The morning advanced. There were footsteps in
the house. He heard the blinds drawn up, and
shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread
outside his own door. He tried to call out, more
than once, but his mouth was dry as if it had been
filled with sand. At last he sat up in his bed,
and cried:
‘Who’s there?’
It was his wife.
He asked her what it was o’clock? Nine.
‘Did—did no one knock at my door
yesterday?’ he faltered. ’Something
disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down,
you would have got no notice from me.’
‘No one,’ she replied. That was well.
He had waited, almost breathless, for her answer.
It was a relief to him, if anything could be.
‘Mr Nadgett wanted to see you,’ she said,
’but I told him you were tired, and had requested
not to be disturbed. He said it was of little
consequence, and went away. As I was opening my
window to let in the cool air, I saw him passing through
the street this morning, very early; but he hasn’t
been again.’
Passing through the street that morning? Very
early! Jonas trembled at the thought of having
had a narrow chance of seeing him himself; even him,
who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak on
unobserved, and keep his own secrets; and who saw
nothing.
He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared
to go upstairs; attiring himself in the clothes he
had taken off when he came into that room, which had
been, ever since, outside the door. In his secret
dread of meeting the household for the first time,
after what he had done, he lingered at the door on
slight pretexts that they might see him without looking
in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and
called out to have the windows opened, and the pavement
watered, that they might become accustomed to his
voice. Even when he had put off the time, by
one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to
them all, he could not muster courage for a long while
to go in among them, but stood at his own door listening
to the murmur of their distant conversation.
He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them.
His last glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale
face, but that might have been because of his anxious
looking in it. He dared not look at them to see
if they observed him, but he thought them very silent.
And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could
not help listening, and showing that he listened.
Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think
of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace,
or resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse
clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell
were on him, into eager listening. For he knew
it must come. And his present punishment, and
torture and distraction, were, to listen for its coming.
Hush!
Bears tidings of Martin and
of mark, as well as of
A third person not quite unknown
to the reader. Exhibits filial
piety in an ugly aspect;
and casts A doubtful ray of
light upon A very dark place
