Once I heard the cry of murder, but where, in that chaos of
humanity, right or left, before or behind me, I could not even
guess. Home to such regions, from gorgeous stage-scenery and
dresses, from splendid, mirror-beladen casinos, from singing-halls,
and places of private and prolonged revelry, trail the daughters of
men at all hours from midnight till morning. Next day they drink
hell-fire that they may forget. Sleep brings an hour or two of
oblivion, hardly of peace; but they must wake, worn and miserable,
and the waking brings no hope: their only known help lies in the
gin-shop. What can be done with them? But the secrets God keeps
must be as good as those he tells.
But no sights of the night ever affected me so much as walking
through this same St. Giles's on a summer Sunday morning, when
church-goers were in church. Oh! the faces that creep out into the
sunshine then, and haunt their doors! Some of them but skins drawn
over skulls, living Death's-heads, grotesque in their hideousness.
I was not very far from Falconer's abode. My mind was oppressed
with sad thoughts and a sense of helplessness. I began to wonder
what Falconer might at that moment be about. I had not seen him for
a long time--a whole fortnight. He might be at home: I would go and
see, and if there were light in his windows I would ring his bell.
I went. There was light in his windows. He opened the door
himself, and welcomed me.
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