As the locksmith walked slowly away from Sir John Chester"schambers, he lingered under the trees which shaded the path, almosthoping that he might be summoned to return. He had turned backthrice, and still loitered at the corner, when the clock strucktwelve.
It was a solemn sound, and not merely for its reference to tomorrow;for he knew that in that chime the murderer"s knell wasrung. He had seen him pass along the crowded street, amidst theexecration of the throng; and marked his quivering lip, andtrembling limbs; the ashy hue upon his face, his clammy brow, thewild distraction of his eye--the fear of death that swallowed upall other thoughts, and gnawed without cessation at his heart andbrain. He had marked the wandering look, seeking for hope, andfinding, turn where it would, despair. He had seen the remorseful,pitiful, desolate creature, riding, with his coffin by his side, tothe gibbet. He knew that, to the last, he had been an unyielding,obdurate man; that in the savage terror of his condition he hadhardened, rather than relented, to his wife and child; and that thelast words which had passed his white lips were curses on them ashis enemies.
Mr Haredale had determined to be there, and see it done. Nothingbut the evidence of his own senses could satisfy that gloomy thirstfor retribution which had been gathering upon him for so manyyears. The locksmith knew this, and when the chimes had ceased tovibrate, 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 firmfriend when she most wants one; but Barnaby--poor Barnaby--willingBarnaby--what aid can I render him? There are many, many men ofsense, God forgive me," cried the honest locksmith, stopping in anarrow count to pass his hand across his eyes, "I could betterafford to lose than Barnaby. We have always been good friends, butI never knew, till now, how much I loved the lad."
There were not many in the great city who thought of Barnaby thatday, otherwise than as an actor in a show which was to take placeto-morrow. But if the whole population had had him in their minds,and had wished his life to be spared, not one among them could havedone so with a purer zeal or greater singleness of heart than thegood locksmith.
Barnaby was to die. There was no hope. It is not the least evilattendant upon the frequent exhibition of this last dreadpunishment, of Death, that it hardens the minds of those who dealit out, and makes them, though they be amiable men in otherrespects, indifferent to, or unconscious of, their greatresponsibility. The word had gone forth that Barnaby was to die.
It went forth, every month, for lighter crimes. It was a thing socommon, that very few were startled by the awful sentence, orcared to question its propriety. Just then, too, when the law hadbeen so flagrantly outraged, its dignity must be asserted. Thesymbol of its dignity,--stamped upon every page of the criminalstatute-book,--was the gallows; and Barnaby was to die.
They had tried to save him. The locksmith had carried petitionsand memorials to the fountain-head, with his own hands. But thewell was not one of mercy, and Barnaby was to die.
From the first his mother had never left him, save at night; andwith her beside him, he was as usual contented. On this last day,he was more elated and more proud than he had been yet; and whenshe dropped the book she had been reading to him aloud, and fellupon his neck, he stopped in his busy task of folding a piece ofcrape about his hat, and wondered at her anguish. Grip uttered afeeble croak, half in encouragement, it seemed, and half inremonstrance, but he wanted heart to sustain it, and lapsedabruptly into silence.
With them who stood upon the brink of the great gulf which none cansee beyond, Time, so soon to lose itself in vast Eternity, rolledon like a mighty river, swollen and rapid as it nears the sea. Itwas morning but now; they had sat and talked together in a dream;and here was evening. The dreadful hour of separation, which evenyesterday had seemed so distant, was at hand.
They walked out into the courtyard, clinging to each other, but notspeaking. Barnaby knew that the jail was a dull, sad, miserableplace, and looked forward to to-morrow, as to a passage from it tosomething bright and beautiful. He had a vague impression too,that he was expected to be brave--that he was a man of greatconsequence, and that the prison people would be glad to make himweep. He trod the ground more firmly as he thought of this, andbade her take heart and cry no more, and feel how steady his handwas. "They call me silly, mother. They shall see to-morrow!"
Dennis and Hugh were in the courtyard. Hugh came forth from hiscell as they did, stretching himself as though he had beensleeping. Dennis sat upon a bench in a corner, with his knees andchin huddled together, and rocked himself to and fro like a personin severe pain.
The mother and son remained on one side of the court, and these twomen upon the other. Hugh strode up and down, glancing fiercelyevery now and then at the bright summer sky, and looking round,when he had done so, at the walls.