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he had left him was in a by…street in Southwark； not far from
London Bridge； and thither he hied with all speed； bent upon
returning with as little delay as might be； and getting to bed
betimes。
The evening was boisterous—scarcely better than the previous
night had been。 It was not easy for a stout man like Gabriel to keep
his legs at the street corners； or to make head against the high
wind； which often fairly got the better of him； and drove him back
some paces； or； in defiance of all his energy； forced him to take
shelter in an arch or doorway until the fury of the gust was spent。
Occasionally a hat or wig； or both； came spinning and trundling
past him； like a mad thing； while the more serious spectacle of
falling tiles and slates； or of masses of brick and mortar or
fragments of stone…coping rattling upon the pavement near at
hand； and splitting into fragments； did not increase the pleasure of
the journey； or make the way less dreary。
‘A trying night for a man like me to walk in！’ said the locksmith；
as he knocked softly at the widow’s door。 ‘I’d rather be in old
John’s chimney…corner； faith！’
‘Who’s there？’ demanded a woman’s voice from within。 Being
answered； it added a hasty word of welcome； and the door was
quickly opened。
She was about forty—perhaps two or three years older—with a
cheerful aspect； and a face that had once been pretty。 It bore
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traces of affliction and care； but they were of an old date； and Time
had smoothed them。 Any one who had bestowed but a casual
glance on Barnaby might have known that this was his mother；
from the strong resemblance between them； but where in his face
there was wildness and vacancy； in hers there was the patient
composure of long effort and quiet resignation。
One thing about this face was very strange and startling。 You
could not look upon it in its most cheerful mood without feeling
that it had some extraordinary capacity of expressing terror。 It
was not on the surface。 It was in no one feature that it lingered。
You could not take the eyes or mouth； or lines upon the cheek； and
say； if this or that were otherwise； it would not be so。 Yet there it
always lurked—something for ever dimly seen； but ever there； and
never absent for a moment。 It was the faintest； palest shadow of
some look； to which an instant of intense and most unutterable
horror only could have given birth； but indistinct and feeble as it
was； it did suggest what that look must have been； and fixed it in
the mind as if it had had existence in a dream。
More faintly imaged； and wanting force and purpose； as it were；
because of his darkened intellect； there was this same stamp upon
the son。 Seen in a picture； it must have had some legend with it；
and would have haunted those who looked upon the canvas。 They
who knew the Maypole story； and could remember what the
widow was； before her husband’s and his master’s murder；
understood it well。 They recollected how the change had come；
and could call to mind that when her son was born； upon the very
day the deed was known； he bore upon his wrist what seemed a
smear of blood but half washed out。
‘God save you； neighbour！’ said the locksmith； as he followed
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her； with the air of an old friend； into a little parlour where a
cheerful fire was burning。
‘And you；’ she answered smiling。 ‘Your kind heart has brought
you here again。 Nothing will keep you at home； I know of old； if
there are friends to serve or comfort； out of doors。’
‘Tut； tut；’ returned the locksmith； rubbing his hands and
warming them。 ‘You women are such talkers。 What of the patient；
neighbour？’
‘He is sleeping now。 He was very restless towards daylight； and
for some hours tossed and tumbled sadly。 But the fever has left
him； and the doctor says he will soon mend。 He must not be
removed until to…morrow。’
‘He has had visitors to…day—humph？’ said Gabriel； slyly。
‘Yes。 Old Mr Chester has been here ever since we sent for him；
and had not been gone many minutes when you knocked。’
‘No ladies？’ said Gabriel； elevating his eyebrows and looking
disappointed。
‘A letter；’ replied the widow。
‘Come。 That’s better than nothing！’ replied the locksmith。 ‘Who
was the bearer？’
‘Barnaby； of course。’
‘Barnaby’s a jewel！’ said Varden； ‘and comes and goes with ease
where we who think ourselves much wiser would make but a poor
hand of it。 He is not out wandering； again； I hope？’
‘Thank Heaven he is in his bed； having been up all night； as you
know； and on his feet all day。 He was quite tired out。 Ah；
neighbour； if I could but see him oftener so—if I could but tame
down that terrible restlessness—’
‘In good time；’ said the locksmith； kindly； ‘in good time—don’t
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be down…hearted。 To my mind he grows wiser every day。’
The widow shook her head。 And yet； though she knew the
locksmith sought to cheer her； and spoke from no conviction of his
own； she was glad to hear even this praise of her poor benighted
son。
‘He will be a ’cute man yet；’ resumed the locksmith。 ‘Take care；
when we are growing old and foolish； Barnaby doesn’t put us to
the blush； that’s all。 But our other friend；’ he added； looking under
the table and about the floor—‘sharpest and cunningest of all the
sharp and cunning ones—where’s he？’
‘In Barnaby’s room；’ rejoined the widow； with a faint smile。
‘Ah！ He’s a knowing blade！’ said Varden； shak