Page 249 [249]
OLIVER
TWIST. 189
“That’s for your ple,” said the
guard. “Now look alive in there, will
yout Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t
ready night afore last; this won’t do, you
know."
“ Any thing new up in town, Ben!"
asked the game-keeper, drawing back to
the window-shutters, the better to admire
the horses.
* No, nothing that I know on,” replied
the man, pulling on his gloves. “ Corn’s
up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too,
down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon
much upon it.”
“ Ah, that’s quite true,” said a gentle¬
man inside, who was looking out of the
window ; " and a very dreadful murder it
was,"
“Was it, sir?” rejoined the guard,
touching his hat. “ Man or woman, pray
sir?’
66 A woman,”
_it 1s supposed
* Now, Ben,” cried the coachman, im¬
patiently.
replied the gentleman,
6 Are you gone to sleep in there?"
6 Coming,” cried the office-keeper, run¬
ning out.
u. a !” growled the guard. " Ah!
and so’s the young ’ooman of property
that’s going to take a fancy to me; but I
don’t know when. Here, give hold. All
ri-ight.”
The horn sounded a few cheerful notes,
and the coach was: gone.
Sikes 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 Saint Alban’s.
He went on doggedly, but as he left
the town behind him, and plunged further
and further into the solitude and darkness
of the road, he felt a dread and awe creep¬
ing upon him which shook him to the
core. Every object before him, substance
or shadow, still or moving, took the sem¬
blance 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 that last low cry. If he stop¬
ped, it did the same; if he ran, it follow¬
ed— not running too, that would have
with the mere machinery of life, and
borne upon one slow melancholy wind
At times he turned with desperate de¬
| termination, resolved to beat this phantom
off, though it should look him dead ; but
his hair rose from 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 him now—always. He leant his
back against a bank, and felt that it stood
above him, visibly out against the cold
night’s sky. He threw himself upon the
road—on his back upon the road. At his
head it stood, silent, erect, and still—a
living grave-stone, with its epitaph in
blood.
Let no man talk of murderers escaping
justice, and hint that Providence must
sleep. ‘There were twenty score of vio¬
lent 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 him¬
self 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 lustreless and so glassy,
| that he had better borne to see than think
| upon, appeared in the midst of the dark¬
ness; light in themselves, but giving
light to nothing. There were but two,
but they were everywhere. If he shut
out the sight, then 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 lain
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.