CHAPTER 62

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The prisoner, left to himself, sat down upon his bedstead: and

resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his hands,

remained in that attitude for hours. It would be hard to say, of

what nature his reflections were. They had no distinctness, and,

saving for some flashes now and then, no reference to his condition

or the train of circumstances by which it had been brought about.

The cracks in the pavement of his cell, the chinks in the wall

where stone was joined to stone, the bars in the window, the iron

ring upon the floor,--such things as these, subsiding strangely

into one another, and awakening an indescribable kind of interest

and amusement, engrossed his whole mind; and although at the bottom

of his every thought there was an uneasy sense of guilt, and dread

of death, he felt no more than that vague consciousness of it,

which a sleeper has of pain. It pursues him through his dreams,

gnaws at the heart of all his fancied pleasures, robs the banquet

of its taste, music of its sweetness, makes happiness itself

unhappy, and yet is no bodily sensation, but a phantom without

shape, or form, or visible presence; pervading everything, but

having no existence; recognisable everywhere, but nowhere seen, or

touched, or met with face to face, until the sleep is past, and

waking agony returns.

After a long time the door of his cell opened. He looked up; saw

the blind man enter; and relapsed into his former position.

Guided by his breathing, the visitor advanced to where he sat; and

stopping beside him, and stretching out his hand to assure himself

that he was right, remained, for a good space, silent.

'This is bad, Rudge. This is bad,' he said at length.

The prisoner shuffled with his feet upon the ground in turning his

body from him, but made no other answer.

'How were you taken?' he asked. 'And where? You never told me

more than half your secret. No matter; I know it now. How was it,

and where, eh?' he asked again, coming still nearer to him.

'At Chigwell,' said the other.

'At Chigwell! How came you there?'

'Because I went there to avoid the man I stumbled on,' he answered.

'Because I was chased and driven there, by him and Fate. Because I

was urged to go there, by something stronger than my own will.

When I found him watching in the house she used to live in, night

after night, I knew I never could escape him--never! and when I

heard the Bell--'

He shivered; muttered that it was very cold; paced quickly up and

down the narrow cell; and sitting down again, fell into his old

posture.

'You were saying,' said the blind man, after another pause, 'that

when you heard the Bell--'

'Let it be, will you?' he retorted in a hurried voice. 'It hangs

there yet.'

The blind man turned a wistful and inquisitive face towards him,

but he continued to speak, without noticing him.

'I went to Chigwell, in search of the mob. I have been so hunted

and beset by this man, that I knew my only hope of safety lay in

joining them. They had gone on before; I followed them when it

left off.'

'When what left off?'

'The Bell. They had quitted the place. I hoped that some of them

might be still lingering among the ruins, and was searching for

them when I heard--' he drew a long breath, and wiped his forehead

with his sleeve--'his voice.'

'Saying what?'

'No matter what. I don't know. I was then at the foot of the

turret, where I did the--'

'Ay,' said the blind man, nodding his head with perfect composure,

'I understand.'

'I climbed the stair, or so much of it as was left; meaning to hide

till he had gone. But he heard me; and followed almost as soon as

I set foot upon the ashes.'

'You might have hidden in the wall, and thrown him down, or stabbed

him,' said the blind man.

'Might I? Between that man and me, was one who led him on--I saw

it, though he did not--and raised above his head a bloody hand. It

was in the room above that HE and I stood glaring at each other on

the night of the murder, and before he fell he raised his hand like

that, and fixed his eyes on me. I knew the chase would end there.'

'You have a strong fancy,' said the blind man, with a smile.

'Strengthen yours with blood, and see what it will come to.'

He groaned, and rocked himself, and looking up for the first time,

said, in a low, hollow voice:

'Eight-and-twenty years! Eight-and-twenty years! He has never

changed in all that time, never grown older, nor altered in the

least degree. He has been before me in the dark night, and the

broad sunny day; in the twilight, the moonlight, the sunlight, the

light of fire, and lamp, and candle; and in the deepest gloom.

Always the same! In company, in solitude, on land, on shipboard;

sometimes leaving me alone for months, and sometimes always with

me. I have seen him, at sea, come gliding in the dead of night

along the bright reflection of the moon in the calm water; and I

have seen him, on quays and market-places, with his hand uplifted,

towering, the centre of a busy crowd, unconscious of the terrible

form that had its silent stand among them. Fancy! Are you real?

Am I? Are these iron fetters, riveted on me by the smith's hammer,

or are they fancies I can shatter at a blow?'

The blind man listened in silence.

'Fancy! Do I fancy that I killed him? Do I fancy that as I left

the chamber where he lay, I saw the face of a man peeping from a

dark door, who plainly showed me by his fearful looks that he

suspected what I had done? Do I remember that I spoke fairly to

him--that I drew nearer--nearer yet--with the hot knife in my

sleeve? Do I fancy how HE died? Did he stagger back into the

angle of the wall into which I had hemmed him, and, bleeding

inwardly, stand, not fail, a corpse before me? Did I see him, for

an instant, as I see you now, erect and on his feet--but dead!'

The blind man, who knew that he had risen, motioned him to sit down

again upon his bedstead; but he took no notice of the gesture.

'It was then I thought, for the first time, of fastening the murder

upon him. It was then I dressed him in my clothes, and dragged him

down the back-stairs to the piece of water. Do I remember

listening to the bubbles that came rising up when I had rolled him

in? Do I remember wiping the water from my face, and because the

body splashed it there, in its descent, feeling as if it MUST be

blood?

'Did I go home when I had done? And oh, my God! how long it took

to do! Did I stand before my wife, and tell her? Did I see her

fall upon the ground; and, when I stooped to raise her, did she

thrust me back with a force that cast me off as if I had been a

child, staining the hand with which she clasped my wrist? Is THAT

fancy?

'Did she go down upon her knees, and call on Heaven to witness that

she and her unborn child renounced me from that hour; and did she,

in words so solemn that they turned me cold--me, fresh from the

horrors my own hands had made--warn me to fly while there was time;

for though she would be silent, being my wretched wife, she would

not shelter me? Did I go forth that night, abjured of God and man,

and anchored deep in hell, to wander at my cable's length about the

earth, and surely be drawn down at last?'

'Why did you return? said the blind man.

'Why is blood red? I could no more help it, than I could live

without breath. I struggled against the impulse, but I was drawn

back, through every difficult and adverse circumstance, as by a

mighty engine. Nothing could stop me. The day and hour were none

of my choice. Sleeping and waking, I had been among the old haunts

for years--had visited my own grave. Why did I come back? Because

this jail was gaping for me, and he stood beckoning at the door.'

'You were not known?' said the blind man.

'I was a man who had been twenty-two years dead. No. I was not

known.'

'You should have kept your secret better.'

'MY secret? MINE? It was a secret, any breath of air could

whisper at its will. The stars had it in their twinkling, the

water in its flowing, the leaves in their rustling, the seasons in

their return. It lurked in strangers' faces, and their voices.

Everything had lips on which it always trembled.--MY secret!'

'It was revealed by your own act at any rate,' said the blind man.

'The act was not mine. I did it, but it was not mine. I was

forced at times to wander round, and round, and round that spot.

If you had chained me up when the fit was on me, I should have

broken away, and gone there. As truly as the loadstone draws iron

towards it, so he, lying at the bottom of his grave, could draw me

near him when he would. Was that fancy? Did I like to go there,

or did I strive and wrestle with the power that forced me?'

The blind man shrugged his shoulders, and smiled incredulously.

The prisoner again resumed his old attitude, and for a long time

both were mute.

'I suppose then,' said his visitor, at length breaking silence,

'that you are penitent and resigned; that you desire to make peace

with everybody (in particular, with your wife who has brought you

to this); and that you ask no greater favour than to be carried to

Tyburn as soon as possible? That being the case, I had better take

my leave. I am not good enough to be company for you.'

'Have I not told you,' said the other fiercely, 'that I have

striven and wrestled with the power that brought me here? Has my

whole life, for eight-and-twenty years, been one perpetual

struggle and resistance, and do you think I want to lie down and

die? Do all men shrink from death--I most of all!'

'That's better said. That's better spoken, Rudge--but I'll not

call you that again--than anything you have said yet,' returned the

blind man, speaking more familiarly, and laying his hands upon his

arm. 'Lookye,--I never killed a man myself, for I have never been

placed in a position that made it worth my while. Farther, I am

not an advocate for killing men, and I don't think I should

recommend it or like it--for it's very hazardous--under any

circumstances. But as you had the misfortune to get into this

trouble before I made your acquaintance, and as you have been my

companion, and have been of use to me for a long time now, I

overlook that part of the matter, and am only anxious that you

shouldn't die unnecessarily. Now, I do not consider that, at

present, it is at all necessary.'

'What else is left me?' returned the prisoner. 'To eat my way

through these walls with my teeth?'

'Something easier than that,' returned his friend. 'Promise me

that you will talk no more of these fancies of yours--idle, foolish

things, quite beneath a man--and I'll tell you what I mean.'

'Tell me,' said the other.

'Your worthy lady with the tender conscience; your scrupulous,

virtuous, punctilious, but not blindly affectionate wife--'

'What of her?'

'Is now in London.'

'A curse upon her, be she where she may!'

'That's natural enough. If she had taken her annuity as usual, you

would not have been here, and we should have been better off. But

that's apart from the business. She's in London. Scared, as I

suppose, and have no doubt, by my representation when I waited upon

her, that you were close at hand (which I, of course, urged only as

an inducement to compliance, knowing that she was not pining to see

you), she left that place, and travelled up to London.'

'How do you know?'

'From my friend the noble captain--the illustrious general--the

bladder, Mr Tappertit. I learnt from him the last time I saw him,

which was yesterday, that your son who is called Barnaby--not after

his father, I suppose--'

'Death! does that matter now!'

'--You are impatient,' said the blind man, calmly; 'it's a good

sign, and looks like life--that your son Barnaby had been lured

away from her by one of his companions who knew him of old, at

Chigwell; and that he is now among the rioters.'

'And what is that to me? If father and son be hanged together,

what comfort shall I find in that?'

'Stay--stay, my friend,' returned the blind man, with a cunning

look, 'you travel fast to journeys' ends. Suppose I track my lady

out, and say thus much: "You want your son, ma'am--good. I,

knowing those who tempt him to remain among them, can restore him

to you, ma'am--good. You must pay a price, ma'am, for his

restoration--good again. The price is small, and easy to be paid--

dear ma'am, that's best of all."'

'What mockery is this?'

'Very likely, she may reply in those words. "No mockery at all," I

answer: "Madam, a person said to be your husband (identity is

difficult of proof after the lapse of many years) is in prison, his

life in peril--the charge against him, murder. Now, ma'am, your

husband has been dead a long, long time. The gentleman never can

be confounded with him, if you will have the goodness to say a few

words, on oath, as to when he died, and how; and that this person

(who I am told resembles him in some degree) is no more he than I

am. Such testimony will set the question quite at rest. Pledge

yourself to me to give it, ma' am, and I will undertake to keep

your son (a fine lad) out of harm's way until you have done this

trifling service, when he shall he delivered up to you, safe and

sound. On the other hand, if you decline to do so, I fear he will

be betrayed, and handed over to the law, which will assuredly

sentence him to suffer death. It is, in fact, a choice between his

life and death. If you refuse, he swings. If you comply, the

timber is not grown, nor the hemp sown, that shall do him any

harm."'

'There is a gleam of hope in this!' cried the prisoner.

'A gleam!' returned his friend, 'a noon-blaze; a full and glorious

daylight. Hush! I hear the tread of distant feet. Rely on me.'

'When shall I hear more?'

'As soon as I do. I should hope, to-morrow. They are coming to

say that our time for talk is over. I hear the jingling of the

keys. Not another word of this just now, or they may overhear us.'

As he said these words, the lock was turned, and one of the prison

turnkeys appearing at the door, announced that it was time for

visitors to leave the jail.

'So soon!' said Stagg, meekly. 'But it can't be helped. Cheer up,

friend. This mistake will soon be set at rest, and then you are a

man again! If this charitable gentleman will lead a blind man (who

has nothing in return but prayers) to the prison-porch, and set him

with his face towards the west, he will do a worthy deed. Thank

you, good sir. I thank you very kindly.'

So saying, and pausing for an instant at the door to turn his

grinning face towards his friend, he departed.

When the officer had seen him to the porch, he returned, and again

unlocking and unbarring the door of the cell, set it wide open,

informing its inmate that he was at liberty to walk in the adjacent

yard, if he thought proper, for an hour.

The prisoner answered with a sullen nod; and being left alone

again, sat brooding over what he had heard, and pondering upon the

hopes the recent conversation had awakened; gazing abstractedly,

the while he did so, on the light without, and watching the shadows

thrown by one wall on another, and on the stone-paved ground.

It was a dull, square yard, made cold and gloomy by high walls, and

seeming to chill the very sunlight. The stone, so bare, and

rough, and obdurate, filled even him with longing thoughts of

meadow-land and trees; and with a burning wish to be at liberty.

As he looked, he rose, and leaning against the door-post, gazed up

at the bright blue sky, smiling even on that dreary home of crime.

He seemed, for a moment, to remember lying on his back in some

sweet-scented place, and gazing at it through moving branches, long

ago.

His attention was suddenly attracted by a clanking sound--he knew

what it was, for he had startled himself by making the same noise

in walking to the door. Presently a voice began to sing, and he

saw the shadow of a figure on the pavement. It stopped--was

silent all at once, as though the person for a moment had forgotten

where he was, but soon remembered--and so, with the same clanking

noise, the shadow disappeared.

He walked out into the court and paced it to and fro; startling the

echoes, as he went, with the harsh jangling of his fetters. There

was a door near his, which, like his, stood ajar.

He had not taken half-a-dozen turns up and down the yard, when,

standing still to observe this door, he heard the clanking sound

again. A face looked out of the grated window--he saw it very

dimly, for the cell was dark and the bars were heavy--and directly

afterwards, a man appeared, and came towards him.

For the sense of loneliness he had, he might have been in jail a

year. Made eager by the hope of companionship, he quickened his

pace, and hastened to meet the man half way--

What was this! His son!

They stood face to face, staring at each other. He shrinking and

cowed, despite himself; Barnahy struggling with his imperfect

memory, and wondering where he had seen that face before. He was

not uncertain long, for suddenly he laid hands upon him, and

striving to bear him to the ground, cried:

'Ah! I know! You are the robber!'

He said nothing in reply at first, but held down his head, and

struggled with him silently. Finding the younger man too strong

for him, he raised his face, looked close into his eyes, and said,

'I am your father.'

God knows what magic the name had for his ears; but Barnaby

released his hold, fell back, and looked at him aghast. Suddenly

he sprung towards him, put his arms about his neck, and pressed his

head against his cheek.

Yes, yes, he was; he was sure he was. But where had he been so

long, and why had he left his mother by herself, or worse than by

herself, with her poor foolish boy? And had she really been as

happy as they said? And where was she? Was she near there? She

was not happy now, and he in jail? Ah, no.

Not a word was said in answer; but Grip croaked loudly, and hopped

about them, round and round, as if enclosing them in a magic

circle, and invoking all the powers of mischief.

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