Then, the old days before the second marriage rose up in his remembrance. He thought how jealous he had been of the boy, how jealous he had been of the girl, how artfully he had kept intruders at a distance, and drawn a circle round his dupe that none but himself should cross; and then he thought, had he done all this to be flying now, like a scared thief, from only the poor dupe?
He could have laid hands upon himself for his cowardice, but it was the very shadow of his defeat, and could not be separated from it. To have his confidence in his own knavery so shattered at a blow—to be within his own knowledge such a miserable tool—was like being paralysed. With an impotent ferocity he raged at Edith, and hated Mr Dombey and hated himself, but still he fled, and could do nothing else.
Again and again he listened for the sound of wheels behind. Again and again his fancy heard it, coming on louder and louder. At last he was so persuaded of this, that he cried out, “Stop” preferring even the loss of ground to such uncertainty.
The word soon brought carriage, horses, driver, all in a heap together, across the road.
“The devil!” cried the driver, looking over his shoulder, “what’s the matter?”
“Hark! What’s that?”
“What?”
“That noise?”
“Ah Heaven, be quiet, cursed brigand!” to a horse who shook his bells “What noise?”
“Behind. Is it not another carriage at a gallop? There! what’s that?”