A curse on you! You who have five senses may be wicked at your pleasure; we who have four, and want the most important, are to live and be moral on our affliction. The true charity and justice of rich to poor, all the world over!'
He paused a moment when he had said these words, and caught the sound of money, jingling in her hand.
'Well?' he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. 'That should lead to something. The point, widow?'
'First answer me one question,' she replied. 'You say he is close at hand. Has he left London?'
'Being close at hand, widow, it would seem he has,' returned the blind man.
'I mean, for good? You know that.'
'Yes, for good. The truth is, widow, that his ****** a longer stay there might have had disagreeable consequences. He has come away for that reason.'
'Listen,' said the widow, telling some money out, upon a bench beside them. 'Count.'
'Six,' said the blind man, listening attentively. 'Any more?'
'They are the savings,' she answered, 'of five years. Six guineas.'
He put out his hand for one of the coins; felt it carefully, put it between his teeth, rung it on the bench; and nodded to her to proceed.
'These have been scraped together and laid by, lest sickness or death should separate my son and me. They have been purchased at the price of much hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If you CAN take them--do--on condition that you leave this place upon the instant, 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 the fullest weight that were ever coined, fall very far short of twenty pounds, widow.'
'For such a sum, as you know, I must write to a distant part of the country. 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 the house. 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 made a beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my whole store, so hardly earned, to preserve this home?'
'Humph!' said the blind man, after some consideration. 'Set me with my face towards the point you speak of, and in the middle of the road. Is this the spot?'
'It is.'
'On this day week at sunset. And think of him within doors.--For the present, good night.'
She made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowly away, 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 lost in the gloom. It was not, however, until she had traversed the lane from end to end, and made sure that he was gone, that she re-
entered the cottage, and hurriedly barred the door and window.
'Mother!' said Barnaby. 'What is the matter? Where is the blind man?'
'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. 'You must 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 us in any other town--then travel on again, and find some new abode.'
Little persuasion was required to reconcile Barnaby to anything that promised change. In another minute, he was wild with delight;
in another, full of grief at the prospect of parting with his friends the dogs; in another, wild again; then he was fearful of what she had said to prevent his wandering abroad that night, and full of terrors and strange questions. His light-heartedness in the end surmounted all his other feelings, and lying down in his clothes to the end that he might be ready on the morrow, he soon fell 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 footstep at the door, or like that hand upon the latch, and made the calm summer night, a night of horror. At length the welcome day appeared. When she had made the little preparations which were needful for their journey, and had prayed upon her knees with many tears, she roused Barnaby, who jumped up gaily at her summons.
His clothes were few enough, and to carry Grip was a labour of love. As the sun shed his earliest beams upon the earth, they closed the door of their deserted home, and turned away. The sky was blue and bright. The air was fresh and filled with a thousand perfumes. 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 jumping round him in the fulness of his joy. He had to bid him go back in a surly tone, and his heart smote him while he did so. The dog retreated; 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--
cast off. Barnaby could bear no more, and as he shook his head and waved his playmate home, he burst into tears.
'Oh mother, mother, how mournful he will be when he scratches at the door, and finds it always shut!'
There was such a sense of home in the thought, that though her own eyes overflowed she would not have obliterated the recollection of it, either from her own mind or from his, for the wealth of the whole wide world.