University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXII.

The moment I was in the street, I began to look about for
a coach, determined whatever might be the hour, to lose no
time in the delivery of the charge entrusted to me; for how
could I be sure of the morrow? how could I know what
story the ring would tell to the deserted wife? What was to
be done? Should or should I not see her? Should I go
to her at once, or wait till the morrow? There would be
no sleep for her, while the husband of her heart was away—
no sleep for me, till I had done what I had undertaken to do.

But there was no coach to be had; the great squares and
wide streets before me were all deserted. I drew out my
watch with surprise—I had no idea of the hour—it was after
three o'clock; the lamps were going out, and I saw on looking
up, what I had not seen for a twelvemonth before, the
day-light spreading over a clear blue sky, and felt as I stood
there debating with myself how to proceed, what I have not
felt since—the cool air blowing upon my forehead as if I
were at sea. There was no time to be lost, and after a
little hesitation I hurried away, agitated with a fear that
grew more and more insupportable at every step, and giddy
with a feeling that I dare not speak of now. Before I had
determined what course to pursue, I found myself at the
door of No. —, — street, Bedford Square. I stopped---I
stood still—my courage died away; and I strove to reason
myself out of the dreadful vague fear that possessed me; but
I could not, and I was actually turning away from the door,
with a determination which a few minutes before nothing
would have induced me to make, when I saw a light which

appeared to proceed from the back parlor on the ground
floor. It was a clear steady light, such as one may be sure
to see from the place where a fond faithful wife is watching
over a baby, or waiting for its father.

I knocked, and immediately the light moved, and a voice
reached my ear with an accent of joy, and a step came hurrying
to the door; but just when it was so near that I felt it
necessary to draw back, I heard another step, and a heavier
one approach, and after a word or two in a sweet kind
voice that nobody could hear without emotion, the light eager
step withdrew and the door was opened a little way—a
very little way—just far enough for me to see the head of a
man, stooping with age, who started back when he saw me,
saying, Who are you? What do you want here, I should like
to know? Where is master Ned?

Who is it, Philip? cried some one at the top of the staircase,
where I saw the shadow of a woman projected along
the white wall, with her clothes huddled up to her bosom,
and her whole attitude that of one who listens with breathless
anxiety.

I don't know I 'm sure—it 's a stranger, said he, grappling
the heavy door-chain with both hands, looking at me as
if he had just been waked out of a sound sleep, and speaking
as if he thought I intended to force my way.

A stranger—is he alone?

I believe so—peeping out as he spoke.

Go to your mistress and say to her, if she has not retired,
that I beg leave to see her, said I—I have a message for her.

Open the door, Philip, open the door! I know that
voice—

But the old man could not open the door; the chain was
heavy, the catch had slipped, and he shook so, that I could
not help asking where the other servants were.

He made no reply, but I saw by his look that notwithstanding
all I had been a witness to a few hours before, the
show of powdered lackeys and rich livery, there were no
other servants in that large house, now that the dinner was
over and the company away—none but this aged and faithful
man, who did every day in the week perhaps, what, on this
particular day, five younger and better-clothed men had pretended
to do. Shall I confess the truth? Shall I own that
after this idea occurred to me, my sympathy for the sorrowful
wife, my admiration for the deserted and beautiful wife grew
less and less every moment? Who would have the courage
to avow this? And yet, who is there to disbelieve me when I
avow it? If the servants were contributed for the occasion
—who should say that the rich wines were not, and the superb
furniture? And if the husband were not so wealthy as I
had hoped—of course the wife would not suffer so much by
an overthrow.

Philip—Philip—continued the voice.

Madam—

Say to Mr Holmes that I cannot possibly see him.

D' ye hear that sir? no use openin' the door now—

—But perhaps he will be so kind as to leave the message
with you.

Very fair, thought I, vexed and sore at my reception—a
pretty reward for my trouble! tearing a leaf out of my
pocket-book and writing these words on it—`I have no message
to deliver; nothing but this—I have called now at the
desire of your husband; I do not know that he wished me
to see you, but in the hope that I might be of use, I have
begged the favor—a favor that I shall never beg either of
him or of you, again. Farewell!—God bless you. If it be
in my power to serve you, command me.'

There, said I, wrapping up the ring in the paper and giving
it to the old man. There—take that to your mistress
immediately—

Yes sir—

Give it into her own hands, d' ye hear?

I left him as I said this, and had got a considerable way
off, when I heard a shriek—a scream—a short brief cry that
pierced my heart like a knife. I stopped and listened and
held my breath, and hurried back just in time to have the
door shut in my face, to see lights moving about, and to hear
steps hurrying hither and thither through every part of the
house. O, the agony, the unutterable agony that followed!—
for I knocked and knocked and nobody came to relieve me,
and the whole house grew dark and silent as the grave.
But I would not stir from the step—I would not leave the
door, till I heard some one say in a low terrified voice from
within, For God's sake, who is there!

I repeated my name.

Do go away sir! do, do! you know not the mischief you
are doing; you 'll have the watch about you.

I 'll never go away—never, never! till I know how she
is—

Go away sir, for God's sake! you have killed my poor
mistress!

Killed her—

Yes, that you have; she can hardly speak now; and you
are determined not to let her sleep—

Why don't you send for somebody?

We' ve nobody to send—I wish you would go away!

Off I started, meaning to go for Dr. Armstrong, who lived
not very far off; but the moment I left the door, somebody
called out for me saying, Heave to! Holloa there, heave to, I
say!

I paid no attention to the call—

Heave to! heave to!—

Some sailor thought I, with too much grog aboard—

I 've been a watchin' you this half hour, my fine feller;
which if you don't heave to, afore I give the word, you 'll be
brought up with a round turn—

Who the devil are you? said I.

I 'm the watch; who the devil are you?

Oh, I beg your pardon—

What were you doin' there jess now—

Delivering a message—

Ugh—and what are you runnin' away for?

Going for a doctor.

Ugh—you must go with me if you please.

With you—what for?

Don't like your looks—pretty story to gammon them as
knows what 's what.

My looks—you impudent blackguard!

Come come, master, none o' that now; better keep a civil
tongue in your head, afore we clap the screws to you.

Why, how dare you speak to a gentleman in this way!

A gentleman—poh—don't I know you?

Know me!

Yes you, and all the rest o' the troop; and wasn't we put
on our guard no longer ago 'an yesterday; and didn't I see
you try to get into that 'ere house not an hour ago under
false pertences; but they knowed you afore to-day, they
was up to your tricks, and wouldn't let you in—

Look you, said I, pulling off my gloves and buttoning up
my coat—

A nice gentleman you, to be sure; tryin' to get into a
house when you know the people's away; come come,
give an account of yourseff.

Look you, I have not much to say to you; you are under
a mistake—

Phoo—with an impudent leer.

You are under a mistake, I say! You have your duty to
perform and I have mine. There lies my way; I am going
for a doctor, and if you stop me, or interfere with me, you
shall rue it the longest day you have to live.

Phoo—

Shall I knock him down! said I to myself; or shall I set
off and try to outrun the watch—or shall I try to escape in a
quieter way. It would be the devil to be stopped here.

I adopted the latter course, determined to try the value of
a system which every body recommended to me, almost
every day in the week—that is, whenever I was in a scrape
or just out of a scrape—to give soothing syrup.

My good fellow, said I—

Ugh—I thought you'd come to—

—You see how it is—a matter of life and death; I tell
you I am going for a doctor; if you don't believe me, go
with me.

He shook his head with a sort of smile which gave me a
convulsion of the right shoulder—I saw that I should have to
drop him. Phoo phoo, said he, that won't do, that's an old
story; every body we catch a runnin' away, is always agoin'
for the doctor.

Upon my word, it 's a true story—

Well well, you come along o' me, and if they believe you,
they 'll either send a doctor to the house, or let you go for
one.

Here, said I—here 's a crown for you; you may either
go with me or let me go by myself.

Thank your honor; but you see—pocketing the crown with

a bow and buttoning up to the chin as he spoke, with a very
deliberate slow motion—we never goes off our beat.

Well then I suppose you dare not go with me?

No your honor—

Very well—good night—

Stop, your honor.

Stop—what for? Don't you mean to let me go?

No, your honor—

Why you impudent rascal—how dare you! Do you
mean to keep the silver?

To be sure I do, your honor.

You are a knave.

How so, your honor—

I 'll have you dismissed.

What for, your honor? If your honor 's a gemman you
gives it to me as a free gift, you know, an' if your honor is
no gemman, its a bribe, an' as I mean to own to 't as soon as
iver you are safe, I don't see where 's the harm.

What could I say? There was but one hope left—I took
out a sovereign. If you will suffer me to go, said I, here is a
sovereign for you and here is my card—

He took the card, and holding the wrong side up, affected
to be reading it—

—What say you; it is now four o'clock.

Ugh—

Will you take the sovereign?

Yes, your honor.

Will you let me go?

No, your honor—

Shall I give you more?

As much as you like, your honor—

Will you let me go, or will you not?

I will not, your honor.

I looked at my watch; it wanted five minutes of four;
and without saying another word, I walked away. He pursued
me, and got before me, and put out his hand to arrest
me. Touch me at your peril, said I.

Phoo, your honor—

I quickened my step, he touched me, and received a blow
which sent him headlong into the street. He was probably
stunned, for though I walked away, I had time to get a considerable
distance before I heard the noise of pursuit or the
spring of the rattle. It grieved me to strike the poor fellow,
but what was I to do—a guinea would repair all the damage
that he suffered or could suffer, while on the other side the
damage might be incalculable.

It was a very awkward affair though—the rattles were
sprung at last, and in five minutes more, owing to the noise
of my heavy-shod boots in the vast echoing solitude, I was
captured and led off to the watch-house in broad day-light;
and although I succeeded in satisfying all parties, and in
sending a message to Dr. Armstrong, it was near five
o'clock in the afternoon before I was liberated. And how
was I liberated after all?—why, in such a condition that I
was afraid to look up as I hurried through the streets, afraid
to appear at my lodgings, till I had sneaked into a bath at
Leicester-Square, and afraid even to go to a chop-house for
a dinner, till I had changed every rag of clothes I had on.

It was eight in the evening before I got back to — street,
Pall-Mall, whither I hurried with a mixture of feelings which
it would be idle for me to attempt to describe. To this
hour I know not, I cannot imagine how I lived through the
day as I did. The woman I most loved on earth—for
aught I knew—was no more. The proud, beautiful woman!
I had struck her to the heart—her cry had reached me—a
whole day had passed over, and yet I knew not whether she

was dead or alive. And why so fearful a change? The
day before I would have died for her. Could it be that a
little wrath was too mighty for such love? Could it be that
my hope was not pure, and that by refusing to see me, she
had rebuked it for ever? And how had I passed the day? I
did not know; I do not know to this hour; I only know that
I was in a fever all day long; that I was piqued when I left
the message at the door, and that I was in wrath, when I
got back to my lodgings after a day of bitter trial, to find that
no message had been left for me.

It was very dark when I arrived at the house; and my
heart failed me when I lifted the knocker. It sounded heavily
to my ear, and perhaps I struck it heavily; but however
that may be, I declare that I was not much surprised when a
little boy came up to me and said that the people of the house
were gone away.

Gone away, my poor boy—and where have they gone?
said I.

We don't know, sir—

We—and who are you? Do you belong to the house?

No—mother an' me, we had the run o' the kitchen till to-day;
and to-day the poor lady has gone off; and we don't
know what to do sir, please.

What time did she go?

Jest afore dinner—

Did you see her? was she well—

Oh no sir; she was very bad, she and the little chambermaid
and the poor old man; but she didn't cry, and they
did.

Where is your mother? Did she see them?

No sir; mother's bad too; she hasn't been here this most
a week, but the poor lady used to send her the vittles every
day.

Do you know who owns the house?

No sir.

Did she leave no message for any body when she went
away?

No sir; she went away as fast as ever she could, sir.

In a coach?

In two coaches and a cart, if you please sir.

Very well, thought I; if I do not hear within a day or two,
I will give her up entirely, or—stay—here 's my old friend
the watchman; perhaps he can tell me more about the matter.
I say, heave to there!—

Heave to yourself then! cried a voice from the box; but
it was not the voice of the man that hailed me the night before;
it was altogether different, more good-natured and
more agreeable. At first, I gave myself credit for the change;
but on coming to the box, I found out my mistake. It was a
new watchman—I felt sorry, for in spite of the rude behaviour
of the fellow whom I had quarrelled with, I was delighted
with his humor and courage; and his fidelity was worthy
of all praise, for I could neither terrify, nor coax, nor bribe
him. It was a pity for such a pure specimen of the Charleys
to be turned adrift—I will intercede for him, thought I;
and I spoke to the incumbent, who speedily satisfied me that
I had no occasion to give myself any farther trouble about
him, for he was still in office, and likely to be there as long
as he could wear a watch-coat or twirl a rattle. So much
the better, said I; vexed nevertheless, that I had no opportunity
of showing how magnanimous I could be.

But this man was unable to give me any farther information
about the people of the house; they had not been there long,
he said, but some how or other, a notion had got abroad before
they had been there a week, that there was a sort of
mystery about them. They were very quiet people to be

sure; but they saw nobody, they never went abroad, except
in the evening; the door was always kept bolted and barred,
which was all proper enough to be sure in such a place, but
then they had no servants, and they never appeared to eat
any thing. God knows how they live, said he—

Very true, said I. But as I do not happen to care much
how they live, I wish you would take my card—here take two
or three of them—and here's a trifle for you, and if you
hear any thing more of the parties, or if you are able to find
out who owns the house, let me know immediately.

Yes, your honor—

Fire and fury; if you ever say yes your honor, to me,
I 'll serve you as I did your predecessor!

No your honor—

I started off! it was quite impossible to bear another such
attack of yes your honor, no your honor, and the devil knows
what, from a watchman surprised into civility by a bribe.