‘So she kept her word,’ he said, ’and
was constant to her threat! I would I had never
seen that dark face of hers,—I might have
read these consequences in it, from the first.
This affair would make a noise abroad, if it rested
on better evidence; but, as it is, and by not joining
the scattered links of the chain, I can afford to slight
it.—Extremely distressing to be the parent
of such an uncouth creature! Still, I gave him
very good advice. I told him he would certainly
be hanged. I could have done no more if I had
known of our relationship; and there are a great many
fathers who have never done as much for their
natural children.—The hairdresser may come
in, Peak!’
The hairdresser came in; and saw in Sir John Chester
(whose accommodating conscience was soon quieted by
the numerous precedents that occurred to him in support
of his last observation), the same imperturbable,
fascinating, elegant gentleman he had seen yesterday,
and many yesterdays before.
As the locksmith walked slowly away from Sir John
Chester’s chambers, he lingered under the trees
which shaded the path, almost hoping that he might
be summoned to return. He had turned back thrice,
and still loitered at the corner, when the clock struck
twelve.
It was a solemn sound, and not merely for its reference
to to-morrow; for he knew that in that chime the murderer’s
knell was rung. He had seen him pass along the
crowded street, amidst the execration of the throng;
and marked his quivering lip, and trembling limbs;
the ashy hue upon his face, his clammy brow, the wild
distraction of his eye—the fear of death
that swallowed up all other thoughts, and gnawed without
cessation at his heart and brain. He had marked
the wandering look, seeking for hope, and finding,
turn where it would, despair. He had seen the
remorseful, pitiful, desolate creature, riding, with
his coffin by his side, to the gibbet. He knew
that, to the last, he had been an unyielding, obdurate
man; that in the savage terror of his condition he
had hardened, rather than relented, to his wife and
child; and that the last words which had passed his
white lips were curses on them as his enemies.
Mr Haredale had determined to be there, and see it
done. Nothing but the evidence of his own senses
could satisfy that gloomy thirst for retribution which
had been gathering upon him for so many years.
The locksmith knew this, and when the chimes had ceased
to vibrate, hurried away to meet him.
‘For these two men,’ he said, as he went,
’I can do no more. Heaven have mercy on
them!—Alas! I say I can do no more
for them, but whom can I help? Mary Rudge will
have a home, and a firm friend when she most wants
one; but Barnaby—poor Barnaby—willing
Barnaby—what aid can I render him?
There are many, many men of sense, God forgive me,’
cried the honest locksmith, stopping in a narrow count
to pass his hand across his eyes, ’I could better
afford to lose than Barnaby. We have always been
good friends, but I never knew, till now, how much
I loved the lad.’
