Chapter 17
It was a chilly night, and the fire in the widow's parlour had burntlow. Her strange companion placed her in a chair, and stooping downbefore the half-extinguished ashes, raked them together and fanned themwith his hat. From time to time he glanced at her over his shoulder, asthough to assure himself of her remaining quiet and making no effort todepart; and that done, busied himself about the fire again.
It was not without reason that he took these pains, for his dress wasdank and drenched with wet, his jaws rattled with cold, and he shiveredfrom head to foot. It had rained hard during the previous night and forsome hours in the morning, but since noon it had been fine. Wheresoeverhe had passed the hours of darkness, his condition sufficientlybetokened that many of them had been spent beneath the open sky.Besmeared with mire; his saturated clothes clinging with a damp embraceabout his limbs; his beard unshaven, his face unwashed, his meagrecheeks worn into deep hollows,--a more miserable wretch could hardly be,than this man who now cowered down upon the widow's hearth, and watchedthe struggling flame with bloodshot eyes.
She had covered her face with her hands, fearing, as it seemed, to looktowards him. So they remained for some short time in silence. Glancinground again, he asked at length:
'Is this your house?'
'It is. Why, in the name of Heaven, do you darken it?'
'Give me meat and drink,' he answered sullenly, 'or I dare do more thanthat. The very marrow in my bones is cold, with wet and hunger. I musthave warmth and food, and I will have them here.'
'You were the robber on the Chigwell road.'
'I was.'
'And nearly a murderer then.'
'The will was not wanting. There was one came upon me and raised thehue-and-cry, that it would have gone hard with, but for his nimbleness.I made a thrust at him.'
'You thrust your sword at HIM!' cried the widow, looking upwards. 'Youhear this man! you hear and saw!'
He looked at her, as, with her head thrown back, and her hands tightclenched together, she uttered these words in an agony of appeal. Then,starting to his feet as she had done, he advanced towards her.
'Beware!' she cried in a suppressed voice, whose firmness stopped himmidway. 'Do not so much as touch me with a finger, or you are lost; bodyand soul, you are lost.'
'Hear me,' he replied, menacing her with his hand. 'I, that in the formof a man live the life of a hunted beast; that in the body am a spirit,a ghost upon the earth, a thing from which all creatures shrink, savethose curst beings of another world, who will not leave me;--I am, in mydesperation of this night, past all fear but that of the hell in which Iexist from day to day. Give the alarm, cry out, refuse to shelter me. Iwill not hurt you. But I will not be taken alive; and so surely as youthreaten me above your breath, I fall a dead man on this floor. Theblood with which I sprinkle it, be on you and yours, in the name of theEvil Spirit that tempts men to their ruin!'
As he spoke, he took a pistol from his breast, and firmly clutched it inhis hand.
'Remove this man from me, good Heaven!' cried the widow. 'In thy graceand mercy, give him one minute's penitence, and strike him dead!'
'It has no such purpose,' he said, confronting her. 'It is deaf. Give meto eat and drink, lest I do that it cannot help my doing, and will notdo for you.'
'Will you leave me, if I do thus much? Will you leave me and return nomore?'
'I will promise nothing,' he rejoined, seating himself at the table,'nothing but this--I will execute my threat if you betray me.'
She rose at length, and going to a closet or pantry in the room, broughtout some fragments of cold meat and bread and put them on the table. Heasked for brandy, and for water. These she produced likewise; and he ateand drank with the voracity of a famished hound. All the time he was soengaged she kept at the uttermost distance of the chamber, and sat thereshuddering, but with her face towards him. She never turned her backupon him once; and although when she passed him (as she was obliged todo in going to and from the cupboard) she gathered the skirts of hergarment about her, as if even its touching his by chance were horribleto think of, still, in the midst of all this dread and terror, she kepther face towards his own, and watched his every movement.
His repast ended--if that can be called one, which was a mere ravenoussatisfying of the calls of hunger--he moved his chair towards thefire again, and warming himself before the blaze which had now sprungbrightly up, accosted her once more.
'I am an outcast, to whom a roof above his head is often an uncommonluxury, and the food a beggar would reject is delicate fare. You livehere at your ease. Do you live alone?'
'I do not,' she made answer with an effort.
'Who dwells here besides?'
'One--it is no matter who. You had best begone, or he may find you here.Why do you linger?'
'For warmth,' he replied, spreading out his hands before the fire. 'Forwarmth. You are rich, perhaps?'
'Very,' she said faintly. 'Very rich. No doubt I am very rich.'
'At least you are not penniless. You have some money. You were makingpurchases to-night.'
'I have a little left. It is but a few shillings.'
'Give me your purse. You had it in your hand at the door. Give it tome.'
She stepped to the table and laid it down. He reached across, took itup, and told the contents into his hand. As he was counting them, shelistened for a moment, and sprung towards him.
'Take what there is, take all, take more if more were there, but gobefore it is too late. I have heard a wayward step without, I know fullwell. It will return directly. Begone.'
'What do you mean?'
'Do not stop to ask. I will not answer. Much as I dread to touch you, Iwould drag you to the door if I possessed the strength, rather than youshould lose an instant. Miserable wretch! fly from this place.'
'If there are spies without, I am safer here,' replied the man, standingaghast. 'I will remain here, and will not fly till the danger is past.'
'It is too late!' cried the widow, who had listened for the step, andnot to him. 'Hark to that foot upon the ground. Do you tremble to hearit! It is my son, my idiot son!'
As she said this wildly, there came a heavy knocking at the door. Helooked at her, and she at him.
'Let him come in,' said the man, hoarsely. 'I fear him less than thedark, houseless night. He knocks again. Let him come in!'
'The dread of this hour,' returned the widow, 'has been upon me all mylife, and I will not. Evil will fall upon him, if you stand eye to eye.My blighted boy! Oh! all good angels who know the truth--hear a poormother's prayer, and spare my boy from knowledge of this man!'
'He rattles at the shutters!' cried the man. 'He calls you. That voiceand cry! It was he who grappled with me in the road. Was it he?'
She had sunk upon her knees, and so knelt down, moving her lips, bututtering no sound. As he gazed upon her, uncertain what to do or whereto turn, the shutters flew open. He had barely time to catch a knifefrom the table, sheathe it in the loose sleeve of his coat, hide in thecloset, and do all with the lightning's speed, when Barnaby tapped atthe bare glass, and raised the sash exultingly.
'Why, who can keep out Grip and me!' he cried, thrusting in his head,and staring round the room. 'Are you there, mother? How long you keep usfrom the fire and light.'
She stammered some excuse and tendered him her hand. But Barnaby sprunglightly in without assistance, and putting his arms about her neck,kissed her a hundred times.
'We have been afield, mother--leaping ditches, scrambling throughhedges, running down steep banks, up and away, and hurrying on. The windhas been blowing, and the rushes and young plants bowing and bending toit, lest it should do them harm, the cowards--and Grip--ha ha ha!--braveGrip, who cares for nothing, and when the wind rolls him over in thedust, turns manfully to bite it--Grip, bold Grip, has quarrelled withevery little bowing twig--thinking, he told me, that it mocked him--andhas worried it like a bulldog. Ha ha ha!'
The raven, in his little basket at hi
s master's back, hearing thisfrequent mention of his name in a tone of exultation, expressed hissympathy by crowing like a cock, and afterwards running over his variousphrases of speech with such rapidity, and in so many varieties ofhoarseness, that they sounded like the murmurs of a crowd of people.
'He takes such care of me besides!' said Barnaby. 'Such care, mother! Hewatches all the time I sleep, and when I shut my eyes and make-believeto slumber, he practises new learning softly; but he keeps his eye onme the while, and if he sees me laugh, though never so little, stopsdirectly. He won't surprise me till he's perfect.'
The raven crowed again in a rapturous manner which plainly said, 'Thoseare certainly some of my characteristics, and I glory in them.' In themeantime, Barnaby closed the window and secured it, and coming to thefireplace, prepared to sit down with his face to the closet. Buthis mother prevented this, by hastily taking that side herself, andmotioning him towards the other.
'How pale you are to-night!' said Barnaby, leaning on his stick. 'Wehave been cruel, Grip, and made her anxious!'
Anxious in good truth, and sick at heart! The listener held the doorof his hiding-place open with his hand, and closely watched her son.Grip--alive to everything his master was unconscious of--had his headout of the basket, and in return was watching him intently with hisglistening eye.
'He flaps his wings,' said Barnaby, turning almost quickly enough tocatch the retreating form and closing door, 'as if there were strangershere, but Grip is wiser than to fancy that. Jump then!'
Accepting this invitation with a dignity peculiar to himself, the birdhopped up on his master's shoulder, from that to his extended hand, andso to the ground. Barnaby unstrapping the basket and putting it down ina corner with the lid open, Grip's first care was to shut it down withall possible despatch, and then to stand upon it. Believing, no doubt,that he had now rendered it utterly impossible, and beyond the power ofmortal man, to shut him up in it any more, he drew a great many corks intriumph, and uttered a corresponding number of hurrahs.
'Mother!' said Barnaby, laying aside his hat and stick, and returningto the chair from which he had risen, 'I'll tell you where we have beento-day, and what we have been doing,--shall I?'
She took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she could notspeak.
'You mustn't tell,' said Barnaby, holding up his finger, 'for it's asecret, mind, and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh. We had the dogwith us, but he's not like Grip, clever as he is, and doesn't guess ityet, I'll wager.--Why do you look behind me so?'
'Did I?' she answered faintly. 'I didn't know I did. Come nearer me.'
'You are frightened!' said Barnaby, changing colour. 'Mother--you don'tsee'--
'See what?'
'There's--there's none of this about, is there?' he answered in awhisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his wrist.'I am afraid there is, somewhere. You make my hair stand on end, and myflesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in the room as I have seenit in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and the walls with red? Tell me. Isit?'
He fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting outthe light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it had passedaway. After a time, he raised his head and looked about him.
'Is it gone?'
'There has been nothing here,' rejoined his mother, soothing him.'Nothing indeed, dear Barnaby. Look! You see there are but you and me.'
He gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst intoa wild laugh.
'But let us see,' he said, thoughtfully. 'Were we talking? Was it youand me? Where have we been?'
'Nowhere but here.'
'Aye, but Hugh, and I,' said Barnaby,--'that's it. Maypole Hugh, andI, you know, and Grip--we have been lying in the forest, and among thetrees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night came on, and thedog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came by.'
'What man?'
'The robber; him that the stars winked at. We have waited for himafter dark these many nights, and we shall have him. I'd know him in athousand. Mother, see here! This is the man. Look!'
He twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon hisbrow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her: so like theoriginal he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out behind himmight have passed for his own shadow.
'Ha ha ha! We shall have him,' he cried, ridding himself of thesemblance as hastily as he had assumed it. 'You shall see him, mother,bound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddle-girth; and youshall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck. So Hugh says. You'repale again, and trembling. And why DO you look behind me so?'
'It is nothing,' she answered. 'I am not quite well. Go you to bed,dear, and leave me here.'
'To bed!' he answered. 'I don't like bed. I like to lie before the fire,watching the prospects in the burning coals--the rivers, hills, anddells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces. I am hungry too,and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us to supper. Grip! Tosupper, lad!'
The raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction, hopped tothe feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for snappingup such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he received abouta score in rapid succession, without the smallest discomposure.
'That's all,' said Barnaby.
'More!' cried Grip. 'More!'
But it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, heretreated with his store; and disgorging the morsels one by one from hispouch, hid them in various corners--taking particular care, however, toavoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden man's propensities andpower of resisting temptation. When he had concluded these arrangements,he took a turn or two across the room with an elaborate assumption ofhaving nothing on his mind (but with one eye hard upon his treasure allthe time), and then, and not till then, began to drag it out, piece bypiece, and eat it with the utmost relish.
Barnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain, made ahearty supper too. Once during the progress of his meal, he wanted morebread from the closet and rose to get it. She hurriedly interposed toprevent him, and summoning her utmost fortitude, passed into the recess,and brought it out herself.
'Mother,' said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat downbeside him after doing so; 'is to-day my birthday?'
'To-day!' she answered. 'Don't you recollect it was but a week or soago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before it comesagain?'
'I remember that it has been so till now,' said Barnaby. 'But I thinkto-day must be my birthday too, for all that.'
She asked him why? 'I'll tell you why,' he said. 'I have always seenyou--I didn't let you know it, but I have--on the evening of that daygrow very sad. I have seen you cry when Grip and I were most glad; andlook frightened with no reason; and I have touched your hand, and feltthat it was cold--as it is now. Once, mother (on a birthday that was,also), Grip and I thought of this after we went upstairs to bed, andwhen it was midnight, striking one o'clock, we came down to your door tosee if you were well. You were on your knees. I forget what it was yousaid. Grip, what was it we heard her say that night?'
'I'm a devil!' rejoined the raven promptly.
'No, no,' said Barnaby. 'But you said something in a prayer; and whenyou rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever since,mother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now. I have foundthat out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you're wrong; and thismust be my birthday--my birthday, Grip!'
The bird received this information with a crow of such duration as acock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of his kind, mightusher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well considered thesentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays, he cried, 'Neversay die!' a great many times, and flapped his wings for emphasis.
The widow tried to make light of Barnaby's remark, and endeavoured todivert his attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all times,as she k
new. His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her entreaties,stretched himself on the mat before the fire; Grip perched upon hisleg, and divided his time between dozing in the grateful warmth, andendeavouring (as it presently appeared) to recall a new accomplishmenthe had been studying all day.
A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change ofposition on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open andintently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection on thepart of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to time, 'Polly putthe ket--' and there stop short, forgetting the remainder, and go off ina doze again.
After a long interval, Barnaby's breathing grew more deep and regular,and his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet spirit of the raveninterposed. 'Polly put the ket--' cried Grip, and his master was broadawake again.
At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunkupon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortablealderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller,really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then hemuttered in a sepulchral voice, 'Polly put the ket--' but very drowsily,and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.
The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The manglided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.
'--tle on,' cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very muchexcited. '--tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all havetea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah,hurrah! I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep up yourspirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle, I'ma--Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.'
They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from thegrave.
But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards thefire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it.The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for amoment, and then she motioned him towards the door.
'Stay,' he whispered. 'You teach your son well.'
'I have taught him nothing that you heard to-night. Depart instantly, orI will rouse him.'
'You are free to do so. Shall I rouse him?'
'You dare not do that.'
'I dare do anything, I have told you. He knows me well, it seems. Atleast I will know him.'
'Would you kill him in his sleep?' cried the widow, throwing herselfbetween them.
'Woman,' he returned between his teeth, as he motioned her aside, 'Iwould see him nearer, and I will. If you want one of us to kill theother, wake him.'
With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form, softlyturned back the head and looked into the face. The light of the firewas upon it, and its every lineament was revealed distinctly. Hecontemplated it for a brief space, and hastily uprose.
'Observe,' he whispered in the widow's ear: 'In him, of whose existenceI was ignorant until to-night, I have you in my power. Be careful howyou use me. Be careful how you use me. I am destitute and starving, anda wanderer upon the earth. I may take a sure and slow revenge.'
'There is some dreadful meaning in your words. I do not fathom it.'
'There is a meaning in them, and I see you fathom it to its very depth.You have anticipated it for years; you have told me as much. I leave youto digest it. Do not forget my warning.'
He pointed, as he left her, to the slumbering form, and stealthilywithdrawing, made his way into the street. She fell on her knees besidethe sleeper, and remained like one stricken into stone, until the tearswhich fear had frozen so long, came tenderly to her relief.
'Oh Thou,' she cried, 'who hast taught me such deep love for this oneremnant of the promise of a happy life, out of whose affliction, even,perhaps the comfort springs that he is ever a relying, loving child tome--never growing old or cold at heart, but needing my care and duty inhis manly strength as in his cradle-time--help him, in his darkened walkthrough this sad world, or he is doomed, and my poor heart is broken!'