 44. The time arrives for Nancy to redeem her pledge to Rose Maley. She fails. Adept as she was in the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew and the brutal Sykes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden from all others, in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion, vile as those schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her step by step deeper and deeper into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape. Still there were times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fail at last, richly, as he merited such a fate by her hand. But these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though unable to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sykes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil, while there was yet time, but she had stipulated that her secrets should be rigidly kept. She had dropped no clue which could lead to her discovery. She had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her, and what more could she do, she was resolved. Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her again and again and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At time she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once she would have been the loudest. At other times she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards. She sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself told more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her companions. It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sykes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened to, eleven. "'An hour this side of midnight,' said Sykes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. Dark and heavy it is, too. Good night for business, this.' "'Ah,' replied Faggen. "'What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite ready to be done.' "'You're right for once,' replied Sykes gruffly. "'It is a pity, for I'm in the humour, too.' Faggen sighed and shook his head despondingly. "'We must make up for last time when we've got things into a good train. That's all I know,' said Sykes. "'That's the way to talk, my dear,' replied Faggen, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. "'It does me good to hear you.' "'Does you good, does it?' cried Sykes. "'Well, so be it.' "'Ha-ha,' laughed Faggen, as if he were relieved by even this concession. "'You're like yourself tonight, Bill, quite like yourself.' "'I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,' said Sykes, casting off the Jew's head. "'It makes you nervous, Bill. Reminds you of being nabbed, does it?' said Faggen, determined not to be offended. "'Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,' returned Sykes. "'The devil was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose he is singing as grizzled red-beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old one without any father at all, betwixt you, which I shouldn't wonder at a bit.' Faggen offered no reply to this compliment, but pulling Sykes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room. "'Hello,' cried Sykes. "'Nance. Where's the girl going at this time of night?' "'Not far.' "'What answers that?' retorted Sykes. "'Do you hear me?' "'I don't know where,' replied the girl. "'Then I do,' said Sykes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she lasted. "'Nowhere. Sit down.' "'I'm not well. I told you that before,' rejoined the girl. "'I want a breath of air.' "'Put your head out of the window,' replied Sykes. "'There's not enough there,' said the girl. "'I want it in the street.' "'Then you won't have it,' replied Sykes, with which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. "'There,' said the robber. "'Now stop quietly where you are, will you?' "'It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,' said the girl, turning very pale. "'What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?' "'Know what I'm—oh!' cried Sykes, turning to Fagan. "'She's out of her senses, you know. All she'd dare and talk to me in that way. You'll drive me on to something desperate,' muttered the girl, placing both hands upon her breast as though to keep down by force some violent outbreak. "'Let me go, will you, this minute, this instant. "'No,' said Sykes. "'Tell him to let me go, Fagan. He had better. It'll be better for him, do you hear me?' cried Nancy, stamping her foot upon the ground. "'Hear you,' repeated Sykes, turning round at his chair to confront her. "'Aye. And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a grip on your throat as he'll tear some of the screaming voice out. What has come over you, you jade? What is it?' "'Let me go,' said the girl, with great earnestness. Then sitting herself down on the floor before the door, she said, "'Bill, let me go. You don't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed, for only one hour, do, do. Cut my limbs off one by one,' cried Sykes, seizing her roughly by the arm. "'If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad, get up! Not till you let me go, not till you let me go! Never, never!' screamed the girl. Sykes looked on for a minute, watching her opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands, dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him, by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, make no more efforts to go out that night. Sykes left her to recover at leisure and rejoin Fagan. "'Oh!' said the house-breaker, wiping the perspiration from his face. "'What a precious strange gal that is!' "'You may say that, Bill,' replied Fagan thoughtfully. "'You may say that.' "'What did she take it anywhere ahead to go out to-night for, do you think?' asked Sykes. "'Come. You should know her better than me. What does it mean?' "'Obstid itsy. Women's obstid itsy, I suppose, my dear.' "'Well, I suppose it is,' growled Sykes. "'I thought I had tamed her, but she's as bad as ever.' "'Worse,' said Fagan thoughtfully. "'I never knew her like this for such a little cause.' "'Nor I,' said Sykes. "'I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood yet, and it won't come out, eh?' "'Like enough.' "'I'll let her a little blood without troubling the doctor, if she's took that way again,' said Sykes. Fagan nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment. "'She was haggen about me all day and night, too, when I was stretched on my back. And you, like a black-hearted wolf as you are, kept yourself aloof,' said Sykes. "'We was poor, too, all the time, and I think one way or other it's worried and fretted her, and that being shut up here so long has made her restless, eh?' "'That's it, my dear,' replied the Jew, in a whisper, hush. As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red. She rocked herself to and fro, tossed her head, and, after a little time, burst out laughing. "'Why, now, she's on the other attack,' exclaimed Sykes, turning a look of excessive surprise at his companion. Fagan nodded to him to take no further notice just then, and in a few minutes the girl, subsided into her accustomed demeanor, whispering Sykes that there was no fear of her relapsing. Fagan took up his hat and bade him good night. He paused when he reached the room-door and, looking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs. "'Light him down,' said Sykes, who was filling his pipe. "'It's a pity he should break his neck himself and disappoint the sightseers. Show him a light!' Nancy followed the old man downstairs with a candle. When they reached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and, drawing close to the girl, said in a whisper, "'What is it, Nancy, dear? What do you mean?' replied the girl, in the same tone. "'The reason of all this,' replied Fagan. "'If he,' he pointed with his skinny forefinger up the stairs, "'is so hard on you, he's a brute-nense, a brute-beast. Why don't you?' "'Well,' said the girl, as Fagan paused, with his mouth almost touching her ear, and his eyes looking into hers. "'No matter just now, we'll talk of this again. You have a friend in me, Nancy, a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog, like a dog, worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes, come to me. I say come to me. He is the mere hound of a day. But you know me of all, Nancy. I know you well,' replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. Good night!' She shrank back, as Fagan offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good night again, in a steady voice, and answering his parting look with a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them. Fagan walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. He had conceived the idea, not from what had just passed, though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly, and by degrees, that Nancy, worried of the house breaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and added to these her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favored the supposition, and rendered it, to him, at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his mermidans. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must, thus Fagan argued, be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker, object to be gained. Sykes knew too much, and his ruffian tons had not galled Fagan the less, as the wounds were hidden. The girl must know well that if she shook him off she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life, on the object of her more recent fancy. With a little persuasion, thought Fagan, what more likely than that she would consent to poison him women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now? There would be the dangerous villain, the man I hate, gone. Another secured in his place, and my influence over the girl with a knowledge of this crime to back it unlimited. These things passed through the mind of Fagan during the short time he sat alone in the housebreaker's room, and with them, uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed that. But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sykes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. How, thought Fagan, as he crept homeward, can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire? Such brains are fertile in expedience. If without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sykes, of whom she stood in no common fear, unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? I can, said Fagan, almost aloud. She durst not refuse me, then, not for her life, not for her life. I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet." He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain, and went on his way, busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER 45 Noah Claypole is employed by Fagan on a secret mission. The old man was up at times next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who, after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself and convinced a voracious assault on the breakfast. BOLTER! said Fagan, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. Here I am, returned Noah. What's the matter? Don't you ask me to do anything to life done eating? That's a great fault in this place. You never get time enough over your meals. You can talk, as you eat, can't you? said Fagan, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. Oh yes, I can talk, I get on better when I talk, said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. Where's Charlotte? Out, said Fagan. I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone. Oh, said Noah. I wish you had ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well, talk away. You won't interrupt me. There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with the determination to do a great deal of business. You did well yesterday, my dear, said Fagan. Beautiful. Six shillings and nine pence-happily on the very first day. The kinship lay will be a fortune to you. Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can? said Mr. Bolter. No, no, my dear, the pint-pots were great strokes of genius, but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece. Pretty well, I think, for a beginner, remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain or catch cold, you know, eh? Ha-ha-ha! Fagan affected to laugh very heartily, and Mr. Bolter had having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. I want you, Bolter, said Fagan, leaning over the table, to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution. I say, rejoin, Bolter, don't you go shoving me into danger or sending me any more your police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't, and so I tell you. There's not the smallest danger in it, not the very smallest, said the Jew. It's only to dodge a woman. An old woman, demanded Mr. Bolter, a young one, replied Fagan. I can do that pretty well, I know, said Bolter, or was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and if possible what she says, to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house, and to bring me back all the information you can. What do you give me, asked Noah, sitting down his cup and looking his employer eagerly in the face. If you do it well, a pound, my dear, one pound, said Fagan, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. And that's what I never gave yet for any job of work where there wasn't a valuable consideration to be gained. Who is she, inquired Noah? One of us. Oh, Lord, cried Noah, curling up his nose. You're doubtful of her, are you? She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are, replied Fagan. I see, said Noah, just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ah, I'm your man. I knew you would be, cried Fagan, elated by the success of his proposal. Of course, of course, replied Noah. Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go? All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time, said Fagan. You keep ready and leave the rest to me. That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his Carter's dress, ready to turn out at a word from Fagan. Six nights passed. Six long, weary nights, and on each, Fagan came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exaltation he could not conceal. It was Sunday. She goes abroad to-night, said Fagan, and on the right errand, I'm sure. For she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me, quick! Noah started up without saying a word, for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house deftly, and, hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public house, which Noah recognized as the same in which he had slept on the night of his arrival in London. It was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges, as Fagan gave a low whistle. They entered without noise, and the door was closed behind them. Scarcely venturing to whisper but substituting dumb show for words, Fagan and the young Jew who had admitted them pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to come up and observe the person in the adjoining room. Is that the woman, he asked, scarcely above his breath? Fagan nodded yes. I can't see her face well, whispered Noah. She's looking down, and the candle's behind her. Stay there, whispered Fagan. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant the lad entered the room adjoining, and on her pretence of snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and speaking to the girl caused her to raise her face. I see her now, cried the spy. Plainly, I should know her among a thousand. He hastily descended as the room door opened, and the girl came out. Fagan drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breath as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered. This, cried the lad, who held the door, DOW! Noah exchanged a look with Fagan, and darted out. To the left, whispered the lad, take the left hand, and keep on the other side. He did so, and by the light of the lamps saw the girl's retreating figure already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he considered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street the better to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice worth rice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close behind her pass on. She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier and firmer step. The spy preserved the same relative distance between them, and followed with his eye upon her. CHAPTER 46 The appointment kept. The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some expected object. The other figure was that of a man, who slunk along the deepest shadow he could find, and at some distance accommodated his pace to hers, stopping when she stopped, and as she moved again creeping steadily on, but never allowing himself in the ardour of his pursuit to gain upon her footsteps. Thus they crossed the bridge, from the middle sex to the surrey shore. When the woman, apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement was sudden, but he who watched her was not thrown off his guard by it, for shrinking into one of the recesses which surmount these piers of the bridge, and leaning over the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to pass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same distance in advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down and followed her again. At nearly the centre of the bridge she stopped. The man stopped too. It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried quickly past, very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, either the woman or the man who kept her in view. Their appearance was not calculated to attract the importanate regards of such of London's destitute population as chance to take their way over the bridge that night in search of some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to lay their heads. They stood there in silence, neither speaking nor spoken to, by anyone who passed. A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that burnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and rendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smooth-stained storehouses on either side rose heavy and dull from the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frown sternly upon water too black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old St. Saviour's Church and the spire of St. Magnus, so long the giant waters of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom, but the forest of shipping below bridge, and thickly scattered spires of churches above, were nearly all hidden from sight. The girl had taken a few restless turns to encro, closely watched meanwhile by her hidden observer, when the heavy bell of St. Ball's told for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The palace, the night cellar, the jail, the mad house, the chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm sleep of the child, midnight was upon them all. The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney carriage within a short distance of the bridge, and having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement when the girl started and immediately made towards them. They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of being realized when they were suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately, for a man in the garments of a countryman came close up, brushed against them, indeed, at that precise moment. Not here, said Nancy Hurridley. I'm afraid to speak to you here. Come away, out of the public roads, down the steps yonder." As she uttered these words and indicated with her hand the direction in which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round and roughly asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on. The steps to which the girl had pointed were those which, on the Surrey Bank, and on the same side of the bridge as St. Saviour's Church, form a landing-stairs from the river. To this spot the man bearing the appearance of a countryman hastened unobserved, and after a moment's survey of the place he began to descend. These stairs are a part of the bridge. They consist of three flights. Just below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this point the lower steps widen so that a person turning that angle of the wall is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be above him if only a step. The countryman looked hastily round when he reached this point. It as there seemed no better place of concealment, and the tide being out, there was plenty of room. He slipped aside with his back to the pilaster, and there waited, pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could follow them again with safety. So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and persuaded himself either that they had stopped far above or had resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place and regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps and directly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear. He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and scarcely breathing, listened attentively. "'This is far enough,' said a voice which was evidently that of the gentleman. I will not suffer the young lady to go any further. Many people would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I am willing to humor you. To humor me,' cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. "'You're considerate, indeed, sir, to humor me. Well, well, it's no matter.' "'Why, for what?' said the gentleman, in a kinder tone. For what purpose can you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hall?' "'I told you before,' replied Nancy, that I was afraid to speak to you there. I don't know why it is,' said the girl, shuddering. "'But I have such a fear and dread upon me to-night that I can hardly stand.' "'A fear of what?' asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her. "'I scarcely know of what,' replied the girl. "'I wish I did. Horrible thoughts of death and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day.' "'I was reading a book to-night to a while the time away, and the same things came into the print.' "'Imagination,' said the gentleman, soothing her. "'No imagination,' replied the girl, in a hoarse voice. "'I'll swear I saw coffin written on every page of the book in large black letters, I, and they carried one close to me in the streets to-night.' "'There is nothing unusual in that,' said the gentleman. "'They have passed me often. Real ones,' rejoined the girl. "'This was not.' "'There was something so uncommon in her manner, at the flesh of the concealed listener, crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the blood chilled within him. He had ever experienced a greater relief in in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady, as she begged her to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful fancies. "'Speak to her kindly,' said the young lady, to her companion. Poor creature! She seems to need it. "'Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as I am to-night, and preached of flames and vengeance,' cried the girl. "'Oh, dear lady, why aren't those who claim to be God's own focus gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who having youth and beauty and all that they have lost might be a little proud instead of so much humbler?' "'Ah,' said the gentleman, a turk turns his face after washing it well to the east, when he says his prayers, these good people, after giving their faces such a rub against the world as to take the smiles off turn with no less regularity to the darkest side of heaven, between the musselmen and the Pharisee, commend me to the first. These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her. "'You were not here last Sunday night,' he said. "'I couldn't come,' replied Nancy. "'I was kept by force. By whom? Him that I told the young lady of before. You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us here to-night, I hope?' asked the old gentleman. "'No,' replied the girl, shaking her head. "'It's not very easy for me to leave him unless he knows why. I couldn't give him a drink of laden before I came away. Did he awake before you returned?' inquired the gentleman. "'No, and neither he nor any of them suspect me.' "'Good,' said the gentleman. "'Now listen to me.' "'I'm ready,' replied the girl, as he paused for a moment. "'This young lady,' the gentleman began, "'has communicated to me and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight sense. I confess to you that I had doubts at first whether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are. I am,' said the girl, earnestly. "'I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to trust you, I tell you without reserve that we propose to extort the secret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man-monks. But if,' said the gentleman, "'he cannot be secured, or if secured, cannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.' "'Fagin!' cried the girl, recoiling. "'That man must be delivered up by you,' said the gentleman. "'I will not do it. I will never do it,' replied the girl. "'Devil that he is, and worse than devil as he has been to me. I will never do that.' "'You will not,' said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this answer. Never return the girl. Tell me why.' "'For one reason,' rejoined the girl firmly. "'For one reason, that the lady knows and will stand by me in. I know she will, for I have her promise. And for this other reason besides that bad life as he has led, I have led a bad life too. There are many of us who have kept the same courses together, and I will not turn upon them, who might, any of them, have turned upon me, but didn't, bad as they are.' "'Then,' said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he had been aiming to attain, put monks into my hand, and leave him to me to deal with. What if he turns against the others? I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there the matter will rest. There must be circumstances in Oliver's little history which would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot-free. And if it is not,' suggested the girl. "'Then,' pursued the gentleman, "'this faggen shall not be brought to justice without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, which would induce you to yield it. Have I the ladies' promise for that?' asked the girl. "'You have,' replied Rose, my true and faithful pledge. Monks would never learn how you knew what you do,' said the girl, after a short pause. "'Never,' replied the gentleman. The intelligence should be brought to bear upon him that he could never even guess. I've been a liar, and among liars from a little child,' said the girl, after another interval of silence. But I will take your words. After receiving an assurance from both that she might safely do so, she proceeded, in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by name and situation, the public house whence she had been followed that night. From the matter in which she occasionally paused it appeared as if the gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the place, the best position from which to watch it without exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments for the purpose of recalling her features and appearances more forcibly to her recollection. "'He is tall,' said the girl, and a strongly made man, but not stout. He is a lurking walk, and as he walks constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side and then on the other. Don't forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man's, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark like his hair and eyes, and although he can be more than six or eight and twenty withered and haggard, his lips are often discuttered and disfigured with the marks of teeth, for he has desperate fits and sometimes even bites his hand and covers them with wounds. "'Why do you start?' said the girl, stopping suddenly. The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not so conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed. "'Part of this,' said the girl, I could draw notes from other people at the house I tell you of, for I've only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that's all I can give you to know him by. Stay, though,' she added, upon his throat so high that you can see a part of it below his neck a-chief when he turns his face. There is a broad, red mark like a burn or scald, cried the gentleman. "'How's this?' said the girl. You know him.' The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe. "'I think I do,' said the gentleman, breaking silence. "'I should, by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It may not be the same.' As he expressed himself to this effect with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, "'It must be he.' Now,' he said, returning, so it seemed by the sound to the spot where he had stood before, "'You have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?' "'Nothing,' replied Nancy. "'You will not persist in saying that,' rejoined the gentleman, with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart. "'Think now. Tell me. Nothing, sir,' rejoined the girl weeping. "'You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope indeed.' "'You put yourself beyond its pale,' said the gentleman. "'The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies misspent and such priceless treasures lavished, as the creator bestows but once and never grants a gain. "'But for the future you may hope.' "'I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind. For that must come as you seek it, but a quiet asylum, either in England or if you fear to remain here in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of daylight, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come. I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity.' "'She will be persuaded now,' cried the young lady. "'She hesitates, I'm sure. I fear not, my dear,' said the gentleman. "'No, sir, I do not,' replied the girl, after a short struggle. "'I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back. And yet I don't know, for if you had spoken to me so some time ago I should have laughed it off. But,' she said, looking hastily round, "'this fear comes over me again. I must go home.' "'Home,' repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word. "'Home, lady,' rejoined the girl, to such a home as I have raised for myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go, go. If I have done you any service, all I ask is that you leave me and let me go my way alone.' "'It is useless,' said the gentleman, with a sigh. "'We compromise her safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she expected already. Yes, yes,' urged the girl, "'you have. What,' cried the young lady, "'can be the end of this poor creature's life. What,' repeated the girl, "'look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide and leave no living thing to care for or bewail them? It may be years hence, or it may be only months. But I shall come to that at last. Do not speak thus. Pray,' returned the young lady, sobbing. "'It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horror should,' replied the girl. "'Good night. Good night.' The gentleman turned away. "'This purse,' cried the young lady, "'take it for my sake, that you may have some resource in an hour of need and trouble. No,' replied the girl. "'I have not done this for money. Let me have that to think of. And yet give me something that you have worn. I should like to have something. No, no, not a ring, your gloves or handkerchief, anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. Bless you. God bless you. Good night. Good night.' The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to leave her as she requested. The sound of retreating footsteps were audible, and the voices ceased. The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs. "'Hark!' cried the young lady, listening. "'Did she call? I thought I heard her voice.' "'No, my love,' replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. "'She has not moved, and will not till we are gone.' Rose mayly lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and led her with gentle force away. As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears. After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained with many cautious glances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and returned stealthily, and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had descended. Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him. Oliver Twist, Chapter 47 It was nearly two hours before daybreak. That time which in the autumn of the year may be truly called the dead of night, when the streets are silent and deserted, when even sounds appear to slumber and proficacy and riot have staggered home to dream, it was at this still and silent hour that Fagin sat watching in his old lair with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and bloodshot, that he looked less like a man than like some hideous phantom moist from the grave and worried by an evil spirit. He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as absorbed in thought he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dogs or rats. Stretched upon a mattress on the floor lay Noah Claypole fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought them back again to the candle, which with a long burnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme hatred of the girl who had dared to paltre with strangers and utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up, bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sykes, the fear of detection and ruin and death, and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all. These were the passionate considerations which following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl shot through the brain of Fagin as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart. He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street. At last he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth, at last. The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and presently returned, accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sykes. There, he said, laying the bundle on the table, take care of that, and do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get. I thought I should have been here three hours ago. Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard sat down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber for an instant during this action, and now that they sat over against each other face to face he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright. What now? cried Sykes. What do you look at a man so for? Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air. But his passion was so great that the power of speech was for the moment gone. Dummy! said Sykes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. He's gone mad. I must look to myself here. No, no, rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. It's not—you're not the person, Bill. I've no—no fault to find with you. Oh, you haven't, haven't you? said Sykes, looking sternly at him, and ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. That's lucky for one of us. Which one that is don't matter. I've got that to tell you, Bill, said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer. We'll make you worse than me. I, returned the robber with an incredulous air, tell away, look sharp, or Nantz will think I'm lost. Lost! cried Fagin. She has pretty well settled that in her own mind already. Sykes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat-collar in his huge hand, and shook him soundly. Speak, will you, he said, or if you doubt it shall be for want of breath. Open your mouth and say what you've got to say in plain words. Out with it, you thundering old cur! Out with it! Suppose that lad that slaying there, Fagin, began, Sykes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously observed him. Well, he said, resuming his former position. Suppose that lad, pursued Fagin, was to peach to blow upon us all, first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a meeting with him in the street to paint our likenesses, describing every mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant we've all been in, more or less, of his own fancy, not grabbed, trapped, tried, ear-wigged by the parson, and brought to a tundred in water, but of his own fancy to please his own taste, stealing out at night to find those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me, cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage? Suppose he did all that. What then? What then? replied Sykes, with a tremendous oath. If he was left alive till I came, I'd grind his skull out of the iron heel of my booted with many grains as there are hairs upon his head. What if I did it, cried Fagin, almost in a yell, I that knows so much and could hang so many besides myself? I don't know, replied Sykes, clenching his teeth and turning white at the mere suggestion. I'd do something in the jail that'd get me put in irons if I was tried along with you. I'd fall upon you with them in the open court and beat your brains out of for the people. I should have such strength, muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, that I could smash your head as if a loaded wagon had gone over it. You would, would I, said the housebreaker, try me. If it was Charlie, or the Dodger, or Bet, or I don't care who replied Sykes impatiently, whoever it was I'd serve them the same. Fagin looked hard at the robber, and motioning him to be silent, stooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sykes lent forward in his chair, looking on with his hands upon his knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in. Bolter, Bolter, poor lad, said Fagin, looking up with an expression of devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. He's tired, tired with working for her so long, watching for her, Bill. What do you mean, asked Sykes, drawing back? Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again hauled him into a sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and giving a heavy yawn looked sleepily round him. Tell me that again, once again, just for him to hear, said the Jew, pointing to Sykes as he spoke. Tell you what, asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly. That about Nancy, said Fagin, clutching Sykes by the wrist as if to prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. You followed her? Yes. To London Bridge? Yes. Where she met two people. So she did? A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who asked her to give up all her pals and monks first, which she did, and to describe him, which she did, and to tell him what house it was we meet at, and go to, which she did, and where it could be best watched from, which she did, and what time the people went there, which she did, she did all this, she told it all, every word without a threat, without a murmur, she did, did she not, cried Fagin, half mad with fury. All right, replied Noah, scratching his head. That's just what it was. What did they say about last Sunday? About last Sunday, replied Noah, considering. Why, I told you that before. Again, tell it again, cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sykes, and brandishing his other hand aloft as the foam flew from his lips. They asked her, said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a dawning perception whose Sykes was. They asked her why she didn't come last Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't. Why, why, tell him that. Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them of before, replied Noah. What more of him, cried Fagin, what more of the man she had told them of before, tell him that, tell him that. Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors, unless he knew where she was going to, said Noah, and so the first time she went to see the lady she, ha-ha-ha, made me laugh when she said it that it did, she gave him a drink of laudanum. Hell's fire! cried Sykes, breathing fiercely from the Jew. Let me go. Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted wildly and furiously up the stairs. Bill, Bill, cried Fagin, following him hastily. A word, only a word. The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was unable to open the door, on which he was expending fruitless oaths and violence when the Jew came panting up. Let me out, said Sykes. Don't speak to me, it's not safe. Let me out, I say. Hear me speak a word, rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. You won't be—well, replied the other. You won't be too violent, Bill. The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance. There was a fire in the eyes of both which could not be mistaken. I mean, said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now useless, not too violent for safety. Be crafty, Bill, and not too bold. Sykes made no reply, but pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned the lock, dashed into the silent streets. Without one pause or moment's consideration, without turning his head to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution, his teeth so tightly compressed at the strained jaw seemed starting through his skin, the robber held on his head long course, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it softly with a key, strode lightly up the stairs, and entering his own room, double locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed. The girl was lying, half dressed upon it. He had roused her from her sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look. Get up, said the man. It is you, Bill, said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his return. It is, was the reply. Get up! There was a candle-burning, but the man hastily drew it from the candlestick, and hurled it against the grate, seeing the faint light of early day without. The girl rose to undraw the curtain. Let it be, said Sykes, thrusting his hand before her. There's enough light for what I've got to do. Bill, said the girl, in the low voice of alarm. Why do you look like that at me? The robber sat regarding her for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and heavy breast, and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth. Bill, Bill, gasped the girl, wrestling with a strength of mortal fear. I—I won't scream or cry, not once hear me, speak to me, tell me what I have done. You know you, she-devil, returned the robber, suppressing his breath. You were watched to-night. Every word you said was heard. Then spare my life for the love of heaven, as I spared yours, rejoined the girl, clinging to him. Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to kill me. Oh, think of all I have given up only this one night for you. You shall have time to think and save yourself this crime. I will not lose my hold. You cannot throw me off, Bill. Bill, for dear God's sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood. I have been true to you upon my guilty soul, I have. The man struggled violently to release his arms, but those of the girl were clasped round his, and tear her as he would. He could not tear them away. Bill cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast. The gentleman, and that dear lady, told me to-night of a home in some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see the brigade, and beg them on my knees to show the same mercy and goodness to you, and let us both leave this dreadful place and far apart leave better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to repent, they told me so, I feel it now, but we must have time, a little, little time. The house-breaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection, if he fired, flashed across his mind, even in the midst of his fury, and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon upon the upturned face that almost touched his own. She staggered and fell, nearly blinded with the blood that reigned from a deep gash in her forehead, but raising herself with difficulty on her knees drew from her bosom a white handkerchief, rose Maley's own, and holding it up in her folded hands as high towards heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her maker. It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer, staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club, and struck her down. End of Chapter 47 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens Chapter 48 The Flight of Sykes Of all bad deeds that under cover of the darkness had been committed within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel. The sun, the bright sun that brings back not light alone, but new life and hope, and freshness to man, burst upon the crowded city in clear and radiant glory. Through costly-coloured glass and paper-mended windows, through cathedral dome and rotten crevice it shed its equal ray. It lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, but it could stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it now in all that brilliant light? He had not moved. He had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and a motion of the hand. Hand with terror added to rage. He had struck and struck again. Once he threw a rug over it, but it was worse to fancy the eyes and imagine them moving towards him than to see them glaring upward as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was the body, mere flesh and blood, no more, but such flesh and so much blood. He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder, and caught by the air whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy as he was. But he held the weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the coals to burn away and smolder into ashes. He washed himself and rubbed his clothes. There were spots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out and burnt them. How those stains were dispersed about the room. The very feet of the dog were bloody. All this time he had never once turned his back upon the corpse. No, not for a moment. Such preparations completed. He moved backward towards the door, dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shot the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house. He crossed over and glanced up at the window to be sure that nothing was visible from the outside. There was the curtain, still drawn, which she would have opened to admit light she never saw again. It lay nearly under there. He knew that. God, how the sun poured down upon the very spot! The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. He whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away. He went through Islington, strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands the stone in honour of Whittington, turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady of purpose, and uncertain where to go. Struck off to the right again almost as soon as he began to descend it, and taking the footpath across the fields, skirted Cain Wood, and so came on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow of the Vale of Heath, he mounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion of the Heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself down under a hedge and slept. Soon he was up again and away, not far into the country but back towards London by the High Road, then back again, then over another part of the same ground as he had already traversed, then wandering up and down in fields and lying in ditches' brinks to rest, and starting up to make for some other spot and do the same and ramble on again. Where could he go that was near and not too public to get some meat and drink? Henden! That was a good place, not far off and out of most people's way. Thither he directed his steps, running sometimes and sometimes with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail's pace, or stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with a stick. But when he got there all the people he met, the very children at the doors, seemed to view him with suspicion. Back he turned again without the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no food for many hours and once more he lingered on the heath uncertain where to go. He wandered over miles and miles of ground and still came back to the old place. Morning and noon had passed and the day was on the wane and still he rambled to and fro and up and down and round and round and still lingered about the same spot. At last he got away and shaped his course for Hatfield. It was nine o'clock at night when the man, quite tired out, and the dog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by the church of the quiet village and plodding along the little street crept into a small public house whose scanty light had guided them to the spot. There was a fire in the tap room and some country labourers were drinking before it. They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest corner and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog, to whom he cast a morsel of food from time to time. The conversation of the men assembled here turned upon the neighbouring land and farmers, and when those topics were exhausted upon the age of some old man who had been buried on the previous Sunday, the young men present considering him very old and the old men present declaring him to have been quite young, not older, one white-haired grandfather said then he was, with ten or fifteen years of life in him at least, if he had taken care, if he had taken care. There was nothing to attract attention or excite alarm in this. The robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner and had almost dropped asleep when he was half-wakened by the noisy entrance of a newcomer. This was an antique fellow, half-peddler and half-mountain-back, who travelled about the country on foot to vend hones, straps, razors, wash-balls, harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics and such-like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. His entrance was the signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had made his supper and opened his box of treasures when he ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement. And what be that, stoof? Good to eat, Harry! asked a gridding countryman, pointing to some cosmopolitan cakes in one corner. This, said the fellow, producing one, this is the infallible and invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, spick, speck, spot or spatter, from silk satin linen cambrick, cloth, crepe, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazine or woollen stuff, wine stains, fruit stains, beer stains, water stains, paint stains, pitch stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with the infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, she has only need to swallow one cake, and she's cured it once for its poison. If a gentleman wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt one little square, and he has put it beyond question for its quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier in the flavour, consequently the more credit in taking it, one penny a square, with all these virtues one penny a square. There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The vendor, observing this, increased in lucacity. It's all bought up as fast as it can be made, said the fellow. There are fourteen water-mills, sixteen engines, and a galvanic battery, always are working upon it, and they can't make it fast enough, though the men work so hard that they die off in the widows' pension directly with twenty-pound a year for each of the children at a premium of fifty for twins, one penny a square, two apences all the same, and four farthings as recede with joy, one penny a square, wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains. Here is a state upon the heart of a gentleman in company, that I'll take clean out before he can order me a pint of ale. Ah! cried Sykes, starting up. Give that back! I'll take it clean out, sir, replied the man, winking to the company, before you can come across the room and get it. Gentlemen all observe the dark state upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether this is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain, the man got no further, for Sykes, with a hideous imprecation, over through the table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house. With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened upon him, despite himself all day, the murderer, finding that he was not followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken, sullen fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps of a stage-coach that was standing in the street and walking past, when he recognized the mail from London, and saw that it was standing at the little post-office. He almost knew what was to come, but he crossed over and listened. The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, dressed like a game-keeper, came up at that moment, and he handed him a basket, which lay ready on the pavement. "'That's for your people,' said the guard. "'Now, look alive in there, will you? Damn that air-bag, it warn't ready, night or fall, last. This won't do you, no.' "'Anything new up in town, Ben,' asked the game-keeper, drying back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses. "'No, nothing that I knows on,' replied the man, pulling on his gloves. Corn's up a little. I hear talk of a murder, too, down Spiddlefield's way. But I don't reckon much upon it.' "'Oh, that's quite true,' said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window, and a dreadful murder it was. "'Was it, sir?' rejoined the guard, touching his hat. "'Man or woman, pray, sir?' "'A woman,' replied the gentleman. "'It is supposed now, Ben,' replied the coachman impatiently. "'Damn that air-bag,' said the guard. "'Are you gone to sleep in there?' "'Coming,' cried the office-keeper, running out. "'Coming,' growled the guard. "'And so's the young woman a property that's going to take a fancy to be, but I don't know when. Here, give-hold. All right.' The horn sounded a few tearful notes, and the coach was gone. Sykes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans. He went on doggedly. But as he left the town behind him and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing, but these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that morning's ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of wind came laden with the last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed, not running too. That would have been a relief, but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery of life and borne on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell. At times he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look him dead, but the hair rose on his head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now, always. He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, visibly out against the cold night sky. He threw himself upon the road, on his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still, a living gravestone with its epitaph in blood. Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that providence must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear. There was a shed in a field he passed that offered shelter for the night. Before the door were three tall poplar trees, which made it very dark within, and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not walk on till daylight came again, and here he stretched himself close to the wall to undergo new torture. For now a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, so lustrous and so glassy that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared in the midst of the darkness, light in themselves, but giving light to nothing. There were but too, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came the room with every well-known object, some indeed that he would have forgotten if he had gone over its contents from memory, each in its accustomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up and rushed into the field without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed and shrunk down once more. The eyes were there before he had laid himself along. And here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly there arose upon the night wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He regained his strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger, and springing to his feet rushed into the open air. The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry of fire mingled with the ringing of an alarm bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. There were people there, men and women, light bustle. It was like new life to them. He darted onward, straight, headlong, dashing through briar and break, and leaping gate and fences madly as his dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before him. He came upon the spot. There were half dressed figures tearing to and fro, some endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others driving the cattle from the yard and outhouses, and others coming laden from the burning pile amidst a shower of falling sparks and the tumbling down of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire, walls rocked and climbed into the burning well. The molten lead and iron poured down, white-hot upon the ground. Women and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the engine pumps and the spurting and hissing of the waters that fell upon the blazing wood added to the tremendous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse, and, flying from memory and himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng. Hither and thither he dived that night, now working at the pumps and now hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladders, upon the roofs of buildings over floors that quaked and trembled with his weight, under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great fire was he. But he bore a charmed life and had neither scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought till morning dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins remained. This mad excitement over, their return with tenfold force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for the men were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drew off, stealthily together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, and they called him to share in their refreshment. He took some bread and meat, and as he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen who were from London talking about the murder. He's gone to Birmingham, they say, said one, but they'll have him yet, for the scouts are out, and by tomorrow night there'll be a cry through the country. He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground, then laid down in a lane, and had a long but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on again, a resolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of another solitary night. Suddenly he took the desperate resolution to going back to London. There's somebody to speak to there at all event, he thought. A good hiding-place, too. They'll never expect to nap me there after this country sent. Why can't I lie by for a week or so, and forcing blood from Fagin get abroad to France? Dammit, I'll risk it! He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least frequented roads began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed within a short distance of the metropolis, and entering it at dusk by a circuitous route, to proceed straight to that part of it to which he had fixed on for his destination. The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond, picking up a heavy stone, and tying it to his handkerchief as he went. The animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations were making, whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the robber's side-long look at him was sterner than ordinary. He sculpted a little farther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly along. When his master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped outright. "'Dear hear me call! Come here!' cried Sykes. The animal came up from the very force of habit, but as Sykes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and started back. "'Come back!' said the robber. The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sykes made a running noose and called him again. The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and scoured away at his hardest speed. The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey. END OF CHAPTER XLVIII The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow alighted from a hackney-coach at his own door and knocked softly. The door being opened, a sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow they helped out a third man, and taking him between them hurried him into the house. This man was monks. They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow, preceding them, led the way into a back room. At the door of this apartment, monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The two men looked at the old gentleman as if for instructions. He knows the alternative, said Mr. Brownlow. If he hesitates or moves a finger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of the police and impeach him as a felon in my name. How dare you say this of me, asked monks. How dare you urge me to a young man, replied Mr. Brownlow, confronting him with a steady look. Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that instant will have you apprehended on a charge of fraud and robbery. I am resolute and immovable. If you are determined to be the same, your blood be upon your own head. By what authority am I kidnapped to the street and brought here by these dogs, asked monks, looking from one to the other of the men who stood beside him? By mine, replied Mr. Brownlow. These persons are indemnified by me. If you complain of being deprived of your liberty, you had power and opportunity to retrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet. I say again, throw yourself for protection and the law. I will appeal to the law, too. But when you have gone too far to recede, do not sue to me ver leniency when the power will have passed into other hands, and do not say I plunged you down the gulf into which you rushed yourself. Monks was plainly disconcerted and alarmed besides. He hesitated. You will decide quickly, said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and composure. If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly and consign you to a punishment the extent of which, although I can with the shutter foresee, I cannot control. Once more I say for you know the way. If not, and you appeal to my forbearance and the mercy of those you have deeply injured, seat yourself without a word in that chair, it has waited for you two whole days. Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still. You will be prompt, said Mr. Brownlow, a word from me and the alternative has gone for ever. Still the man hesitated. I have not the inclination to parley, said Mr. Brownlow, and as I advocate the dearest interest of others I have not the right. Is there, demanded Monks with a faltering tongue, is there no middle course? None. Monks looked at the old gentleman with an anxious eye, but reading in his countenance nothing but severity and determination walked into the room and shrugging his shoulders sat down. Lock the door on the outside, said Mr. Brownlow, to the attendance, and come when I ring. The men obeyed and the two were left alone together. This is pretty treatment, sir, said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak from my father's oldest friend. It is because I was your father's oldest friend, young man, returned Mr. Brownlow. It is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who rejoined her god in youth and left me here a solitary lonely man. It is because he knelt with me beside his only sister's death bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would, but heaven willed otherwise, have made her my young wife. It is because my seared heart clung to him from that time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died. It is because old recollections and associations filled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him. It is because of all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now. Yes, Edward Leeford, even now, and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name. What has the name to do with it? asked the other, after contemplating half in silence and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. What is the name to me? Nothing, replied Mr. Brownlow. Nothing to you. But it was hers, and even at this distance of time brings back to me an old man the glow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very glad you have changed it. Very, very." This is all Mikey Fine," said Monks, to retain his assumed designation, after a long silence during which he had jerked himself into silent defiance to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat shading his face with his hand. But what do you want with me? You have a brother," said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself. A brother, the whisper of whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the street, was in itself almost enough to make you accompany me hither in wonder and alarm. I have no brother," replied Monks. You know I was an only child. Why do you talk to me of brothers? You know that as well as I. Attend to what I do know, and you may not," said Mr. Brownlow. I shall interest you by and by. I know that of the wretched marriage into which family pride and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition forced your unhappy father when a mere boy you were the sole and most unnatural issue. I don't care for hard names, interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh. You know the fact, and that's enough for me. But I also know, pursue the old gentleman, the misery, the slow torture, the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I know how listlessly and virily each of that wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through a world that was poisoned to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded by open taunts. How indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and hate to loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond asunder, and retiring a wide space apart carried each a galling fragment of which nothing but death could break the rivets to hide it in new society beneath the gayest looks they could assume. Your mother succeeded. She forgot it soon, but it rusted and cankered at your father's heart for years. Well, they were separated, said Monks, and what of that? When they had been separated for some time—returned Mr. Brownlow—and your mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects blighted, lingered on at home, he fell among new friends. This circumstance at least you know already. Not I, said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot upon the ground, as a man who is determined to deny everything. Not I. Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have never forgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness, returned Mr. Brownlow. I speak of fifteen years ago when you were not more than eleven years old in your father but one and thirty, for he was, I repeat, a boy when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will you spare it and disclose to me the truth? I have nothing to disclose, rejoin, Monks. You must talk on, if you will. These new friends, then, said Mr. Brownlow, were a naval officer retired from active service, whose wife had died some half a year before and left him with two children. There had been more, but of all their family, happily but two survived. They were both daughters, one a beautiful creature of nineteen and the other a mere child of two or three years old. What's this to me? asked Monks. They resided, said Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption, in a part of the country to which your father in his wandering had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode, acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each other. Your father was gifted as few men are. He had his sister's soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same. The old gentleman paused. Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed upon the floor. Seeing this, he immediately resumed. The end of the year found him contracted, solemnly contracted to that daughter. The object of the first true ardent only passion of a guileless girl. Your tale is the longest, observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair. It is a true tale of grief and trial and sorrow, young man, returned Mr. Brownlow, and such tales usually are. If it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed, as others are often, it is no uncommon case, died, and to repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning left to Miss Patassia for all griefs. Money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome whether this man had spent for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went, was seized with mortal illness there, was followed the moment the intelligent reached Paris by your mother, who carried you with her. He died the day after her arrival, leaving no will, no will, so that the whole property fell to her and you. At this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and listened with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the air of one who has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands. Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way, said Mr. Brownlow slowly and fixing his eyes upon the other's face, he came to me. I never heard of that, interrupted Monks in a tone intended to appear incredulous, but savoring more of disagreeable surprise. He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture, a portrait painted by himself, a likeness of this poor girl, which he did not wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow, talked in a wild, distracted way of ruin and dishonor worked by himself, confided to be his intention to convert his whole property at any loss into money, and having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition to fly the country, I guess too well he would not fly alone, and never see it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that covered one most dear to both, even from me he withheld any more particular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me once again for the last time on earth. Alas, that was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more. I went, said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause. I went when all was over to the scene of his. I will use the term the world would freely use for worldly harshness or favor are now alike to him, of his guilty love, resolved that if my fears were realized that erring child could find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before. They had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why or wither none can tell. Monks drew his breath yet war freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph. When your brother, said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other's chair, when your brother, a feeble, ragged, neglected child, was cast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy, what! cried Monks. Buy me, said Mr. Brownlow. I told you I should interest you before long. I say buy me. I see that your cunning associates suppressed my name, although for ought he knew it would be quite strange to your ears. Would he was rescued by me then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house? His strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you, he was snared away before I knew his history. Why not?" asked Monks hastily. "'Because you know it well.' "'I?' "'Denial to me as vain,' replied Mr. Brownlow. I shall show you that I know more than that. You—you can't prove anything against me, Stanford Monks. I defy you to do it. We shall see,' returned the old gentleman, with a searching glance. I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could. And as when I had last heard of you, you were on your own estate in the West Indies, wither as you well know you retired upon your mother's death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here, I made the voyage. You had left it months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done. Sometimes for days together, said sometimes not for months, keeping to all appearances the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce, ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new applications. I paced the street by night and day, but until two hours ago all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant. And now you do see me, said Monks, rising boldly. What then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words, justified you think but a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle dob of a dead man's brother. You don't even know that a child was born of this model and pair. You don't even know that." I did not, replied Mr. Brownlow, rising to. But within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother. You know it and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born and accidentally encountered by you when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs, proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin. Unworthy son, cowered liar! You who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night. You whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth million such as you. You, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice and prophecy, festered till they found a vent in a hideous disease which has made your face and index even to your mind. You, Edward Leiford, do you still brave me? No, no, no! returned the cowered, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. Every word, cried the gentleman, every word that has passed between you and this detested villainous known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers and brought them to my ear. The sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself and given it the courage at almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done to which you were morally, if not really, a party. No, no, interposed monks. I, I knew nothing of that. I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel. It was the partial discovery of your secrets, replied Mr. Brownlow. Will you disclose the whole? Yes, I will. Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts and repeat it before witnesses. That I promise to. Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable for the purpose of attesting it. If you insist upon that, I'll do that also, replied monks. You must do more than that, replied Mr. Brownlow. Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more. While monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal, and the possibilities of evading it, torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other, the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman, Mr. Lozburn, entered the room in violent agitation. The man will be taken, he cried. He will be taken to-night. The murderer asked Mr. Brownlow. Yes, yes, replied the other. His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is or will be there undercover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by government to-night. I will give fifty more, said Mr. Brownlow, and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maley? Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a couch with you, he hurried off to where he heard this, replied the doctor, and mounting his horse, sallied forth to join the first part he had some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them. Faggan, said Mr. Brownlow, what of him? When I last heard he had not been taken, but he will be, or is by this time, there sure of him. Have you made up your mind, as Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice of monks? Yes, he replied, you. You will be secret with me. I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety. They left the room, and the door was again locked. What have you done? asked the doctor in a whisper. All that I could hope to do, and even more, coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loop-hold of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Right at a point the evening after tomorrow at seven for the meeting. We shall be down there a few hours before, but shall require rest, especially the young lady, who may have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken? Drive straight to the office, and you will be in time, replied Mr. Losburn. I will remain here. The two gentlemen hastily separated, each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable.