eh?”
“Often!” cried Barnaby. “Never!”
“Too poor?” returned the blind man with a sigh. “Ay. That's bad. Your mother, poor soul, would be happier if she was richer, Barnaby.”
“Why, so I tell her—the very thing I told her just before you came to-night, when all that gold was in the sky,” said Barnaby, drawing his chair nearer to him, and looking eagerly in his face. “Tell me. Is there any way of being rich, that I could find out?”
“Any way! A hundred ways.”
“Ay, ay?” he returned. “Do you say so? What are they?—Nay, mother, it's for your sake I ask; not mine;—for yours, indeed. What are they?”
The blind man turned his face, on which there was a smile of triumph, to where the widow stood in great distress; and answered,
“Why, they are not to be found out by stay-at-homes, my good friend.”
“By stay-at-homes!” cried Barnaby, plucking at his sleeve. “But I am not one. Now, there you mistake. I am often out before the sun, and travel home when he has gone to rest. I am away in the woods before the day has reached the shady places, and am often there when the bright moon is peeping through the boughs, and looking down upon the other moon that lives in the water. As I walk along, I try to find, among the grass and moss, some of that small money for which she works so hard and used to shed so many tears. As I lie asleep in the shade, I dream of it—dream of digging it up in heaps; and spying it out, hidden under bushes; and seeing it sparkle, as the dew-drops do, among the leaves. But I never find it. Tell me where it is. I'd go there, if the journey were a whole year long, because I know she would be happier when I came home and brought some with me. Speak again. I'll listen to you if you talk all night.”
The blind man passed his hand lightly over the poor fellow's face, and finding that his elbows were planted on the table, that his chin rested on his two hands, that he leaned eagerly forward, and that his whole manner expressed the utmost interest and anxiety, paused for a minute as though he desired the widow to observe this fully, and then made answer:
“It's in the world, bold Barnaby, the merry world; not in solitary places like those you pass your time in, but in crowds, and where there's noise and rattle.”
“Good! good!” cried Barnaby, rubbing his hands. “Yes! I love that. Grip loves it too. It suits us both. That's brave!”
“—The kind of places,” said the blind man, “that a young fellow likes, and in which a good son may do more for his mother, and himself to boot, in a month, than he could here in all his life— that is, if he had a friend, you know, and some one to advise with.”
“You hear this, mother?” cried Barnaby, turning to her with delight. “Never tell me we shouldn't heed it, if it lay shining at out feet. Why do we heed it so much now? Why do you toil from morning until night?”
“Surely,” said the blind man, “surely. Have you no answer, widow? Is your mind,” he slowly added, “not made up yet?”
“Let me speak with you,” she answered, “apart.”
“Lay your hand upon my sleeve,” said Stagg, arising from the table; “and lead me where you will. Courage, bold Barnaby. We'll talk more of this: I've a fancy for you. Wait there till I come back. Now, widow.”
She led him out at the door, and into the little garden, where they stopped.
“You are a fit agent,” she said, in a half breathless manner, “and well represent the man who sent you here.”
“I'll tell him that you said so,” Stagg retorted. “He has a regard for you, and will respect me the more (if possible) for your praise. We must have our rights, widow.”
“Rights! Do you know,” she said, “that a word from me—”
“Why do you stop?” returned the blind man calmly, after a long pause. “Do I know that a word from you would place my friend in the last position of the dance of life? Yes, I do. What of that? It will never be spoken, widow.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite—so sure, that I don't come here to discuss the question. I say we must have our rights, or we must be bought off. Keep to that point, or let me return to my young friend, for I have an interest in the lad, and desire to put him in the way of making his fortune. Bah! you needn't speak,” he added hastily; “I know what you would say: you have hinted at it once already. Have I no feeling for you, because I am blind? No, I have not. Why do you expect me, being in darkness, to be better than men who have their sight—why should you? Is the hand of Heaven more manifest in my having no eyes, than in your having two? It's the cant of you folks to be horrified if a blind man robs, or lies, or steals; oh yes, it's far worse in him, who can barely live on the few halfpence that are thrown to him in streets, than in you, who can see, and work, and are not dependent on the mercies of the world. A curse on you! You who have five senses may be wicked at your pleasure; we who have four, and want the most important, are to live and be moral on our affliction. The true charity and justice of rich to poor, all the world over!”
He paused a moment when he had said these words, and caught the sound of money, jingling in her hand.
“Well?” he cried, quickly resuming his former manner. “That should lead to something. The point, widow?”
“First answer me one question,” she replied. “You say he is close at hand. Has he left London?”
“Being close at hand, widow, it would seem he has,” returned the blind man.
“I mean, for good? You know that.”
“Yes, for good. The truth is, widow, that his making a longer stay there might have had disagreeable consequences. He has come away for that reason.”
“Listen,” said the widow, telling some money out, upon a bench beside them. “Count.”
“Six,” said the blind man, listening attentively. “Any more?”
“They are the savings,” she answered, “of five years. Six guineas.”
He put out his hand for one of the coins; felt it carefully, put it between his teeth, rung it on the bench; and nodded to her to proceed.
“These have been scraped together and laid by, lest sickness or death should separate my son and me. They have been purchased at the price of much hunger, hard labour, and want of rest. If you CAN take them—do—on condition that you leave this place upon the instant, and enter no more into that room, where he sits now, expecting your return.”
“Six guineas,” said the blind man, shaking his head, “though of the fullest weight that were ever coined, fall very far short of twenty pounds, widow.”
“For such a sum, as you know, I must write to a distant part of the country. To do that, and receive an answer, I must have time.”
“Two days?” said Stagg.
“More.”
“Four days?”
“A week. Return on this day week, at the same hour, but not to the house. Wait at the corner of the lane.”
“Of course,” said the blind man, with a crafty look, “I shall find you there?”
“Where else can I take refuge? Is it not enough that you have made a beggar of me, and that I have sacrificed my whole store, so hardly earned, to preserve this home?”
“Humph!” said the blind man, after some consideration. “Set me with my face towards the point you speak of, and in the middle of the road. Is this the spot?”
“It is.”
“On this day week at sunset. And think of him within doors. —For the present, good night.”
She made him no answer, nor did he stop for any. He went slowly away, turning his head from time to time, and stopping to listen, as if he were curious to know whether he was watched by any one. The shadows of night were closing fast around, and he was soon lost in the gloom. It was not, however, until she had traversed the lane from end to end, and made sure that he was gone, that she reentered the cottage, and hurriedly barred the door and window.
