CHAPTER XXIV

Nancy Keeps Her Promise

It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked up from the low seat on which she lay, and listened too. Eleven.

Nancy put on her hat and was leaving the room.

"Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Where are you going to, Nancy, at this time of night?"

"Not far."

"What answer's that?" returned Sikes. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know where," replied the girl.

"Then I do," said Sikes obstinately. "Nowhere. Sit down."

"I'm not well. I told you that before," answered the girl. "I want a breath of air."

"Put your head out of the window," replied Sikes.

"There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street."

"Then you won't have it," replied Sikes, rising and locking the door. Pulling her hat from her head he threw it on the top of an old cupboard. "Now stop quietly where you are, will you?"

"Let me go," said the girl, kneeling on the floor. "Bill, let me go for only one hour."

"Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, "if I don't think the girl is mad. Get up."

"Not till you let me go—never, never!" screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a moment, and suddenly seized both her hands and dragged her into a small room. He threw her into a chair and held her down by force. She struggled and begged by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, she became quiet. Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin.

"Whew!" said the housebreaker, wiping the sweat from his face. "What a strange girl she is!"

"You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that."

Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working within his brain. The girl's altered manner and her impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour had made him think that Nancy, weary of the housebreaker's cruelty, had found a new friend. Such a new friend would be valuable to him, and must be secured without delay.

Before he had reached his home he had made his plans. He would have Nancy watched and discover the object of her new affection.

A week passed: it was Sunday night again. The church clocks struck three quarters past eleven, as two figures appeared on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a rapid step, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in search of some expected object. The other figure was that of a man, who followed her at some distance, walking in the deepest shadow he could find. Thus they crossed the bridge. At the other side, the woman, apparently disappointed in her search, turned back. The movement was sudden, but her pursuer quickly concealed himself. At nearly the middle of the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped too.

Two minutes later, a young lady, accompanied by a grey-haired gentleman, descended from a carriage within a short distance of the bridge and, having dismissed the carriage, walked straight towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement when the girl started, and made straight towards them.

They uttered an exclamation of surprise when she suddenly joined them, and stopped; but Nancy said hurriedly: "Not here; I am afraid to speak to you here. Come away—out of the public road—down those steps!"

When the man who was secretly following Nancy heard these words, and saw her pointing to the steps, he hastened there unobserved and hid in a dark turning in the flight of steps. Presently he heard the sound of footsteps, and voices almost close at his ear. He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and scarcely breathed, listening attentively.

"This is far enough," said a voice, which was evidently that of the gentleman. "I will not allow the young lady to go any farther. Now, for what purpose have you brought us to this strange, gloomy place?"

"I told you before," replied Nancy, "that I was afraid to speak to you there. I don't know why it is, but I have such a fear and dread upon me tonight that I can hardly stand."

"A fear of what?" asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.

"I scarcely know of what," replied the girl. "I wish I did. Horrible thoughts of death and blood have been upon me all day."

"You were not here last Sunday night," said the gentleman.

"I couldn't come," replied Nancy; "I was kept by force."

"By whom?"

"Him that I told the young lady of before."

"You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the subject which has brought us here tonight, I hope?" asked the old gentleman.

"No," replied the girl, shaking her head.

"Good," said the gentleman. "Now listen to me. This young lady has communicated to me, and to some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a fortnight ago. I am inclined to trust you, and therefore I tell you without reserve that we are determined to force the secret, whatever it is, from this man Monks. Put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to deal with."

"What if he turns against Fagin and the others?"

"I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there the matter will rest; the others shall go free."

"And if it is not?" asked the girl.

"Then," said the gentleman, "this Fagin shall not be brought to justice without your consent."

"Have I the lady's promise for that?" asked the girl.

"You have," replied Rose. "My true and faithful promise."

"Monks would never learn how you knew what you know?" said the girl after a short pause.

"Never," replied the gentleman.

"I have been a liar, and among liars, since I was a little child," said the girl, after another pause, "but I will take your words."

Then, in a very low voice, she started to describe the public-house where Monks was to be found, the best position from which to watch it without being observed, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it. "He is tall," said the girl, "and a strongly built man; and as he walks, he constantly looks over his shoulder first on one side, and then on the other. His eyes are deeply sunk in his head, and his face is dark, like his hair and eyes. I think that's all I can give you to know him by. Wait, though," she added. "Upon his throat there is—

"A broad red mark, like a burn?" cried the gentleman.

"How's this?" said the girl. "You know him!"

The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.

"I think I do," said the gentleman, breaking the silence. "I should, by your description. We shall see. Many people are extraordinarily like each other. It may not be the same man. And now, young woman, you have given us most valuable assistance, and I wish to reward you for it. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing," replied Nancy.

"You must tell me," said the old gentleman, very kindly.

"Nothing, sir," replied the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. I am past all hope, indeed."

"It is true that the past has been wasted, but you may hope for the future. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it. But we can send you to a quiet place of shelter, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country. Before dawn you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former companions as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with such companions. Leave them, while you have the chance."

"I can't, sir," said the girl, after a short struggle. "I am chained to my old life. I hate it with all my heart, now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back. I must go home."

"Home!" repeated the young lady.

"Home, lady," answered the girl. "Let us part. I shall be watched or seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service, all that I ask is that you leave me and let me go my way alone."

"It is useless," said the gentleman, with a sigh. "We are endangering her safety, perhaps, by staying here."

The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards appeared upon the bridge. The old gentleman drew her arm through his and led her away. As they disappeared the girl sank down upon one of the stairs and cried with bitter tears.

After a time she arose and with unsteady steps ascended to the road. The astonished spy remained motionless for some minutes afterwards, and having made certain that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place and, reaching the top, he ran towards the Jew's house as fast as his legs could carry him.