Family Column.

Wellington Independent, Volume XVII, Issue 1777, 9 October 1862, Page 4

Family Column.

TOM TIDDLEE'S GROUND The last Christmas Tale hy Dickens. (in seven chapters.)

CHAPTER U. PICKING TJP EVENING SHADOWS,

The first person to appear at the gate, was a 1 gentleman who looked in accidentally, and who 1 carried a sketch-book under his arm. From the J amazement and alarm expressed in his look and manner, it was plain that the Hermit's fame had not reached him. As boon as ho could speak, he mentioned apologetically that he had been struck, as a stranger in that part of the country, by the picturesquely-ruinous appearance of the yard and out-houses, and that he had looked in at the gate, with the idea of finding nothing more remarkable than the materials for a sketch of still-life. - After revealing the mystery of the Hermit to this bewildered stranger, Mr. Traveller explained that any narrative- contributions towards the enlivening of Mr. Mopes and the morning, drawn from the personal experience of visitors at the gate would be highly appreciated in that mouldy locality. At first, the visitor thus addressed hesitated ; not so much, as it afterwards appeared, from want of means to answer the call made upon him, as from want of resources in his own memory to use on the spur of the moment. Pondering on Mr. Traveller's request, he entered rather absently into conversation with the Hermit. t* I Dever knew anj T good to come yet," said this gentleman, "of a man shutting himself up in -the way you're doing. I know the temptation to it myself, have experienced it myself, and yielded to it myself; but I never knew any good — stop, though," he added, correcting himself as a scrupulous man does, who will not accept the help of the smallest false statement to aid his dearest theory — " Ido remember one good thing •which came, in some degree, of a man's leading a solitary life." The Hermit hugged his bars in triumph. Mr. Traveller, nothing discouraged, requested the .stranger to mention the circumstance. " You shall hear it," was the answer. " But, before I begin, I must tell you that the period of my tale dates some years back into the past, that at the time of which I shall speak I had newly experienced a considerable reverse of fortune, and that, fancying my friends would make me feel the loss if I remained among them, I had determined to shut myself up away from them, and lead an entirely solitary life till I could in some degree retrieve my losses." It is a tale, this that I am about to tell, of good deeds revealed, of good instincts roused, of a good work done, and a good result attained, and all through Evening Shadows. I have often thought what tell-tale things shadows are. I mean the shadows that one who stands outside sees in the windows of a ligh ted-up room or building ; the ahadows thrown on a blind by fignres interposing between it and the lamplight. I have noticed these in churches during divine service, when I, wandering about outside, have looked up at the windows and seen the shades of a pair of lovers reading out of the same hymn-book ; of children evidently chattering and , grinning together ; and sometimes a shadow which bobbing forward from time to time in a jerking fashion, then catching itself, still with a jerk, then remaining preternaturally erect and still, and then beginning to bob again, has suggested to me that the fourth head of a sermon in eight compartments was being developed, and that the shadow before me was that of one who was taking refuge from oratory in sleep. Among the number of the shadows which my memory retains, there are some that lie upon it witrrno dark and shuddering chill ; some that were cast by objects in themselves so pure and noble that the shade itself seemed only a subdued brightness, and the light that cast it — aglory. My story begins at the time, some years ago, when, as a single man, I was living in a narrow and rather crowded street in one of the old parts of London — one of those streets where very decent houses are mixed with much poorer ones — and in one of the best and cleanest of which I occupied two rooms ; a bedroom and a sitting-room. Having at that time, as I have now, a great dread of noise while at work, I made use of the back room as my studio, sleeping in the front of the house, which was qniet at night but not in the daytime, by reason of the day traffic. My painting room, then, was on the second floor, and at the back of the house, and as there was a street running at an acute angle to that in which I lived, and joining it only a few yards higher up, it will easily be understood that the backs of the houses in this slanting thoroughfare, which was called appropriately enough, Gross-street, were in tolerably close proximity to my paintiug-roora window. I have been thus exact in describing the topography of my place of abode, because then you will be better able to understand how it happened that my attention was directed to the circumstances which I am about to detail. You will be able to understand how it was that, sitting, especially during the short days, as the dusk was beginning to fall, looking meditatively out of the window and thinking of my work, my attention would often be drawn almost, without my knowledge, to some of the windows in the slanting street which I have described, and how I found myself not unfrequently speculating about some of the inhabitants of the rooms which w&re separated from that in which I was sitting, by so small a space. There was one window more than all the rest which, for some reason or other, used especially to occupy my thoughts. It was a window level with my own, and exactly opposite to it. During the daytime, though the blind was always drawn up as high as it could be, I could see but little of the room, but what 1 could make out only showed me that it was a very poor place indeed. Long habits of a speculative use of my eyes, if I may so express myself have perhaps given me a tendency to attach much importance to the external aspects of things as indicative of what goes on within. Be that as it may, I possess that tendency, and possess it very strongly en the subject of windows. I think that the windows of a house give one a great idea of the dispositions, the habits, and the tempers of the occupants. Who has not felt, in passing by a house whose well-cleaned windows are filled with flowers, where the solid white and green of the Arum, and the delicate shades of colour in the rows of blooming hyacinths, stand out in pleasant freshness against the dark background formed by the interior of the room who has not felt that the inhabitants of a house whose windows are thus decorated, are in. a calmer and happier condition than their next-door neighbours, where the yellow blind hangs crookedly across the dirty window, and the wire screen beneath has got a bulging ragged hole in it ? Holding, then, the theory which I have ventured thus to put forward, it will be readily believed that I augured the better- of the occupants of the rooms opposite, from the fact that I could see through the lower panes of the window the leaves and branches of a great big fuschia spread out fan-wise on a wooden frame. Other little contrivances and adornments there were about this poor casement, which, though of the cheapest and most twopenny order of the decorative art, showed yet some love of the gentler side of things, and a wish to put a good face on poverty. j But it is, as I have already said, towards dusk and in the evening that my attention has been oftenest fixed on the wiudow which I have been describing, It is then that the room being lighted up, the shadows of things and persons within it are thrown upon the blind with a clearness and distinctness which those who have never observed Buoh matters would hardly credit. The shadows tell me, then, that the room is tenanted by a husband and wife both young, lam certain The man, as I gather from his position, and what I take to be the shadow of a tissue-paper screen behind which heßtoopsover his labor is a poor drudging engraver for whom the days are not

long enough, sitting cramped up at his patient ; « toil through many hours of the night. As I watch 1 1 him, he will rise and stretch back his head to ; relieve the muscles of his neck, and then I see < that the shadow thrown on the blind is that of a ' 3'oung figure, spare but well made. The light i shows me also that he is an engraver. The ( shadow of his wife is there beside him — almost : always. How she watches over and tends him, : how she hangs over his chair, or kneels beside him ! I had never, at the time I speak of, seen her, but I could not help fancying that she was pretty and good enough to light tip a darker room than that in which she lives, and to make her husband's life of toil — if he can keep it vp — not only bearable but delightful. If he can keep it vp — but can he ? His shadow is all that I have seen of him, but it looks like the shadow of one in delicate health. I never miss him from his place at night, and I can see the edge of his blind by which he works, at his window all day. "If he sits drudging there," thought I, " he will surely, as in the case in all excess, defeat his own object and end in being disabled altogether." It was not long before 1 began to fear that what I had apprehended had taken place. There came a day when the blind was not drawn up to let in the light on the engraver's work, but remained drawn down the whole day. It would be difficult to express how anxiously I longed for the evening, and the shadows which should tell me more. That evening the light was burning in the room as usual, but the straight edge of the engraver's blind was not seen cutting against it. There was the shadow of but one person, it was that of a woman, and as the figure which cast it moved so quietly about, I could make out that she was pouring out drugs and mixing the different compounds wanted in a sick«room"by the light of the lamp. Sometimes she would pause in these occupations and look towards one end of the room, where I concluded the bed was placed ; and sometimes I could even imagine, but this must have been pure fancy, that, looking still in the same direction, her lips would move at times, and that she was speaking. I could even see her tasting the food she was mixing, with her head a little on one side ; altering and tasting it often before she carried it acrosa the room to where, I felt sure, the sick man lay. So much will shadows tell. From my front window 1 can see a long way up and down the street, even to that corner where the early breakfast depot is found every morning — a poor stall enough, and driving a poor business, I should have thought ; a business, however, in which I am so deeply interested that my first morning act is to go to the window and see if the poor old proprietor has got a customer — nay, once I put on a pilot-coat and a wide-awake hat to appear in character, and purchased a cup of his coffee, which was a sound coffee enough, though a little gritty, and perhaps a thought weak, , Enough of that. I can see to the coffee-stall one way, and nearly as far the other, and at the back I command a bit of a court, two mewses and a half, and, by great dislocation of neck, a little scrap of Brewer-street, Golden-square. Now in all these regions which are continually under my eye, I have noticed one constantly pervading presence, one figure which comes upon the scene without fail every day in the year and at all conceivable hours. It is the figure of a tallish gentleman of about five-and-thiity, who stoops a little, has a very round back, wears spectacles, is always dressed in a buttoned black frock-coat, is always in a hurry, always expected anxiously at the houses he visits, and always followed to the door, on coming out again, by some who question him eagerly as he leaves them, and who seem to seek for comfort in his most inscrutable face. Of course I have not watched this gentleman's proceedings long, without coming to the conclusion that it is Mr. Cordial, the parish doctor, whose surgery in Great Pnlteney-street I am so often in the habit of passing. If there had been any previous doubt on my mind as to the state of things in the house opposite, it would at once have been put to flight, when, on the day succeeding that evening on which 1 had watched the engraver's wife in her .capacity of nurse, I caught a dark glimpse of this gentleman's head (rather a bald head for so young a man) at the window of the room opposite, which he had come to, to prepare some mixture or other. " Now here," I thought to myself, " is a pretty business. This is just what I feared. Here is this poor fellow laid up, unable to work, and probably not only ill in body, but harassed in mind by the consciousness that as long as he is ill, there can be no money coming in to supply the daily expenses which, however peorly they live, he and his wife must of necessity incur." I thought over this matter, and turned it all sorts of ways, as people who are unlucky enough, or unwise enough, to live alone do turn and twist things, and was so haunted by the thought of what was going on in the room opposite, that in the course of the afternoon, ;I was obliged to go out and take a long walk, in order to fill up the time that must necessarily intervene before the lamp would be lit, and the shadows thrown upon the blind. When I got back from that walk I was in such hot haste for such silent news as 1 might reasonably hope to gain, that I did not even stay to light my candle, but felt my way as well as I could across the room, and stationed myself at the window At first I thought that there were no shadows at all on the white glaring blind, except those of the poor bits of curtain and the spread out fuschias before mentioned, but by-and-by, noticing' a small and continually moving shadow mixed up with that of the curtain, and observing that it rose and fell regularly and quickly, I presently connected it with another mass of a shade a little above it, and arrived at the conclusion that this last was thrown by a woman's head, and the moving shadow by her hand, as it Jose and fell in the action of working with the needle. It was not long before I found out that my hypothesis was well grounded ; for a little while the shadow of the hand was still and that of the head was raised, as if the person whose silhouette lay thus upon the blind was in the act of listening — and then it rose, and I saw the well-known figure of the engraver's wife pass the light, and knew that she had moved towards that quarter of the room in which I had made up my mind that the bed with the sick man in it was placed. During the greater part of that, evening, as I watched, and my occupations were frequently interrupted that I might do so, I made out no shadow but that which I have just mentioned. But, at about nine o'clock, I saw another shadow pas 3 before the blind, and as it was that of a man, I had for a moment the hope that it was cast by the invalid. It was only for a moment, another glance showed me that this person wore no beard, and that there was greater bulk of figure than would have been cast by the poor engraver. I soon concluded that it was the doctor ; and if I had any doubt on this subject it was removed when 1 presently observed the workman-like angle of elbow made by the shadow as it stood before the light, pouring something into what I suppose, from its size, must have been a teacup. Twice a day then. He was ill enough for the doctor to come to him twice a day. My determination was taken as I made that reflection. I had got 'wrought up to a great state of interest and suspense about this case which I could hardly explain to myself. I felt a strange longing to know more of it, and I came to the resolution — it was what might have been expected of a man half-cracked with living alone — that I would go out then and there, waylay the doctor as he came away from his patient, and ask him all about it. I had lost some time in reflection, and when I [ looked hastily across before leaving my room I j did not see any shadows of the blind, yet it was P reasonable to suppose that I might still catch the t doctor in the street; so out I rushed. Sure

enough there was the doctor just coming out of No. 4, Cross-street. How lucky 1 was to be in time ! I found the parish medical authority not very communicative or prone to take a veiy romantic view of sickness and suffering. He was a good sort of man enough, no doubt, but dry and matter of fact. He had seen so much of sickness and misery that he was used to it. He answered all my questions, however, politely, though seeming a good deal surprised at them. "He had just been visiting a sick man in that house, had he not ?" I asked. 1 " Yes," he replied, "he had. Bad case of fever." "Second floor — a married couple?" was my next inquiry. Again an answer in the affirmative. •« Was it a case of great distress?" " Yes, of very great distress." " They have nothing to live upon but what the husband makes by his labor ?" I asked. " Nothing," was the answer. " And he is laid up and unable to work." " That is the state of the case," replied the doctor. "Ah ! I thought so," said I. " Would you be kind enough, Doctor Cordial," I continued, "to take charge of this small sum " (it was a very small one) " for the benefit of these poor people — on no account mentioning how you came by it." The doctor promised that he would, and I was just going to leave him, when I thought I would ask the poor fellow's name. " His name is Adams," said the doctor, and so we pavted. I now felt quite a sense of proprietorship in looking at my poor shadows opposite, and watched them more eagerly than ever. There was one action of the shadow, now unfortunately the only action to watch, which used to puzzle me not a little. The sick man's wife used at times to stand before the light, and, as it appeared to me, used to hold some article of clothing, or other piece of drapery, and examine it closely ; sometimes I , fancied that 1 could make the object out to be a shirt, or a coat, at another time a pair ot trousers. i After this she would disappear, and I always , noticed that the lamp would then be turned down till its light was very low, and would remain so s for a considerable period. I could not understand this at the time, though I did afterwards. She p was testing the condition of different articles of [ clothing before taking them to the pawnbroker's. i And now I began to discover one of the bad > results of my solitary life. Though I had given Doctor Cordial a small sum to go towards help- ] ■ ing these poor people, it was quite impossible, in • my straitened circumstances, that I could spare r more. If I had resolutely kept my friends • about me, there would have been somebody or . other to whom I could apply in behalf of my poor r shadows, while now it was impossible to do so. 5 Even when the idea entered my mind of trying to revive some former friendships with this view, b the fear that any one so applied to might imagine f I wanted the help for myself, at once deterred me. ( Whilst I was engaged in turning all these i things over in my mind, there came across it the » memory of one individual to whom I really felt 3 as if 1 should not mind applying in this difficulty, t This was a certain Mr. Pycroft, a copper-plate . printer, with whom 1 had formerly had dealings. ( He was an old man, and it so happened that at i one time in my life I had been in a position to do i him a service, and had done it. There was some- • thing about his age, his position, and our former r relations which made me feel less shy of approach- ; ing him than I should have felt with any one . else. He was a fat jolly looking old boy, and I was, as far as I had had opportunities of judging, i as good natured as he looked. , There was, however, one circumstance cons nected with his history which seemed to show him r in a less amiable light, and the remembrance of j which made me for a time hesitate about applying . to him. I remembered to have heard that some ; short time ago he had acted with great severity j towards his eldest son, who, having contracted a j marriage against his father's wishes, had been i deprived of his share in the business, which he • had formerly enjoyed, and left to make a living as well as he could by his own exertions. The ■ fact is, that the old man had had a darling pro- . ject of marrying his eldest eon to a young girl t whose father was a business connexion of his own. i The old copier-plate printer was not only thwarted • in this, but was further outraged by his son's i choice having fallen in a direction particularly i distasteful to him for private reasons. I suspected . also from what I had heard, that the conduct of the eldest son, which had been represented to his father as being violent and rebellious in no ordinary degree, had been made the worst of by the i younger brother, who not only stepped into the lion's share of the business on his brother's rei moval, but himself contracted the marriage which i his bi other had declined. I could not help thinking when I heard the circumstances of the case that this younger son had had a great deal to do in poisoning the old man's mind with regard to his elder brother's conduct. At all events, old Mr. Pycroft was the only , person I could think of just now as likely to help ■ my unfortunate shadows, and to him I determined to apply, but in a roundabout way. It occurred i to me that if I could enlist his sympathy in the fate of these poor people, just as my own had been awakened, by means of the shadows, it would be a ; far better plan than any other. . It so happened that I had often promised my old acquaintance to show him a collection which , I had of Rembrandt etchings, and it occurred to i me that now was the time when these might come l into play with great effect. So, making an excuse in relation to the matter of business which i had formerly brought us together, I called on my P old acquaintance, and, in the course of conversaj tion, invited him, naming an evening, to come to I my lodgings, and examine these curiosities, intii mating that we would moisten that pleasing labor I with a glass of brandy-and-water. Punctual to L the time named, Mr. Pycroft arrived, and we got , through the first hour very comfortably, though ) I could not help feeling rather astonished at the ; success of my scheme. i "By-the bye,'' I said — and here I must own ; that 1 was guilty of some email amount of decepi tion, for 1 spoke as if the matter in hand were of f no sort of importance — " by-the-by, Mr. Pycroft, j you wouldn't imagine how much recreation I I i derive from observing my neighbours in that veiy I cross street which you find comes too near my F windows." ; "If you was to come out of this kind of solitary i life," replied Mr. P., " you would have other [ things to amuse yourself with besides the goings on ofaparcel of peoplewhom you know nothing about." ! " Now here, for instance." I went on, unmindful ' of the interruption, as I drew aside my own cur- > tain and pointed out the window of the room . occupied by my poor young couple — ' ■ here is a ' window which has revealed to me all sorts of in- , teresting matter — enough to make a story out of j ' almost, I can tell you." ? " What, this window opposite ? But do you , mean to say, Mr. 8., that you think it right to i look into people's rooms like that ?" I [ " I have scrupulously abstained from doing so," j ' was my answer, " and have made all my observal tions with the blind down, as you see it now." s " With the blind down? But how could you I make any observations with the blind down?'' [ "By means of the shadows of the occupants of the apartment,' "was my answer. > " Shadows?" cried Mr. Pycroft, obviously incredulous. '• You don't mean to tell me that you , could make out what was going on in that room b by means of the shadows on the blind ?" > " Something of what goes on," I replied, '• at i any rate. Enough to interest me in the fortunes s of those to whom the room belongs." i " Well, really Mr- B. ! If I had it on any s other testimony than your own I should have ' thought it impossible." I " Would you like to look for yourself ?" I said. " I dare say something will take place behind the ' blind before long, which will give you an oppor- '. tunity of testing the accuracy of what I have said." I " Well, without doubting that at all/ replied » my guest, " I really think I should." i (To be continued in our next)