his couch, and looking in the glass, imagined that his deed was broadly written in his face; and lying down and burying himself once more beneath the blankets, heard his own heart beating Murder, Murder, Murder, in the bed. What words can paint tremendous truths like these!
The morning advanced. There were footsteps in the house. He heard the blinds drawn up, and shutters opened; and now and then a stealthy tread outside his own door. He tried to call out more than once, but his mouth was dry as if it had been filled with burning sand. At last he sat up in his bed, and cried,
"Who's there!"
It was his wife.
He asked her what it was o'clock. Nine.
"Did—did no one knock at my door, yesterday?" he faltered. "Something disturbed me; but unless you had knocked the door down, you would have got no notice from me."
"No one," she replied. That was well. He had waited, almost breathless, for her answer. It was a relief to him, if anything could be.
"Mr. Nadgett wanted to see you," she said, "but I told him you were tired, and had requested not to be disturbed. He said it was of little consequence, and went away. As I was opening my window, to let in the cool air, I saw him passing through the street this morning, very early; but he hasn't been again."
Passing through the street that morning. Very early! Jonas trembled at the thought of having had a narrow chance of seeing him himself: even him, who had no object but to avoid people, and sneak on unobserved, and keep his own secrets: and who saw nothing.
He called to her to get his breakfast ready, and prepared to go up stairs: attiring himself in the clothes he had taken off when he came into that room, which had been ever since outside the door. In his secret dread of meeting the household for the first time, after what he had done, he lingered at the door on slight pretexts that they might see him without looking in his face; and left it ajar while he dressed; and called out to have the windows opened, and the pavement watered, that they might become accustomed to his voice. Even when he had put off the time, by one means or other, so that he had seen or spoken to them all, he could not muster courage for a long while to go in among them, but stood at his own door listening: to the murmur of their distant conversation.
He could not stop there for ever, and so joined them. His last glance at the glass had seen a tell-tale face, but that might have been because of his anxious looking in it. He dared not look at them to see if they observed him, but he thought them very silent.
And whatsoever guard he kept upon himself, he could not help listening, and showing that he listened. Whether he attended to their talk, or tried to think of other things, or talked himself, or held his peace, or resolutely counted the dull tickings of a hoarse old clock at his back, he always lapsed, as if a spell were on him, into eager listening: for he knew it must come, and his present punishment, and torture, and distraction, was, to listen for its coming.
Hush!
