But our business is with the husband. We must hurryafter him along the street ere he lose his individualityand melt into the great mass of London life. It would bevain searching for him there. Let us follow close at hisheels， therefore， until， after several superfluous turns anddoublings， we find him comfortably established by thefireside of a small apartment previously bespoken. He isin the next street to his own and at his journey’s end. Hecan scarcely trust his good-fortune in having got thitherunperceived， recollecting that at one time he was delayedby the throng in the very focus of a lighted lantern， andagain there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind hisown， distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him，and anon he heard a voice shouting afar and fancied thatit called his name. Doubtless a dozen busybodies had beenwatching him and told his wife the whole affair.
Poor Wakefield！ little knowest thou thine owninsignificance in this great world. No mortal eye but minehas traced thee. Go quietly to thy bed， foolish man， andon the morrow， if thou wilt be wise， get thee home to goodMrs. Wakefield and tell her the truth. Remove not thyselfeven for a little week from thy place in her chaste bosom.
Were she for a single moment to deem thee dead or lostor lastingly divided from her， thou wouldst be woefullyconscious of a change in thy true wife for ever after. It isperilous to make a chasm in human affections—not thatthey gape so long and wide， but so quickly close again.
Almost repenting of his frolic， or whatever it may betermed， Wakefield lies down betimes， and， starting fromhis first nap， spreads forth his arms into the wide andsolitary waste of the unaccustomed bed， “No，” thinks he，gathering the bedclothes about him； “I will not sleep aloneanother night.” In the morning he rises earlier than usualand sets himself to consider what he really means to do.
Such are his loose and rambling modes of thought that hehas taken this very singular step with the consciousnessof a purpose， indeed， but without being able to define itsufficiently for his own contemplation. The vaguenessof the project and the convulsive effort with which heplunges into the execution of it are equally characteristicof a feeble-minded man. Wakefield sifts his ideas， however，as minutely as he may， and finds himself curious to knowthe progress of matters at home—how his exemplary wifewill endure her widowhood of a week， and， briefly， howthe little sphere of creatures and circumstances in whichhe was a central object will be affected by his removal. Amorbid vanity， therefore， lies nearest the bottom of theaffair. But how is he to attain his ends？ Not， certainly， bykeeping close in this comfortable lodging， where， thoughhe slept and awoke in the next street to his home， heis as effectually abroad as if the stage-coach had beenwhirling him away all night. Yet should he reappear， thewhole project is knocked in the head. His poor brainsbeing hopelessly puzzled with this dilemma， he at lengthventures out， partly resolving to cross the head of thestreet and send one hasty glance toward his forsakendomicile. Habit—for he is a man of habits—takes him bythe hand and guides him， wholly unaware， to his own door，where， just at the critical moment， he is aroused by thescraping of his foot upon the step. —Wakefield， whitherare you going？
At that instant his fate was turning on the pivot. Littledreaming of the doom to which his first backward stepdevotes him， he hurries away， breathless with agitationhitherto unfelt， and hardly dares turn his head at thedistant corner. Can it be that nobody caught sight ofhim？ Will not the whole household—the decent Mrs.
Wakefield， the smart maid-servant and the dirty littlefootboy—raise a hue-and-cry through London streetsin pursuit of their fugitive lord and master？ Wonderfulescape！ He gathers courage to pause and look homeward，but is perplexed with a sense of change about the familiaredifice such as affects us all when， after a separation ofmonths or years， we again see some hill or lake or work ofart with which we were friends of old. In ordinary casesthis indescribable impression is caused by the comparisonand contrast between our imperfect reminiscences andthe reality. In Wakefield the magic of a single night haswrought a similar transformation， because in that briefperiod a great moral change has been effected. But this isa secret from himself. Before leaving the spot he catchesa far and momentary glimpse of his wife passing athwartthe front window with her face turned toward the headof the street. The crafty nincompoop takes to his heels，scared with the idea that among a thousand such atomsof mortality her eye must have detected him. Right gladis his heart， though his brain be somewhat dizzy， when hefinds himself by the coal-fire of his lodgings.
So much for the commencement of this long whimwham.
After the initial conception and the stirring upof the man’s sluggish temperament to put it in practice，the whole matter evolves itself in a natural train. We maysuppose him， as the result of deep deliberation， buying anew wig of reddish hair and selecting sundry garments， ina fashion unlike his customary suit of brown， from a Jew’sold-clothes bag. It is accomplished： Wakefield is anotherman. The new system being now established， a retrogrademovement to the old would be almost as difficult asthe step that placed him in his unparalleled position.
Furthermore， he is rendered obstinate by a sulkinessoccasionally incident to his temper and brought on atpresent by the inadequate sensation which he conceivesto have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wakefield.
He will not go back until she be frightened half to death.
