CHAPTER XXVII.
London Bridge, and an unexpected scene upon it.
IT was about four o'clock—sometime before daylight—one morning, nearly a month after the events last described, that Mr. Lupton and Colin might have been seen wending their way along the chilly and silent streets, in the direction of London Bridge. Saving the deliberate footfalls of the night-watch, the far-heard rattle of some early carriage over the resounding pavement, or perhaps now and then the smothered asthmatical cough of some poor old creature or other turned out thus early, in cloak and covered chair, to sit with charcoal fire and coffee in the streets, there were no audible signs that any soul existed there besides themselves. London was asleep. This Goliah of earthly cities had lain itself down wearied, and for a time lost itself in forgetfulness of all the world. Its labours suspended, its pleasures wearied into pains, and laid all aside, its virtue dreaming innocently, its vice steeped painfully in the burning phlegethon of disturbed stupor, like a half-dreamed hell; its happy, hopeful of the morrow; its miserable, dreading the approach of another sun. While itself, the carcass of the great city, lay stretched athwart the banks of the broad river, as, overpowered with the mighty labours which it had achieved within the last four and twenty hours, and unconsciously receiving strength from repose for that additional exertion, whose repetitions day by day, year by year, and age after age, no man can count to the end.
“Five o'clock exactly,” said Colin, “is, I think, the time appointed, and on the city side of the bridge.”
As he said this he drew from his pocket the communication to which allusion was made at the conclusion of the last chapter, and again perused it.
The reader must here be informed that the letter now in Colin's hands had been addressed to him in the first instance at Mr. Veriquear's, and thence had been forwarded to his present residence. It came from some anonymous correspondent, evidently residing not far from the place to which James Woodruff had been carried; but as its contents will perhaps better explain themselves than would any description of mine, I will give it:—
“Sir,—I am given to understand that you feel some interest in the fate of a Mr. James Woodruff. That man is now in my power, either to liberate or to detain for life, according as you may answer this favourably or unfavourably. You HAVE AN OBJECT TO CARRY OUT, SO have I. If you are prepared to serve me, I will put this Woodruff into your hands in return: if not, neither you nor his daughter may ever see him more. Meet me alone at the north end of London Bridge, at five o'clock on the morning of the —th, and I will explain particulars. At that time it will be as secret there as in a desert, and you will feel more secure. You will know me to be the writer of this when you see a man make a cross with his finger in the air.”
This strange communication Colin had laid before Mr. Lupton; and the only probable conjecture they could form respecting it was, that it had been written by Doctor Rowel's brother, who,—having heard of the imprisonment of that gentleman,—had resorted to this expedient in the hope of compromising the matter by, as it were, exchanging prisoners, and perhaps stipulating for all farther proceedings against the Doctor being stayed. To be sure, there were objections to this interpretation, but, nevertheless, it seemed altogether the only plausible one they could hit upon.
However, as Mr. Lupton suspected that very possibly some treachery might be concealed under this uncommon garb, and that it was a plot on the part of the Doctor's friends to be revenged on Colin,—he himself determined to accompany him; but on their arrival near the place appointed to fall back, in order to avoid suspicion, though still keeping sufficiently near to distinguish a preconcerted signal which Colin was to give in case of need.
The bridge was now at hand. Over the parapet to the left, and considerably below them, long rows of lights, illuminating the walls and doorways of life-deserted warehouses, filled with merchandise from all parts of the world, pointed out the site of that thronged and noisy gully Thames Street. Before them, farther on, lost in mist, and yet lingering smoke, which gave to sky, buildings, and water, one common neutral colour, rose beyond the water one solitary tower, looming darker than all around it, but relieved still farther back by a flush of dull, mysterious light, which, though it showed nothing distinctly, yet emphatically marked the existence, to an undefined extent, of many an unseen mass of building like that by which they were immediately surrounded. And now they are on the bridge alone. It is not yet five. The sight is magnificent. Behold these two sides of a mighty city separated by a scarcely-seen gulf, on which streams of light, reflected from night-lamps afar off, ripple as though so many of the pillars of fire that lighted the Israelites of old were on the waves. Up the great stream, or down it,—the uprear-ing of men's hands,—house, church, and palace appear alike illimitable. All those mean and minor details, which confound the eye and distract the attention during daylight, are now swallowed up and resolved into one broad whole. The dense and unmeasured mass of building which meets the sight every way, seems resolved into a solid. Line on line and height on height extending away till lost utterly in the far obscurity of the void horizon. Without any great strain of the imagination this scene might be mistaken for a splendid dream of Tyre or Palmyra, or of Babylon on the Euphrates, great cities of old, whose giant memories loom in the mind as images that cannot be fully compassed from their very vastness. While under our feet flows the ghastly river, the dull, deceptive stream that has borne on its bosom the wealth of kingdoms; that has found in its bed a thousand last resting-places for human misery, when the link that bound unhappiness and life together became too galling to be any more endured; and that in its stormy wrath has swallowed happiness suddenly, when jollity forgot in its temporary delirium that boats are frail, and that but a slender plank, which a wave might founder, stood between itself and a deep grave.
As Colin cast a scrutinizing eye around, in the hope of meeting with his appointed and unknown correspondent, the city clocks far and near, some together, and some after each other, chimed five. Almost with the last stroke of the bell footsteps were heard rising upon the city side of the bridge. A bricklayer s labourer, with a short pipe in his mouth, passed by; and then a woman,—if woman she could be called,—torn, dirty, and deplorable to look upon, staggering forwards under the influence of the last night's excesses: but neither made a sign. Behind them followed an old man, roughly clad in the costume of the poorer classes of the residents of our country villages, saving that a long coat supplied the place of smock-frock, while his nether extremities were finished off with quarter boots, tightly laced up to the ankles with leathern thongs.
An unaccountable feeling, which displayed itself in his flushed features, shot through Colin's veins as the first momentary sight of this man came across him. Had he seen him before? It almost seemed so; but when? where? on what occasion?
The old man hesitated a moment or two as he gazed on Colin, and then cast a searching glance around, in order to ascertain whether he was alone. The figure of Mr. Lupton was dimly visible at some distance. Colin leaned idly against the wall with his eyes fixed intently on the old man, who now again approached him. In another moment the sign was made—the cross in the air—and our hero advanced and accosted him.
“I believe, sir, you wish to speak to me: you sent a letter addressed to me a short time ago.”
“Nay—nay, now!” replied the old man, “what occasion have you to tell me that? If I wrote you a letter I know it without your explanation; and your appearance here is a sufficient assurance to me that you have duly received it. Do you know who I am?”
“I do not,” said Colin, “though it seems to me as though I had seen you before somewhere or other.”
“Humph! well—well!” exclaimed the old man, “then you are now talking to old Jerry Clink, your own grandfather.”
“Your name Clink!” ejaculated the young man, astonished, “and my grandfather!”
“Now, why ask me again? Hav'n't I just now answer'd 'em. And if you can't believe me the first time, I 'm sure you won't on a repetition.”
“But is it possible? I never knew I had a grandfather.”
“Ay, ay, I see how it is,” replied Jerry; “I'm a poor man, and you are apeing the gentleman. But I risked my life once to be revenged for you, only some busy meddler came across and baulked me. I'll do it yet though; and I want you to help me. The cause is yours as well as mine; for the injury is of a mother to you, though of a daughter to me: and the man who will not defend his mother's honour, or revenge her disgrace, ought to be cast into the bottomless pit for everlasting!”
Colin stood astonished at this speech. He scarcely knew what he said, but faltered out, “Who, sir, has dared to say anything to my mother's dishonour, or to bring her into any disgrace?”
The old man tapped him with serious significance on the shoulder as he replied, “Your father, my boy,—your father!”
“How!” exclaimed the young man in a tone of deep excitement: “who is he? for I never knew who was my father.”
“You!” replied Jerry bitterly, “ought never to have been born!”
“What can you mean, man, by all this?” demanded Colin.
“I tell you,” answered the old man, “your father is a villain, and you—you are—but never mind. Since you are born, and are alive, show that you are worthy to live by properly resenting your mother's everlasting injuries. My vengeance has been untiring, but it has not succeeded yet. Together we can do anything. True, the man must be called, as he is, your father. What then? The punishment of such fathers cannot come from better hands than their own sons. As they sow the wind, let them reap the whirlwind.”
“What is it?” demanded Colin, interrupting him, “that you would propose to me?”
“See you,” said the old man, drawing closer, “you are in love with a girl, named Fanny Woodruff. Nay, nay, do not interrupt me, I know better than you do. I tell you you love her, and can never marry any one else. Her father is confined as a madman. He is now in my power. I am his keeper. You want to liberate him, and rightly too. He has told me all about it, and I believe him. Now, let me see the spirit of a true man in you; take up your mothers cause, and never forgive till you are revenged, and he shall by me be set at liberty. Join hand and heart with me against the villain called your father.”
“Who is he?” again demanded Colin.
“Lupton of Kiddal,” answered Jerry.
“Mr. Lupton my father!”
“The same. I shot at him once.”
“You?”
“I, with this same right hand.”
“And I,” added Colin, “prevented it, and saved you from the gallows.”
The old man stood mute—confounded. His whole countenance changed with deadly fury, and in the next moment he rushed upon Colin with apparently the desperate intention of forcing him over the balustrades of the bridge.
A moment sufficed for his signal call, which brought Mr. Lupton instantly to the spot. The mutual recognition between Jerry and himself was but the process of a moment; and, while the latter strove all in his power to secure the former without violence, Jerry as desperately and madly aimed to bury in his bosom a long knife, which it was now discovered he held opened in his hand. The combined exertions of Mr. Lupton and Colin were, however, too much for him, and would eventually have achieved his capture, had not Jerry, with a degree of reckless desperation and agility, which struck both his assailants with momentary horror and astonishment, leaped the wall of the bridge on finding himself at the point of being taken, and casting his knife and coat from him, in an instant plunged headlong from about the centre of one of the arches into the Thames.
It was a wild leap, an insane flight into the arms of death. There was no splash in the water, but a dull, leaden sound came up, as when a heavy weight is plunged into a deep gulf. It was as if the water made no aperture, and threw up no spray; but gulfed him sullenly, as though such prey was not worth rejoicing over.
Father and son seemed petrified into mere statues; not more from what they had seen than—in the case of the latter, at least—he had heard from the lips of the suicide. For that a suicide he was who could doubt? Who might take that giddy leap, and live?
During a brief space they dared not even cast their eyes down the fearful height; the deed had paralysed them. But, as Colin's eyes were fixed intensely on the waves, a something living seemed to struggle through and across a ripple of light. Could it indeed be the old man? He dared not hope, and could say nothing.
Boats were subsequently got out, the river was traversed, and both banks were searched, in hopes of finding him; but all the efforts of the boatmen proved ineffectual.
The cause of Mr. Lupton's kindness was a secret to Colin no longer. But in how different a relative position did he seem to stand to that gentleman now to what he had done formerly; so recently, even, as one brief hour ago! Within that space what painful truths had passionately been cleared up to him; what difficulties and embarrassments thrown on almost every hand around his future conduct towards nearly every person with whom he was connected, and in whose fate his heart was most deeply interested! But the case of his old grandfather, so resolutely bent on spilling the blood of his own father, out of a stern principle of mistaken justice, seemed to him the worst. He foresaw that, unless it had so happened that Jerry was drowned,—an event which he scarcely knew whether to feel satisfied under, or to regret,—all his address would be required in the time to come to settle the hostility between that man and his father, without the bitter and ignominious consequence resulting, which would doom him to behold his mother's parent expiate upon a public scaffold his double crime of having twice deliberately attempted the assassination of Mr. Lupton. So deeply was he overwhelmed with the fearful transactions of the morning, that he begged the Squire to allow him a day or two's quiet and reflection before he undertook the duty of explaining to him what had passed between the old man and himself. But it was on one condition only that Mr. Lupton consented to acquiesce in this request. That condition was—to be then and there told who his assailant could possibly be. Colin hesitated awhile, but at length burst into tears as he uttered the words—“My mother's father!” The Squire turned pale as ashes when those words reached his ear, while a very sensible tremor shook his whole frame. He grasped Colin's hand, but said nothing. Those words called up something in each mind, which now made both dumb. They shook hands repeatedly, and parted.