the artist's experience with an experience of his own. After a moment's grave consideration, the Frenchman said that his early life had been marked by perils and sufferings of no ordinary kind. He had no objection to relate one of his adventures—but he warned his audience beforehand that they must expect to be a little startled; and he begged that they would suspend their opinions of himself and his conduct, until they had heard him to the end.
After those prefatory words, he begun as follows:
I am a Frenchman by birth, and my name is François Thierry. I need not weary you with my early history. Enough, that I committed a political offence—that I was sent to the galleys for it—that I am an exile for it to this day. The brand was not abolished in my time. If I chose, I could show you the fiery letters on my shoulder.
I was arrested, tried, and sentenced, in Paris. I went out of the court with my condemnation ringing in my ears. The rumbling wheels of the prison-van repeated it all the way from Paris to Bicêtre that evening, and all the next day, and the next, and the next, along the weary road from Bicêtre to Toulon. When I look back upon that time, I think I must have been stupified by the unexpected severity of my sentence; for I remember nothing of the journey, nor of the places where we stopped—nothing but the eternal repetition of "travaux forcés—travaux forcés—travaux forcés à perpétuité," over and over, and over again. Late in the afternoon of the third day, the van stopped, the door was thrown open, and I was conducted across a stone yard, through a stone corridor, into a huge stone hall, dimly lighted from above. Here I was interrogated by a military superintendent, and entered by name in a ponderous ledger bound and clasped with iron, like a book in fetters.
"Number Two Hundred and Seven," said the superintendent. "Green."
They took me into an adjoining room, searched, stripped, and plunged me into a cold bath. When I came out of the bath, I put on the livery of the galleys—a coarse canvas shirt, trousers of tawny serge, a red serge blouse, and heavy shoes clamped with iron. Last of all, a green woollen cap. On each leg of the trousers, and on the breast and back of the blouse, were printed the fatal letters "T. F." On a brass label in the front of the cap, were engraved the figures "207." From that moment I lost my individuality. I was no longer François Thierry. I was Number Two Hundred and Seven. The superintendent stood by and looked on.
"Come, be quick," said he, twirling his long moustache between his thumb and forefinger. "It grows late, and you must be married before supper."
"Married! " I repeated.
The superintendent laughed, and lighted a cigar, and his laugh was echoed by the guards and jailers.
Down another stone corridor, across another yard, into another gloomy hall, the very counterpart of the last, but filled with squalid figures, noisy with the clank of fetters, and pierced at each end with a circular opening, through which a cannon's mouth showed grimly.
"Bring Number Two Hundred and Six," said the superintendent, "and call the priest."
Number Two Hundred and Six came from a farther corner of the hall, dragging a heavy chain, and along with him a blacksmith, bare-armed and leather-aproned.
"Lie down," said the blacksmith, with an insulting spurn of the foot.
I lay down. A heavy iron ring attached to a chain of eighteen links was then fitted to my ankle, and riveted with a single stroke of the hammer. A second ring next received the disengaged ends of my companion's chain and mine, and was secured in the same manner. The echo of each blow resounded through the vaulted roof like a hollow laugh.
"Good," said the superintendent, drawing a small red book from his pocket. "Number Two Hundred and Seven, attend to the prison code. If you attempt to escape without succeeding, you will be bastinadoed. If you succeed in getting beyond the port, and are then taken, you will receive three years of double-chaining. As soon as you are missed, three cannon shots will be fired, and alarm flags will be hoisted on every bastion. Signals will be telegraphed to the maritime guards, and to the police of the ten neighbouring districts. A price will be set upon your head. Placards will be posted upon the gates of Toulon, and sent to every town throughout the empire. It will be lawful to fire upon you, if you cannot be captured alive."
Having read this with grim complacency, the superintendent resumed his cigar, replaced the book in his pocket, and walked away.
All was over now—all the incredulous wonder, the dreamy dulness, the smouldering hope, of the past three days. I was a felon, and (slavery in slavery!) chained to a fellow-felon. I looked up, and found his eyes upon me. He was a swart heavy-browed sullen-jawed man of about forty; not much taller than myself, but of immensely powerful build.
"So," said he, "you're for life, are you? So am I."
"How do you know I am for life?" I asked, wearily.
"By that." And he touched my cap roughly with the back of his hand. "Green, for life. Red, for a term of years. What are you in for?"
"I conspired against the government."
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"Devil's mass! Then you're a gentleman-convict, I suppose! Pity you've not a berth to yourselves—we poor forcats hate such fine company."
"Are there many political prisoners?" I asked, after a moment's pause.
"None, in this department."
Then, as if detecting my unspoken thought, "I am no innocent," he added with an oath. "This is the fourth time I have been here. Did you ever hear of Gasparo?"
"Gasparo the forger?"
He nodded.
"Who escaped three or four months since, and——"
"And flung the sentinel over the ramparts, just as he was going to give the alarm. I'm the man."
I had heard of him, as a man who, early in his career, had been sentenced to a long solitary imprisonment in a gloomy cell, and who had come forth from his solitude hardened into an absolute wild beast. I shuddered, and, as I shuddered, found his evil eye taking vindictive note of me. From that moment he hated me. From that moment I loathed him.
A bell rang, and a detachment of convicts came in from labour. They were immediately searched by the guard, and chained up, two and two, to a sloping wooden platform that reached all down the centre of the hall. Our afternoon meal was then served out, consisting of a mess of beans, an allowance of bread and ship-biscuit, and a measure of thin wine. I drank the wine; but I could eat nothing. Gasparo took what he chose from my untouched allowance, and those who were nearest, scrambled for the rest. The supper over, a shrill whistle echoed down the hall, each man took his narrow mattress from under the platform which made our common bedstead, rolled himself in a piece of seaweed matting, and lay down for the night. In less than five minutes, all was profoundly silent. Now and then I heard the blacksmith going round with his hammer, testing the gratings, and trying the locks, in all the corridors. Now and then, the guard stalked past with his musket on his shoulder. Sometimes, a convict moaned, or shook his fetters in his sleep. Thus the weary hours went by. My companion slept heavily, and even I lost consciousness at last.
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