THE OLD MANSION.
IT was an old old house, situated somewhere near the central parts of London. The street was narrow and gloomy, branching off at right angles from a frequented thoroughfare, and the lofty uppermost stories, rising tier above tier, and closing in overhead, left but a narrow strip of heaven's blue visible to those below, even on the brightest and sunniest of days. It was neither bright nor sunny now, for twilight shrouded the giant city, and already its myriad lights twinkled through the gloom, in preparation for the coming hours of darkness. Dull indeed was this confined alley, with its old-fashioned buildings on either side, in the midst of which, on the right hand, at the farthest corner, stood the aged house already mentioned.
It had not always been so old. Once, in long past days, it had been a stately mansion of no small pretensions, forming the home of some wealthy city merchant, or, a little farther back, it may be, even of a nobleman himself. But that was over now. Noblemen and city merchants had alike been swept away in the hurrying tide westward, and the old mansion had sunk many grades in the scale of society.
A great change had taken place since those far-off days, one or two hundred years before! No delicately-nurtured ladies now, in silk and velvet, in paint and patches, went daintily up and down its broad oaken staircase. No gaily-attired young gallants, with tossing plumes and clinking swords, passed to and fro through its outer door. That massive portal was never closed now, for the old house was no longer a home, but only a mass of tightly-packed dwellings. No heavy coaches, drawn by fashionable Flemish mares, lumbered in stately grandeur through the narrow street. Far back in a distant horizon lay such dignities.
Ladies and gallants, velvets and plumes, Flemish mares and gorgeous splendour—who could dream of such terms in connection with this squalid neighbourhood? Who could look on those dirt-begrimed ceilings, and imagine brilliant candelabra suspended from their centres? Who could view the discoloured walls, and realize that they were once crowded with works of art? Who could glance at the bare unwashed rooms, and listen without an incredulous smile to the tale of velvet furniture and priceless decorations, which once graced those very apartments?
Gone for ever were those days of wealth and luxury. The old mansion had sunk into a mere tenement-house, crowded with carpenters, shoemakers, tailors, and porters, too often in the lowest depths of wretchedness.
It was a close summer's evening, and heavy oppression pervaded the atmosphere, though the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the last gleams of red light, finding their way through the dull mist overhead, had faded at length from the tallest chimney-tops. But no sweet breath of country freshness could penetrate so far through the city. No cooling breeze ever crept between the massive walls of the houses forming Ansty Court.
Work was over for the day—such work as was to be had, for too many in the old mansion and its neighbourhood were suffering the miseries of long-enforced idleness. Work was slack, and bread was hard—oh, hard to find!
Up and down the uneven staircase, with its shattered banisters and greasy walls, passed footsteps from time to time. No wonder! For over half a hundred human beings found shelter within the walls of this one house. Each room was a separate home. And such a home! The old familiar English tune, true of many a "sweet sweet home," could scarcely here have met with any response.
It was growing dark, and none of the passers-by, going slowly up or down with rounded shoulders and weary feet, noticed a small figure crouching in the most shady corner of the second landing. A mere bundle of ragged clothes it might be, but for a slight movement now and then, or a broken sob at intervals when no one was near. Looking more closely, it would have been seen that one bare arm was passed tightly over the other with a distressed pressure, while the little dusky fingers clutched firmly at the rags which scarcely sufficed to cover her. But there was no other sign of life, and an approaching footstep was the signal for a closer cowering against the wall, and a more absolute stillness, in evident dread of detection.