Bab Bab 46 · THE APPOINTMENT KEPT

. THE APPOINTMENT KEPT

The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures

emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid

step, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in

quest of some expected object; the other figure was that of a man, who

slunk along in the deepest shadow he could find, and, at some distance,

accommodated his pace to hers: stopping when she stopped: and as she

moved again, creeping stealthily on: but never allowing himself, in the

ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps. Thus, they crossed

the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the woman,

apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers,

turned back. The movement was sudden; but he who watched her, was not

thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking into one of the recesses

which surmount the piers of the bridge, and leaning over the parapet

the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to pass on the

opposite pavement. When she was about the same distance in advance as

she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and followed her again.

At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped too.

It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that

hour and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were,

hurried quickly past: very possibly without seeing, but certainly

without noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view.

Their appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards

of such of London’s destitute population, as chanced to take their way

over the bridge that night in search of some cold arch or doorless

hovel wherein to lay their heads; they stood there in silence: neither

speaking nor spoken to, by any one who passed.

A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that

burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and

rendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks.

The old smoke-stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull

from the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly upon water

too black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old

Saint Saviour’s Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the

giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the

forest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scattered spires of

churches above, were nearly all hidden from sight.

The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro—closely watched

meanwhile by her hidden observer—when the heavy bell of St. Paul’s

tolled for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded

city. The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse: the

chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of

the corpse and the calm sleep of the child: midnight was upon them all.

The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by

a grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a

short distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked

straight towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when

the girl started, and immediately made towards them.

They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who

entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of

being realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new associate.

They halted with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it

immediately; for a man in the garments of a countryman came close

up—brushed against them, indeed—at that precise moment.

“Not here,” said Nancy hurriedly, “I am afraid to speak to you here.

Come away—out of the public road—down the steps yonder!”

As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction

in which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and

roughly asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.

The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the

Surrey bank, and on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour’s

Church, form a landing-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man

bearing the appearance of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and after

a moment’s survey of the place, he began to descend.

These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights.

Just below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the

left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At

this point the lower steps widen: so that a person turning that angle

of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who

chance to be above him, if only a step. The countryman looked hastily

round, when he reached this point; and as there seemed no better place

of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was plenty of room, he

slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there waited: pretty

certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he could not

hear what was said, he could follow them again, with safety.

So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the

spy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he

had been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for

lost, and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or

had resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious

conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place,

and regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and

directly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear.

He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely

breathing, listened attentively.

“This is far enough,” said a voice, which was evidently that of the

gentleman. “I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther. Many

people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but

you see I am willing to humour you.”

“To humour me!” cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed.

“You’re considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it’s no

matter.”

“Why, for what,” said the gentleman in a kinder tone, “for what purpose

can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me

speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something

stirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?”

“I told you before,” replied Nancy, “that I was afraid to speak to you

there. I don’t know why it is,” said the girl, shuddering, “but I have

such a fear and dread upon me tonight that I can hardly stand.”

“A fear of what?” asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.

“I scarcely know of what,” replied the girl. “I wish I did. Horrible

thoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that

has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was

reading a book tonight, to wile the time away, and the same things

came into the print.”

“Imagination,” said the gentleman, soothing her.

“No imagination,” replied the girl in a hoarse voice. “I’ll swear I saw

‘coffin’ written in every page of the book in large black letters,—aye,

and they carried one close to me, in the streets tonight.”

“There is nothing unusual in that,” said the gentleman. “They have

passed me often.”

“_Real ones_,” rejoined the girl. “This was not.”

There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the

concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and

the blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater relief

than in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged her to

be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful

fancies.

“Speak to her kindly,” said the young lady to her companion. “Poor

creature! She seems to need it.”

“Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me

as I am tonight, and preached of flames and vengeance,” cried the

girl. “Oh, dear lady, why ar’n’t those who claim to be God’s own folks

as gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth,

and beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little proud

instead of so much humbler?”

“Ah!” said the gentleman. “A Turk turns his face, after washing it

well, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after

giving their faces such a rub against the World as to take the smiles

off, turn with no less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven.

Between the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!”

These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were

perhaps uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover

herself. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.

“You were not here last Sunday night,” he said.

“I couldn’t come,” replied Nancy; “I was kept by force.”

“By whom?”

“Him that I told the young lady of before.”

“You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on

the subject which has brought us here tonight, I hope?” asked the old

gentleman.

“No,” replied the girl, shaking her head. “It’s not very easy for me to

leave him unless he knows why; I couldn’t give him a drink of laudanum

before I came away.”

“Did he awake before you returned?” inquired the gentleman.

“No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.”

“Good,” said the gentleman. “Now listen to me.”

“I am ready,” replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.

“This young lady,” the gentleman began, “has communicated to me, and to

some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly

a fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first,

whether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe

you are.”

“I am,” said the girl earnestly.

“I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed

to trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the

secret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man Monks. But

if—if—” said the gentleman, “he cannot be secured, or, if secured,

cannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.”

“Fagin,” cried the girl, recoiling.

“That man must be delivered up by you,” said the gentleman.

“I will not do it! I will never do it!” replied the girl. “Devil that

he is, and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do

that.”

“You will not?” said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this

answer.

“Never!” returned the girl.

“Tell me why?”

“For one reason,” rejoined the girl firmly, “for one reason, that the

lady knows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her

promise: and for this other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has

led, I have led a bad life too; there are many of us who have kept the

same courses together, and I’ll not turn upon them, who might—any of

them—have turned upon me, but didn’t, bad as they are.”

“Then,” said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he

had been aiming to attain; “put Monks into my hands, and leave him to

me to deal with.”

“What if he turns against the others?”

“I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him,

there the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver’s

little history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye,

and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot free.”

“And if it is not?” suggested the girl.

“Then,” pursued the gentleman, “this Fagin shall not be brought to

justice without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons,

I think, which would induce you to yield it.”

“Have I the lady’s promise for that?” asked the girl.

“You have,” replied Rose. “My true and faithful pledge.”

“Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?” said the girl,

after a short pause.

“Never,” replied the gentleman. “The intelligence should be brought to

bear upon him, that he could never even guess.”

“I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,” said the

girl after another interval of silence, “but I will take your words.”

After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so,

she proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the

listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by

name and situation, the public-house whence she had been followed that

night. From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as

if the gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she

communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the

place, the best position from which to watch it without exciting

observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the

habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for

the purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to

her recollection.

“He is tall,” said the girl, “and a strongly made man, but not stout;

he has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his

shoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don’t forget that,

for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man’s,

that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like

his hair and eyes; and, although he can’t be more than six or eight and

twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and

disfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits, and

sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds—why did you

start?” said the girl, stopping suddenly.

The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious

of having done so, and begged her to proceed.

“Part of this,” said the girl, “I have drawn out from other people at

the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times

he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you

to know him by. Stay though,” she added. “Upon his throat: so high that

you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face:

there is—”

“A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?” cried the gentleman.

“How’s this?” said the girl. “You know him!”

The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they

were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.

“I think I do,” said the gentleman, breaking silence. “I should by your

description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other.

It may not be the same.”

As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he

took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell

from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, “It must be he!”

“Now,” he said, returning: so it seemed by the sound: to the spot where

he had stood before, “you have given us most valuable assistance, young

woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve

you?”

“Nothing,” replied Nancy.

“You will not persist in saying that,” rejoined the gentleman, with a

voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder

and more obdurate heart. “Think now. Tell me.”

“Nothing, sir,” rejoined the girl, weeping. “You can do nothing to help

me. I am past all hope, indeed.”

“You put yourself beyond its pale,” said the gentleman. “The past has

been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such

priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never

grants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it

is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must

come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you

fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the

compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before

the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of

day-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your

former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind

you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I

would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion,

or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is

pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and

opportunity!”

“She will be persuaded now,” cried the young lady. “She hesitates, I am

sure.”

“I fear not, my dear,” said the gentleman.

“No sir, I do not,” replied the girl, after a short struggle. “I am

chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave

it. I must have gone too far to turn back,—and yet I don’t know, for if

you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off.

But,” she said, looking hastily round, “this fear comes over me again.

I must go home.”

“Home!” repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.

“Home, lady,” rejoined the girl. “To such a home as I have raised for

myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched

or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service all I ask is, that you

leave me, and let me go my way alone.”

“It is useless,” said the gentleman, with a sigh. “We compromise her

safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than

she expected already.”

“Yes, yes,” urged the girl. “You have.”

“What,” cried the young lady, “can be the end of this poor creature’s

life!”

“What!” repeated the girl. “Look before you, lady. Look at that dark

water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the

tide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be

years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at

last.”

“Do not speak thus, pray,” returned the young lady, sobbing.

“It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors

should!” replied the girl. “Good-night, good-night!”

The gentleman turned away.

“This purse,” cried the young lady. “Take it for my sake, that you may

have some resource in an hour of need and trouble.”

“No!” replied the girl. “I have not done this for money. Let me have

that to think of. And yet—give me something that you have worn: I

should like to have something—no, no, not a ring—your gloves or

handkerchief—anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet

lady. There. Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!”

The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some

discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to

determine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested.

The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.

The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards

appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.

“Hark!” cried the young lady, listening. “Did she call! I thought I

heard her voice.”

“No, my love,” replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. “She has not

moved, and will not till we are gone.”

Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his,

and led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl

sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and

vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears.

After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended

the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for

some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious

glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his

hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in

the same manner as he had descended.

Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that

he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and

made for the Jew’s house as fast as his legs would carry him.