“—If I had him here. If I only had him here—”
“Oh Quilp!” said his wife, “what’s the matter? Who are you angry with?”
“I should drown him,” said the dwarf, not heeding her. “Too easy a death, too short, too quick—but the river runs close at hand. Oh! If I had him here! Just to take him to the brink, coaxingly and pleasantly—holding him by the buttonhole—joking with him—and with a sudden push, to send him splashing down! Drowning men come to the surface three times they say. Ah! To see him those three times, and mock him as his face came bobbing up—oh, what a rich treat that would be!”
“Quilp!” stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on the shoulder: “what has gone wrong?”
She was so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure to himself, that she could scarcely make herself intelligible.
“Such a bloodless cur!” said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and pressing them tight together. “I thought his cowardice and servility were the best guarantee for his keeping silence. Oh Brass, Brass—my dear, good, affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming friend—if I only had you here!”
His wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these mutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak, when he hurried to the door and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his late gentle admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately.
“There!” said the dwarf, pulling him in. “Take her home. Don’t come here tomorrow, for this place will be shut up. Come back no more till you hear from me or see me. Do you mind?”
Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs. Quilp to lead the way.
“As for you,” said the dwarf, addressing himself to her, “ask no questions about me, make no search for me, say nothing concerning me. I shall not be dead, mistress, and that’ll comfort you. He’ll take care of you.”
“But Quilp? What is the matter? Where are you going? Do say something more.”
“I’ll say that,” said the dwarf, seizing her by the arm, “and do that too, which undone and unsaid would be best for you, unless you go directly.”
“Has anything happened?” cried his wife. “Oh! Do tell me that.”
“Yes,” snarled the dwarf. “No. What matter which? I have told you what to do. Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey me by a hair’s breadth. Will you go!”
“I am going, I’ll go directly; but,” faltered his wife, “answer me one question first. Has this letter any connection with dear little Nell? I must ask you that—I must indeed, Quilp. You cannot think what days and nights of sorrow I have had through having once deceived that child. I don’t know what harm I may have brought about, but, great or little, I did it for you, Quilp. My conscience misgave me when I did it. Do answer me this question, if you please.”
The exasperated dwarf returned no answer, but turned round and caught up his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott dragged his charge away by main force, and as swiftly as he could. It was well he did so, for Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued them to the neighbouring lane, and might have prolonged the chase but for the dense mist which obscured them from his view, and appeared to thicken every moment.
“It will be a good night for travelling anonymously,” he said, as he returned slowly, being pretty well breathed with his run. “Stay. We may look better here. This is too hospitable and free.”
By a great exertion of strength, he closed the two old gates which were deeply sunken in the mud, and barred them with a heavy beam. That done, he shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried them.—Strong and fast.
“The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed,” said the dwarf, when he had taken these precautions. “There’s a back lane too from there. That shall be my way out. A man need know his road well, to find it in this lovely place tonight. I need fear no unwelcome visitors while this lasts, I think.”
Almost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands (it had grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he returned to his lair; and after musing for some time over the fire, busied himself in preparations for a speedy departure.
While he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into his pockets, he never once ceased communing with himself in a low voice, or unclenched his teeth, which he had ground together on finishing Miss Brass’s note.
“Oh Sampson!” he muttered, “good, worthy creature—if I could but hug you! If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your ribs, as I could squeeze them if I once had you tight, what a meeting there would be between us! If we ever do cross each other again, Sampson, we’ll have a greeting not easily to be forgotten, trust me. This time, Sampson, this moment when all had gone on so well, was so nicely chosen! It was so thoughtful of you, so penitent, so good. Oh, if we were face to face in this room again, my white-livered man of law, how well contented one of us would be!”
There he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to his lips, drank a long deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched mouth. Setting it down abruptly, and resuming his preparations, he went on with his soliloquy.
“There’s Sally,” he said, with flashing eyes; “the woman has spirit, determination, purpose—was she asleep,
