The Nether World | Page 4

seventy, but, despite the stoop of his shoulders, he gave
little sign of failing under the burden of years; his sober step indicated
gravity of character rather than bodily feebleness, and his grasp of a
stout stick was not such as bespeaks need of support. His attire was
neither that of a man of leisure, nor of the kind usually worn by English

mechanics. Instead of coat and waistcoat, he wore a garment something
like a fisherman's guernsey, and over this a coarse short cloak,
picturesque in appearance as it was buffeted by the wind. His trousers
were of moleskin; his boots reached almost to his knees; for
head-covering he had the cheapest kind of undyed felt, its form exactly
that of the old petasus. To say that his aspect was Venerable would
serve to present him in a measure, yet would not be wholly accurate,
for there was too much of past struggle and present anxiety in his
countenance to permit full expression of the natural dignity of the
features. It was a fine face and might have been distinctly noble, but
circumstances had marred the purpose of Nature; you perceived that his
cares had too often been of the kind which are created by ignoble
necessities, such as leave to most men of his standing a bare humanity
of visage. He had long thin white hair; his beard was short and merely
grizzled. In his left hand he carried a bundle, which probably contained
clothing.
The burial-ground by which he had paused was as little restful to the
eye as are most of those discoverable in the byways of London. The
small trees that grew about it shivered in their leaflessness; the rank
grass was wan under the failing day; most of the stones leaned this way
or that, emblems of neglect (they were very white at the top, and
darkened downwards till the damp soil made them black), and certain
cats and dogs were prowling or sporting among the graves. At this
corner the east wind blew with malice such as it never puts forth save
where there are poorly clad people to be pierced; it swept before it thin
clouds of unsavoury dust, mingled with the light refuse of the streets.
Above the shapeless houses night was signalling a murky approach; the
sky--if sky it could be called--gave threatening of sleet, perchance of
snow. And on every side was the rumble of traffic, the voiceful
evidence of toil and of poverty; hawkers were crying their goods; the
inevitable organ was clanging before a public-house hard by; the
crumpet-man was hastening along, with monotonous ringing of his bell
and hoarse rhythmic wail.
The old man had fixed his eyes half absently on the inscription of a
gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron railings
seemed to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he went forward
along the narrow street which is called St. James's Walk. In a few

minutes he had reached the end of it, and found himself facing a high
grey-brick wall, wherein, at this point, was an arched gateway closed
with black doors. He looked at the gateway, then fixed his gaze on
something that stood just above--something which the dusk half
concealed, and by so doing made more impressive. It was the
sculptured counterfeit of a human face, that of a man distraught with
agony. The eyes stared wildly from their sockets, the hair struggled in
maniac disorder, the forehead was wrung with torture, the cheeks
sunken, the throat fearsomely wasted, and from the wide lips there
seemed to be issuing a horrible cry. Above this hideous effigy was
carved the legend: 'MIDDLESEX HOUSE OF DETENTION.'
Something more than pain came to the old man's face as he looked and
pondered; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes had
a stern resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then suddenly
stopped where a woman was standing at an open door.
'I ask your pardon,' he said, addressing her with the courtesy which
owes nothing to refined intercourse, 'but do you by chance know
anyone of the name of Snowdon hereabouts?'
The woman replied with a brief negative; she smiled at the appearance
of the questioner, and, with the vulgar instinct, looked about for
someone to share her amusement.
'Better inquire at the 'ouse at the corner,' she added, as the man was
moving away. 'They've been here a long time, I b'lieve.'
He accepted her advice. But the people at the public-house could not
aid his search. He thanked them, paused for a moment with his eyes
down, then again sighed slightly and went forth into the gathering
gloom.
Less than five minutes later there ran into the same house of
refreshment a