Among all the dangerous characters who, in such a state of society, prowled and skulked in the metropolis at night, there was one man from whom many as uncouth and fierce as he, shrunk with an involuntary dread. Who he was, or whence he came, was a question often asked, but which none could answer. His name was unknown, he had never been seen until within about eight days or thereabouts, and was equally a stranger to the old ruffians, upon whose haunts he ventured fearlessly, as to the young. He could be no spy, for he never removed his slouched hat to look about him, entered into conversation with no man, heeded nothing that passed, listened to no discourse, regarded nobody that came or went. But so surely as the dead of night set in, so surely this man was in the midst of the loose concourse in the night-cellar where outcasts of every grade resorted; and there he sat till morning.
He was not only a spectre at their licentious feasts; a something in the midst of their revelry and riot that chilled and haunted them; but out of doors he was the same. Directly it was dark, he was abroad—never in company with any one, but always alone; never lingering or loitering, but always walking swiftly; and looking (so they said who had seen him) over his shoulder from time to time, and as he did so quickening his pace. In the fields, the lanes, the roads, in all quarters of the town—east, west, north, and south—that man was seen gliding on like a shadow. He was always hurrying away. Those who encountered him, saw him steal past, caught sight of the backward glance, and so lost him in the darkness.
This constant restlessness, and flitting to and fro, gave rise to strange stories. He was seen in such distant and remote places, at times so nearly tallying with each other, that some doubted whether there were not two of them, or more—some, whether he had not unearthly means of travelling from spot to spot. The footpad hiding in a ditch had marked him passing like a ghost along its brink; the vagrant had met him on the dark high-road; the beggar had seen him pause upon the bridge to look down at the water, and then sweep on again; they who dealt in bodies with the surgeons could swear he slept in churchyards, and that they had beheld him glide away among the tombs on their approach. And as they told these stories to each other, one who had looked about him would pull his neighbour by the sleeve, and there he would be among them.
At last, one man—he was one of those whose commerce lay among the graves—resolved to question this strange companion. Next night, when he had eat his poor meal voraciously (he was accustomed to do that, they had observed, as though he had no other in the day), this fellow sat down at his elbow.
“A black night, master!”
“It is a black night.”
“Blacker than last, though that was pitchy too. Didn't I pass you near the turnpike in the Oxford Road ?”
“It's like you may. I don't know.”
“Come, come, master,” cried the fellow, urged on by the looks of his comrades, and slapping him on the shoulder; “be more companionable and communicative. Be more the gentleman in this good company. There are tales among us that you have sold yourself to the devil, and I know not what.”
“We all have, have we not?” returned the stranger, looking up. “If we were fewer in number, perhaps he would give better wages.”
“It goes rather hard with you, indeed,” said the fellow, as the stranger disclosed his haggard unwashed face, and torn clothes. “What of that? Be merry, master. A stave of a roaring song now'—
“Sing you, if you desire to hear one,” replied the other, shaking him roughly off; “and don't touch me if you're a prudent man; I carry arms which go off easily—they have done so, before now—and make it dangerous for strangers who don't know the trick of them, to lay hands upon me.”
“Do you threaten?” said the fellow.
“Yes,” returned the other, rising and turning upon him, and looking fiercely round as if in apprehension of a general attack.
His voice, and look, and bearing—all expressive of the wildest recklessness and desperation—daunted while they repelled the bystanders. Although in a very different sphere of action now, they were not without much of the effect they had wrought at the Maypole Inn.
“I am what you all are, and live as you all do,” said the man sternly, after a short silence. “I am in hiding here like the rest, and if we were surprised would perhaps do my part with the best of ye. If it's my humour to be left to myself, let me have it. Otherwise,'—and here he swore a tremendous oath—'there'll be mischief done in this place, though there ARE odds of a score against me.”
A low murmur, having its origin perhaps in a dread of the man and the mystery that surrounded him, or perhaps in a sincere opinion on the part of some of those present, that it would be an inconvenient precedent to meddle too curiously with a gentleman's private affairs if he saw reason to conceal them, warned the fellow who had occasioned this discussion that he had best pursue it no further. After a short time the strange man lay down upon a bench to sleep, and when they thought of him again, they found he was gone.
Next night, as soon as it was dark, he was abroad again and traversing the streets; he was before the locksmith's house more than once, but the family were out, and it was close shut. This night he crossed London Bridge and passed into Southwark. As he glided down a bye street, a woman with a little basket on her arm, turned into it at the other end. Directly he observed her, he sought the shelter of an archway, and stood aside until she had passed. Then he emerged cautiously from his hiding-place, and followed.
She went into several shops to purchase various kinds of household necessaries, and round every place at which she stopped he hovered like her evil spirit; following her when she reappeared. It was nigh eleven o'clock, and the passengers in the streets were thinning fast, when she turned, doubtless to go home. The phantom still followed her.
She turned into the same bye street in which he had seen her first, which, being free from shops, and narrow, was extremely dark. She quickened her pace here, as though distrustful of being stopped, and robbed of such trifling property as she carried with her. He crept along on the other side of the road. Had she been gifted with the speed of wind, it seemed as if his terrible shadow would have tracked her down.
At length the widow—for she it was—reached her own door, and, panting for breath, paused to take the key from her basket. In a flush and glow, with the haste she had made, and the pleasure of being safe at home, she stooped to draw it out, when, raising her head, she saw him standing silently beside her: the apparition of a dream.
His hand was on her mouth, but that was needless, for her tongue clove to its roof, and her power of utterance was gone. “I have been looking for you many nights. Is the house empty? Answer me. Is any one inside?”
She could only answer by a rattle in her throat.
“Make me a sign.”
She seemed to indicate that there was no one there. He took the key, unlocked the door, carried her in, and secured it carefully behind them.
Chapter 17
It was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow's parlour had burnt low. Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and stooping down before the half-extinguished ashes, raked them together and fanned them with his hat. From time to time he glanced at her over his shoulder, as though to assure himself of her remaining quiet and making no effort to depart; and that done, busied himself about the fire again.
It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress was dank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he shivered from head to foot. It had rained hard during the previous night and for some hours in the morning, but since noon it had been fine. Wheresoever he had passed the hours of darkness, his condition sufficiently betokened that many of them had been spent beneath the open sky. Besmeared with mire; his saturated clothes clinging with a damp embrace about his limbs; his beard unshaven, his face unwashed, his meagre cheeks worn into deep hollows,—a more miserable wretch could hardly be, than this man who now cowered down upon the widow's hearth, and watched the struggling flame with blood
shot eyes.
She had covered her face with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to look towards him. So they remained for some short time in silence. Glancing round again, he asked at length:
“Is this your house?”
“It is. Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?”
“Give me meat and drink,” he answered sullenly, “or I dare do more than that. The very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and hunger. I must have warmth and food, and I will have them here.”
“You were the robber on the Chigwell road.”
“I was.”
“And nearly a murderer then.”
“The will was not wanting. There was one came upon me and raised the hue-and-cry”, that it would have gone hard with, but for his nimbleness. I made a thrust at him.”
“You thrust your sword at HIM!” cried the widow, looking upwards. “You hear this man! you hear and saw!”
He looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands tight clenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of appeal. Then, starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced towards her.
“Beware!” she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped him midway. “Do not so much as touch me with a finger, or you are lost; body and soul, you are lost.”
“Hear me,” he replied, menacing her with his hand. “I, that in the form of a man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am a spirit, a ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures shrink, save those curst beings of another world, who will not leave me;—I am, in my desperation of this night, past all fear but that of the hell in which I exist from day to day. Give the alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me. I will not hurt you. But I will not be taken alive; and so surely as you threaten me above your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor. The blood with which I sprinkle it, be on you and yours, in the name of the Evil Spirit that tempts men to their ruin!”
As he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched it in his hand.
“Remove this man from me, good Heaven!” cried the widow. “In thy grace and mercy, give him one minute's penitence, and strike him dead!”
“It has no such purpose,” he said, confronting her. “It is deaf. Give me to eat and drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing, and will not do for you.”
“Will you leave me, if I do thus much? Will you leave me and return no more?”
“I will promise nothing,” he rejoined, seating himself at the table, “nothing but this—I will execute my threat if you betray me.”
She rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room, brought out some fragments of cold meat and bread and put them on the table. He asked for brandy, and for water. These she produced likewise; and he ate and drank with the voracity of a famished hound. All the time he was so engaged she kept at the uttermost distance of the chamber, and sat there shuddering, but with her face towards him. She never turned her back upon him once; and although when she passed him (as she was obliged to do in going to and from the cupboard) she gathered the skirts of her garment about her, as if even its touching his by chance were horrible to think of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kept her face towards his own, and watched his every movement.
His repast ended—if that can be called one, which was a mere ravenous satisfying of the calls of hunger—he moved his chair towards the fire again, and warming himself before the blaze which had now sprung brightly up, accosted her once more.
“I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an uncommon luxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate fare. You live here at your ease. Do you live alone?”
“I do not,” she made answer with an effort.
“Who dwells here besides?”
“One—it is no matter who. You had best begone, or he may find you here. Why do you linger?”
“For warmth,” he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire. “For warmth. You are rich, perhaps?”
“Very,” she said faintly. “Very rich. No doubt I am very rich.”
“At least you are not penniless. You have some money. You were making purchases to-night.”
“I have a little left. It is but a few shillings.”
“Give me your purse. You had it in your hand at the door. Give it to me.”
She stepped to the table and laid it down. He reached across, took it up, and told the contents into his hand. As he was counting them, she listened for a moment, and sprung towards him.
“Take what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but go before it is too late. I have heard a wayward step without, I know full well. It will return directly. Begone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do not stop to ask. I will not answer. Much as I dread to touch you, I would drag you to the door if I possessed the strength, rather than you should lose an instant. Miserable wretch! fly from this place.”
“If there are spies without, I am safer here,” replied the man, standing aghast. “I will remain here, and will not fly till the danger is past.”
“It is too late!” cried the widow, who had listened for the step, and not to him. “Hark to that foot upon the ground. Do you tremble to hear it! It is my son, my idiot son!”
As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door. He looked at her, and she at him.
“Let him come in,” said the man, hoarsely. “I fear him less than the dark, houseless night. He knocks again. Let him come in!”
“The dread of this hour,” returned the widow, “has been upon me all my life, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him, if you stand eye to eye. My blighted boy! Oh! all good angels who know the truth— hear a poor mother's prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of this man!”
“He rattles at the shutters!” cried the man. “He calls you. That voice and cry! It was he who grappled with me in the road. Was it he?”
She had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips, but uttering no sound. As he gazed upon her, uncertain what to do or where to turn, the shutters flew open. He had barely time to catch a knife from the table, sheathe it in the loose sleeve of his coat, hide in the closet, and do all with the lightning's speed, when Barnaby tapped at the bare glass, and raised the sash exultingly.
“Why, who can keep out Grip and me!” he cried, thrusting in his head, and staring round the room. “Are you there, mother? How long you keep us from the fire and light.”
She stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand. But Barnaby sprung lightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about her neck, kissed her a hundred times.
“We have been afield, mother—leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying on. The wind has been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing and bending to it, lest it should do them harm, the cowards—and Grip—ha ha ha!—brave Grip, who cares for nothing, and when the wind rolls him over in the dust, turns manfully to bite it—Grip, bold Grip, has quarrelled with every little bowing twig—thinking, he told me, that it mocked him—and has worried it like a bulldog. Ha ha ha!”
The raven, in his little basket at his master's back, hearing this frequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed his sympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his various phrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many varieties of hoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a crowd of people.
“He takes such care of me besides!” said Barnaby. “Such care, mother! He watches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes and make-believe to slumber, he practises new learning softly; but he keeps his eye on me the while, and if he sees me laugh, though never so little, stops directly. He won't surprise me till he's perfect.”
The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly said, “Those are certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in them. “ In the meantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it, and coming to the fireplac
e, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet. But his mother prevented this, by hastily taking that side herself, and motioning him towards the other.
“How pale you are to-night!” said Barnaby, leaning on his stick. “We have been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!”
Anxious in good truth, and sick at heart! The listener held the door of his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched her son. Grip—alive to everything his master was unconscious of— had his head out of the basket, and in return was watching him intently with his glistening eye.
Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty Page 16
