She took his hand in hers, and holding it, nodded the word she could not speak.
“You mustn't tell,” said Barnaby, holding up his finger, “for it's a secret, mind, and only known to me, and Grip, and Hugh. We had the dog with us, but he's not like Grip, clever as he is, and doesn't guess it yet, I'll wager. —Why do you look behind me so?”
“Did I?” she answered faintly. “I didn't know I did. Come nearer me.”
“You are frightened!” said Barnaby, changing colour. “Mother—you don't see'—
“See what?”
“There's—there's none of this about, is there?” he answered in a whisper, drawing closer to her and clasping the mark upon his wrist. “I am afraid there is, somewhere. You make my hair stand on end, and my flesh creep. Why do you look like that? Is it in the room as I have seen it in my dreams, dashing the ceiling and the walls with red? Tell me. Is it?”
He fell into a shivering fit as he put the question, and shutting out the light with his hands, sat shaking in every limb until it had passed away. After a time, he raised his head and looked about him.
“Is it gone?”
“There has been nothing here,” rejoined his mother, soothing him. “Nothing indeed, dear Barnaby. Look! You see there are but you and me.”
He gazed at her vacantly, and, becoming reassured by degrees, burst into a wild laugh.
“But let us see,” he said, thoughtfully. “Were we talking? Was it you and me? Where have we been?”
“Nowhere but here.”
“Aye, but Hugh, and I,” said Barnaby,—'that's it. Maypole Hugh, and I, you know, and Grip—we have been lying in the forest, and among the trees by the road side, with a dark lantern after night came on, and the dog in a noose ready to slip him when the man came by.”
“What man?”
“The robber; him that the stars winked at. We have waited for him after dark these many nights, and we shall have him. I'd know him in a thousand. Mother, see here! This is the man. Look!”
He twisted his handkerchief round his head, pulled his hat upon his brow, wrapped his coat about him, and stood up before her: so like the original he counterfeited, that the dark figure peering out behind him might have passed for his own shadow.
“Ha ha ha! We shall have him,” he cried, ridding himself of the semblance as hastily as he had assumed it. “You shall see him, mother, bound hand and foot, and brought to London at a saddlegirth; and you shall hear of him at Tyburn Tree if we have luck. So Hugh says. You're pale again, and trembling. And why DO you look behind me so?”
“It is nothing,” she answered. “I am not quite well. Go you to bed, dear, and leave me here.”
“To bed!” he answered. “I don't like bed. I like to lie before the fire, watching the prospects in the burning coals—the rivers, hills, and dells, in the deep, red sunset, and the wild faces. I am hungry too, and Grip has eaten nothing since broad noon. Let us to supper. Grip! To supper, lad!”
The raven flapped his wings, and, croaking his satisfaction, hopped to the feet of his master, and there held his bill open, ready for snapping up such lumps of meat as he should throw him. Of these he received about a score in rapid succession, without the smallest discomposure.
“That's all,” said Barnaby.
“More!” cried Grip. “More!”
But it appearing for a certainty that no more was to be had, he retreated with his store; and disgorging the morsels one by one from his pouch, hid them in various corners—taking particular care, however, to avoid the closet, as being doubtful of the hidden man's propensities and power of resisting temptation. When he had concluded these arrangements, he took a turn or two across the room with an elaborate assumption of having nothing on his mind (but with one eye hard upon his treasure all the time), and then, and not till then, began to drag it out, piece by piece, and eat it with the utmost relish.
Barnaby, for his part, having pressed his mother to eat in vain, made a hearty supper too. Once during the progress of his meal, he wanted more bread from the closet and rose to get it. She hurriedly interposed to prevent him, and summoning her utmost fortitude, passed into the recess, and brought it out herself.
“Mother,” said Barnaby, looking at her steadfastly as she sat down beside him after doing so; “is to-day my birthday?”
“To-day!” she answered. “Don't you recollect it was but a week or so ago, and that summer, autumn, and winter have to pass before it comes again?”
“I remember that it has been so till now,” said Barnaby. “But I think to-day must be my birthday too, for all that.”
She asked him why? “I'll tell you why,” he said. “I have always seen you—I didn't let you know it, but I have—on the evening of that day grow very sad. I have seen you cry when Grip and I were most glad; and look frightened with no reason; and I have touched your hand, and felt that it was cold—as it is now. Once, mother (on a birthday that was, also), Grip and I thought of this after we went upstairs to bed, and when it was midnight, striking one o'clock, we came down to your door to see if you were well. You were on your knees. I forget what it was you said. Grip, what was it we heard her say that night?”
“I'm a devil!” rejoined the raven promptly.
“No, no,” said Barnaby. “But you said something in a prayer; and when you rose and walked about, you looked (as you have done ever since, mother, towards night on my birthday) just as you do now. I have found that out, you see, though I am silly. So I say you're wrong; and this must be my birthday—my birthday, Grip!”
The bird received this information with a crow of such duration as a cock, gifted with intelligence beyond all others of his kind, might usher in the longest day with. Then, as if he had well considered the sentiment, and regarded it as apposite to birthdays, he cried, “Never say die!” a great many times, and flapped his wings for emphasis.
The widow tried to make light of Barnaby's remark, and endeavoured to divert his attention to some new subject; too easy a task at all times, as she knew. His supper done, Barnaby, regardless of her entreaties, stretched himself on the mat before the fire; Grip perched upon his leg, and divided his time between dozing in the grateful warmth, and endeavouring (as it presently appeared) to recall a new accomplishment he had been studying all day.
A long and profound silence ensued, broken only by some change of position on the part of Barnaby, whose eyes were still wide open and intently fixed upon the fire; or by an effort of recollection on the part of Grip, who would cry in a low voice from time to time, “Polly put the ket—” and there stop short, forgetting the remainder, and go off in a doze again.
After a long interval, Barnaby's breathing grew more deep and regular, and his eyes were closed. But even then the unquiet spirit of the raven interposed. “Polly put the ket—” cried Grip, and his master was broad awake again.
At length Barnaby slept soundly, and the bird with his bill sunk upon his breast, his breast itself puffed out into a comfortable alderman-like form, and his bright eye growing smaller and smaller, really seemed to be subsiding into a state of repose. Now and then he muttered in a sepulchral voice, “Polly put the ket—” but very drowsily, and more like a drunken man than a reflecting raven.
The widow, scarcely venturing to breathe, rose from her seat. The man glided from the closet, and extinguished the candle.
“—tle on,” cried Grip, suddenly struck with an idea and very much excited. “—tle on. Hurrah! Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea; Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle on, Keep up your spirits, Never say die, Bow, wow, wow, I'm a devil, I'm a ket-tle, I'm a—Polly put the ket-tle on, we'll all have tea.”
They stood rooted to the ground, as though it had been a voice from the grave.
But even this failed to awaken the sleeper. He turned over towards the fire, his arm fell to the ground, and his head drooped heavily upon it. The widow and her unwelcome visitor gazed at him and at each other for a moment, and then she motioned him towards the door.