A curse on you! You who have five senses may be wicked at yourpleasure; we who have four, and want the most important, are tolive and be moral on our affliction. The true charity and justiceof rich to poor, all the world over!"
He paused a moment when he had said these words, and caught thesound of money, jingling in her hand.
"Well?" he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. "That shouldlead to something. The point, widow?"
"First answer me one question," she replied. "You say he is closeat hand. Has he left London?"
"Being close at hand, widow, it would seem he has," returned theblind man.
"I mean, for good? You know that."
"Yes, for good. The truth is, widow, that his ****** a longer staythere might have had disagreeable consequences. He has come awayfor that reason."
"Listen," said the widow, telling some money out, upon a benchbeside them. "Count."
"Six," said the blind man, listening attentively. "Any more?"
"They are the savings," she answered, "of five years. Sixguineas."
He put out his hand for one of the coins; felt it carefully, put itbetween his teeth, rung it on the bench; and nodded to her toproceed.
"These have been scraped together and laid by, lest sickness or death should separate my son and me. They have been purchased atthe price of much hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If youCAN take them--do--on condition that you leave this place upon theinstant, and enter no more into that room, where he sits now,expecting your return."
"Six guineas," said the blind man, shaking his head, "though of thefullest weight that were ever coined, fall very far short of twentypounds, widow."
"For such a sum, as you know, I must write to a distant part of thecountry. To do that, and receive an answer, I must have time."
"Two days?" said Stagg.
"More."
"Four days?"
"A week. Return on this day week, at the same hour, but not to thehouse. Wait at the corner of the lane."
"Of course," said the blind man, with a crafty look, "I shall find you there?"
"Where else can I take refuge? Is it not enough that you have madea beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my whole store, sohardly earned, to preserve this home?"
"Humph!" said the blind man, after some consideration. "Set mewith my face towards the point you speak of, and in the middle ofthe road. Is this the spot?"
"It is."
"On this day week at sunset. And think of him within doors.--Forthe present, good night."
She made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowlyaway, turning his head from time to time, and stopping to listen,as if he were curious to know whether he was watched by any one.
The shadows of night were closing fast around, and he was soon lostin the gloom. It was not, however, until she had traversed thelane from end to end, and made sure that he was gone, that she reenteredthe cottage, and hurriedly barred the door and window.
"Mother!" said Barnaby. "What is the matter? Where is the blindman?"
"He is gone."
"Gone!" he cried, starting up. "I must have more talk with him.
Which way did he take?"
"I don"t know," she answered, folding her arms about him. "Youmust not go out to-night. There are ghosts and dreams abroad."
"Ay?" said Barnaby, in a frightened whisper.
"It is not safe to stir. We must leave this place to-morrow."
"This place! This cottage--and the little garden, mother!"
"Yes! To-morrow morning at sunrise. We must travel to London;lose ourselves in that wide place--there would be some trace of usin any other town--then travel on again, and find some new abode."
Little persuasion was required to reconcile Barnaby to anythingthat promised change. In another minute, he was wild with delight; in another, full of grief at the prospect of parting with hisfriends the dogs; in another, wild again; then he was fearful ofwhat she had said to prevent his wandering abroad that night, andfull of terrors and strange questions. His light-heartedness inthe end surmounted all his other feelings, and lying down in hisclothes to the end that he might be ready on the morrow, he soonfell fast asleep before the poor turf fire.
His mother did not close her eyes, but sat beside him, watching.
Every breath of wind sounded in her ears like that dreaded footstepat the door, or like that hand upon the latch, and made the calmsummer night, a night of horror. At length the welcome dayappeared. When she had made the little preparations which wereneedful for their journey, and had prayed upon her knees with manytears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up gaily at her summons.
His clothes were few enough, and to carry Grip was a labour oflove. As the sun shed his earliest beams upon the earth, theyclosed the door of their deserted home, and turned away. The skywas blue and bright. The air was fresh and filled with a thousandperfumes. Barnaby looked upward, and laughed with all his heart.
But it was a day he usually devoted to a long ramble, and one of the dogs--the ugliest of them all--came bounding up, and jumpinground him in the fulness of his joy. He had to bid him go back ina surly tone, and his heart smote him while he did so. The dogretreated; turned with a half-incredulous, half-imploring look;came a little back; and stopped.
It was the last appeal of an old companion and a faithful friend-castoff. Barnaby could bear no more, and as he shook his head andwaved his playmate home, he burst into tears.
"Oh mother, mother, how mournful he will be when he scratches atthe door, and finds it always shut!"
There was such a sense of home in the thought, that though her owneyes overflowed she would not have obliterated the recollection ofit, either from her own mind or from his, for the wealth of thewhole wide world.
