He had no light; the time was dreary, long, and awful.
The ringers were practicing in a neighbouring church,
and the clashing of the bells was almost maddening.
Curse the clamouring bells, they seemed to know that
he was listening at the door, and to proclaim it in
a crowd of voices to all the town! Would they
never be still?
They ceased at last, and then the silence was so new
and terrible that it seemed the prelude to some dreadful
noise. Footsteps in the court! Two men.
He fell back from the door on tiptoe, as if they could
have seen him through its wooden panels.
They passed on, talking (he could make out) about
a skeleton which had been dug up yesterday, in some
work of excavation near at hand, and was supposed
to be that of a murdered man. ’So murder
is not always found out, you see,’ they said
to one another as they turned the corner.
Hush!
He put the key into the lock, and turned it.
The door resisted for a while, but soon came stiffly
open; mingling with the sense of fever in his mouth,
a taste of rust, and dust, and earth, and rotting wood.
He looked out; passed out; locked it after him.
All was clear and quiet, as he fled away.
Did no men passing through the dim streets shrink
without knowing why, when he came stealing up behind
them? As he glided on, had no child in its sleep
an indistinct perception of a guilty shadow falling
on its bed, that troubled its innocent rest?
Did no dog howl, and strive to break its rattling
chain, that it might tear him; no burrowing rat, scenting
the work he had in hand, essay to gnaw a passage after
him, that it might hold a greedy revel at the feast
of his providing? When he looked back, across
his shoulder, was it to see if his quick footsteps
still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or were already
moist and clogged with the red mire that stained the
naked feet of Cain!
He shaped his course for the main western road, and
soon reached it; riding a part of the way, then alighting
and walking on again. He travelled for a considerable
distance upon the roof of a stage-coach, which came
up while he was afoot; and when it turned out of his
road, bribed the driver of a return post-chaise to
take him on with him; and then made across the country
at a run, and saved a mile or two before he struck
again into the road. At last, as his plan was,
he came up with a certain lumbering, slow, night-coach,
which stopped wherever it could, and was stopping
then at a public-house, while the guard and coachman
ate and drank within.
He bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took
it. And he quitted it no more until it was within
a few miles of its destination, but occupied the same
place all night.
All night! It is a common fancy that nature seems
to sleep by night. It is a false fancy, as who
should know better than he?
