CHAPTER XXVI

The Flight of Sikes

Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed within the bounds of London since night hung over it, that was the worst. The sun that brings back, not light alone, but new life and hope to man, burst upon the crowded city, and lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. Sikes tried to shut the light out, but it would stream in. If the sight had been a terrible one in the dull morning, what was it now, in all that brilliant light!

He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and a motion of the hand; and with terror added to rage, he had struck and struck again. Once he threw a rug over it, but it was terrible to fancy the eyes, and imagine them moving towards him.

He struck a light, lit a fire and threw the heavy stick into it. He washed himself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots that would not be removed, but he cut the pieces out, and burnt them. How those stains were scattered about the room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.

All this time he had never once turned his back upon the corpse; no, not for a moment. Having completed his preparations and cleaned the dog's feet, he moved backward towards the door, dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet again and carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He shut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.

He crossed over, and looked up at the window, to be sure that nothing was visible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she would have opened to admit the light she never saw again. The corpse lay nearly under there. He whistled to the dog, and walked rapidly away.

It was nine o'clock at night when the man, quite tired out, and the dog, walking lamely from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down a hill and walking wearily along a little village street, crept into a small public-house. There was a fire burning, and some villagers were drinking before it. They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the farthest corner, and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog, to whom he cast a bit of food from time to time.

The conversation of the men turned upon the neighbouring land, and farmers. There was nothing to attract attention, or arouse alarm in this. The robber, after paying his account, sat silent and unnoticed in his corner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half awakened by the noisy entrance of a newcomer.

This was a curious pedlar who travelled about the country on foot to sell razors, cheap perfumes, medicine for dogs and horses and such like articles which he carried in a box hanging on his back. Having eaten his supper, he opened his box of treasures, hoping to find some buyers.

"And what is that stuff? Good to eat, Harry?" asked a countryman, pointing to some cakes in a corner.

"This," said the fellow, producing one, "is the infallible and invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt or spots from all sorts of stuff, silk, woollen or linen. Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with this infallible and invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, she has only need to swallow one cake and she's cured at once ... for it's poison. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny a square!"

There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly hesitated. The pedlar, observing this, continued to talk.

"It's all bought up as fast as it can be made," said the fellow. "There are fourteen factories always working upon it, and they can't make it fast enough. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman present, that I'll take clean out, before he can order me a pint beer."

"Hah!" cried Sikes, starting up. "Give that back."

"I'll take it clear out, sir," replied the man, winking to the company, "before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the dark stain upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain or blood-stain ... "

The man got no further, for Sikes with an oath overthrew the table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.

The murderer, finding that he was not followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken ill-tempered fellow, turned back up the village. As he walked up the street he recognized the mail-coach from London standing at the little post-office. He almost knew what was to come, but he crossed over and listened.

The post master came out with the letter-bag which he handed to the guard.

"Anything new in town?" he asked.

"No, nothing that I know of," the guard replied. "The price of corn is up a little. I heard talk of a murder, too."

"That's quite true," said a gentleman inside the coach, who was looking out of the window. "And a dreadful murder it was."

"Was it, sir?" said the guard. "Man or woman?"

"A woman," replied the gentleman. "They say ... "

Sikes did not wait to hear any more. He took the road leading out of the village, and as he left it behind him and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a great fear creeping upon him. Every object before him, still or moving, took the likeness of some fearful thing. But these fears were nothing compared to the thought that haunted him of the girl's murdered body following at his heels. He could trace its shadow in the gloom, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to move. He could hear the rustling of its garments, and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If he stopped, it did the same. If he ran, it followed.

At times he turned, with a desperate determination to beat this ghost off. But the hair rose on his head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind him now ... always. He leaned his back against a hedge, and felt that it stood above him. He threw himself upon the road. At his head it stood, silent and still.

Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice. There were twenty violent deaths in each minute of that agony of fear.

He came to a shed in a field that offered shelter for the night. He could not walk on till daylight came again; he went in and lay down close to the wall—to suffer new agony.

For now, a vision came before him even more terrible than that from which he had escaped. Those widely staring eyes, lifeless and glassy, appeared in the midst of darkness. There were but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the sight, there came the room with every well-known object, each in its accustomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up and rushed out into the field. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed, and lay down once more. The eyes were there.

And there he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in every limb and the cold sweat starting from every pore, until morning dawned again. Suddenly he made the desperate decision to go back to London.

"There's somebody to speak to there, at all events," he thought. "A good hiding-place, too. They'll never expect to catch me there, after I had escaped to the country. I could remain in hiding there for a week or so, and then, forcing some money out of Fagin, get abroad to France. I'll risk it."

He acted upon this decision without delay, and, choosing the most deserted roads, began his journey back to London, resolving to enter it when night had fallen.

The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This might lead to his arrest as he passed along the streets. He resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond; he picked up a heavy stone and tied it to his handkerchief as he went.

The animal looked up into his master's face while he was making these preparations, as if he understood by instinct their purpose, and he followed a little further back than usual. When his master came to the edge of a pond and looked round to call him, he stopped dead.

"Do you hear me call? Come here!" cried Sikes.

The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes bent to tie the handkerchief to his throat he uttered a low growl and started away.

"Come back!" said the robber.

The dog wagged his tail, but did not move. Sikes called him again. The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, turned and ran away at his hardest speed.

The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey.