But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompassed her—and what more could she do! She was resolved.
Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy without cause or meaning. At others—often within a moment afterwards—she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from those in course of discussion by her companions.
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 crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
“An hour this side of midnight,” said Sikes, raising the blind to look out and returning to his seat. “Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for business this.”
“Ah!” replied Fagin. “What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite ready to be done.”
“You’re right for once,” replied Sikes gruffly. “It is a pity, for I’m in the humour too.”
Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
“We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train. That’s all I know,” said Sikes.
“That’s the way to talk, my dear,” replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on the shoulder. “It does me good to hear you.”
“Does you good, does it!” cried Sikes. “Well, so be it.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this concession. “You’re like yourself tonight Bill. Quite like yourself.”
“I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my shoulder, so take it away,” said Sikes, casting off the Jew’s hand.
“It makes you nervous, Bill,—reminds you of being nabbed, does it?” said Fagin, determined not to be offended.
“Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,” returned Sikes. “There never was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I suppose he is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came straight from the old ‘un without any father at all betwixt you; which I shouldn’t wonder at, a bit.”
Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.
“Hallo!” cried Sikes. “Nance. Where’s the gal going to at this time of night?”
“Not far.”
“What answer’s that?” returned Sikes. “Where are you going?”
“I say, not far.”
“And I say where?” retorted Sikes. “Do you hear me?”
“I don’t know where,” replied the girl.
“Then I do,” said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. “Nowhere. Sit down.”
“I’m not well. I told you that before,” rejoined the girl. “I want a breath of air.”
“Put your head out of the winder,” replied Sikes.
“There’s not enough there,” said the girl. “I want it in the street.”
“Then you won’t have it,” replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, flung it up to the top of an old press. “There,” said the robber. “Now stop quietly where you are, will you?”