Conclusion of the enterprise of Mr. Jonas and his friend
DID NO MEN PASSING THROUGH the dim streets shrink without knowing why, when
he came stealing up behind them? As he glided on, had no child in its sleep an
indistinct perception of a guilty shadow falling on its bed, that troubled its
innocent rest? Did no dog howl, and strive to break its rattling chain, that it
might tear him; no burrowing rat, scenting the work he had in hand, essay to
gnaw a passage after him, that it might hold a greedy revel at the feast of his
providing? When he looked back, across his shoulder, was it to see if his quick
footsteps still fell dry upon the dusty pavement, or were already moist and
clogged with the red mire that stained the naked feet of Cain!
He shaped his course for the main western road, and soon reached it: riding a
part of the way, then alighting and walking on again. He travelled for a
considerable distance upon the roof of a stage-coach, which came up while he was
afoot; and when it turned out of his road, bribed the driver of a return
post-chaise to take him on with him; and then made across the country at a run,
and saved a mile or two before he struck again into the road. At last, as his
plan was, he came up with a certain lumbering, slow, night-coach, which stopped
wherever it could, and was stopping then at a public-house, while the guard and
coachman ate and drank within.
He bargained for a seat outside this coach, and took it. And he quitted it no
more until it was within a few miles of its destination, but occupied the same
place all night.
All night! It is a common fancy that nature seems to sleep by night. It is a
false fancy, as who should know better than he?
The fishes slumbered in the cold, bright, glistening streams and rivers,
perhaps; and the birds roosted on the branches of the trees; and in their stalls
and pastures beasts were quiet; and human creatures slept. But what of that,
when the solemn night was watching when it never winked, when its darkness
watched no less than its light! The stately trees, the moon and shining stars,
the softly stirring wind, the over-shadowed lane, the broad, bright countryside,
they all kept watch. There was not a blade of growing grass or corn, but
watched; and the quieter it was, the more intent and fixed its watch upon him
seemed to be.
And yet he slept. Riding on among those sentinels of God, he slept, and did
not change the purpose of his journey. If he forgot it in his troubled dreams,
it came up steadily, and woke him. But it never woke him to remorse, or to
abandonment of his design.
He dreamed at one time that he was lying calmly in his bed, thinking of a
moonlight night and the noise of wheels, when the old clerk put his head in at
the door, and beckoned him. At this signal he arose immediately: being already
dressed in the clothes he actually wore at that time: and accompanied him into a
strange city, where the names of the streets were written on the walls in
characters quite new to him; which gave him no surprise or uneasiness, for he
remembered in his dream to have been there before. Although these streets were
very precipitous, insomuch that to get from one to another it was necessary to
descend great heights by ladders that were too short, and ropes that moved deep
bells, and swung and swayed as they were clung to, the danger gave him little
emotion beyond the first thrill of terror: his anxieties being concentrated on
his dress which was quite unfitted for some festival that was about to be holden
there, and in which he had come to take a part. Already, great crowds began to
fill the streets, and in one direction myriads of people came rushing down an
interminable perspective, strewing flowers and making way for others on white
horses, when a terrible figure started from the throng, and cried out that it
was the Last Day for all the world. The cry being spread, there was a wild
hurrying on to Judgment; and the press became so great that he and his companion
(who was constantly changing, and was never the same man two minutes together,
though he never saw one man come or another go), stood aside in a porch,
fearfully surveying the multitude; in which there were many faces that he knew,
and many that he did not know, but dreamed he did; when all at once a struggling
head rose up among the rest--livid and deadly, but the same as he had known
it--and denounced him as having appointed that direful day to happen. They
closed together. As he strove to free the hand in which he held a club, and
strike the blow he had so often thought of, he started to the knowledge of his
waking purpose and the rising of the sun.
The sun was welcome to him. There were life and motion, and a world astir, to
divide the attention of Day. It was the eye of Night: of wakeful, watchful,
silent, and attentive Night, with so much leisure for the observation of his
wicked thoughts: that he dreaded most. There is no glare in the night. Even
Glory shows to small advantage in the night, upon a crowded battle-field. How
then shows Glory's blood-relation, bastard Murder!
Aye! He made no compromise, and held no secret with himself now. Murder. He
had come to do it.
`Let me get down here' he said
`Short of the town, eh!' observed the coachman.
`I may get down where I please, I suppose?'
`You got up to please yourself, and may get down to please yourself. It won't
break our hearts to lose you, and it wouldn't have broken 'em if we'd never
found you. Be a little quicker. That's all.'
The guard had alighted, and was waiting in the road to take his money. In the
jealousy and distrust of what he contemplated, he thought this man looked at him
with more than common curiosity
`What are you staring at?' said Jonas.
`Not at a handsome man,' returned the guard. `If you want your fortune told,
I'll tell you a bit of it. You won't be drowned. That's a consolation for you.'
Before he could retort or turn away, the coachman put an end to the dialogue
by giving him a cut with his whip, and bid him get out for a surly dog. The
guard jumped up to his seat at the same moment, and they drove off, laughing;
leaving him to stand in the road and shake his fist at them. He was not
displeased though, on second thoughts, to have been taken for an ill-conditioned
common country fellow; but rather congratulated himself upon it as a proof that
he was well disguised.
Wandering into a copse by the road-side--but not in that place: two or three
miles off--he tore out from a fence a thick, hard, knotted stake; and, sitting
down beneath a hayrick, spent some time in shaping it, in peeling off the bark,
and fashioning its lagged head with his knife.
The day passed on. Noon, afternoon, evening. Sunset.
At that serene and peaceful time two men, riding in a gig, came out of the
city by a road not much frequented. It was the day on which Mr. Pecksniff had
agreed to dine with Montague. He had kept his appointment, and was now going
home. His host was riding with him for a short distance; meaning to return by a
pleasant track, which Mr. Pecksniff had engaged to show him, through some
fields. Jonas knew their plans. He had hung about the inn-yard while they were
at dinner and had heard their orders given.
They were loud and merry in their conversation, and might have been heard at
some distance: far above the sound of their carnage wheels or horses' hoofs.
They came on noisily, to where a stile and footpath indicated their point of
separation. Here they stopped.
`It's too soon. Much too soon,' said Mr. Pecksniff. `But this is the place,
my dear sir. Keep the path, and go straight through the little wood you'll come
to. The path is narrower there, but you can't miss it. When shall I see you
again? Soon I hope?'
`I hope so,' replied Montague.
`Good night!'
`Good night. And a pleasant ride!'
So long as Mr. Pecksniff was in sight, and turned his head at intervals to
salute him, Montague stood in the road smiling, and waving his hand. But when
his new partner had disappeared, and this show was no longer necessary, he sat
down on the stile with looks so altered, that he might have grown ten years
older in the meantime.
He was flushed with wine, but not gay. His scheme had succeeded, but he
showed no triumph. The effort of sustaining his difficult part before his late
companion had fatigued him, perhaps, or it may be that the evening whispered to
his conscience, or it may be (as it has been) that a shadowy veil was dropping
round him, closing out all thoughts but the presentiment and vague foreknowledge
of impending doom.
If there be fluids, as we know there are, which, conscious of a coming wind,
or rain, or frost, will shrink and strive to hide themselves in their glass
arteries; may not that subtle liquor of the blood perceive, by properties within
itself, that hands are raised to waste and spill it; and in the veins of men run
cold and dull as his did, in that hour!
So cold, although the air was warm: so dull, although the sky was bright:
that he rose up shivering from his seat, and hastily resumed his walk. He
checked himself as hastily: undecided whether to pursue the footpath, which was
lonely and retired, or to go back by the road.
He took the footpath.
The glory of the departing sun was on his face. The music of the birds was in
his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him. Thatched roofs of poor men's
homes were in the distance; and an old grey spire, surmounted by a Cross, rose
up between him and the coming night.
He had never read the lesson which these things conveyed; he had ever mocked
and turned away from it; but, before going down into a hollow place, he looked
round, once, upon the evening prospect, sorrowfully. Then he went down, down,
down, into the dell.
It brought him to the wood; a close, thick, shadowy wood, through which the
path went winding on, dwindling away into a slender sheep-track. He paused
before entering; for the stillness of this spot almost daunted him.
The last rays of the sun were shining in, aslant, making a path of golden
light along the stems and branches in its range, which, even as he looked, began
to die away, yielding gently to the twilight that came creeping on. It was so
very quiet that the soft and stealthy moss about the trunks of some old trees,
seemed to have grown out of the silence, and to be its proper offspring. Those
other trees which were subdued by blasts of wind in winter time, had not quite
tumbled down, but being caught by others, lay all bare and scathed across their
leafy arms, as if unwilling to disturb the general repose by the crash of their
fall. Vistas of silence opened everywhere, into the heart and innermost recesses
of the wood; beginning with the likeness of an aisle, a cloister, or a ruin open
to the sky; then tangling off into a deep green rustling mystery, through which
gnarled trunks, and twisted boughs, and ivy-covered stems, and trembling leaves,
and bark-stripped bodies of old trees stretched out at length, were faintly seen
in beautiful confusion.
As the sunlight died away, and evening fell upon the wood, he entered it.
Moving, here and there a bramble or a drooping bough which stretched across his
path, he slowly disappeared. At intervals a narrow opening showed him passing
on, or the sharp cracking of some tender branch denoted where he went. then he
was seen or heard no more.
Never more beheld by mortal eye or heard by mortal ear: one man excepted.
That man, parting the leaves and branches on the other side, near where the path
emerged again, came leaping out soon afterwards.
What had he left within the wood, that he sprang out of it as if it were a
hell!
The body of a murdered man. In one thick solitary spot, it lay among the last
year's leaves of oak and beech, just as it had fallen headlong down. Sopping and
soaking in among the leaves that formed its pillow; oozing down into the boggy
ground, as if to cover itself from human sight; forcing its way between and
through the curling leaves, as if those senseless things rejected and forswore
it and were coiled up in abhorrence; went a dark, dark stain that dyed the whole
summer night from earth to heaven.
The doer of this deed came leaping from the wood so fiercely, that he cast
into the air a shower of fragments of young boughs, torn away in his passage,
and fell with violence upon the grass. But he quickly gained his feet again, and
keeping underneath a hedge with his body bent, went running on towards the road.
The road once reached, he fell into a rapid walk, and set on to wards London.
And he was not sorry for what he had done. He was frightened when he thought
of it--when did he not think of it!--but he was not sorry. He had had a terror
and dread of the wood when he was in it; but being out of it, and having
committed the crime, his fears were now diverted, strangely, to the dark room he
had left shut up at home. He had a greater horror, infinitely greater, of that
room than of the wood. Now that he was on his return to it, it seemed beyond
comparison more dismal and more dreadful than the wood. His hideous secret was
shut up in the room, and all its terrors were there; to his thinking it was not
in the wood at all.
He walked on for ten miles; and then stopped at an ale-house for a coach,
which he knew would pass through, on its way to London, before long; and which
he also knew was not the coach he had travelled down by, for it came from
another place. He sat down outside the door here, on a bench, beside a man who
was smoking his pipe. Having called for some beer, and drunk, he offered it to
this companion, who thanked him, and took a draught. He could not help thinking
that, if the man had known all, he might scarcely have relished drinking out of
the same cup with him.
`A fine night, master!' said this person. `And a rare sunset.'
`I didn't see it,' was his hasty answer.
`Didn't see it?' returned the man.
`How the devil could I see it, if I was asleep?'
`Asleep! Aye, aye.' The man appeared surprised by his unexpected
irritability, and saying no more, smoked his pipe in silence. They had not sat
very long, when there was a knocking within.
`What's that?' cried Jonas.
`Can't say, I'm sure,' replied the man.
He made no further inquiry, for the last question had escaped him in spite of
himself. But he was thinking, at the moment, of the closed-up room; of the
possibility of their knocking at the door on some special occasion; of their
being alarmed at receiving no answer; of their bursting it open; of their
finding the room empty; of their fastening the door into the court, and
rendering it impossible for him to get into the house without showing himself in
the garb he wore, which would lead to rumour, rumour to detection, detection to
death. At that instant, as if by some design and order of circumstances, the
knocking had come.
It still continued; like a warning echo of the dread reality he had conjured
up. As he could not sit and hear it, he paid for his beer and walked on again.
And having slunk about, in places unknown to him all day; and being out at
night, in a lonely road, in an unusual dress and in that wandering and unsettled
frame of mind; he stopped more than once to look about him, hoping he might be
in a dream.
Still he was not sorry. No. He had hated the man too much, and had been bent,
too desperately and too long, on setting himself free. If the thing could have
come over again, he would have done it again. His malignant and revengeful
passions were not so easily laid. There was no more penitence or remorse within
him now than there had been while the deed was brewing.
Dread and fear were upon him, to an extent he had never counted on, and could
not manage in the least degree. He was so horribly afraid of that infernal room
at home. This made him, in a gloomy murderous, mad way, not only fearful for
himself, but of himself; for being, as it were, a part of the room: a something
supposed to be there, yet missing from it: he invested himself with its
mysterious terrors; and when he pictured in his mind the ugly chamber, false and
quiet, false and quiet, through the dark hours of two nights. and the tumbled
bed, and he not in it, though believed to be; he became in a manner his own
ghost and phantom, and was at once the haunting spirit and the haunted man.
When the coach came up, which it soon did, he got a place outside and was
carried briskly onward towards home. Now, in taking his seat among the people
behind, who were chiefly country people, he conceived a fear that they knew of
the murder, and would tell him that the body had been found; which, considering
the time and place of the commission of the crime, were events almost impossible
to have happened yet, as he very well knew. But although he did know it, and had
therefore no reason to regard their ignorance as anything but the natural
sequence to the facts, still this very ignorance of theirs encouraged him. So
far encouraged him, that he began to believe the body never would be found, and
began to speculate on that probability. Setting off from this point, and
measuring time by the rapid hurry of his guilty thoughts, and what had gone
before the bloodshed, and the troops of incoherent and disordered images of
which he was the constant prey; he came by daylight to regard the murder as an
old murder, and to think himself comparatively safe because it had not been
discovered yet. Yet! When the sun which looked into the wood, and gilded with
its rising light a dead man's lace, had seen that man alive, and sought to win
him to a thought of Heaven, on its going down last night!
But here were London streets again. Hush!
It was but five o'clock. He had time enough to reach his own house
unobserved, and before there were many people in the streets, if nothing had
happened so far, tending to his discovery. He slipped down from the coach
without troubling the driver to stop his horses; and hurrying across the road,
and in and out of every by-way that lay near his course, at length approached
his own dwelling. He used additional caution in his immediate neighbourhood;
halting first to look all down the street before him; then gliding swiftly
through that one, and stopping to survey the next. and so on.
The passage-way was empty when his murderer's face looked into it. He stole
on to the door on tiptoe, as if he dreaded to disturb his own imaginary rest.
He listened. Not a sound. As he turned the key with a trembling hand, and
pushed the door softly open with his knee, a monstrous fear beset his mind.
What if the murdered man were there before him!
He cast a fearful glance all round. But there was nothing there.
He went in, locked the door, drew the key through and through the dust and
damp in the fire-place to sully it again, and hung it up as of old. He took off
his disguise, tied it up in a bundle ready for carrying away and sinking in the
river before night, and locked it up in a cupboard. These precautions taken, he
undressed and went to bed.
The raging thirst, the fire that burnt within him as he lay beneath the
clothes, the augmented horror of the room when they shut it out from his view;
the agony of listening, in which he paid enforced regard to every sound, and
thought the most unlikely one the prelude to that knocking which should bring
the news; the starts with which he left his couch, and looking in the glass,
imagined that his deed was broadly written in his face, and lying down and
burying himself once more beneath the blankets, heard his own heart beating
Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed; what words can paint tremendous truths like
these!
The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the blinds
drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread outside his own
door. He tried to call out, more than once, but his mouth was dry as if it had
been filled with sand. At last he sat up in his bed, and cried:
`Who's there?'
It was his wife.
He asked her what it was o'clock? Nine.
`Did--did no one knock at my door yesterday?' he faltered. `Something
disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have got no
notice from me.'
`No one,' she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless, for
her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.
`Mr. Nadgett wanted to see you,' she said, `but I told him you were tired,
and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little consequence, and
went away. As I was opening my window to let in the cool air, I saw him passing
through the street this morning, very early; but he hasn't been again.'
Passing through the street that morning? Very early! Jonas trembled at the
thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself: even him, who had
no object but to avoid people, and sneak on unobserved, and keep his own
secrets: and who saw nothing.
He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go upstairs:
attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came into that room,
which had been, ever since, outside the door. In his secret dread of meeting the
household for the first time, after what he had done, he lingered at the door on
slight pretexts that they might see him without looking in his face; and left it
ajar while he dressed; and called out to have the windows opened, and the
pavement watered, that they might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he
had put off the time, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to
them all, he could not muster courage for a long while to go in among them, but
stood at his own door listening to the murmur of their distant conversation.
He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at the
glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because of his anxious
looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they observed him, but he
thought them very silent.
And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening, and
showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think
of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or resolutely counted the
dull tickings of a hoarse clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell
were on him, into eager listening. For he knew it must come. And his present
punishment, and torture and distraction, were, to listen for its coming.
Hush!
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