‘No!’ replied the girl. ’I
have not done this for money. Let me have that
to think of. And yet—give me something
that you have worn: I should like to have something—no,
no, not a ring—your gloves or handkerchief—anything
that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet
lady. There. Bless you! God bless
you. Good-night, good-night!’
The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension
of some discovery which would subject her to ill-usage
and violence, seemed to determine the gentleman to
leave her, as she requested.
The sound of retreating footsteps were audible and
the voices ceased.
The two figures of the young lady and her companion
soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. They
stopped at the summit of the stairs.
‘Hark!’ cried the young lady, listening.
’Did she call! I thought I heard her
voice.’
‘No, my love,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, looking
sadly back. ’She has not moved, and will
not till we are gone.’
Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her
arm through his, and led her, with gentle force, away.
As they disappeared, the girl sunk down nearly at
her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and
vented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears.
After a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering
steps ascended the street. The astonished listener
remained motionless on his post for some minutes afterwards,
and having ascertained, with many cautious glances
round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from
his hiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in
the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he had
descended.
Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top,
to make sure that he was unobserved, Noah Claypole
darted away at his utmost speed, and made for the
Jew’s house as fast as his legs would carry
him.
FATAL CONSEQUENCES
It was nearly two hours before day-break; that time
which in the autumn of the year, may be truly called
the dead of night; when the streets are silent and
deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and
profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it
was at this still and silent hour, that Fagin sat watching
in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale,
and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less
like a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist
from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.
He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an
old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a
wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side.
His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed
in thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed
among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should
have been a dog’s or rat’s.
Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole,
fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes
directed his eyes for an instant, and then brought
them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt
wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling
down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his
thoughts were busy elsewhere.
