FOR a couple of hours I walked
on briskly, careless in what
direction I went, so long as
I kept my back turned on Barkingham.
By the time I had put seven
miles of ground, according to
my calculations, between me and
the red-brick house, I began
to look upon the doctor's writing-desk
rather in the light of an incumbrance,
and determined to examine it
without further delay. Accordingly
I picked up the first large stone
I could find in the road, crossed
a common, burst through a hedge,
and came to a halt, on the other
side, in a thick wood. Here,
finding myself well screened
from public view, I broke open
the desk with the help of the
stone, and began to look over
the contents.
To my unspeakable disappointment
I found but few papers of any
kind to examine. The desk was
beautifully fitted with all the
necessary materials for keeping
up a large correspondence; but
there were not more than half
a dozen letters in it altogether.
Four were on business matters,
and the other two were of a friendly
nature, referring to persons
and things in which I did not
feel the smallest interest. I
found besides half a dozen bills
receipted (the doctor was a mirror
of punctuality in the payment
of tradesmen), note and letter-paper
of the finest quality, clarified
pens, a pretty little pin-cushion,
two small account-books filled
with the neatest entries, and
some leaves of blotting-paper.
Nothing else; absolutely nothing
else, in the treacherous writing-desk
on which I had implicitly relied
to guide me to Alicia's hiding-place.
I groaned in sheer wretchedness
over the destruction of all my
dearest plans and hopes. If the
Bow Street runners had come into
the plantation just as I had
completed the rifling of the
desk I think I should have let
them take me without making the
slightest effort at escape. As
it was, no living soul appeared
within sight of me. I must have
sat at the foot of a tree for
full half an hour, with the doctor's
useless bills and letters before
me, with my head in my hands,
and with all my energies of body
and mind utterly crushed by despair.
At the end of the half hour,
the natural restlessness of my
faculties began to make itself
felt.
Whatever may be said about
it in books, no emotion in this
world ever did, or ever will,
last for long together. The strong
feeling may return over and over
again; but it must have its constant
intervals of change or repose.
In real life the bitterest grief
doggedly takes its rest and dries
its eyes; the heaviest despair
sinks to a certain level, and
stops there to give hope a chance
of rising, in spite of us. Even
the joy of an unexpected meeting
is always an imperfect sensation,
for it never lasts long enough
to justify our secret anticipations--our
happiness dwindles to mere every-day
contentment before we have half
done with it.
I raised my
head, and gathered the bills
and letters together,
and stood up a man again, wondering
at the variableness of my own
temper, at the curious elasticity
of that toughest of all the vital
substances within us, which we
call Hope. "Sitting and sighing
at the foot of this tree," I
thought, "is not the way to find
Alicia, or to secure my own safety.
Let me circulate my blood and
rouse my ingenuity, by taking
to the road again."
Before I forced my way back
to the open side of the hedge,
I thought it desirable to tear
up the bills and letters, for
fear of being traced by them
if they were found in the plantation.
The desk I left where it was,
there being no name on it. The
note-paper and pens I pocketed--forlorn
as my situation was, it did not
authorize me to waste stationery.
The blotting-paper was the last
thing left to dispose of: two
neatly-folded sheets, quite clean,
except in one place, where the
impression of a few lines of
writing appeared. I was about
to put the blotting-paper into
my pocket after the pens, when
something in the look of the
writing impressed on it, stopped
me.
Four blurred lines appeared
of not more than two or three
words each, running out one beyond
another regularly from left to
right. Had the doctor been composing
poetry and blotting it in a violent
hurry? At a first glance, that
was more than I could tell. The
order of the written letters,
whatever they might be, was reversed
on the face of the impression
taken of them by the blotting-paper.
I turned to the other side of
the leaf. The order of the letters
was now right, but the letters
themselves were sometimes too
faintly impressed, sometimes
too much blurred together to
be legible. I held the leaf up
to the light--and there was a
complete change: the blurred
letters grew clearer, the invisible
connecting lines appeared--I
could read the words from first
to last.
The writing must have been
hurried, and it had to all appearance
been hurriedly dried toward the
corner of a perfectly clean leaf
of the blotting-paper. After
twice reading, I felt sure that
I had made out correctly the
following address:
Miss Giles, 2 Zion Place, Crickgelly,
N. Wales.
It was hard under the circumstances,
to form an opinion as to the
handwriting; but I thought I
could recognize the character
of some of the doctor's letters,
even in the blotted impression
of them. Supposing I was right,
who was Miss Giles?
Some Welsh friend of the doctor's,
unknown to me? Probably enough.
But why not Alicia herself under
an assumed name? Having sent
her from home to keep her out
of my way, it seemed next to
a certainty that her father would
take all possible measures to
prevent my tracing her, and would,
therefore, as a common act of
precaution, forbid her to travel
under her own name. Crickgelly,
North Wales, was assuredly a
very remote place to banish her
to; but then the doctor was not
a man to do things by halves:
he knew the lengths to which
my cunning and resolution were
capable of carrying me; and he
would have been innocent indeed
if he had hidden his daughter
from me in any place within reasonable
distance of Barkingham. Last,
and not least important, Miss
Giles sounded in my ears exactly
like an assumed name.
Was there ever any woman absolutely
and literally named Miss Giles?
However I may have altered my
opinion on this point since,
my mind was not in a condition
at that time to admit the possible
existence of any such individual
as a maiden Giles. Before, therefore,
I had put the precious blotting-paper
into my pocket, I had satisfied
myself that my first duty, under
all the circumstances, was to
shape my flight immediately to
Crickgelly. I could be certain
of nothing--not even of identifying
the doctor's handwriting by the
impression on the blotting-paper.
But provided I kept clear of
Barkingham, it was all the same
to me what part of the United
Kingdom I went to; and, in the
absence of any actual clew to
her place of residence, there
was consolation and encouragement
even in following an imaginary
trace. My spirits rose to their
natural height as I struck into
the highroad again, and beheld
across the level plain the smoke,
chimneys, and church spires of
a large manufacturing town. There
I saw the welcome promise of
a coach--the happy chance of
making my journey to Crickgelly
easy and rapid from the very
outset.
On my way to the town, I was
reminded by the staring of all
the people I passed on the road,
of one important consideration
which I had hitherto most unaccountably
overlooked--the necessity of
making some radical change in
my personal appearance.
I had no cause to dread the
Bow Street runners, for not one
of them had seen me; but I had
the strongest possible reasons
for distrusting a meeting with
my enemy, Screw. He would certainly
be made use of by the officers
for the purpose of identifying
the companions whom he had betrayed;
and I had the best reasons in
the world to believe that he
would rather assist in the taking
of me than in the capture of
all the rest of the coining gang
put together--the doctor himself
not excepted. My present costume
was of the dandy sort--rather
shabby, but gay in color and
outrageous in cut. I had not
altered it for an artisan's suit
in the doctor's house, because
I never had any intention of
staying there a day longer than
I could possibly help. The apron
in which I had wrapped the writing-desk
was the only approach I had made
toward wearing the honorable
uniform of the workingman.
Would it be wise now to make
my transformation complete, by
adding to the apron a velveteen
jacket and a sealskin cap? No:
my hands were too white, my manners
too inveterately gentleman-like,
for all artisan disguise. It
would be safer to assume a serious
character--to shave off my whiskers,
crop my hair, buy a modest hat
and umbrella, and dress entirely
in black. At the first slopshop
I encountered in the suburbs
of the town, I got a carpet-bag
and a clerical-looking suit.
At the first easy shaving-shop
I passed, I had my hair cropped
and my whiskers taken off. After
that I retreated again to the
country--walked back till I found
a convenient hedge down a lane
off the highroad--changed my
upper garments behind it, and
emerged, bashful, black, and
reverend, with my cotton umbrella
tucked modestly under my arm,
my eyes on the ground, my head
in the air, and my hat off my
forehead. When I found two laborers
touching their caps to me on
my way back to the town, I knew
that it was all right, and that
I might now set the vindictive
eyes of Screw himself safely
at defiance.
I had not the most distant
notion where I was when I reached
the High Street, and stopped
at The Green Bull Hotel and Coach-office.
However, I managed to mention
my modest wishes to be conveyed
at once in the direction of Wales,
with no more than a becoming
confusion of manner.
The answer was not so encouraging
as I could have wished. The coach
to Shrewsbury had left an hour
before, and there would be no
other public conveyance running
in my direct ion until the next
morning. Finding myself thus
obliged to yield to adverse circumstances,
I submitted resignedly, and booked
a place outside by the next day's
coach, in the name of the Reverend
John Jones. I thought it desirable
to be at once unassuming and
Welsh in the selection of a traveling
name; and therefore considered
John Jones calculated to fit
me, in my present emergency,
to a hair.
After securing a bed at the
hotel, and ordering a frugal
curate's dinner (bit of fish,
two chops, mashed potatoes, semolina
pudding, half-pint of sherry),
I sallied out to look at the
town.
Not knowing the name of it,
and not daring to excite surprise
by asking, I found the place
full of vague yet mysterious
interest. Here I was, somewhere
in central England, just as ignorant
of localities as if I had been
suddenly deposited in Central
Africa. My lively fancy revelled
in the new sensation. I invented
a name for the town, a code of
laws for the inhabitants, productions,
antiquities, chalybeate springs,
population, statistics of crime,
and so on, while I walked about
the streets, looked in at the
shop-windows, and attentively
examined the Market-place and
Town-hall. Experienced travelers,
who have exhausted all novelties,
would do well to follow my example;
they may be certain, for one
day at least, of getting some
fresh ideas, and feeling a new
sensation.
On returning to dinner in the
coffee-room, I found all the
London papers on the table.
The Morning Post happened
to lie uppermost, so I took it
away to my own seat to occupy
the time, while my unpretending
bit of fish was frying. Glancing
lazily at the advertisements
on the first page, to begin with,
I was astonished by the appearance
of the following lines, at the
top of a column:
"If F-- --K
S--FTL--Y will communicate
with his distressed
and alarmed relatives, Mr. and
Mrs. B--TT--RB--RY, he will hear
of something to his advantage,
and may be assured that all will
be once more forgiven. A--B--LLA
entreats him to write."
What, in the name of all that
is most mysterious, does this
mean! was my first thought after
reading the advertisement. Can
Lady Malkinshaw have taken a
fresh lease of that impregnable
vital tenement, at the door of
which Death has been knocking
vainly for so many years past?
(Nothing more likely.) Was my
felonious connection with Doctor
Dulcifer suspected? (It seemed
improbable.) One thing, however,
was certain: I was missed, and
the Batterburys were naturally
anxious about me--anxious enough
to advertise in the public papers.
I debated with myself whether
I should answer their pathetic
appeal or not. I had all my money
about me (having never let it
out of my own possession during
my stay in the red-brick house),
and there was plenty of it for
the present; so I thought it
best to leave the alarm and distress
of my anxious relatives unrelieved
for a little while longer, and
to return quietly to the perusal
of the Morning Post.
Five minutes of desultory reading
brought me unexpectedly to an
explanation of the advertisement,
in the shape of the following
paragraph:
"ALARMING ILLNESS
OF LADY MALKINSHAW.--We regret
to announce that this
venerable lady was seized with
an alarming illness on Saturday
last, at her mansion in town.
The attack took the character
of a fit--of what precise nature
we have not been able to learn.
Her ladyship's medical attendant
and near relative, Doctor Softly,
was immediately called in, and
predicted the most fatal results.
Fresh medical attendance was
secured, and her ladyship's nearest
surviving relatives, Mrs. Softly,
and Mr. and Mrs. Batterbury,
of Duskydale Park, were summoned.
At the time of their arrival
her ladyship's condition was
comatose, her breathing being
highly stertorous. If we are
rightly informed, Doctor Softly
and the other medical gentlemen
present gave it as their opinion
that if the pulse of the venerable
sufferer did not rally in the
course of a quarter of au hour
at most, very lamentable results
might be anticipated. For fourteen
minutes, as our reporter was
informed, no change took place;
but, strange to relate, immediately
afterward her ladyship's pulse
rallied suddenly in the most
extraordinary manner. She was
observed to open her eyes very
wide, and was heard, to the surprise
and delight of all surrounding
the couch, to ask why her ladyship's
usual lunch of chicken-broth
with a glass of Amontillado sherry
was not placed on the table as
usual. These refreshments having
been produced, under the sanction
of the medical gentlemen, the
aged patient partook of them
with an appearance of the utmost
relish. Since this happy alteration
for the better, her ladyship's
health has, we rejoice to say,
rapidly improved; and the answer
now given to all friendly and
fashionable inquirers is, in
the venerable lady's own humorous
phraseology, 'Much better than
could be expected.' "
Well done, my excellent grandmother!
my firm, my unwearied, my undying
friend! Never can I say that
my case is desperate while you
can swallow your chicken-broth
and sip your Amontillado sherry.
The moment I want money, I will
write to Mr. Batterbury, and
cut another little golden slice
out of that possible three-thousand-pound-cake,
for which he has already suffered
and sacrificed so much. In the
meantime, O venerable protectress
of the wandering Rogue! let me
gratefully drink your health
in the nastiest and smallest
half-pint of sherry this palate
ever tasted, or these eyes ever
beheld!
I went to bed that night in
great spirits. My luck seemed
to be returning to me; and I
began to feel more than hopeful
of really discovering my beloved
Alicia at Crickgelly, under the
alias of Miss Giles.
The next morning the Rev. John
Jones descended to breakfast
so rosy, bland, and smiling,
that the chambermaids simpered
as he tripped by them in the
passage, and the landlady bowed
graciously as he passed her parlor
door. The coach drove up, and
the reverend gentleman (after
waiting characteristically for
the woman's ladder) mounted to
his place on the roof, behind
the coachman. One man sat there
who had got up before him--and
who should that man be, but the
chief of the Bow Street runners,
who had rashly tried to take
Doctor Dulcifer into custody!
There could not be the least
doubt of his identity; I should
have known his face again among
a hundred. He looked at me as
I took my place by his side,
with one sharp searching glance--then
turned his head away toward the
road. Knowing that he had never
set eyes on my face (thanks to
the convenient peephole at the
red-brick house), I thought my
meeting with him was likely to
be rather advantageous than otherwise.
I had now an opportunity of watching
the proceedings of one of our
pursuers, at any rate--and surely
this was something gained.
"Fine morning, sir," I
said politely.
"Yes," he replied
in the gruffest of monosyllables.
I was not offended: I could
make allowance for the feelings
of a man who had been locked
up by his own prisoner.
"Very fine morning, indeed," I
repeated, soothingly and cheerfully.
The runner only grunted this
time. Well, well! we all have
our little infirmities. I don't
think the worse of the man now,
for having been rude to me, that
morning, on the top of the Shrewsbury
coach.
The next passenger who got
up and placed himself by my side
was a florid, excitable, confused-looking
gentleman, excessively talkative
and familiar. He was followed
by a sulky agricultural youth
in top-boots--and then, the complement
of passengers on our seat behind
the coachman was complete.
"Heard the news, sir?" said
the florid man, turning to me.
"Not that I am aware of," I
answered.
"It's the most tremendous thing
that has happened these fifty
years," said the florid man. "A
gang of coiners, sir, discovered
at Barkingham--in a house they
used to call the Grange. All
the dreadful lot of bad silver
that's been about, they're at
the bottom of. And the head of
the gang not taken! --escaped,
sir, like a ghost on the stage,
through a trap-door, after actually
locking the runners into his
workshop. The blacksmiths from
Barkingham had to break them
out; the whole house was found
full of iron doors, back staircases
, and all that sort of thing,
just like the Inquisition. A
most respectable man, the original
proprietor! Think what a misfortune
to have let his house to a scoundrel
who has turned the whole inside
into traps, furnaces, and iron
doors. The fellow's reference,
sir, was actually at a London
bank, where he kept a first-rate
account. What is to become of
society? where is our protection?
Where are our characters, when
we are left at the mercy of scoundrels?
The times are awful--upon my
soul, the times we live in are
perfectly awful!"
"Pray, sir, is there any chance
of catching this coiner?" I inquired
innocently.
"I hope so, sir; for the sake
of outraged society, I hope so," said
the excitable man. "They've printed
handbills at Barkingham, offering
a reward for taking him. I was
with my friend the mayor, early
this morning, and saw them issued.
'Mr. Mayor,' says I, 'I'm going
West--give me a few copies--let
me help to circulate them--for
the sake of outraged society,
let me help to circulate them.
Here they are--take a few, sir,
for distribution. You'll see
these are three other fellows
to be caught besides the principal
rascal--one of them a scamp belonging
to a respectable family. Oh!
what times! Take three copies,
and pray circulate them in three
influential quarters. Perhaps
that gentleman next you would
like a few. Will you take three,
sir?"
"No, I won't," said the Bow
Street runner doggedly. "Nor
yet one of 'em--and it's my opinion
that the coining-gang would be
nabbed all the sooner, if you
was to give over helping the
law to catch them."
This answer produced a vehement
expostulation from my excitable
neighbor, to which I paid little
attention, being better engaged
in reading the handbill.
It described the doctor's personal
appearance with remarkable accuracy,
and cautioned persons in seaport
towns to be on the lookout for
him. Old File, Young File, and
myself were all dishonorably
mentioned together in a second
paragraph, as runaways of inferior
importance Not a word was said
in the handbill to show that
the authorities at Barkingham
even so much as suspected the
direction in which any one of
us had escaped. This would have
been very encouraging, but for
the presence of the runner by
my side, which looked as if Bow
Street had its suspicions, however
innocent Barkingham might be.
Could the doctor have directed
his flight toward Crickgelly?
I trembled internally as the
question suggested itself to
me. Surely he would prefer writing
to Miss Giles to join him when
he got to a safe place of refuge,
rather than encumber himself
with the young lady before he
was well out of reach of the
far-stretching arm of the law.
This seemed infinitely the most
natural course of conduct. Still,
there was the runner traveling
toward Wales--and not certainly
without a special motive. I put
the handbills in my pocket, and
listened for any hints which
might creep out in his talk;
but he perversely kept silent.
The more my excitable neighbor
tried to dispute with him, the
more contemptuously he refused
to break silence. I began to
feel vehemently impatient for
our arrival at Shrewsbury; for
there only could I hope to discover
something more of my formidable
fellow-traveler's plans.
The coach stopped for dinner;
and some of our passengers left
us, the excitable man with the
handbills among the number. I
got down, and stood on the doorstep
of the inn, pretending to be
looking about me, but in reality
watching the movements of the
runner.
Rather to my surprise, I saw
him go to the door of the coach
and speak to one of the inside
passengers. After a short conversation,
of which I could not hear one
word, the runner left the coach
door and entered the inn, called
for a glass of brandy and water,
and took it out to his friend,
who had not left the vehicle
. The friend bent forward to
receive it at the window. I caught
a glimpse of his face, and felt
my knees tremble under me--it
was Screw himself!
Screw, pale and haggard-looking,
evidently not yet recovered from
the effect of my grip on his
throat! Screw, in attendance
on the runner, traveling inside
the coach in the character of
an invalid. He must be going
this journey to help the Bow
Street officers to identify some
one of our scattered gang of
whom they were in pursuit. It
could not be the doctor--the
runner could discover him without
assistance from anybody. Why
might it not be me?
I began to think whether it
would be best to trust boldly
in my disguise, and my lucky
position outside the coach, or
whether I should abandon my fellow-passengers
immediately. It was not easy
to settle at once which course
was the safest--so I tried the
effect of looking at my two alternatives
from another point of view. Should
I risk everything, and go on
resolutely to Crickgelly, on
the chance of discovering that
Alicia and Miss Giles were one
and the same person--or should
I give up on the spot the only
prospect of finding my lost mistress,
and direct my attention entirely
to the business of looking after
my own safety?
As the latter alternative practically
resolved itself into the simple
question of whether I should
act like a man who was in love,
or like a man who was not, my
natural instincts settled the
difficulty in no time. I boldly
imitated the example of my fellow-passengers,
and went in to dinner, determined
to go on afterward to Crickgelly,
though all Bow Street should
be following at my heels.
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