WHEREIN THOMAS DIBBLE “RUNS AWAY,” AND
MEETS WITH A VERY REMARKABLE COMPANION.
Mrs. Dibble insisted upon Miss Somerton and her father remaining in her
house until the next day, when Paul was to reappear at Bow Street; and
this increase in the Dibbleonian establishment made it necessary that
Mr. Thomas Dibble should sleep on the sofa in the parlour.
“I’ll make you up a comfortable bed, Thomath,” said Mrs. D., when all
the other members of the household had retired to rest, “particularly
on account of your sympathy with that young man; for if ever there was
innocence anywhere it is in his face: though however that purse could
get into his box is a matter as I have yet to learn. It’s very well for
Mr. Williamson, that barrister gentleman--who reminds me of a young
man as made me an offer before I left boarding-school, which my parenth
were particular in sending me to on account of the position I was
expected to take in the world--and he may say it with perfect truth,
that some one has got into the house and put that purse into his box;
but how to get the police to believe it is another thing: but we shall
see in the morning.”
“They’ll believe it, Maria,” said Thomas, very solemnly, with his eyes
fixed upon his wife’s buxom figure, which would obtrude its plumpness
and its whiteness through her tight dresses, either in front or behind,
and more particularly in an evening when Mrs. Dibble unbuttoned her
dress for the purpose of being able to breathe more freely.
“They will?--it’s all very well to say they will, but if Mr. Williamson
can do no more than show the animas, as he calls it, of the persecutor
Mr. Gibbs, it strikes me--judging from the villainous manner of
those policeman, who will not allow anyone else to speak except
themselves--that Mr. Williamson will only waste his breath.”
And Mrs. Dibble went on laying sheets and blankets between a sofa and
three chairs, and tucking them down at the foot and making the two
pillows go as far as possible in height by the aid of the sofa cushions
and an old carpet-bag; whilst Dibble looked on very sadly, but calmly,
and wondered what Mrs. Dibble would think in the morning when she
entered the room and found that the extempore bed had never been used.
“Will you give me a kiss before you go to bed, Maria?” said Dibble, in
an appealing tone.
“Of course I will, Thomath; for the way as you snatched that five
hundred pounds out of the fire, as I may say, deserves ever so many
kisses, Thomath, and as done everything to make our lives happy
again, though, as I have said before, it was not the money so much as
deceiving me, Thomath; I did think I never could have forgiven that;
but there, it’s all over, Thomath, and seeing other people in trouble
makes one’s heart softer than usual: and so bless you, Thomath, bless
you.”
Whereupon Mrs. Dibble put her arms round poor Dibble’s neck and bade
him good-night.
“And good-bye!” said Dibble, when she was going up-stairs; “And
good-bye, Maria!” he repeated when he heard the door shut upon her. For
Thomas Dibble when he went out into the back kitchen and contemplated
the water-butt, determined to run away. Not only to run away, but
to leave behind him a confession of the part he had taken in the
conspiracy against Paul Somerton.
He sat down before the handful of smouldering cinders in the little
parlour grate, and thought out his plan. He had suffered much from
Mrs. Dibble about the five hundred pounds; he had purchased peace by
its return, and she had forgiven him. But how had he bought peace? If
he remained where he was, he would be sure to confess, and then what
would Maria say? what would Paul say? what would his sister say? what
did his own conscience say now? He could not endure the latter, even in
secret, and how could he bear the former?
No, he would run away. His master was at home, in grief and sorrow for
the disgrace of his son. That son had dishonoured the name of Tallant,
and Paul Somerton was on the verge of becoming an outcast. It would be
better that he, Thomas Dibble, should go forth and become a wanderer
and a beggar than that the innocent should suffer, and bring disgrace
upon a respectable family.
Then poor old Dibble thought about his oath, and fear came upon him
in a remembrance of the dreadful consequences which Mr. Gibbs had
described. Then he thought of Maria, but a bitter memory of the
wretched life he had led with her, during the monetary interregnum,
steeled him slightly against her, and he consoled himself with the
feeling that at least she had the money back again.
A hundred other things occurred to Thomas as reasons why he should run
away, and why he should not. It was dishonourable to take an oath and
take a man’s money without sticking to the bargain; but no gentleman
ought to have inveigled a poor man into such a plot. No matter which
way Thomas looked at the case, he saw himself a disgraced man; but he
thought there was far less disgrace in running away than in staying
behind, and a thousand times more disgrace in letting the affair go on
than in preventing the conspiracy from taking effect.
So Thomas decided that he would go, that he would be a wanderer, a
beggar, a tramp,--anything but a persecutor of the innocent. He would
eat Mrs. Dibble’s bread-and-butter no longer.
It occupied him nearly two hours to write out in his big, round,
straggling hand a brief account of his share in the plot to ruin Paul,
and having done this, and signed it, and laid it in the middle of the
parlour table, directed to Paul Somerton, he wrote on another sheet of
paper, “Farwell, Maria, and if for ever, may you forgiv your herring
sinner, T. Dibble.”
Then the model porter of the Meter Works thought it would be only fair
to let Mr. Gibbs know that he had confessed all. He, therefore, wrote
a very short but very large letter to “Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs, Esq.,”
determining to leave London by the West End, and put the letter under
the door of Mr. Gibbs’ lodgings as he passed by.
It was on a fine, bright, starlight autumn morning that Thomas Dibble
went forth on his pilgrimage.
Turning out of his way a little he pushed the letter under Mr. Gibbs’
door, and then directed his steps towards Paddington. He preferred to
take the longest way through the streets, because he thought he would
like to tread them once more, and say good-bye, as it were, to familiar
scenes. On past Westminster he trudged, with a little bundle over
his shoulder, on past the Houses of Parliament, where he encountered
an early coffee man, and invested in an early cup of his refreshing
beverage. He would fain have had a pennyworth of pudding, but the
pudding men were all abed, and so were the vendors of chesnuts. The
police were awake, and Thomas chuckled quietly to himself, as he passed
certain active members of the force, upon the way in which they would
be sold at Bow Street next day.
He trudged on past Charing Cross and through the Haymarket, along
Regent Street and past Regent’s Circus, meeting a few roysterers,
early workmen going to half-built houses, and printers going home from
daily newspaper offices; he saw a few shambling tramps hanging about
doorways, and seeking intervals of repose on doorsteps, whence they
were ousted occasionally by policemen; he met stray cabs with early
fares, scavengers, and slouching women reeling from infamous dens in
by-streets; and he wondered when it would be daylight.
By-and-by the great city and its smiling suburbs were left behind,
and Thomas was on the white highway, with hedges right and left, and
market-gardens behind them; and then morning dawned, and he journeyed
on beside carts, and waggons, and met tramps with dusty boots and
jackets; for the autumn had been a particularly dry season, and the
roads were covered with dust.
At length the afternoon began to wane, and Dibble turned into the
fields, over a stile, and sat down beside some half-cut corn and untied
his bundle. A piece of bread and cheese dropped out, and Thomas, being
hungry, fell to with a will. Whilst he was eating, a miserable, lean,
lank-looking dog came crouching and smelling towards him. Alone in
the wide world, Thomas naturally felt some little sympathy with the
vagrant dog, and he threw it a piece of bread and then a piece of
cheese. The animal, making certain apologetic snaps at the crumbs, ate
them, and then stood upon his hind-legs and seemed to beg for more.
Dibble could not help smiling at the quaint, gaunt, spectral-looking
dog, with all its ribs showing through its tight ragged skin; and he
fed it again. Then the animal walked round Dibble, on his hind-legs,
and performed a sort of double shuffle. Dibble was highly amused with
this performance, and he laughed very heartily and patted the dog on
the head. The animal wagged his tail, turned a somersault, and stood
upon his head in such a comical fashion that poor Dibble fairly rolled
on his back with laughing, the dog leaping over him and barking in the
most extraordinary and un-doglike fashion.
Thus Thomas Dibble made friends with this singular animal, and resolved
to have it as his travelling companion if his dogship would consent.
The dog was nothing loth, and the companionship led to important
results in the history of Thomas Dibble’s adventures.