Another draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a ferocious aspect, he muttered to himself again.
“And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late times, springs from that old dotard and his darling child, two wretched feeble wanderers. I’ll be their evil genius yet. And you, sweet Kit, honest Kit, virtuous, innocent Kit, look to yourself. Where I hate, I bite. I hate you, my darling fellow, with good cause, and proud as you are tonight, I’ll have my turn.—What’s that!”
A knocking at the gate he had closed. A loud and violent knocking. Then a pause; as if those who knocked, had stopped to listen. Then the noise again, more clamorous and importunate than before.
“So soon!” said the dwarf. “And so eager! I am afraid I shall disappoint you. It’s well I’m quite prepared. Sally, I thank you!”
As he spoke, he extinguished the candle. In his impetuous attempts to subdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which came tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the burning embers it had shot forth in its descent; leaving the room in pitchy darkness. The noise at the gate still continuing, he felt his way to the door, and stepped into the open air.
At that moment the knocking ceased. It was about eight o’clock; but the dead of the darkest night would have been as noonday, in comparison with the thick cloud which then rested upon the earth, and shrouded everything from view. He darted forward for a few paces, as if into the mouth of some dim, yawning cavern; then, thinking he had gone wrong, changed the direction of his steps; then stood still, not knowing where to turn.
“If they would knock again,” said Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom by which he was surrounded, “the sound might guide me. Come. Batter the gate once more!”
He stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed. Nothing was to be heard in that deserted place, but at intervals the distant barking of dogs. The sound was far away—now in one quarter, now answered in another—nor was it any guide, for it often came from shipboard, as he knew.
“If I could find a wall or fence” said the dwarf, stretching out his arms, and walking slowly on, “I should know which way to turn. A good, black, devil’s night this, to have my dear friend here. If I had but that wish, it might, for anything I cared, never be day again.”
As the word passed his lips, he staggered and fell; and next moment was fighting with the cold, dark water.
For all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could hear the knocking at the gate again—could hear a shout that followed it—could recognise the voice. For all his struggling and plashing, he could understand that they had lost their way, and had wandered back to the point from which they started; that they were all but looking on while he was drowned; that they were close at hand, but could not make an effort to save him; that he himself had shut and barred them out. He answered the shout—with a yell, which seemed to make the hundred fires that danced before his eyes tremble and flicker as if a gust of wind had stirred them. It was of no avail. The strong tide filled his throat, and bore him on, upon its rapid current.
Another mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water with his hands, and looking out with wild and glaring eyes that showed him some black object he was drifting close upon. The hull of a ship! He could touch its smooth and slippery surface with his hand. One loud cry now—but the resistless water bore him down before he could give it utterance, and driving him under it, carried away a corpse.
It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it against the slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now dragging it heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to its own element, and in the same action luring it away, until, tired of the ugly plaything, it flung it on a swamp—a dismal place where pirates had swung in chains, through many a wintry night—and left it there to bleach.
And there it lay, alone. The sky was red with flame, and the water that bore it there, had been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed along. The place, the deserted carcase had left so recently, a living man, was now a blazing ruin. There was something of the glare upon its face. The hair, stirred by the damp breeze, played in a kind of mockery of death—such a mockery as the dead man himself would have revelled in when alive—about its head, and its dress fluttered idly in the night wind.
LXVIII
Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices, words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness—what a change is this! But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening. They are awaiting him, he knows. He fears he will die of joy before he gets among them.
They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried off tomorrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let him know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made,
