Christmas Classics: Charles Dickens Collection (With Original Illustrations). Charles Dickens
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said John, “run off to th’ stable and fetch ropes and gearing for to bind ’em, and we’ll rid the house on ’em, and thou can’st go see after th’ oud folks, who need it sadly.”
Bessy was back in a very few minutes. When she came in, there was more light in the houseplace, for some one had stirred up the raked fire.
“That felly makes as though his leg were broken,” said John, nodding towards the man still lying on the ground. Bessy felt almost sorry for him as they handled him not over gently and bound him, only half-conscious, as hardly and tightly as they had done his fierce, surly companion. She even felt so sorry for his evident agony, as they turned him over and over, that she ran to get him a cup of water to moisten his lips, “I’m loth to leave yo’ with him alone,” said John, “though I’m thinking his leg is broken for sartain, and he can’t stir, even if he comes to hissel, to do yo’ any harm. But we’ll just take off this chap, and make sure of him, and then one on us ’ll come back to yo’, and we can, mebby, find a gate or so for yo’ to get shut on him out o’ th’ house. This felly’s made safe enough, I’ll be bound,” said he, looking at the burglar, who stood, bloody and black, with fell hatred on his sullen face. His eye caught Bessy’s as hers fell on him with dread so evident that it made him smile, and the look and the smile prevented the words from being spoken which were on Bessy’s lips. She dared not tell, before him, that an able-bodied accomplice still remained in the house, lest, somehow, the door which kept him a prisoner should be broken open, and the fight renewed. So she only said to John, as he was leaving the house: “Thou’lt not be long away, for I’m afeard of being left wi’ this man.”
“He’ll noan do thee harm,” said John.
“No! but I’m feared lest he should die. And there’s uncle and aunt. Come back soon, John!”
“Ay, ay!” said he, half-pleased; I’ll be back, never fear me.”
So Bessy shut the door after them, but did not lock it for fear of mischances in the house, and went once more to her uncle, whose breathing, by this time, was easier than when she had first returned into the houseplace with John and the doctor. By the light of the fire, too, she could now see that he had received a blow on the head which was probably the occasion of his stupor. Round this wound, which was now bleeding pretty freely, Bessy put cloths dipped in cold water, and then, leaving him for a time, she lighted a candle, and was about to go up-stairs to her aunt, when, just as she was passing the bound and disabled robber, she heard her name softly, urgently called.
“Bessy, Bessy!” At first the voice sounded so close that she thought it must be the unconscious wretch at her feet. But once again that voice thrilled through her: “Bessy, Bessy! for God’s sake, let me out!”
She went to the stair-closet door, and tried to speak, but could not, her heart beat so terribly. Again, close to her ear: “Bessy, Bessy! they’ll be back directly; let me out, I say! For God’s sake, let me out!” And he began to kick violently against the panels.
“Hush, hush!” she said, sick with a terrible dread, yet with a will strongly resisting her conviction. “Who are you?” But she knew knew quite well.
“Benjamin.” An oath. “Let me out, I say, and I’ll be off, and out of England by tomorrow night never to come back, and you’ll have all my father’s money.”
“D’ye think I care for that,” said Bessy, vehemently, feeling with trembling hands for the lock; “I wish there was noan such a thing as money i’ the world, afore yo’d come to this. There, yo’re free, and I charge yo’ never to let me see your face again. I’d ne’er ha let yo’ loose but for fear o’ breaking their hearts, if yo’ hanna killed them already.” But, before she had ended her speech, he was gone off into the black darkness, leaving the door open wide. With a new terror in her mind Bessy shut it afresh shut it and bolted it this time. Then she sat down on the first chair, and relieved her soul by giving a great and exceeding bitter cry. But she knew it was no time for giving way, and, lifting herself up with as much effort as if each of her limbs was a heavy weight, she went into the back-kitchen, and took a drink of cold water. To her surprise she heard her uncle’s voice, saying feebly: “Carry me up, and lay me by her.”
But Bessy could not carry him; she could only help his faint exertions to walk up-stairs; and, by the time he was there sitting panting on the first chair she could find, John Kirkby and Atkinson returned. John came up now to her aid. Her aunt lay across the bed in a fainting fit, and her uncle sat in so utterly broken-down a state that Bessy feared immediate death for both. But John cheered her up, and lifted the old man into his bed again, and, while Bessy tried to compose poor Hester’s limbs into a position of rest, John went down to hunt about for the little store of gin which was always kept in a corner cupboard against emergencies.
“They’ve had a sore fright,” said he, shaking his head, as he poured a little gin and hot water into their mouths with a teaspoon, while Bessy chafed their cold feet; “and it and the cold have been welly too much for ’em, poor old folk!”
He looked tenderly at them, and Bessy blessed him in her heart—blessed him unaware,—for that look.
“I mun be off. I sent Atkinson up to th’ farm for to bring down Bob, and Jack came wi’ him back to th’ shippon for to look after other man. He began “blackguarding us all round, so Bob and Jack were gagging him wi’ bridles when I left.”
“Ne’er give heed to what he says,” cried poor Bessy,” a new panic besetting her. “Folks o’ his sort are allays for dragging other folks into their mischief. I’m right glad he were well gagged.”
“Well! but what I were saying were this. Atkinson and me will take t’other chap, who seems quiet enough, to th’ shippon, and it ’ll be one piece o’ work for to mind them, and the cow; and I’ll saddle old bay mare, and ride for constables and doctor fra Highminster. I’ll bring Doctor Preston up to see Nathan and Hester first, and then I reckon th’ broken-legged chap down below must have his turn, for all as he’s met wi’ his misfortunes in a wrong line o’ life.”
“Ay!” said Bessy. “We mun ha’ the doctor sure enough, for look at them how they lie! like two stone statues on a church monument, so sad and solemn.”
“There’s a look o’ sense come back into their faces, though, sin’ they supped that gin-and-water. I’d keep on a-bathing his head and giving them a sup on’t fra time to time, if I was you.”
Bessy followed him down-stairs, and lighted the men out of the house. She dared not light them carrying their burden even, until they passed round the corner of the house; so strong was her fearful conviction that Benjamin was lurking near, seeking again to enter. She rushed back into the kitchen, bolted and barred the door, and pushed the end of the dresser against it, shutting her eyes as she passed the uncurtained window, for fear of catching a glimpse of a white face pressed against the glass, and gazing at her. The poor old couple lay quiet and speechless, although Hester’s position had slightly altered: she had turned a little on her side towards her husband, and had laid one shrivelled arm around his neck. But he was just as Bessy had left him, with the wet clothes around his head, his eyes not, wanting in a certain intelligence, but solemn, and unconscious to all that was passing around as the eyes of death.
His wife spoke a little—from time to time said a word of thanks, perhaps, or so; but he, never. All the rest of that terrible night Bessy tended the poor old couple with constant care, her own heart so stunned and bruised in its feelings that she went about her pious duties almost like one in a dream. The November morning was long in coming; nor did she perceive any change either for the worse or the better before the doctor came, about eight o’clock. John Kirkby brought him; and was full of the capture of the two burglars.
As far as Bessy could make out, the participation of that unnatural Third was unknown; it was a relief, almost sickening in the revulsion it gave her from her terrible fear, which now she felt had haunted and held possession of her all night long, and had in fact paralysed her from thinking. Now she felt and thought with acute and feverish vividness, owing no doubt in part