As soon as the business of the day was over, the locksmith sallied forth1, alone, to visit the wounded gentleman and ascertain2 the progress of his recovery. The house where he had left him was in a by-street in Southwark, not far from London Bridge; and thither3 he hied with all speed, bent4 upon returning with as little delay as might be, and getting to bed betimes.
The evening was boisterous5 — scarcely better than the previous night had been. It was not easy for a stout6 man like Gabriel to keep his legs at the street corners, or to make head against the high wind, which often fairly got the better of him, and drove him back some paces, or, in defiance7 of all his energy, forced him to take shelter in an arch or doorway8 until the fury of the gust9 was spent. Occasionally a hat or wig10, or both, came spinning and trundling past him, like a mad thing; while the more serious spectacle of falling tiles and slates11, or of masses of brick and mortar12 or fragments of stone-coping rattling13 upon the pavement near at hand, and splitting into fragments, did not increase the pleasure of the journey, or make the way less dreary14.
‘A trying night for a man like me to walk in!’ said the locksmith, as he knocked softly at the widow’s door. ‘I’d rather be in old John’s chimney-corner, faith!’
‘Who’s there?’ demanded a woman’s voice from within. Being answered, it added a hasty word of welcome, and the door was quickly opened.
She was about forty — perhaps two or three years older — with a cheerful aspect, and a face that had once been pretty. It bore traces of affliction and care, but they were of an old date, and Time had smoothed them. Any one who had bestowed15 but a casual glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother, from the strong resemblance between them; but where in his face there was wildness and vacancy16, in hers there was the patient composure of long effort and quiet resignation.
One thing about this face was very strange and startling. You could not look upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling that it had some extraordinary capacity of expressing terror. It was not on the surface. It was in no one feature that it lingered. You could not take the eyes or mouth, or lines upon the cheek, and say, if this or that were otherwise, it would not be so. Yet there it always lurked17 — something for ever dimly seen, but ever there, and never absent for a moment. It was the faintest, palest shadow of some look, to which an instant of intense and most unutterable horror only could have given birth; but indistinct and feeble as it was, it did suggest what that look must have been, and fixed18 it in the mind as if it had had existence in a dream.
More faintly imaged, and wanting force and purpose, as it were, because of his darkened intellect, there was this same stamp upon the son. Seen in a picture, it must have had some legend with it, and would have haunted those who looked upon the canvas. They who knew the Maypole story, and could remember what the widow was, before her husband’s and his master’s murder, understood it well. They recollected19 how the change had come, and could call to mind that when her son was born, upon the very day the deed was known, he bore upon his wrist what seemed a smear21 of blood but half washed out.
‘God save you, neighbour!’ said the locksmith, as he followed her, with the air of an old friend, into a little parlour where a cheerful fire was burning.
‘And you,’ she answered smiling. ‘Your kind heart has brought you here again. Nothing will keep you at home, I know of old, if there are friends to serve or comfort, out of doors.’
‘Tut, tut,’ returned the locksmith, rubbing his hands and warming them. ‘You women are such talkers. What of the patient, neighbour?’
‘He is sleeping now. He was very restless towards daylight, and for some hours tossed and tumbled sadly. But the fever has left him, and the doctor says he will soon mend. He must not be removed until to-morrow.’
‘He has had visitors to-day — humph?’ said Gabriel, slyly.
‘Yes. Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for him, and had not been gone many minutes when you knocked.’
‘No ladies?’ said Gabriel, elevating his eyebrows22 and looking disappointed.
‘A letter,’ replied the widow.
‘Come. That’s better than nothing!’ replied the locksmith. ‘Who was the bearer?’
‘Barnaby, of course.’
‘Barnaby’s a jewel!’ said Varden; ‘and comes and goes with ease where we who think ourselves much wiser would make but a poor hand of it. He is not out wandering, again, I hope?’
‘Thank Heaven he is in his bed; having been up all night, as you know, and on his feet all day. He was quite tired out. Ah, neighbour, if I could but see him oftener so — if I could but tame down that terrible restlessness —’
‘In good time,’ said the locksmith, kindly23, ‘in good time — don’t be down-hearted. To my mind he grows wiser every day.’
The widow shook her head. And yet, though she knew the locksmith sought to cheer her, and spoke24 from no conviction of his own, she was glad to hear even this praise of her poor benighted25 son.
‘He will be a ‘cute man yet,’ resumed the locksmith. ‘Take care, when we are growing old and foolish, Barnaby doesn’t put us to the blush, that’s all. But our other friend,’ he added, looking under the table and about the floor —‘sharpest and cunningest of all the sharp and cunning ones — where’s he?’
‘In Barnaby’s room,’ rejoined the widow, with a faint smile.
‘Ah! He’s a knowing blade!’ said Varden, shaking his head. ‘I should be sorry to talk secrets before him. Oh! He’s a deep customer. I’ve no doubt he can read, and write, and cast accounts if he chooses. What was that? Him tapping at the door?’
‘No,’ returned the widow. ‘It was in the street, I think. Hark! Yes. There again! ’Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter26. Who can it be!’
They had been speaking in a low tone, for the invalid27 lay overhead, and the walls and ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound of their voices might otherwise have disturbed his slumber28. The party without, whoever it was, could have stood close to the shutter without hearing anything spoken; and, seeing the light through the chinks and finding all so quiet, might have been persuaded that only one person was there.
‘Some thief or ruffian maybe,’ said the locksmith. ‘Give me the light.’
‘No, no,’ she returned hastily. ‘Such visitors have never come to this poor dwelling29. Do you stay here. You’re within call, at the worst. I would rather go myself — alone.’
‘Why?’ said the locksmith, unwillingly30 relinquishing31 the candle he had caught up from the table.
‘Because — I don’t know why — because the wish is so strong upon me,’ she rejoined. ‘There again — do not detain me, I beg of you!’
Gabriel looked at her, in great surprise to see one who was usually so mild and quiet thus agitated32, and with so little cause. She left the room and closed the door behind her. She stood for a moment as if hesitating, with her hand upon the lock. In this short interval33 the knocking came again, and a voice close to the window — a voice the locksmith seemed to recollect20, and to have some disagreeable association with — whispered ‘Make haste.’
The words were uttered in that low distinct voice which finds its way so readily to sleepers’ ears, and wakes them in a fright. For a moment it startled even the locksmith; who involuntarily drew back from the window, and listened.
The wind rumbling34 in the chimney made it difficult to hear what passed, but he could tell that the door was opened, that there was the tread of a man upon the creaking boards, and then a moment’s silence — broken by a suppressed something which was not a shriek35, or groan36, or cry for help, and yet might have been either or all three; and the words ‘My God!’ uttered in a voice it chilled him to hear.
He rushed out upon the instant. There, at last, was that dreadful look — the very one he seemed to know so well and yet had never seen before — upon her face. There she stood, frozen to the ground, gazing with starting eyes, and livid cheeks, and every feature fixed and ghastly, upon the man he had encountered in the dark last night. His eyes met those of the locksmith. It was but a flash, an instant, a breath upon a polished glass, and he was gone.
The locksmith was upon him — had the skirts of his streaming garment almost in his grasp — when his arms were tightly clutched, and the widow flung herself upon the ground before him.
‘The other way — the other way,’ she cried. ‘He went the other way. Turn — turn!’
‘The other way! I see him now,’ rejoined the locksmith, pointing — ‘yonder — there — there is his shadow passing by that light. What — who is this? Let me go.’
‘Come back, come back!’ exclaimed the woman, clasping him; ‘Do not touch him on your life. I charge you, come back. He carries other lives besides his own. Come back!’
‘What does this mean?’ cried the locksmith.
‘No matter what it means, don’t ask, don’t speak, don’t think about it. He is not to be followed, checked, or stopped. Come back!’
The old man looked at her in wonder, as she writhed37 and clung about him; and, borne down by her passion, suffered her to drag him into the house. It was not until she had chained and double-locked the door, fastened every bolt and bar with the heat and fury of a maniac38, and drawn39 him back into the room, that she turned upon him, once again, that stony40 look of horror, and, sinking down into a chair, covered her face, and shuddered41, as though the hand of death were on her.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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22
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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24
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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34
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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37
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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39
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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40
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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41
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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