第 83 页

precipitately, and left him in quiet possession of the field.

'So! That little job being disposed of,' said the dwarf, coolly, 'I'll

read my letter. Humph!' he muttered, looking at the direction. 'I

ought to know this writing. Beautiful Sally!'

Opening it, he read, in a fair, round, legal hand, as follows:

'Sammy has been practised upon, and has broken confidence. It has all

come out. You had better not be in the way, for strangers are going to

call upon you. They have been very quiet as yet, because they mean to

surprise you. Don't lose time. I didn't. I am not to be found

anywhere. If I was you, I wouldn't either. S. B., late of B. M.'

To describe the changes that passed over Quilp's face, as he read this

letter half-a-dozen times, would require some new language: such, for

power of expression, as was never written, read, or spoken. For a long

time he did not utter one word; but, after a considerable interval,

during which Mrs Quilp was almost paralysed with the alarm his looks

engendered, he contrived to gasp out,

'If I had him here. If I only had him here--'

'Oh Quilp!' said his wife, 'what's the matter? Who are you angry with?'

'--I should drown him,' said the dwarf, not heeding her. 'Too easy a

death, too short, too quick--but the river runs close at hand. Oh! if

I had him here! just to take him to the brink coaxingly and

pleasantly,--holding him by the button-hole--joking with him,--and,

with a sudden push, to send him splashing down! Drowning men come to

the surface three times they say. Ah! To see him those three times,

and mock him as his face came bobbing up,--oh, what a rich treat that

would be!'

'Quilp!' stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on

the shoulder: 'what has gone wrong?'

She was so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure

to himself that she could scarcely make herself intelligible.

'Such a bloodless cur!' said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and

pressing them tight together. 'I thought his cowardice and servility

were the best guarantee for his keeping silence. Oh Brass, Brass--my

dear, good, affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming friend--if

I only had you here!'

His wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these

mutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak,

when he hurried to the door, and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his

late gentle admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately.

'There!' said the dwarf, pulling him in. 'Take her home. Don't come

here to-morrow, for this place will be shut up. Come back no more till

you hear from me or see me. Do you mind?'

Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs Quilp to lead the way.

'As for you,' said the dwarf, addressing himself to her, 'ask no

questions about me, make no search for me, say nothing concerning me.

I shall not be dead, mistress, and that'll comfort you. He'll take

care of you.'

'But, Quilp? What is the matter? Where are you going? Do say

something more?'

'I'll say that,' said the dwarf, seizing her by the arm, 'and do that

too, which undone and unsaid would be best for you, unless you go

directly.'

'Has anything happened?' cried his wife. 'Oh! Do tell me that?'

'Yes,' snarled the dwarf. 'No. What matter which? I have told you

what to do. Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey me by a

hair's breadth. Will you go!'

'I am going, I'll go directly; but,' faltered his wife, 'answer me one

question first. Has this letter any connexion with dear little Nell?

I must ask you that--I must indeed, Quilp. You cannot think what days

and nights of sorrow I have had through having once deceived that

child. I don't know what harm I may have brought about, but, great or

little, I did it for you, Quilp. My conscience misgave me when I did

it. Do answer me this question, if you please?'

The exasperated dwarf returned no answer, but turned round and caught

up his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott dragged his

charge away, by main force, and as swiftly as he could. It was well he

did so, for Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued them to the

neighbouring lane, and might have prolonged the chase but for the dense

mist which obscured them from his view and appeared to thicken every

moment.

'It will be a good night for travelling anonymously,' he said, as he

returned slowly, being pretty well breathed with his run. 'Stay. We

may look better here. This is too hospitable and free.'

By a great exertion of strength, he closed the two old gates, which

were deeply sunken in the mud, and barred them with a heavy beam. That

done, he shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried

them.--Strong and fast.

'The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed,' said the

dwarf, when he had taken these precautions. 'There's a back lane, too,

from there. That shall be my way out. A man need know his road well,

to find it in this lovely place to-night. I need fear no unwelcome

visitors while this lasts, I think.'

Almost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands (it

had grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he returned to

his lair; and, after musing for some time over the fire, busied himself

in preparations for a speedy departure.

While he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into his

pockets, he never once ceased communing with himself in a low voice, or

unclenched his teeth, which he had ground together on finishing Miss

Brass's note.

'Oh Sampson!' he muttered, 'good worthy creature--if I could but hug

you! If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your ribs, as I

COULD squeeze them if I once had you tight--what a meeting there would

be between us! If we ever do cross each other again, Sampson, we'll

have a greeting not easily to be forgotten, trust me. This time,

Sampson, this moment when all had gone on so well, was so nicely

chosen! It was so thoughtful of you, so penitent, so good. Oh, if we

were face to face in this room again, my white-livered man of law, how

well contented one of us would be!'

There he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to his lips, drank a

long deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched

mouth. Setting it down abruptly, and resuming his preparations, he

went on with his soliloquy.

'There's Sally,' he said, with flashing eyes; 'the woman has spirit,

determination, purpose--was she asleep, or petrified? She could have

stabbed him--poisoned him safely. She might have seen this coming on.

Why does she give me notice when it's too late? When he sat

there,--yonder there, over there,--with his white face, and red head,

and sickly smile, why didn't I know what was passing in his heart? It

should have stopped beating, that night, if I had been in his secret,

or there are no drugs to lull a man to sleep, or no fire to burn him!'

Another draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a

ferocious aspect, he muttered to himself again.

'And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late

times, springs from that old dotard and his darling child--two wretched

feeble wanderers! I'll be their evil genius yet. And you, sweet Kit,

honest Kit, virtuous, innocent Kit, look to yourself. Where I hate, I

bite. I hate you, my darling fellow, with good cause, and proud as you

are to-night, I'll have my turn.----What's that?'

A knocking at the gate he had closed. A loud and violent knocking.

Then, a pause; as if those who knocked had stopped to listen. Then,

the noise again, more clamorous and importunate than before.

'So soon!' said the dwarf. 'And so eager! I am afraid I shall disappoint

you. It's well I'm quite prepared. Sally, I thank you!'

As he spoke, he extinguished the candle. In his impetuous attempts to

subdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which came

tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the burning embers it had

shot forth in its descent, leaving the room in pitchy darkness. The

noise at the gate still continuing, he felt his way to the door, and

stepped into the open air.

At that moment the knocking ceased. It was about eight o'clock; but

the dead of the darkest night would have been as noon-day in comparison

with the thick cloud which then rested upon the earth, and shrouded

everything from view. He darted forward for a few paces, as if into

the mouth of some dim, yawning cavern; then, thinking he had gone

wrong, changed the direction of his steps; then stood still, not

knowing where to turn.

'If they would knock again,' said Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom

by which he was surrounded, 'the sound might guide me! Come! Batter

the gate once more!'

He stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed. Nothing

was to be heard in that deserted place, but, at intervals, the distant

barkings of dogs. The sound was far away--now in one quarter, now

answered in another--nor was it any guide, for it often came from

shipboard, as he knew.

'If I could find a wall or fence,' said the dwarf, stretching out his

arms, and walking slowly on, 'I should know which way to turn. A good,

black, devil's night this, to have my dear friend here! If I had but

that wish, it might, for anything I cared, never be day again.'

As the word passed his lips, he staggered and fell--and next moment was

fighting with the cold dark water!

For all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could hear the

knocking at the gate again--could hear a shout that followed it--could

recognise the voice. For all his struggling and plashing, he could

understand that they had lost their way, and had wandered back to the

point from which they started; that they were all but looking on, while

he was drowned; that they were close at hand, but could not make an

effort to save him; that he himself had shut and barred them out. He

answered the shout--with a yell, which seemed to make the hundred fires

that danced before his eyes tremble and flicker, as if a gust of wind

had stirred them. It was of no avail. The strong tide filled his

throat, and bore him on, upon its rapid current.

Another mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water with

his hands, and looking out, with wild and glaring eyes that showed him

some black object he was drifting close upon. The hull of a ship! He

could touch its smooth and slippery surface with his hand. One loud

cry, now--but the resistless water bore him down before he could give

it utterance, and, driving him under it, carried away a corpse.

It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it against

the slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now dragging

it heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to

its own element, and in the same action luring it away, until, tired of

the ugly plaything, it flung it on a swamp--a dismal place where

pirates had swung in chains through many a wintry night--and left it

there to bleach.

And there it lay alone. The sky was red with flame, and the water that

bore it there had been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed along.

The place the deserted carcass had left so recently, a living man, was

now a blazing ruin. There was something of the glare upon its face.

The hair, stirred by the damp breeze, played in a kind of mockery of

death--such a mockery as the dead man himself would have delighted in

when alive--about its head, and its dress fluttered idly in the night

wind.

CHAPTER 68

Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices,

words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness--what a

change is this! But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening.

They are awaiting him, he knows. He fears he will die of joy, before

he gets among them.

They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried off

to-morrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let him

know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and

perhaps he may be pardoned after all. At last, the evening being come,

they bring him to a room where some gentlemen are assembled. Foremost

among them is his good old master, who comes and takes him by the hand.

He hears that his innocence is established, and that he is pardoned.

He cannot see the speaker, but he turns towards the voice, and in

trying to answer, falls down insensible.

They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear this

like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother. It is

because he does think of her so much, that the happy news had

overpowered him. They crowd about him, and tell him that the truth has

gone abroad, and that all the town and country ring with sympathy for

his misfortunes. He has no ears for this. His thoughts, as yet, have

no wider range than home. Does she know it? what did she say? who

told her? He can speak of nothing else.

They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while,

until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them. He is free

to go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went

away. The gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands with him. He

feels very grateful to them for the interest they have in him, and for

the kind promises they make; but the power of speech is gone again, and

he has much ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's

arm.

As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail who

are in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on his