“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 watching for her so
long—watching for her, Bill.”
“Wot d’ye mean?” asked Sikes, 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 time, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a
heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
“Tell me that again—once again, just for him to hear,” said the
Jew, pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
“Tell yer what?” asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself
pettishly.
“That about—NANCY,” said Fagin, clutching Sikes 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
her what house it was that 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—
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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
yer that before.”
“Again. Tell it again!” cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on
Sikes, 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 who Sikes 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! it made me laugh when
she said it, that it did— she gave him a drink of laudanum.”
“Hell’s fire!” cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from Fagin. “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
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expending fruitless oaths and violence, when the Jew came
panting up.
“Let me out,” said Sikes. “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.”
Sikes 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 once
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 that the
strained jaw seemed starting through his skin, the robber held on
his headlong 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.
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“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 under the grate. Seeing the faint
light of early day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.
“Let it be,” said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. “There’s
light enough for wot 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 heaving 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 the strength of
mortal fear; “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 tonight; 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 loose 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
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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 tonight of a home in
some foreign country where I could end my days in solitude and
peace. Let me see them again, 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 lead 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 housebreaker 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
rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself,
with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white
handkerchief—Rose Maylie’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.
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Chapter 48
The Flight Of Sikes.
O f 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 window, 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
would 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 motion of the hand; and, 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 edge, which blazed and shrank into a
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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 smoulder
into ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were
spots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and
burned 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 evidences of
the crime into the streets. He shut 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 the 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 Caen Wood,
and so came out on Hampstead Heath. Traversing the hollow by
the Vale of Health, 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
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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
backwards towards London by the highroad—then back again—
then over another part of the same ground as he already
traversed—then wandering up and down in fields, and lying on
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? Hendon. 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 his 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 taproom, and some country labourers were drinking before
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it. They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the
farthest 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, than he
was—with ten or fifteen year 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
the corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half-
awakened by the noisy entrance of a newcomer.
This was an antic fellow, half-pedlar and half-mountebank, who
travelled about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, 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 grinning
countryman, pointing to some composition-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,
cambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or
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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 at
once—for it’s 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 it’s 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
loquacity.
“It’s all bought up as fast as it can be made,” said the fellow.
“There are fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic
battery, always a-working upon it, and they can’t make it fast
enough, though the men work so hard that they die off, and the
widows is pensioned directly, with twenty pound a year for each of
the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. One penny a
square! Two halfpence is all the same, and four farthings is
received 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 stain upon the hat of a gentleman in
company, that I’ll take clean out, before he can order me a pint of
ale.”
“Ah!” cried Sikes, starting up. “Give that back.”
