The Hole in the Wall

I LOOKED FROM HIS face to the letter, and back again. “It means—means…I think the skipper sank the ship on purpose.”

“It means Murder, my boy, that’s what it means. Murder, by the law of England! ‘Feloniously castin’ away an’ destroyin’;’ that’s what they call the one thing, though I’m no lawyer-man. An’ it means prison; though why, when a man follows orders faithful, I can’t say; but well I know it. An’ if any man loses his life thereby it’s Murder, whether accidental or not; Murder an’ the Rope, by the law of England, an’ bitter well I know that too! O bitter well I know it!”

He passed his palm over his forehead and eyes, and for a moment was silent. Then he struck the palm on his knee and broke forth afresh.

“Murder, by the law of England, even if no more than accident in God’s truth. How much the more then this here, when the one man as won’t stand and see it done goes down in his berth? O, I’ve known that afore, too, with a gimlet through the door-frame; an’ I know Beecher. But orders is orders, an’ it’s them as gives them as is to reckon with. I’ve took orders myself…Lord! Lord! an’ I’ve none but a child to talk to! A little child!…But you’re no fool, Stevy. See here now, an’ remember. You know what’s come to your father? He’s killed, wilful; murdered, like what they hang people for, at Newgate, Stevy, by the law. An’ do you know who’s done it?”

I was distressed and bewildered, as well as alarmed by the old man’s vehemence. “The captain,” I said, whimpering again.

“Viney!” my grandfather shouted. “Henry Viney, as I might ha’ served the same way, an’ I wish I had! Viney and Marr’s done it; an’ Marr’s paid for it already. Lord, Lord!” he went on, with his face down in his hands and his elbows on his knees. “Lord! I see a lot of it now! It was what they made out o’ the insurance that was to save the firm; an’ when my boy put in an’ stopped it all the voyage out, an’ more, they could hold on no longer, but plotted to get out with what they could lay hold of. Lord! it’s plain as print, plain as print! Stevy!” He lowered his hands and looked up. “Stevy! that money’s more yours now than ever. If I ever had a doubt—if it don’t belong to the orphan they’ve made—but there, it’s sent you, boy, sent you, an’ any one ‘ud believe in Providence after that.”

In a moment more he was back at his earlier excitement. “But it’s Viney’s done it,” he said, with his fist extended before him. “Remember, Stevy, when you grow up, it’s Viney’s done it, an’ it’s Murder, by the law of England. Viney has killed your father, an’ if it was brought against him it ‘ud be Murder!”

“Then,” I said, “we’ll go to the police station and they will catch him.”

My grandfather’s hand dropped. “Ah, Stevy, Stevy,” he groaned, “you don’t know, you don’t know. It ain’t enough for that, an’ if it was—if it was, I can’t; I can’t—not with you to look after. I might do it, an’ risk all, if it wasn’t for that…My God, it’s a judgment on me—a cruel judgment! My own son—an’ just the same way—just the same way!…I can’t, Stevy, not with you to take care of. Stevy, I must keep myself safe for your sake, an’ I can’t raise a hand to punish Viney. I can’t, Stevy, I can’t; for I’m a guilty man myself, by the law of England—an’ Viney knows it! Viney knows it! Though it wasn’t wilful, as God’s my judge!”

Grandfather Nat ended with a groan, and sat still, with his head bowed in his hands. Again I remembered, and now with something of awe, my innocent question: “Did you ever kill a man, Grandfather Nat?”

Still he sat motionless and silent, till I could endure it no longer: for in some way I felt frightened. So I went timidly and put my arm about his neck. I fancied, though I was not sure, that I could feel a tremble from his shoulders; but he was silent still. Nevertheless I was oddly comforted by the contact, and presently, like a dog anxious for notice, ventured to stroke the grey hair.

Soon then he dropped his hands and spoke. “I shouldn’t ha’ said it, Stevy; but I’m all shook an’ worried, an’ I talked wild. It was no need to say it, but there ain’t a soul alive to speak to else, an’ somehow I talk as it might be half to myself. But you know what about things I say—private things—don’t you? Remember?” He sat erect again, and raised a forefinger warningly, even sternly. “Remember, Stevy!…But come—there’s things to do. Give me the letter. We’ll get together any little things to be kep’, papers an’ what not, an’ take ‘em home. An’ I’ll have to think about the rest, what’s best to be done; sell ‘em, or what. But I dunno, I dunno!”

XVII. — IN BLUE GATE

IN her den at the black stair-top in Blue Gate, Musky Mag lurked, furtive and trembling, after the inquests at the Hole in the Wall. Where Dan Ogle might be hiding she could not guess, and she was torn between a hundred fears and perplexities. Dan had been seen, and could be identified; of that she was convinced, and more than convinced, since she had heard Mr. Cripps’s testimony. Moreover she well remembered at what point in her own evidence the police-inspector had handed the note to the coroner, and she was not too stupid to guess the meaning of that. How could she warn Dan, how help or screen him, how put to act that simple fidelity that was the sole virtue remaining in her, all the greater for the loss of the rest? She had no money; on the other hand she was confident that Dan must have with him the whole pocket-book full of notes which had cost two lives already, and now seemed like to cost the life she would so gladly buy with her own; for they had not been found on Kipps’s body, nor in any way spoken of at the inquest. But then he might fear to change them. He could scarcely carry a single one to the receivers who knew him, for his haunts would be watched; more, a reward was offered, and no receiver would be above making an extra fifty pounds on the transaction. For to her tortured mind it seemed every moment more certain that the cry was up, and not the police alone, but everybody else was on the watch to give the gallows its due. She was uneasy at having no message. Doubtless he needed her help, as he had needed it so often before; doubtless he would come for it if he could, but that would be to put his head in the noose. How could she reach him, and give it? Even if she had known where he lay, to go to him would be to lead the police after her, for she had no doubt that her own movements would be watched. She knew that the boat wherein he had escaped had been found on the opposite side of the river, and she, like others, judged from that that he might be lurking in some of the waterside rookeries of the south bank; the more as it was the commonest device of those “wanted” in Ratcliff or Wapping to “go for a change” to Rotherhithe or Bankside, and for those in a like predicament on the southern shores to come north in the same way. But again, to go in search of him were but to share with the police whatever luck might attend the quest. So that Musky Mag feared alike to stay at home and to go abroad; longed to find Dan, and feared it as much; wished to aid him, yet equally dreaded that he should come to her or that she should go to him. And there was nothing to do, therefore, but to wait and listen anxiously; to listen for voices, or footsteps, even for creaks on the stairs; for a whistle without that might be a signal; for an uproar or a sudden hush that might announce the coming of the police into Blue Gate; even for a whisper or a scratching at door or window wherewith the fugitive might approach, fearful lest the police were there before him. But at evening, when the place grew dark, and the thickest of the gloom drew together, to make a monstrous shadow on the floor, where once she had fallen over something in the dark—then she went and sat on the stair-head, watching and dozing and waking in terror.

So went a day and a night, and another day. The corners of the room grew dusk again, and with the afternoon’s late light the table flung its shadow on that same place on the floor; so that she went and moved it toward the wall.

As she set it down she started and crouched, for now at last there was a step on the stair—an unfamiliar step. A woman’s, it would seem, and stealthy. Musky Mag held by the table, and waited.

The steps ceased at the landing, and there was a pause. Then, with no warning knock, the door was pushed open, and a head was thrust in, covered by an old plaid shawl; a glance about the room, and the rest of the figure followed, closing the door behind it; and, the shawl being flung back from over the bonnet, there stood Mrs. Grimes, rusty and bony, slack-faced and sour.

Mrs. Grimes screwed her red nose at the woman before her, jerked up her crushed bonnet, and plucked her...