stone bottle, and holding the cork between his teeth, qualified his mug of water with a plentiful infusion of the liquor it contained. He politely drained the bumper to her health, and the ladies, and setting it down empty, smacked his lips with infinite relish.
“I am a citizen of the world, ma'am,” said the blind man, corking his bottle, “and if I seem to conduct myself with freedom, it is therefore. You wonder who I am, ma'am, and what has brought me here. Such experience of human nature as I have, leads me to that conclusion, without the aid of eyes by which to read the movements of your soul as depicted in your feminine features. I will satisfy your curiosity immediately, ma'am; immediately. “ With that he slapped his bottle on its broad back, and having put it under his garment as before, crossed his legs and folded his hands, and settled himself in his chair, previous to proceeding any further.
The change in his manner was so unexpected, the craft and wickedness of his deportment were so much aggravated by his condition—for we are accustomed to see in those who have lost a human sense, something in its place almost divine—and this alteration bred so many fears in her whom he addressed, that she could not pronounce one word. After waiting, as it seemed, for some remark or answer, and waiting in vain, the visitor resumed:
“Madam, my name is Stagg. A friend of mine who has desired the honour of meeting with you any time these five years past, has commissioned me to call upon you. I should be glad to whisper that gentleman's name in your ear. —Zounds, ma'am, are you deaf? Do you hear me say that I should be glad to whisper my friend's name in your ear?”
“You need not repeat it,” said the widow, with a stifled groan; “I see too well from whom you come.”
“But as a man of honour, ma'am,” said the blind man, striking himself on the breast, “whose credentials must not be disputed, I take leave to say that I WILL mention that gentleman's name. Ay, ay,” he added, seeming to catch with his quick ear the very motion of her hand, “but not aloud. With your leave, ma'am, I desire the favour of a whisper.”
She moved towards him, and stooped down. He muttered a word in her ear; and, wringing her hands, she paced up and down the room like one distracted. The blind man, with perfect composure, produced his bottle again, mixed another glassful; put it up as before; and, drinking from time to time, followed her with his face in silence.
“You are slow in conversation, widow,” he said after a time, pausing in his draught. “We shall have to talk before your son.”
“What would you have me do?” she answered. “What do you want?”
“We are poor, widow, we are poor,” he retorted, stretching out his right hand, and rubbing his thumb upon its palm.
“Poor!” she cried. “And what am I?”
“Comparisons are odious,” said the blind man. “I don't know, I don't care. I say that we are poor. My friend's circumstances are indifferent, and so are mine. We must have our rights, widow, or we must be bought off. But you know that, as well as I, so where is the use of talking?”
She still walked wildly to and fro. At length, stopping abruptly before him, she said:
“Is he near here?”
“He is. Close at hand.”
“Then I am lost!”
“Not lost, widow,” said the blind man, calmly; “only found. Shall I call him?”
“Not for the world,” she answered, with a shudder.
“Very good,” he replied, crossing his legs again, for he had made as though he would rise and walk to the door. “As you please, widow. His presence is not necessary that I know of. But both he and I must live; to live, we must eat and drink; to eat and drink, we must have money:—I say no more.”
“Do you know how pinched and destitute I am?” she retorted. “I do not think you do, or can. If you had eyes, and could look around you on this poor place, you would have pity on me. Oh! let your heart be softened by your own affliction, friend, and have some sympathy with mine.”
The blind man snapped his fingers as he answered:
“—Beside the question, ma'am, beside the question. I have the softest heart in the world, but I can't live upon it. Many a gentleman lives well upon a soft head, who would find a heart of the same quality a very great drawback. Listen to me. This is a matter of business, with which sympathies and sentiments have nothing to do. As a mutual friend, I wish to arrange it in a satisfactory manner, if possible; and thus the case stands. —If you are very poor now, it's your own choice. You have friends who, in case of need, are always ready to help you. My friend is in a more destitute and desolate situation than most men, and, you and he being linked together in a common cause, he naturally looks to you to assist him. He has boarded and lodged with me a long time (for as I said just now, I am very soft-hearted), and I quite approve of his entertaining this opinion. You have always had a roof over your head; he has always been an outcast. You have your son to comfort and assist you; he has nobody at all. The advantages must not be all one side. You are in the same boat, and we must divide the ballast a little more equally.”
She was about to speak, but he checked her, and went on.
“The only way of doing this, is by making up a little purse now and then for my friend; and that's what I advise. He bears you no malice that I know of, ma'am: so little, that although you have treated him harshly more than once, and driven him, I may say, out of doors, he has that regard for you that I believe even if you disappointed him now, he would consent to take charge of your son, and to make a man of him.”
He laid a great stress on these latter words, and paused as if to find out what effect they had produced. She only answered by her tears.
“He is a likely lad,” said the blind man, thoughtfully, “for many purposes, and not ill-disposed to try his fortune in a little change and bustle, if I may judge from what I heard of his talk with you to-night. —Come. In a word, my friend has pressing necessity for twenty pounds. You, who can give up an annuity, can get that sum for him. It's a pity you should be troubled. You seem very comfortable here, and it's worth that much to remain so. Twenty pounds, widow, is a moderate demand. You know where to apply for it; a post will bring it you. —Twenty pounds!”
She was about to answer him again, but again he stopped her.
“Don't say anything hastily; you might be sorry for it. Think of it a little while. Twenty pounds—of other people's money—how easy! Turn it over in your mind. I'm in no hurry. Night's coming on, and if I don't sleep here, I shall not go far. Twenty pounds! Consider of it, ma'am, for twenty minutes; give each pound a minute; that's a fair allowance. I'll enjoy the air the while, which is very mild and pleasant in these parts.”
With these words he groped his way to the door, carrying his chair with him. Then seating himself, under a spreading honeysuckle, and stretching his legs across the threshold so that no person could pass in or out without his knowledge, he took from his pocket a pipe, flint, steel and tinder-box, and began to smoke. It was a lovely evening, of that gentle kind, and at that time of year, when the twilight is most beautiful. Pausing now and then to let his smoke curl slowly off, and to sniff the grateful fragrance of the flowers, he sat there at his ease—as though the cottage were his proper dwelling, and he had held undisputed possession of it all his life—waiting for the widow's answer and for Barnaby's return.
Chapter 46
When Barnaby returned with the bread, the sight of the pious old pilgrim smoking his pipe and making himself so thoroughly at home, appeared to surprise even him; the more so, as that worthy person, instead of putting up the loaf in his wallet as a scarce and precious article, tossed it carelessly on the table, and producing his bottle, bade him sit down and drink.
“For I carry some comfort, you see,” he said. “Taste that. Is it good?”
The water stood in Barnaby's eyes as he coughed from the strength of the draught, and answered in the affirmative.
“Drink some more,” said the blind man; “don't be afraid of it. You don't taste anything like that, often,
