| The Old Curiosity Shop |
| |
| By Charles Dickens |
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| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 1 |
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| Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave |
| home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day, or |
| even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the country, I |
| seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its |
| light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as much as any |
| creature living. |
| |
| I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my |
| infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating |
| on the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The |
| glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like |
| mine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp |
| or a shop window is often better for my purpose than their full |
| revelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is |
| kinder in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built |
| castle at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or |
| remorse. |
| |
| That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that |
| incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy--is |
| it not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hear it! |
| Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court, listening |
| to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness obliged, |
| despite himself (as though it were a task he must perform) to detect |
| the child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from the booted |
| exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel of the sauntering |
| outcast from the quick tread of an expectant pleasure-seeker--think of |
| the hum and noise always being present to his sense, and of the stream |
| of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on, through all his |
| restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie, dead but conscious, in |
| a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest for centuries to come. |
| |
| Then, the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges (on |
| those which are free of toll at last), where many stop on fine evenings |
| looking listlessly down upon the water with some vague idea that by and |
| by it runs between green banks which grow wider and wider until at last |
| it joins the broad vast sea--where some halt to rest from heavy loads |
| and think as they look over the parapet that to smoke and lounge away |
| one's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon a hot tarpaulin, in a |
| dull, slow, sluggish barge, must be happiness unalloyed--and where |
| some, and a very different class, pause with heavier loads than they, |
| remembering to have heard or read in old time that drowning was not a |
| hard death, but of all means of suicide the easiest and best. |
| |
| Covent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, when the |
| fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, over-powering even the |
| unwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving the dusky |
| thrush, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all night long, |
| half mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at all akin |
| to the other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from the hot |
| hands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path already, while |
| others, soddened by close contact, await the time when they shall be |
| watered and freshened up to please more sober company, and make old |
| clerks who pass them on their road to business, wonder what has filled |
| their breasts with visions of the country. |
| |
| But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The story I |
| am about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals, arose out |
| of one of these rambles; and thus I have been led to speak of them by |
| way of preface. |
| |
| One night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on in my |
| usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an |
| inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be |
| addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that |
| struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and found at my elbow |
| a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at |
| a considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the |
| town. |
| |
| 'It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.' |
| |
| 'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a very long |
| way, for I came from there to-night.' |
| |
| 'Alone?' said I, in some surprise. |
| |
| 'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I |
| had lost my road.' |
| |
| 'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?' |
| |
| 'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you are |
| such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.' |
| |
| I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and the |
| energy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's |
| clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my |
| face. |
| |
| 'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.' |
| |
| She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had known me from her |
| cradle, and we trudged away together; the little creature accommodating |
| her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I |
| to be protecting her. I observed that every now and then she stole a |
| curious look at my face, as if to make quite sure that I was not |
| deceiving her, and that these glances (very sharp and keen they were |
| too) seemed to increase her confidence at every repetition. |
| |
| For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to the |
| child's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it probably |
| from what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frame |
| imparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more |
| scantily attired than she might have been she was dressed with perfect |
| neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect. |
| |
| 'Who has sent you so far by yourself?' said I. |
| |
| 'Someone who is very kind to me, sir.' |
| |
| 'And what have you been doing?' |
| |
| 'That, I must not tell,' said the child firmly. |
| |
| There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me to look |
| at the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise; for |
| I wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to be |
| prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts, for |
| as it met mine she added that there was no harm in what she had been |
| doing, but it was a great secret--a secret which she did not even know |
| herself. |
| |
| This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with an |
| unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on as |
| before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded and talking |
| cheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home, beyond |
| remarking that we were going quite a new road and asking if it were a |
| short one. |
| |
| While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred different |
| explanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. I really felt |
| ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of |
| the child for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these |
| little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so fresh |
| from God, love us. As I had felt pleased at first by her confidence I |
| determined to deserve it, and to do credit to the nature which had |
| prompted her to repose it in me. |
| |
| There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the |
| person who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by night |
| and alone, and as it was not improbable that if she found herself near |
| home she might take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportunity, I |
| avoided the most frequented ways and took the most intricate, and thus |
| it was not until we arrived in the street itself that she knew where we |
| were. Clapping her hands with pleasure and running on before me for a |
| short distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door and remaining |
| on the step till I came up knocked at it when I joined her. |
| |
| A part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter, which I |
| did not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and |
| I was anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an answer to our |
| summons. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if |
| some person were moving inside, and at length a faint light appeared |
| through the glass which, as it approached very slowly, the bearer |
| having to make his way through a great many scattered articles, enabled |
| me to see both what kind of person it was who advanced and what kind of |
| place it was through which he came. |
| |
| It was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as he held |
| the light above his head and looked before him as he approached, I |
| could plainly see. Though much altered by age, I fancied I could |
| recognize in his spare and slender form something of that delicate |
| mould which I had noticed in the child. Their bright blue eyes were |
| certainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed and so very full |
| of care, that here all resemblance ceased. |
| |
| The place through which he made his way at leisure was one of those |
| receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd |
| corners of this town and to hide their musty treasures from the public |
| eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail standing like |
| ghosts in armour here and there, fantastic carvings brought from |
| monkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds, distorted figures in |
| china and wood and iron and ivory: tapestry and strange furniture that |
| might have been designed in dreams. The haggard aspect of the little |
| old man was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have groped among |
| old churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils |
| with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was |
| in keeping with himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he. |
| |
| As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some astonishment |
| which was not diminished when he looked from me to my companion. The |
| door being opened, the child addressed him as grandfather, and told him |
| the little story of our companionship. |
| |
| 'Why, bless thee, child,' said the old man, patting her on the head, |
| 'how couldst thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee, Nell!' |
| |
| 'I would have found my way back to YOU, grandfather,' said the child |
| boldly; 'never fear.' |
| |
| The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging me to walk in, I |
| did so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with the light, he |
| led me through the place I had already seen from without, into a small |
| sitting-room behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of |
| closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have slept in, it |
| looked so very small and was so prettily arranged. The child took a |
| candle and tripped into this little room, leaving the old man and me |
| together. |
| |
| 'You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a chair near the fire, |
| 'how can I thank you?' |
| |
| 'By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good friend,' |
| I replied. |
| |
| 'More care!' said the old man in a shrill voice, 'more care of Nelly! |
| Why, who ever loved a child as I love Nell?' |
| |
| He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what |
| answer to make, and the more so because coupled with something feeble |
| and wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of deep and |
| anxious thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I had been |
| at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or imbecility. |
| |
| 'I don't think you consider--' I began. |
| |
| 'I don't consider!' cried the old man interrupting me, 'I don't |
| consider her! Ah, how little you know of the truth! Little Nelly, |
| little Nelly!' |
| |
| It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of speech |
| might be, to express more affection than the dealer in curiosities did, |
| in these four words. I waited for him to speak again, but he rested his |
| chin upon his hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes |
| upon the fire. |
| |
| While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened, |
| and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her |
| neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us. |
| She busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she was |
| thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of |
| observing me more closely than he had done yet. I was surprised to see |
| that all this time everything was done by the child, and that there |
| appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took |
| advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this |
| point, to which the old man replied that there were few grown persons |
| as trustworthy or as careful as she. |
| |
| 'It always grieves me,' I observed, roused by what I took to be his |
| selfishness, 'it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of |
| children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than |
| infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity--two of the best |
| qualities that Heaven gives them--and demands that they share our |
| sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.' |
| |
| 'It will never check hers,' said the old man looking steadily at me, |
| 'the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but |
| few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought and |
| paid for.' |
| |
| 'But--forgive me for saying this--you are surely not so very |
| poor'--said I. |
| |
| 'She is not my child, sir,' returned the old man. 'Her mother was, and |
| she was poor. I save nothing--not a penny--though I live as you see, |
| but'--he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to whisper--'she |
| shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think ill |
| of me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully as you see, and |
| it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered anybody else to do |
| for me what her little hands could undertake. I don't consider!'--he |
| cried with sudden querulousness, 'why, God knows that this one child is |
| the thought and object of my life, and yet he never prospers me--no, |
| never!' |
| |
| At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and |
| the old man motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and said |
| no more. |
| |
| We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the door by |
| which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh, which I was |
| rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it |
| was no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last. |
| |
| 'Foolish Nell!' said the old man fondling with her hair. 'She always |
| laughs at poor Kit.' |
| |
| The child laughed again more heartily than before, and I could not help |
| smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and |
| went to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels. |
| |
| Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an uncommonly wide |
| mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and certainly the most |
| comical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on |
| seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat |
| without any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now on one leg and |
| now on the other and changing them constantly, stood in the doorway, |
| looking into the parlour with the most extraordinary leer I ever |
| beheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that |
| minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life. |
| |
| 'A long way, wasn't it, Kit?' said the little old man. |
| |
| 'Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,' returned Kit. |
| |
| 'Of course you have come back hungry?' |
| |
| 'Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,' was the answer. |
| |
| The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke, and |
| thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not get at |
| his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would have |
| amused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his oddity, |
| and the relief it was to find that there was something she associated |
| with merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to her, were quite |
| irresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself was flattered |
| by the sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve his |
| gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his mouth wide open |
| and his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently. |
| |
| The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took no |
| notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was over, the |
| child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by the |
| fullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite after |
| the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh had |
| been all the time one of that sort which very little would change into |
| a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of beer |
| into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with great |
| voracity. |
| |
| 'Ah!' said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken to |
| him but that moment, 'you don't know what you say when you tell me that |
| I don't consider her.' |
| |
| 'You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first |
| appearances, my friend,' said I. |
| |
| 'No,' returned the old man thoughtfully, 'no. Come hither, Nell.' |
| |
| The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his neck. |
| |
| 'Do I love thee, Nell?' said he. 'Say--do I love thee, Nell, or no?' |
| |
| The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his |
| breast. |
| |
| 'Why dost thou sob?' said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him |
| and glancing towards me. 'Is it because thou know'st I love thee, and |
| dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well, |
| well--then let us say I love thee dearly.' |
| |
| 'Indeed, indeed you do,' replied the child with great earnestness, 'Kit |
| knows you do.' |
| |
| Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing |
| two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a |
| juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to, and |
| bawled 'Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doosn't,' after which he |
| incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a most |
| prodigious sandwich at one bite. |
| |
| 'She is poor now'--said the old man, patting the child's cheek, 'but I |
| say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been a |
| long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it |
| surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but waste and |
| riot. When WILL it come to me!' |
| |
| 'I am very happy as I am, grandfather,' said the child. |
| |
| 'Tush, tush!' returned the old man, 'thou dost not know--how should'st |
| thou!' then he muttered again between his teeth, 'The time must come, I |
| am very sure it must. It will be all the better for coming late'; and |
| then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and still holding |
| the child between his knees appeared to be insensible to everything |
| around him. By this time it wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I |
| rose to go, which recalled him to himself. |
| |
| 'One moment, sir,' he said, 'Now, Kit--near midnight, boy, and you |
| still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the |
| morning, for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good night, |
| Nell, and let him be gone!' |
| |
| 'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with merriment |
| and kindness. |
| |
| 'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy. |
| |
| 'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for whose care |
| I might have lost my little girl to-night.' |
| |
| 'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.' |
| |
| 'What do you mean?' cried the old man. |
| |
| 'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her. I'll bet |
| that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as |
| anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!' |
| |
| Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing like a |
| stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself out. |
| |
| Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when he |
| had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old man |
| said: |
| |
| 'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night, |
| but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her thanks |
| are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went away, and |
| thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of her--I am not |
| indeed.' |
| |
| I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I added, 'may |
| I ask you a question?' |
| |
| 'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?' |
| |
| 'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and |
| intelligence--has she nobody to care for her but you? Has she no other |
| companion or advisor?' |
| |
| 'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she wants no |
| other.' |
| |
| 'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a charge |
| so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain that you |
| know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man, like you, |
| and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is young and |
| promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you and this |
| little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free from |
| pain?' |
| |
| 'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence. 'I have no right |
| to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the |
| child, and she the grown person--that you have seen already. But waking |
| or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the one |
| object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you would look on |
| me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a weary life for an |
| old man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great end to gain and that |
| I keep before me.' |
| |
| Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned to |
| put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room, |
| purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing |
| patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat, and |
| stick. |
| |
| 'Those are not mine, my dear,' said I. |
| |
| 'No,' returned the child, 'they are grandfather's.' |
| |
| 'But he is not going out to-night.' |
| |
| 'Oh, yes, he is,' said the child, with a smile. |
| |
| 'And what becomes of you, my pretty one?' |
| |
| 'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.' |
| |
| I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned to |
| be, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked back to |
| the slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy place all |
| the long, dreary night. |
| |
| She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped the |
| old man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a candle to light us |
| out. Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she looked back |
| with a smile and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that he |
| plainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he merely signed to |
| me with an inclination of the head to pass out of the room before him, |
| and remained silent. I had no resource but to comply. |
| |
| When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle, turned to |
| say good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the old |
| man, who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her. |
| |
| 'Sleep soundly, Nell,' he said in a low voice, 'and angels guard thy |
| bed! Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.' |
| |
| 'No, indeed,' answered the child fervently, 'they make me feel so |
| happy!' |
| |
| 'That's well; I know they do; they should,' said the old man. 'Bless |
| thee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home.' |
| |
| 'You'll not ring twice,' returned the child. 'The bell wakes me, even |
| in the middle of a dream.' |
| |
| With this, they separated. The child opened the door (now guarded by a |
| shutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left the house) and |
| with another farewell whose clear and tender note I have recalled a |
| thousand times, held it until we had passed out. The old man paused a |
| moment while it was gently closed and fastened on the inside, and |
| satisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow pace. At the |
| street-corner he stopped, and regarding me with a troubled countenance |
| said that our ways were widely different and that he must take his |
| leave. I would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than might |
| have been expected in one of his appearance, he hurried away. I could |
| see that twice or thrice he looked back as if to ascertain if I were |
| still watching him, or perhaps to assure himself that I was not |
| following at a distance. The obscurity of the night favoured his |
| disappearance, and his figure was soon beyond my sight. |
| |
| I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to |
| depart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked wistfully |
| into the street we had lately quitted, and after a time directed my |
| steps that way. I passed and repassed the house, and stopped and |
| listened at the door; all was dark, and silent as the grave. |
| |
| Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all |
| possible harm that might happen to the child--of fires and robberies |
| and even murder--and feeling as if some evil must ensue if I turned my |
| back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the street |
| brought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed the road |
| and looked up at the house to assure myself that the noise had not come |
| from there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless as before. |
| |
| There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and |
| pretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by, and |
| now and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled |
| homewards, but these interruptions were not frequent and soon ceased. |
| The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down, promising myself that |
| every time should be the last, and breaking faith with myself on some |
| new plea as often as I did so. |
| |
| The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks and |
| bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I had |
| a strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good purpose. I |
| had only come to know the fact through the innocence of the child, and |
| though the old man was by at the time, and saw my undisguised surprise, |
| he had preserved a strange mystery upon the subject and offered no word |
| of explanation. These reflections naturally recalled again more |
| strongly than before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his |
| restless anxious looks. His affection for the child might not be |
| inconsistent with villany of the worst kind; even that very affection |
| was in itself an extraordinary contradiction, or how could he leave her |
| thus? Disposed as I was to think badly of him, I never doubted that his |
| love for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remembering what |
| had passed between us, and the tone of voice in which he had called her |
| by her name. |
| |
| 'Stay here of course,' the child had said in answer to my question, 'I |
| always do!' What could take him from home by night, and every night! I |
| called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret |
| deeds committed in great towns and escaping detection for a long series |
| of years; wild as many of these stories were, I could not find one |
| adapted to this mystery, which only became the more impenetrable, in |
| proportion as I sought to solve it. |
| |
| Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all tending |
| to the same point, I continued to pace the street for two long hours; |
| at length the rain began to descend heavily, and then over-powered by |
| fatigue though no less interested than I had been at first, I engaged |
| the nearest coach and so got home. A cheerful fire was blazing on the |
| hearth, the lamp burnt brightly, my clock received me with its old |
| familiar welcome; everything was quiet, warm and cheering, and in happy |
| contrast to the gloom and darkness I had quitted. |
| |
| But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same thoughts recurred |
| and the same images retained possession of my brain. I had ever before |
| me the old dark murky rooms--the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly |
| silent air--the faces all awry, grinning from wood and stone--the dust |
| and rust and worm that lives in wood--and alone in the midst of all |
| this lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle |
| slumber, smiling through her light and sunny dreams. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 2 |
| |
| After combating, for nearly a week, the feeling which impelled me to |
| revisit the place I had quitted under the circumstances already |
| detailed, I yielded to it at length; and determining that this time I |
| would present myself by the light of day, bent my steps thither early |
| in the morning. |
| |
| I walked past the house, and took several turns in the street, with |
| that kind of hesitation which is natural to a man who is conscious that |
| the visit he is about to pay is unexpected, and may not be very |
| acceptable. However, as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not |
| appear likely that I should be recognized by those within, if I |
| continued merely to pass up and down before it, I soon conquered this |
| irresolution, and found myself in the Curiosity Dealer's warehouse. |
| |
| The old man and another person were together in the back part, and |
| there seemed to have been high words between them, for their voices |
| which were raised to a very high pitch suddenly stopped on my entering, |
| and the old man advancing hastily towards me, said in a tremulous tone |
| that he was very glad I had come. |
| |
| 'You interrupted us at a critical moment,' said he, pointing to the man |
| whom I had found in company with him; 'this fellow will murder me one |
| of these days. He would have done so, long ago, if he had dared.' |
| |
| 'Bah! You would swear away my life if you could,' returned the other, |
| after bestowing a stare and a frown on me; 'we all know that!' |
| |
| 'I almost think I could,' cried the old man, turning feebly upon him. |
| 'If oaths, or prayers, or words, could rid me of you, they should. I |
| would be quit of you, and would be relieved if you were dead.' |
| |
| 'I know it,' returned the other. 'I said so, didn't I? But neither |
| oaths, or prayers, nor words, WILL kill me, and therefore I live, and |
| mean to live.' |
| |
| 'And his mother died!' cried the old man, passionately clasping his |
| hands and looking upward; 'and this is Heaven's justice!' |
| |
| The other stood lounging with his foot upon a chair, and regarded him |
| with a contemptuous sneer. He was a young man of one-and-twenty or |
| thereabouts; well made, and certainly handsome, though the expression |
| of his face was far from prepossessing, having in common with his |
| manner and even his dress, a dissipated, insolent air which repelled |
| one. |
| |
| 'Justice or no justice,' said the young fellow, 'here I am and here I |
| shall stop till such time as I think fit to go, unless you send for |
| assistance to put me out--which you won't do, I know. I tell you again |
| that I want to see my sister.' |
| |
| 'YOUR sister!' said the old man bitterly. |
| |
| 'Ah! You can't change the relationship,' returned the other. 'If you |
| could, you'd have done it long ago. I want to see my sister, that you |
| keep cooped up here, poisoning her mind with your sly secrets and |
| pretending an affection for her that you may work her to death, and add |
| a few scraped shillings every week to the money you can hardly count. I |
| want to see her; and I will.' |
| |
| 'Here's a moralist to talk of poisoned minds! Here's a generous spirit |
| to scorn scraped-up shillings!' cried the old man, turning from him to |
| me. 'A profligate, sir, who has forfeited every claim not only upon |
| those who have the misfortune to be of his blood, but upon society |
| which knows nothing of him but his misdeeds. A liar too,' he added, in |
| a lower voice as he drew closer to me, 'who knows how dear she is to |
| me, and seeks to wound me even there, because there is a stranger |
| nearby.' |
| |
| 'Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather,' said the young fellow |
| catching at the word, 'nor I to them, I hope. The best they can do, is |
| to keep an eye to their business and leave me to mine. There's a friend |
| of mine waiting outside, and as it seems that I may have to wait some |
| time, I'll call him in, with your leave.' |
| |
| Saying this, he stepped to the door, and looking down the street |
| beckoned several times to some unseen person, who, to judge from the |
| air of impatience with which these signals were accompanied, required a |
| great quantity of persuasion to induce him to advance. At length there |
| sauntered up, on the opposite side of the way--with a bad pretense of |
| passing by accident--a figure conspicuous for its dirty smartness, |
| which after a great many frowns and jerks of the head, in resistance of |
| the invitation, ultimately crossed the road and was brought into the |
| shop. |
| |
| 'There. It's Dick Swiveller,' said the young fellow, pushing him in. |
| 'Sit down, Swiveller.' |
| |
| 'But is the old min agreeable?' said Mr Swiveller in an undertone. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller complied, and looking about him with a propitiatory smile, |
| observed that last week was a fine week for the ducks, and this week |
| was a fine week for the dust; he also observed that whilst standing by |
| the post at the street-corner, he had observed a pig with a straw in |
| his mouth issuing out of the tobacco-shop, from which appearance he |
| augured that another fine week for the ducks was approaching, and that |
| rain would certainly ensue. He furthermore took occasion to apologize |
| for any negligence that might be perceptible in his dress, on the |
| ground that last night he had had 'the sun very strong in his eyes'; by |
| which expression he was understood to convey to his hearers in the most |
| delicate manner possible, the information that he had been extremely |
| drunk. |
| |
| 'But what,' said Mr Swiveller with a sigh, 'what is the odds so long as |
| the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conwiviality, and the wing |
| of friendship never moults a feather! What is the odds so long as the |
| spirit is expanded by means of rosy wine, and the present moment is the |
| least happiest of our existence!' |
| |
| 'You needn't act the chairman here,' said his friend, half aside. |
| |
| 'Fred!' cried Mr Swiveller, tapping his nose, 'a word to the wise is |
| sufficient for them--we may be good and happy without riches, Fred. |
| Say not another syllable. I know my cue; smart is the word. Only one |
| little whisper, Fred--is the old min friendly?' |
| |
| 'Never you mind,' replied his friend. |
| |
| 'Right again, quite right,' said Mr Swiveller, 'caution is the word, |
| and caution is the act.' with that, he winked as if in preservation of |
| some deep secret, and folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, |
| looked up at the ceiling with profound gravity. |
| |
| It was perhaps not very unreasonable to suspect from what had already |
| passed, that Mr Swiveller was not quite recovered from the effects of |
| the powerful sunlight to which he had made allusion; but if no such |
| suspicion had been awakened by his speech, his wiry hair, dull eyes, |
| and sallow face would still have been strong witnesses against him. His |
| attire was not, as he had himself hinted, remarkable for the nicest |
| arrangement, but was in a state of disorder which strongly induced the |
| idea that he had gone to bed in it. It consisted of a brown body-coat |
| with a great many brass buttons up the front and only one behind, a |
| bright check neckerchief, a plaid waistcoat, soiled white trousers, and |
| a very limp hat, worn with the wrong side foremost, to hide a hole in |
| the brim. The breast of his coat was ornamented with an outside pocket |
| from which there peeped forth the cleanest end of a very large and very |
| ill-favoured handkerchief; his dirty wristbands were pulled on as far |
| as possible and ostentatiously folded back over his cuffs; he displayed |
| no gloves, and carried a yellow cane having at the top a bone hand with |
| the semblance of a ring on its little finger and a black ball in its |
| grasp. With all these personal advantages (to which may be added a |
| strong savour of tobacco-smoke, and a prevailing greasiness of |
| appearance) Mr Swiveller leant back in his chair with his eyes fixed on |
| the ceiling, and occasionally pitching his voice to the needful key, |
| obliged the company with a few bars of an intensely dismal air, and |
| then, in the middle of a note, relapsed into his former silence. |
| |
| The old man sat himself down in a chair, and with folded hands, looked |
| sometimes at his grandson and sometimes at his strange companion, as if |
| he were utterly powerless and had no resource but to leave them to do |
| as they pleased. The young man reclined against a table at no great |
| distance from his friend, in apparent indifference to everything that |
| had passed; and I--who felt the difficulty of any interference, |
| notwithstanding that the old man had appealed to me, both by words and |
| looks--made the best feint I could of being occupied in examining some |
| of the goods that were disposed for sale, and paying very little |
| attention to a person before me. |
| |
| The silence was not of long duration, for Mr Swiveller, after favouring |
| us with several melodious assurances that his heart was in the |
| Highlands, and that he wanted but his Arab steed as a preliminary to |
| the achievement of great feats of valour and loyalty, removed his eyes |
| from the ceiling and subsided into prose again. |
| |
| 'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller stopping short, as if the idea had suddenly |
| occurred to him, and speaking in the same audible whisper as before, |
| 'is the old min friendly?' |
| |
| 'What does it matter?' returned his friend peevishly. |
| |
| 'No, but IS he?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Yes, of course. What do I care whether he is or not?' |
| |
| Emboldened as it seemed by this reply to enter into a more general |
| conversation, Mr Swiveller plainly laid himself out to captivate our |
| attention. |
| |
| He began by remarking that soda-water, though a good thing in the |
| abstract, was apt to lie cold upon the stomach unless qualified with |
| ginger, or a small infusion of brandy, which latter article he held to |
| be preferable in all cases, saving for the one consideration of |
| expense. Nobody venturing to dispute these positions, he proceeded to |
| observe that the human hair was a great retainer of tobacco-smoke, and |
| that the young gentlemen of Westminster and Eton, after eating vast |
| quantities of apples to conceal any scent of cigars from their anxious |
| friends, were usually detected in consequence of their heads possessing |
| this remarkable property; when he concluded that if the Royal Society |
| would turn their attention to the circumstance, and endeavour to find |
| in the resources of science a means of preventing such untoward |
| revelations, they might indeed be looked upon as benefactors to |
| mankind. These opinions being equally incontrovertible with those he |
| had already pronounced, he went on to inform us that Jamaica rum, |
| though unquestionably an agreeable spirit of great richness and |
| flavour, had the drawback of remaining constantly present to the taste |
| next day; and nobody being venturous enough to argue this point either, |
| he increased in confidence and became yet more companionable and |
| communicative. |
| |
| 'It's a devil of a thing, gentlemen,' said Mr Swiveller, 'when |
| relations fall out and disagree. If the wing of friendship should never |
| moult a feather, the wing of relationship should never be clipped, but |
| be always expanded and serene. Why should a grandson and grandfather |
| peg away at each other with mutual wiolence when all might be bliss and |
| concord. Why not jine hands and forgit it?' |
| |
| 'Hold your tongue,' said his friend. |
| |
| 'Sir,' replied Mr Swiveller, 'don't you interrupt the chair. |
| Gentlemen, how does the case stand, upon the present occasion? Here is |
| a jolly old grandfather--I say it with the utmost respect--and here is |
| a wild, young grandson. The jolly old grandfather says to the wild |
| young grandson, "I have brought you up and educated you, Fred; I have |
| put you in the way of getting on in life; you have bolted a little out |
| of course, as young fellows often do; and you shall never have another |
| chance, nor the ghost of half a one." The wild young grandson makes |
| answer to this and says, "You're as rich as rich can be; you have been |
| at no uncommon expense on my account, you're saving up piles of money |
| for my little sister that lives with you in a secret, stealthy, |
| hugger-muggering kind of way and with no manner of enjoyment--why can't |
| you stand a trifle for your grown-up relation?" The jolly old |
| grandfather unto this, retorts, not only that he declines to fork out |
| with that cheerful readiness which is always so agreeable and pleasant |
| in a gentleman of his time of life, but that he will bow up, and call |
| names, and make reflections whenever they meet. Then the plain question |
| is, an't it a pity that this state of things should continue, and how |
| much better would it be for the gentleman to hand over a reasonable |
| amount of tin, and make it all right and comfortable?' |
| |
| Having delivered this oration with a great many waves and flourishes of |
| the hand, Mr Swiveller abruptly thrust the head of his cane into his |
| mouth as if to prevent himself from impairing the effect of his speech |
| by adding one other word. |
| |
| 'Why do you hunt and persecute me, God help me!' said the old man |
| turning to his grandson. 'Why do you bring your prolifigate companions |
| here? How often am I to tell you that my life is one of care and |
| self-denial, and that I am poor?' |
| |
| 'How often am I to tell you,' returned the other, looking coldly at |
| him, 'that I know better?' |
| |
| 'You have chosen your own path,' said the old man. 'Follow it. Leave |
| Nell and me to toil and work.' |
| |
| 'Nell will be a woman soon,' returned the other, 'and, bred in your |
| faith, she'll forget her brother unless he shows himself sometimes.' |
| |
| 'Take care,' said the old man with sparkling eyes, 'that she does not |
| forget you when you would have her memory keenest. Take care that the |
| day don't come when you walk barefoot in the streets, and she rides by |
| in a gay carriage of her own.' |
| |
| 'You mean when she has your money?' retorted the other. 'How like a |
| poor man he talks!' |
| |
| 'And yet,' said the old man dropping his voice and speaking like one |
| who thinks aloud, 'how poor we are, and what a life it is! The cause is |
| a young child's guiltless of all harm or wrong, but nothing goes well |
| with it! Hope and patience, hope and patience!' |
| |
| These words were uttered in too low a tone to reach the ears of the |
| young men. Mr Swiveller appeared to think that they implied some mental |
| struggle consequent upon the powerful effect of his address, for he |
| poked his friend with his cane and whispered his conviction that he had |
| administered 'a clincher,' and that he expected a commission on the |
| profits. Discovering his mistake after a while, he appeared to grow |
| rather sleepy and discontented, and had more than once suggested the |
| propriety of an immediate departure, when the door opened, and the |
| child herself appeared. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 3 |
| |
| The child was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard |
| features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as to be quite a |
| dwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a |
| giant. His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his mouth and |
| chin, bristly with the stubble of a coarse hard beard; and his |
| complexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or wholesome. |
| But what added most to the grotesque expression of his face was a |
| ghastly smile, which, appearing to be the mere result of habit and to |
| have no connection with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly |
| revealed the few discoloured fangs that were yet scattered in his |
| mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. His dress consisted of |
| a large high-crowned hat, a worn dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes, |
| and a dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp and crumpled to |
| disclose the greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair as he had |
| was of a grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his temples, and |
| hanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears. His hands, which were of a |
| rough, coarse grain, were very dirty; his fingernails were crooked, |
| long, and yellow. |
| |
| There was ample time to note these particulars, for besides that they |
| were sufficiently obvious without very close observation, some moments |
| elapsed before any one broke silence. The child advanced timidly |
| towards her brother and put her hand in his, the dwarf (if we may call |
| him so) glanced keenly at all present, and the curiosity-dealer, who |
| plainly had not expected his uncouth visitor, seemed disconcerted and |
| embarrassed. |
| |
| 'Ah!' said the dwarf, who with his hand stretched out above his eyes |
| had been surveying the young man attentively, 'that should be your |
| grandson, neighbour!' |
| |
| 'Say rather that he should not be,' replied the old man. 'But he is.' |
| |
| 'And that?' said the dwarf, pointing to Dick Swiveller. |
| |
| 'Some friend of his, as welcome here as he,' said the old man. |
| |
| 'And that?' inquired the dwarf, wheeling round and pointing straight at |
| me. |
| |
| 'A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home the other night when |
| she lost her way, coming from your house.' |
| |
| The little man turned to the child as if to chide her or express his |
| wonder, but as she was talking to the young man, held his peace, and |
| bent his head to listen. |
| |
| 'Well, Nelly,' said the young fellow aloud. 'Do they teach you to hate |
| me, eh?' |
| |
| 'No, no. For shame. Oh, no!' cried the child. |
| |
| 'To love me, perhaps?' pursued her brother with a sneer. |
| |
| 'To do neither,' she returned. 'They never speak to me about you. |
| Indeed they never do.' |
| |
| 'I dare be bound for that,' he said, darting a bitter look at the |
| grandfather. 'I dare be bound for that Nell. Oh! I believe you there!' |
| |
| 'But I love you dearly, Fred,' said the child. |
| |
| 'No doubt!' |
| |
| 'I do indeed, and always will,' the child repeated with great emotion, |
| 'but oh! If you would leave off vexing him and making him unhappy, then |
| I could love you more.' |
| |
| 'I see!' said the young man, as he stooped carelessly over the child, |
| and having kissed her, pushed her from him: 'There--get you away now |
| you have said your lesson. You needn't whimper. We part good friends |
| enough, if that's the matter.' |
| |
| He remained silent, following her with his eyes, until she had gained |
| her little room and closed the door; and then turning to the dwarf, |
| said abruptly, |
| |
| 'Harkee, Mr--' |
| |
| 'Meaning me?' returned the dwarf. 'Quilp is my name. You might |
| remember. It's not a long one--Daniel Quilp.' |
| |
| 'Harkee, Mr Quilp, then,' pursued the other, 'You have some influence |
| with my grandfather there.' |
| |
| 'Some,' said Mr Quilp emphatically. |
| |
| 'And are in a few of his mysteries and secrets.' |
| |
| 'A few,' replied Quilp, with equal dryness. |
| |
| 'Then let me tell him once for all, through you, that I will come into |
| and go out of this place as often as I like, so long as he keeps Nell |
| here; and that if he wants to be quit of me, he must first be quit of |
| her. What have I done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned and |
| dreaded as if I brought the plague? He'll tell you that I have no |
| natural affection; and that I care no more for Nell, for her own sake, |
| than I do for him. Let him say so. I care for the whim, then, of coming |
| to and fro and reminding her of my existence. I WILL see her when I |
| please. That's my point. I came here to-day to maintain it, and I'll |
| come here again fifty times with the same object and always with the |
| same success. I said I would stop till I had gained it. I have done |
| so, and now my visit's ended. Come Dick.' |
| |
| 'Stop!' cried Mr Swiveller, as his companion turned toward the door. |
| 'Sir!' |
| |
| 'Sir, I am your humble servant,' said Mr Quilp, to whom the |
| monosyllable was addressed. |
| |
| 'Before I leave the gay and festive scene, and halls of dazzling light, |
| sir,' said Mr Swiveller, 'I will with your permission, attempt a slight |
| remark. I came here, sir, this day, under the impression that the old |
| min was friendly.' |
| |
| 'Proceed, sir,' said Daniel Quilp; for the orator had made a sudden |
| stop. |
| |
| 'Inspired by this idea and the sentiments it awakened, sir, and feeling |
| as a mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and bullying, was not the |
| sort of thing calculated to expand the souls and promote the social |
| harmony of the contending parties, I took upon myself to suggest a |
| course which is THE course to be adopted to the present occasion. Will |
| you allow me to whisper half a syllable, sir?' |
| |
| Without waiting for the permission he sought, Mr Swiveller stepped up |
| to the dwarf, and leaning on his shoulder and stooping down to get at |
| his ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible to all present, |
| |
| 'The watch-word to the old min is--fork.' |
| |
| 'Is what?' demanded Quilp. |
| |
| 'Is fork, sir, fork,' replied Mr Swiveller slapping his pocket. 'You |
| are awake, sir?' |
| |
| The dwarf nodded. Mr Swiveller drew back and nodded likewise, then drew |
| a little further back and nodded again, and so on. By these means he in |
| time reached the door, where he gave a great cough to attract the |
| dwarf's attention and gain an opportunity of expressing in dumb show, |
| the closest confidence and most inviolable secrecy. Having performed |
| the serious pantomime that was necessary for the due conveyance of |
| these idea, he cast himself upon his friend's track, and vanished. |
| |
| 'Humph!' said the dwarf with a sour look and a shrug of his shoulders, |
| 'so much for dear relations. Thank God I acknowledge none! Nor need you |
| either,' he added, turning to the old man, 'if you were not as weak as |
| a reed, and nearly as senseless.' |
| |
| 'What would you have me do?' he retorted in a kind of helpless |
| desperation. 'It is easy to talk and sneer. What would you have me do?' |
| |
| 'What would I do if I was in your case?' said the dwarf. |
| |
| 'Something violent, no doubt.' |
| |
| 'You're right there,' returned the little man, highly gratified by the |
| compliment, for such he evidently considered it; and grinning like a |
| devil as he rubbed his dirty hands together. 'Ask Mrs Quilp, pretty Mrs |
| Quilp, obedient, timid, loving Mrs Quilp. But that reminds me--I have |
| left her all alone, and she will be anxious and know not a moment's |
| peace till I return. I know she's always in that condition when I'm |
| away, thought she doesn't dare to say so, unless I lead her on and tell |
| her she may speak freely and I won't be angry with her. Oh! |
| well-trained Mrs Quilp.' |
| |
| The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous head and little |
| body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round, and round, and round |
| again--with something fantastic even in his manner of performing this |
| slight action--and, dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in |
| the air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of exultation that an imp |
| might have copied and appropriated to himself. |
| |
| 'Here,' he said, putting his hand into his breast and sidling up to the |
| old man as he spoke; 'I brought it myself for fear of accidents, as, |
| being in gold, it was something large and heavy for Nell to carry in |
| her bag. She need be accustomed to such loads betimes though, |
| neighbor, for she will carry weight when you are dead.' |
| |
| 'Heaven send she may! I hope so,' said the old man with something like |
| a groan. |
| |
| 'Hope so!' echoed the dwarf, approaching close to his ear; 'neighbour, |
| I would I knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk. But |
| you are a deep man, and keep your secret close.' |
| |
| 'My secret!' said the other with a haggard look. 'Yes, you're |
| right--I--I--keep it close--very close.' |
| |
| He said no more, but taking the money turned away with a slow, |
| uncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his head like a weary and |
| dejected man. The dwarf watched him sharply, while he passed into the |
| little sitting-room and locked it in an iron safe above the |
| chimney-piece; and after musing for a short space, prepared to take his |
| leave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs Quilp would |
| certainly be in fits on his return. |
| |
| 'And so, neighbour,' he added, 'I'll turn my face homewards, leaving my |
| love for Nelly and hoping she may never lose her way again, though her |
| doing so HAS procured me an honour I didn't expect.' With that he bowed |
| and leered at me, and with a keen glance around which seemed to |
| comprehend every object within his range of vision, however, small or |
| trivial, went his way. |
| |
| I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old man had always |
| opposed it and entreated me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties on |
| our being left along, and adverted with many thanks to the former |
| occasion of our being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions, |
| and sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures and a few |
| old medals which he placed before me. It needed no great pressing to |
| induce me to stay, for if my curiosity has been excited on the occasion |
| of my first visit, it certainly was not diminished now. |
| |
| Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needle-work to the table, |
| sat by the old man's side. It was pleasant to observe the fresh flowers |
| in the room, the pet bird with a green bough shading his little cage, |
| the breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle through the |
| old dull house and hover round the child. It was curious, but not so |
| pleasant, to turn from the beauty and grace of the girl, to the |
| stooping figure, care-worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man. As |
| he grew weaker and more feeble, what would become of this lonely little |
| creature; poor protector as he was, say that he died--what would be her |
| fate, then? |
| |
| The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid his hand on hers, |
| and spoke aloud. |
| |
| 'I'll be of better cheer, Nell,' he said; 'there must be good fortune |
| in store for thee--I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such miseries |
| must fall on thy innocent head without it, that I cannot believe but |
| that, being tempted, it will come at last!' |
| |
| She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no answer. |
| |
| 'When I think,' said he, 'of the many years--many in thy short |
| life--that thou has lived with me; of my monotonous existence, knowing |
| no companions of thy own age nor any childish pleasures; of the |
| solitude in which thou has grown to be what thou art, and in which thou |
| hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind but one old man; I sometimes |
| fear I have dealt hardly by thee, Nell.' |
| |
| 'Grandfather!' cried the child in unfeigned surprise. |
| |
| 'Not in intention--no no,' said he. 'I have ever looked forward to the |
| time that should enable thee to mix among the gayest and prettiest, and |
| take thy station with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I still |
| look forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee, meanwhile, how |
| have I fitted thee for struggles with the world? The poor bird yonder |
| is as well qualified to encounter it, and be turned adrift upon its |
| mercies--Hark! I hear Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go to him.' |
| |
| She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and put her arms |
| about the old man's neck, then left him and hurried away again--but |
| faster this time, to hide her falling tears. |
| |
| 'A word in your ear, sir,' said the old man in a hurried whisper. 'I |
| have been rendered uneasy by what you said the other night, and can |
| only plead that I have done all for the best--that it is too late to |
| retract, if I could (though I cannot)--and that I hope to triumph yet. |
| All is for her sake. I have borne great poverty myself, and would spare |
| her the sufferings that poverty carries with it. I would spare her the |
| miseries that brought her mother, my own dear child, to an early grave. |
| I would leave her--not with resources which could be easily spent or |
| squandered away, but with what would place her beyond the reach of want |
| for ever. You mark me sir? She shall have no pittance, but a |
| fortune--Hush! I can say no more than that, now or at any other time, |
| and she is here again!' |
| |
| The eagerness with which all this was poured into my ear, the trembling |
| of the hand with which he clasped my arm, the strained and starting |
| eyes he fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and agitation of his manner, |
| filled me with amazement. All that I had heard and seen, and a great |
| part of what he had said himself, led me to suppose that he was a |
| wealthy man. I could form no comprehension of his character, unless he |
| were one of those miserable wretches who, having made gain the sole end |
| and object of their lives and having succeeded in amassing great |
| riches, are constantly tortured by the dread of poverty, and beset by |
| fears of loss and ruin. Many things he had said which I had been at a |
| loss to understand, were quite reconcilable with the idea thus |
| presented to me, and at length I concluded that beyond all doubt he was |
| one of this unhappy race. |
| |
| The opinion was not the result of hasty consideration, for which indeed |
| there was no opportunity at that time, as the child came directly, and |
| soon occupied herself in preparations for giving Kit a writing lesson, |
| of which it seemed he had a couple every week, and one regularly on |
| that evening, to the great mirth and enjoyment both of himself and his |
| instructress. To relate how it was a long time before his modesty could |
| be so far prevailed upon as it admit of his sitting down in the |
| parlour, in the presence of an unknown gentleman--how, when he did set |
| down, he tucked up his sleeves and squared his elbows and put his face |
| close to the copy-book and squinted horribly at the lines--how, from |
| the very first moment of having the pen in his hand, he began to wallow |
| in blots, and to daub himself with ink up to the very roots of his |
| hair--how, if he did by accident form a letter properly, he immediately |
| smeared it out again with his arm in his preparations to make |
| another--how, at every fresh mistake, there was a fresh burst of |
| merriment from the child and louder and not less hearty laugh from poor |
| Kit himself--and how there was all the way through, notwithstanding, a |
| gentle wish on her part to teach, and an anxious desire on his to |
| learn--to relate all these particulars would no doubt occupy more space |
| and time than they deserve. It will be sufficient to say that the |
| lesson was given--that evening passed and night came on--that the old |
| man again grew restless and impatient--that he quitted the house |
| secretly at the same hour as before--and that the child was once more |
| left alone within its gloomy walls. |
| |
| And now that I have carried this history so far in my own character and |
| introduced these personages to the reader, I shall for the convenience |
| of the narrative detach myself from its further course, and leave those |
| who have prominent and necessary parts in it to speak and act for |
| themselves. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 4 |
| |
| Mr and Mrs Quilp resided on Tower Hill; and in her bower on Tower Hill |
| Mrs Quilp was left to pine the absence of her lord, when he quitted her |
| on the business which he had already seen to transact. |
| |
| Mr Quilp could scarcely be said to be of any particular trade or |
| calling, though his pursuits were diversified and his occupations |
| numerous. He collected the rents of whole colonies of filthy streets |
| and alleys by the waterside, advanced money to the seamen and petty |
| officers of merchant vessels, had a share in the ventures of divers |
| mates of East Indiamen, smoked his smuggled cigars under the very nose |
| of the Custom House, and made appointments on 'Change with men in |
| glazed hats and round jackets pretty well every day. On the Surrey side |
| of the river was a small rat-infested dreary yard called 'Quilp's |
| Wharf,' in which were a little wooden counting-house burrowing all awry |
| in the dust as if it had fallen from the clouds and ploughed into the |
| ground; a few fragments of rusty anchors; several large iron rings; |
| some piles of rotten wood; and two or three heaps of old sheet copper, |
| crumpled, cracked, and battered. On Quilp's Wharf, Daniel Quilp was a |
| ship-breaker, yet to judge from these appearances he must either have |
| been a ship-breaker on a very small scale, or have broken his ships up |
| very small indeed. Neither did the place present any extraordinary |
| aspect of life or activity, as its only human occupant was an |
| amphibious boy in a canvas suit, whose sole change of occupation was |
| from sitting on the head of a pile and throwing stones into the mud |
| when the tide was out, to standing with his hands in his pockets gazing |
| listlessly on the motion and on the bustle of the river at high-water. |
| |
| The dwarf's lodging on Tower hill comprised, besides the needful |
| accommodation for himself and Mrs Quilp, a small sleeping-closet for |
| that lady's mother, who resided with the couple and waged perpetual war |
| with Daniel; of whom, notwithstanding, she stood in no slight dread. |
| Indeed, the ugly creature contrived by some means or other--whether by |
| his ugliness or his ferocity or his natural cunning is no great |
| matter--to impress with a wholesome fear of his anger, most of those |
| with whom he was brought into daily contact and communication. Over |
| nobody had he such complete ascendance as Mrs Quilp herself--a pretty |
| little, mild-spoken, blue-eyed woman, who having allied herself in |
| wedlock to the dwarf in one of those strange infatuations of which |
| examples are by no means scarce, performed a sound practical penance |
| for her folly, every day of her life. |
| |
| It has been said that Mrs Quilp was pining in her bower. In her bower |
| she was, but not alone, for besides the old lady her mother of whom |
| mention has recently been made, there were present some half-dozen |
| ladies of the neighborhood who had happened by a strange accident (and |
| also by a little understanding among themselves) to drop in one after |
| another, just about tea-time. This being a season favourable to |
| conversation, and the room being a cool, shady, lazy kind of place, |
| with some plants at the open window shutting out the dust, and |
| interposing pleasantly enough between the tea table within and the old |
| Tower without, it is no wonder that the ladies felt an inclination to |
| talk and linger, especially when there are taken into account the |
| additional inducements of fresh butter, new bread, shrimps, and |
| watercresses. |
| |
| Now, the ladies being together under these circumstances, it was |
| extremely natural that the discourse should turn upon the propensity of |
| mankind to tyrannize over the weaker sex, and the duty that developed |
| upon the weaker sex to resist that tyranny and assert their rights and |
| dignity. It was natural for four reasons: firstly, because Mrs Quilp |
| being a young woman and notoriously under the dominion of her husband |
| ought to be excited to rebel; secondly, because Mrs Quilp's parent was |
| known to be laudably shrewish in her disposition and inclined to resist |
| male authority; thirdly, because each visitor wished to show for |
| herself how superior she was in this respect to the generality of her |
| sex; and fourthly, because the company being accustomed to scandalise |
| each other in pairs, were deprived of their usual subject of |
| conversation now that they were all assembled in close friendship, and |
| had consequently no better employment than to attack the common enemy. |
| |
| Moved by these considerations, a stout lady opened the proceedings by |
| inquiring, with an air of great concern and sympathy, how Mr Quilp was; |
| whereunto Mr Quilp's wife's mother replied sharply, 'Oh! He was well |
| enough--nothing much was every the matter with him--and ill weeds were |
| sure to thrive.' All the ladies then sighed in concert, shook their |
| heads gravely, and looked at Mrs Quilp as a martyr. |
| |
| 'Ah!' said the spokeswoman, 'I wish you'd give her a little of your |
| advice, Mrs Jiniwin'--Mrs Quilp had been a Miss Jiniwin it should be |
| observed--'nobody knows better than you, ma'am, what us women owe to |
| ourselves.' |
| |
| 'Owe indeed, ma'am!' replied Mrs Jiniwin. 'When my poor husband, her |
| dear father, was alive, if he had ever ventured a cross word to me, I'd |
| have--' The good old lady did not finish the sentence, but she twisted |
| off the head of a shrimp with a vindictiveness which seemed to imply |
| that the action was in some degree a substitute for words. In this |
| light it was clearly understood by the other party, who immediately |
| replied with great approbation, 'You quite enter into my feelings, |
| ma'am, and it's jist what I'd do myself.' |
| |
| 'But you have no call to do it,' said Mrs Jiniwin. 'Luckily for you, |
| you have no more occasion to do it than I had.' |
| |
| 'No woman need have, if she was true to herself,' rejoined the stout |
| lady. |
| |
| 'Do you hear that, Betsy?' said Mrs Jiniwin, in a warning voice. 'How |
| often have I said the same words to you, and almost gone down my knees |
| when I spoke 'em!' |
| |
| Poor Mrs Quilp, who had looked in a state of helplessness from one face |
| of condolence to another, coloured, smiled, and shook her head |
| doubtfully. This was the signal for a general clamour, which beginning |
| in a low murmur gradually swelled into a great noise in which everybody |
| spoke at once, and all said that she being a young woman had no right |
| to set up her opinions against the experiences of those who knew so |
| much better; that it was very wrong of her not to take the advice of |
| people who had nothing at heart but her good; that it was next door to |
| being downright ungrateful to conduct herself in that manner; that if |
| she had no respect for herself she ought to have some for other women, |
| all of whom she compromised by her meekness; and that if she had no |
| respect for other women, the time would come when other women would |
| have no respect for her; and she would be very sorry for that, they |
| could tell her. Having dealt out these admonitions, the ladies fell to |
| a more powerful assault than they had yet made upon the mixed tea, new |
| bread, fresh butter, shrimps, and watercresses, and said that their |
| vexation was so great to see her going on like that, that they could |
| hardly bring themselves to eat a single morsel. |
| |
| It's all very fine to talk,' said Mrs Quilp with much simplicity, 'but |
| I know that if I was to die to-morrow, Quilp could marry anybody he |
| pleased--now that he could, I know!' |
| |
| There was quite a scream of indignation at this idea. Marry whom he |
| pleased! They would like to see him dare to think of marrying any of |
| them; they would like to see the faintest approach to such a thing. |
| One lady (a widow) was quite certain she should stab him if he hinted |
| at it. |
| |
| 'Very well,' said Mrs Quilp, nodding her head, 'as I said just now, |
| it's very easy to talk, but I say again that I know--that I'm |
| sure--Quilp has such a way with him when he likes, that the best |
| looking woman here couldn't refuse him if I was dead, and she was free, |
| and he chose to make love to her. Come!' |
| |
| Everybody bridled up at this remark, as much as to say, 'I know you |
| mean me. Let him try--that's all.' and yet for some hidden reason they |
| were all angry with the widow, and each lady whispered in her |
| neighbour's ear that it was very plain that said widow thought herself |
| the person referred to, and what a puss she was! |
| |
| 'Mother knows,' said Mrs Quilp, 'that what I say is quite correct, for |
| she often said so before we were married. Didn't you say so, mother?' |
| |
| This inquiry involved the respected lady in rather a delicate position, |
| for she certainly had been an active party in making her daughter Mrs |
| Quilp, and, besides, it was not supporting the family credit to |
| encourage the idea that she had married a man whom nobody else would |
| have. On the other hand, to exaggerate the captivating qualities of her |
| son-in-law would be to weaken the cause of revolt, in which all her |
| energies were deeply engaged. Beset by these opposing considerations, |
| Mrs Jiniwin admitted the powers of insinuation, but denied the right to |
| govern, and with a timely compliment to the stout lady brought back the |
| discussion to the point from which it had strayed. |
| |
| 'Oh! It's a sensible and proper thing indeed, what Mrs George has |
| said!' exclaimed the old lady. 'If women are only true to |
| themselves!--But Betsy isn't, and more's the shame and pity.' |
| |
| 'Before I'd let a man order me about as Quilp orders her,' said Mrs |
| George, 'before I'd consent to stand in awe of a man as she does of |
| him, I'd--I'd kill myself, and write a letter first to say he did it!' |
| |
| This remark being loudly commended and approved of, another lady (from |
| the Minories) put in her word: |
| |
| 'Mr Quilp may be a very nice man,' said this lady, 'and I supposed |
| there's no doubt he is, because Mrs Quilp says he is, and Mrs Jiniwin |
| says he is, and they ought to know, or nobody does. But still he is not |
| quite a--what one calls a handsome man, nor quite a young man neither, |
| which might be a little excuse for him if anything could be; whereas |
| his wife is young, and is good-looking, and is a woman--which is the |
| greatest thing after all.' |
| |
| This last clause being delivered with extraordinary pathos, elicited a |
| corresponding murmer from the hearers, stimulated by which the lady |
| went on to remark that if such a husband was cross and unreasonable |
| with such a wife, then-- |
| |
| 'If he is!' interposed the mother, putting down her tea-cup and |
| brushing the crumbs out of her lap, preparatory to making a solemn |
| declaration. 'If he is! He is the greatest tyrant that every lived, she |
| daren't call her soul her own, he makes her tremble with a word and |
| even with a look, he frightens her to death, and she hasn't the spirit |
| to give him a word back, no, not a single word.' |
| |
| Notwithstanding that the fact had been notorious beforehand to all the |
| tea-drinkers, and had been discussed and expatiated on at every |
| tea-drinking in the neighbourhood for the last twelve months, this |
| official communication was no sooner made than they all began to talk |
| at once and to vie with each other in vehemence and volubility. Mrs |
| George remarked that people would talk, that people had often said this |
| to her before, that Mrs Simmons then and there present had told her so |
| twenty times, that she had always said, 'No, Henrietta Simmons, unless |
| I see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears, I never will |
| believe it.' Mrs Simmons corroborated this testimony and added strong |
| evidence of her own. The lady from the Minories recounted a successful |
| course of treatment under which she had placed her own husband, who, |
| from manifesting one month after marriage unequivocal symptoms of the |
| tiger, had by this means become subdued into a perfect lamb. Another |
| lady recounted her own personal struggle and final triumph, in the |
| course whereof she had found it necessary to call in her mother and two |
| aunts, and to weep incessantly night and day for six weeks. A third, |
| who in the general confusion could secure no other listener, fastened |
| herself upon a young woman still unmarried who happened to be amongst |
| them, and conjured her, as she valued her own peace of mind and |
| happiness to profit by this solemn occasion, to take example from the |
| weakness of Mrs Quilp, and from that time forth to direct her whole |
| thoughts to taming and subduing the rebellious spirit of man. The noise |
| was at its height, and half the company had elevated their voices into |
| a perfect shriek in order to drown the voices of the other half, when |
| Mrs Jiniwin was seen to change colour and shake her forefinger |
| stealthily, as if exhorting them to silence. Then, and not until then, |
| Daniel Quilp himself, the cause and occasion of all this clamour, was |
| observed to be in the room, looking on and listening with profound |
| attention. |
| |
| 'Go on, ladies, go on,' said Daniel. 'Mrs Quilp, pray ask the ladies to |
| stop to supper, and have a couple of lobsters and something light and |
| palatable.' |
| |
| 'I--I--didn't ask them to tea, Quilp,' stammered his wife. 'It's quite |
| an accident.' |
| |
| 'So much the better, Mrs Quilp; these accidental parties are always the |
| pleasantest,' said the dwarf, rubbing his hands so hard that he seemed |
| to be engaged in manufacturing, of the dirt with which they were |
| encrusted, little charges for popguns. 'What! Not going, ladies, you |
| are not going, surely!' |
| |
| His fair enemies tossed their heads slightly as they sought their |
| respective bonnets and shawls, but left all verbal contention to Mrs |
| Jiniwin, who finding herself in the position of champion, made a faint |
| struggle to sustain the character. |
| |
| 'And why not stop to supper, Quilp,' said the old lady, 'if my daughter |
| had a mind?' |
| |
| 'To be sure,' rejoined Daniel. 'Why not?' |
| |
| 'There's nothing dishonest or wrong in a supper, I hope?' said Mrs |
| Jiniwin. |
| |
| 'Surely not,' returned the dwarf. 'Why should there be? Nor anything |
| unwholesome, either, unless there's lobster-salad or prawns, which I'm |
| told are not good for digestion.' |
| |
| 'And you wouldn't like your wife to be attacked with that, or anything |
| else that would make her uneasy would you?' said Mrs Jiniwin. |
| |
| 'Not for a score of worlds,' replied the dwarf with a grin. 'Not even |
| to have a score of mothers-in-law at the same time--and what a blessing |
| that would be!' |
| |
| 'My daughter's your wife, Mr Quilp, certainly,' said the old lady with |
| a giggle, meant for satirical and to imply that he needed to be |
| reminded of the fact; 'your wedded wife.' |
| |
| 'So she is, certainly. So she is,' observed the dwarf. |
| |
| 'And she has a right to do as she likes, I hope, Quilp,' said the |
| old lady trembling, partly with anger and partly with a secret fear of |
| her impish son-in-law. |
| |
| 'Hope she has!' he replied. 'Oh! Don't you know she has? Don't you know |
| she has, Mrs Jiniwin? |
| |
| 'I know she ought to have, Quilp, and would have, if she was of my way |
| of thinking.' |
| |
| 'Why an't you of your mother's way of thinking, my dear?' said the |
| dwarf, turing round and addressing his wife, 'why don't you always |
| imitate your mother, my dear? She's the ornament of her sex--your |
| father said so every day of his life. I am sure he did.' |
| |
| 'Her father was a blessed creetur, Quilp, and worthy twenty thousand of |
| some people,' said Mrs Jiniwin; 'twenty hundred million thousand.' |
| |
| 'I should like to have known him,' remarked the dwarf. 'I dare say he |
| was a blessed creature then; but I'm sure he is now. It was a happy |
| release. I believe he had suffered a long time?' |
| |
| The old lady gave a gasp, but nothing came of it; Quilp resumed, with |
| the same malice in his eye and the same sarcastic politeness on his |
| tongue. |
| |
| 'You look ill, Mrs Jiniwin; I know you have been exciting yourself too |
| much--talking perhaps, for it is your weakness. Go to bed. Do go to |
| bed.' |
| |
| 'I shall go when I please, Quilp, and not before.' |
| |
| 'But please to do now. Do please to go now,' said the dwarf. |
| |
| The old woman looked angrily at him, but retreated as he advanced, and |
| falling back before him, suffered him to shut the door upon her and |
| bolt her out among the guests, who were by this time crowding |
| downstairs. Being left along with his wife, who sat trembling in a |
| corner with her eyes fixed upon the ground, the little man planted |
| himself before her, and folding his arms looked steadily at her for a |
| long time without speaking. |
| |
| 'Mrs Quilp,' he said at last. |
| |
| 'Yes, Quilp,' she replead meekly. |
| |
| Instead of pursuing the theme he had in his mind, Quilp folded his arms |
| again, and looked at her more sternly than before, while she averted |
| her eyes and kept them on the ground. |
| |
| 'Mrs Quilp.' |
| |
| 'Yes, Quilp.' |
| |
| 'If ever you listen to these beldames again, I'll bite you.' |
| |
| With this laconic threat, which he accompanied with a snarl that gave |
| him the appearance of being particularly in earnest, Mr Quilp bade her |
| clear the teaboard away, and bring the rum. The spirit being set before |
| him in a huge case-bottle, which had originally come out of some ship's |
| locker, he settled himself in an arm-chair with his large head and face |
| squeezed up against the back, and his little legs planted on the table. |
| |
| 'Now, Mrs Quilp,' he said; 'I feel in a smoking humour, and shall |
| probably blaze away all night. But sit where you are, if you please, in |
| case I want you.' |
| |
| His wife returned no other reply than the necessary 'Yes, Quilp,' and |
| the small lord of the creation took his first cigar and mixed his first |
| glass of grog. The sun went down and the stars peeped out, the Tower |
| turned from its own proper colours to grey and from grey to black, the |
| room became perfectly dark and the end of the cigar a deep fiery red, |
| but still Mr Quilp went on smoking and drinking in the same position, |
| and staring listlessly out of window with the doglike smile always on |
| his face, save when Mrs Quilp made some involuntary movement of |
| restlessness or fatigue; and then it expanded into a grin of delight. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 5 |
| |
| Whether Mr Quilp took any sleep by snatches of a few winks at a time, |
| or whether he sat with his eyes wide open all night long, certain it is |
| that he kept his cigar alight, and kindled every fresh one from the |
| ashes of that which was nearly consumed, without requiring the |
| assistance of a candle. Nor did the striking of the clocks, hour after |
| hour, appear to inspire him with any sense of drowsiness or any natural |
| desire to go to rest, but rather to increase his wakefulness, which he |
| showed, at every such indication of the progress of the night, by a |
| suppressed cackling in his throat, and a motion of his shoulders, like |
| one who laughs heartily but the same time slyly and by stealth. |
| |
| At length the day broke, and poor Mrs Quilp, shivering with cold of |
| early morning and harassed by fatigue and want of sleep, was discovered |
| sitting patiently on her chair, raising her eyes at intervals in mute |
| appeal to the compassion and clemency of her lord, and gently reminding |
| him by an occasion cough that she was still unpardoned and that her |
| penance had been of long duration. But her dwarfish spouse still smoked |
| his cigar and drank his rum without heeding her; and it was not until |
| the sun had some time risen, and the activity and noise of city day |
| were rife in the street, that he deigned to recognize her presence by |
| any word or sign. He might not have done so even then, but for certain |
| impatient tapping at the door he seemed to denote that some pretty hard |
| knuckles were actively engaged upon the other side. |
| |
| 'Why dear me!' he said looking round with a malicious grin, 'it's day. |
| Open the door, sweet Mrs Quilp!' |
| |
| His obedient wife withdrew the bolt, and her lady mother entered. |
| |
| Now, Mrs Jiniwin bounced into the room with great impetuosity; for, |
| supposing her son-in-law to be still a-bed, she had come to relieve her |
| feelings by pronouncing a strong opinion upon his general conduct and |
| character. Seeing that he was up and dressed, and that the room |
| appeared to have been occupied ever since she quitted it on the |
| previous evening, she stopped short, in some embarrassment. |
| |
| Nothing escaped the hawk's eye of the ugly little man, who, perfectly |
| understanding what passed in the old lady's mind, turned uglier still |
| in the fulness of his satisfaction, and bade her good morning, with a |
| leer or triumph. |
| |
| 'Why, Betsy,' said the old woman, 'you haven't been--you don't mean to |
| say you've been a--' |
| |
| 'Sitting up all night?' said Quilp, supplying the conclusion of the |
| sentence. 'Yes she has!' |
| |
| 'All night?' cried Mrs Jiniwin. |
| |
| 'Ay, all night. Is the dear old lady deaf?' said Quilp, with a smile of |
| which a frown was part. 'Who says man and wife are bad company? Ha ha! |
| The time has flown.' |
| |
| 'You're a brute!' exclaimed Mrs Jiniwin. |
| |
| 'Come come,' said Quilp, wilfully misunderstanding her, of course, 'you |
| mustn't call her names. She's married now, you know. And though she did |
| beguile the time and keep me from my bed, you must not be so tenderly |
| careful of me as to be out of humour with her. Bless you for a dear |
| old lady. Here's to your health!' |
| |
| 'I am much obliged to you,' returned the old woman, testifying by a |
| certain restlessness in her hands a vehement desire to shake her |
| matronly fist at her son-in-law. 'Oh! I'm very much obliged to you!' |
| |
| 'Grateful soul!' cried the dwarf. 'Mrs Quilp.' |
| |
| 'Yes, Quilp,' said the timid sufferer. |
| |
| 'Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs Quilp. I am going to the wharf |
| this morning--the earlier the better, so be quick.' |
| |
| Mrs Jiniwin made a faint demonstration of rebellion by sitting down in |
| a chair near the door and folding her arms as if in a resolute |
| determination to do nothing. But a few whispered words from her |
| daughter, and a kind inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt |
| faint, with a hint that there was abundance of cold water in the next |
| apartment, routed these symptoms effectually, and she applied herself |
| to the prescribed preparations with sullen diligence. |
| |
| While they were in progress, Mr Quilp withdrew to the adjoining room, |
| and, turning back his coat-collar, proceeded to smear his countenance |
| with a damp towel of very unwholesome appearance, which made his |
| complexion rather more cloudy than it was before. But, while he was |
| thus engaged, his caution and inquisitiveness did not forsake him, for |
| with a face as sharp and cunning as ever, he often stopped, even in |
| this short process, and stood listening for any conversation in the |
| next room, of which he might be the theme. |
| |
| 'Ah!' he said after a short effort of attention, 'it was not the towel |
| over my ears, I thought it wasn't. I'm a little hunchy villain and a |
| monster, am I, Mrs Jiniwin? Oh!' |
| |
| The pleasure of this discovery called up the old doglike smile in full |
| force. When he had quite done with it, he shook himself in a very |
| doglike manner, and rejoined the ladies. |
| |
| Mr Quilp now walked up to front of a looking-glass, and was standing |
| there putting on his neckerchief, when Mrs Jiniwin happening to be |
| behind him, could not resist the inclination she felt to shake her fist |
| at her tyrant son-in-law. It was the gesture of an instant, but as she |
| did so and accompanied the action with a menacing look, she met his eye |
| in the glass, catching her in the very act. The same glance at the |
| mirror conveyed to her the reflection of a horribly grotesque and |
| distorted face with the tongue lolling out; and the next instant the |
| dwarf, turning about with a perfectly bland and placid look, inquired |
| in a tone of great affection. |
| |
| 'How are you now, my dear old darling?' |
| |
| Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a |
| little fiend, and withal such a keen and knowing one, that the old |
| woman felt too much afraid of him to utter a single word, and suffered |
| herself to be led with extraordinary politeness to the breakfast-table. |
| Here he by no means diminished the impression he had just produced, for |
| he ate hard eggs, shell and all, devoured gigantic prawns with the |
| heads and tails on, chewed tobacco and water-cresses at the same time |
| and with extraordinary greediness, drank boiling tea without winking, |
| bit his fork and spoon till they bent again, and in short performed so |
| many horrifying and uncommon acts that the women were nearly frightened |
| out of their wits, and began to doubt if he were really a human |
| creature. At last, having gone through these proceedings and many |
| others which were equally a part of his system, Mr Quilp left them, |
| reduced to a very obedient and humbled state, and betook himself to the |
| river-side, where he took boat for the wharf on which he had bestowed |
| his name. |
| |
| It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the ferry to |
| cross to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges were coming lazily on, |
| some sideways, some head first, some stern first; all in a |
| wrong-headed, dogged, obstinate way, bumping up against the larger |
| craft, running under the bows of steamboats, getting into every kind of |
| nook and corner where they had no business, and being crunched on all |
| sides like so many walnut-shells; while each with its pair of long |
| sweeps struggling and splashing in the water looked like some lumbering |
| fish in pain. In some of the vessels at anchor all hands were busily |
| engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry, taking in or |
| discharging their cargoes; in others no life was visible but two or |
| three tarry boys, and perhaps a barking dog running to and fro upon the |
| deck or scrambling up to look over the side and bark the louder for the |
| view. Coming slowly on through the forests of masts was a great |
| steamship, beating the water in short impatient strokes with her heavy |
| paddles as though she wanted room to breathe, and advancing in her huge |
| bulk like a sea monster among the minnows of the Thames. On either hand |
| were long black tiers of colliers; between them vessels slowly working |
| out of harbour with sails glistening in the sun, and creaking noise on |
| board, re-echoed from a hundred quarters. The water and all upon it was |
| in active motion, dancing and buoyant and bubbling up; while the old |
| grey Tower and piles of building on the shore, with many a church-spire |
| shooting up between, looked coldly on, and seemed to disdain their |
| chafing, restless neighbour. |
| |
| Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright morning save in so |
| far as it spared him the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused |
| himself to be put ashore hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither |
| through a narrow lane which, partaking of the amphibious character of |
| its frequenters, had as much water as mud in its composition, and a |
| very liberal supply of both. Arrived at his destination, the first |
| object that presented itself to his view was a pair of very imperfectly |
| shod feet elevated in the air with the soles upwards, which remarkable |
| appearance was referable to the boy, who being of an eccentric spirit |
| and having a natural taste for tumbling, was now standing on his head |
| and contemplating the aspect of the river under these uncommon |
| circumstances. He was speedily brought on his heels by the sound of his |
| master's voice, and as soon as his head was in its right position, Mr |
| Quilp, to speak expressively in the absence of a better verb, 'punched |
| it' for him. |
| |
| 'Come, you let me alone,' said the boy, parrying Quilp's hand with both |
| his elbows alternatively. 'You'll get something you won't like if you |
| don't and so I tell you.' |
| |
| 'You dog,' snarled Quilp, 'I'll beat you with an iron rod, I'll scratch |
| you with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes, if you talk to me--I will.' |
| |
| With these threats he clenched his hand again, and dexterously diving |
| in between the elbows and catching the boy's head as it dodged from |
| side to side, gave it three or four good hard knocks. Having now |
| carried his point and insisted on it, he left off. |
| |
| 'You won't do it agin,' said the boy, nodding his head and drawing |
| back, with the elbows ready in case of the worst; 'now--' |
| |
| 'Stand still, you dog,' said Quilp. 'I won't do it again, because I've |
| done it as often as I want. Here. Take the key.' |
| |
| 'Why don't you hit one of your size?' said the boy approaching very |
| slowly. |
| |
| 'Where is there one of my size, you dog?' returned Quilp. 'Take the |
| key, or I'll brain you with it'--indeed he gave him a smart tap with |
| the handle as he spoke. 'Now, open the counting-house.' |
| |
| The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desisting when he |
| looked round and saw that Quilp was following him with a steady look. |
| And here it may be remarked, that between this boy and the dwarf there |
| existed a strange kind of mutual liking. How born or bred, and or |
| nourished upon blows and threats on one side, and retorts and defiances |
| on the other, is not to the purpose. Quilp would certainly suffer |
| nobody to contract him but the boy, and the boy would assuredly not |
| have submitted to be so knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he had |
| the power to run away at any time he chose. |
| |
| 'Now,' said Quilp, passing into the wooden counting-house, 'you mind |
| the wharf. Stand upon your head agin, and I'll cut one of your feet |
| off.' |
| |
| The boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut himself in, stood |
| on his head before the door, then walked on his hands to the back and |
| stood on his head there, and then to the opposite side and repeated the |
| performance. There were indeed four sides to the counting-house, but he |
| avoided that one where the window was, deeming it probable that Quilp |
| would be looking out of it. This was prudent, for in point of fact, the |
| dwarf, knowing his disposition, was lying in wait at a little distance |
| from the sash armed with a large piece of wood, which, being rough and |
| jagged and studded in many parts with broken nails, might possibly have |
| hurt him. |
| |
| It was a dirty little box, this counting-house, with nothing in it but |
| an old ricketty desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an ancient almanack, an |
| inkstand with no ink, and the stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock |
| which hadn't gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the |
| minute-hand had been twisted off for a tooth-pick. Daniel Quilp pulled |
| his hat over his brows, climbed on to the desk (which had a flat top) |
| and stretching his short length upon it went to sleep with ease of an |
| old practitioner; intending, no doubt, to compensate himself for the |
| deprivation of last night's rest, by a long and sound nap. |
| |
| Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he had not been |
| asleep a quarter of an hour when the boy opened the door and thrust in |
| his head, which was like a bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp was a |
| light sleeper and started up directly. |
| |
| 'Here's somebody for you,' said the boy. |
| |
| 'Who?' |
| |
| 'I don't know.' |
| |
| 'Ask!' said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before mentioned and |
| throwing it at him with such dexterity that it was well the boy |
| disappeared before it reached the spot on which he had stood. 'Ask, you |
| dog.' |
| |
| Not caring to venture within range of such missles again, the boy |
| discreetly sent in his stead the first cause of the interruption, who |
| now presented herself at the door. |
| |
| 'What, Nelly!' cried Quilp. |
| |
| 'Yes,' said the child, hesitating whether to enter or retreat, for the |
| dwarf just roused, with his dishevelled hair hanging all about him and |
| a yellow handkerchief over his head, was something fearful to behold; |
| it's only me, sir.' |
| |
| 'Come in,' said Quilp, without getting off the desk. 'Come in. Stay. |
| Just look out into the yard, and see whether there's a boy standing on |
| his head.' |
| |
| 'No, sir,' replied Nell. 'He's on his feet.' |
| |
| 'You're sure he is?' said Quilp. 'Well. Now, come in and shut the door. |
| What's your message, Nelly?' |
| |
| The child handed him a letter. Mr Quilp, without changing his position |
| further than to turn over a little more on his side and rest his chin |
| on his hand, proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 6 |
| |
| Little Nell stood timidly by, with her eyes raised to the countenance |
| of Mr Quilp as he read the letter, plainly showing by her looks that |
| while she entertained some fear and distrust of the little man, she was |
| much inclined to laugh at his uncouth appearance and grotesque |
| attitude. And yet there was visible on the part of the child a painful |
| anxiety for his reply, and consciousness of his power to render it |
| disagreeable or distressing, which was strongly at variance with this |
| impulse and restrained it more effectually than she could possibly have |
| done by any efforts of her own. |
| |
| That Mr Quilp was himself perplexed, and that in no small degree, by |
| the contents of the letter, was sufficiently obvious. Before he had got |
| through the first two or three lines he began to open his eyes very |
| wide and to frown most horribly, the next two or three caused him to |
| scratch his head in an uncommonly vicious manner, and when he came to |
| the conclusion he gave a long dismal whistle indicative of surprise and |
| dismay. After folding and laying it down beside him, he bit the nails |
| of all of his ten fingers with extreme voracity; and taking it up |
| sharply, read it again. The second perusal was to all appearance as |
| unsatisfactory as the first, and plunged him into a profound reverie |
| from which he awakened to another assault upon his nails and a long |
| stare at the child, who with her eyes turned towards the ground awaited |
| his further pleasure. |
| |
| 'Halloa here!' he said at length, in a voice, and with a suddenness, |
| which made the child start as though a gun had been fired off at her |
| ear. 'Nelly!' |
| |
| 'Yes, sir.' |
| |
| 'Do you know what's inside this letter, Nell?' |
| |
| 'No, sir!' |
| |
| 'Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon your soul?' |
| |
| 'Quite sure, sir.' |
| |
| 'Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey?' said the dwarf. |
| |
| 'Indeed I don't know,' returned the child. |
| |
| 'Well!' muttered Quilp as he marked her earnest look. 'I believe you. |
| Humph! Gone already? Gone in four-and-twenty hours! What the devil has |
| he done with it, that's the mystery!' |
| |
| This reflection set him scratching his head and biting his nails once |
| more. While he was thus employed his features gradually relaxed into |
| what was with him a cheerful smile, but which in any other man would |
| have been a ghastly grin of pain, and when the child looked up again |
| she found that he was regarding her with extraordinary favour and |
| complacency. |
| |
| 'You look very pretty to-day, Nelly, charmingly pretty. Are you tired, |
| Nelly?' |
| |
| 'No, sir. I'm in a hurry to get back, for he will be anxious while I am |
| away.' |
| |
| 'There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at all,' said Quilp. 'How |
| should you like to be my number two, Nelly?' |
| |
| 'To be what, sir?' |
| |
| 'My number two, Nelly, my second, my Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf. |
| |
| The child looked frightened, but seemed not to understand him, which Mr |
| Quilp observing, hastened to make his meaning more distinctly. |
| |
| 'To be Mrs Quilp the second, when Mrs Quilp the first is dead, sweet |
| Nell,' said Quilp, wrinkling up his eyes and luring her towards him |
| with his bent forefinger, 'to be my wife, my little cherry-cheeked, |
| red-lipped wife. Say that Mrs Quilp lives five year, or only four, |
| you'll be just the proper age for me. Ha ha! Be a good girl, Nelly, a |
| very good girl, and see if one of these days you don't come to be Mrs |
| Quilp of Tower Hill.' |
| |
| So far from being sustained and stimulated by this delightful prospect, |
| the child shrank from him in great agitation, and trembled violently. |
| Mr Quilp, either because frightening anybody afforded him a |
| constitutional delight, or because it was pleasant to contemplate the |
| death of Mrs Quilp number one, and the elevation of Mrs Quilp number |
| two to her post and title, or because he was determined from purposes |
| of his own to be agreeable and good-humoured at that particular time, |
| only laughed and feigned to take no heed of her alarm. |
| |
| 'You shall come with me to Tower Hill and see Mrs Quilp that is, |
| directly,' said the dwarf. 'She's very fond of you, Nell, though not so |
| fond as I am. You shall come home with me.' |
| |
| 'I must go back indeed,' said the child. 'He told me to return directly |
| I had the answer.' |
| |
| 'But you haven't it, Nelly,' retorted the dwarf, 'and won't have it, |
| and can't have it, until I have been home, so you see that to do your |
| errand, you must go with me. Reach me yonder hat, my dear, and we'll go |
| directly.' With that, Mr Quilp suffered himself to roll gradually off |
| the desk until his short legs touched the ground, when he got upon them |
| and led the way from the counting-house to the wharf outside, when the |
| first objects that presented themselves were the boy who had stood on |
| his head and another young gentleman of about his own stature, rolling |
| in the mud together, locked in a tight embrace, and cuffing each other |
| with mutual heartiness. |
| |
| 'It's Kit!' cried Nelly, clasping her hand, 'poor Kit who came with me! |
| Oh, pray stop them, Mr Quilp!' |
| |
| 'I'll stop 'em,' cried Quilp, diving into the little counting-house and |
| returning with a thick stick, 'I'll stop 'em. Now, my boys, fight away. |
| I'll fight you both. I'll take both of you, both together, both |
| together!' |
| |
| With which defiances the dwarf flourished his cudgel, and dancing round |
| the combatants and treading upon them and skipping over them, in a kind |
| of frenzy, laid about him, now on one and now on the other, in a most |
| desperate manner, always aiming at their heads and dealing such blows |
| as none but the veriest little savage would have inflicted. This being |
| warmer work than they had calculated upon, speedily cooled the courage |
| of the belligerents, who scrambled to their feet and called for quarter. |
| |
| 'I'll beat you to a pulp, you dogs,' said Quilp, vainly endeavoring to |
| get near either of them for a parting blow. 'I'll bruise you until |
| you're copper-coloured, I'll break your faces till you haven't a |
| profile between you, I will.' |
| |
| 'Come, you drop that stick or it'll be worse for you,' said his boy, |
| dodging round him and watching an opportunity to rush in; 'you drop |
| that stick.' |
| |
| 'Come a little nearer, and I'll drop it on your skull, you dog,' said |
| Quilp, with gleaming eyes; 'a little nearer--nearer yet.' |
| |
| But the boy declined the invitation until his master was apparently a |
| little off his guard, when he darted in and seizing the weapon tried to |
| wrest it from his grasp. Quilp, who was as strong as a lion, easily |
| kept his hold until the boy was tugging at it with his utmost power, |
| when he suddenly let it go and sent him reeling backwards, so that he |
| fell violently upon his head. The success of this manoeuvre tickled Mr |
| Quilp beyond description, and he laughed and stamped upon the ground as |
| at a most irresistible jest. |
| |
| 'Never mind,' said the boy, nodding his head and rubbing it at the same |
| time; 'you see if ever I offer to strike anybody again because they say |
| you're an uglier dwarf than can be seen anywheres for a penny, that's |
| all.' |
| |
| 'Do you mean to say, I'm not, you dog?' returned Quilp. |
| |
| 'No!' retorted the boy. |
| |
| 'Then what do you fight on my wharf for, you villain?' said Quilp. |
| |
| 'Because he said so,' replied to boy, pointing to Kit, 'not because you |
| an't.' |
| |
| 'Then why did he say,' bawled Kit, 'that Miss Nelly was ugly, and that |
| she and my master was obliged to do whatever his master liked? Why did |
| he say that?' |
| |
| 'He said what he did because he's a fool, and you said what you did |
| because you're very wise and clever--almost too clever to live, unless |
| you're very careful of yourself, Kit.' said Quilp, with great suavity |
| in his manner, but still more of quiet malice about his eyes and mouth. |
| 'Here's sixpence for you, Kit. Always speak the truth. At all times, |
| Kit, speak the truth. Lock the counting-house, you dog, and bring me |
| the key.' |
| |
| The other boy, to whom this order was addressed, did as he was told, |
| and was rewarded for his partizanship in behalf of his master, by a |
| dexterous rap on the nose with the key, which brought the water into |
| his eyes. Then Mr Quilp departed with the child and Kit in a boat, and |
| the boy revenged himself by dancing on his head at intervals on the |
| extreme verge of the wharf, during the whole time they crossed the |
| river. |
| |
| There was only Mrs Quilp at home, and she, little expecting the return |
| of her lord, was just composing herself for a refreshing slumber when |
| the sound of his footsteps roused her. She had barely time to seem to |
| be occupied in some needle-work, when he entered, accompanied by the |
| child; having left Kit downstairs. |
| |
| 'Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs Quilp,' said her husband. 'A glass of |
| wine, my dear, and a biscuit, for she has had a long walk. She'll sit |
| with you, my soul, while I write a letter.' |
| |
| Mrs Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's face to know what this |
| unusual courtesy might portend, and obedient to the summons she saw in |
| his gesture, followed him into the next room. |
| |
| 'Mind what I say to you,' whispered Quilp. 'See if you can get out of |
| her anything about her grandfather, or what they do, or how they live, |
| or what he tells her. I've my reasons for knowing, if I can. You women |
| talk more freely to one another than you do to us, and you have a soft, |
| mild way with you that'll win upon her. Do you hear?' |
| |
| 'Yes, Quilp.' |
| |
| 'Go then. What's the matter now?' |
| |
| 'Dear Quilp,' faltered his wife. 'I love the child--if you could do |
| without making me deceive her--' |
| |
| The dwarf muttering a terrible oath looked round as if for some weapon |
| with which to inflict condign punishment upon his disobedient wife. The |
| submissive little woman hurriedly entreated him not to be angry, and |
| promised to do as he bade her. |
| |
| 'Do you hear me,' whispered Quilp, nipping and pinching her arm; 'worm |
| yourself into her secrets; I know you can. I'm listening, recollect. If |
| you're not sharp enough, I'll creak the door, and woe betide you if I |
| have to creak it much. Go!' |
| |
| Mrs Quilp departed according to order, and her amiable husband, |
| ensconcing himself behind the partly opened door, and applying his ear |
| close to it, began to listen with a face of great craftiness and |
| attention. |
| |
| Poor Mrs Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner to begin or what |
| kind of inquiries she could make; and it was not until the door, |
| creaking in a very urgent manner, warned her to proceed without further |
| consideration, that the sound of her voice was heard. |
| |
| 'How very often you have come backwards and forwards lately to Mr |
| Quilp, my dear.' |
| |
| 'I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times,' returned Nell |
| innocently. |
| |
| 'And what has he said to that?' |
| |
| 'Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so sad and wretched that |
| if you could have seen him I am sure you must have cried; you could not |
| have helped it more than I, I know. How that door creaks!' |
| |
| 'It often does.' returned Mrs Quilp, with an uneasy glance towards it. |
| 'But your grandfather--he used not to be so wretched?' |
| |
| 'Oh, no!' said the child eagerly, 'so different! We were once so happy |
| and he so cheerful and contented! You cannot think what a sad change |
| has fallen on us since.' |
| |
| 'I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this, my dear!' said Mrs |
| Quilp. And she spoke the truth. |
| |
| 'Thank you,' returned the child, kissing her cheek, 'you are always |
| kind to me, and it is a pleasure to talk to you. I can speak to no one |
| else about him, but poor Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel |
| happier perhaps than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me |
| sometimes to see him alter so.' |
| |
| 'He'll alter again, Nelly,' said Mrs Quilp, 'and be what he was before.' |
| |
| 'Oh, if God would only let that come about!' said the child with |
| streaming eyes; 'but it is a long time now, since he first began to--I |
| thought I saw that door moving!' |
| |
| 'It's the wind,' said Mrs Quilp, faintly. 'Began to--' |
| |
| 'To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our old way of |
| spending the time in the long evenings,' said the child. 'I used to |
| read to him by the fireside, and he sat listening, and when I stopped |
| and we began to talk, he told me about my mother, and how she once |
| looked and spoke just like me when she was a little child. Then he used |
| to take me on his knee, and try to make me understand that she was not |
| lying in her grave, but had flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky |
| where nothing died or ever grew old--we were very happy once!' |
| |
| 'Nelly, Nelly!' said the poor woman, 'I can't bear to see one as young |
| as you so sorrowful. Pray don't cry.' |
| |
| 'I do so very seldom,' said Nell, 'but I have kept this to myself a |
| long time, and I am not quite well, I think, for the tears come into my |
| eyes and I cannot keep them back. I don't mind telling you my grief, |
| for I know you will not tell it to any one again.' |
| |
| Mrs Quilp turned away her head and made no answer. |
| |
| 'Then,' said the child, 'we often walked in the fields and among the |
| green trees, and when we came home at night, we liked it better for |
| being tired, and said what a happy place it was. And if it was dark and |
| rather dull, we used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made |
| us remember our last walk with greater pleasure, and look forward to |
| our next one. But now we never have these walks, and though it is the |
| same house it is darker and much more gloomy than it used to be, |
| indeed!' |
| |
| She paused here, but though the door creaked more than once, Mrs Quilp |
| said nothing. |
| |
| 'Mind you don't suppose,' said the child earnestly, 'that grandfather |
| is less kind to me than he was. I think he loves me better every day, |
| and is kinder and more affectionate than he was the day before. You do |
| not know how fond he is of me!' |
| |
| 'I am sure he loves you dearly,' said Mrs Quilp. |
| |
| 'Indeed, indeed he does!' cried Nell, 'as dearly as I love him. But I |
| have not told you the greatest change of all, and this you must never |
| breathe again to any one. He has no sleep or rest, but that which he |
| takes by day in his easy chair; for every night and nearly all night |
| long he is away from home.' |
| |
| 'Nelly!' |
| |
| 'Hush!' said the child, laying her finger on her lip and looking round. |
| 'When he comes home in the morning, which is generally just before day, |
| I let him in. Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I |
| saw that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were bloodshot, and |
| that his legs trembled as he walked. When I had gone to bed again, I |
| heard him groan. I got up and ran back to him, and heard him say, |
| before he knew that I was there, that he could not bear his life much |
| longer, and if it was not for the child, would wish to die. What shall |
| I do! Oh! What shall I do!' |
| |
| The fountains of her heart were opened; the child, overpowered by the |
| weight of her sorrows and anxieties, by the first confidence she had |
| ever shown, and the sympathy with which her little tale had been |
| received, hid her face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst |
| into a passion of tears. |
| |
| In a few minutes Mr Quilp returned, and expressed the utmost surprise |
| to find her in this condition, which he did very naturally and with |
| admirable effect, for that kind of acting had been rendered familiar to |
| him by long practice, and he was quite at home in it. |
| |
| 'She's tired you see, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf, squinting in a |
| hideous manner to imply that his wife was to follow his lead. 'It's a |
| long way from her home to the wharf, and then she was alarmed to see a |
| couple of young scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the water |
| besides. All this together has been too much for her. Poor Nell!' |
| |
| Mr Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means he could have |
| devised for the recovery of his young visitor, by patting her on the |
| head. Such an application from any other hand might not have produced a |
| remarkable effect, but the child shrank so quickly from his touch and |
| felt such an instinctive desire to get out of his reach, that she rose |
| directly and declared herself ready to return. |
| |
| 'But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs Quilp and me.' said the dwarf. |
| |
| 'I have been away too long, sir, already,' returned Nell, drying her |
| eyes. |
| |
| 'Well,' said Mr Quilp, 'if you will go, you will, Nelly. Here's the |
| note. It's only to say that I shall see him to-morrow or maybe next |
| day, and that I couldn't do that little business for him this morning. |
| Good-bye, Nelly. Here, you sir; take care of her, d'ye hear?' |
| |
| Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make no reply to so |
| needless an injunction, and after staring at Quilp in a threatening |
| manner, as if he doubted whether he might not have been the cause of |
| Nelly shedding tears, and felt more than half disposed to revenge the |
| fact upon him on the mere suspicion, turned about and followed his |
| young mistress, who had by this time taken her leave of Mrs Quilp and |
| departed. |
| |
| 'You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs Quilp?' said the dwarf, |
| turning upon her as soon as they were left alone. |
| |
| 'What more could I do?' returned his wife mildly? |
| |
| 'What more could you do!' sneered Quilp, 'couldn't you have done |
| something less? Couldn't you have done what you had to do, without |
| appearing in your favourite part of the crocodile, you minx?' |
| |
| 'I am very sorry for the child, Quilp,' said his wife. 'Surely I've |
| done enough. I've led her on to tell her secret she supposed we were |
| alone; and you were by, God forgive me.' |
| |
| 'You led her on! You did a great deal truly!' said Quilp. 'What did I |
| tell you about making me creak the door? It's lucky for you that from |
| what she let fall, I've got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd have |
| visited the failure upon you, I can tell you.' |
| |
| Mrs Quilp being fully persuaded of this, made no reply. Her husband |
| added with some exultation, |
| |
| 'But you may thank your fortunate stars--the same stars that made you |
| Mrs Quilp--you may thank them that I'm upon the old gentleman's track, |
| and have got a new light. So let me hear no more about this matter now |
| or at any other time, and don't get anything too nice for dinner, for I |
| shan't be home to it.' |
| |
| So saying, Mr Quilp put his hat on and took himself off, and Mrs Quilp, |
| who was afflicted beyond measure by the recollection of the part she |
| had just acted, shut herself up in her chamber, and smothering her head |
| in the bed-clothes bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many less |
| tender-hearted persons would have mourned a much greater offence; for, |
| in the majority of cases, conscience is an elastic and very flexible |
| article, which will bear a deal of stretching and adapt itself to a |
| great variety of circumstances. Some people by prudent management and |
| leaving it off piece by piece like a flannel waistcoat in warm weather, |
| even contrive, in time, to dispense with it altogether; but there be |
| others who can assume the garment and throw it off at pleasure; and |
| this, being the greatest and most convenient improvement, is the one |
| most in vogue. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 7 |
| |
| 'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller, 'remember the once popular melody of Begone |
| dull care; fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of |
| friendship; and pass the rosy wine.' |
| |
| Mr Richard Swiveller's apartments were in the neighbourhood of Drury |
| Lane, and in addition to this convenience of situation had the |
| advantage of being over a tobacconist's shop, so that he was enabled to |
| procure a refreshing sneeze at any time by merely stepping out upon the |
| staircase, and was saved the trouble and expense of maintaining a |
| snuff-box. It was in these apartments that Mr Swiveller made use of the |
| expressions above recorded for the consolation and encouragement of his |
| desponding friend; and it may not be uninteresting or improper to |
| remark that even these brief observations partook in a double sense of |
| the figurative and poetical character of Mr Swiveller's mind, as the |
| rosy wine was in fact represented by one glass of cold gin-and-water, |
| which was replenished as occasion required from a bottle and jug upon |
| the table, and was passed from one to another, in a scarcity of |
| tumblers which, as Mr Swiveller's was a bachelor's establishment, may |
| be acknowledged without a blush. By a like pleasant fiction his single |
| chamber was always mentioned in a plural number. In its disengaged |
| times, the tobacconist had announced it in his window as 'apartments' |
| for a single gentleman, and Mr Swiveller, following up the hint, never |
| failed to speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or his chambers, |
| conveying to his hearers a notion of indefinite space, and leaving |
| their imaginations to wander through long suites of lofty halls, at |
| pleasure. |
| |
| In this flight of fancy, Mr Swiveller was assisted by a deceptive piece |
| of furniture, in reality a bedstead, but in semblance a bookcase, which |
| occupied a prominent situation in his chamber and seemed to defy |
| suspicion and challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that by day Mr |
| Swiveller firmly believed this secret convenience to be a bookcase and |
| nothing more; that he closed his eyes to the bed, resolutely denied the |
| existence of the blankets, and spurned the bolster from his thoughts. |
| No word of its real use, no hint of its nightly service, no allusion to |
| its peculiar properties, had ever passed between him and his most |
| intimate friends. Implicit faith in the deception was the first article |
| of his creed. To be the friend of Swiveller you must reject all |
| circumstantial evidence, all reason, observation, and experience, and |
| repose a blind belief in the bookcase. It was his pet weakness, and he |
| cherished it. |
| |
| 'Fred!' said Mr Swiveller, finding that his former adjuration had been |
| productive of no effect. 'Pass the rosy.' |
| |
| Young Trent with an impatient gesture pushed the glass towards him, and |
| fell again in the moody attitude from which he had been unwillingly |
| roused. |
| |
| 'I'll give you, Fred,' said his friend, stirring the mixture, 'a little |
| sentiment appropriate to the occasion. Here's May the--' |
| |
| 'Pshaw!' interposed the other. 'You worry me to death with your |
| chattering. You can be merry under any circumstances.' |
| |
| 'Why, Mr Trent,' returned Dick, 'there is a proverb which talks about |
| being merry and wise. There are some people who can be merry and can't |
| be wise, and some who can be wise (or think they can) and can't be |
| merry. I'm one of the first sort. If the proverb's a good 'un, I |
| suppose it's better to keep to half of it than none; at all events, I'd |
| rather be merry and not wise, than like you, neither one nor t'other.' |
| |
| 'Bah!' muttered his friend, peevishly. |
| |
| 'With all my heart,' said Mr Swiveller. 'In the polite circles I |
| believe this sort of thing isn't usually said to a gentleman in his own |
| apartments, but never mind that. Make yourself at home,' adding to this |
| retort an observation to the effect that his friend appeared to be |
| rather 'cranky' in point of temper, Richard Swiveller finished the |
| rosy and applied himself to the composition of another glassful, in |
| which, after tasting it with great relish, he proposed a toast to an |
| imaginary company. |
| |
| 'Gentlemen, I'll give you, if you please, Success to the ancient family |
| of the Swivellers, and good luck to Mr Richard in particular--Mr |
| Richard, gentlemen,' said Dick with great emphasis, 'who spends all his |
| money on his friends and is Bah!'d for his pains. Hear, hear!' |
| |
| 'Dick!' said the other, returning to his seat after having paced the |
| room twice or thrice, 'will you talk seriously for two minutes, if I |
| show you a way to make your fortune with very little trouble?' |
| |
| 'You've shown me so many,' returned Dick; 'and nothing has come of any |
| one of 'em but empty pockets--' |
| |
| 'You'll tell a different story of this one, before a very long time is |
| over,' said his companion, drawing his chair to the table. 'You saw my |
| sister Nell?' |
| |
| 'What about her?' returned Dick. |
| |
| 'She has a pretty face, has she not?' |
| |
| 'Why, certainly,' replied Dick. 'I must say for her that there's not |
| any very strong family likeness between her and you.' |
| |
| 'Has she a pretty face,' repeated his friend impatiently. |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Dick, 'she has a pretty face, a very pretty face. What of |
| that?' |
| |
| 'I'll tell you,' returned his friend. 'It's very plain that the old man |
| and I will remain at daggers drawn to the end of our lives, and that I |
| have nothing to expect from him. You see that, I suppose?' |
| |
| 'A bat might see that, with the sun shining,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'It's equally plain that the money which the old flint--rot him--first |
| taught me to expect that I should share with her at his death, will all |
| be hers, is it not?' |
| |
| 'I should said it was,' replied Dick; 'unless the way in which I put |
| the case to him, made an impression. It may have done so. It was |
| powerful, Fred. 'Here is a jolly old grandfather'--that was strong, I |
| thought--very friendly and natural. Did it strike you in that way?' |
| |
| 'It didn't strike him,' returned the other, 'so we needn't discuss it. |
| Now look here. Nell is nearly fourteen.' |
| |
| 'Fine girl of her age, but small,' observed Richard Swiveller |
| parenthetically. |
| |
| 'If I am to go on, be quiet for one minute,' returned Trent, fretting |
| at the slight interest the other appeared to take in the conversation. |
| 'Now I'm coming to the point.' |
| |
| 'That's right,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'The girl has strong affections, and brought up as she has been, may, |
| at her age, be easily influenced and persuaded. If I take her in hand, |
| I will be bound by a very little coaxing and threatening to bend her to |
| my will. Not to beat about the bush (for the advantages of the scheme |
| would take a week to tell) what's to prevent your marrying her?' |
| |
| Richard Swiveller, who had been looking over the rim of the tumbler |
| while his companion addressed the foregoing remarks to him with great |
| energy and earnestness of manner, no sooner heard these words than he |
| evinced the utmost consternation, and with difficulty ejaculated the |
| monosyllable: |
| |
| 'What!' |
| |
| 'I say, what's to prevent,' repeated the other with a steadiness of |
| manner, of the effect of which upon his companion he was well assured |
| by long experience, 'what's to prevent your marrying her?' |
| |
| 'And she "nearly fourteen"!' cried Dick. |
| |
| 'I don't mean marrying her now'--returned the brother angrily; 'say in |
| two year's time, in three, in four. Does the old man look like a |
| long-liver?' |
| |
| 'He don't look like it,' said Dick shaking his head, 'but these old |
| people--there's no trusting them, Fred. There's an aunt of mine down in |
| Dorsetshire that was going to die when I was eight years old, and |
| hasn't kept her word yet. They're so aggravating, so unprincipled, so |
| spiteful--unless there's apoplexy in the family, Fred, you can't |
| calculate upon 'em, and even then they deceive you just as often as |
| not.' |
| |
| 'Look at the worst side of the question then,' said Trent as steadily |
| as before, and keeping his eyes upon his friend. 'Suppose he lives.' |
| |
| 'To be sure,' said Dick. 'There's the rub.' |
| |
| 'I say,' resumed his friend, 'suppose he lives, and I persuaded, or if |
| the word sounds more feasible, forced Nell to a secret marriage with |
| you. What do you think would come of that?' |
| |
| 'A family and an annual income of nothing, to keep 'em on,' said |
| Richard Swiveller after some reflection. |
| |
| 'I tell you,' returned the other with an increased earnestness, which, |
| whether it were real or assumed, had the same effect on his companion, |
| 'that he lives for her, that his whole energies and thoughts are bound |
| up in her, that he would no more disinherit her for an act of |
| disobedience than he would take me into his favour again for any act of |
| obedience or virtue that I could possibly be guilty of. He could not do |
| it. You or any other man with eyes in his head may see that, if he |
| chooses.' |
| |
| 'It seems improbable certainly,' said Dick, musing. |
| |
| 'It seems improbable because it is improbable,' his friend returned. |
| 'If you would furnish him with an additional inducement to forgive you, |
| let there be an irreconcilable breach, a most deadly quarrel, between |
| you and me--let there be a pretense of such a thing, I mean, of |
| course--and he'll do fast enough. As to Nell, constant dropping will |
| wear away a stone; you know you may trust to me as far as she is |
| concerned. So, whether he lives or dies, what does it come to? That |
| you become the sole inheritor of the wealth of this rich old hunks, |
| that you and I spend it together, and that you get into the bargain a |
| beautiful young wife.' |
| |
| 'I suppose there's no doubt about his being rich'--said Dick. |
| |
| 'Doubt! Did you hear what he left fall the other day when we were |
| there? Doubt! What will you doubt next, Dick?' |
| |
| It would be tedious to pursue the conversation through all its artful |
| windings, or to develope the gradual approaches by which the heart of |
| Richard Swiveller was gained. It is sufficient to know that vanity, |
| interest, poverty, and every spendthrift consideration urged him to |
| look upon the proposal with favour, and that where all other |
| inducements were wanting, the habitual carelessness of his disposition |
| stepped in and still weighed down the scale on the same side. To these |
| impulses must be added the complete ascendancy which his friend had |
| long been accustomed to exercise over him--an ascendancy exerted in the |
| beginning sorely at the expense of his friend's vices, and was in nine |
| cases out of ten looked upon as his designing tempter when he was |
| indeed nothing but his thoughtless, light-headed tool. |
| |
| The motives on the other side were something deeper than any which |
| Richard Swiveller entertained or understood, but these being left to |
| their own development, require no present elucidation. The negotiation |
| was concluded very pleasantly, and Mr Swiveller was in the act of |
| stating in flowery terms that he had no insurmountable objection to |
| marrying anybody plentifully endowed with money or moveables, who could |
| be induced to take him, when he was interrupted in his observations by |
| a knock at the door, and the consequent necessity of crying 'Come in.' |
| |
| The door was opened, but nothing came in except a soapy arm and a |
| strong gush of tobacco. The gush of tobacco came from the shop |
| downstairs, and the soapy arm proceeded from the body of a |
| servant-girl, who being then and there engaged in cleaning the stairs |
| had just drawn it out of a warm pail to take in a letter, which letter |
| she now held in her hand, proclaiming aloud with that quick perception |
| of surnames peculiar to her class that it was for Mister Snivelling. |
| |
| Dick looked rather pale and foolish when he glanced at the direction, |
| and still more so when he came to look at the inside, observing that it |
| was one of the inconveniences of being a lady's man, and that it was |
| very easy to talk as they had been talking, but he had quite forgotten |
| her. |
| |
| 'Her. Who?' demanded Trent. |
| |
| 'Sophy Wackles,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Who's she?' |
| |
| 'She's all my fancy painted her, sir, that's what she is,' said Mr |
| Swiveller, taking a long pull at 'the rosy' and looking gravely at his |
| friend. 'She's lovely, she's divine. You know her.' |
| |
| 'I remember,' said his companion carelessly. 'What of her?' |
| |
| 'Why, sir,' returned Dick, 'between Miss Sophia Wackles and the humble |
| individual who has now the honor to address you, warm and tender |
| sentiments have been engendered, sentiments of the most honourable and |
| inspiring kind. The Goddess Diana, sir, that calls aloud for the chase, |
| is not more particular in her behavior than Sophia Wackles; I can tell |
| you that.' |
| |
| 'Am I to believe there's anything real in what you say?' demanded his |
| friend; 'you don't mean to say that any love-making has been going on?' |
| |
| 'Love-making, yes. Promising, no,' said Dick. 'There can be no action |
| for breach, that's one comfort. I've never committed myself in writing, |
| Fred.' |
| |
| 'And what's in the letter, pray?' |
| |
| 'A reminder, Fred, for to-night--a small party of twenty, making two |
| hundred light fantastic toes in all, supposing every lady and gentleman |
| to have the proper complement. I must go, if it's only to begin |
| breaking off the affair--I'll do it, don't you be afraid. I should like |
| to know whether she left this herself. If she did, unconscious of any |
| bar to her happiness, it's affecting, Fred.' |
| |
| To solve this question, Mr Swiveller summoned the handmaid and |
| ascertained that Miss Sophy Wackles had indeed left the letter with her |
| own hands; and that she had come accompanied, for decorum's sake no |
| doubt, by a younger Miss Wackles; and that on learning that Mr |
| Swiveller was at home and being requested to walk upstairs, she was |
| extremely shocked and professed that she would rather die. Mr Swiveller |
| heard this account with a degree of admiration not altogether |
| consistent with the project in which he had just concurred, but his |
| friend attached very little importance to his behavior in this respect, |
| probably because he knew that he had influence sufficient to control |
| Richard Swiveller's proceedings in this or any other matter, whenever |
| he deemed it necessary, for the advancement of his own purposes, to |
| exert it. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 8 |
| |
| Business disposed of, Mr Swiveller was inwardly reminded of its being |
| nigh dinner-time, and to the intent that his health might not be |
| endangered by longer abstinence, dispatched a message to the nearest |
| eating-house requiring an immediate supply of boiled beef and greens |
| for two. With this demand, however, the eating-house (having experience |
| of its customer) declined to comply, churlishly sending back for answer |
| that if Mr Swiveller stood in need of beef perhaps he would be so |
| obliging as to come there and eat it, bringing with him, as grace |
| before meat, the amount of a certain small account which had long been |
| outstanding. Not at all intimidated by this rebuff, but rather |
| sharpened in wits and appetite, Mr Swiveller forwarded the same message |
| to another and more distant eating-house, adding to it by way of rider |
| that the gentleman was induced to send so far, not only by the great |
| fame and popularity its beef had acquired, but in consequence of the |
| extreme toughness of the beef retailed at the obdurant cook's shop, |
| which rendered it quite unfit not merely for gentlemanly food, but for |
| any human consumption. The good effect of this politic course was |
| demonstrated by the speedy arrival of a small pewter pyramid, curiously |
| constructed of platters and covers, whereof the boiled-beef-plates |
| formed the base, and a foaming quart-pot the apex; the structure being |
| resolved into its component parts afforded all things requisite and |
| necessary for a hearty meal, to which Mr Swiveller and his friend |
| applied themselves with great keenness and enjoyment. |
| |
| 'May the present moment,' said Dick, sticking his fork into a large |
| carbuncular potato, 'be the worst of our lives! I like the plan of |
| sending 'em with the peel on; there's a charm in drawing a potato from |
| its native element (if I may so express it) to which the rich and |
| powerful are strangers. Ah! "Man wants but little here below, nor wants |
| that little long!" How true that is!--after dinner.' |
| |
| 'I hope the eating-house keeper will want but little and that he may |
| not want that little long,' returned his companion; but I suspect |
| you've no means of paying for this!' |
| |
| 'I shall be passing present, and I'll call,' said Dick, winking his eye |
| significantly. 'The waiter's quite helpless. The goods are gone, Fred, |
| and there's an end of it.' |
| |
| In point of fact, it would seem that the waiter felt this wholesome |
| truth, for when he returned for the empty plates and dishes and was |
| informed by Mr Swiveller with dignified carelessness that he would call |
| and settle when he should be passing presently, he displayed some |
| perturbation of spirit and muttered a few remarks about 'payment on |
| delivery' and 'no trust,' and other unpleasant subjects, but was fain |
| to content himself with inquiring at what hour it was likely that the |
| gentleman would call, in order that being presently responsible for the |
| beef, greens, and sundries, he might take to be in the way at the time. |
| Mr Swiveller, after mentally calculating his engagements to a nicety, |
| replied that he should look in at from two minutes before six and seven |
| minutes past; and the man disappearing with this feeble consolation, |
| Richard Swiveller took a greasy memorandum-book from his pocket and |
| made an entry therein. |
| |
| 'Is that a reminder, in case you should forget to call?' said Trent |
| with a sneer. |
| |
| 'Not exactly, Fred,' replied the imperturbable Richard, continuing to |
| write with a businesslike air. 'I enter in this little book the names |
| of the streets that I can't go down while the shops are open. This |
| dinner today closes Long Acre. I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen |
| Street last week, and made that no throughfare too. There's only one |
| avenue to the Strand left often now, and I shall have to stop up that |
| to-night with a pair of gloves. The roads are closing so fast in every |
| direction, that in a month's time, unless my aunt sends me a |
| remittance, I shall have to go three or four miles out of town to get |
| over the way.' |
| |
| 'There's no fear of failing, in the end?' said Trent. |
| |
| 'Why, I hope not,' returned Mr Swiveller, 'but the average number of |
| letters it take to soften her is six, and this time we have got as far |
| as eight without any effect at all. I'll write another to-morrow |
| morning. I mean to blot it a good deal and shake some water over it out |
| of the pepper-castor to make it look penitent. "I'm in such a state of |
| mind that I hardly know what I write"--blot--"if you could see me at |
| this minute shedding tears for my past misconduct"--pepper-castor--"my |
| hand trembles when I think"--blot again--if that don't produce the |
| effect, it's all over.' |
| |
| By this time, Mr Swiveller had finished his entry, and he now replaced |
| his pencil in its little sheath and closed the book, in a perfectly |
| grave and serious frame of mind. His friend discovered that it was time |
| for him to fulfil some other engagement, and Richard Swiveller was |
| accordingly left alone, in company with the rosy wine and his own |
| meditations touching Miss Sophy Wackles. |
| |
| 'It's rather sudden,' said Dick shaking his head with a look of |
| infinite wisdom, and running on (as he was accustomed to do) with |
| scraps of verse as if they were only prose in a hurry; 'when the heart |
| of a man is depressed with fears, the mist is dispelled when Miss |
| Wackles appears; she's a very nice girl. She's like the red red rose |
| that's newly sprung in June--there's no denying that--she's also like a |
| melody that's sweetly played in tune. It's really very sudden. Not that |
| there's any need, on account of Fred's little sister, to turn cool |
| directly, but its better not to go too far. If I begin to cool at all I |
| must begin at once, I see that. There's the chance of an action for |
| breach, that's another. There's the chance of--no, there's no chance of |
| that, but it's as well to be on the safe side.' |
| |
| This undeveloped was the possibility, which Richard Swiveller sought to |
| conceal even from himself, of his not being proof against the charms of |
| Miss Wackles, and in some unguarded moment, by linking his fortunes to |
| hers forever, of putting it out of his own power to further their |
| notable scheme to which he had so readily become a party. For all these |
| reasons, he decided to pick a quarrel with Miss Wackles without delay, |
| and casting about for a pretext determined in favour of groundless |
| jealousy. Having made up his mind on this important point, he |
| circulated the glass (from his right hand to left, and back again) |
| pretty freely, to enable him to act his part with the greater |
| discretion, and then, after making some slight improvements in his |
| toilet, bent his steps towards the spot hallowed by the fair object of |
| his meditations. |
| |
| The spot was at Chelsea, for there Miss Sophia Wackles resided with her |
| widowed mother and two sisters, in conjunction with whom she maintained |
| a very small day-school for young ladies of proportionate dimensions; a |
| circumstance which was made known to the neighbourhood by an oval board |
| over the front first-floor windows, whereupon appeared in circumambient |
| flourishes the words 'Ladies' Seminary'; and which was further |
| published and proclaimed at intervals between the hours of half-past |
| nine and ten in the morning, by a straggling and solitary young lady of |
| tender years standing on the scraper on the tips of her toes and making |
| futile attempts to reach the knocker with a spelling-book. The several |
| duties of instruction in this establishment were thus discharged. |
| English grammar, composition, geography, and the use of the dumb-bells, |
| by Miss Melissa Wackles; writing, arithmetic, dancing, music, and |
| general fascination, by Miss Sophia Wackles; the art of needle-work, |
| marking, and samplery, by Miss Jane Wackles; corporal punishment, |
| fasting, and other tortures and terrors, by Mrs Wackles. Miss Melissa |
| Wackles was the eldest daughter, Miss Sophy the next, and Miss Jane the |
| youngest. Miss Melissa might have seen five-and-thirty summers or |
| thereabouts, and verged on the autumnal; Miss Sophy was a fresh, good |
| humoured, buxom girl of twenty; and Miss Jane numbered scarcely sixteen |
| years. Mrs Wackles was an excellent but rather venomous old lady of |
| three-score. |
| |
| To this Ladies' Seminary, then, Richard Swiveller hied, with designs |
| obnoxious to the peace of the fair Sophia, who, arrayed in virgin |
| white, embellished by no ornament but one blushing rose, received him |
| on his arrival, in the midst of very elegant not to say brilliant |
| preparations; such as the embellishment of the room with the little |
| flower-pots which always stood on the window-sill outside, save in |
| windy weather when they blew into the area; the choice attire of the |
| day-scholars who were allowed to grace the festival; the unwonted curls |
| of Miss Jane Wackles who had kept her head during the whole of the |
| preceding day screwed up tight in a yellow play-bill; and the solemn |
| gentility and stately bearing of the old lady and her eldest daughter, |
| which struck Mr Swiveller as being uncommon but made no further |
| impression upon him. |
| |
| The truth is--and, as there is no accounting for tastes, even a taste |
| so strange as this may be recorded without being looked upon as a |
| wilful and malicious invention--the truth is that neither Mrs Wackles |
| nor her eldest daughter had at any time greatly favoured the |
| pretensions of Mr Swiveller, being accustomed to make slight mention of |
| him as 'a gay young man' and to sigh and shake their heads ominously |
| whenever his name was mentioned. Mr Swiveller's conduct in respect to |
| Miss Sophy having been of that vague and dilatory kind which is usually |
| looked upon as betokening no fixed matrimonial intentions, the young |
| lady herself began in course of time to deem it highly desirable, that |
| it should be brought to an issue one way or other. Hence she had at |
| last consented to play off against Richard Swiveller a stricken |
| market-gardner known to be ready with his offer on the smallest |
| encouragement, and hence--as this occasion had been specially assigned |
| for the purpose--that great anxiety on her part for Richard Swiveller's |
| presence which had occasioned her to leave the note he has been seen to |
| receive. 'If he has any expectations at all or any means of keeping a |
| wife well,' said Mrs Wackles to her eldest daughter, 'he'll state 'em |
| to us now or never.'--'If he really cares about me,' thought Miss |
| Sophy, 'he must tell me so, to-night.' |
| |
| But all these sayings and doings and thinkings being unknown to Mr |
| Swiveller, affected him not in the least; he was debating in his mind |
| how he could best turn jealous, and wishing that Sophy were for that |
| occasion only far less pretty than she was, or that she were her own |
| sister, which would have served his turn as well, when the company |
| came, and among them the market-gardener, whose name was Cheggs. But Mr |
| Cheggs came not alone or unsupported, for he prudently brought along |
| with him his sister, Miss Cheggs, who making straight to Miss Sophy and |
| taking her by both hands, and kissing her on both cheeks, hoped in an |
| audible whisper that they had not come too early. |
| |
| 'Too early, no!' replied Miss Sophy. |
| |
| 'Oh, my dear,' rejoined Miss Cheggs in the same whisper as before, |
| 'I've been so tormented, so worried, that it's a mercy we were not here |
| at four o'clock in the afternoon. Alick has been in such a state of |
| impatience to come! You'd hardly believe that he was dressed before |
| dinner-time and has been looking at the clock and teasing me ever |
| since. It's all your fault, you naughty thing.' |
| |
| Hereupon Miss Sophy blushed, and Mr Cheggs (who was bashful before |
| ladies) blushed too, and Miss Sophy's mother and sisters, to prevent Mr |
| Cheggs from blushing more, lavished civilities and attentions upon him, |
| and left Richard Swiveller to take care of himself. Here was the very |
| thing he wanted, here was good cause reason and foundation for |
| pretending to be angry; but having this cause reason and foundation |
| which he had come expressly to seek, not expecting to find, Richard |
| Swiveller was angry in sound earnest, and wondered what the devil |
| Cheggs meant by his impudence. |
| |
| However, Mr Swiveller had Miss Sophy's hand for the first quadrille |
| (country-dances being low, were utterly proscribed) and so gained an |
| advantage over his rival, who sat despondingly in a corner and |
| contemplated the glorious figure of the young lady as she moved through |
| the mazy dance. Nor was this the only start Mr Swiveller had of the |
| market-gardener, for determining to show the family what quality of man |
| they trifled with, and influenced perhaps by his late libations, he |
| performed such feats of agility and such spins and twirls as filled the |
| company with astonishment, and in particular caused a very long |
| gentleman who was dancing with a very short scholar, to stand quite |
| transfixed by wonder and admiration. Even Mrs Wackles forgot for the |
| moment to snub three small young ladies who were inclined to be happy, |
| and could not repress a rising thought that to have such a dancer as |
| that in the family would be a pride indeed. |
| |
| At this momentous crisis, Miss Cheggs proved herself a vigourous and |
| useful ally, for not confining herself to expressing by scornful smiles |
| a contempt for Mr Swiveller's accomplishments, she took every |
| opportunity of whispering into Miss Sophy's ear expressions of |
| condolence and sympathy on her being worried by such a ridiculous |
| creature, declaring that she was frightened to death lest Alick should |
| fall upon, and beat him, in the fulness of his wrath, and entreating |
| Miss Sophy to observe how the eyes of the said Alick gleamed with love |
| and fury; passions, it may be observed, which being too much for his |
| eyes rushed into his nose also, and suffused it with a crimson glow. |
| |
| 'You must dance with Miss Cheggs,' said Miss Sophy to Dick Swiviller, |
| after she had herself danced twice with Mr Cheggs and made great show |
| of encouraging his advances. 'She's a nice girl--and her brother's |
| quite delightful.' |
| |
| 'Quite delightful, is he?' muttered Dick. 'Quite delighted too, I |
| should say, from the manner in which he's looking this way.' |
| |
| Here Miss Jane (previously instructed for the purpose) interposed her |
| many curls and whispered her sister to observe how jealous Mr Cheggs |
| was. |
| |
| 'Jealous! Like his impudence!' said Richard Swiviller. |
| |
| 'His impudence, Mr Swiviller!' said Miss Jane, tossing her head. 'Take |
| care he don't hear you, sir, or you may be sorry for it.' |
| |
| 'Oh, pray, Jane--' said Miss Sophy. |
| |
| 'Nonsense!' replied her sister. 'Why shouldn't Mr Cheggs be jealous if |
| he likes? I like that, certainly. Mr Cheggs has a good a right to be |
| jealous as anyone else has, and perhaps he may have a better right soon |
| if he hasn't already. You know best about that, Sophy!' |
| |
| Though this was a concerted plot between Miss Sophy and her sister, |
| originating in humane intentions and having for its object the inducing |
| Mr Swiviller to declare himself in time, it failed in its effect; for |
| Miss Jane being one of those young ladies who are prematurely shrill |
| and shrewish, gave such undue importance to her part that Mr Swiviller |
| retired in dudgeon, resigning his mistress to Mr Cheggs and conveying a |
| defiance into his looks which that gentleman indignantly returned. |
| |
| 'Did you speak to me, sir?' said Mr Cheggs, following him into a |
| corner. 'Have the kindness to smile, sir, in order that we may not be |
| suspected. Did you speak to me, sir'? |
| |
| Mr Swiviller looked with a supercilious smile at Mr Chegg's toes, then |
| raised his eyes from them to his ankles, from that to his shin, from |
| that to his knee, and so on very gradually, keeping up his right leg, |
| until he reached his waistcoat, when he raised his eyes from button to |
| button until he reached his chin, and travelling straight up the middle |
| of his nose came at last to his eyes, when he said abruptly, |
| |
| 'No, sir, I didn't.' |
| |
| `'Hem!' said Mr Cheggs, glancing over his shoulder, 'have the goodness |
| to smile again, sir. Perhaps you wished to speak to me, sir.' |
| |
| 'No, sir, I didn't do that, either.' |
| |
| 'Perhaps you may have nothing to say to me now, sir,' said Mr Cheggs |
| fiercely. |
| |
| At these words Richard Swiviller withdrew his eyes from Mr Chegg's |
| face, and travelling down the middle of his nose and down his waistcoat |
| and down his right leg, reached his toes again, and carefully surveyed |
| him; this done, he crossed over, and coming up the other leg, and |
| thence approaching by the waistcoat as before, said when had got to his |
| eyes, 'No sir, I haven't.' |
| |
| 'Oh, indeed, sir!' said Mr Cheggs. 'I'm glad to hear it. You know where |
| I'm to be found, I suppose, sir, in case you should have anything to |
| say to me?' |
| |
| 'I can easily inquire, sir, when I want to know.' |
| |
| 'There's nothing more we need say, I believe, sir?' |
| |
| 'Nothing more, sir'--With that they closed the tremendous dialog by |
| frowning mutually. Mr Cheggs hastened to tender his hand to Miss Sophy, |
| and Mr Swiviller sat himself down in a corner in a very moody state. |
| |
| Hard by this corner, Mrs Wackles and Miss Wackles were seated, looking |
| on at the dance; and unto Mrs and Miss Wackles, Miss Cheggs |
| occasionally darted when her partner was occupied with his share of the |
| figure, and made some remark or other which was gall and wormwood to |
| Richard Swiviller's soul. Looking into the eyes of Mrs and Miss Wackles |
| for encouragement, and sitting very upright and uncomfortable on a |
| couple of hard stools, were two of the day-scholars; and when Miss |
| Wackles smiled, and Mrs Wackles smiled, the two little girls on the |
| stools sought to curry favour by smiling likewise, in gracious |
| acknowledgement of which attention the old lady frowned them down |
| instantly, and said that if they dared to be guilty of such an |
| impertinence again, they should be sent under convoy to their |
| respective homes. This threat caused one of the young ladies, she being |
| of a weak and trembling temperament, to shed tears, and for this |
| offense they were both filed off immediately, with a dreadful |
| promptitude that struck terror into the souls of all the pupils. |
| |
| 'I've got such news for you,' said Miss Cheggs approaching once more, |
| 'Alick has been saying such things to Sophy. Upon my word, you know, |
| it's quite serious and in earnest, that's clear.' |
| |
| 'What's he been saying, my dear?' demanded Mrs Wackles. |
| |
| 'All manner of things,' replied Miss Cheggs, 'you can't think how out |
| he has been speaking!' |
| |
| Richard Swiviller considered it advisable to hear no more, but taking |
| advantage of a pause in the dancing, and the approach of Mr Cheggs to |
| pay his court to the old lady, swaggered with an extremely careful |
| assumption of extreme carelessness toward the door, passing on the way |
| Miss Jane Wackles, who in all the glory of her curls was holding a |
| flirtation, (as good practice when no better was to be had) with a |
| feeble old gentleman who lodged in the parlour. Near the door sat Miss |
| Sophy, still fluttered and confused by the attentions of Mr Cheggs, and |
| by her side Richard Swiveller lingered for a moment to exchange a few |
| parting words. |
| |
| 'My boat is on the shore and my bark is on the sea, but before I pass |
| this door I will say farewell to thee,' murmured Dick, looking gloomily |
| upon her. |
| |
| 'Are you going?' said Miss Sophy, whose heart sank within her at the |
| result of her stratagem, but who affected a light indifference |
| notwithstanding. |
| |
| 'Am I going!' echoed Dick bitterly. 'Yes, I am. What then?' |
| |
| 'Nothing, except that it's very early,' said Miss Sophy; 'but you are |
| your own master, of course.' |
| |
| 'I would that I had been my own mistress too,' said Dick, 'before I had |
| ever entertained a thought of you. Miss Wackles, I believed you true, |
| and I was blest in so believing, but now I mourn that e'er I knew, a |
| girl so fair yet so deceiving.' |
| |
| Miss Sophy bit her lip and affected to look with great interest after |
| Mr Cheggs, who was quaffing lemonade in the distance. |
| |
| 'I came here,' said Dick, rather oblivious of the purpose with which he |
| had really come, 'with my bosom expanded, my heart dilated, and my |
| sentiments of a corresponding description. I go away with feelings that |
| may be conceived but cannot be described, feeling within myself that |
| desolating truth that my best affections have experienced this night a |
| stifler!' |
| |
| 'I am sure I don't know what you mean, Mr Swiviller,' said Miss Sophy |
| with downcast eyes. 'I'm very sorry if--' |
| |
| 'Sorry, Ma'am!' said Dick, 'sorry in the possession of a Cheggs! But I |
| wish you a very good night, concluding with this slight remark, that |
| there is a young lady growing up at this present moment for me, who has |
| not only great personal attractions but great wealth, and who has |
| requested her next of kin to propose for my hand, which, having a |
| regard for some members of her family, I have consented to promise. |
| It's a gratifying circumstance which you'll be glad to hear, that a |
| young and lovely girl is growing into a woman expressly on my account, |
| and is now saving up for me. I thought I'd mention it. I have now |
| merely to apologize for trespassing so long upon your attention. Good |
| night.' |
| |
| 'There's one good thing springs out of all this,' said Richard |
| Swiviller to himself when he had reached home and was hanging over the |
| candle with the extinguisher in his hand, 'which is, that I now go |
| heart and soul, neck and heels, with Fred in all his scheme about |
| little Nelly, and right glad he'll be to find me so strong upon it. He |
| shall know all about that to-morrow, and in the meantime, as it's |
| rather late, I'll try and get a wink of the balmy.' |
| |
| 'The balmy' came almost as soon as it was courted. In a very few |
| minutes Mr Swiviller was fast asleep, dreaming that he had married |
| Nelly Trent and come into the property, and that his first act of power |
| was to lay waste the market-garden of Mr Cheggs and turn it into a |
| brick-field. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 9 |
| |
| The child, in her confidence with Mrs Quilp, had but feebly described |
| the sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, or the heaviness of the cloud |
| which overhung her home, and cast dark shadows on its hearth. Besides |
| that it was very difficult to impart to any person not intimately |
| acquainted with the life she led, an adequate sense of its gloom and |
| loneliness, a constant fear of in some way committing or injuring the |
| old man to whom she was so tenderly attached, had restrained her, even |
| in the midst of her heart's overflowing, and made her timid of allusion |
| to the main cause of her anxiety and distress. |
| |
| For, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by variety and |
| uncheered by pleasant companionship, it was not the dark dreary |
| evenings or the long solitary nights, it was not the absence of every |
| slight and easy pleasure for which young hearts beat high, or the |
| knowing nothing of childhood but its weakness and its easily wounded |
| spirit, that had wrung such tears from Nell. To see the old man struck |
| down beneath the pressure of some hidden grief, to mark his wavering |
| and unsettled state, to be agitated at times with a dreadful fear that |
| his mind was wandering, and to trace in his words and looks the dawning |
| of despondent madness; to watch and wait and listen for confirmation of |
| these things day after day, and to feel and know that, come what might, |
| they were alone in the world with no one to help or advise or care |
| about them--these were causes of depression and anxiety that might have |
| sat heavily on an older breast with many influences at work to cheer |
| and gladden it, but how heavily on the mind of a young child to whom |
| they were ever present, and who was constantly surrounded by all that |
| could keep such thoughts in restless action! |
| |
| And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same. When he |
| could, for a moment, disengage his mind from the phantom that haunted |
| and brooded on it always, there was his young companion with the same |
| smile for him, the same earnest words, the same merry laugh, the same |
| love and care that, sinking deep into his soul, seemed to have been |
| present to him through his whole life. And so he went on, content to |
| read the book of her heart from the page first presented to him, little |
| dreaming of the story that lay hidden in its other leaves, and |
| murmuring within himself that at least the child was happy. |
| |
| She had been once. She had gone singing through the dim rooms, and |
| moving with gay and lightsome step among their dusty treasures, making |
| them older by her young life, and sterner and more grim by her gay and |
| cheerful presence. But, now, the chambers were cold and gloomy, and |
| when she left her own little room to while away the tedious hours, and |
| sat in one of them, she was still and motionless as their inanimate |
| occupants, and had no heart to startle the echoes--hoarse from their |
| long silence--with her voice. |
| |
| In one of these rooms, was a window looking into the street, where the |
| child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the night, |
| alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who watch and wait; |
| at these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her mind, in crowds. |
| |
| She would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people as they |
| passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of the |
| opposite houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome as that |
| in which she sat, and whether those people felt it company to see her |
| sitting there, as she did only to see them look out and draw in their |
| heads again. There was a crooked stack of chimneys on one of the |
| roofs, in which, by often looking at them, she had fancied ugly faces |
| that were frowning over at her and trying to peer into the room; and |
| she felt glad when it grew too dark to make them out, though she was |
| sorry too, when the man came to light the lamps in the street--for it |
| made it late, and very dull inside. Then, she would draw in her head |
| to look round the room and see that everything was in its place and |
| hadn't moved; and looking out into the street again, would perhaps see |
| a man passing with a coffin on his back, and two or three others |
| silently following him to a house where somebody lay dead; which made |
| her shudder and think of such things until they suggested afresh the |
| old man's altered face and manner, and a new train of fears and |
| speculations. If he were to die--if sudden illness had happened to |
| him, and he were never to come home again, alive--if, one night, he |
| should come home, and kiss and bless her as usual, and after she had |
| gone to bed and had fallen asleep and was perhaps dreaming pleasantly, |
| and smiling in her sleep, he should kill himself and his blood come |
| creeping, creeping, on the ground to her own bed-room door! These |
| thoughts were too terrible to dwell upon, and again she would have |
| recourse to the street, now trodden by fewer feet, and darker and more |
| silent than before. The shops were closing fast, and lights began to |
| shine from the upper windows, as the neighbours went to bed. By |
| degrees, these dwindled away and disappeared or were replaced, here and |
| there, by a feeble rush-candle which was to burn all night. Still, |
| there was one late shop at no great distance which sent forth a ruddy |
| glare upon the pavement even yet, and looked bright and companionable. |
| But, in a little time, this closed, the light was extinguished, and all |
| was gloomy and quiet, except when some stray footsteps sounded on the |
| pavement, or a neighbour, out later than his wont, knocked lustily at |
| his house-door to rouse the sleeping inmates. |
| |
| When the night had worn away thus far (and seldom now until it had) the |
| child would close the window, and steal softly down stairs, thinking as |
| she went that if one of those hideous faces below, which often mingled |
| with her dreams, were to meet her by the way, rendering itself visible |
| by some strange light of its own, how terrified she would be. But |
| these fears vanished before a well-trimmed lamp and the familiar aspect |
| of her own room. After praying fervently, and with many bursting |
| tears, for the old man, and the restoration of his peace of mind and |
| the happiness they had once enjoyed, she would lay her head upon the |
| pillow and sob herself to sleep: often starting up again, before the |
| day-light came, to listen for the bell and respond to the imaginary |
| summons which had roused her from her slumber. |
| |
| One night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs Quilp, the old |
| man, who had been weak and ill all day, said he should not leave home. |
| The child's eyes sparkled at the intelligence, but her joy subsided |
| when they reverted to his worn and sickly face. |
| |
| 'Two days,' he said, 'two whole, clear, days have passed, and there is |
| no reply. What did he tell thee, Nell?' |
| |
| 'Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed.' |
| |
| 'True,' said the old man, faintly. 'Yes. But tell me again, Nell. My |
| head fails me. What was it that he told thee? Nothing more than that |
| he would see me to-morrow or next day? That was in the note.' |
| |
| 'Nothing more,' said the child. 'Shall I go to him again to-morrow, |
| dear grandfather? Very early? I will be there and back, before |
| breakfast.' |
| |
| The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, drew her towards |
| him. |
| |
| ''Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But if he deserts me, |
| Nell, at this moment--if he deserts me now, when I should, with his |
| assistance, be recompensed for all the time and money I have lost, and |
| all the agony of mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see, I |
| am ruined, and--worse, far worse than that--have ruined thee, for whom |
| I ventured all. If we are beggars--!' |
| |
| 'What if we are?' said the child boldly. 'Let us be beggars, and be |
| happy.' |
| |
| 'Beggars--and happy!' said the old man. 'Poor child!' |
| |
| 'Dear grandfather,' cried the girl with an energy which shone in her |
| flushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, 'I am not a |
| child in that I think, but even if I am, oh hear me pray that we may |
| beg, or work in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather |
| than live as we do now.' |
| |
| 'Nelly!' said the old man. |
| |
| 'Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now,' the child repeated, more |
| earnestly than before. 'If you are sorrowful, let me know why and be |
| sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker every day, |
| let me be your nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us |
| be poor together; but let me be with you, do let me be with you; do not |
| let me see such change and not know why, or I shall break my heart and |
| die. Dear grandfather, let us leave this sad place to-morrow, and beg |
| our way from door to door.' |
| |
| The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the pillow |
| of the couch on which he lay. |
| |
| 'Let us be beggars,' said the child passing an arm round his neck, 'I |
| have no fear but we shall have enough, I am sure we shall. Let us walk |
| through country places, and sleep in fields and under trees, and never |
| think of money again, or anything that can make you sad, but rest at |
| nights, and have the sun and wind upon our faces in the day, and thank |
| God together! Let us never set foot in dark rooms or melancholy |
| houses, any more, but wander up and down wherever we like to go; and |
| when you are tired, you shall stop to rest in the pleasantest place |
| that we can find, and I will go and beg for both.' |
| |
| The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old man's |
| neck; nor did she weep alone. |
| |
| These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene for other eyes. |
| And yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily taking in all that |
| passed, and moreover they were the ears and eyes of no less a person |
| than Mr Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child first |
| placed herself at the old man's side, refrained--actuated, no doubt, by |
| motives of the purest delicacy--from interrupting the conversation, and |
| stood looking on with his accustomed grin. Standing, however, being a |
| tiresome attitude to a gentleman already fatigued with walking, and the |
| dwarf being one of that kind of persons who usually make themselves at |
| home, he soon cast his eyes upon a chair, into which he skipped with |
| uncommon agility, and perching himself on the back with his feet upon |
| the seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater comfort |
| to himself, besides gratifying at the same time that taste for doing |
| something fantastic and monkey-like, which on all occasions had strong |
| possession of him. Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over |
| the other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his head turned a |
| little on one side, and his ugly features twisted into a complacent |
| grimace. And in this position the old man, happening in course of time |
| to look that way, at length chanced to see him: to his unbounded |
| astonishment. |
| |
| The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this agreeable |
| figure; in their first surprise both she and the old man, not knowing |
| what to say, and half doubting its reality, looked shrinkingly at it. |
| Not at all disconcerted by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the |
| same attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice with great condescension. |
| At length, the old man pronounced his name, and inquired how he came |
| there. |
| |
| 'Through the door,' said Quilp pointing over his shoulder with his |
| thumb. 'I'm not quite small enough to get through key-holes. I wish I |
| was. I want to have some talk with you, particularly, and in private. |
| With nobody present, neighbour. Good-bye, little Nelly.' |
| |
| Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and kissed her |
| cheek. |
| |
| 'Ah!' said the dwarf, smacking his lips, 'what a nice kiss that |
| was--just upon the rosy part. What a capital kiss!' |
| |
| Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark. Quilp looked |
| after her with an admiring leer, and when she had closed the door, fell |
| to complimenting the old man upon her charms. |
| |
| 'Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbour,' said Quilp, |
| nursing his short leg, and making his eyes twinkle very much; 'such a |
| chubby, rosy, cosy, little Nell!' |
| |
| The old man answered by a forced smile, and was plainly struggling with |
| a feeling of the keenest and most exquisite impatience. It was not |
| lost upon Quilp, who delighted in torturing him, or indeed anybody |
| else, when he could. |
| |
| 'She's so,' said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and feigning to be quite |
| absorbed in the subject, 'so small, so compact, so beautifully |
| modelled, so fair, with such blue veins and such a transparent skin, |
| and such little feet, and such winning ways--but bless me, you're |
| nervous! Why neighbour, what's the matter? I swear to you,' continued |
| the dwarf dismounting from the chair and sitting down in it, with a |
| careful slowness of gesture very different from the rapidity with which |
| he had sprung up unheard, 'I swear to you that I had no idea old blood |
| ran so fast or kept so warm. I thought it was sluggish in its course, |
| and cool, quite cool. I am pretty sure it ought to be. Yours must be |
| out of order, neighbour.' |
| |
| 'I believe it is,' groaned the old man, clasping his head with both |
| hands. 'There's burning fever here, and something now and then to |
| which I fear to give a name.' |
| |
| The dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he paced |
| restlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his seat. |
| Here he remained, with his head bowed upon his breast for some time, |
| and then suddenly raising it, said, |
| |
| 'Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?' |
| |
| 'No!' returned Quilp. |
| |
| 'Then,' said the old man, clenching his hands desperately, and looking |
| upwards, 'the child and I are lost!' |
| |
| 'Neighbour,' said Quilp glancing sternly at him, and beating his hand |
| twice or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering attention, 'let |
| me be plain with you, and play a fairer game than when you held all the |
| cards, and I saw but the backs and nothing more. You have no secret |
| from me now.' |
| |
| The old man looked up, trembling. |
| |
| 'You are surprised,' said Quilp. 'Well, perhaps that's natural. You |
| have no secret from me now, I say; no, not one. For now, I know, that |
| all those sums of money, that all those loans, advances, and supplies |
| that you have had from me, have found their way to--shall I say the |
| word?' |
| |
| 'Aye!' replied the old man, 'say it, if you will.' |
| |
| 'To the gaming-table,' rejoined Quilp, 'your nightly haunt. This was |
| the precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was the secret |
| certain source of wealth in which I was to have sunk my money (if I had |
| been the fool you took me for); this was your inexhaustible mine of |
| gold, your El Dorado, eh?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes, 'it was. |
| It is. It will be, till I die.' |
| |
| 'That I should have been blinded,' said Quilp looking contemptuously at |
| him, 'by a mere shallow gambler!' |
| |
| 'I am no gambler,' cried the old man fiercely. 'I call Heaven to |
| witness that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play; that at |
| every piece I staked, I whispered to myself that orphan's name and |
| called on Heaven to bless the venture;--which it never did. Whom did |
| it prosper? Who were those with whom I played? Men who lived by |
| plunder, profligacy, and riot; squandering their gold in doing ill, and |
| propagating vice and evil. My winnings would have been from them, my |
| winnings would have been bestowed to the last farthing on a young |
| sinless child whose life they would have sweetened and made happy. |
| What would they have contracted? The means of corruption, |
| wretchedness, and misery. Who would not have hoped in such a cause? |
| Tell me that! Who would not have hoped as I did?' |
| |
| 'When did you first begin this mad career?' asked Quilp, his taunting |
| inclination subdued, for a moment, by the old man's grief and wildness. |
| |
| 'When did I first begin?' he rejoined, passing his hand across his |
| brow. 'When was it, that I first began? When should it be, but when I |
| began to think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to save |
| at all, how short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she |
| would be left to the rough mercies of the world, with barely enough to |
| keep her from the sorrows that wait on poverty; then it was that I |
| began to think about it.' |
| |
| 'After you first came to me to get your precious grandson packed off to |
| sea?' said Quilp. |
| |
| 'Shortly after that,' replied the old man. 'I thought of it a long |
| time, and had it in my sleep for months. Then I began. I found no |
| pleasure in it, I expected none. What has it ever brought me but |
| anxious days and sleepless nights; but loss of health and peace of |
| mind, and gain of feebleness and sorrow!' |
| |
| 'You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then came to me. |
| While I thought you were making your fortune (as you said you were) you |
| were making yourself a beggar, eh? Dear me! And so it comes to pass |
| that I hold every security you could scrape together, and a bill of |
| sale upon the--upon the stock and property,' said Quilp standing up and |
| looking about him, as if to assure himself that none of it had been |
| taken away. 'But did you never win?' |
| |
| 'Never!' groaned the old man. 'Never won back my loss!' |
| |
| 'I thought,' sneered the dwarf, 'that if a man played long enough he |
| was sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not to come off a loser.' |
| |
| 'And so he is,' cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from his |
| state of despondency, and lashed into the most violent excitement, 'so |
| he is; I have felt that from the first, I have always known it, I've |
| seen it, I never felt it half so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I |
| have dreamed, three nights, of winning the same large sum, I never |
| could dream that dream before, though I have often tried. Do not |
| desert me, now I have this chance. I have no resource but you, give me |
| some help, let me try this one last hope.' |
| |
| The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. |
| |
| 'See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp,' said the old man, drawing some |
| scraps of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand, and clasping the |
| dwarf's arm, 'only see here. Look at these figures, the result of long |
| calculation, and painful and hard experience. I MUST win. I only want |
| a little help once more, a few pounds, but two score pounds, dear |
| Quilp.' |
| |
| 'The last advance was seventy,' said the dwarf; 'and it went in one |
| night.' |
| |
| 'I know it did,' answered the old man, 'but that was the very worst |
| fortune of all, and the time had not come then. Quilp, consider, |
| consider,' the old man cried, trembling so much the while, that the |
| papers in his hand fluttered as if they were shaken by the wind, 'that |
| orphan child! If I were alone, I could die with gladness--perhaps even |
| anticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally: coming, as it |
| does, on the proud and happy in their strength, and shunning the needy |
| and afflicted, and all who court it in their despair--but what I have |
| done, has been for her. Help me for her sake I implore you; not for |
| mine; for hers!' |
| |
| 'I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city,' said Quilp, looking at |
| his watch with perfect self-possession, 'or I should have been very |
| glad to have spent half an hour with you while you composed yourself, |
| very glad.' |
| |
| 'Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,' gasped the old man, catching at his skirts, |
| 'you and I have talked together, more than once, of her poor mother's |
| story. The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps been bred in me |
| by that. Do not be hard upon me, but take that into account. You are |
| a great gainer by me. Oh spare me the money for this one last hope!' |
| |
| 'I couldn't do it really,' said Quilp with unusual politeness, 'though |
| I tell you what--and this is a circumstance worth bearing in mind as |
| showing how the sharpest among us may be taken in sometimes--I was so |
| deceived by the penurious way in which you lived, alone with Nelly--' |
| |
| 'All done to save money for tempting fortune, and to make her triumph |
| greater,' cried the old man. |
| |
| 'Yes, yes, I understand that now,' said Quilp; 'but I was going to say, |
| I was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation you had |
| among those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated assurances |
| that you would make of my advances treble and quadruple the interest |
| you paid me, that I'd have advanced you, even now, what you want, on |
| your simple note of hand, if I hadn't unexpectedly become acquainted |
| with your secret way of life.' |
| |
| 'Who is it,' retorted the old man desperately, 'that, notwithstanding |
| all my caution, told you? Come. Let me know the name--the person.' |
| |
| The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the child would |
| lead to the disclosure of the artifice he had employed, which, as |
| nothing was to be gained by it, it was well to conceal, stopped short |
| in his answer and said, 'Now, who do you think?' |
| |
| 'It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy, and you |
| tampered with him?' said the old man. |
| |
| 'How came you to think of him?' said the dwarf in a tone of great |
| commiseration. 'Yes, it was Kit. Poor Kit!' |
| |
| So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave: stopping |
| when he had passed the outer door a little distance, and grinning with |
| extraordinary delight. |
| |
| 'Poor Kit!' muttered Quilp. 'I think it was Kit who said I was an |
| uglier dwarf than could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn't it. Ha ha |
| ha! Poor Kit!' |
| |
| And with that he went his way, still chuckling as he went. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 10 |
| |
| Daniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's house, unobserved. |
| In the shadow of an archway nearly opposite, leading to one of the many |
| passages which diverged from the main street, there lingered one, who, |
| having taken up his position when the twilight first came on, still |
| maintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning against the wall |
| with the manner of a person who had a long time to wait, and being well |
| used to it was quite resigned, scarcely changed his attitude for the |
| hour together. |
| |
| This patient lounger attracted little attention from any of those who |
| passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His eyes were constantly |
| directed towards one object; the window at which the child was |
| accustomed to sit. If he withdrew them for a moment, it was only to |
| glance at a clock in some neighbouring shop, and then to strain his |
| sight once more in the old quarter with increased earnestness and |
| attention. |
| |
| It had been remarked that this personage evinced no weariness in his |
| place of concealment; nor did he, long as his waiting was. But as the |
| time went on, he manifested some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the |
| clock more frequently and at the window less hopefully than before. At |
| length, the clock was hidden from his sight by some envious shutters, |
| then the church steeples proclaimed eleven at night, then the quarter |
| past, and then the conviction seemed to obtrude itself on his mind that |
| it was no use tarrying there any longer. |
| |
| That the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he was by no means |
| willing to yield to it, was apparent from his reluctance to quit the |
| spot; from the tardy steps with which he often left it, still looking |
| over his shoulder at the same window; and from the precipitation with |
| which he as often returned, when a fancied noise or the changing and |
| imperfect light induced him to suppose it had been softly raised. At |
| length, he gave the matter up, as hopeless for that night, and suddenly |
| breaking into a run as though to force himself away, scampered off at |
| his utmost speed, nor once ventured to look behind him lest he should |
| be tempted back again. |
| |
| Without relaxing his pace, or stopping to take breath, this mysterious |
| individual dashed on through a great many alleys and narrow ways until |
| he at length arrived in a square paved court, when he subsided into a |
| walk, and making for a small house from the window of which a light was |
| shining, lifted the latch of the door and passed in. |
| |
| 'Bless us!' cried a woman turning sharply round, 'who's that? Oh! |
| It's you, Kit!' |
| |
| 'Yes, mother, it's me.' |
| |
| 'Why, how tired you look, my dear!' |
| |
| 'Old master an't gone out to-night,' said Kit; 'and so she hasn't been |
| at the window at all.' With which words, he sat down by the fire and |
| looked very mournful and discontented. |
| |
| The room in which Kit sat himself down, in this condition, was an |
| extremely poor and homely place, but with that air of comfort about it, |
| nevertheless, which--or the spot must be a wretched one |
| indeed--cleanliness and order can always impart in some degree. Late |
| as the Dutch clock showed it to be, the poor woman was still hard at |
| work at an ironing-table; a young child lay sleeping in a cradle near |
| the fire; and another, a sturdy boy of two or three years old, very |
| wide awake, with a very tight night-cap on his head, and a night-gown |
| very much too small for him on his body, was sitting bolt upright in a |
| clothes-basket, staring over the rim with his great round eyes, and |
| looking as if he had thoroughly made up his mind never to go to sleep |
| any more; which, as he had already declined to take his natural rest |
| and had been brought out of bed in consequence, opened a cheerful |
| prospect for his relations and friends. It was rather a queer-looking |
| family: Kit, his mother, and the children, being all strongly alike. |
| |
| Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us are too |
| often--but he looked at the youngest child who was sleeping soundly, |
| and from him to his other brother in the clothes-basket, and from him |
| to their mother, who had been at work without complaint since morning, |
| and thought it would be a better and kinder thing to be good-humoured. |
| So he rocked the cradle with his foot; made a face at the rebel in the |
| clothes-basket, which put him in high good-humour directly; and stoutly |
| determined to be talkative and make himself agreeable. |
| |
| 'Ah, mother!' said Kit, taking out his clasp-knife, and falling upon a |
| great piece of bread and meat which she had had ready for him, hours |
| before, 'what a one you are! There an't many such as you, I know.' |
| |
| 'I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit,' said Mrs Nubbles; |
| 'and that there are, or ought to be, accordin' to what the parson at |
| chapel says.' |
| |
| 'Much he knows about it,' returned Kit contemptuously. 'Wait till he's |
| a widder and works like you do, and gets as little, and does as much, |
| and keeps his spirit up the same, and then I'll ask him what's o'clock |
| and trust him for being right to half a second.' |
| |
| 'Well,' said Mrs Nubbles, evading the point, 'your beer's down there by |
| the fender, Kit.' |
| |
| 'I see,' replied her son, taking up the porter pot, 'my love to you, |
| mother. And the parson's health too if you like. I don't bear him any |
| malice, not I!' |
| |
| 'Did you tell me, just now, that your master hadn't gone out to-night?' |
| inquired Mrs Nubbles. |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Kit, 'worse luck!' |
| |
| 'You should say better luck, I think,' returned his mother, 'because |
| Miss Nelly won't have been left alone.' |
| |
| 'Ah!' said Kit, 'I forgot that. I said worse luck, because I've been |
| watching ever since eight o'clock, and seen nothing of her.' |
| |
| 'I wonder what she'd say,' cried his mother, stopping in her work and |
| looking round, 'if she knew that every night, when she--poor thing--is |
| sitting alone at that window, you are watching in the open street for |
| fear any harm should come to her, and that you never leave the place or |
| come home to your bed though you're ever so tired, till such time as |
| you think she's safe in hers.' |
| |
| 'Never mind what she'd say,' replied Kit, with something like a blush |
| on his uncouth face; 'she'll never know nothing, and consequently, |
| she'll never say nothing.' |
| |
| Mrs Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or two, and coming to |
| the fireplace for another iron, glanced stealthily at Kit while she |
| rubbed it on a board and dusted it with a duster, but said nothing |
| until she had returned to her table again: when, holding the iron at an |
| alarmingly short distance from her cheek, to test its temperature, and |
| looking round with a smile, she observed: |
| |
| 'I know what some people would say, Kit--' |
| |
| 'Nonsense,' interposed Kit with a perfect apprehension of what was to |
| follow. |
| |
| 'No, but they would indeed. Some people would say that you'd fallen in |
| love with her, I know they would.' |
| |
| To this, Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother 'get out,' |
| and forming sundry strange figures with his legs and arms, accompanied |
| by sympathetic contortions of his face. Not deriving from these means |
| the relief which he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from the |
| bread and meat, and took a quick drink of the porter; by which |
| artificial aids he choked himself and effected a diversion of the |
| subject. |
| |
| 'Speaking seriously though, Kit,' said his mother, taking up the theme |
| afresh, after a time, 'for of course I was only in joke just now, it's |
| very good and thoughtful, and like you, to do this, and never let |
| anybody know it, though some day I hope she may come to know it, for |
| I'm sure she would be very grateful to you and feel it very much. It's |
| a cruel thing to keep the dear child shut up there. I don't wonder |
| that the old gentleman wants to keep it from you.' |
| |
| 'He don't think it's cruel, bless you,' said Kit, 'and don't mean it to |
| be so, or he wouldn't do it--I do consider, mother, that he wouldn't do |
| it for all the gold and silver in the world. No, no, that he wouldn't. |
| I know him better than that.' |
| |
| 'Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it so close from |
| you?' said Mrs Nubbles. |
| |
| 'That I don't know,' returned her son. 'If he hadn't tried to keep it |
| so close though, I should never have found it out, for it was his |
| getting me away at night and sending me off so much earlier than he |
| used to, that first made me curious to know what was going on. Hark! |
| what's that?' |
| |
| 'It's only somebody outside.' |
| |
| 'It's somebody crossing over here,' said Kit, standing up to listen, |
| 'and coming very fast too. He can't have gone out after I left, and |
| the house caught fire, mother!' |
| |
| The boy stood, for a moment, really bereft, by the apprehension he had |
| conjured up, of the power to move. The footsteps drew nearer, the door |
| was opened with a hasty hand, and the child herself, pale and |
| breathless, and hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried |
| into the room. |
| |
| 'Miss Nelly! What is the matter!' cried mother and son together. |
| |
| 'I must not stay a moment,' she returned, 'grandfather has been taken |
| very ill. I found him in a fit upon the floor--' |
| |
| 'I'll run for a doctor'--said Kit, seizing his brimless hat. 'I'll be |
| there directly, I'll--' |
| |
| 'No, no,' cried Nell, 'there is one there, you're not wanted, |
| you--you--must never come near us any more!' |
| |
| 'What!' roared Kit. |
| |
| 'Never again,' said the child. 'Don't ask me why, for I don't know. |
| Pray don't ask me why, pray don't be sorry, pray don't be vexed with |
| me! I have nothing to do with it indeed!' |
| |
| Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide; and opened and shut his |
| mouth a great many times; but couldn't get out one word. |
| |
| 'He complains and raves of you,' said the child, 'I don't know what you |
| have done, but I hope it's nothing very bad.' |
| |
| 'I done!' roared Kit. |
| |
| 'He cried that you're the cause of all his misery,' returned the child |
| with tearful eyes; 'he screamed and called for you; they say you must |
| not come near him or he will die. You must not return to us any more. |
| I came to tell you. I thought it would be better that I should come |
| than somebody quite strange. Oh, Kit, what have you done? You, in |
| whom I trusted so much, and who were almost the only friend I had!' |
| |
| The unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder and harder, and |
| with eyes growing wider and wider, but was perfectly motionless and |
| silent. |
| |
| 'I have brought his money for the week,' said the child, looking to the |
| woman and laying it on the table--'and--and--a little more, for he was |
| always good and kind to me. I hope he will be sorry and do well |
| somewhere else and not take this to heart too much. It grieves me very |
| much to part with him like this, but there is no help. It must be |
| done. Good night!' |
| |
| With the tears streaming down her face, and her slight figure trembling |
| with the agitation of the scene she had left, the shock she had |
| received, the errand she had just discharged, and a thousand painful |
| and affectionate feelings, the child hastened to the door, and |
| disappeared as rapidly as she had come. |
| |
| The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son, but every reason for |
| relying on his honesty and truth, was staggered, notwithstanding, by |
| his not having advanced one word in his defence. Visions of gallantry, |
| knavery, robbery; and of the nightly absences from home for which he |
| had accounted so strangely, having been occasioned by some unlawful |
| pursuit; flocked into her brain and rendered her afraid to question |
| him. She rocked herself upon a chair, wringing her hands and weeping |
| bitterly, but Kit made no attempt to comfort her and remained quite |
| bewildered. The baby in the cradle woke up and cried; the boy in the |
| clothes-basket fell over on his back with the basket upon him, and was |
| seen no more; the mother wept louder yet and rocked faster; but Kit, |
| insensible to all the din and tumult, remained in a state of utter |
| stupefaction. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 11 |
| |
| Quiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted rule no longer, |
| beneath the roof that sheltered the child. Next morning, the old man |
| was in a raging fever accompanied with delirium; and sinking under the |
| influence of this disorder he lay for many weeks in imminent peril of |
| his life. There was watching enough, now, but it was the watching of |
| strangers who made a greedy trade of it, and who, in the intervals in |
| their attendance upon the sick man huddled together with a ghastly |
| good-fellowship, and ate and drank and made merry; for disease and |
| death were their ordinary household gods. |
| |
| Yet, in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the child was more |
| alone than she had ever been before; alone in spirit, alone in her |
| devotion to him who was wasting away upon his burning bed; alone in her |
| unfeigned sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy. Day after day, and |
| night after night, found her still by the pillow of the unconscious |
| sufferer, still anticipating his every want, still listening to those |
| repetitions of her name and those anxieties and cares for her, which |
| were ever uppermost among his feverish wanderings. |
| |
| The house was no longer theirs. Even the sick chamber seemed to be |
| retained, on the uncertain tenure of Mr Quilp's favour. The old man's |
| illness had not lasted many days when he took formal possession of the |
| premises and all upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to that |
| effect, which few understood and none presumed to call in question. |
| This important step secured, with the assistance of a man of law whom |
| he brought with him for the purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish |
| himself and his coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his claim |
| against all comers; and then set about making his quarters comfortable, |
| after his own fashion. |
| |
| To this end, Mr Quilp encamped in the back parlour, having first put an |
| effectual stop to any further business by shutting up the shop. Having |
| looked out, from among the old furniture, the handsomest and most |
| commodious chair he could possibly find (which he reserved for his own |
| use) and an especially hideous and uncomfortable one (which he |
| considerately appropriated to the accommodation of his friend) he |
| caused them to be carried into this room, and took up his position in |
| great state. The apartment was very far removed from the old man's |
| chamber, but Mr Quilp deemed it prudent, as a precaution against |
| infection from fever, and a means of wholesome fumigation, not only to |
| smoke, himself, without cessation, but to insist upon it that his legal |
| friend did the like. Moreover, he sent an express to the wharf for the |
| tumbling boy, who arriving with all despatch was enjoined to sit |
| himself down in another chair just inside the door, continually to |
| smoke a great pipe which the dwarf had provided for the purpose, and to |
| take it from his lips under any pretence whatever, were it only for one |
| minute at a time, if he dared. These arrangements completed, Mr Quilp |
| looked round him with chuckling satisfaction, and remarked that he |
| called that comfort. |
| |
| The legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass, might have called |
| it comfort also but for two drawbacks: one was, that he could by no |
| exertion sit easy in his chair, the seat of which was very hard, |
| angular, slippery, and sloping; the other, that tobacco-smoke always |
| caused him great internal discomposure and annoyance. But as he was |
| quite a creature of Mr Quilp's and had a thousand reasons for |
| conciliating his good opinion, he tried to smile, and nodded his |
| acquiescence with the best grace he could assume. |
| |
| This Brass was an attorney of no very good repute, from Bevis Marks in |
| the city of London; he was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like a wen, |
| a protruding forehead, retreating eyes, and hair of a deep red. He |
| wore a long black surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short black |
| trousers, high shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish grey. He had a |
| cringing manner, but a very harsh voice; and his blandest smiles were |
| so extremely forbidding, that to have had his company under the least |
| repulsive circumstances, one would have wished him to be out of temper |
| that he might only scowl. |
| |
| Quilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he was winking very |
| much in the anguish of his pipe, that he sometimes shuddered when he |
| happened to inhale its full flavour, and that he constantly fanned the |
| smoke from him, was quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands with glee. |
| |
| 'Smoke away, you dog,' said Quilp, turning to the boy; 'fill your pipe |
| again and smoke it fast, down to the last whiff, or I'll put the |
| sealing-waxed end of it in the fire and rub it red hot upon your |
| tongue.' |
| |
| Luckily the boy was case-hardened, and would have smoked a small |
| lime-kiln if anybody had treated him with it. Wherefore, he only |
| muttered a brief defiance of his master, and did as he was ordered. |
| |
| 'Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant, do you feel like the |
| Grand Turk?' said Quilp. |
| |
| Mr Brass thought that if he did, the Grand Turk's feelings were by no |
| means to be envied, but he said it was famous, and he had no doubt he |
| felt very like that Potentate. |
| |
| 'This is the way to keep off fever,' said Quilp, 'this is the way to |
| keep off every calamity of life! We'll never leave off, all the time |
| we stop here--smoke away, you dog, or you shall swallow the pipe!' |
| |
| 'Shall we stop here long, Mr Quilp?' inquired his legal friend, when |
| the dwarf had given his boy this gentle admonition. |
| |
| 'We must stop, I suppose, till the old gentleman up stairs is dead,' |
| returned Quilp. |
| |
| 'He he he!' laughed Mr Brass, 'oh! very good!' |
| |
| 'Smoke away!' cried Quilp. 'Never stop! You can talk as you smoke. |
| Don't lose time.' |
| |
| 'He he he!' cried Brass faintly, as he again applied himself to the |
| odious pipe. 'But if he should get better, Mr Quilp?' |
| |
| 'Then we shall stop till he does, and no longer,' returned the dwarf. |
| |
| 'How kind it is of you, Sir, to wait till then!' said Brass. 'Some |
| people, Sir, would have sold or removed the goods--oh dear, the very |
| instant the law allowed 'em. Some people, Sir, would have been all |
| flintiness and granite. Some people, sir, would have--' |
| |
| 'Some people would have spared themselves the jabbering of such a |
| parrot as you,' interposed the dwarf. |
| |
| 'He he he!' cried Brass. 'You have such spirits!' |
| |
| The smoking sentinel at the door interposed in this place, and without |
| taking his pipe from his lips, growled, |
| |
| 'Here's the gal a comin' down.' |
| |
| 'The what, you dog?' said Quilp. |
| |
| 'The gal,' returned the boy. 'Are you deaf?' |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Quilp, drawing in his breath with great relish as if he were |
| taking soup, 'you and I will have such a settling presently; there's |
| such a scratching and bruising in store for you, my dear young friend! |
| Aha! Nelly! How is he now, my duck of diamonds?' |
| |
| 'He's very bad,' replied the weeping child. |
| |
| 'What a pretty little Nell!' cried Quilp. |
| |
| 'Oh beautiful, sir, beautiful indeed,' said Brass. 'Quite charming.' |
| |
| 'Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee,' said the dwarf, in what he |
| meant to be a soothing tone, 'or is she going to bed in her own little |
| room inside here? Which is poor Nelly going to do?' |
| |
| 'What a remarkable pleasant way he has with children!' muttered Brass, |
| as if in confidence between himself and the ceiling; 'upon my word it's |
| quite a treat to hear him.' |
| |
| 'I'm not going to stay at all,' faltered Nell. 'I want a few things |
| out of that room, and then I--I--won't come down here any more.' |
| |
| 'And a very nice little room it is!' said the dwarf looking into it as |
| the child entered. 'Quite a bower! You're sure you're not going to |
| use it; you're sure you're not coming back, Nelly?' |
| |
| 'No,' replied the child, hurrying away, with the few articles of dress |
| she had come to remove; 'never again! Never again.' |
| |
| 'She's very sensitive,' said Quilp, looking after her. 'Very |
| sensitive; that's a pity. The bedstead is much about my size. I think |
| I shall make it MY little room.' |
| |
| Mr Brass encouraging this idea, as he would have encouraged any other |
| emanating from the same source, the dwarf walked in to try the effect. |
| This he did, by throwing himself on his back upon the bed with his pipe |
| in his mouth, and then kicking up his legs and smoking violently. Mr |
| Brass applauding this picture very much, and the bed being soft and |
| comfortable, Mr Quilp determined to use it, both as a sleeping place by |
| night and as a kind of Divan by day; and in order that it might be |
| converted to the latter purpose at once, remained where he was, and |
| smoked his pipe out. The legal gentleman being by this time rather |
| giddy and perplexed in his ideas (for this was one of the operations of |
| the tobacco on his nervous system), took the opportunity of slinking |
| away into the open air, where, in course of time, he recovered |
| sufficiently to return with a countenance of tolerable composure. He |
| was soon led on by the malicious dwarf to smoke himself into a relapse, |
| and in that state stumbled upon a settee where he slept till morning. |
| |
| Such were Mr Quilp's first proceedings on entering upon his new |
| property. He was, for some days, restrained by business from |
| performing any particular pranks, as his time was pretty well occupied |
| between taking, with the assistance of Mr Brass, a minute inventory of |
| all the goods in the place, and going abroad upon his other concerns |
| which happily engaged him for several hours at a time. His avarice and |
| caution being, now, thoroughly awakened, however, he was never absent |
| from the house one night; and his eagerness for some termination, good |
| or bad, to the old man's disorder, increasing rapidly, as the time |
| passed by, soon began to vent itself in open murmurs and exclamations |
| of impatience. |
| |
| Nell shrank timidly from all the dwarf's advances towards conversation, |
| and fled from the very sound of his voice; nor were the lawyer's smiles |
| less terrible to her than Quilp's grimaces. She lived in such |
| continual dread and apprehension of meeting one or other of them on the |
| stairs or in the passages if she stirred from her grandfather's |
| chamber, that she seldom left it, for a moment, until late at night, |
| when the silence encouraged her to venture forth and breathe the purer |
| air of some empty room. |
| |
| One night, she had stolen to her usual window, and was sitting there |
| very sorrowfully--for the old man had been worse that day--when she |
| thought she heard her name pronounced by a voice in the street. |
| Looking down, she recognised Kit, whose endeavours to attract her |
| attention had roused her from her sad reflections. |
| |
| 'Miss Nell!' said the boy in a low voice. |
| |
| 'Yes,' replied the child, doubtful whether she ought to hold any |
| communication with the supposed culprit, but inclining to her old |
| favourite still; 'what do you want?' |
| |
| 'I have wanted to say a word to you, for a long time,' the boy replied, |
| 'but the people below have driven me away and wouldn't let me see you. |
| You don't believe--I hope you don't really believe--that I deserve to |
| be cast off as I have been; do you, miss?' |
| |
| 'I must believe it,' returned the child. 'Or why would grandfather |
| have been so angry with you?' |
| |
| 'I don't know,' replied Kit. 'I'm sure I never deserved it from him, |
| no, nor from you. I can say that, with a true and honest heart, any |
| way. And then to be driven from the door, when I only came to ask how |
| old master was--!' |
| |
| 'They never told me that,' said the child. 'I didn't know it indeed. |
| I wouldn't have had them do it for the world.' |
| |
| 'Thank'ee, miss,' returned Kit, 'it's comfortable to hear you say that. |
| I said I never would believe that it was your doing.' |
| |
| 'That was right!' said the child eagerly. |
| |
| 'Miss Nell,' cried the boy coming under the window, and speaking in a |
| lower tone, 'there are new masters down stairs. It's a change for you.' |
| |
| 'It is indeed,' replied the child. |
| |
| 'And so it will be for him when he gets better,' said the boy, pointing |
| towards the sick room. |
| |
| '--If he ever does,' added the child, unable to restrain her tears. |
| |
| 'Oh, he'll do that, he'll do that,' said Kit. 'I'm sure he will. You |
| mustn't be cast down, Miss Nell. Now don't be, pray!' |
| |
| These words of encouragement and consolation were few and roughly said, |
| but they affected the child and made her, for the moment, weep the more. |
| |
| 'He'll be sure to get better now,' said the boy anxiously, 'if you |
| don't give way to low spirits and turn ill yourself, which would make |
| him worse and throw him back, just as he was recovering. When he does, |
| say a good word--say a kind word for me, Miss Nell!' |
| |
| 'They tell me I must not even mention your name to him for a long, long |
| time,' rejoined the child, 'I dare not; and even if I might, what good |
| would a kind word do you, Kit? We shall be very poor. We shall |
| scarcely have bread to eat.' |
| |
| 'It's not that I may be taken back,' said the boy, 'that I ask the |
| favour of you. It isn't for the sake of food and wages that I've been |
| waiting about so long in hopes to see you. Don't think that I'd come |
| in a time of trouble to talk of such things as them.' |
| |
| The child looked gratefully and kindly at him, but waited that he might |
| speak again. |
| |
| 'No, it's not that,' said Kit hesitating, 'it's something very |
| different from that. I haven't got much sense, I know, but if he could |
| be brought to believe that I'd been a faithful servant to him, doing |
| the best I could, and never meaning harm, perhaps he mightn't--' |
| |
| Here Kit faltered so long that the child entreated him to speak out, |
| and quickly, for it was very late, and time to shut the window. |
| |
| 'Perhaps he mightn't think it over venturesome of me to say--well then, |
| to say this,' cried Kit with sudden boldness. 'This home is gone from |
| you and him. Mother and I have got a poor one, but that's better than |
| this with all these people here; and why not come there, till he's had |
| time to look about, and find a better!' |
| |
| The child did not speak. Kit, in the relief of having made his |
| proposition, found his tongue loosened, and spoke out in its favour |
| with his utmost eloquence. |
| |
| 'You think,' said the boy, 'that it's very small and inconvenient. So |
| it is, but it's very clean. Perhaps you think it would be noisy, but |
| there's not a quieter court than ours in all the town. Don't be afraid |
| of the children; the baby hardly ever cries, and the other one is very |
| good--besides, I'd mind 'em. They wouldn't vex you much, I'm sure. Do |
| try, Miss Nell, do try. The little front room up stairs is very |
| pleasant. You can see a piece of the church-clock, through the |
| chimneys, and almost tell the time; mother says it would be just the |
| thing for you, and so it would, and you'd have her to wait upon you |
| both, and me to run of errands. We don't mean money, bless you; you're |
| not to think of that! Will you try him, Miss Nell? Only say you'll |
| try him. Do try to make old master come, and ask him first what I have |
| done. Will you only promise that, Miss Nell?' |
| |
| Before the child could reply to this earnest solicitation, the |
| street-door opened, and Mr Brass thrusting out his night-capped head |
| called in a surly voice, 'Who's there!' Kit immediately glided away, |
| and Nell, closing the window softly, drew back into the room. |
| |
| Before Mr Brass had repeated his inquiry many times, Mr Quilp, also |
| embellished with a night-cap, emerged from the same door and looked |
| carefully up and down the street, and up at all the windows of the |
| house, from the opposite side. Finding that there was nobody in sight, |
| he presently returned into the house with his legal friend, protesting |
| (as the child heard from the staircase), that there was a league and |
| plot against him; that he was in danger of being robbed and plundered |
| by a band of conspirators who prowled about the house at all seasons; |
| and that he would delay no longer but take immediate steps for |
| disposing of the property and returning to his own peaceful roof. |
| Having growled forth these, and a great many other threats of the same |
| nature, he coiled himself once more in the child's little bed, and Nell |
| crept softly up the stairs. |
| |
| It was natural enough that her short and unfinished dialogue with Kit |
| should leave a strong impression on her mind, and influence her dreams |
| that night and her recollections for a long, long time. Surrounded by |
| unfeeling creditors, and mercenary attendants upon the sick, and |
| meeting in the height of her anxiety and sorrow with little regard or |
| sympathy even from the women about her, it is not surprising that the |
| affectionate heart of the child should have been touched to the quick |
| by one kind and generous spirit, however uncouth the temple in which it |
| dwelt. Thank Heaven that the temples of such spirits are not made with |
| hands, and that they may be even more worthily hung with poor |
| patch-work than with purple and fine linen! |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 12 |
| |
| At length, the crisis of the old man's disorder was past, and he began |
| to mend. By very slow and feeble degrees his consciousness came back; |
| but the mind was weakened and its functions were impaired. He was |
| patient, and quiet; often sat brooding, but not despondently, for a |
| long space; was easily amused, even by a sun-beam on the wall or |
| ceiling; made no complaint that the days were long, or the nights |
| tedious; and appeared indeed to have lost all count of time, and every |
| sense of care or weariness. He would sit, for hours together, with |
| Nell's small hand in his, playing with the fingers and stopping |
| sometimes to smooth her hair or kiss her brow; and, when he saw that |
| tears were glistening in her eyes, would look, amazed, about him for |
| the cause, and forget his wonder even while he looked. |
| |
| The child and he rode out; the old man propped up with pillows, and the |
| child beside him. They were hand in hand as usual. The noise and |
| motion in the streets fatigued his brain at first, but he was not |
| surprised, or curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked if he |
| remembered this, or that. 'O yes,' he said, 'quite well--why not?' |
| Sometimes he turned his head, and looked, with earnest gaze and |
| outstretched neck, after some stranger in the crowd, until he |
| disappeared from sight; but, to the question why he did this, he |
| answered not a word. |
| |
| He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon a stool beside |
| him, when a man outside the door inquired if he might enter. 'Yes,' he |
| said without emotion, 'it was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was master there. |
| Of course he might come in.' And so he did. |
| |
| 'I'm glad to see you well again at last, neighbour,' said the dwarf, |
| sitting down opposite him. 'You're quite strong now?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said the old man feebly, 'yes.' |
| |
| 'I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbour,' said the dwarf, |
| raising his voice, for the old man's senses were duller than they had |
| been; 'but, as soon as you can arrange your future proceedings, the |
| better.' |
| |
| 'Surely,' said the old man. 'The better for all parties.' |
| |
| 'You see,' pursued Quilp after a short pause, 'the goods being once |
| removed, this house would be uncomfortable; uninhabitable in fact.' |
| |
| 'You say true,' returned the old man. 'Poor Nell too, what would she |
| do?' |
| |
| 'Exactly,' bawled the dwarf nodding his head; 'that's very well |
| observed. Then will you consider about it, neighbour?' |
| |
| 'I will, certainly,' replied the old man. 'We shall not stop here.' |
| |
| 'So I supposed,' said the dwarf. 'I have sold the things. They have |
| not yielded quite as much as they might have done, but pretty |
| well--pretty well. To-day's Tuesday. When shall they be moved? |
| There's no hurry--shall we say this afternoon?' |
| |
| 'Say Friday morning,' returned the old man. |
| |
| 'Very good,' said the dwarf. 'So be it--with the understanding that I |
| can't go beyond that day, neighbour, on any account.' |
| |
| 'Good,' returned the old man. 'I shall remember it.' |
| |
| Mr Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even spiritless way in |
| which all this was said; but as the old man nodded his head and |
| repeated 'on Friday morning. I shall remember it,' he had no excuse |
| for dwelling on the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave |
| with many expressions of good-will and many compliments to his friend |
| on his looking so remarkably well; and went below stairs to report |
| progress to Mr Brass. |
| |
| All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in this state. He |
| wandered up and down the house and into and out of the various rooms, |
| as if with some vague intent of bidding them adieu, but he referred |
| neither by direct allusions nor in any other manner to the interview of |
| the morning or the necessity of finding some other shelter. An |
| indistinct idea he had, that the child was desolate and in want of |
| help; for he often drew her to his bosom and bade her be of good cheer, |
| saying that they would not desert each other; but he seemed unable to |
| contemplate their real position more distinctly, and was still the |
| listless, passionless creature that suffering of mind and body had left |
| him. |
| |
| We call this a state of childishness, but it is the same poor hollow |
| mockery of it, that death is of sleep. Where, in the dull eyes of |
| doating men, are the laughing light and life of childhood, the gaiety |
| that has known no check, the frankness that has felt no chill, the hope |
| that has never withered, the joys that fade in blossoming? Where, in |
| the sharp lineaments of rigid and unsightly death, is the calm beauty |
| of slumber, telling of rest for the waking hours that are past, and |
| gentle hopes and loves for those which are to come? Lay death and |
| sleep down, side by side, and say who shall find the two akin. Send |
| forth the child and childish man together, and blush for the pride that |
| libels our own old happy state, and gives its title to an ugly and |
| distorted image. |
| |
| Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the old man. But a |
| change came upon him that evening as he and the child sat silently |
| together. |
| |
| In a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree--green and |
| flourishing enough, for such a place--and as the air stirred among its |
| leaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white wall. The old man sat |
| watching the shadows as they trembled in this patch of light, until the |
| sun went down; and when it was night, and the moon was slowly rising, |
| he still sat in the same spot. |
| |
| To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these few |
| green leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished among |
| chimneys and house-tops, were pleasant things. They suggested quiet |
| places afar off, and rest, and peace. The child thought, more than |
| once that he was moved: and had forborne to speak. But now he shed |
| tears--tears that it lightened her aching heart to see--and making as |
| though he would fall upon his knees, besought her to forgive him. |
| |
| 'Forgive you--what?' said Nell, interposing to prevent his purpose. |
| 'Oh grandfather, what should I forgive?' |
| |
| 'All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all that was done |
| in that uneasy dream,' returned the old man. |
| |
| 'Do not talk so,' said the child. 'Pray do not. Let us speak of |
| something else.' |
| |
| 'Yes, yes, we will,' he rejoined. 'And it shall be of what we talked |
| of long ago--many months--months is it, or weeks, or days? which is it |
| Nell?' |
| |
| 'I do not understand you,' said the child. |
| |
| 'It has come back upon me to-day, it has all come back since we have |
| been sitting here. I bless thee for it, Nell!' |
| |
| 'For what, dear grandfather?' |
| |
| 'For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell. Let us speak |
| softly. Hush! for if they knew our purpose down stairs, they would |
| cry that I was mad and take thee from me. We will not stop here |
| another day. We will go far away from here.' |
| |
| 'Yes, let us go,' said the child earnestly. 'Let us begone from this |
| place, and never turn back or think of it again. Let us wander |
| barefoot through the world, rather than linger here.' |
| |
| 'We will,' answered the old man, 'we will travel afoot through the |
| fields and woods, and by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to God |
| in the places where He dwells. It is far better to lie down at night |
| beneath an open sky like that yonder--see how bright it is--than to |
| rest in close rooms which are always full of care and weary dreams. |
| Thou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and happy yet, and learn to |
| forget this time, as if it had never been.' |
| |
| 'We will be happy,' cried the child. 'We never can be here.' |
| |
| 'No, we never can again--never again--that's truly said,' rejoined the |
| old man. 'Let us steal away to-morrow morning--early and softly, that |
| we may not be seen or heard--and leave no trace or track for them to |
| follow by. Poor Nell! Thy cheek is pale, and thy eyes are heavy with |
| watching and weeping for me--I know--for me; but thou wilt be well |
| again, and merry too, when we are far away. To-morrow morning, dear, |
| we'll turn our faces from this scene of sorrow, and be as free and |
| happy as the birds.' |
| |
| And then the old man clasped his hands above her head, and said, in a |
| few broken words, that from that time forth they would wander up and |
| down together, and never part more until Death took one or other of the |
| twain. |
| |
| The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. She had no |
| thought of hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering. She saw in this, |
| but a return of the simple pleasures they had once enjoyed, a relief |
| from the gloomy solitude in which she had lived, an escape from the |
| heartless people by whom she had been surrounded in her late time of |
| trial, the restoration of the old man's health and peace, and a life of |
| tranquil happiness. Sun, and stream, and meadow, and summer days, |
| shone brightly in her view, and there was no dark tint in all the |
| sparkling picture. |
| |
| The old man had slept, for some hours, soundly in his bed, and she was |
| yet busily engaged in preparing for their flight. There were a few |
| articles of clothing for herself to carry, and a few for him; old |
| garments, such as became their fallen fortunes, laid out to wear; and a |
| staff to support his feeble steps, put ready for his use. But this was |
| not all her task; for now she must visit the old rooms for the last |
| time. |
| |
| And how different the parting with them was, from any she had expected, |
| and most of all from that which she had oftenest pictured to herself. |
| How could she ever have thought of bidding them farewell in triumph, |
| when the recollection of the many hours she had passed among them rose |
| to her swelling heart, and made her feel the wish a cruelty: lonely and |
| sad though many of those hours had been! She sat down at the window |
| where she had spent so many evenings--darker far than this--and every |
| thought of hope or cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place |
| came vividly upon her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful |
| associations in an instant. |
| |
| Her own little room too, where she had so often knelt down and prayed |
| at night--prayed for the time which she hoped was dawning now--the |
| little room where she had slept so peacefully, and dreamed such |
| pleasant dreams! It was hard not to be able to glance round it once |
| more, and to be forced to leave it without one kind look or grateful |
| tear. There were some trifles there--poor useless things--that she |
| would have liked to take away; but that was impossible. |
| |
| This brought to mind her bird, her poor bird, who hung there yet. She |
| wept bitterly for the loss of this little creature--until the idea |
| occurred to her--she did not know how, or why, it came into her |
| head--that it might, by some means, fall into the hands of Kit who |
| would keep it for her sake, and think, perhaps, that she had left it |
| behind in the hope that he might have it, and as an assurance that she |
| was grateful to him. She was calmed and comforted by the thought, and |
| went to rest with a lighter heart. |
| |
| From many dreams of rambling through light and sunny places, but with |
| some vague object unattained which ran indistinctly through them all, |
| she awoke to find that it was yet night, and that the stars were |
| shining brightly in the sky. At length, the day began to glimmer, and |
| the stars to grow pale and dim. As soon as she was sure of this, she |
| arose, and dressed herself for the journey. |
| |
| The old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to disturb him, |
| she left him to slumber on, until the sun rose. He was anxious that |
| they should leave the house without a minute's loss of time, and was |
| soon ready. |
| |
| The child then took him by the hand, and they trod lightly and |
| cautiously down the stairs, trembling whenever a board creaked, and |
| often stopping to listen. The old man had forgotten a kind of wallet |
| which contained the light burden he had to carry; and the going back a |
| few steps to fetch it seemed an interminable delay. |
| |
| At last they reached the passage on the ground floor, where the snoring |
| of Mr Quilp and his legal friend sounded more terrible in their ears |
| than the roars of lions. The bolts of the door were rusty, and |
| difficult to unfasten without noise. When they were all drawn back, it |
| was found to be locked, and worst of all, the key was gone. Then the |
| child remembered, for the first time, one of the nurses having told her |
| that Quilp always locked both the house-doors at night, and kept the |
| keys on the table in his bedroom. |
| |
| It was not without great fear and trepidation that little Nell slipped |
| off her shoes and gliding through the store-room of old curiosities, |
| where Mr Brass--the ugliest piece of goods in all the stock--lay |
| sleeping on a mattress, passed into her own little chamber. |
| |
| Here she stood, for a few moments, quite transfixed with terror at the |
| sight of Mr Quilp, who was hanging so far out of bed that he almost |
| seemed to be standing on his head, and who, either from the uneasiness |
| of this posture, or in one of his agreeable habits, was gasping and |
| growling with his mouth wide open, and the whites (or rather the dirty |
| yellows) of his eyes distinctly visible. It was no time, however, to |
| ask whether anything ailed him; so, possessing herself of the key after |
| one hasty glance about the room, and repassing the prostrate Mr Brass, |
| she rejoined the old man in safety. They got the door open without |
| noise, and passing into the street, stood still. |
| |
| 'Which way?' said the child. |
| |
| The old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first at her, then to |
| the right and left, then at her again, and shook his head. It was |
| plain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child felt |
| it, but had no doubts or misgiving, and putting her hand in his, led |
| him gently away. |
| |
| It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied by a |
| cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were, as yet, |
| nearly free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed, and the |
| healthy air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the sleeping |
| town. |
| |
| The old man and the child passed on through the glad silence, elate |
| with hope and pleasure. They were alone together, once again; every |
| object was bright and fresh; nothing reminded them, otherwise than by |
| contrast, of the monotony and constraint they had left behind; church |
| towers and steeples, frowning and dark at other times, now shone in the |
| sun; each humble nook and corner rejoiced in light; and the sky, dimmed |
| only by excessive distance, shed its placid smile on everything beneath. |
| |
| Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the two poor |
| adventurers, wandering they knew not whither. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 13 |
| |
| Daniel Quilp of Tower Hill, and Sampson Brass of Bevis Marks in the |
| city of London, Gentleman, one of her Majesty's attornies of the Courts |
| of the King's Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster and a solicitor of |
| the High Court of Chancery, slumbered on, unconscious and unsuspicious |
| of any mischance, until a knocking on the street door, often repeated |
| and gradually mounting up from a modest single rap to a perfect battery |
| of knocks, fired in long discharges with a very short interval between, |
| caused the said Daniel Quilp to struggle into a horizontal position, |
| and to stare at the ceiling with a drowsy indifference, betokening that |
| he heard the noise and rather wondered at the same, and couldn't be at |
| the trouble of bestowing any further thought upon the subject. |
| |
| As the knocking, however, instead of accommodating itself to his lazy |
| state, increased in vigour and became more importunate, as if in |
| earnest remonstrance against his falling asleep again, now that he had |
| once opened his eyes, Daniel Quilp began by degrees to comprehend the |
| possibility of there being somebody at the door; and thus he gradually |
| came to recollect that it was Friday morning, and he had ordered Mrs |
| Quilp to be in waiting upon him at an early hour. |
| |
| Mr Brass, after writhing about, in a great many strange attitudes, and |
| often twisting his face and eyes into an expression like that which is |
| usually produced by eating gooseberries very early in the season, was |
| by this time awake also. Seeing that Mr Quilp invested himself in his |
| every-day garments, he hastened to do the like, putting on his shoes |
| before his stockings, and thrusting his legs into his coat sleeves, and |
| making such other small mistakes in his toilet as are not uncommon to |
| those who dress in a hurry, and labour under the agitation of having |
| been suddenly roused. |
| |
| While the attorney was thus engaged, the dwarf was groping under the |
| table, muttering desperate imprecations on himself, and mankind in |
| general, and all inanimate objects to boot, which suggested to Mr Brass |
| the question, 'what's the matter?' |
| |
| 'The key,' said the dwarf, looking viciously about him, 'the |
| door-key--that's the matter. D'ye know anything of it?' |
| |
| 'How should I know anything of it, sir?' returned Mr Brass. |
| |
| 'How should you?' repeated Quilp with a sneer. 'You're a nice lawyer, |
| an't you? Ugh, you idiot!' |
| |
| Not caring to represent to the dwarf in his present humour, that the |
| loss of a key by another person could scarcely be said to affect his |
| (Brass's) legal knowledge in any material degree, Mr Brass humbly |
| suggested that it must have been forgotten over night, and was, |
| doubtless, at that moment in its native key-hole. Notwithstanding that |
| Mr Quilp had a strong conviction to the contrary, founded on his |
| recollection of having carefully taken it out, he was fain to admit |
| that this was possible, and therefore went grumbling to the door where, |
| sure enough, he found it. |
| |
| Now, just as Mr Quilp laid his hand upon the lock, and saw with great |
| astonishment that the fastenings were undone, the knocking came again |
| with the most irritating violence, and the daylight which had been |
| shining through the key-hole was intercepted on the outside by a human |
| eye. The dwarf was very much exasperated, and wanting somebody to |
| wreak his ill-humour upon, determined to dart out suddenly, and favour |
| Mrs Quilp with a gentle acknowledgment of her attention in making that |
| hideous uproar. |
| |
| With this view, he drew back the lock very silently and softly, and |
| opening the door all at once, pounced out upon the person on the other |
| side, who had at that moment raised the knocker for another |
| application, and at whom the dwarf ran head first: throwing out his |
| hands and feet together, and biting the air in the fulness of his |
| malice. |
| |
| So far, however, from rushing upon somebody who offered no resistance |
| and implored his mercy, Mr Quilp was no sooner in the arms of the |
| individual whom he had taken for his wife than he found himself |
| complimented with two staggering blows on the head, and two more, of |
| the same quality, in the chest; and closing with his assailant, such a |
| shower of buffets rained down upon his person as sufficed to convince |
| him that he was in skilful and experienced hands. Nothing daunted by |
| this reception, he clung tight to his opponent, and bit and hammered |
| away with such good-will and heartiness, that it was at least a couple |
| of minutes before he was dislodged. Then, and not until then, Daniel |
| Quilp found himself, all flushed and dishevelled, in the middle of the |
| street, with Mr Richard Swiveller performing a kind of dance round him |
| and requiring to know 'whether he wanted any more?' |
| |
| 'There's plenty more of it at the same shop,' said Mr Swiveller, by |
| turns advancing and retreating in a threatening attitude, 'a large and |
| extensive assortment always on hand--country orders executed with |
| promptitude and despatch--will you have a little more, Sir--don't say |
| no, if you'd rather not.' |
| |
| 'I thought it was somebody else,' said Quilp, rubbing his shoulders, |
| 'why didn't you say who you were?' |
| |
| 'Why didn't you say who YOU were?' returned Dick, 'instead of flying |
| out of the house like a Bedlamite?' |
| |
| 'It was you that--that knocked,' said the dwarf, getting up with a |
| short groan, 'was it?' |
| |
| 'Yes, I am the man,' replied Dick. 'That lady had begun when I came, |
| but she knocked too soft, so I relieved her.' As he said this, he |
| pointed towards Mrs Quilp, who stood trembling at a little distance. |
| |
| 'Humph!' muttered the dwarf, darting an angry look at his wife, 'I |
| thought it was your fault! And you, sir--don't you know there has been |
| somebody ill here, that you knock as if you'd beat the door down?' |
| |
| 'Damme!' answered Dick, 'that's why I did it. I thought there was |
| somebody dead here.' |
| |
| 'You came for some purpose, I suppose,' said Quilp. 'What is it you |
| want?' |
| |
| 'I want to know how the old gentleman is,' rejoined Mr Swiveller, 'and |
| to hear from Nell herself, with whom I should like to have a little |
| talk. I'm a friend of the family, sir--at least I'm the friend of one |
| of the family, and that's the same thing.' |
| |
| 'You'd better walk in then,' said the dwarf. 'Go on, sir, go on. Now, |
| Mrs Quilp--after you, ma'am.' |
| |
| Mrs Quilp hesitated, but Mr Quilp insisted. And it was not a contest |
| of politeness, or by any means a matter of form, for she knew very well |
| that her husband wished to enter the house in this order, that he might |
| have a favourable opportunity of inflicting a few pinches on her arms, |
| which were seldom free from impressions of his fingers in black and |
| blue colours. Mr Swiveller, who was not in the secret, was a little |
| surprised to hear a suppressed scream, and, looking round, to see Mrs |
| Quilp following him with a sudden jerk; but he did not remark on these |
| appearances, and soon forgot them. |
| |
| 'Now, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf when they had entered the shop, 'go |
| you up stairs, if you please, to Nelly's room, and tell her that she's |
| wanted.' |
| |
| 'You seem to make yourself at home here,' said Dick, who was |
| unacquainted with Mr Quilp's authority. |
| |
| 'I AM at home, young gentleman,' returned the dwarf. |
| |
| Dick was pondering what these words might mean, and still more what the |
| presence of Mr Brass might mean, when Mrs Quilp came hurrying down |
| stairs, declaring that the rooms above were empty. |
| |
| 'Empty, you fool!' said the dwarf. |
| |
| 'I give you my word, Quilp,' answered his trembling wife, 'that I have |
| been into every room and there's not a soul in any of them.' |
| |
| 'And that,' said Mr Brass, clapping his hands once, with an emphasis, |
| 'explains the mystery of the key!' |
| |
| Quilp looked frowningly at him, and frowningly at his wife, and |
| frowningly at Richard Swiveller; but, receiving no enlightenment from |
| any of them, hurried up stairs, whence he soon hurried down again, |
| confirming the report which had already been made. |
| |
| 'It's a strange way of going,' he said, glancing at Swiveller, 'very |
| strange not to communicate with me who am such a close and intimate |
| friend of his! Ah! he'll write to me no doubt, or he'll bid Nelly |
| write--yes, yes, that's what he'll do. Nelly's very fond of me. |
| Pretty Nell!' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller looked, as he was, all open-mouthed astonishment. Still |
| glancing furtively at him, Quilp turned to Mr Brass and observed, with |
| assumed carelessness, that this need not interfere with the removal of |
| the goods. |
| |
| 'For indeed,' he added, 'we knew that they'd go away to-day, but not |
| that they'd go so early, or so quietly. But they have their reasons, |
| they have their reasons.' |
| |
| 'Where in the devil's name are they gone?' said the wondering Dick. |
| |
| Quilp shook his head, and pursed up his lips, in a manner which implied |
| that he knew very well, but was not at liberty to say. |
| |
| 'And what,' said Dick, looking at the confusion about him, 'what do you |
| mean by moving the goods?' |
| |
| 'That I have bought 'em, Sir,' rejoined Quilp. 'Eh? What then?' |
| |
| 'Has the sly old fox made his fortune then, and gone to live in a |
| tranquil cot in a pleasant spot with a distant view of the changing |
| sea?' said Dick, in great bewilderment. |
| |
| 'Keeping his place of retirement very close, that he may not be visited |
| too often by affectionate grandsons and their devoted friends, eh?' |
| added the dwarf, rubbing his hands hard; 'I say nothing, but is that |
| your meaning?' |
| |
| Richard Swiveller was utterly aghast at this unexpected alteration of |
| circumstances, which threatened the complete overthrow of the project |
| in which he bore so conspicuous a part, and seemed to nip his prospects |
| in the bud. Having only received from Frederick Trent, late on the |
| previous night, information of the old man's illness, he had come upon |
| a visit of condolence and inquiry to Nell, prepared with the first |
| instalment of that long train of fascinations which was to fire her |
| heart at last. And here, when he had been thinking of all kinds of |
| graceful and insinuating approaches, and meditating on the fearful |
| retaliation which was slowly working against Sophy Wackles--here were |
| Nell, the old man, and all the money gone, melted away, decamped he |
| knew not whither, as if with a fore-knowledge of the scheme and a |
| resolution to defeat it in the very outset, before a step was taken. |
| |
| In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both surprised and troubled by |
| the flight which had been made. It had not escaped his keen eye that |
| some indispensable articles of clothing were gone with the fugitives, |
| and knowing the old man's weak state of mind, he marvelled what that |
| course of proceeding might be in which he had so readily procured the |
| concurrence of the child. It must not be supposed (or it would be a |
| gross injustice to Mr Quilp) that he was tortured by any disinterested |
| anxiety on behalf of either. His uneasiness arose from a misgiving |
| that the old man had some secret store of money which he had not |
| suspected; and the idea of its escaping his clutches, overwhelmed him |
| with mortification and self-reproach. |
| |
| In this frame of mind, it was some consolation to him to find that |
| Richard Swiveller was, for different reasons, evidently irritated and |
| disappointed by the same cause. It was plain, thought the dwarf, that |
| he had come there, on behalf of his friend, to cajole or frighten the |
| old man out of some small fraction of that wealth of which they |
| supposed him to have an abundance. Therefore, it was a relief to vex |
| his heart with a picture of the riches the old man hoarded, and to |
| expatiate on his cunning in removing himself even beyond the reach of |
| importunity. |
| |
| 'Well,' said Dick, with a blank look, 'I suppose it's of no use my |
| staying here.' |
| |
| 'Not the least in the world,' rejoined the dwarf. |
| |
| 'You'll mention that I called, perhaps?' said Dick. |
| |
| Mr Quilp nodded, and said he certainly would, the very first time he |
| saw them. |
| |
| 'And say,' added Mr Swiveller, 'say, sir, that I was wafted here upon |
| the pinions of concord; that I came to remove, with the rake of |
| friendship, the seeds of mutual violence and heart-burning, and to sow |
| in their place, the germs of social harmony. Will you have the |
| goodness to charge yourself with that commission, Sir?' |
| |
| 'Certainly!' rejoined Quilp. |
| |
| 'Will you be kind enough to add to it, Sir,' said Dick, producing a |
| very small limp card, 'that that is my address, and that I am to be |
| found at home every morning. Two distinct knocks, sir, will produce |
| the slavey at any time. My particular friends, Sir, are accustomed to |
| sneeze when the door is opened, to give her to understand that they ARE |
| my friends and have no interested motives in asking if I'm at home. I |
| beg your pardon; will you allow me to look at that card again?' |
| |
| 'Oh! by all means,' rejoined Quilp. |
| |
| 'By a slight and not unnatural mistake, sir,' said Dick, substituting |
| another in its stead, 'I had handed you the pass-ticket of a select |
| convivial circle called the Glorious Apollers of which I have the |
| honour to be Perpetual Grand. That is the proper document, Sir. Good |
| morning.' |
| |
| Quilp bade him good day; the perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious |
| Apollers, elevating his hat in honour of Mrs Quilp, dropped it |
| carelessly on the side of his head again, and disappeared with a |
| flourish. |
| |
| By this time, certain vans had arrived for the conveyance of the goods, |
| and divers strong men in caps were balancing chests of drawers and |
| other trifles of that nature upon their heads, and performing muscular |
| feats which heightened their complexions considerably. Not to be |
| behind-hand in the bustle, Mr Quilp went to work with surprising |
| vigour; hustling and driving the people about, like an evil spirit; |
| setting Mrs Quilp upon all kinds of arduous and impracticable tasks; |
| carrying great weights up and down, with no apparent effort; kicking |
| the boy from the wharf, whenever he could get near him; and inflicting, |
| with his loads, a great many sly bumps and blows on the shoulders of Mr |
| Brass, as he stood upon the door-steps to answer all the inquiries of |
| curious neighbours, which was his department. His presence and example |
| diffused such alacrity among the persons employed, that, in a few |
| hours, the house was emptied of everything, but pieces of matting, |
| empty porter-pots, and scattered fragments of straw. |
| |
| Seated, like an African chief, on one of these pieces of matting, the |
| dwarf was regaling himself in the parlour, with bread and cheese and |
| beer, when he observed without appearing to do so, that a boy was |
| prying in at the outer door. Assured that it was Kit, though he saw |
| little more than his nose, Mr Quilp hailed him by his name; whereupon |
| Kit came in and demanded what he wanted. |
| |
| 'Come here, you sir,' said the dwarf. 'Well, so your old master and |
| young mistress have gone?' |
| |
| 'Where?' rejoined Kit, looking round. |
| |
| 'Do you mean to say you don't know where?' answered Quilp sharply. |
| 'Where have they gone, eh?' |
| |
| 'I don't know,' said Kit. |
| |
| 'Come,' retorted Quilp, 'let's have no more of this! Do you mean to |
| say that you don't know they went away by stealth, as soon as it was |
| light this morning?' |
| |
| 'No,' said the boy, in evident surprise. |
| |
| 'You don't know that?' cried Quilp. 'Don't I know that you were |
| hanging about the house the other night, like a thief, eh? Weren't you |
| told then?' |
| |
| 'No,' replied the boy. |
| |
| 'You were not?' said Quilp. 'What were you told then; what were you |
| talking about?' |
| |
| Kit, who knew no particular reason why he should keep the matter secret |
| now, related the purpose for which he had come on that occasion, and |
| the proposal he had made. |
| |
| 'Oh!' said the dwarf after a little consideration. 'Then, I think |
| they'll come to you yet.' |
| |
| 'Do you think they will?' cried Kit eagerly. |
| |
| 'Aye, I think they will,' returned the dwarf. 'Now, when they do, let |
| me know; d'ye hear? Let me know, and I'll give you something. I want |
| to do 'em a kindness, and I can't do 'em a kindness unless I know where |
| they are. You hear what I say?' |
| |
| Kit might have returned some answer which would not have been agreeable |
| to his irascible questioner, if the boy from the wharf, who had been |
| skulking about the room in search of anything that might have been left |
| about by accident, had not happened to cry, 'Here's a bird! What's to |
| be done with this?' |
| |
| 'Wring its neck,' rejoined Quilp. |
| |
| 'Oh no, don't do that,' said Kit, stepping forward. 'Give it to me.' |
| |
| 'Oh yes, I dare say,' cried the other boy. 'Come! You let the cage |
| alone, and let me wring its neck will you? He said I was to do it. |
| You let the cage alone will you.' |
| |
| 'Give it here, give it to me, you dogs,' roared Quilp. 'Fight for it, |
| you dogs, or I'll wring its neck myself!' |
| |
| Without further persuasion, the two boys fell upon each other, tooth |
| and nail, while Quilp, holding up the cage in one hand, and chopping |
| the ground with his knife in an ecstasy, urged them on by his taunts |
| and cries to fight more fiercely. They were a pretty equal match, and |
| rolled about together, exchanging blows which were by no means child's |
| play, until at length Kit, planting a well-directed hit in his |
| adversary's chest, disengaged himself, sprung nimbly up, and snatching |
| the cage from Quilp's hands made off with his prize. |
| |
| He did not stop once until he reached home, where his bleeding face |
| occasioned great consternation, and caused the elder child to howl |
| dreadfully. |
| |
| 'Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter, what have you been doing?' |
| cried Mrs Nubbles. |
| |
| 'Never you mind, mother,' answered her son, wiping his face on the |
| jack-towel behind the door. 'I'm not hurt, don't you be afraid for me. |
| I've been a fightin' for a bird and won him, that's all. Hold your |
| noise, little Jacob. I never see such a naughty boy in all my days!' |
| |
| 'You have been fighting for a bird!' exclaimed his mother. |
| |
| 'Ah! Fightin' for a bird!' replied Kit, 'and here he is--Miss Nelly's |
| bird, mother, that they was agoin' to wring the neck of! I stopped |
| that though--ha ha ha! They wouldn't wring his neck and me by, no, no. |
| It wouldn't do, mother, it wouldn't do at all. Ha ha ha!' |
| |
| Kit laughing so heartily, with his swoln and bruised face looking out |
| of the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and then his mother laughed, and |
| then the baby crowed and kicked with great glee, and then they all |
| laughed in concert: partly because of Kit's triumph, and partly because |
| they were very fond of each other. When this fit was over, Kit |
| exhibited the bird to both children, as a great and precious rarity--it |
| was only a poor linnet--and looking about the wall for an old nail, |
| made a scaffolding of a chair and table and twisted it out with great |
| exultation. |
| |
| 'Let me see,' said the boy, 'I think I'll hang him in the winder, |
| because it's more light and cheerful, and he can see the sky there, if |
| he looks up very much. He's such a one to sing, I can tell you!' |
| |
| So, the scaffolding was made again, and Kit, climbing up with the poker |
| for a hammer, knocked in the nail and hung up the cage, to the |
| immeasurable delight of the whole family. When it had been adjusted |
| and straightened a great many times, and he had walked backwards into |
| the fire-place in his admiration of it, the arrangement was pronounced |
| to be perfect. |
| |
| 'And now, mother,' said the boy, 'before I rest any more, I'll go out |
| and see if I can find a horse to hold, and then I can buy some |
| birdseed, and a bit of something nice for you, into the bargain.' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 14 |
| |
| As it was very easy for Kit to persuade himself that the old house was |
| in his way, his way being anywhere, he tried to look upon his passing |
| it once more as a matter of imperative and disagreeable necessity, |
| quite apart from any desire of his own, to which he could not choose |
| but yield. It is not uncommon for people who are much better fed and |
| taught than Christopher Nubbles had ever been, to make duties of their |
| inclinations in matters of more doubtful propriety, and to take great |
| credit for the self-denial with which they gratify themselves. |
| |
| There was no need of any caution this time, and no fear of being |
| detained by having to play out a return match with Daniel Quilp's boy. |
| The place was entirely deserted, and looked as dusty and dingy as if it |
| had been so for months. A rusty padlock was fastened on the door, ends |
| of discoloured blinds and curtains flapped drearily against the |
| half-opened upper windows, and the crooked holes cut in the closed |
| shutters below, were black with the darkness of the inside. Some of |
| the glass in the window he had so often watched, had been broken in the |
| rough hurry of the morning, and that room looked more deserted and dull |
| than any. A group of idle urchins had taken possession of the |
| door-steps; some were plying the knocker and listening with delighted |
| dread to the hollow sounds it spread through the dismantled house; |
| others were clustered about the keyhole, watching half in jest and half |
| in earnest for 'the ghost,' which an hour's gloom, added to the mystery |
| that hung about the late inhabitants, had already raised. Standing all |
| alone in the midst of the business and bustle of the street, the house |
| looked a picture of cold desolation; and Kit, who remembered the |
| cheerful fire that used to burn there on a winter's night and the no |
| less cheerful laugh that made the small room ring, turned quite |
| mournfully away. |
| |
| It must be especially observed in justice to poor Kit that he was by no |
| means of a sentimental turn, and perhaps had never heard that adjective |
| in all his life. He was only a soft-hearted grateful fellow, and had |
| nothing genteel or polite about him; consequently, instead of going |
| home again, in his grief, to kick the children and abuse his mother |
| (for, when your finely strung people are out of sorts, they must have |
| everybody else unhappy likewise), he turned his thoughts to the vulgar |
| expedient of making them more comfortable if he could. |
| |
| Bless us, what a number of gentlemen on horseback there were riding up |
| and down, and how few of them wanted their horses held! A good city |
| speculator or a parliamentary commissioner could have told to a |
| fraction, from the crowds that were cantering about, what sum of money |
| was realised in London, in the course of a year, by holding horses |
| alone. And undoubtedly it would have been a very large one, if only a |
| twentieth part of the gentlemen without grooms had had occasion to |
| alight; but they had not; and it is often an ill-natured circumstance |
| like this, which spoils the most ingenious estimate in the world. |
| |
| Kit walked about, now with quick steps and now with slow; now lingering |
| as some rider slackened his horse's pace and looked about him; and now |
| darting at full speed up a bye-street as he caught a glimpse of some |
| distant horseman going lazily up the shady side of the road, and |
| promising to stop, at every door. But on they all went, one after |
| another, and there was not a penny stirring. 'I wonder,' thought the |
| boy, 'if one of these gentlemen knew there was nothing in the cupboard |
| at home, whether he'd stop on purpose, and make believe that he wanted |
| to call somewhere, that I might earn a trifle?' |
| |
| He was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say nothing of |
| repeated disappointments, and was sitting down upon a step to rest, |
| when there approached towards him a little clattering jingling |
| four-wheeled chaise, drawn by a little obstinate-looking rough-coated |
| pony, and driven by a little fat placid-faced old gentleman. Beside |
| the little old gentleman sat a little old lady, plump and placid like |
| himself, and the pony was coming along at his own pace and doing |
| exactly as he pleased with the whole concern. If the old gentleman |
| remonstrated by shaking the reins, the pony replied by shaking his |
| head. It was plain that the utmost the pony would consent to do, was |
| to go in his own way up any street that the old gentleman particularly |
| wished to traverse, but that it was an understanding between them that |
| he must do this after his own fashion or not at all. |
| |
| As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at the little |
| turn-out, that the old gentleman looked at him. Kit rising and putting |
| his hand to his hat, the old gentleman intimated to the pony that he |
| wished to stop, to which proposal the pony (who seldom objected to that |
| part of his duty) graciously acceded. |
| |
| 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Kit. 'I'm sorry you stopped, sir. I |
| only meant did you want your horse minded.' |
| |
| 'I'm going to get down in the next street,' returned the old gentleman. |
| 'If you like to come on after us, you may have the job.' |
| |
| Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The pony ran off at a sharp |
| angle to inspect a lamp-post on the opposite side of the way, and then |
| went off at a tangent to another lamp-post on the other side. Having |
| satisfied himself that they were of the same pattern and materials, he |
| came to a stop apparently absorbed in meditation. |
| |
| 'Will you go on, sir,' said the old gentleman, gravely, 'or are we to |
| wait here for you till it's too late for our appointment?' |
| |
| The pony remained immoveable. |
| |
| 'Oh you naughty Whisker,' said the old lady. 'Fie upon you! I'm |
| ashamed of such conduct.' |
| |
| The pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his feelings, for he |
| trotted on directly, though in a sulky manner, and stopped no more |
| until he came to a door whereon was a brass plate with the words |
| 'Witherden--Notary.' Here the old gentleman got out and helped out the |
| old lady, and then took from under the seat a nosegay resembling in |
| shape and dimensions a full-sized warming-pan with the handle cut short |
| off. This, the old lady carried into the house with a staid and |
| stately air, and the old gentleman (who had a club-foot) followed close |
| upon her. |
| |
| They went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of their voices, into |
| the front parlour, which seemed to be a kind of office. The day being |
| very warm and the street a quiet one, the windows were wide open; and |
| it was easy to hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside. |
| |
| At first there was a great shaking of hands and shuffling of feet, |
| succeeded by the presentation of the nosegay; for a voice, supposed by |
| the listener to be that of Mr Witherden the Notary, was heard to |
| exclaim a great many times, 'oh, delicious!' 'oh, fragrant, indeed!' |
| and a nose, also supposed to be the property of that gentleman, was |
| heard to inhale the scent with a snuffle of exceeding pleasure. |
| |
| 'I brought it in honour of the occasion, Sir,' said the old lady. |
| |
| 'Ah! an occasion indeed, ma'am, an occasion which does honour to me, |
| ma'am, honour to me,' rejoined Mr Witherden, the notary. 'I have had |
| many a gentleman articled to me, ma'am, many a one. Some of them are |
| now rolling in riches, unmindful of their old companion and friend, |
| ma'am, others are in the habit of calling upon me to this day and |
| saying, "Mr Witherden, some of the pleasantest hours I ever spent in my |
| life were spent in this office--were spent, Sir, upon this very stool"; |
| but there was never one among the number, ma'am, attached as I have |
| been to many of them, of whom I augured such bright things as I do of |
| your only son.' |
| |
| 'Oh dear!' said the old lady. 'How happy you do make us when you tell |
| us that, to be sure!' |
| |
| 'I tell you, ma'am,' said Mr Witherden, 'what I think as an honest man, |
| which, as the poet observes, is the noblest work of God. I agree with |
| the poet in every particular, ma'am. The mountainous Alps on the one |
| hand, or a humming-bird on the other, is nothing, in point of |
| workmanship, to an honest man--or woman--or woman.' |
| |
| 'Anything that Mr Witherden can say of me,' observed a small quiet |
| voice, 'I can say, with interest, of him, I am sure.' |
| |
| 'It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circumstance,' said the |
| Notary, 'to happen too upon his eight-and-twentieth birthday, and I |
| hope I know how to appreciate it. I trust, Mr Garland, my dear Sir, |
| that we may mutually congratulate each other upon this auspicious |
| occasion.' |
| |
| To this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured they might. |
| There appeared to be another shaking of hands in consequence, and when |
| it was over, the old gentleman said that, though he said it who should |
| not, he believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his parents |
| than Abel Garland had been to his. |
| |
| 'Marrying as his mother and I did, late in life, sir, after waiting for |
| a great many years, until we were well enough off--coming together when |
| we were no longer young, and then being blessed with one child who has |
| always been dutiful and affectionate--why, it's a source of great |
| happiness to us both, sir.' |
| |
| 'Of course it is, I have no doubt of it,' returned the Notary in a |
| sympathising voice. 'It's the contemplation of this sort of thing, |
| that makes me deplore my fate in being a bachelor. There was a young |
| lady once, sir, the daughter of an outfitting warehouse of the first |
| respectability--but that's a weakness. Chuckster, bring in Mr Abel's |
| articles.' |
| |
| 'You see, Mr Witherden,' said the old lady, 'that Abel has not been |
| brought up like the run of young men. He has always had a pleasure in |
| our society, and always been with us. Abel has never been absent from |
| us, for a day; has he, my dear?' |
| |
| 'Never, my dear,' returned the old gentleman, 'except when he went to |
| Margate one Saturday with Mr Tomkinley that had been a teacher at that |
| school he went to, and came back upon the Monday; but he was very ill |
| after that, you remember, my dear; it was quite a dissipation.' |
| |
| 'He was not used to it, you know,' said the old lady, 'and he couldn't |
| bear it, that's the truth. Besides he had no comfort in being there |
| without us, and had nobody to talk to or enjoy himself with.' |
| |
| 'That was it, you know,' interposed the same small quiet voice that had |
| spoken once before. 'I was quite abroad, mother, quite desolate, and |
| to think that the sea was between us--oh, I never shall forget what I |
| felt when I first thought that the sea was between us!' |
| |
| 'Very natural under the circumstances,' observed the Notary. 'Mr |
| Abel's feelings did credit to his nature, and credit to your nature, |
| ma'am, and his father's nature, and human nature. I trace the same |
| current now, flowing through all his quiet and unobtrusive |
| proceedings.--I am about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot of |
| the articles which Mr Chuckster will witness; and placing my finger |
| upon this blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I am constrained to |
| remark in a distinct tone of voice--don't be alarmed, ma'am, it is |
| merely a form of law--that I deliver this, as my act and deed. Mr Abel |
| will place his name against the other wafer, repeating the same |
| cabalistic words, and the business is over. Ha ha ha! You see how |
| easily these things are done!' |
| |
| There was a short silence, apparently, while Mr Abel went through the |
| prescribed form, and then the shaking of hands and shuffling of feet |
| were renewed, and shortly afterwards there was a clinking of |
| wine-glasses and a great talkativeness on the part of everybody. In |
| about a quarter of an hour Mr Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear and |
| his face inflamed with wine) appeared at the door, and condescending to |
| address Kit by the jocose appellation of 'Young Snob,' informed him |
| that the visitors were coming out. |
| |
| Out they came forthwith; Mr Witherden, who was short, chubby, |
| fresh-coloured, brisk, and pompous, leading the old lady with extreme |
| politeness, and the father and son following them, arm in arm. Mr |
| Abel, who had a quaint old-fashioned air about him, looked nearly of |
| the same age as his father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in |
| face and figure, though wanting something of his full, round, |
| cheerfulness, and substituting in its place a timid reserve. In all |
| other respects, in the neatness of the dress, and even in the |
| club-foot, he and the old gentleman were precisely alike. |
| |
| Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted in the |
| arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which formed an |
| indispensable portion of her equipage, Mr Abel got into a little box |
| behind which had evidently been made for his express accommodation, and |
| smiled at everybody present by turns, beginning with his mother and |
| ending with the pony. There was then a great to-do to make the pony |
| hold up his head that the bearing-rein might be fastened; at last even |
| this was effected; and the old gentleman, taking his seat and the |
| reins, put his hand in his pocket to find a sixpence for Kit. |
| |
| He had no sixpence, neither had the old lady, nor Mr Abel, nor the |
| Notary, nor Mr Chuckster. The old gentleman thought a shilling too |
| much, but there was no shop in the street to get change at, so he gave |
| it to the boy. |
| |
| 'There,' he said jokingly, 'I'm coming here again next Monday at the |
| same time, and mind you're here, my lad, to work it out.' |
| |
| 'Thank you, Sir,' said Kit. 'I'll be sure to be here.' |
| |
| He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at his saying so, |
| especially Mr Chuckster, who roared outright and appeared to relish the |
| joke amazingly. As the pony, with a presentiment that he was going |
| home, or a determination that he would not go anywhere else (which was |
| the same thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had no time to justify |
| himself, and went his way also. Having expended his treasure in such |
| purchases as he knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting |
| some seed for the wonderful bird, he hastened back as fast as he could, |
| so elated with his success and great good fortune, that he more than |
| half expected Nell and the old man would have arrived before him. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 15 |
| |
| Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town on the |
| morning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled sensation |
| of hope and fear as in some far-off figure imperfectly seen in the |
| clear distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit. But |
| although she would gladly have given him her hand and thanked him for |
| what he had said at their last meeting, it was always a relief to find, |
| when they came nearer to each other, that the person who approached was |
| not he, but a stranger; for even if she had not dreaded the effect |
| which the sight of him might have wrought upon her fellow-traveller, |
| she felt that to bid farewell to anybody now, and most of all to him |
| who had been so faithful and so true, was more than she could bear. It |
| was enough to leave dumb things behind, and objects that were |
| insensible both to her love and sorrow. To have parted from her only |
| other friend upon the threshold of that wild journey, would have wrung |
| her heart indeed. |
| |
| Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body, and |
| while we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the nerve to say |
| it? On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many years, friends |
| who are tenderly attached will separate with the usual look, the usual |
| pressure of the hand, planning one final interview for the morrow, |
| while each well knows that it is but a poor feint to save the pain of |
| uttering that one word, and that the meeting will never be. Should |
| possibilities be worse to bear than certainties? We do not shun our |
| dying friends; the not having distinctly taken leave of one among them, |
| whom we left in all kindness and affection, will often embitter the |
| whole remainder of a life. |
| |
| The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and |
| distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams |
| dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain |
| before sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the |
| shadows of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark, |
| felt it was morning, and chafed and grew restless in their little |
| cells; bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled |
| timidly together; the sleek house-cat, forgetful of her prey, sat |
| winking at the rays of sun starting through keyhole and cranny in the |
| door, and longed for her stealthy run and warm sleek bask outside. The |
| nobler beasts confined in dens, stood motionless behind their bars and |
| gazed on fluttering boughs, and sunshine peeping through some little |
| window, with eyes in which old forests gleamed--then trod impatiently |
| the track their prisoned feet had worn--and stopped and gazed again. |
| Men in their dungeons stretched their cramp cold limbs and cursed the |
| stone that no bright sky could warm. The flowers that sleep by night, |
| opened their gentle eyes and turned them to the day. The light, |
| creation's mind, was everywhere, and all things owned its power. |
| |
| The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or exchanging a |
| smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence. Bright and happy |
| as it was, there was something solemn in the long, deserted streets, |
| from which, like bodies without souls, all habitual character and |
| expression had departed, leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made |
| them all alike. All was so still at that early hour, that the few pale |
| people whom they met seemed as much unsuited to the scene, as the |
| sickly lamp which had been here and there left burning, was powerless |
| and faint in the full glory of the sun. |
| |
| Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of men's abodes |
| which yet lay between them and the outskirts, this aspect began to melt |
| away, and noise and bustle to usurp its place. Some straggling carts |
| and coaches rumbling by, first broke the charm, then others came, then |
| others yet more active, then a crowd. The wonder was, at first, to see |
| a tradesman's window open, but it was a rare thing soon to see one |
| closed; then, smoke rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were |
| thrown up to let in air, and doors were opened, and servant girls, |
| looking lazily in all directions but their brooms, scattered brown |
| clouds of dust into the eyes of shrinking passengers, or listened |
| disconsolately to milkmen who spoke of country fairs, and told of |
| waggons in the mews, with awnings and all things complete, and gallant |
| swains to boot, which another hour would see upon their journey. |
| |
| This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and great |
| traffic, where many people were resorting, and business was already |
| rife. The old man looked about him with a startled and bewildered |
| gaze, for these were places that he hoped to shun. He pressed his |
| finger on his lip, and drew the child along by narrow courts and |
| winding ways, nor did he seem at ease until they had left it far |
| behind, often casting a backward look towards it, murmuring that ruin |
| and self-murder were crouching in every street, and would follow if |
| they scented them; and that they could not fly too fast. |
| |
| Again this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling neighbourhood, |
| where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and windows patched with |
| rags and paper, told of the populous poverty that sheltered there. The |
| shops sold goods that only poverty could buy, and sellers and buyers |
| were pinched and griped alike. Here were poor streets where faded |
| gentility essayed with scanty space and shipwrecked means to make its |
| last feeble stand, but tax-gatherer and creditor came there as |
| elsewhere, and the poverty that yet faintly struggled was hardly less |
| squalid and manifest than that which had long ago submitted and given |
| up the game. |
| |
| This was a wide, wide track--for the humble followers of the camp of |
| wealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile--but its |
| character was still the same. Damp rotten houses, many to let, many |
| yet building, many half-built and mouldering away--lodgings, where it |
| would be hard to tell which needed pity most, those who let or those |
| who came to take--children, scantily fed and clothed, spread over every |
| street, and sprawling in the dust--scolding mothers, stamping their |
| slipshod feet with noisy threats upon the pavement--shabby fathers, |
| hurrying with dispirited looks to the occupation which brought them |
| 'daily bread' and little more--mangling-women, washer-women, cobblers, |
| tailors, chandlers, driving their trades in parlours and kitchens and |
| back room and garrets, and sometimes all of them under the same |
| roof--brick-fields skirting gardens paled with staves of old casks, or |
| timber pillaged from houses burnt down, and blackened and blistered by |
| the flames--mounds of dock-weed, nettles, coarse grass and |
| oyster-shells, heaped in rank confusion--small dissenting chapels to |
| teach, with no lack of illustration, the miseries of Earth, and plenty |
| of new churches, erected with a little superfluous wealth, to show the |
| way to Heaven. |
| |
| At length these streets becoming more straggling yet, dwindled and |
| dwindled away, until there were only small garden patches bordering the |
| road, with many a summer house innocent of paint and built of old |
| timber or some fragments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage-stalks |
| that grew about it, and grottoed at the seams with toad-stools and |
| tight-sticking snails. To these succeeded pert cottages, two and two |
| with plots of ground in front, laid out in angular beds with stiff box |
| borders and narrow paths between, where footstep never strayed to make |
| the gravel rough. Then came the public-house, freshly painted in green |
| and white, with tea-gardens and a bowling green, spurning its old |
| neighbour with the horse-trough where the waggons stopped; then, |
| fields; and then, some houses, one by one, of goodly size with lawns, |
| some even with a lodge where dwelt a porter and his wife. Then came a |
| turnpike; then fields again with trees and hay-stacks; then, a hill, |
| and on the top of that, the traveller might stop, and--looking back at |
| old Saint Paul's looming through the smoke, its cross peeping above the |
| cloud (if the day were clear), and glittering in the sun; and casting |
| his eyes upon the Babel out of which it grew until he traced it down to |
| the furthest outposts of the invading army of bricks and mortar whose |
| station lay for the present nearly at his feet--might feel at last that |
| he was clear of London. |
| |
| Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man and his |
| little guide (if guide she were, who knew not whither they were bound) |
| sat down to rest. She had had the precaution to furnish her basket |
| with some slices of bread and meat, and here they made their frugal |
| breakfast. |
| |
| The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty of the |
| waving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flowers, and the thousand |
| exquisite scents and sounds that floated in the air--deep joys to most |
| of us, but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd or who live |
| solitarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human well--sunk into |
| their breasts and made them very glad. The child had repeated her |
| artless prayers once that morning, more earnestly perhaps than she had |
| ever done in all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose to her |
| lips again. The old man took off his hat--he had no memory for the |
| words--but he said amen, and that they were very good. |
| |
| There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, with strange |
| plates, upon a shelf at home, over which she had often pored whole |
| evenings, wondering whether it was true in every word, and where those |
| distant countries with the curious names might be. As she looked back |
| upon the place they had left, one part of it came strongly on her mind. |
| |
| 'Dear grandfather,' she said, 'only that this place is prettier and a |
| great deal better than the real one, if that in the book is like it, I |
| feel as if we were both Christian, and laid down on this grass all the |
| cares and troubles we brought with us; never to take them up again.' |
| |
| 'No--never to return--never to return'--replied the old man, waving his |
| hand towards the city. 'Thou and I are free of it now, Nell. They |
| shall never lure us back.' |
| |
| 'Are you tired?' said the child, 'are you sure you don't feel ill from |
| this long walk?' |
| |
| 'I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away,' was his |
| reply. 'Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be further away--a long, |
| long way further. We are too near to stop, and be at rest. Come!' |
| |
| There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child laved |
| her hands and face, and cooled her feet before setting forth to walk |
| again. She would have the old man refresh himself in this way too, and |
| making him sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her |
| hands, and dried it with her simple dress. |
| |
| 'I can do nothing for myself, my darling,' said the grandfather; 'I |
| don't know how it is, I could once, but the time's gone. Don't leave |
| me, Nell; say that thou'lt not leave me. I loved thee all the while, |
| indeed I did. If I lose thee too, my dear, I must die!' |
| |
| He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned piteously. The time had |
| been, and a very few days before, when the child could not have |
| restrained her tears and must have wept with him. But now she soothed |
| him with gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking they could |
| ever part, and rallied him cheerfully upon the jest. He was soon |
| calmed and fell asleep, singing to himself in a low voice, like a |
| little child. |
| |
| He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. The road was |
| pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn, about |
| which, poised high in the clear blue sky, the lark trilled out her |
| happy song. The air came laden with the fragrance it caught upon its |
| way, and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed forth their |
| drowsy satisfaction as they floated by. |
| |
| They were now in the open country; the houses were very few and |
| scattered at long intervals, often miles apart. Occasionally they came |
| upon a cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low board put |
| across the open door to keep the scrambling children from the road, |
| others shut up close while all the family were working in the fields. |
| These were often the commencement of a little village: and after an |
| interval came a wheelwright's shed or perhaps a blacksmith's forge; |
| then a thriving farm with sleepy cows lying about the yard, and horses |
| peering over the low wall and scampering away when harnessed horses |
| passed upon the road, as though in triumph at their freedom. There |
| were dull pigs too, turning up the ground in search of dainty food, and |
| grunting their monotonous grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed |
| each other in their quest; plump pigeons skimming round the roof or |
| strutting on the eaves; and ducks and geese, far more graceful in their |
| own conceit, waddling awkwardly about the edges of the pond or sailing |
| glibly on its surface. The farm-yard passed, then came the little inn; |
| the humbler beer-shop; and the village tradesman's; then the lawyer's |
| and the parson's, at whose dread names the beer-shop trembled; the |
| church then peeped out modestly from a clump of trees; then there were |
| a few more cottages; then the cage, and pound, and not unfrequently, on |
| a bank by the way-side, a deep old dusty well. Then came the |
| trim-hedged fields on either hand, and the open road again. |
| |
| They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where beds |
| were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot again, and though |
| jaded at first, and very tired, recovered before long and proceeded |
| briskly forward. |
| |
| They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time, and |
| still kept on, having had but slight refreshment since the morning. It |
| was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, when drawing near another |
| cluster of labourers' huts, the child looked wistfully in each, |
| doubtful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and buy a |
| draught of milk. |
| |
| It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of being |
| repulsed. Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife. In this, |
| the people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At length she stopped |
| at one where the family were seated round the table--chiefly because |
| there was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside the hearth, |
| and she thought he was a grandfather and would feel for hers. |
| |
| There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young sturdy |
| children, brown as berries. The request was no sooner preferred, than |
| granted. The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged |
| two stools towards the door, and the youngest crept to his mother's |
| gown, and looked at the strangers from beneath his sunburnt hand. |
| |
| 'God save you, master,' said the old cottager in a thin piping voice; |
| 'are you travelling far?' |
| |
| 'Yes, Sir, a long way'--replied the child; for her grandfather appealed |
| to her. |
| |
| 'From London?' inquired the old man. |
| |
| The child said yes. |
| |
| Ah! He had been in London many a time--used to go there often once, |
| with waggons. It was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had been there |
| last, and he did hear say there were great changes. Like enough! He |
| had changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year was a long time |
| and eighty-four a great age, though there was some he had known that |
| had lived to very hard upon a hundred--and not so hearty as he, |
| neither--no, nothing like it. |
| |
| 'Sit thee down, master, in the elbow chair,' said the old man, knocking |
| his stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so sharply. 'Take a |
| pinch out o' that box; I don't take much myself, for it comes dear, but |
| I find it wakes me up sometimes, and ye're but a boy to me. I should |
| have a son pretty nigh as old as you if he'd lived, but they listed him |
| for a so'ger--he come back home though, for all he had but one poor |
| leg. He always said he'd be buried near the sun-dial he used to climb |
| upon when he was a baby, did my poor boy, and his words come true--you |
| can see the place with your own eyes; we've kept the turf up, ever |
| since.' |
| |
| He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery eyes, said |
| she needn't be afraid that he was going to talk about that, any more. |
| He didn't wish to trouble nobody, and if he had troubled anybody by |
| what he said, he asked pardon, that was all. |
| |
| The milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket, and |
| selecting its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a hearty |
| meal. The furniture of the room was very homely of course--a few rough |
| chairs and a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of |
| crockery and delf, a gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady in bright red, |
| walking out with a very blue parasol, a few common, coloured scripture |
| subjects in frames upon the wall and chimney, an old dwarf |
| clothes-press and an eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and a |
| kettle, comprised the whole. But everything was clean and neat, and as |
| the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of comfort and content |
| to which she had long been unaccustomed. |
| |
| 'How far is it to any town or village?' she asked of the husband. |
| |
| 'A matter of good five mile, my dear,' was the reply, 'but you're not |
| going on to-night?' |
| |
| 'Yes, yes, Nell,' said the old man hastily, urging her too by signs. |
| 'Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk till |
| midnight.' |
| |
| 'There's a good barn hard by, master,' said the man, 'or there's |
| travellers' lodging, I know, at the Plow an' Harrer. Excuse me, but |
| you do seem a little tired, and unless you're very anxious to get on--' |
| |
| 'Yes, yes, we are,' returned the old man fretfully. 'Further away, |
| dear Nell, pray further away.' |
| |
| 'We must go on, indeed,' said the child, yielding to his restless wish. |
| 'We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon. I'm quite ready, |
| grandfather.' |
| |
| But the woman had observed, from the young wanderer's gait, that one of |
| her little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman and a mother |
| too, she would not suffer her to go until she had washed the place and |
| applied some simple remedy, which she did so carefully and with such a |
| gentle hand--rough-grained and hard though it was, with work--that the |
| child's heart was too full to admit of her saying more than a fervent |
| 'God bless you!' nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak, |
| until they had left the cottage some distance behind. When she turned |
| her head, she saw that the whole family, even the old grandfather, were |
| standing in the road watching them as they went, and so, with many |
| waves of the hand, and cheering nods, and on one side at least not |
| without tears, they parted company. |
| |
| They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than they had done yet, |
| for another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound of wheels |
| behind them, and looking round observed an empty cart approaching |
| pretty briskly. The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and |
| looked earnestly at Nell. |
| |
| 'Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?' he said. |
| |
| 'Yes, sir,' replied the child. |
| |
| 'Ah! They asked me to look out for you,' said the man. 'I'm going |
| your way. Give me your hand--jump up, master.' |
| |
| This was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued and could |
| scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting cart was a luxurious |
| carriage, and the ride the most delicious in the world. Nell had |
| scarcely settled herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when |
| she fell asleep, for the first time that day. |
| |
| She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to turn |
| up a bye-lane. The driver kindly got down to help her out, and |
| pointing to some trees at a very short distance before them, said that |
| the town lay there, and that they had better take the path which they |
| would see leading through the churchyard. Accordingly, towards this |
| spot, they directed their weary steps. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 16 |
| |
| The sun was setting when they reached the wicket-gate at which the path |
| began, and, as the rain falls upon the just and unjust alike, it shed |
| its warm tint even upon the resting-places of the dead, and bade them |
| be of good hope for its rising on the morrow. The church was old and |
| grey, with ivy clinging to the walls, and round the porch. Shunning |
| the tombs, it crept about the mounds, beneath which slept poor humble |
| men: twining for them the first wreaths they had ever won, but wreaths |
| less liable to wither and far more lasting in their kind, than some |
| which were graven deep in stone and marble, and told in pompous terms |
| of virtues meekly hidden for many a year, and only revealed at last to |
| executors and mourning legatees. |
| |
| The clergyman's horse, stumbling with a dull blunt sound among the |
| graves, was cropping the grass; at once deriving orthodox consolation |
| from the dead parishioners, and enforcing last Sunday's text that this |
| was what all flesh came to; a lean ass who had sought to expound it |
| also, without being qualified and ordained, was pricking his ears in an |
| empty pound hard by, and looking with hungry eyes upon his priestly |
| neighbour. |
| |
| The old man and the child quitted the gravel path, and strayed among |
| the tombs; for there the ground was soft, and easy to their tired feet. |
| As they passed behind the church, they heard voices near at hand, and |
| presently came on those who had spoken. |
| |
| They were two men who were seated in easy attitudes upon the grass, and |
| so busily engaged as to be at first unconscious of intruders. It was |
| not difficult to divine that they were of a class of itinerant |
| showmen--exhibitors of the freaks of Punch--for, perched cross-legged |
| upon a tombstone behind them, was a figure of that hero himself, his |
| nose and chin as hooked and his face as beaming as usual. Perhaps his |
| imperturbable character was never more strikingly developed, for he |
| preserved his usual equable smile notwithstanding that his body was |
| dangling in a most uncomfortable position, all loose and limp and |
| shapeless, while his long peaked cap, unequally balanced against his |
| exceedingly slight legs, threatened every instant to bring him toppling |
| down. |
| |
| In part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two men, and in |
| part jumbled together in a long flat box, were the other persons of the |
| Drama. The hero's wife and one child, the hobby-horse, the doctor, the |
| foreign gentleman who not being familiar with the language is unable in |
| the representation to express his ideas otherwise than by the utterance |
| of the word 'Shallabalah' three distinct times, the radical neighbour |
| who will by no means admit that a tin bell is an organ, the |
| executioner, and the devil, were all here. Their owners had evidently |
| come to that spot to make some needful repairs in the stage |
| arrangements, for one of them was engaged in binding together a small |
| gallows with thread, while the other was intent upon fixing a new black |
| wig, with the aid of a small hammer and some tacks, upon the head of |
| the radical neighbour, who had been beaten bald. |
| |
| They raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion were |
| close upon them, and pausing in their work, returned their looks of |
| curiosity. One of them, the actual exhibitor no doubt, was a little |
| merry-faced man with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have |
| unconsciously imbibed something of his hero's character. The |
| other--that was he who took the money--had rather a careful and |
| cautious look, which was perhaps inseparable from his occupation also. |
| |
| The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and |
| following the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the |
| first time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage. (Punch, it may be |
| remarked, seemed to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most |
| flourishing epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his heart.) |
| |
| 'Why do you come here to do this?' said the old man, sitting down |
| beside them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight. |
| |
| 'Why you see,' rejoined the little man, 'we're putting up for to-night |
| at the public-house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em see the |
| present company undergoing repair.' |
| |
| 'No!' cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, 'why not, eh? |
| why not?' |
| |
| 'Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take away all the |
| interest, wouldn't it?' replied the little man. 'Would you care a |
| ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and |
| without his wig?--certainly not.' |
| |
| 'Good!' said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets, and |
| drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. 'Are you going to show 'em |
| to-night? are you?' |
| |
| 'That is the intention, governor,' replied the other, 'and unless I'm |
| much mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a calculating at this minute what we've |
| lost through your coming upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much.' |
| |
| The little man accompanied these latter words with a wink, expressive |
| of the estimate he had formed of the travellers' finances. |
| |
| To this Mr Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, replied, as he |
| twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung him into the box, 'I don't |
| care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free. If you stood in |
| front of the curtain and see the public's faces as I do, you'd know |
| human natur' better.' |
| |
| 'Ah! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that branch,' |
| rejoined his companion. 'When you played the ghost in the reg'lar |
| drama in the fairs, you believed in everything--except ghosts. But now |
| you're a universal mistruster. I never see a man so changed.' |
| |
| 'Never mind,' said Mr Codlin, with the air of a discontented |
| philosopher. 'I know better now, and p'raps I'm sorry for it.' |
| |
| Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised |
| them, Mr Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of his |
| friend: |
| |
| 'Look here; here's all this judy's clothes falling to pieces again. |
| You haven't got a needle and thread I suppose?' |
| |
| The little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully as he |
| contemplated this severe indisposition of a principal performer. |
| Seeing that they were at a loss, the child said timidly: |
| |
| 'I have a needle, Sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let me |
| try to mend it for you? I think I could do it neater than you could.' |
| |
| Even Mr Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so seasonable. |
| Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily engaged in her |
| task, and accomplishing it to a miracle. |
| |
| While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked at her with an |
| interest which did not appear to be diminished when he glanced at her |
| helpless companion. When she had finished her work he thanked her, and |
| inquired whither they were travelling. |
| |
| 'N--no further to-night, I think,' said the child, looking towards her |
| grandfather. |
| |
| 'If you're wanting a place to stop at,' the man remarked, 'I should |
| advise you to take up at the same house with us. That's it. The long, |
| low, white house there. It's very cheap.' |
| |
| The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have remained in the |
| churchyard all night if his new acquaintances had remained there too. |
| As he yielded to this suggestion a ready and rapturous assent, they all |
| rose and walked away together; he keeping close to the box of puppets |
| in which he was quite absorbed, the merry little man carrying it slung |
| over his arm by a strap attached to it for the purpose, Nelly having |
| hold of her grandfather's hand, and Mr Codlin sauntering slowly behind, |
| casting up at the church tower and neighbouring trees such looks as he |
| was accustomed in town-practice to direct to drawing-room and nursery |
| windows, when seeking for a profitable spot on which to plant the show. |
| |
| The public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady who made |
| no objection to receiving their new guests, but praised Nelly's beauty |
| and were at once prepossessed in her behalf. There was no other |
| company in the kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very |
| thankful that they had fallen upon such good quarters. The landlady |
| was very much astonished to learn that they had come all the way from |
| London, and appeared to have no little curiosity touching their farther |
| destination. The child parried her inquiries as well as she could, and |
| with no great trouble, for finding that they appeared to give her pain, |
| the old lady desisted. |
| |
| 'These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an hour's time,' she said, |
| taking her into the bar; 'and your best plan will be to sup with them. |
| Meanwhile you shall have a little taste of something that'll do you |
| good, for I'm sure you must want it after all you've gone through |
| to-day. Now, don't look after the old gentleman, because when you've |
| drank that, he shall have some too.' |
| |
| As nothing could induce the child to leave him alone, however, or to |
| touch anything in which he was not the first and greatest sharer, the |
| old lady was obliged to help him first. When they had been thus |
| refreshed, the whole house hurried away into an empty stable where the |
| show stood, and where, by the light of a few flaring candles stuck |
| round a hoop which hung by a line from the ceiling, it was to be |
| forthwith exhibited. |
| |
| And now Mr Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after blowing away at the |
| Pan's pipes until he was intensely wretched, took his station on one |
| side of the checked drapery which concealed the mover of the figures, |
| and putting his hands in his pockets prepared to reply to all questions |
| and remarks of Punch, and to make a dismal feint of being his most |
| intimate private friend, of believing in him to the fullest and most |
| unlimited extent, of knowing that he enjoyed day and night a merry and |
| glorious existence in that temple, and that he was at all times and |
| under every circumstance the same intelligent and joyful person that |
| the spectators then beheld him. All this Mr Codlin did with the air of |
| a man who had made up his mind for the worst and was quite resigned; |
| his eye slowly wandering about during the briskest repartee to observe |
| the effect upon the audience, and particularly the impression made upon |
| the landlord and landlady, which might be productive of very important |
| results in connexion with the supper. |
| |
| Upon this head, however, he had no cause for any anxiety, for the whole |
| performance was applauded to the echo, and voluntary contributions were |
| showered in with a liberality which testified yet more strongly to the |
| general delight. Among the laughter none was more loud and frequent |
| than the old man's. Nell's was unheard, for she, poor child, with her |
| head drooping on his shoulder, had fallen asleep, and slept too soundly |
| to be roused by any of his efforts to awaken her to a participation in |
| his glee. |
| |
| The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, and yet would |
| not leave the old man until she had kissed him in his bed. He, happily |
| insensible to every care and anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile |
| and admiring face to all that his new friend said; and it was not until |
| they retired yawning to their room, that he followed the child up |
| stairs. |
| |
| It was but a loft partitioned into two compartments, where they were to |
| rest, but they were well pleased with their lodging and had hoped for |
| none so good. The old man was uneasy when he had lain down, and begged |
| that Nell would come and sit at his bedside as she had done for so many |
| nights. She hastened to him, and sat there till he slept. |
| |
| There was a little window, hardly more than a chink in the wall, in her |
| room, and when she left him, she opened it, quite wondering at the |
| silence. The sight of the old church, and the graves about it in the |
| moonlight, and the dark trees whispering among themselves, made her |
| more thoughtful than before. She closed the window again, and sitting |
| down upon the bed, thought of the life that was before them. |
| |
| She had a little money, but it was very little, and when that was gone, |
| they must begin to beg. There was one piece of gold among it, and an |
| emergency might come when its worth to them would be increased a |
| hundred fold. It would be best to hide this coin, and never produce it |
| unless their case was absolutely desperate, and no other resource was |
| left them. |
| |
| Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into her dress, and |
| going to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 17 |
| |
| Another bright day shining in through the small casement, and claiming |
| fellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her. At sight of |
| the strange room and its unaccustomed objects she started up in alarm, |
| wondering how she had been moved from the familiar chamber in which she |
| seemed to have fallen asleep last night, and whither she had been |
| conveyed. But, another glance around called to her mind all that had |
| lately passed, and she sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful. |
| |
| It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked out |
| into the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with her |
| feet, and often turning aside into places where it grew longer than in |
| others, that she might not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious |
| kind of pleasure in lingering among these houses of the dead, and read |
| the inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a great number of |
| good people were buried there), passing on from one to another with |
| increasing interest. |
| |
| It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the |
| cawing of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of |
| some tall old trees, and were calling to one another, high up in the |
| air. First, one sleek bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung |
| and dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by chance as it |
| would seem, and in a sober tone as though he were but talking to |
| himself. Another answered, and he called again, but louder than |
| before; then another spoke and then another; and each time the first, |
| aggravated by contradiction, insisted on his case more strongly. Other |
| voices, silent till now, struck in from boughs lower down and higher up |
| and midway, and to the right and left, and from the tree-tops; and |
| others, arriving hastily from the grey church turrets and old belfry |
| window, joined the clamour which rose and fell, and swelled and dropped |
| again, and still went on; and all this noisy contention amidst a |
| skimming to and fro, and lighting on fresh branches, and frequent |
| change of place, which satirised the old restlessness of those who lay |
| so still beneath the moss and turf below, and the strife in which they |
| had worn away their lives. |
| |
| Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came down, |
| and feeling as though they made the place more quiet than perfect |
| silence would have done, the child loitered from grave to grave, now |
| stopping to replace with careful hands the bramble which had started |
| from some green mound it helped to keep in shape, and now peeping |
| through one of the low latticed windows into the church, with its |
| worm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize of whitened-green mouldering |
| from the pew sides and leaving the naked wood to view. There were the |
| seats where the poor old people sat, worn spare, and yellow like |
| themselves; the rugged font where children had their names, the homely |
| altar where they knelt in after life, the plain black tressels that |
| bore their weight on their last visit to the cool old shady church. |
| Everything told of long use and quiet slow decay; the very bell-rope in |
| the porch was frayed into a fringe, and hoary with old age. |
| |
| She was looking at a humble stone which told of a young man who had |
| died at twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she heard a |
| faltering step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble woman bent |
| with the weight of years, who tottered to the foot of that same grave |
| and asked her to read the writing on the stone. The old woman thanked |
| her when she had done, saying that she had had the words by heart for |
| many a long, long year, but could not see them now. |
| |
| 'Were you his mother?' said the child. |
| |
| 'I was his wife, my dear.' |
| |
| She the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty! Ah, true! It was |
| fifty-five years ago. |
| |
| 'You wonder to hear me say that,' remarked the old woman, shaking her |
| head. 'You're not the first. Older folk than you have wondered at the |
| same thing before now. Yes, I was his wife. Death doesn't change us |
| more than life, my dear.' |
| |
| 'Do you come here often?' asked the child. |
| |
| 'I sit here very often in the summer time,' she answered, 'I used to |
| come here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago, bless |
| God!' |
| |
| 'I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home,' said the old |
| woman after a short silence. 'I like no flowers so well as these, and |
| haven't for five-and-fifty years. It's a long time, and I'm getting |
| very old.' |
| |
| Then growing garrulous upon a theme which was new to one listener |
| though it were but a child, she told her how she had wept and moaned |
| and prayed to die herself, when this happened; and how when she first |
| came to that place, a young creature strong in love and grief, she had |
| hoped that her heart was breaking as it seemed to be. But that time |
| passed by, and although she continued to be sad when she came there, |
| still she could bear to come, and so went on until it was pain no |
| longer, but a solemn pleasure, and a duty she had learned to like. And |
| now that five-and-fifty years were gone, she spoke of the dead man as |
| if he had been her son or grandson, with a kind of pity for his youth, |
| growing out of her own old age, and an exalting of his strength and |
| manly beauty as compared with her own weakness and decay; and yet she |
| spoke about him as her husband too, and thinking of herself in |
| connexion with him, as she used to be and not as she was now, talked of |
| their meeting in another world, as if he were dead but yesterday, and |
| she, separated from her former self, were thinking of the happiness of |
| that comely girl who seemed to have died with him. |
| |
| The child left her gathering the flowers that grew upon the grave, and |
| thoughtfully retraced her steps. |
| |
| The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr Codlin, still doomed |
| to contemplate the harsh realities of existence, was packing among his |
| linen the candle-ends which had been saved from the previous night's |
| performance; while his companion received the compliments of all the |
| loungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to separate him from the |
| master-mind of Punch, set him down as next in importance to that merry |
| outlaw, and loved him scarcely less. When he had sufficiently |
| acknowledged his popularity he came in to breakfast, at which meal they |
| all sat down together. |
| |
| 'And where are you going to-day?' said the little man, addressing |
| himself to Nell. |
| |
| 'Indeed I hardly know--we have not determined yet,' replied the child. |
| |
| 'We're going on to the races,' said the little man. 'If that's your |
| way and you like to have us for company, let us travel together. If |
| you prefer going alone, only say the word and you'll find that we |
| shan't trouble you.' |
| |
| 'We'll go with you,' said the old man. 'Nell--with them, with them.' |
| |
| The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must shortly |
| beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place than where |
| crowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled together for |
| purposes of enjoyment and festivity, determined to accompany these men |
| so far. She therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and said, |
| glancing timidly towards his friend, that if there was no objection to |
| their accompanying them as far as the race town-- |
| |
| 'Objection!' said the little man. 'Now be gracious for once, Tommy, |
| and say that you'd rather they went with us. I know you would. Be |
| gracious, Tommy.' |
| |
| 'Trotters,' said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and ate very |
| greedily, as is not uncommon with philosophers and misanthropes; |
| 'you're too free.' |
| |
| 'Why what harm can it do?' urged the other. |
| |
| 'No harm at all in this particular case, perhaps,' replied Mr Codlin; |
| 'but the principle's a dangerous one, and you're too free I tell you.' |
| |
| 'Well, are they to go with us or not?' |
| |
| 'Yes, they are,' said Mr Codlin; 'but you might have made a favour of |
| it, mightn't you?' |
| |
| The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually merged |
| into the less euphonious one of Trotters, which, with the prefatory |
| adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason of the small |
| size of his legs. Short Trotters however, being a compound name, |
| inconvenient of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom it had |
| been bestowed was known among his intimates either as 'Short,' or |
| 'Trotters,' and was seldom accosted at full length as Short Trotters, |
| except in formal conversations and on occasions of ceremony. |
| |
| Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the |
| remonstrance of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin a jocose answer calculated |
| to turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with great relish to |
| the cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and butter, strongly impressed |
| upon his companions that they should do the like. Mr Codlin indeed |
| required no such persuasion, as he had already eaten as much as he |
| could possibly carry and was now moistening his clay with strong ale, |
| whereof he took deep draughts with a silent relish and invited nobody |
| to partake--thus again strongly indicating his misanthropical turn of |
| mind. |
| |
| Breakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and charging |
| the ale to the company generally (a practice also savouring of |
| misanthropy) divided the sum-total into two fair and equal parts, |
| assigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the other to Nelly and |
| her grandfather. These being duly discharged and all things ready for |
| their departure, they took farewell of the landlord and landlady and |
| resumed their journey. |
| |
| And here Mr Codlin's false position in society and the effect it |
| wrought upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated; for whereas |
| he had been last night accosted by Mr Punch as 'master,' and had by |
| inference left the audience to understand that he maintained that |
| individual for his own luxurious entertainment and delight, here he |
| was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of that same Punch's |
| temple, and bearing it bodily upon his shoulders on a sultry day and |
| along a dusty road. In place of enlivening his patron with a constant |
| fire of wit or the cheerful rattle of his quarter-staff on the heads of |
| his relations and acquaintance, here was that beaming Punch utterly |
| devoid of spine, all slack and drooping in a dark box, with his legs |
| doubled up round his neck, and not one of his social qualities |
| remaining. |
| |
| Mr Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals |
| with Short, and stopping to rest and growl occasionally. Short led the |
| way; with the flat box, the private luggage (which was not extensive) |
| tied up in a bundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his |
| shoulder-blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next him on either |
| hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the rear. |
| |
| When they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house of |
| good appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet and |
| carolled a fragment of a song in that hilarious tone common to Punches |
| and their consorts. If people hurried to the windows, Mr Codlin |
| pitched the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and concealing |
| Short therewith, flourished hysterically on the pipes and performed an |
| air. Then the entertainment began as soon as might be; Mr Codlin |
| having the responsibility of deciding on its length and of protracting |
| or expediting the time for the hero's final triumph over the enemy of |
| mankind, according as he judged that the after-crop of half-pence would |
| be plentiful or scant. When it had been gathered in to the last |
| farthing, he resumed his load and on they went again. |
| |
| Sometimes they played out the toll across a bridge or ferry, and once |
| exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the collector, |
| being drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to have it to |
| himself. There was one small place of rich promise in which their |
| hopes were blighted, for a favourite character in the play having |
| gold-lace upon his coat and being a meddling wooden-headed fellow was |
| held to be a libel on the beadle, for which reason the authorities |
| enforced a quick retreat; but they were generally well received, and |
| seldom left a town without a troop of ragged children shouting at their |
| heels. |
| |
| They made a long day's journey, despite these interruptions, and were |
| yet upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky. Short beguiled |
| the time with songs and jests, and made the best of everything that |
| happened. Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the |
| hollow things of earth (but Punch especially), and limped along with |
| the theatre on his back, a prey to the bitterest chagrin. |
| |
| They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads met, |
| and Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery and |
| seated himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and |
| disdainful of the company of his fellow creatures, when two monstrous |
| shadows were seen stalking towards them from a turning in the road by |
| which they had come. The child was at first quite terrified by the |
| sight of these gaunt giants--for such they looked as they advanced with |
| lofty strides beneath the shadow of the trees--but Short, telling her |
| there was nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was |
| answered by a cheerful shout. |
| |
| 'It's Grinder's lot, an't it?' cried Mr Short in a loud key. |
| |
| 'Yes,' replied a couple of shrill voices. |
| |
| 'Come on then,' said Short. 'Let's have a look at you. I thought it |
| was you.' |
| |
| Thus invited, 'Grinder's lot' approached with redoubled speed and soon |
| came up with the little party. |
| |
| Mr Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young |
| gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr Grinder himself, who used |
| his natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his back a |
| drum. The public costume of the young people was of the Highland kind, |
| but the night being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore over his |
| kilt a man's pea jacket reaching to his ankles, and a glazed hat; the |
| young lady too was muffled in an old cloth pelisse and had a |
| handkerchief tied about her head. Their Scotch bonnets, ornamented |
| with plumes of jet black feathers, Mr Grinder carried on his instrument. |
| |
| 'Bound for the races, I see,' said Mr Grinder coming up out of breath. |
| 'So are we. How are you, Short?' With that they shook hands in a very |
| friendly manner. The young people being too high up for the ordinary |
| salutations, saluted Short after their own fashion. The young |
| gentleman twisted up his right stilt and patted him on the shoulder, |
| and the young lady rattled her tambourine. |
| |
| 'Practice?' said Short, pointing to the stilts. |
| |
| 'No,' returned Grinder. 'It comes either to walkin' in 'em or carryin' |
| of 'em, and they like walkin' in 'em best. It's wery pleasant for the |
| prospects. Which road are you takin'? We go the nighest.' |
| |
| 'Why, the fact is,' said Short, 'that we are going the longest way, |
| because then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on. But |
| three or four mile gained to-night is so many saved to-morrow, and if |
| you keep on, I think our best way is to do the same.' |
| |
| 'Where's your partner?' inquired Grinder. |
| |
| 'Here he is,' cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face in |
| the proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of |
| countenance not often seen there; 'and he'll see his partner boiled |
| alive before he'll go on to-night. That's what he says.' |
| |
| 'Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted to |
| something pleasanter,' urged Short. 'Respect associations, Tommy, even |
| if you do cut up rough.' |
| |
| 'Rough or smooth,' said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little |
| footboard where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of his |
| legs and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit |
| them to popular admiration, 'rough or smooth, I won't go further than |
| the mile and a half to-night. I put up at the Jolly Sandboys and |
| nowhere else. If you like to come there, come there. If you like to |
| go on by yourself, go on by yourself, and do without me if you can.' |
| |
| So saying, Mr Codlin disappeared from the scene and immediately |
| presented himself outside the theatre, took it on his shoulders at a |
| jerk, and made off with most remarkable agility. |
| |
| Any further controversy being now out of the question, Short was fain |
| to part with Mr Grinder and his pupils and to follow his morose |
| companion. After lingering at the finger-post for a few minutes to see |
| the stilts frisking away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum |
| toiling slowly after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet as a |
| parting salute, and hastened with all speed to follow Mr Codlin. With |
| this view he gave his unoccupied hand to Nell, and bidding her be of |
| good cheer as they would soon be at the end of their journey for that |
| night, and stimulating the old man with a similar assurance, led them |
| at a pretty swift pace towards their destination, which he was the less |
| unwilling to make for, as the moon was now overcast and the clouds were |
| threatening rain. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 18 |
| |
| The Jolly Sandboys was a small road-side inn of pretty ancient date, |
| with a sign, representing three Sandboys increasing their jollity with |
| as many jugs of ale and bags of gold, creaking and swinging on its post |
| on the opposite side of the road. As the travellers had observed that |
| day many indications of their drawing nearer and nearer to the race |
| town, such as gipsy camps, carts laden with gambling booths and their |
| appurtenances, itinerant showmen of various kinds, and beggars and |
| trampers of every degree, all wending their way in the same direction, |
| Mr Codlin was fearful of finding the accommodations forestalled; this |
| fear increasing as he diminished the distance between himself and the |
| hostelry, he quickened his pace, and notwithstanding the burden he had |
| to carry, maintained a round trot until he reached the threshold. Here |
| he had the gratification of finding that his fears were without |
| foundation, for the landlord was leaning against the door-post looking |
| lazily at the rain, which had by this time begun to descend heavily, |
| and no tinkling of cracked bell, nor boisterous shout, nor noisy |
| chorus, gave note of company within. |
| |
| 'All alone?' said Mr Codlin, putting down his burden and wiping his |
| forehead. |
| |
| 'All alone as yet,' rejoined the landlord, glancing at the sky, 'but we |
| shall have more company to-night I expect. Here one of you boys, carry |
| that show into the barn. Make haste in out of the wet, Tom; when it |
| came on to rain I told 'em to make the fire up, and there's a glorious |
| blaze in the kitchen, I can tell you.' |
| |
| Mr Codlin followed with a willing mind, and soon found that the |
| landlord had not commended his preparations without good reason. A |
| mighty fire was blazing on the hearth and roaring up the wide chimney |
| with a cheerful sound, which a large iron cauldron, bubbling and |
| simmering in the heat, lent its pleasant aid to swell. There was a |
| deep red ruddy blush upon the room, and when the landlord stirred the |
| fire, sending the flames skipping and leaping up--when he took off the |
| lid of the iron pot and there rushed out a savoury smell, while the |
| bubbling sound grew deeper and more rich, and an unctuous steam came |
| floating out, hanging in a delicious mist above their heads--when he |
| did this, Mr Codlin's heart was touched. He sat down in the |
| chimney-corner and smiled. |
| |
| Mr Codlin sat smiling in the chimney-corner, eyeing the landlord as |
| with a roguish look he held the cover in his hand, and, feigning that |
| his doing so was needful to the welfare of the cookery, suffered the |
| delightful steam to tickle the nostrils of his guest. The glow of the |
| fire was upon the landlord's bald head, and upon his twinkling eye, and |
| upon his watering mouth, and upon his pimpled face, and upon his round |
| fat figure. Mr Codlin drew his sleeve across his lips, and said in a |
| murmuring voice, 'What is it?' |
| |
| 'It's a stew of tripe,' said the landlord smacking his lips, 'and |
| cow-heel,' smacking them again, 'and bacon,' smacking them once more, |
| 'and steak,' smacking them for the fourth time, 'and peas, |
| cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up together |
| in one delicious gravy.' Having come to the climax, he smacked his |
| lips a great many times, and taking a long hearty sniff of the |
| fragrance that was hovering about, put on the cover again with the air |
| of one whose toils on earth were over. |
| |
| 'At what time will it be ready?' asked Mr Codlin faintly. |
| |
| 'It'll be done to a turn,' said the landlord looking up to the |
| clock--and the very clock had a colour in its fat white face, and |
| looked a clock for jolly Sandboys to consult--'it'll be done to a turn |
| at twenty-two minutes before eleven.' |
| |
| 'Then,' said Mr Codlin, 'fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don't let |
| nobody bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time |
| arrives.' |
| |
| Nodding his approval of this decisive and manly course of procedure, |
| the landlord retired to draw the beer, and presently returning with it, |
| applied himself to warm the same in a small tin vessel shaped |
| funnel-wise, for the convenience of sticking it far down in the fire |
| and getting at the bright places. This was soon done, and he handed it |
| over to Mr Codlin with that creamy froth upon the surface which is one |
| of the happy circumstances attendant on mulled malt. |
| |
| Greatly softened by this soothing beverage, Mr Codlin now bethought him |
| of his companions, and acquainted mine host of the Sandboys that their |
| arrival might be shortly looked for. The rain was rattling against the |
| windows and pouring down in torrents, and such was Mr Codlin's extreme |
| amiability of mind, that he more than once expressed his earnest hope |
| that they would not be so foolish as to get wet. |
| |
| At length they arrived, drenched with the rain and presenting a most |
| miserable appearance, notwithstanding that Short had sheltered the |
| child as well as he could under the skirts of his own coat, and they |
| were nearly breathless from the haste they had made. But their steps |
| were no sooner heard upon the road than the landlord, who had been at |
| the outer door anxiously watching for their coming, rushed into the |
| kitchen and took the cover off. The effect was electrical. They all |
| came in with smiling faces though the wet was dripping from their |
| clothes upon the floor, and Short's first remark was, 'What a delicious |
| smell!' |
| |
| It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the side of a |
| cheerful fire, and in a bright room. They were furnished with slippers |
| and such dry garments as the house or their own bundles afforded, and |
| ensconcing themselves, as Mr Codlin had already done, in the warm |
| chimney-corner, soon forgot their late troubles or only remembered them |
| as enhancing the delights of the present time. Overpowered by the |
| warmth and comfort and the fatigue they had undergone, Nelly and the |
| old man had not long taken their seats here, when they fell asleep. |
| |
| 'Who are they?' whispered the landlord. |
| |
| Short shook his head, and wished he knew himself. |
| |
| 'Don't you know?' asked the host, turning to Mr Codlin. |
| |
| 'Not I,' he replied. 'They're no good, I suppose.' |
| |
| 'They're no harm,' said Short. 'Depend upon that. I tell you |
| what--it's plain that the old man an't in his right mind--' |
| |
| 'If you haven't got anything newer than that to say,' growled Mr |
| Codlin, glancing at the clock, 'you'd better let us fix our minds upon |
| the supper, and not disturb us.' |
| |
| 'Hear me out, won't you?' retorted his friend. 'It's very plain to me, |
| besides, that they're not used to this way of life. Don't tell me that |
| that handsome child has been in the habit of prowling about as she's |
| done these last two or three days. I know better.' |
| |
| 'Well, who DOES tell you she has?' growled Mr Codlin, again glancing at |
| the clock and from it to the cauldron, 'can't you think of anything |
| more suitable to present circumstances than saying things and then |
| contradicting 'em?' |
| |
| 'I wish somebody would give you your supper,' returned Short, 'for |
| there'll be no peace till you've got it. Have you seen how anxious the |
| old man is to get on--always wanting to be furder away--furder away. |
| Have you seen that?' |
| |
| 'Ah! what then?' muttered Thomas Codlin. |
| |
| 'This, then,' said Short. 'He has given his friends the slip. Mind |
| what I say--he has given his friends the slip, and persuaded this |
| delicate young creetur all along of her fondness for him to be his |
| guide and travelling companion--where to, he knows no more than the man |
| in the moon. Now I'm not a going to stand that.' |
| |
| 'YOU'RE not a going to stand that!' cried Mr Codlin, glancing at the |
| clock again and pulling his hair with both hands in a kind of frenzy, |
| but whether occasioned by his companion's observation or the tardy pace |
| of Time, it was difficult to determine. 'Here's a world to live in!' |
| |
| 'I,' repeated Short emphatically and slowly, 'am not a-going to stand |
| it. I am not a-going to see this fair young child a falling into bad |
| hands, and getting among people that she's no more fit for, than they |
| are to get among angels as their ordinary chums. Therefore when they |
| dewelope an intention of parting company from us, I shall take measures |
| for detaining of 'em, and restoring 'em to their friends, who I dare |
| say have had their disconsolation pasted up on every wall in London by |
| this time.' |
| |
| 'Short,' said Mr Codlin, who with his head upon his hands, and his |
| elbows on his knees, had been shaking himself impatiently from side to |
| side up to this point and occasionally stamping on the ground, but who |
| now looked up with eager eyes; 'it's possible that there may be |
| uncommon good sense in what you've said. If there is, and there should |
| be a reward, Short, remember that we're partners in everything!' |
| |
| His companion had only time to nod a brief assent to this position, for |
| the child awoke at the instant. They had drawn close together during |
| the previous whispering, and now hastily separated and were rather |
| awkwardly endeavouring to exchange some casual remarks in their usual |
| tone, when strange footsteps were heard without, and fresh company |
| entered. |
| |
| These were no other than four very dismal dogs, who came pattering in |
| one after the other, headed by an old bandy dog of particularly |
| mournful aspect, who, stopping when the last of his followers had got |
| as far as the door, erected himself upon his hind legs and looked round |
| at his companions, who immediately stood upon their hind legs, in a |
| grave and melancholy row. Nor was this the only remarkable |
| circumstance about these dogs, for each of them wore a kind of little |
| coat of some gaudy colour trimmed with tarnished spangles, and one of |
| them had a cap upon his head, tied very carefully under his chin, which |
| had fallen down upon his nose and completely obscured one eye; add to |
| this, that the gaudy coats were all wet through and discoloured with |
| rain, and that the wearers were splashed and dirty, and some idea may |
| be formed of the unusual appearance of these new visitors to the Jolly |
| Sandboys. |
| |
| Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin, however, was in the |
| least surprised, merely remarking that these were Jerry's dogs and that |
| Jerry could not be far behind. So there the dogs stood, patiently |
| winking and gaping and looking extremely hard at the boiling pot, until |
| Jerry himself appeared, when they all dropped down at once and walked |
| about the room in their natural manner. This posture it must be |
| confessed did not much improve their appearance, as their own personal |
| tails and their coat tails--both capital things in their way--did not |
| agree together. |
| |
| Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall black-whiskered |
| man in a velveteen coat, who seemed well known to the landlord and his |
| guests and accosted them with great cordiality. Disencumbering himself |
| of a barrel organ which he placed upon a chair, and retaining in his |
| hand a small whip wherewith to awe his company of comedians, he came up |
| to the fire to dry himself, and entered into conversation. |
| |
| 'Your people don't usually travel in character, do they?' said Short, |
| pointing to the dresses of the dogs. 'It must come expensive if they |
| do?' |
| |
| 'No,' replied Jerry, 'no, it's not the custom with us. But we've been |
| playing a little on the road to-day, and we come out with a new |
| wardrobe at the races, so I didn't think it worth while to stop to |
| undress. Down, Pedro!' |
| |
| This was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who being a new member |
| of the company, and not quite certain of his duty, kept his unobscured |
| eye anxiously on his master, and was perpetually starting upon his hind |
| legs when there was no occasion, and falling down again. |
| |
| 'I've got a animal here,' said Jerry, putting his hand into the |
| capacious pocket of his coat, and diving into one corner as if he were |
| feeling for a small orange or an apple or some such article, 'a animal |
| here, wot I think you know something of, Short.' |
| |
| 'Ah!' cried Short, 'let's have a look at him.' |
| |
| 'Here he is,' said Jerry, producing a little terrier from his pocket. |
| 'He was once a Toby of yours, warn't he!' |
| |
| In some versions of the great drama of Punch there is a small dog--a |
| modern innovation--supposed to be the private property of that |
| gentleman, whose name is always Toby. This Toby has been stolen in |
| youth from another gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the confiding |
| hero, who having no guile himself has no suspicion that it lurks in |
| others; but Toby, entertaining a grateful recollection of his old |
| master, and scorning to attach himself to any new patrons, not only |
| refuses to smoke a pipe at the bidding of Punch, but to mark his old |
| fidelity more strongly, seizes him by the nose and wrings the same with |
| violence, at which instance of canine attachment the spectators are |
| deeply affected. This was the character which the little terrier in |
| question had once sustained; if there had been any doubt upon the |
| subject he would speedily have resolved it by his conduct; for not only |
| did he, on seeing Short, give the strongest tokens of recognition, but |
| catching sight of the flat box he barked so furiously at the pasteboard |
| nose which he knew was inside, that his master was obliged to gather |
| him up and put him into his pocket again, to the great relief of the |
| whole company. |
| |
| The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in which process |
| Mr Codlin obligingly assisted by setting forth his own knife and fork |
| in the most convenient place and establishing himself behind them. |
| When everything was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last |
| time, and then indeed there burst forth such a goodly promise of |
| supper, that if he had offered to put it on again or had hinted at |
| postponement, he would certainly have been sacrificed on his own hearth. |
| |
| However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead thereof assisted a |
| stout servant girl in turning the contents of the cauldron into a large |
| tureen; a proceeding which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes |
| which fell upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness. At |
| length the dish was lifted on the table, and mugs of ale having been |
| previously set round, little Nell ventured to say grace, and supper |
| began. |
| |
| At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their hind legs quite |
| surprisingly; the child, having pity on them, was about to cast some |
| morsels of food to them before she tasted it herself, hungry though she |
| was, when their master interposed. |
| |
| 'No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand but mine if you |
| please. That dog,' said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the |
| troop, and speaking in a terrible voice, 'lost a halfpenny to-day. He |
| goes without his supper.' |
| |
| The unfortunate creature dropped upon his fore-legs directly, wagged |
| his tail, and looked imploringly at his master. |
| |
| 'You must be more careful, Sir,' said Jerry, walking coolly to the |
| chair where he had placed the organ, and setting the stop. 'Come here. |
| Now, Sir, you play away at that, while we have supper, and leave off if |
| you dare.' |
| |
| The dog immediately began to grind most mournful music. His master |
| having shown him the whip resumed his seat and called up the others, |
| who, at his directions, formed in a row, standing upright as a file of |
| soldiers. |
| |
| 'Now, gentlemen,' said Jerry, looking at them attentively. 'The dog |
| whose name's called, eats. The dogs whose names an't called, keep |
| quiet. Carlo!' |
| |
| The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped up the morsel |
| thrown towards him, but none of the others moved a muscle. In this |
| manner they were fed at the discretion of their master. Meanwhile the |
| dog in disgrace ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time, |
| sometimes in slow, but never leaving off for an instant. When the |
| knives and forks rattled very much, or any of his fellows got an |
| unusually large piece of fat, he accompanied the music with a short |
| howl, but he immediately checked it on his master looking round, and |
| applied himself with increased diligence to the Old Hundredth. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 19 |
| |
| Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two |
| more travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had been |
| walking in the rain for some hours, and came in shining and heavy with |
| water. One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little lady |
| without legs or arms, who had jogged forward in a van; the other, a |
| silent gentleman who earned his living by showing tricks upon the |
| cards, and who had rather deranged the natural expression of his |
| countenance by putting small leaden lozenges into his eyes and bringing |
| them out at his mouth, which was one of his professional |
| accomplishments. The name of the first of these newcomers was Vuffin; |
| the other, probably as a pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was called |
| Sweet William. To render them as comfortable as he could, the landlord |
| bestirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both gentlemen were |
| perfectly at their ease. |
| |
| 'How's the Giant?' said Short, when they all sat smoking round the fire. |
| |
| 'Rather weak upon his legs,' returned Mr Vuffin. 'I begin to be afraid |
| he's going at the knees.' |
| |
| 'That's a bad look-out,' said Short. |
| |
| 'Aye! Bad indeed,' replied Mr Vuffin, contemplating the fire with a |
| sigh. 'Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no more |
| about him than they do for a dead cabbage stalk.' |
| |
| 'What becomes of old giants?' said Short, turning to him again after a |
| little reflection. |
| |
| 'They're usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs,' said Mr |
| Vuffin. |
| |
| 'The maintaining of 'em must come expensive, when they can't be shown, |
| eh?' remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully. |
| |
| 'It's better that, than letting 'em go upon the parish or about the |
| streets,' said Mr Vuffin. 'Once make a giant common and giants will |
| never draw again. Look at wooden legs. If there was only one man with |
| a wooden leg what a property he'd be!' |
| |
| 'So he would!' observed the landlord and Short both together. 'That's |
| very true.' |
| |
| 'Instead of which,' pursued Mr Vuffin, 'if you was to advertise |
| Shakspeare played entirely by wooden legs, it's my belief you wouldn't |
| draw a sixpence.' |
| |
| 'I don't suppose you would,' said Short. And the landlord said so too. |
| |
| 'This shows, you see,' said Mr Vuffin, waving his pipe with an |
| argumentative air, 'this shows the policy of keeping the used-up giants |
| still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for nothing, all |
| their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop there. There |
| was one giant--a black 'un--as left his carawan some year ago and took |
| to carrying coach-bills about London, making himself as cheap as |
| crossing-sweepers. He died. I make no insinuation against anybody in |
| particular,' said Mr Vuffin, looking solemnly round, 'but he was |
| ruining the trade;--and he died.' |
| |
| The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs, |
| who nodded and said gruffly that he remembered. |
| |
| 'I know you do, Jerry,' said Mr Vuffin with profound meaning. 'I know |
| you remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served |
| him right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had |
| three-and-twenty wans--I remember the time when old Maunders had in his |
| cottage in Spa Fields in the winter time, when the season was over, |
| eight male and female dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was |
| waited on by eight old giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton |
| stockings, and high-lows: and there was one dwarf as had grown elderly |
| and wicious who whenever his giant wasn't quick enough to please him, |
| used to stick pins in his legs, not being able to reach up any higher. |
| I know that's a fact, for Maunders told it me himself.' |
| |
| 'What about the dwarfs when they get old?' inquired the landlord. |
| |
| 'The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,' returned Mr Vuffin; 'a |
| grey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant |
| weak in the legs and not standing upright!--keep him in the carawan, |
| but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be |
| offered.' |
| |
| While Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the |
| time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm |
| corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence |
| for practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other |
| feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to |
| the company, who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length |
| the weary child prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they |
| withdrew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs |
| fast asleep at a humble distance. |
| |
| After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret, |
| but had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at. She |
| opened it directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr Thomas |
| Codlin, whom she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep down stairs. |
| |
| 'What is the matter?' said the child. |
| |
| 'Nothing's the matter, my dear,' returned her visitor. 'I'm your |
| friend. Perhaps you haven't thought so, but it's me that's your |
| friend--not him.' |
| |
| 'Not who?' the child inquired. |
| |
| 'Short, my dear. I tell you what,' said Codlin, 'for all his having a |
| kind of way with him that you'd be very apt to like, I'm the real, |
| open-hearted man. I mayn't look it, but I am indeed.' |
| |
| The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken |
| effect upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the |
| consequence. |
| |
| 'Short's very well, and seems kind,' resumed the misanthrope, 'but he |
| overdoes it. Now I don't.' |
| |
| Certainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin's usual deportment, it |
| was that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than |
| overdid it. But the child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say. |
| |
| 'Take my advice,' said Codlin: 'don't ask me why, but take it. As long |
| as you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don't offer to |
| leave us--not on any account--but always stick to me and say that I'm |
| your friend. Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always say that |
| it was me that was your friend?' |
| |
| 'Say so where--and when?' inquired the child innocently. |
| |
| 'O, nowhere in particular,' replied Codlin, a little put out as it |
| seemed by the question; 'I'm only anxious that you should think me so, |
| and do me justice. You can't think what an interest I have in you. |
| Why didn't you tell me your little history--that about you and the poor |
| old gentleman? I'm the best adviser that ever was, and so interested |
| in you--so much more interested than Short. I think they're breaking |
| up down stairs; you needn't tell Short, you know, that we've had this |
| little talk together. God bless you. Recollect the friend. Codlin's |
| the friend, not Short. Short's very well as far as he goes, but the |
| real friend is Codlin--not Short.' |
| |
| Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting |
| looks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe, |
| leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise. She was still |
| ruminating upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy |
| stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers |
| who were passing to their beds. When they had all passed, and the |
| sound of their footsteps had died away, one of them returned, and after |
| a little hesitation and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful |
| what door to knock at, knocked at hers. |
| |
| 'Yes,' said the child from within. |
| |
| 'It's me--Short'--a voice called through the keyhole. 'I only wanted |
| to say that we must be off early to-morrow morning, my dear, because |
| unless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages |
| won't be worth a penny. You'll be sure to be stirring early and go |
| with us? I'll call you.' |
| |
| The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his 'good night' |
| heard him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these |
| men, increased by the recollection of their whispering together down |
| stairs and their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite |
| free from a misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she |
| could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed |
| against her fatigue; and she soon forgot it in sleep. |
| |
| Very early next morning, Short fulfilled his promise, and knocking |
| softly at her door, entreated that she would get up directly, as the |
| proprietor of the dogs was still snoring, and if they lost no time they |
| might get a good deal in advance both of him and the conjuror, who was |
| talking in his sleep, and from what he could be heard to say, appeared |
| to be balancing a donkey in his dreams. She started from her bed |
| without delay, and roused the old man with so much expedition that they |
| were both ready as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman's |
| unspeakable gratification and relief. |
| |
| After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, of which the |
| staple commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave of |
| the landlord and issued from the door of the jolly Sandboys. The |
| morning was fine and warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late |
| rain, the hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and everything |
| fresh and healthful. Surrounded by these influences, they walked on |
| pleasantly enough. |
| |
| They had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the |
| altered behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on |
| sulkily by himself as he had heretofore done, kept close to her, and |
| when he had an opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion, |
| warned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head not to put any |
| trust in Short, but to reserve all confidences for Codlin. Neither did |
| he confine himself to looks and gestures, for when she and her |
| grandfather were walking on beside the aforesaid Short, and that little |
| man was talking with his accustomed cheerfulness on a variety of |
| indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified his jealousy and distrust |
| by following close at her heels, and occasionally admonishing her |
| ankles with the legs of the theatre in a very abrupt and painful manner. |
| |
| All these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and |
| suspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to perform |
| outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while he went |
| through his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily upon her |
| and the old man, or with a show of great friendship and consideration |
| invited the latter to lean upon his arm, and so held him tight until |
| the representation was over and they again went forward. Even Short |
| seemed to change in this respect, and to mingle with his good-nature |
| something of a desire to keep them in safe custody. This increased the |
| child's misgivings, and made her yet more anxious and uneasy. |
| |
| Meanwhile, they were drawing near the town where the races were to |
| begin next day; for, from passing numerous groups of gipsies and |
| trampers on the road, wending their way towards it, and straggling out |
| from every by-way and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a |
| stream of people, some walking by the side of covered carts, others |
| with horses, others with donkeys, others toiling on with heavy loads |
| upon their backs, but all tending to the same point. The public-houses |
| by the wayside, from being empty and noiseless as those in the remoter |
| parts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts and clouds of smoke; |
| and, from the misty windows, clusters of broad red faces looked down |
| upon the road. On every piece of waste or common ground, some small |
| gambler drove his noisy trade, and bellowed to the idle passersby to |
| stop and try their chance; the crowd grew thicker and more noisy; gilt |
| gingerbread in blanket-stalls exposed its glories to the dust; and |
| often a four-horse carriage, dashing by, obscured all objects in the |
| gritty cloud it raised, and left them, stunned and blinded, far behind. |
| |
| It was dark before they reached the town itself, and long indeed the |
| few last miles had been. Here all was tumult and confusion; the |
| streets were filled with throngs of people--many strangers were there, |
| it seemed, by the looks they cast about--the church-bells rang out |
| their noisy peals, and flags streamed from windows and house-tops. In |
| the large inn-yards waiters flitted to and fro and ran against each |
| other, horses clattered on the uneven stones, carriage steps fell |
| rattling down, and sickening smells from many dinners came in a heavy |
| lukewarm breath upon the sense. In the smaller public-houses, fiddles |
| with all their might and main were squeaking out the tune to staggering |
| feet; drunken men, oblivious of the burden of their song, joined in a |
| senseless howl, which drowned the tinkling of the feeble bell and made |
| them savage for their drink; vagabond groups assembled round the doors |
| to see the stroller woman dance, and add their uproar to the shrill |
| flageolet and deafening drum. |
| |
| Through this delirious scene, the child, frightened and repelled by all |
| she saw, led on her bewildered charge, clinging close to her conductor, |
| and trembling lest in the press she should be separated from him and |
| left to find her way alone. Quickening their steps to get clear of all |
| the roar and riot, they at length passed through the town and made for |
| the race-course, which was upon an open heath, situated on an eminence, |
| a full mile distant from its furthest bounds. |
| |
| Although there were many people here, none of the best favoured or best |
| clad, busily erecting tents and driving stakes in the ground, and |
| hurrying to and fro with dusty feet and many a grumbled oath--although |
| there were tired children cradled on heaps of straw between the wheels |
| of carts, crying themselves to sleep--and poor lean horses and donkeys |
| just turned loose, grazing among the men and women, and pots and |
| kettles, and half-lighted fires, and ends of candles flaring and |
| wasting in the air--for all this, the child felt it an escape from the |
| town and drew her breath more freely. After a scanty supper, the |
| purchase of which reduced her little stock so low, that she had only a |
| few halfpence with which to buy a breakfast on the morrow, she and the |
| old man lay down to rest in a corner of a tent, and slept, despite the |
| busy preparations that were going on around them all night long. |
| |
| And now they had come to the time when they must beg their bread. Soon |
| after sunrise in the morning she stole out from the tent, and rambling |
| into some fields at a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such |
| humble flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays and offer |
| them to the ladies in the carriages when the company arrived. Her |
| thoughts were not idle while she was thus employed; when she returned |
| and was seated beside the old man in one corner of the tent, tying her |
| flowers together, while the two men lay dozing in another corner, she |
| plucked him by the sleeve, and slightly glancing towards them, said, in |
| a low voice-- |
| |
| 'Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't seem as if I |
| spoke of anything but what I am about. What was that you told me |
| before we left the old house? That if they knew what we were going to |
| do, they would say that you were mad, and part us?' |
| |
| The old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror; but she |
| checked him by a look, and bidding him hold some flowers while she tied |
| them up, and so bringing her lips closer to his ear, said-- |
| |
| 'I know that was what you told me. You needn't speak, dear. I |
| recollect it very well. It was not likely that I should forget it. |
| Grandfather, these men suspect that we have secretly left our friends, |
| and mean to carry us before some gentleman and have us taken care of |
| and sent back. If you let your hand tremble so, we can never get away |
| from them, but if you're only quiet now, we shall do so, easily.' |
| |
| 'How?' muttered the old man. 'Dear Nelly, how? They will shut me up |
| in a stone room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the wall, Nell--flog |
| me with whips, and never let me see thee more!' |
| |
| 'You're trembling again,' said the child. 'Keep close to me all day. |
| Never mind them, don't look at them, but me. I shall find a time when |
| we can steal away. When I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop |
| or speak a word. Hush! That's all.' |
| |
| 'Halloa! what are you up to, my dear?' said Mr Codlin, raising his |
| head, and yawning. Then observing that his companion was fast asleep, |
| he added in an earnest whisper, 'Codlin's the friend, remember--not |
| Short.' |
| |
| 'Making some nosegays,' the child replied; 'I am going to try and sell |
| some, these three days of the races. Will you have one--as a present I |
| mean?' |
| |
| Mr Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child hurried towards |
| him and placed it in his hand. He stuck it in his buttonhole with an |
| air of ineffable complacency for a misanthrope, and leering exultingly |
| at the unconscious Short, muttered, as he laid himself down again, 'Tom |
| Codlin's the friend, by G--!' |
| |
| As the morning wore on, the tents assumed a gayer and more brilliant |
| appearance, and long lines of carriages came rolling softly on the |
| turf. Men who had lounged about all night in smock-frocks and leather |
| leggings, came out in silken vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or |
| mountebanks; or in gorgeous liveries as soft-spoken servants at |
| gambling booths; or in sturdy yeoman dress as decoys at unlawful games. |
| Black-eyed gipsy girls, hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to |
| tell fortunes, and pale slender women with consumptive faces lingered |
| upon the footsteps of ventriloquists and conjurors, and counted the |
| sixpences with anxious eyes long before they were gained. As many of |
| the children as could be kept within bounds, were stowed away, with all |
| the other signs of dirt and poverty, among the donkeys, carts, and |
| horses; and as many as could not be thus disposed of ran in and out in |
| all intricate spots, crept between people's legs and carriage wheels, |
| and came forth unharmed from under horses' hoofs. The dancing-dogs, |
| the stilts, the little lady and the tall man, and all the other |
| attractions, with organs out of number and bands innumerable, emerged |
| from the holes and corners in which they had passed the night, and |
| flourished boldly in the sun. |
| |
| Along the uncleared course, Short led his party, sounding the brazen |
| trumpet and revelling in the voice of Punch; and at his heels went |
| Thomas Codlin, bearing the show as usual, and keeping his eye on Nelly |
| and her grandfather, as they rather lingered in the rear. The child |
| bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and sometimes |
| stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer them at some gay |
| carriage; but alas! there were many bolder beggars there, gipsies who |
| promised husbands, and other adepts in their trade, and although some |
| ladies smiled gently as they shook their heads, and others cried to the |
| gentlemen beside them 'See, what a pretty face!' they let the pretty |
| face pass on, and never thought that it looked tired or hungry. |
| |
| There was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, and she was |
| one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men in |
| dashing clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and laughed |
| loudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her, quite. There |
| were many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or looked |
| another way, or at the two young men (not unfavourably at them), and |
| left her to herself. She motioned away a gipsy-woman urgent to tell |
| her fortune, saying that it was told already and had been for some |
| years, but called the child towards her, and taking her flowers put |
| money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home and keep at home |
| for God's sake. |
| |
| Many a time they went up and down those long, long lines, seeing |
| everything but the horses and the race; when the bell rang to clear the |
| course, going back to rest among the carts and donkeys, and not coming |
| out again until the heat was over. Many a time, too, was Punch |
| displayed in the full zenith of his humour, but all this while the eye |
| of Thomas Codlin was upon them, and to escape without notice was |
| impracticable. |
| |
| At length, late in the day, Mr Codlin pitched the show in a convenient |
| spot, and the spectators were soon in the very triumph of the scene. |
| The child, sitting down with the old man close behind it, had been |
| thinking how strange it was that horses who were such fine honest |
| creatures should seem to make vagabonds of all the men they drew about |
| them, when a loud laugh at some extemporaneous witticism of Mr Short's, |
| having allusion to the circumstances of the day, roused her from her |
| meditation and caused her to look around. |
| |
| If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very moment. Short |
| was plying the quarter-staves vigorously and knocking the characters in |
| the fury of the combat against the sides of the show, the people were |
| looking on with laughing faces, and Mr Codlin had relaxed into a grim |
| smile as his roving eye detected hands going into waistcoat pockets and |
| groping secretly for sixpences. If they were ever to get away unseen, |
| that was the very moment. They seized it, and fled. |
| |
| They made a path through booths and carriages and throngs of people, |
| and never once stopped to look behind. The bell was ringing and the |
| course was cleared by the time they reached the ropes, but they dashed |
| across it insensible to the shouts and screeching that assailed them |
| for breaking in upon its sanctity, and creeping under the brow of the |
| hill at a quick pace, made for the open fields. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 20 |
| |
| Day after day as he bent his steps homeward, returning from some new |
| effort to procure employment, Kit raised his eyes to the window of the |
| little room he had so much commended to the child, and hoped to see |
| some indication of her presence. His own earnest wish, coupled with |
| the assurance he had received from Quilp, filled him with the belief |
| that she would yet arrive to claim the humble shelter he had offered, |
| and from the death of each day's hope another hope sprung up to live |
| to-morrow. |
| |
| 'I think they must certainly come to-morrow, eh mother?' said Kit, |
| laying aside his hat with a weary air and sighing as he spoke. 'They |
| have been gone a week. They surely couldn't stop away more than a |
| week, could they now?' |
| |
| The mother shook her head, and reminded him how often he had been |
| disappointed already. |
| |
| 'For the matter of that,' said Kit, 'you speak true and sensible |
| enough, as you always do, mother. Still, I do consider that a week is |
| quite long enough for 'em to be rambling about; don't you say so?' |
| |
| 'Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they may not come back |
| for all that.' |
| |
| Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed by this contradiction, and |
| not the less so from having anticipated it in his own mind and knowing |
| how just it was. But the impulse was only momentary, and the vexed |
| look became a kind one before it had crossed the room. |
| |
| 'Then what do you think, mother, has become of 'em? You don't think |
| they've gone to sea, anyhow?' |
| |
| 'Not gone for sailors, certainly,' returned the mother with a smile. |
| 'But I can't help thinking that they have gone to some foreign country.' |
| |
| 'I say,' cried Kit with a rueful face, 'don't talk like that, mother.' |
| |
| 'I am afraid they have, and that's the truth,' she said. 'It's the |
| talk of all the neighbours, and there are some even that know of their |
| having been seen on board ship, and can tell you the name of the place |
| they've gone to, which is more than I can, my dear, for it's a very |
| hard one.' |
| |
| 'I don't believe it,' said Kit. 'Not a word of it. A set of idle |
| chatterboxes, how should they know!' |
| |
| 'They may be wrong of course,' returned the mother, 'I can't tell about |
| that, though I don't think it's at all unlikely that they're in the |
| right, for the talk is that the old gentleman had put by a little money |
| that nobody knew of, not even that ugly little man you talk to me |
| about--what's his name--Quilp; and that he and Miss Nell have gone to |
| live abroad where it can't be taken from them, and they will never be |
| disturbed. That don't seem very far out of the way now, do it?' |
| |
| Kit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant admission that it did |
| not, and clambering up to the old nail took down the cage and set |
| himself to clean it and to feed the bird. His thoughts reverting from |
| this occupation to the little old gentleman who had given him the |
| shilling, he suddenly recollected that that was the very day--nay, |
| nearly the very hour--at which the little old gentleman had said he |
| should be at the Notary's house again. He no sooner remembered this, |
| than he hung up the cage with great precipitation, and hastily |
| explaining the nature of his errand, went off at full speed to the |
| appointed place. |
| |
| It was some two minutes after the time when he reached the spot, which |
| was a considerable distance from his home, but by great good luck the |
| little old gentleman had not yet arrived; at least there was no |
| pony-chaise to be seen, and it was not likely that he had come and gone |
| again in so short a space. Greatly relieved to find that he was not |
| too late, Kit leant against a lamp-post to take breath, and waited the |
| advent of the pony and his charge. |
| |
| Sure enough, before long the pony came trotting round the corner of the |
| street, looking as obstinate as pony might, and picking his steps as if |
| he were spying about for the cleanest places, and would by no means |
| dirty his feet or hurry himself inconveniently. Behind the pony sat |
| the little old gentleman, and by the old gentleman's side sat the |
| little old lady, carrying just such a nosegay as she had brought before. |
| |
| The old gentleman, the old lady, the pony, and the chaise, came up the |
| street in perfect unanimity, until they arrived within some half a |
| dozen doors of the Notary's house, when the pony, deceived by a |
| brass-plate beneath a tailor's knocker, came to a halt, and maintained |
| by a sturdy silence, that that was the house they wanted. |
| |
| 'Now, Sir, will you ha' the goodness to go on; this is not the place,' |
| said the old gentleman. |
| |
| The pony looked with great attention into a fire-plug which was near |
| him, and appeared to be quite absorbed in contemplating it. |
| |
| 'Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker!' cried the old lady. 'After being so |
| good too, and coming along so well! I am quite ashamed of him. I |
| don't know what we are to do with him, I really don't.' |
| |
| The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the nature and |
| properties of the fire-plug, looked into the air after his old enemies |
| the flies, and as there happened to be one of them tickling his ear at |
| that moment he shook his head and whisked his tail, after which he |
| appeared full of thought but quite comfortable and collected. The old |
| gentleman having exhausted his powers of persuasion, alighted to lead |
| him; whereupon the pony, perhaps because he held this to be a |
| sufficient concession, perhaps because he happened to catch sight of |
| the other brass-plate, or perhaps because he was in a spiteful humour, |
| darted off with the old lady and stopped at the right house, leaving |
| the old gentleman to come panting on behind. |
| |
| It was then that Kit presented himself at the pony's head, and touched |
| his hat with a smile. |
| |
| 'Why, bless me,' cried the old gentleman, 'the lad is here! My dear, |
| do you see?' |
| |
| 'I said I'd be here, Sir,' said Kit, patting Whisker's neck. 'I hope |
| you've had a pleasant ride, sir. He's a very nice little pony.' |
| |
| 'My dear,' said the old gentleman. 'This is an uncommon lad; a good |
| lad, I'm sure.' |
| |
| 'I'm sure he is,' rejoined the old lady. 'A very good lad, and I am |
| sure he is a good son.' |
| |
| Kit acknowledged these expressions of confidence by touching his hat |
| again and blushing very much. The old gentleman then handed the old |
| lady out, and after looking at him with an approving smile, they went |
| into the house--talking about him as they went, Kit could not help |
| feeling. Presently Mr Witherden, smelling very hard at the nosegay, |
| came to the window and looked at him, and after that Mr Abel came and |
| looked at him, and after that the old gentleman and lady came and |
| looked at him again, and after that they all came and looked at him |
| together, which Kit, feeling very much embarrassed by, made a pretence |
| of not observing. Therefore he patted the pony more and more; and this |
| liberty the pony most handsomely permitted. |
| |
| The faces had not disappeared from the window many moments, when Mr |
| Chuckster in his official coat, and with his hat hanging on his head |
| just as it happened to fall from its peg, appeared upon the pavement, |
| and telling him he was wanted inside, bade him go in and he would mind |
| the chaise the while. In giving him this direction Mr Chuckster |
| remarked that he wished that he might be blessed if he could make out |
| whether he (Kit) was 'precious raw' or 'precious deep,' but intimated |
| by a distrustful shake of the head, that he inclined to the latter |
| opinion. |
| |
| Kit entered the office in a great tremor, for he was not used to going |
| among strange ladies and gentlemen, and the tin boxes and bundles of |
| dusty papers had in his eyes an awful and venerable air. Mr Witherden |
| too was a bustling gentleman who talked loud and fast, and all eyes |
| were upon him, and he was very shabby. |
| |
| 'Well, boy,' said Mr Witherden, 'you came to work out that |
| shilling;--not to get another, hey?' |
| |
| 'No indeed, sir,' replied Kit, taking courage to look up. 'I never |
| thought of such a thing.' |
| |
| 'Father alive?' said the Notary. |
| |
| 'Dead, sir.' |
| |
| 'Mother?' |
| |
| 'Yes, sir.' |
| |
| 'Married again--eh?' |
| |
| Kit made answer, not without some indignation, that she was a widow |
| with three children, and that as to her marrying again, if the |
| gentleman knew her he wouldn't think of such a thing. At this reply Mr |
| Witherden buried his nose in the flowers again, and whispered behind |
| the nosegay to the old gentleman that he believed the lad was as honest |
| a lad as need be. |
| |
| 'Now,' said Mr Garland when they had made some further inquiries of |
| him, 'I am not going to give you anything--' |
| |
| 'Thank you, sir,' Kit replied; and quite seriously too, for this |
| announcement seemed to free him from the suspicion which the Notary had |
| hinted. |
| |
| '--But,' resumed the old gentleman, 'perhaps I may want to know |
| something more about you, so tell me where you live, and I'll put it |
| down in my pocket-book.' |
| |
| Kit told him, and the old gentleman wrote down the address with his |
| pencil. He had scarcely done so, when there was a great uproar in the |
| street, and the old lady hurrying to the window cried that Whisker had |
| run away, upon which Kit darted out to the rescue, and the others |
| followed. |
| |
| It seemed that Mr Chuckster had been standing with his hands in his |
| pockets looking carelessly at the pony, and occasionally insulting him |
| with such admonitions as 'Stand still,'--'Be quiet,'--'Woa-a-a,' and the |
| like, which by a pony of spirit cannot be borne. Consequently, the |
| pony being deterred by no considerations of duty or obedience, and not |
| having before him the slightest fear of the human eye, had at length |
| started off, and was at that moment rattling down the street--Mr |
| Chuckster, with his hat off and a pen behind his ear, hanging on in the |
| rear of the chaise and making futile attempts to draw it the other way, |
| to the unspeakable admiration of all beholders. Even in running away, |
| however, Whisker was perverse, for he had not gone very far when he |
| suddenly stopped, and before assistance could be rendered, commenced |
| backing at nearly as quick a pace as he had gone forward. By these |
| means Mr Chuckster was pushed and hustled to the office again, in a |
| most inglorious manner, and arrived in a state of great exhaustion and |
| discomfiture. |
| |
| The old lady then stepped into her seat, and Mr Abel (whom they had |
| come to fetch) into his. The old gentleman, after reasoning with the |
| pony on the extreme impropriety of his conduct, and making the best |
| amends in his power to Mr Chuckster, took his place also, and they |
| drove away, waving a farewell to the Notary and his clerk, and more |
| than once turning to nod kindly to Kit as he watched them from the road. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 21 |
| |
| Kit turned away and very soon forgot the pony, and the chaise, and the |
| little old lady, and the little old gentleman, and the little young |
| gentleman to boot, in thinking what could have become of his late |
| master and his lovely grandchild, who were the fountain-head of all his |
| meditations. Still casting about for some plausible means of |
| accounting for their non-appearance, and of persuading himself that |
| they must soon return, he bent his steps towards home, intending to |
| finish the task which the sudden recollection of his contract had |
| interrupted, and then to sally forth once more to seek his fortune for |
| the day. |
| |
| When he came to the corner of the court in which he lived, lo and |
| behold there was the pony again! Yes, there he was, looking more |
| obstinate than ever; and alone in the chaise, keeping a steady watch |
| upon his every wink, sat Mr Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by chance |
| and seeing Kit pass by, nodded to him as though he would have nodded |
| his head off. |
| |
| Kit wondered to see the pony again, so near his own home too, but it |
| never occurred to him for what purpose the pony might have come there, |
| or where the old lady and the old gentleman had gone, until he lifted |
| the latch of the door, and walking in, found them seated in the room in |
| conversation with his mother, at which unexpected sight he pulled off |
| his hat and made his best bow in some confusion. |
| |
| 'We are here before you, you see, Christopher,' said Mr Garland smiling. |
| |
| 'Yes, sir,' said Kit; and as he said it, he looked towards his mother |
| for an explanation of the visit. |
| |
| 'The gentleman's been kind enough, my dear,' said she, in reply to this |
| mute interrogation, 'to ask me whether you were in a good place, or in |
| any place at all, and when I told him no, you were not in any, he was |
| so good as to say that--' |
| |
| '--That we wanted a good lad in our house,' said the old gentleman and |
| the old lady both together, 'and that perhaps we might think of it, if |
| we found everything as we would wish it to be.' |
| |
| As this thinking of it, plainly meant the thinking of engaging Kit, he |
| immediately partook of his mother's anxiety and fell into a great |
| flutter; for the little old couple were very methodical and cautious, |
| and asked so many questions that he began to be afraid there was no |
| chance of his success. |
| |
| 'You see, my good woman,' said Mrs Garland to Kit's mother, 'that it's |
| necessary to be very careful and particular in such a matter as this, |
| for we're only three in family, and are very quiet regular folks, and |
| it would be a sad thing if we made any kind of mistake, and found |
| things different from what we hoped and expected.' |
| |
| To this, Kit's mother replied, that certainly it was quite true, and |
| quite right, and quite proper, and Heaven forbid that she should |
| shrink, or have cause to shrink, from any inquiry into her character or |
| that of her son, who was a very good son though she was his mother, in |
| which respect, she was bold to say, he took after his father, who was |
| not only a good son to HIS mother, but the best of husbands and the |
| best of fathers besides, which Kit could and would corroborate she |
| knew, and so would little Jacob and the baby likewise if they were old |
| enough, which unfortunately they were not, though as they didn't know |
| what a loss they had had, perhaps it was a great deal better that they |
| should be as young as they were; and so Kit's mother wound up a long |
| story by wiping her eyes with her apron, and patting little Jacob's |
| head, who was rocking the cradle and staring with all his might at the |
| strange lady and gentleman. |
| |
| When Kit's mother had done speaking, the old lady struck in again, and |
| said that she was quite sure she was a very honest and very respectable |
| person or she never would have expressed herself in that manner, and |
| that certainly the appearance of the children and the cleanliness of |
| the house deserved great praise and did her the utmost credit, whereat |
| Kit's mother dropped a curtsey and became consoled. Then the good |
| woman entered in a long and minute account of Kit's life and history |
| from the earliest period down to that time, not omitting to make |
| mention of his miraculous fall out of a back-parlour window when an |
| infant of tender years, or his uncommon sufferings in a state of |
| measles, which were illustrated by correct imitations of the plaintive |
| manner in which he called for toast and water, day and night, and said, |
| 'don't cry, mother, I shall soon be better;' for proof of which |
| statements reference was made to Mrs Green, lodger, at the |
| cheesemonger's round the corner, and divers other ladies and gentlemen |
| in various parts of England and Wales (and one Mr Brown who was |
| supposed to be then a corporal in the East Indies, and who could of |
| course be found with very little trouble), within whose personal |
| knowledge the circumstances had occurred. This narration ended, Mr |
| Garland put some questions to Kit respecting his qualifications and |
| general acquirements, while Mrs Garland noticed the children, and |
| hearing from Kit's mother certain remarkable circumstances which had |
| attended the birth of each, related certain other remarkable |
| circumstances which had attended the birth of her own son, Mr Abel, |
| from which it appeared that both Kit's mother and herself had been, |
| above and beyond all other women of what condition or age soever, |
| peculiarly hemmed in with perils and dangers. Lastly, inquiry was made |
| into the nature and extent of Kit's wardrobe, and a small advance being |
| made to improve the same, he was formally hired at an annual income of |
| Six Pounds, over and above his board and lodging, by Mr and Mrs |
| Garland, of Abel Cottage, Finchley. |
| |
| It would be difficult to say which party appeared most pleased with |
| this arrangement, the conclusion of which was hailed with nothing but |
| pleasant looks and cheerful smiles on both sides. It was settled that |
| Kit should repair to his new abode on the next day but one, in the |
| morning; and finally, the little old couple, after bestowing a bright |
| half-crown on little Jacob and another on the baby, took their leaves; |
| being escorted as far as the street by their new attendant, who held |
| the obdurate pony by the bridle while they took their seats, and saw |
| them drive away with a lightened heart. |
| |
| 'Well, mother,' said Kit, hurrying back into the house, 'I think my |
| fortune's about made now.' |
| |
| 'I should think it was indeed, Kit,' rejoined his mother. 'Six pound a |
| year! Only think!' |
| |
| 'Ah!' said Kit, trying to maintain the gravity which the consideration |
| of such a sum demanded, but grinning with delight in spite of himself. |
| 'There's a property!' |
| |
| Kit drew a long breath when he had said this, and putting his hands |
| deep into his pockets as if there were one year's wages at least in |
| each, looked at his mother, as though he saw through her, and down an |
| immense perspective of sovereigns beyond. |
| |
| 'Please God we'll make such a lady of you for Sundays, mother! such a |
| scholar of Jacob, such a child of the baby, such a room of the one up |
| stairs! Six pound a year!' |
| |
| 'Hem!' croaked a strange voice. 'What's that about six pound a year? |
| What about six pound a year?' And as the voice made this inquiry, |
| Daniel Quilp walked in with Richard Swiveller at his heels. |
| |
| 'Who said he was to have six pound a year?' said Quilp, looking sharply |
| round. 'Did the old man say it, or did little Nell say it? And what's |
| he to have it for, and where are they, eh!' |
| |
| The good woman was so much alarmed by the sudden apparition of this |
| unknown piece of ugliness, that she hastily caught the baby from its |
| cradle and retreated into the furthest corner of the room; while little |
| Jacob, sitting upon his stool with his hands on his knees, looked full |
| at him in a species of fascination, roaring lustily all the time. |
| Richard Swiveller took an easy observation of the family over Mr Quilp's |
| head, and Quilp himself, with his hands in his pockets, smiled in an |
| exquisite enjoyment of the commotion he occasioned. |
| |
| 'Don't be frightened, mistress,' said Quilp, after a pause. 'Your son |
| knows me; I don't eat babies; I don't like 'em. It will be as well to |
| stop that young screamer though, in case I should be tempted to do him |
| a mischief. Holloa, sir! Will you be quiet?' |
| |
| Little Jacob stemmed the course of two tears which he was squeezing out |
| of his eyes, and instantly subsided into a silent horror. |
| |
| 'Mind you don't break out again, you villain,' said Quilp, looking |
| sternly at him, 'or I'll make faces at you and throw you into fits, I |
| will. Now you sir, why haven't you been to me as you promised?' |
| |
| 'What should I come for?' retorted Kit. 'I hadn't any business with |
| you, no more than you had with me.' |
| |
| 'Here, mistress,' said Quilp, turning quickly away, and appealing from |
| Kit to his mother. 'When did his old master come or send here last? |
| Is he here now? If not, where's he gone?' |
| |
| 'He has not been here at all,' she replied. 'I wish we knew where they |
| have gone, for it would make my son a good deal easier in his mind, and |
| me too. If you're the gentleman named Mr Quilp, I should have thought |
| you'd have known, and so I told him only this very day.' |
| |
| 'Humph!' muttered Quilp, evidently disappointed to believe that this |
| was true. 'That's what you tell this gentleman too, is it?' |
| |
| 'If the gentleman comes to ask the same question, I can't tell him |
| anything else, sir; and I only wish I could, for our own sakes,' was |
| the reply. |
| |
| Quilp glanced at Richard Swiveller, and observed that having met him on |
| the threshold, he assumed that he had come in search of some |
| intelligence of the fugitives. He supposed he was right? |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Dick, 'that was the object of the present expedition. I |
| fancied it possible--but let us go ring fancy's knell. I'll begin it.' |
| |
| 'You seem disappointed,' observed Quilp. |
| |
| 'A baffler, Sir, a baffler, that's all,' returned Dick. 'I have |
| entered upon a speculation which has proved a baffler; and a Being of |
| brightness and beauty will be offered up a sacrifice at Cheggs's altar. |
| That's all, sir.' |
| |
| The dwarf eyed Richard with a sarcastic smile, but Richard, who had |
| been taking a rather strong lunch with a friend, observed him not, and |
| continued to deplore his fate with mournful and despondent looks. |
| Quilp plainly discerned that there was some secret reason for this |
| visit and his uncommon disappointment, and, in the hope that there |
| might be means of mischief lurking beneath it, resolved to worm it out. |
| He had no sooner adopted this resolution, than he conveyed as much |
| honesty into his face as it was capable of expressing, and sympathised |
| with Mr Swiveller exceedingly. |
| |
| 'I am disappointed myself,' said Quilp, 'out of mere friendly feeling |
| for them; but you have real reasons, private reasons I have no doubt, |
| for your disappointment, and therefore it comes heavier than mine.' |
| |
| 'Why, of course it does,' Dick observed, testily. |
| |
| 'Upon my word, I'm very sorry, very sorry. I'm rather cast down |
| myself. As we are companions in adversity, shall we be companions in |
| the surest way of forgetting it? If you had no particular business, |
| now, to lead you in another direction,' urged Quilp, plucking him by |
| the sleeve and looking slyly up into his face out of the corners of his |
| eyes, 'there is a house by the water-side where they have some of the |
| noblest Schiedam--reputed to be smuggled, but that's between |
| ourselves--that can be got in all the world. The landlord knows me. |
| There's a little summer-house overlooking the river, where we might |
| take a glass of this delicious liquor with a whiff of the best |
| tobacco--it's in this case, and of the rarest quality, to my certain |
| knowledge--and be perfectly snug and happy, could we possibly contrive |
| it; or is there any very particular engagement that peremptorily takes |
| you another way, Mr Swiveller, eh?' |
| |
| As the dwarf spoke, Dick's face relaxed into a compliant smile, and his |
| brows slowly unbent. By the time he had finished, Dick was looking |
| down at Quilp in the same sly manner as Quilp was looking up at him, |
| and there remained nothing more to be done but to set out for the house |
| in question. This they did, straightway. The moment their backs were |
| turned, little Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying from the point |
| where Quilp had frozen him. |
| |
| The summer-house of which Mr Quilp had spoken was a rugged wooden box, |
| rotten and bare to see, which overhung the river's mud, and threatened |
| to slide down into it. The tavern to which it belonged was a crazy |
| building, sapped and undermined by the rats, and only upheld by great |
| bars of wood which were reared against its walls, and had propped it up |
| so long that even they were decaying and yielding with their load, and |
| of a windy night might be heard to creak and crack as if the whole |
| fabric were about to come toppling down. The house stood--if anything |
| so old and feeble could be said to stand--on a piece of waste ground, |
| blighted with the unwholesome smoke of factory chimneys, and echoing |
| the clank of iron wheels and rush of troubled water. Its internal |
| accommodations amply fulfilled the promise of the outside. The rooms |
| were low and damp, the clammy walls were pierced with chinks and holes, |
| the rotten floors had sunk from their level, the very beams started |
| from their places and warned the timid stranger from their |
| neighbourhood. |
| |
| To this inviting spot, entreating him to observe its beauties as they |
| passed along, Mr Quilp led Richard Swiveller, and on the table of the |
| summer-house, scored deep with many a gallows and initial letter, there |
| soon appeared a wooden keg, full of the vaunted liquor. Drawing it off |
| into the glasses with the skill of a practised hand, and mixing it with |
| about a third part of water, Mr Quilp assigned to Richard Swiveller his |
| portion, and lighting his pipe from an end of a candle in a very old |
| and battered lantern, drew himself together upon a seat and puffed away. |
| |
| 'Is it good?' said Quilp, as Richard Swiveller smacked his lips, 'is it |
| strong and fiery? Does it make you wink, and choke, and your eyes |
| water, and your breath come short--does it?' |
| |
| 'Does it?' cried Dick, throwing away part of the contents of his glass, |
| and filling it up with water, 'why, man, you don't mean to tell me that |
| you drink such fire as this?' |
| |
| 'No!' rejoined Quilp, 'Not drink it! Look here. And here. And here |
| again. Not drink it!' |
| |
| As he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off and drank three small glassfuls of |
| the raw spirit, and then with a horrible grimace took a great many |
| pulls at his pipe, and swallowing the smoke, discharged it in a heavy |
| cloud from his nose. This feat accomplished he drew himself together |
| in his former position, and laughed excessively. |
| |
| 'Give us a toast!' cried Quilp, rattling on the table in a dexterous |
| manner with his fist and elbow alternately, in a kind of tune, 'a |
| woman, a beauty. Let's have a beauty for our toast and empty our |
| glasses to the last drop. Her name, come!' |
| |
| 'If you want a name,' said Dick, 'here's Sophy Wackles.' |
| |
| 'Sophy Wackles,' screamed the dwarf, 'Miss Sophy Wackles that is--Mrs |
| Richard Swiveller that shall be--that shall be--ha ha ha!' |
| |
| 'Ah!' said Dick, 'you might have said that a few weeks ago, but it |
| won't do now, my buck. Immolating herself upon the shrine of Cheggs--' |
| |
| 'Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs's ears off,' rejoined Quilp. 'I won't hear |
| of Cheggs. Her name is Swiveller or nothing. I'll drink her health |
| again, and her father's, and her mother's; and to all her sisters and |
| brothers--the glorious family of the Wackleses--all the Wackleses in |
| one glass--down with it to the dregs!' |
| |
| 'Well,' said Richard Swiveller, stopping short in the act of raising |
| the glass to his lips and looking at the dwarf in a species of stupor |
| as he flourished his arms and legs about: 'you're a jolly fellow, but |
| of all the jolly fellows I ever saw or heard of, you have the queerest |
| and most extraordinary way with you, upon my life you have.' |
| |
| This candid declaration tended rather to increase than restrain Mr |
| Quilp's eccentricities, and Richard Swiveller, astonished to see him in |
| such a roystering vein, and drinking not a little himself, for |
| company--began imperceptibly to become more companionable and |
| confiding, so that, being judiciously led on by Mr Quilp, he grew at |
| last very confiding indeed. Having once got him into this mood, and |
| knowing now the key-note to strike whenever he was at a loss, Daniel |
| Quilp's task was comparatively an easy one, and he was soon in |
| possession of the whole details of the scheme contrived between the |
| easy Dick and his more designing friend. |
| |
| 'Stop!' said Quilp. 'That's the thing, that's the thing. It can be |
| brought about, it shall be brought about. There's my hand upon it; I |
| am your friend from this minute.' |
| |
| 'What! do you think there's still a chance?' inquired Dick, in surprise |
| at this encouragement. |
| |
| 'A chance!' echoed the dwarf, 'a certainty! Sophy Wackles may become a |
| Cheggs or anything else she likes, but not a Swiveller. Oh you lucky |
| dog! He's richer than any Jew alive; you're a made man. I see in you |
| now nothing but Nelly's husband, rolling in gold and silver. I'll help |
| you. It shall be done. Mind my words, it shall be done.' |
| |
| 'But how?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'There's plenty of time,' rejoined the dwarf, 'and it shall be done. |
| We'll sit down and talk it over again all the way through. Fill your |
| glass while I'm gone. I shall be back directly--directly.' |
| |
| With these hasty words, Daniel Quilp withdrew into a dismantled skittle- |
| ground behind the public-house, and, throwing himself upon the ground |
| actually screamed and rolled about in uncontrollable delight. |
| |
| 'Here's sport!' he cried, 'sport ready to my hand, all invented and |
| arranged, and only to be enjoyed. It was this shallow-pated fellow who |
| made my bones ache t'other day, was it? It was his friend and |
| fellow-plotter, Mr Trent, that once made eyes at Mrs Quilp, and leered |
| and looked, was it? After labouring for two or three years in their |
| precious scheme, to find that they've got a beggar at last, and one of |
| them tied for life. Ha ha ha! He shall marry Nell. He shall have |
| her, and I'll be the first man, when the knot's tied hard and fast, to |
| tell 'em what they've gained and what I've helped 'em to. Here will be |
| a clearing of old scores, here will be a time to remind 'em what a |
| capital friend I was, and how I helped them to the heiress. Ha ha ha!' |
| |
| In the height of his ecstasy, Mr Quilp had like to have met with a |
| disagreeable check, for rolling very near a broken dog-kennel, there |
| leapt forth a large fierce dog, who, but that his chain was of the |
| shortest, would have given him a disagreeable salute. As it was, the |
| dwarf remained upon his back in perfect safety, taunting the dog with |
| hideous faces, and triumphing over him in his inability to advance |
| another inch, though there were not a couple of feet between them. |
| |
| 'Why don't you come and bite me, why don't you come and tear me to |
| pieces, you coward?' said Quilp, hissing and worrying the animal till |
| he was nearly mad. 'You're afraid, you bully, you're afraid, you know |
| you are.' |
| |
| The dog tore and strained at his chain with starting eyes and furious |
| bark, but there the dwarf lay, snapping his fingers with gestures of |
| defiance and contempt. When he had sufficiently recovered from his |
| delight, he rose, and with his arms a-kimbo, achieved a kind of |
| demon-dance round the kennel, just without the limits of the chain, |
| driving the dog quite wild. Having by this means composed his spirits |
| and put himself in a pleasant train, he returned to his unsuspicious |
| companion, whom he found looking at the tide with exceeding gravity, |
| and thinking of that same gold and silver which Mr Quilp had mentioned. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 22 |
| |
| The remainder of that day and the whole of the next were a busy time |
| for the Nubbles family, to whom everything connected with Kit's outfit |
| and departure was matter of as great moment as if he had been about to |
| penetrate into the interior of Africa, or to take a cruise round the |
| world. It would be difficult to suppose that there ever was a box |
| which was opened and shut so many times within four-and-twenty hours, |
| as that which contained his wardrobe and necessaries; and certainly |
| there never was one which to two small eyes presented such a mine of |
| clothing, as this mighty chest with its three shirts and proportionate |
| allowance of stockings and pocket-handkerchiefs, disclosed to the |
| astonished vision of little Jacob. At last it was conveyed to the |
| carrier's, at whose house at Finchley Kit was to find it next day; and |
| the box being gone, there remained but two questions for consideration: |
| firstly, whether the carrier would lose, or dishonestly feign to lose, |
| the box upon the road; secondly, whether Kit's mother perfectly |
| understood how to take care of herself in the absence of her son. |
| |
| 'I don't think there's hardly a chance of his really losing it, but |
| carriers are under great temptation to pretend they lose things, no |
| doubt,' said Mrs Nubbles apprehensively, in reference to the first |
| point. |
| |
| 'No doubt about it,' returned Kit, with a serious look; 'upon my word, |
| mother, I don't think it was right to trust it to itself. Somebody |
| ought to have gone with it, I'm afraid.' |
| |
| 'We can't help it now,' said his mother; 'but it was foolish and wrong. |
| People oughtn't to be tempted.' |
| |
| Kit inwardly resolved that he would never tempt a carrier any more, |
| save with an empty box; and having formed this Christian determination, |
| he turned his thoughts to the second question. |
| |
| '_You_ know you must keep up your spirits, mother, and not be lonesome |
| because I'm not at home. I shall very often be able to look in when I |
| come into town I dare say, and I shall send you a letter sometimes, and |
| when the quarter comes round, I can get a holiday of course; and then |
| see if we don't take little Jacob to the play, and let him know what |
| oysters means.' |
| |
| 'I hope plays mayn't be sinful, Kit, but I'm a'most afraid,' said Mrs |
| Nubbles. |
| |
| 'I know who has been putting that in your head,' rejoined her son |
| disconsolately; 'that's Little Bethel again. Now I say, mother, pray |
| don't take to going there regularly, for if I was to see your |
| good-humoured face that has always made home cheerful, turned into a |
| grievous one, and the baby trained to look grievous too, and to call |
| itself a young sinner (bless its heart) and a child of the devil (which |
| is calling its dead father names); if I was to see this, and see little |
| Jacob looking grievous likewise, I should so take it to heart that I'm |
| sure I should go and list for a soldier, and run my head on purpose |
| against the first cannon-ball I saw coming my way.' |
| |
| 'Oh, Kit, don't talk like that.' |
| |
| 'I would, indeed, mother, and unless you want to make me feel very |
| wretched and uncomfortable, you'll keep that bow on your bonnet, which |
| you'd more than half a mind to pull off last week. Can you suppose |
| there's any harm in looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as our |
| poor circumstances will permit? Do I see anything in the way I'm made, |
| which calls upon me to be a snivelling, solemn, whispering chap, |
| sneaking about as if I couldn't help it, and expressing myself in a |
| most unpleasant snuffle? on the contrary, don't I see every reason why |
| I shouldn't? just hear this! Ha ha ha! An't that as nat'ral as |
| walking, and as good for the health? Ha ha ha! An't that as nat'ral |
| as a sheep's bleating, or a pig's grunting, or a horse's neighing, or a |
| bird's singing? Ha ha ha! Isn't it, mother?' |
| |
| There was something contagious in Kit's laugh, for his mother, who had |
| looked grave before, first subsided into a smile, and then fell to |
| joining in it heartily, which occasioned Kit to say that he knew it was |
| natural, and to laugh the more. Kit and his mother, laughing together |
| in a pretty loud key, woke the baby, who, finding that there was |
| something very jovial and agreeable in progress, was no sooner in its |
| mother's arms than it began to kick and laugh, most vigorously. This |
| new illustration of his argument so tickled Kit, that he fell backward |
| in his chair in a state of exhaustion, pointing at the baby and shaking |
| his sides till he rocked again. After recovering twice or thrice, and |
| as often relapsing, he wiped his eyes and said grace; and a very |
| cheerful meal their scanty supper was. |
| |
| With more kisses, and hugs, and tears, than many young gentlemen who |
| start upon their travels, and leave well-stocked homes behind them, |
| would deem within the bounds of probability (if matter so low could be |
| herein set down), Kit left the house at an early hour next morning, and |
| set out to walk to Finchley; feeling a sufficient pride in his |
| appearance to have warranted his excommunication from Little Bethel |
| from that time forth, if he had ever been one of that mournful |
| congregation. |
| |
| Lest anybody should feel a curiosity to know how Kit was clad, it may |
| be briefly remarked that he wore no livery, but was dressed in a coat |
| of pepper-and-salt with waistcoat of canary colour, and nether garments |
| of iron-grey; besides these glories, he shone in the lustre of a new |
| pair of boots and an extremely stiff and shiny hat, which on being |
| struck anywhere with the knuckles, sounded like a drum. And in this |
| attire, rather wondering that he attracted so little attention, and |
| attributing the circumstance to the insensibility of those who got up |
| early, he made his way towards Abel Cottage. |
| |
| Without encountering any more remarkable adventure on the road, than |
| meeting a lad in a brimless hat, the exact counterpart of his old one, |
| on whom he bestowed half the sixpence he possessed, Kit arrived in |
| course of time at the carrier's house, where, to the lasting honour of |
| human nature, he found the box in safety. Receiving from the wife of |
| this immaculate man, a direction to Mr Garland's, he took the box upon |
| his shoulder and repaired thither directly. |
| |
| To be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage with a thatched roof and |
| little spires at the gable-ends, and pieces of stained glass in some of |
| the windows, almost as large as pocket-books. On one side of the house |
| was a little stable, just the size for the pony, with a little room |
| over it, just the size for Kit. White curtains were fluttering, and |
| birds in cages that looked as bright as if they were made of gold, were |
| singing at the windows; plants were arranged on either side of the |
| path, and clustered about the door; and the garden was bright with |
| flowers in full bloom, which shed a sweet odour all round, and had a |
| charming and elegant appearance. Everything within the house and |
| without, seemed to be the perfection of neatness and order. In the |
| garden there was not a weed to be seen, and to judge from some dapper |
| gardening-tools, a basket, and a pair of gloves which were lying in one |
| of the walks, old Mr Garland had been at work in it that very morning. |
| |
| Kit looked about him, and admired, and looked again, and this a great |
| many times before he could make up his mind to turn his head another |
| way and ring the bell. There was abundance of time to look about him |
| again though, when he had rung it, for nobody came, so after ringing it |
| twice or thrice he sat down upon his box, and waited. |
| |
| He rang the bell a great many times, and yet nobody came. But at last, |
| as he was sitting upon the box thinking about giants' castles, and |
| princesses tied up to pegs by the hair of their heads, and dragons |
| bursting out from behind gates, and other incidents of the like nature, |
| common in story-books to youths of low degree on their first visit to |
| strange houses, the door was gently opened, and a little servant-girl, |
| very tidy, modest, and demure, but very pretty too, appeared. |
| |
| 'I suppose you're Christopher, sir,' said the servant-girl. |
| |
| Kit got off the box, and said yes, he was. |
| |
| 'I'm afraid you've rung a good many times perhaps,' she rejoined, 'but |
| we couldn't hear you, because we've been catching the pony.' |
| |
| Kit rather wondered what this meant, but as he couldn't stop there, |
| asking questions, he shouldered the box again and followed the girl |
| into the hall, where through a back-door he descried Mr Garland leading |
| Whisker in triumph up the garden, after that self-willed pony had (as |
| he afterwards learned) dodged the family round a small paddock in the |
| rear, for one hour and three quarters. |
| |
| The old gentleman received him very kindly and so did the old lady, |
| whose previous good opinion of him was greatly enhanced by his wiping |
| his boots on the mat until the soles of his feet burnt again. He was |
| then taken into the parlour to be inspected in his new clothes; and |
| when he had been surveyed several times, and had afforded by his |
| appearance unlimited satisfaction, he was taken into the stable (where |
| the pony received him with uncommon complaisance); and thence into the |
| little chamber he had already observed, which was very clean and |
| comfortable: and thence into the garden, in which the old gentleman |
| told him he would be taught to employ himself, and where he told him, |
| besides, what great things he meant to do to make him comfortable, and |
| happy, if he found he deserved it. All these kindnesses, Kit |
| acknowledged with various expressions of gratitude, and so many touches |
| of the new hat, that the brim suffered considerably. When the old |
| gentleman had said all he had to say in the way of promise and advice, |
| and Kit had said all he had to say in the way of assurance and |
| thankfulness, he was handed over again to the old lady, who, summoning |
| the little servant-girl (whose name was Barbara) instructed her to take |
| him down stairs and give him something to eat and drink, after his walk. |
| |
| Down stairs, therefore, Kit went; and at the bottom of the stairs there |
| was such a kitchen as was never before seen or heard of out of a |
| toy-shop window, with everything in it as bright and glowing, and as |
| precisely ordered too, as Barbara herself. And in this kitchen, Kit |
| sat himself down at a table as white as a tablecloth, to eat cold meat, |
| and drink small ale, and use his knife and fork the more awkwardly, |
| because there was an unknown Barbara looking on and observing him. |
| |
| It did not appear, however, that there was anything remarkably |
| tremendous about this strange Barbara, who having lived a very quiet |
| life, blushed very much and was quite as embarrassed and uncertain what |
| she ought to say or do, as Kit could possibly be. When he had sat for |
| some little time, attentive to the ticking of the sober clock, he |
| ventured to glance curiously at the dresser, and there, among the |
| plates and dishes, were Barbara's little work-box with a sliding lid to |
| shut in the balls of cotton, and Barbara's prayer-book, and Barbara's |
| hymn-book, and Barbara's Bible. Barbara's little looking-glass hung in |
| a good light near the window, and Barbara's bonnet was on a nail behind |
| the door. From all these mute signs and tokens of her presence, he |
| naturally glanced at Barbara herself, who sat as mute as they, shelling |
| peas into a dish; and just when Kit was looking at her eyelashes and |
| wondering--quite in the simplicity of his heart--what colour her eyes |
| might be, it perversely happened that Barbara raised her head a little |
| to look at him, when both pair of eyes were hastily withdrawn, and Kit |
| leant over his plate, and Barbara over her pea-shells, each in extreme |
| confusion at having been detected by the other. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 23 |
| |
| Mr Richard Swiveller wending homeward from the Wilderness (for such was |
| the appropriate name of Quilp's choice retreat), after a sinuous and |
| corkscrew fashion, with many checks and stumbles; after stopping |
| suddenly and staring about him, then as suddenly running forward for a |
| few paces, and as suddenly halting again and shaking his head; doing |
| everything with a jerk and nothing by premeditation;--Mr Richard |
| Swiveller wending his way homeward after this fashion, which is |
| considered by evil-minded men to be symbolical of intoxication, and is |
| not held by such persons to denote that state of deep wisdom and |
| reflection in which the actor knows himself to be, began to think that |
| possibly he had misplaced his confidence and that the dwarf might not |
| be precisely the sort of person to whom to entrust a secret of such |
| delicacy and importance. And being led and tempted on by this |
| remorseful thought into a condition which the evil-minded class before |
| referred to would term the maudlin state or stage of drunkenness, it |
| occurred to Mr Swiveller to cast his hat upon the ground, and moan, |
| crying aloud that he was an unhappy orphan, and that if he had not been |
| an unhappy orphan things had never come to this. |
| |
| 'Left an infant by my parents, at an early age,' said Mr Swiveller, |
| bewailing his hard lot, 'cast upon the world in my tenderest period, |
| and thrown upon the mercies of a deluding dwarf, who can wonder at my |
| weakness! Here's a miserable orphan for you. Here,' said Mr Swiveller |
| raising his voice to a high pitch, and looking sleepily round, 'is a |
| miserable orphan!' |
| |
| 'Then,' said somebody hard by, 'let me be a father to you.' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller swayed himself to and fro to preserve his balance, and, |
| looking into a kind of haze which seemed to surround him, at last |
| perceived two eyes dimly twinkling through the mist, which he observed |
| after a short time were in the neighbourhood of a nose and mouth. |
| Casting his eyes down towards that quarter in which, with reference to |
| a man's face, his legs are usually to be found, he observed that the |
| face had a body attached; and when he looked more intently he was |
| satisfied that the person was Mr Quilp, who indeed had been in his |
| company all the time, but whom he had some vague idea of having left a |
| mile or two behind. |
| |
| 'You have deceived an orphan, Sir,' said Mr Swiveller solemnly.' |
| |
| 'I! I'm a second father to you,' replied Quilp. |
| |
| 'You my father, Sir!' retorted Dick. 'Being all right myself, Sir, I |
| request to be left alone--instantly, Sir.' |
| |
| 'What a funny fellow you are!' cried Quilp. |
| |
| 'Go, Sir,' returned Dick, leaning against a post and waving his hand. |
| 'Go, deceiver, go, some day, Sir, p'r'aps you'll waken, from pleasure's |
| dream to know, the grief of orphans forsaken. Will you go, Sir?' |
| |
| The dwarf taking no heed of this adjuration, Mr Swiveller advanced with |
| the view of inflicting upon him condign chastisement. But forgetting |
| his purpose or changing his mind before he came close to him, he seized |
| his hand and vowed eternal friendship, declaring with an agreeable |
| frankness that from that time forth they were brothers in everything |
| but personal appearance. Then he told his secret over again, with the |
| addition of being pathetic on the subject of Miss Wackles, who, he gave |
| Mr Quilp to understand, was the occasion of any slight incoherency he |
| might observe in his speech at that moment, which was attributable |
| solely to the strength of his affection and not to rosy wine or other |
| fermented liquor. And then they went on arm-in-arm, very lovingly |
| together. |
| |
| 'I'm as sharp,' said Quilp to him, at parting, 'as sharp as a ferret, |
| and as cunning as a weazel. You bring Trent to me; assure him that I'm |
| his friend though I fear he a little distrusts me (I don't know why, I |
| have not deserved it); and you've both of you made your fortunes--in |
| perspective.' |
| |
| 'That's the worst of it,' returned Dick. 'These fortunes in |
| perspective look such a long way off.' |
| |
| 'But they look smaller than they really are, on that account,' said |
| Quilp, pressing his arm. 'You'll have no conception of the value of |
| your prize until you draw close to it. Mark that.' |
| |
| 'D'ye think not?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Aye, I do; and I am certain of what I say, that's better,' returned |
| the dwarf. 'You bring Trent to me. Tell him I am his friend and |
| yours--why shouldn't I be?' |
| |
| 'There's no reason why you shouldn't, certainly,' replied Dick, 'and |
| perhaps there are a great many why you should--at least there would be |
| nothing strange in your wanting to be my friend, if you were a choice |
| spirit, but then you know you're not a choice spirit.' |
| |
| 'I not a choice spirit?' cried Quilp. |
| |
| 'Devil a bit, sir,' returned Dick. 'A man of your appearance couldn't |
| be. If you're any spirit at all, sir, you're an evil spirit. Choice |
| spirits,' added Dick, smiting himself on the breast, 'are quite a |
| different looking sort of people, you may take your oath of that, sir.' |
| |
| Quilp glanced at his free-spoken friend with a mingled expression of |
| cunning and dislike, and wringing his hand almost at the same moment, |
| declared that he was an uncommon character and had his warmest esteem. |
| With that they parted; Mr Swiveller to make the best of his way home |
| and sleep himself sober; and Quilp to cogitate upon the discovery he |
| had made, and exult in the prospect of the rich field of enjoyment and |
| reprisal it opened to him. |
| |
| It was not without great reluctance and misgiving that Mr Swiveller, |
| next morning, his head racked by the fumes of the renowned Schiedam, |
| repaired to the lodging of his friend Trent (which was in the roof of |
| an old house in an old ghostly inn), and recounted by very slow degrees |
| what had yesterday taken place between him and Quilp. Nor was it |
| without great surprise and much speculation on Quilp's probable |
| motives, nor without many bitter comments on Dick Swiveller's folly, |
| that his friend received the tale. |
| |
| 'I don't defend myself, Fred,' said the penitent Richard; 'but the |
| fellow has such a queer way with him and is such an artful dog, that |
| first of all he set me upon thinking whether there was any harm in |
| telling him, and while I was thinking, screwed it out of me. If you |
| had seen him drink and smoke, as I did, you couldn't have kept anything |
| from him. He's a Salamander you know, that's what he is.' |
| |
| Without inquiring whether Salamanders were of necessity good |
| confidential agents, or whether a fire-proof man was as a matter of |
| course trustworthy, Frederick Trent threw himself into a chair, and, |
| burying his head in his hands, endeavoured to fathom the motives which |
| had led Quilp to insinuate himself into Richard Swiveller's |
| confidence;--for that the disclosure was of his seeking, and had not |
| been spontaneously revealed by Dick, was sufficiently plain from |
| Quilp's seeking his company and enticing him away. |
| |
| The dwarf had twice encountered him when he was endeavouring to obtain |
| intelligence of the fugitives. This, perhaps, as he had not shown any |
| previous anxiety about them, was enough to awaken suspicion in the |
| breast of a creature so jealous and distrustful by nature, setting |
| aside any additional impulse to curiosity that he might have derived |
| from Dick's incautious manner. But knowing the scheme they had |
| planned, why should he offer to assist it? This was a question more |
| difficult of solution; but as knaves generally overreach themselves by |
| imputing their own designs to others, the idea immediately presented |
| itself that some circumstances of irritation between Quilp and the old |
| man, arising out of their secret transactions and not unconnected |
| perhaps with his sudden disappearance, now rendered the former desirous |
| of revenging himself upon him by seeking to entrap the sole object of |
| his love and anxiety into a connexion of which he knew he had a dread |
| and hatred. As Frederick Trent himself, utterly regardless of his |
| sister, had this object at heart, only second to the hope of gain, it |
| seemed to him the more likely to be Quilp's main principle of action. |
| Once investing the dwarf with a design of his own in abetting them, |
| which the attainment of their purpose would serve, it was easy to |
| believe him sincere and hearty in the cause; and as there could be no |
| doubt of his proving a powerful and useful auxiliary, Trent determined |
| to accept his invitation and go to his house that night, and if what he |
| said and did confirmed him in the impression he had formed, to let him |
| share the labour of their plan, but not the profit. |
| |
| Having revolved these things in his mind and arrived at this |
| conclusion, he communicated to Mr Swiveller as much of his meditations |
| as he thought proper (Dick would have been perfectly satisfied with |
| less), and giving him the day to recover himself from his late |
| salamandering, accompanied him at evening to Mr Quilp's house. |
| |
| Mighty glad Mr Quilp was to see them, or mightily glad he seemed to be; |
| and fearfully polite Mr Quilp was to Mrs Quilp and Mrs Jiniwin; and |
| very sharp was the look he cast on his wife to observe how she was |
| affected by the recognition of young Trent. Mrs Quilp was as innocent |
| as her own mother of any emotion, painful or pleasant, which the sight |
| of him awakened, but as her husband's glance made her timid and |
| confused, and uncertain what to do or what was required of her, Mr |
| Quilp did not fail to assign her embarrassment to the cause he had in |
| his mind, and while he chuckled at his penetration was secretly |
| exasperated by his jealousy. |
| |
| Nothing of this appeared, however. On the contrary, Mr Quilp was all |
| blandness and suavity, and presided over the case-bottle of rum with |
| extraordinary open-heartedness. |
| |
| 'Why, let me see,' said Quilp. 'It must be a matter of nearly two |
| years since we were first acquainted.' |
| |
| 'Nearer three, I think,' said Trent. |
| |
| 'Nearer three!' cried Quilp. 'How fast time flies. Does it seem as |
| long as that to you, Mrs Quilp?' |
| |
| 'Yes, I think it seems full three years, Quilp,' was the unfortunate |
| reply. |
| |
| 'Oh indeed, ma'am,' thought Quilp, 'you have been pining, have you? |
| Very good, ma'am.' |
| |
| 'It seems to me but yesterday that you went out to Demerara in the Mary |
| Anne,' said Quilp; 'but yesterday, I declare. Well, I like a little |
| wildness. I was wild myself once.' |
| |
| Mr Quilp accompanied this admission with such an awful wink, indicative |
| of old rovings and backslidings, that Mrs Jiniwin was indignant, and |
| could not forbear from remarking under her breath that he might at |
| least put off his confessions until his wife was absent; for which act |
| of boldness and insubordination Mr Quilp first stared her out of |
| countenance and then drank her health ceremoniously. |
| |
| 'I thought you'd come back directly, Fred. I always thought that,' |
| said Quilp setting down his glass. 'And when the Mary Anne returned |
| with you on board, instead of a letter to say what a contrite heart you |
| had, and how happy you were in the situation that had been provided for |
| you, I was amused--exceedingly amused. Ha ha ha!' |
| |
| The young man smiled, but not as though the theme was the most |
| agreeable one that could have been selected for his entertainment; and |
| for that reason Quilp pursued it. |
| |
| 'I always will say,' he resumed, 'that when a rich relation having two |
| young people--sisters or brothers, or brother and sister--dependent on |
| him, attaches himself exclusively to one, and casts off the other, he |
| does wrong.' |
| |
| The young man made a movement of impatience, but Quilp went on as |
| calmly as if he were discussing some abstract question in which nobody |
| present had the slightest personal interest. |
| |
| 'It's very true,' said Quilp, 'that your grandfather urged repeated |
| forgiveness, ingratitude, riot, and extravagance, and all that; but as |
| I told him "these are common faults." "But he's a scoundrel," said he. |
| "Granting that," said I (for the sake of argument of course), "a great |
| many young noblemen and gentlemen are scoundrels too!" But he wouldn't |
| be convinced.' |
| |
| 'I wonder at that, Mr Quilp,' said the young man sarcastically. |
| |
| 'Well, so did I at the time,' returned Quilp, 'but he was always |
| obstinate. He was in a manner a friend of mine, but he was always |
| obstinate and wrong-headed. Little Nell is a nice girl, a charming |
| girl, but you're her brother, Frederick. You're her brother after all; |
| as you told him the last time you met, he can't alter that.' |
| |
| 'He would if he could, confound him for that and all other kindnesses,' |
| said the young man impatiently. 'But nothing can come of this subject |
| now, and let us have done with it in the Devil's name.' |
| |
| 'Agreed,' returned Quilp, 'agreed on my part readily. Why have I |
| alluded to it? Just to show you, Frederick, that I have always stood |
| your friend. You little knew who was your friend, and who your foe; |
| now did you? You thought I was against you, and so there has been a |
| coolness between us; but it was all on your side, entirely on your |
| side. Let's shake hands again, Fred.' |
| |
| With his head sunk down between his shoulders, and a hideous grin |
| over-spreading his face, the dwarf stood up and stretched his short arm |
| across the table. After a moment's hesitation, the young man stretched |
| out his to meet it; Quilp clutched his fingers in a grip that for the |
| moment stopped the current of the blood within them, and pressing his |
| other hand upon his lip and frowning towards the unsuspicious Richard, |
| released them and sat down. |
| |
| This action was not lost upon Trent, who, knowing that Richard |
| Swiveller was a mere tool in his hands and knew no more of his designs |
| than he thought proper to communicate, saw that the dwarf perfectly |
| understood their relative position, and fully entered into the |
| character of his friend. It is something to be appreciated, even in |
| knavery. This silent homage to his superior abilities, no less than a |
| sense of the power with which the dwarf's quick perception had already |
| invested him, inclined the young man towards that ugly worthy, and |
| determined him to profit by his aid. |
| |
| It being now Mr Quilp's cue to change the subject with all convenient |
| expedition, lest Richard Swiveller in his heedlessness should reveal |
| anything which it was inexpedient for the women to know, he proposed a |
| game at four-handed cribbage, and partners being cut for, Mrs Quilp |
| fell to Frederick Trent, and Dick himself to Quilp. Mrs Jiniwin being |
| very fond of cards was carefully excluded by her son-in-law from any |
| participation in the game, and had assigned to her the duty of |
| occasionally replenishing the glasses from the case-bottle; Mr Quilp |
| from that moment keeping one eye constantly upon her, lest she should |
| by any means procure a taste of the same, and thereby tantalising the |
| wretched old lady (who was as much attached to the case-bottle as the |
| cards) in a double degree and most ingenious manner. |
| |
| But it was not to Mrs Jiniwin alone that Mr Quilp's attention was |
| restricted, as several other matters required his constant vigilance. |
| Among his various eccentric habits he had a humorous one of always |
| cheating at cards, which rendered necessary on his part, not only a |
| close observance of the game, and a sleight-of-hand in counting and |
| scoring, but also involved the constant correction, by looks, and |
| frowns, and kicks under the table, of Richard Swiveller, who being |
| bewildered by the rapidity with which his cards were told, and the rate |
| at which the pegs travelled down the board, could not be prevented from |
| sometimes expressing his surprise and incredulity. Mrs Quilp too was |
| the partner of young Trent, and for every look that passed between |
| them, and every word they spoke, and every card they played, the dwarf |
| had eyes and ears; not occupied alone with what was passing above the |
| table, but with signals that might be exchanging beneath it, which he |
| laid all kinds of traps to detect; besides often treading on his wife's |
| toes to see whether she cried out or remained silent under the |
| infliction, in which latter case it would have been quite clear that |
| Trent had been treading on her toes before. Yet, in the most of all |
| these distractions, the one eye was upon the old lady always, and if |
| she so much as stealthily advanced a tea-spoon towards a neighbouring |
| glass (which she often did), for the purpose of abstracting but one sup |
| of its sweet contents, Quilp's hand would overset it in the very moment |
| of her triumph, and Quilp's mocking voice implore her to regard her |
| precious health. And in any one of these his many cares, from first to |
| last, Quilp never flagged nor faltered. |
| |
| At length, when they had played a great many rubbers and drawn pretty |
| freely upon the case-bottle, Mr Quilp warned his lady to retire to |
| rest, and that submissive wife complying, and being followed by her |
| indignant mother, Mr Swiveller fell asleep. The dwarf beckoning his |
| remaining companion to the other end of the room, held a short |
| conference with him in whispers. |
| |
| 'It's as well not to say more than one can help before our worthy |
| friend,' said Quilp, making a grimace towards the slumbering Dick. 'Is |
| it a bargain between us, Fred? Shall he marry little rosy Nell |
| by-and-by?' |
| |
| 'You have some end of your own to answer, of course,' returned the |
| other. |
| |
| 'Of course I have, dear Fred,' said Quilp, grinning to think how little |
| he suspected what the real end was. 'It's retaliation perhaps; perhaps |
| whim. I have influence, Fred, to help or oppose. Which way shall I |
| use it? There are a pair of scales, and it goes into one.' |
| |
| 'Throw it into mine then,' said Trent. |
| |
| 'It's done, Fred,' rejoined Quilp, stretching out his clenched hand and |
| opening it as if he had let some weight fall out. 'It's in the scale |
| from this time, and turns it, Fred. Mind that.' |
| |
| 'Where have they gone?' asked Trent. |
| |
| Quilp shook his head, and said that point remained to be discovered, |
| which it might be, easily. When it was, they would begin their |
| preliminary advances. He would visit the old man, or even Richard |
| Swiveller might visit him, and by affecting a deep concern in his |
| behalf, and imploring him to settle in some worthy home, lead to the |
| child's remembering him with gratitude and favour. Once impressed to |
| this extent, it would be easy, he said, to win her in a year or two, |
| for she supposed the old man to be poor, as it was a part of his |
| jealous policy (in common with many other misers) to feign to be so, to |
| those about him. |
| |
| 'He has feigned it often enough to me, of late,' said Trent. |
| |
| 'Oh! and to me too!' replied the dwarf. 'Which is more extraordinary, |
| as I know how rich he really is.' |
| |
| 'I suppose you should,' said Trent. |
| |
| 'I think I should indeed,' rejoined the dwarf; and in that, at least, |
| he spoke the truth. |
| |
| After a few more whispered words, they returned to the table, and the |
| young man rousing Richard Swiveller informed him that he was waiting to |
| depart. This was welcome news to Dick, who started up directly. After |
| a few words of confidence in the result of their project had been |
| exchanged, they bade the grinning Quilp good night. |
| |
| Quilp crept to the window as they passed in the street below, and |
| listened. Trent was pronouncing an encomium upon his wife, and they |
| were both wondering by what enchantment she had been brought to marry |
| such a misshapen wretch as he. The dwarf after watching their |
| retreating shadows with a wider grin than his face had yet displayed, |
| stole softly in the dark to bed. |
| |
| In this hatching of their scheme, neither Trent nor Quilp had had one |
| thought about the happiness or misery of poor innocent Nell. It would |
| have been strange if the careless profligate, who was the butt of both, |
| had been harassed by any such consideration; for his high opinion of |
| his own merits and deserts rendered the project rather a laudable one |
| than otherwise; and if he had been visited by so unwonted a guest as |
| reflection, he would--being a brute only in the gratification of his |
| appetites--have soothed his conscience with the plea that he did not |
| mean to beat or kill his wife, and would therefore, after all said and |
| done, be a very tolerable, average husband. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 24 |
| |
| It was not until they were quite exhausted and could no longer maintain |
| the pace at which they had fled from the race-ground, that the old man |
| and the child ventured to stop, and sit down to rest upon the borders |
| of a little wood. Here, though the course was hidden from their view, |
| they could yet faintly distinguish the noise of distant shouts, the hum |
| of voices, and the beating of drums. Climbing the eminence which lay |
| between them and the spot they had left, the child could even discern |
| the fluttering flags and white tops of booths; but no person was |
| approaching towards them, and their resting-place was solitary and |
| still. |
| |
| Some time elapsed before she could reassure her trembling companion, or |
| restore him to a state of moderate tranquillity. His disordered |
| imagination represented to him a crowd of persons stealing towards them |
| beneath the cover of the bushes, lurking in every ditch, and peeping |
| from the boughs of every rustling tree. He was haunted by |
| apprehensions of being led captive to some gloomy place where he would |
| be chained and scourged, and worse than all, where Nell could never |
| come to see him, save through iron bars and gratings in the wall. His |
| terrors affected the child. Separation from her grandfather was the |
| greatest evil she could dread; and feeling for the time as though, go |
| where they would, they were to be hunted down, and could never be safe |
| but in hiding, her heart failed her, and her courage drooped. |
| |
| In one so young, and so unused to the scenes in which she had lately |
| moved, this sinking of the spirit was not surprising. But, Nature |
| often enshrines gallant and noble hearts in weak bosoms--oftenest, God |
| bless her, in female breasts--and when the child, casting her tearful |
| eyes upon the old man, remembered how weak he was, and how destitute |
| and helpless he would be if she failed him, her heart swelled within |
| her, and animated her with new strength and fortitude. |
| |
| 'We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear indeed, dear |
| grandfather,' she said. |
| |
| 'Nothing to fear!' returned the old man. 'Nothing to fear if they took |
| me from thee! Nothing to fear if they parted us! Nobody is true to |
| me. No, not one. Not even Nell!' |
| |
| 'Oh! do not say that,' replied the child, 'for if ever anybody was true |
| at heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure you know I am.' |
| |
| 'Then how,' said the old man, looking fearfully round, 'how can you |
| bear to think that we are safe, when they are searching for me |
| everywhere, and may come here, and steal upon us, even while we're |
| talking?' |
| |
| 'Because I'm sure we have not been followed,' said the child. 'Judge |
| for yourself, dear grandfather: look round, and see how quiet and still |
| it is. We are alone together, and may ramble where we like. Not safe! |
| Could I feel easy--did I feel at ease--when any danger threatened you?' |
| |
| 'True, too,' he answered, pressing her hand, but still looking |
| anxiously about. 'What noise was that?' |
| |
| 'A bird,' said the child, 'flying into the wood, and leading the way |
| for us to follow.' You remember that we said we would walk in woods |
| and fields, and by the side of rivers, and how happy we would be--you |
| remember that? But here, while the sun shines above our heads, and |
| everything is bright and happy, we are sitting sadly down, and losing |
| time. See what a pleasant path; and there's the bird--the same |
| bird--now he flies to another tree, and stays to sing. Come!' |
| |
| When they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led |
| them through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny |
| footsteps in the moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and |
| gave it back as mirrors throw off breath; and thus she lured the old |
| man on, with many a backward look and merry beck, now pointing |
| stealthily to some lone bird as it perched and twittered on a branch |
| that strayed across their path, now stopping to listen to the songs |
| that broke the happy silence, or watch the sun as it trembled through |
| the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied trunks of stout old trees, |
| opened long paths of light. As they passed onward, parting the boughs |
| that clustered in their way, the serenity which the child had first |
| assumed, stole into her breast in earnest; the old man cast no longer |
| fearful looks behind, but felt at ease and cheerful, for the further |
| they passed into the deep green shade, the more they felt that the |
| tranquil mind of God was there, and shed its peace on them. |
| |
| At length the path becoming clearer and less intricate, brought them to |
| the end of the wood, and into a public road. Taking their way along it |
| for a short distance, they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on |
| either hand that they met together over-head, and arched the narrow |
| way. A broken finger-post announced that this led to a village three |
| miles off; and thither they resolved to bend their steps. |
| |
| The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must have |
| missed their road. But at last, to their great joy, it led downwards |
| in a steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the footpaths |
| led; and the clustered houses of the village peeped from the woody |
| hollow below. |
| |
| It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on |
| the green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and |
| down, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old |
| man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of |
| approaching, for he was the schoolmaster, and had 'School' written up |
| over his window in black letters on a white board. He was a pale, |
| simple-looking man, of a spare and meagre habit, and sat among his |
| flowers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch before his |
| door. |
| |
| 'Speak to him, dear,' the old man whispered. |
| |
| 'I am almost afraid to disturb him,' said the child timidly. 'He does |
| not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look this way.' |
| |
| They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards them, and still |
| sat, thoughtful and silent, in the little porch. He had a kind face. |
| In his plain old suit of black, he looked pale and meagre. They |
| fancied, too, a lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that |
| was because the other people formed a merry company upon the green, and |
| he seemed the only solitary man in all the place. |
| |
| They were very tired, and the child would have been bold enough to |
| address even a schoolmaster, but for something in his manner which |
| seemed to denote that he was uneasy or distressed. As they stood |
| hesitating at a little distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes |
| at a time like one in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe and took |
| a few turns in his garden, then approached the gate and looked towards |
| the green, then took up his pipe again with a sigh, and sat down |
| thoughtfully as before. |
| |
| As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length took |
| courage, and when he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured to draw |
| near, leading her grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made |
| in raising the latch of the wicket-gate, caught his attention. He |
| looked at them kindly but seemed disappointed too, and slightly shook |
| his head. |
| |
| Nell dropped a curtsey, and told him they were poor travellers who |
| sought a shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so far |
| as their means allowed. The schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as |
| she spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose up directly. |
| |
| 'If you could direct us anywhere, sir,' said the child, 'we should take |
| it very kindly.' |
| |
| 'You have been walking a long way,' said the schoolmaster. |
| |
| 'A long way, Sir,' the child replied. |
| |
| 'You're a young traveller, my child,' he said, laying his hand gently |
| on her head. 'Your grandchild, friend?' |
| |
| 'Aye, Sir,' cried the old man, 'and the stay and comfort of my life.' |
| |
| 'Come in,' said the schoolmaster. |
| |
| Without further preface he conducted them into his little school-room, |
| which was parlour and kitchen likewise, and told them that they were |
| welcome to remain under his roof till morning. Before they had done |
| thanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with |
| knives and platters; and bringing out some bread and cold meat and a |
| jug of beer, besought them to eat and drink. |
| |
| The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a |
| couple of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk |
| perched on four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few |
| dog's-eared books upon a high shelf; and beside them a motley |
| collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles, |
| half-eaten apples, and other confiscated property of idle urchins. |
| Displayed on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were the cane |
| and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own, the dunce's cap, |
| made of old newspapers and decorated with glaring wafers of the largest |
| size. But, the great ornaments of the walls were certain moral |
| sentences fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in |
| simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved by the same |
| hand, which were plentifully pasted all round the room: for the double |
| purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the |
| school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars. |
| |
| 'Yes,' said the old schoolmaster, observing that her attention was |
| caught by these latter specimens. 'That's beautiful writing, my dear.' |
| |
| 'Very, Sir,' replied the child modestly, 'is it yours?' |
| |
| 'Mine!' he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, to |
| have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart. 'I couldn't |
| write like that, now-a-days. No. They're all done by one hand; a |
| little hand it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one.' |
| |
| As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been |
| thrown on one of the copies, so he took a penknife from his pocket, and |
| going up to the wall, carefully scraped it out. When he had finished, |
| he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might |
| contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his |
| voice and manner which quite touched the child, though she was |
| unacquainted with its cause. |
| |
| 'A little hand indeed,' said the poor schoolmaster. 'Far beyond all |
| his companions, in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever |
| come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but |
| that he should love me--' and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took |
| off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. |
| |
| 'I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,' said Nell anxiously. |
| |
| 'Not much, my dear,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I hoped to have seen |
| him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But |
| he'll be there to-morrow.' |
| |
| 'Has he been ill?' asked the child, with a child's quick sympathy. |
| |
| 'Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, |
| and so they said the day before. But that's a part of that kind of |
| disorder; it's not a bad sign--not at all a bad sign.' |
| |
| The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. |
| The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still. |
| |
| 'If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come to me, I know,' he |
| said, returning into the room. 'He always came into the garden to say |
| good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favourable |
| turn, and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp and |
| there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't come to-night.' |
| |
| The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the window-shutter, and |
| closed the door. But after he had done this, and sat silent a little |
| time, he took down his hat, and said he would go and satisfy himself, |
| if Nell would sit up till he returned. The child readily complied, and |
| he went out. |
| |
| She sat there half-an-hour or more, feeling the place very strange and |
| lonely, for she had prevailed upon the old man to go to bed, and there |
| was nothing to be heard but the ticking of an old clock, and the |
| whistling of the wind among the trees. When he returned, he took his |
| seat in the chimney corner, but remained silent for a long time. At |
| length he turned to her, and speaking very gently, hoped she would say |
| a prayer that night for a sick child. |
| |
| 'My favourite scholar!' said the poor schoolmaster, smoking a pipe he |
| had forgotten to light, and looking mournfully round upon the walls. |
| 'It is a little hand to have done all that, and waste away with |
| sickness. It is a very, very little hand!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 25 |
| |
| After a sound night's rest in a chamber in the thatched roof, in which |
| it seemed the sexton had for some years been a lodger, but which he had |
| lately deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own, the child rose |
| early in the morning and descended to the room where she had supped |
| last night. As the schoolmaster had already left his bed and gone out, |
| she bestirred herself to make it neat and comfortable, and had just |
| finished its arrangement when the kind host returned. |
| |
| He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who usually did |
| such offices for him had gone to nurse the little scholar whom he had |
| told her of. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was better. |
| |
| 'No,' rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sorrowfully, 'no |
| better. They even say he is worse.' |
| |
| 'I am very sorry for that, Sir,' said the child. |
| |
| The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her earnest manner, |
| but yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he added hastily that anxious |
| people often magnified an evil and thought it greater than it was; 'for |
| my part,' he said, in his quiet, patient way, 'I hope it's not so. I |
| don't think he can be worse.' |
| |
| The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and her grandfather |
| coming down stairs, they all three partook of it together. While the |
| meal was in progress, their host remarked that the old man seemed much |
| fatigued, and evidently stood in need of rest. |
| |
| 'If the journey you have before you is a long one,' he said, 'and don't |
| press you for one day, you're very welcome to pass another night here. |
| I should really be glad if you would, friend.' |
| |
| He saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain whether to accept or |
| decline his offer; and added, |
| |
| 'I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day. If |
| you can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the same time, |
| do so. If you must proceed upon your journey, I wish you well through |
| it, and will walk a little way with you before school begins.' |
| |
| 'What are we to do, Nell?' said the old man irresolutely, 'say what |
| we're to do, dear.' |
| |
| It required no great persuasion to induce the child to answer that they |
| had better accept the invitation and remain. She was happy to show her |
| gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busying herself in the |
| performance of such household duties as his little cottage stood in |
| need of. When these were done, she took some needle-work from her |
| basket, and sat herself down upon a stool beside the lattice, where the |
| honeysuckle and woodbine entwined their tender stems, and stealing into |
| the room filled it with their delicious breath. Her grandfather was |
| basking in the sun outside, breathing the perfume of the flowers, and |
| idly watching the clouds as they floated on before the light summer |
| wind. |
| |
| As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in due order, took |
| his seat behind his desk and made other preparations for school, the |
| child was apprehensive that she might be in the way, and offered to |
| withdraw to her little bedroom. But this he would not allow, and as he |
| seemed pleased to have her there, she remained, busying herself with |
| her work. |
| |
| 'Have you many scholars, sir?' she asked. |
| |
| The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that they barely filled |
| the two forms. |
| |
| 'Are the others clever, sir?' asked the child, glancing at the trophies |
| on the wall. |
| |
| 'Good boys,' returned the schoolmaster, 'good boys enough, my dear, but |
| they'll never do like that.' |
| |
| A small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door |
| while he was speaking, and stopping there to make a rustic bow, came in |
| and took his seat upon one of the forms. The white-headed boy then put |
| an open book, astonishingly dog's-eared upon his knees, and thrusting |
| his hands into his pockets began counting the marbles with which they |
| were filled; displaying in the expression of his face a remarkable |
| capacity of totally abstracting his mind from the spelling on which his |
| eyes were fixed. Soon afterwards another white-headed little boy came |
| straggling in, and after him a red-headed lad, and after him two more |
| with white heads, and then one with a flaxen poll, and so on until the |
| forms were occupied by a dozen boys or thereabouts, with heads of every |
| colour but grey, and ranging in their ages from four years old to |
| fourteen years or more; for the legs of the youngest were a long way |
| from the floor when he sat upon the form, and the eldest was a heavy |
| good-tempered foolish fellow, about half a head taller than the |
| schoolmaster. |
| |
| At the top of the first form--the post of honour in the school--was the |
| vacant place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of the row of |
| pegs on which those who came in hats or caps were wont to hang them up, |
| one was left empty. No boy attempted to violate the sanctity of seat |
| or peg, but many a one looked from the empty spaces to the |
| schoolmaster, and whispered his idle neighbour behind his hand. |
| |
| Then began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them by heart, |
| the whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and drawl of |
| school; and in the midst of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, the very |
| image of meekness and simplicity, vainly attempting to fix his mind |
| upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little friend. But the |
| tedium of his office reminded him more strongly of the willing scholar, |
| and his thoughts were rambling from his pupils--it was plain. |
| |
| None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder with |
| impunity, waxed louder and more daring; playing odd-or-even under the |
| master's eye, eating apples openly and without rebuke, pinching each |
| other in sport or malice without the least reserve, and cutting their |
| autographs in the very legs of his desk. The puzzled dunce, who stood |
| beside it to say his lesson out of book, looked no longer at the |
| ceiling for forgotten words, but drew closer to the master's elbow and |
| boldly cast his eye upon the page; the wag of the little troop squinted |
| and made grimaces (at the smallest boy of course), holding no book |
| before his face, and his approving audience knew no constraint in their |
| delight. If the master did chance to rouse himself and seem alive to |
| what was going on, the noise subsided for a moment and no eyes met his |
| but wore a studious and a deeply humble look; but the instant he |
| relapsed again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before. |
| |
| Oh! how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and how they |
| looked at the open door and window, as if they half meditated rushing |
| violently out, plunging into the woods, and being wild boys and savages |
| from that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool river, and |
| some shady bathing-place beneath willow trees with branches dipping in |
| the water, kept tempting and urging that sturdy boy, who, with his |
| shirt-collar unbuttoned and flung back as far as it could go, sat |
| fanning his flushed face with a spelling-book, wishing himself a whale, |
| or a tittlebat, or a fly, or anything but a boy at school on that hot, |
| broiling day! Heat! ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest to |
| the door gave him opportunities of gliding out into the garden and |
| driving his companions to madness by dipping his face into the bucket |
| of the well and then rolling on the grass--ask him if there were ever |
| such a day as that, when even the bees were diving deep down into the |
| cups of flowers and stopping there, as if they had made up their minds |
| to retire from business and be manufacturers of honey no more. The day |
| was made for laziness, and lying on one's back in green places, and |
| staring at the sky till its brightness forced one to shut one's eyes |
| and go to sleep; and was this a time to be poring over musty books in a |
| dark room, slighted by the very sun itself? Monstrous! |
| |
| Nell sat by the window occupied with her work, but attentive still to |
| all that passed, though sometimes rather timid of the boisterous boys. |
| The lessons over, writing time began; and there being but one desk and |
| that the master's, each boy sat at it in turn and laboured at his |
| crooked copy, while the master walked about. This was a quieter time; |
| for he would come and look over the writer's shoulder, and tell him |
| mildly to observe how such a letter was turned in such a copy on the |
| wall, praise such an up-stroke here and such a down-stroke there, and |
| bid him take it for his model. Then he would stop and tell them what |
| the sick child had said last night, and how he had longed to be among |
| them once again; and such was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and |
| affectionate manner, that the boys seemed quite remorseful that they |
| had worried him so much, and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples, |
| cutting no names, inflicting no pinches, and making no grimaces, for |
| full two minutes afterwards. |
| |
| 'I think, boys,' said the schoolmaster when the clock struck twelve, |
| 'that I shall give an extra half-holiday this afternoon.' |
| |
| At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy, |
| raised a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to |
| speak, but could not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in |
| token of his wish that they should be silent, they were considerate |
| enough to leave off, as soon as the longest-winded among them were |
| quite out of breath. |
| |
| 'You must promise me first,' said the schoolmaster, 'that you'll not be |
| noisy, or at least, if you are, that you'll go away and be so--away out |
| of the village I mean. I'm sure you wouldn't disturb your old playmate |
| and companion.' |
| |
| There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sincere one, for they |
| were but boys) in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely |
| as any of them, called those about him to witness that he had only |
| shouted in a whisper. |
| |
| 'Then pray don't forget, there's my dear scholars,' said the |
| schoolmaster, 'what I have asked you, and do it as a favour to me. Be |
| as happy as you can, and don't be unmindful that you are blessed with |
| health. Good-bye all!' |
| |
| 'Thank'ee, Sir,' and 'good-bye, Sir,' were said a good many times in a |
| variety of voices, and the boys went out very slowly and softly. But |
| there was the sun shining and there were the birds singing, as the sun |
| only shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holidays; |
| there were the trees waving to all free boys to climb and nestle among |
| their leafy branches; the hay, entreating them to come and scatter it |
| to the pure air; the green corn, gently beckoning towards wood and |
| stream; the smooth ground, rendered smoother still by blending lights |
| and shadows, inviting to runs and leaps, and long walks God knows |
| whither. It was more than boy could bear, and with a joyous whoop the |
| whole cluster took to their heels and spread themselves about, shouting |
| and laughing as they went. |
| |
| 'It's natural, thank Heaven!' said the poor schoolmaster, looking after |
| them. 'I'm very glad they didn't mind me!' |
| |
| It is difficult, however, to please everybody, as most of us would have |
| discovered, even without the fable which bears that moral, and in the |
| course of the afternoon several mothers and aunts of pupils looked in |
| to express their entire disapproval of the schoolmaster's proceeding. |
| A few confined themselves to hints, such as politely inquiring what |
| red-letter day or saint's day the almanack said it was; a few (these |
| were the profound village politicians) argued that it was a slight to |
| the throne and an affront to church and state, and savoured of |
| revolutionary principles, to grant a half-holiday upon any lighter |
| occasion than the birthday of the Monarch; but the majority expressed |
| their displeasure on private grounds and in plain terms, arguing that |
| to put the pupils on this short allowance of learning was nothing but |
| an act of downright robbery and fraud: and one old lady, finding that |
| she could not inflame or irritate the peaceable schoolmaster by talking |
| to him, bounced out of his house and talked at him for half-an-hour |
| outside his own window, to another old lady, saying that of course he |
| would deduct this half-holiday from his weekly charge, or of course he |
| would naturally expect to have an opposition started against him; there |
| was no want of idle chaps in that neighbourhood (here the old lady |
| raised her voice), and some chaps who were too idle even to be |
| schoolmasters, might soon find that there were other chaps put over |
| their heads, and so she would have them take care, and look pretty |
| sharp about them. But all these taunts and vexations failed to elicit |
| one word from the meek schoolmaster, who sat with the child by his |
| side--a little more dejected perhaps, but quite silent and |
| uncomplaining. |
| |
| Towards night an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as |
| she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go |
| to Dame West's directly, and had best run on before her. He and the |
| child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without |
| relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the |
| messenger to follow as she might. |
| |
| They stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at |
| it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They entered a |
| room where a little group of women were gathered about one, older than |
| the rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her hands and |
| rocking herself to and fro. |
| |
| 'Oh, dame!' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, 'is it so |
| bad as this?' |
| |
| 'He's going fast,' cried the old woman; 'my grandson's dying. It's all |
| along of you. You shouldn't see him now, but for his being so earnest |
| on it. This is what his learning has brought him to. Oh dear, dear, |
| dear, what can I do!' |
| |
| 'Do not say that I am in any fault,' urged the gentle school-master. |
| 'I am not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in great distress of mind, and |
| don't mean what you say. I am sure you don't.' |
| |
| 'I do,' returned the old woman. 'I mean it all. If he hadn't been |
| poring over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well and |
| merry now, I know he would.' |
| |
| The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat |
| some one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook their |
| heads, and murmured to each other that they never thought there was |
| much good in learning, and that this convinced them. Without saying a |
| word in reply, or giving them a look of reproach, he followed the old |
| woman who had summoned him (and who had now rejoined them) into another |
| room, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed. |
| |
| He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in |
| curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light |
| was of Heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and |
| stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprung up, |
| stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted arms round his |
| neck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend. |
| |
| 'I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor |
| schoolmaster. |
| |
| 'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her, |
| lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.' |
| |
| The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in |
| hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently |
| down. |
| |
| 'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster, anxious |
| to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, 'and how |
| pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You must make haste to |
| visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are |
| less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon |
| now--won't you?' |
| |
| The boy smiled faintly--so very, very faintly--and put his hand upon |
| his friend's grey head. He moved his lips too, but no voice came from |
| them; no, not a sound. |
| |
| In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices borne upon the |
| evening air came floating through the open window. 'What's that?' said |
| the sick child, opening his eyes. |
| |
| 'The boys at play upon the green.' |
| |
| He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his |
| head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. |
| |
| 'Shall I do it?' said the schoolmaster. |
| |
| 'Please wave it at the window,' was the faint reply. 'Tie it to the |
| lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of me, |
| and look this way.' |
| |
| He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle |
| bat, that lay with slate and book and other boyish property upon a |
| table in the room. And then he laid him softly down once more, and |
| asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her. |
| |
| She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the |
| coverlet. The two old friends and companions--for such they were, |
| though they were man and child--held each other in a long embrace, and |
| then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell |
| asleep. |
| |
| The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small cold |
| hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He |
| felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 26 |
| |
| Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the |
| bedside and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief and |
| tears she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old man, |
| for the dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative |
| to mourn his premature decay. |
| |
| She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was alone, |
| gave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was overcharged. |
| But the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without its lesson of |
| content and gratitude; of content with the lot which left her health |
| and freedom; and gratitude that she was spared to the one relative and |
| friend she loved, and to live and move in a beautiful world, when so |
| many young creatures--as young and full of hope as she--were stricken |
| down and gathered to their graves. How many of the mounds in that old |
| churchyard where she had lately strayed, grew green above the graves of |
| children! And though she thought as a child herself, and did not |
| perhaps sufficiently consider to what a bright and happy existence |
| those who die young are borne, and how in death they lose the pain of |
| seeing others die around them, bearing to the tomb some strong |
| affection of their hearts (which makes the old die many times in one |
| long life), still she thought wisely enough, to draw a plain and easy |
| moral from what she had seen that night, and to store it, deep in her |
| mind. |
| |
| Her dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered up, but |
| mingling with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting his |
| cheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained but to |
| take leave of the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more. |
| |
| By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the |
| darkened room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little |
| sobered and softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at all. |
| The schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate. |
| |
| It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held out to |
| him the money which the lady had given her at the races for her |
| flowers: faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum was, |
| and blushing as she offered it. But he bade her put it up, and |
| stooping to kiss her cheek, turned back into his house. |
| |
| They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again; the |
| old man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did the same. |
| |
| 'Good fortune and happiness go with you!' said the poor schoolmaster. |
| 'I am quite a solitary man now. If you ever pass this way again, |
| you'll not forget the little village-school.' |
| |
| 'We shall never forget it, sir,' rejoined Nell; 'nor ever forget to be |
| grateful to you for your kindness to us.' |
| |
| 'I have heard such words from the lips of children very often,' said |
| the schoolmaster, shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully, 'but they |
| were soon forgotten. I had attached one young friend to me, the better |
| friend for being young--but that's over--God bless you!' |
| |
| They bade him farewell very many times, and turned away, walking slowly |
| and often looking back, until they could see him no more. At length |
| they had left the village far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke |
| among the trees. They trudged onward now, at a quicker pace, resolving |
| to keep the main road, and go wherever it might lead them. |
| |
| But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the exception of two or |
| three inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed, without |
| stopping, and one lonely road-side public-house where they had some |
| bread and cheese, this highway had led them to nothing--late in the |
| afternoon--and still lengthened out, far in the distance, the same |
| dull, tedious, winding course, that they had been pursuing all day. As |
| they had no resource, however, but to go forward, they still kept on, |
| though at a much slower pace, being very weary and fatigued. |
| |
| The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they arrived |
| at a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck across a common. |
| On the border of this common, and close to the hedge which divided it |
| from the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to rest; upon which, |
| by reason of its situation, they came so suddenly that they could not |
| have avoided it if they would. |
| |
| It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house upon |
| wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and |
| window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red, in |
| which happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone brilliant. |
| Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey or emaciated |
| horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good condition were released from |
| the shafts and grazing on the frouzy grass. Neither was it a gipsy |
| caravan, for at the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat |
| a Christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large |
| bonnet trembling with bows. And that it was not an unprovided or |
| destitute caravan was clear from this lady's occupation, which was the |
| very pleasant and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea-things, |
| including a bottle of rather suspicious character and a cold knuckle of |
| ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; and |
| there, as if at the most convenient round-table in all the world, sat |
| this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect. |
| |
| It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup |
| (which, that everything about her might be of a stout and comfortable |
| kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted |
| to the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of the tea, not |
| unmingled possibly with just the slightest dash or gleam of something |
| out of the suspicious bottle--but this is mere speculation and not |
| distinct matter of history--it happened that being thus agreeably |
| engaged, she did not see the travellers when they first came up. It |
| was not until she was in the act of getting down the cup, and drawing a |
| long breath after the exertion of causing its contents to disappear, |
| that the lady of the caravan beheld an old man and a young child |
| walking slowly by, and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest |
| but hungry admiration. |
| |
| 'Hey!' cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of her |
| lap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. 'Yes, to be |
| sure--Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?' |
| |
| 'Won what, ma'am?' asked Nell. |
| |
| 'The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child--the plate that was run |
| for on the second day.' |
| |
| 'On the second day, ma'am?' |
| |
| 'Second day! Yes, second day,' repeated the lady with an air of |
| impatience. 'Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when |
| you're asked the question civilly?' |
| |
| 'I don't know, ma'am.' |
| |
| 'Don't know!' repeated the lady of the caravan; 'why, you were there. |
| I saw you with my own eyes.' |
| |
| Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady |
| might be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin; but |
| what followed tended to reassure her. |
| |
| 'And very sorry I was,' said the lady of the caravan, 'to see you in |
| company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that people |
| should scorn to look at.' |
| |
| 'I was not there by choice,' returned the child; 'we didn't know our |
| way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them. |
| Do you--do you know them, ma'am?' |
| |
| 'Know 'em, child!' cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek. |
| 'Know them! But you're young and inexperienced, and that's your excuse |
| for asking sich a question. Do I look as if I know'd 'em, does the |
| caravan look as if it know'd 'em?' |
| |
| 'No, ma'am, no,' said the child, fearing she had committed some |
| grievous fault. 'I beg your pardon.' |
| |
| It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much ruffled |
| and discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child then explained |
| that they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to |
| the next town on that road, where they purposed to spend the night. As |
| the countenance of the stout lady began to clear up, she ventured to |
| inquire how far it was. The reply--which the stout lady did not come |
| to, until she had thoroughly explained that she went to the races on |
| the first day in a gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and that her |
| presence there had no connexion with any matters of business or |
| profit--was, that the town was eight miles off. |
| |
| This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could |
| scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her |
| grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he leaned upon |
| his staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty distance. |
| |
| The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea equipage |
| together preparatory to clearing the table, but noting the child's |
| anxious manner she hesitated and stopped. The child curtseyed, thanked |
| her for her information, and giving her hand to the old man had already |
| got some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan called to |
| her to return. |
| |
| 'Come nearer, nearer still,' said she, beckoning to her to ascend the |
| steps. 'Are you hungry, child?' |
| |
| 'Not very, but we are tired, and it's--it IS a long way.' |
| |
| 'Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,' rejoined her new |
| acquaintance. 'I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?' |
| |
| The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The lady of |
| the caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but the drum |
| proving an inconvenient table for two, they descended again, and sat |
| upon the grass, where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread |
| and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short everything of which she |
| had partaken herself, except the bottle which she had already embraced |
| an opportunity of slipping into her pocket. |
| |
| 'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place,' said |
| their friend, superintending the arrangements from above. 'Now hand up |
| the teapot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of fresh tea, and |
| then both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare |
| anything; that's all I ask of you.' |
| |
| They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had been |
| less freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at all. |
| But as this direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy or |
| uneasiness, they made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost. |
| |
| While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted on the |
| earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large bonnet |
| trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured tread and very |
| stately manner, surveying the caravan from time to time with an air of |
| calm delight, and deriving particular gratification from the red panels |
| and the brass knocker. When she had taken this gentle exercise for |
| some time, she sat down upon the steps and called 'George'; whereupon a |
| man in a carter's frock, who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this |
| time as to see everything that passed without being seen himself, |
| parted the twigs that concealed him, and appeared in a sitting |
| attitude, supporting on his legs a baking-dish and a half-gallon stone |
| bottle, and bearing in his right hand a knife, and in his left a fork. |
| |
| 'Yes, Missus,' said George. |
| |
| 'How did you find the cold pie, George?' |
| |
| 'It warn't amiss, mum.' |
| |
| 'And the beer,' said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance of |
| being more interested in this question than the last; 'is it passable, |
| George?' |
| |
| 'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it an't |
| so bad for all that.' |
| |
| To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting in |
| quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and then |
| smacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head. No doubt with |
| the same amiable desire, he immediately resumed his knife and fork, as |
| a practical assurance that the beer had wrought no bad effect upon his |
| appetite. |
| |
| The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and then |
| said, |
| |
| 'Have you nearly finished?' |
| |
| 'Wery nigh, mum.' And indeed, after scraping the dish all round with |
| his knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth, and after |
| taking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that, by degrees |
| almost imperceptible to the sight, his head went further and further |
| back until he lay nearly at his full length upon the ground, this |
| gentleman declared himself quite disengaged, and came forth from his |
| retreat. |
| |
| 'I hope I haven't hurried you, George,' said his mistress, who appeared |
| to have a great sympathy with his late pursuit. |
| |
| 'If you have,' returned the follower, wisely reserving himself for any |
| favourable contingency that might occur, 'we must make up for it next |
| time, that's all.' |
| |
| 'We are not a heavy load, George?' |
| |
| 'That's always what the ladies say,' replied the man, looking a long |
| way round, as if he were appealing to Nature in general against such |
| monstrous propositions. 'If you see a woman a driving, you'll always |
| perceive that she never will keep her whip still; the horse can't go |
| fast enough for her. If cattle have got their proper load, you never |
| can persuade a woman that they'll not bear something more. What is the |
| cause of this here?' |
| |
| 'Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses, if we |
| took them with us?' asked his mistress, offering no reply to the |
| philosophical inquiry, and pointing to Nell and the old man, who were |
| painfully preparing to resume their journey on foot. |
| |
| 'They'd make a difference in course,' said George doggedly. |
| |
| 'Would they make much difference?' repeated his mistress. 'They can't |
| be very heavy.' |
| |
| 'The weight o' the pair, mum,' said George, eyeing them with the look |
| of a man who was calculating within half an ounce or so, 'would be a |
| trifle under that of Oliver Cromwell.' |
| |
| Nell was very much surprised that the man should be so accurately |
| acquainted with the weight of one whom she had read of in books as |
| having lived considerably before their time, but speedily forgot the |
| subject in the joy of hearing that they were to go forward in the |
| caravan, for which she thanked its lady with unaffected earnestness. |
| She helped with great readiness and alacrity to put away the tea-things |
| and other matters that were lying about, and, the horses being by that |
| time harnessed, mounted into the vehicle, followed by her delighted |
| grandfather. Their patroness then shut the door and sat herself down |
| by her drum at an open window; and, the steps being struck by George |
| and stowed under the carriage, away they went, with a great noise of |
| flapping and creaking and straining, and the bright brass knocker, |
| which nobody ever knocked at, knocking one perpetual double knock of |
| its own accord as they jolted heavily along. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 27 |
| |
| When they had travelled slowly forward for some short distance, Nell |
| ventured to steal a look round the caravan and observe it more closely. |
| One half of it--that moiety in which the comfortable proprietress was |
| then seated--was carpeted, and so partitioned off at the further end as |
| to accommodate a sleeping-place, constructed after the fashion of a |
| berth on board ship, which was shaded, like the little windows, with |
| fair white curtains, and looked comfortable enough, though by what kind |
| of gymnastic exercise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to get |
| into it, was an unfathomable mystery. The other half served for a |
| kitchen, and was fitted up with a stove whose small chimney passed |
| through the roof. It held also a closet or larder, several chests, a |
| great pitcher of water, and a few cooking-utensils and articles of |
| crockery. These latter necessaries hung upon the walls, which, in that |
| portion of the establishment devoted to the lady of the caravan, were |
| ornamented with such gayer and lighter decorations as a triangle and a |
| couple of well-thumbed tambourines. |
| |
| The lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the pride and poetry |
| of the musical instruments, and little Nell and her grandfather sat at |
| the other in all the humility of the kettle and saucepans, while the |
| machine jogged on and shifted the darkening prospect very slowly. At |
| first the two travellers spoke little, and only in whispers, but as |
| they grew more familiar with the place they ventured to converse with |
| greater freedom, and talked about the country through which they were |
| passing, and the different objects that presented themselves, until the |
| old man fell asleep; which the lady of the caravan observing, invited |
| Nell to come and sit beside her. |
| |
| 'Well, child,' she said, 'how do you like this way of travelling?' |
| |
| Nell replied that she thought it was very pleasant indeed, to which the |
| lady assented in the case of people who had their spirits. For |
| herself, she said, she was troubled with a lowness in that respect |
| which required a constant stimulant; though whether the aforesaid |
| stimulant was derived from the suspicious bottle of which mention has |
| been already made or from other sources, she did not say. |
| |
| 'That's the happiness of you young people,' she continued. 'You don't |
| know what it is to be low in your feelings. You always have your |
| appetites too, and what a comfort that is.' |
| |
| Nell thought that she could sometimes dispense with her own appetite |
| very conveniently; and thought, moreover, that there was nothing either |
| in the lady's personal appearance or in her manner of taking tea, to |
| lead to the conclusion that her natural relish for meat and drink had |
| at all failed her. She silently assented, however, as in duty bound, |
| to what the lady had said, and waited until she should speak again. |
| |
| Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the child for a long |
| time in silence, and then getting up, brought out from a corner a large |
| roll of canvas about a yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and |
| spread open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of the |
| caravan to the other. |
| |
| 'There, child,' she said, 'read that.' |
| |
| Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the |
| inscription, 'JARLEY'S WAX-WORK.' |
| |
| 'Read it again,' said the lady, complacently. |
| |
| 'Jarley's Wax-Work,' repeated Nell. |
| |
| 'That's me,' said the lady. 'I am Mrs Jarley.' |
| |
| Giving the child an encouraging look, intended to reassure her and let |
| her know, that, although she stood in the presence of the original |
| Jarley, she must not allow herself to be utterly overwhelmed and borne |
| down, the lady of the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the |
| inscription, 'One hundred figures the full size of life,' and then |
| another scroll, on which was written, 'The only stupendous collection |
| of real wax-work in the world,' and then several smaller scrolls with |
| such inscriptions as 'Now exhibiting within'--'The genuine and only |
| Jarley'--'Jarley's unrivalled collection'--'Jarley is the delight of |
| the Nobility and Gentry'--'The Royal Family are the patrons of Jarley.' |
| When she had exhibited these leviathans of public announcement to the |
| astonished child, she brought forth specimens of the lesser fry in the |
| shape of hand-bills, some of which were couched in the form of parodies |
| on popular melodies, as 'Believe me if all Jarley's wax-work so |
| rare'--'I saw thy show in youthful prime'--'Over the water to Jarley;' |
| while, to consult all tastes, others were composed with a view to the |
| lighter and more facetious spirits, as a parody on the favourite air of |
| 'If I had a donkey,' beginning, |
| |
| If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go |
| To see Mrs JARLEY'S wax-work show, |
| Do you think I'd acknowledge him? Oh no no! |
| Then run to Jarley's-- |
| |
| --besides several compositions in prose, purporting to be dialogues |
| between the Emperor of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of |
| Canterbury and a dissenter on the subject of church-rates, but all |
| having the same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to |
| Jarley's, and that children and servants were admitted at half-price. |
| When she had brought all these testimonials of her important position |
| in society to bear upon her young companion, Mrs Jarley rolled them up, |
| and having put them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at the |
| child in triumph. |
| |
| 'Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more,' said Mrs |
| Jarley, 'after this.' |
| |
| 'I never saw any wax-work, ma'am,' said Nell. 'Is it funnier than |
| Punch?' |
| |
| 'Funnier!' said Mrs Jarley in a shrill voice. 'It is not funny at all.' |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Nell, with all possible humility. |
| |
| 'It isn't funny at all,' repeated Mrs Jarley. 'It's calm and--what's |
| that word again--critical?--no--classical, that's it--it's calm and |
| classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and |
| squeakings like your precious Punches, but always the same, with a |
| constantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility; and so like life, |
| that if wax-work only spoke and walked about, you'd hardly know the |
| difference. I won't go so far as to say, that, as it is, I've seen |
| wax-work quite like life, but I've certainly seen some life that was |
| exactly like wax-work.' |
| |
| 'Is it here, ma'am?' asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by this |
| description. |
| |
| 'Is what here, child?' |
| |
| 'The wax-work, ma'am.' |
| |
| 'Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? How could such a |
| collection be here, where you see everything except the inside of one |
| little cupboard and a few boxes? It's gone on in the other wans to the |
| assembly-rooms, and there it'll be exhibited the day after to-morrow. |
| You are going to the same town, and you'll see it I dare say. It's |
| natural to expect that you'll see it, and I've no doubt you will. I |
| suppose you couldn't stop away if you was to try ever so much.' |
| |
| 'I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am,' said the child. |
| |
| 'Not there!' cried Mrs Jarley. 'Then where will you be?' |
| |
| 'I--I--don't quite know. I am not certain.' |
| |
| 'You don't mean to say that you're travelling about the country without |
| knowing where you're going to?' said the lady of the caravan. 'What |
| curious people you are! What line are you in? You looked to me at the |
| races, child, as if you were quite out of your element, and had got |
| there by accident.' |
| |
| 'We were there quite by accident,' returned Nell, confused by this |
| abrupt questioning. 'We are poor people, ma'am, and are only wandering |
| about. We have nothing to do;--I wish we had.' |
| |
| 'You amaze me more and more,' said Mrs Jarley, after remaining for some |
| time as mute as one of her own figures. 'Why, what do you call |
| yourselves? Not beggars?' |
| |
| 'Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are,' returned the child. |
| |
| 'Lord bless me,' said the lady of the caravan. 'I never heard of such |
| a thing. Who'd have thought it!' |
| |
| She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that Nell feared |
| she felt her having been induced to bestow her protection and |
| conversation upon one so poor, to be an outrage upon her dignity that |
| nothing could repair. This persuasion was rather confirmed than |
| otherwise by the tone in which she at length broke silence and said, |
| |
| 'And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn't wonder?' |
| |
| 'Yes, ma'am,' said the child, fearful of giving new offence by the |
| confession. |
| |
| 'Well, and what a thing that is,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'I can't!' |
| |
| Nell said 'indeed' in a tone which might imply, either that she was |
| reasonably surprised to find the genuine and only Jarley, who was the |
| delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the peculiar pet of the Royal |
| Family, destitute of these familiar arts; or that she presumed so great |
| a lady could scarcely stand in need of such ordinary accomplishments. |
| In whatever way Mrs Jarley received the response, it did not provoke |
| her to further questioning, or tempt her into any more remarks at the |
| time, for she relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and remained in that |
| state so long that Nell withdrew to the other window and rejoined her |
| grandfather, who was now awake. |
| |
| At length the lady of the caravan shook off her fit of meditation, and, |
| summoning the driver to come under the window at which she was seated, |
| held a long conversation with him in a low tone of voice, as if she |
| were asking his advice on an important point, and discussing the pros |
| and cons of some very weighty matter. This conference at length |
| concluded, she drew in her head again, and beckoned Nell to approach. |
| |
| 'And the old gentleman too,' said Mrs Jarley; 'for I want to have a |
| word with him. Do you want a good situation for your grand-daughter, |
| master? If you do, I can put her in the way of getting one. What do |
| you say?' |
| |
| 'I can't leave her,' answered the old man. 'We can't separate. What |
| would become of me without her?' |
| |
| 'I should have thought you were old enough to take care of yourself, if |
| you ever will be,' retorted Mrs Jarley sharply. |
| |
| 'But he never will be,' said the child in an earnest whisper. 'I fear |
| he never will be again. Pray do not speak harshly to him. We are very |
| thankful to you,' she added aloud; 'but neither of us could part from |
| the other if all the wealth of the world were halved between us.' |
| |
| Mrs Jarley was a little disconcerted by this reception of her proposal, |
| and looked at the old man, who tenderly took Nell's hand and detained |
| it in his own, as if she could have very well dispensed with his |
| company or even his earthly existence. After an awkward pause, she |
| thrust her head out of the window again, and had another conference |
| with the driver upon some point on which they did not seem to agree |
| quite so readily as on their former topic of discussion; but they |
| concluded at last, and she addressed the grandfather again. |
| |
| 'If you're really disposed to employ yourself,' said Mrs Jarley, 'there |
| would be plenty for you to do in the way of helping to dust the |
| figures, and take the checks, and so forth. What I want your |
| grand-daughter for, is to point 'em out to the company; they would be |
| soon learnt, and she has a way with her that people wouldn't think |
| unpleasant, though she does come after me; for I've been always |
| accustomed to go round with visitors myself, which I should keep on |
| doing now, only that my spirits make a little ease absolutely |
| necessary. It's not a common offer, bear in mind,' said the lady, |
| rising into the tone and manner in which she was accustomed to address |
| her audiences; 'it's Jarley's wax-work, remember. The duty's very |
| light and genteel, the company particularly select, the exhibition |
| takes place in assembly-rooms, town-halls, large rooms at inns, or |
| auction galleries. There is none of your open-air wagrancy at |
| Jarley's, recollect; there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's, |
| remember. Every expectation held out in the handbills is realised to |
| the utmost, and the whole forms an effect of imposing brilliancy |
| hitherto unrivalled in this kingdom. Remember that the price of |
| admission is only sixpence, and that this is an opportunity which may |
| never occur again!' |
| |
| Descending from the sublime when she had reached this point, to the |
| details of common life, Mrs Jarley remarked that with reference to |
| salary she could pledge herself to no specific sum until she had |
| sufficiently tested Nell's abilities, and narrowly watched her in the |
| performance of her duties. But board and lodging, both for her and her |
| grandfather, she bound herself to provide, and she furthermore passed |
| her word that the board should always be good in quality, and in |
| quantity plentiful. |
| |
| Nell and her grandfather consulted together, and while they were so |
| engaged, Mrs Jarley with her hands behind her walked up and down the |
| caravan, as she had walked after tea on the dull earth, with uncommon |
| dignity and self-esteem. Nor will this appear so slight a circumstance |
| as to be unworthy of mention, when it is remembered that the caravan |
| was in uneasy motion all the time, and that none but a person of great |
| natural stateliness and acquired grace could have forborne to stagger. |
| |
| 'Now, child?' cried Mrs Jarley, coming to a halt as Nell turned towards |
| her. |
| |
| 'We are very much obliged to you, ma'am,' said Nell, 'and thankfully |
| accept your offer.' |
| |
| 'And you'll never be sorry for it,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'I'm pretty |
| sure of that. So as that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper.' |
| |
| In the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on as if it too had been |
| drinking strong beer and was drowsy, and came at last upon the paved |
| streets of a town which were clear of passengers, and quiet, for it was |
| by this time near midnight, and the townspeople were all abed. As it |
| was too late an hour to repair to the exhibition room, they turned |
| aside into a piece of waste ground that lay just within the old |
| town-gate, and drew up there for the night, near to another caravan, |
| which, notwithstanding that it bore on the lawful panel the great name |
| of Jarley, and was employed besides in conveying from place to place |
| the wax-work which was its country's pride, was designated by a |
| grovelling stamp-office as a 'Common Stage Waggon,' and numbered |
| too--seven thousand odd hundred--as though its precious freight were |
| mere flour or coals! |
| |
| This ill-used machine being empty (for it had deposited its burden at |
| the place of exhibition, and lingered here until its services were |
| again required) was assigned to the old man as his sleeping-place for |
| the night; and within its wooden walls, Nell made him up the best bed |
| she could, from the materials at hand. For herself, she was to sleep |
| in Mrs Jarley's own travelling-carriage, as a signal mark of that |
| lady's favour and confidence. |
| |
| She had taken leave of her grandfather and was returning to the other |
| waggon, when she was tempted by the coolness of the night to linger for |
| a little while in the air. The moon was shining down upon the old |
| gateway of the town, leaving the low archway very black and dark; and |
| with a mingled sensation of curiosity and fear, she slowly approached |
| the gate, and stood still to look up at it, wondering to see how dark, |
| and grim, and old, and cold, it looked. |
| |
| There was an empty niche from which some old statue had fallen or been |
| carried away hundreds of years ago, and she was thinking what strange |
| people it must have looked down upon when it stood there, and how many |
| hard struggles might have taken place, and how many murders might have |
| been done, upon that silent spot, when there suddenly emerged from the |
| black shade of the arch, a man. The instant he appeared, she |
| recognised him--Who could have failed to recognise, in that instant, |
| the ugly misshapen Quilp! |
| |
| The street beyond was so narrow, and the shadow of the houses on one |
| side of the way so deep, that he seemed to have risen out of the earth. |
| But there he was. The child withdrew into a dark corner, and saw him |
| pass close to her. He had a stick in his hand, and, when he had got |
| clear of the shadow of the gateway, he leant upon it, looked |
| back--directly, as it seemed, towards where she stood--and beckoned. |
| |
| To her? oh no, thank God, not to her; for as she stood, in an |
| extremity of fear, hesitating whether to scream for help, or come from |
| her hiding-place and fly, before he should draw nearer, there issued |
| slowly forth from the arch another figure--that of a boy--who carried |
| on his back a trunk. |
| |
| 'Faster, sirrah!' cried Quilp, looking up at the old gateway, and |
| showing in the moonlight like some monstrous image that had come down |
| from its niche and was casting a backward glance at its old house, |
| 'faster!' |
| |
| 'It's a dreadful heavy load, Sir,' the boy pleaded. 'I've come on very |
| fast, considering.' |
| |
| '_You_ have come fast, considering!' retorted Quilp; 'you creep, you dog, |
| you crawl, you measure distance like a worm. There are the chimes now, |
| half-past twelve.' |
| |
| He stopped to listen, and then turning upon the boy with a suddenness |
| and ferocity that made him start, asked at what hour that London coach |
| passed the corner of the road. The boy replied, at one. |
| |
| 'Come on then,' said Quilp, 'or I shall be too late. Faster--do you |
| hear me? Faster.' |
| |
| The boy made all the speed he could, and Quilp led onward, constantly |
| turning back to threaten him, and urge him to greater haste. Nell did |
| not dare to move until they were out of sight and hearing, and then |
| hurried to where she had left her grandfather, feeling as if the very |
| passing of the dwarf so near him must have filled him with alarm and |
| terror. But he was sleeping soundly, and she softly withdrew. |
| |
| As she was making her way to her own bed, she determined to say nothing |
| of this adventure, as upon whatever errand the dwarf had come (and she |
| feared it must have been in search of them) it was clear by his inquiry |
| about the London coach that he was on his way homeward, and as he had |
| passed through that place, it was but reasonable to suppose that they |
| were safer from his inquiries there, than they could be elsewhere. |
| These reflections did not remove her own alarm, for she had been too |
| much terrified to be easily composed, and felt as if she were hemmed in |
| by a legion of Quilps, and the very air itself were filled with them. |
| |
| The delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the patronised of Royalty |
| had, by some process of self-abridgment known only to herself, got into |
| her travelling bed, where she was snoring peacefully, while the large |
| bonnet, carefully disposed upon the drum, was revealing its glories by |
| the light of a dim lamp that swung from the roof. The child's bed was |
| already made upon the floor, and it was a great comfort to her to hear |
| the steps removed as soon as she had entered, and to know that all easy |
| communication between persons outside and the brass knocker was by this |
| means effectually prevented. Certain guttural sounds, too, which from |
| time to time ascended through the floor of the caravan, and a rustling |
| of straw in the same direction, apprised her that the driver was |
| couched upon the ground beneath, and gave her an additional feeling of |
| security. |
| |
| Notwithstanding these protections, she could get none but broken sleep |
| by fits and starts all night, for fear of Quilp, who throughout her |
| uneasy dreams was somehow connected with the wax-work, or was wax-work |
| himself, or was Mrs Jarley and wax-work too, or was himself, Mrs |
| Jarley, wax-work, and a barrel organ all in one, and yet not exactly |
| any of them either. At length, towards break of day, that deep sleep |
| came upon her which succeeds to weariness and over-watching, and which |
| has no consciousness but one of overpowering and irresistible enjoyment. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 28 |
| |
| Sleep hung upon the eyelids of the child so long, that, when she awoke, |
| Mrs Jarley was already decorated with her large bonnet, and actively |
| engaged in preparing breakfast. She received Nell's apology for being |
| so late with perfect good humour, and said that she should not have |
| roused her if she had slept on until noon. |
| |
| 'Because it does you good,' said the lady of the caravan, 'when you're |
| tired, to sleep as long as ever you can, and get the fatigue quite off; |
| and that's another blessing of your time of life--you can sleep so very |
| sound.' |
| |
| 'Have you had a bad night, ma'am?' asked Nell. |
| |
| 'I seldom have anything else, child,' replied Mrs Jarley, with the air |
| of a martyr. 'I sometimes wonder how I bear it.' |
| |
| Remembering the snores which had proceeded from that cleft in the |
| caravan in which the proprietress of the wax-work passed the night, |
| Nell rather thought she must have been dreaming of lying awake. |
| However, she expressed herself very sorry to hear such a dismal account |
| of her state of health, and shortly afterwards sat down with her |
| grandfather and Mrs Jarley to breakfast. The meal finished, Nell |
| assisted to wash the cups and saucers, and put them in their proper |
| places, and these household duties performed, Mrs Jarley arrayed |
| herself in an exceedingly bright shawl for the purpose of making a |
| progress through the streets of the town. |
| |
| 'The wan will come on to bring the boxes,' said Mrs Jarley, and you had |
| better come in it, child. I am obliged to walk, very much against my |
| will; but the people expect it of me, and public characters can't be |
| their own masters and mistresses in such matters as these. How do I |
| look, child?' |
| |
| Nell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs Jarley, after sticking a |
| great many pins into various parts of her figure, and making several |
| abortive attempts to obtain a full view of her own back, was at last |
| satisfied with her appearance, and went forth majestically. |
| |
| The caravan followed at no great distance. As it went jolting through |
| the streets, Nell peeped from the window, curious to see in what kind |
| of place they were, and yet fearful of encountering at every turn the |
| dreaded face of Quilp. It was a pretty large town, with an open square |
| which they were crawling slowly across, and in the middle of which was |
| the Town-Hall, with a clock-tower and a weather-cock. There were |
| houses of stone, houses of red brick, houses of yellow brick, houses of |
| lath and plaster; and houses of wood, many of them very old, with |
| withered faces carved upon the beams, and staring down into the street. |
| These had very little winking windows, and low-arched doors, and, in |
| some of the narrower ways, quite overhung the pavement. The streets |
| were very clean, very sunny, very empty, and very dull. A few idle men |
| lounged about the two inns, and the empty market-place, and the |
| tradesmen's doors, and some old people were dozing in chairs outside an |
| alms-house wall; but scarcely any passengers who seemed bent on going |
| anywhere, or to have any object in view, went by; and if perchance some |
| straggler did, his footsteps echoed on the hot bright pavement for |
| minutes afterwards. Nothing seemed to be going on but the clocks, and |
| they had such drowzy faces, such heavy lazy hands, and such cracked |
| voices that they surely must have been too slow. The very dogs were |
| all asleep, and the flies, drunk with moist sugar in the grocer's shop, |
| forgot their wings and briskness, and baked to death in dusty corners |
| of the window. |
| |
| Rumbling along with most unwonted noise, the caravan stopped at last at |
| the place of exhibition, where Nell dismounted amidst an admiring group |
| of children, who evidently supposed her to be an important item of the |
| curiosities, and were fully impressed with the belief that her |
| grandfather was a cunning device in wax. The chests were taken out |
| with all convenient despatch, and taken in to be unlocked by Mrs |
| Jarley, who, attended by George and another man in velveteen shorts and |
| a drab hat ornamented with turnpike tickets, were waiting to dispose |
| their contents (consisting of red festoons and other ornamental devices |
| in upholstery work) to the best advantage in the decoration of the room. |
| |
| They all got to work without loss of time, and very busy they were. As |
| the stupendous collection were yet concealed by cloths, lest the |
| envious dust should injure their complexions, Nell bestirred herself to |
| assist in the embellishment of the room, in which her grandfather also |
| was of great service. The two men being well used to it, did a great |
| deal in a short time; and Mrs Jarley served out the tin tacks from a |
| linen pocket like a toll-collector's which she wore for the purpose, |
| and encouraged her assistants to renewed exertion. |
| |
| While they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman with a hook nose and |
| black hair, dressed in a military surtout very short and tight in the |
| sleeves, and which had once been frogged and braided all over, but was |
| now sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare--dressed too in |
| ancient grey pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and a pair of pumps |
| in the winter of their existence--looked in at the door and smiled |
| affably. Mrs Jarley's back being then towards him, the military |
| gentleman shook his forefinger as a sign that her myrmidons were not to |
| apprise her of his presence, and stealing up close behind her, tapped |
| her on the neck, and cried playfully 'Boh!' |
| |
| 'What, Mr Slum!' cried the lady of the wax-work. 'Lot! who'd have |
| thought of seeing you here!' |
| |
| ''Pon my soul and honour,' said Mr Slum, 'that's a good remark. 'Pon |
| my soul and honour that's a wise remark. Who would have thought it! |
| George, my faithful feller, how are you?' |
| |
| George received this advance with a surly indifference, observing that |
| he was well enough for the matter of that, and hammering lustily all |
| the time. |
| |
| 'I came here,' said the military gentleman turning to Mrs Jarley--''pon |
| my soul and honour I hardly know what I came here for. It would |
| puzzle me to tell you, it would by Gad. I wanted a little inspiration, |
| a little freshening up, a little change of ideas, and-- 'Pon my soul |
| and honour,' said the military gentleman, checking himself and looking |
| round the room, 'what a devilish classical thing this is! by Gad, it's |
| quite Minervian.' |
| |
| 'It'll look well enough when it comes to be finished,' observed Mrs |
| Jarley. |
| |
| 'Well enough!' said Mr Slum. 'Will you believe me when I say it's the |
| delight of my life to have dabbled in poetry, when I think I've |
| exercised my pen upon this charming theme? By the way--any orders? Is |
| there any little thing I can do for you?' |
| |
| 'It comes so very expensive, sir,' replied Mrs Jarley, 'and I really |
| don't think it does much good.' |
| |
| 'Hush! No, no!' returned Mr Slum, elevating his hand. 'No fibs. I'll |
| not hear it. Don't say it don't do good. Don't say it. I know |
| better!' |
| |
| 'I don't think it does,' said Mrs Jarley. |
| |
| 'Ha, ha!' cried Mr Slum, 'you're giving way, you're coming down. Ask |
| the perfumers, ask the blacking-makers, ask the hatters, ask the old |
| lottery-office-keepers--ask any man among 'em what my poetry has done |
| for him, and mark my words, he blesses the name of Slum. If he's an |
| honest man, he raises his eyes to heaven, and blesses the name of |
| Slum--mark that! You are acquainted with Westminster Abbey, Mrs |
| Jarley?' |
| |
| 'Yes, surely.' |
| |
| 'Then upon my soul and honour, ma'am, you'll find in a certain angle of |
| that dreary pile, called Poets' Corner, a few smaller names than Slum,' |
| retorted that gentleman, tapping himself expressively on the forehead |
| to imply that there was some slight quantity of brain behind it. 'I've |
| got a little trifle here, now,' said Mr Slum, taking off his hat which |
| was full of scraps of paper, 'a little trifle here, thrown off in the |
| heat of the moment, which I should say was exactly the thing you wanted |
| to set this place on fire with. It's an acrostic--the name at this |
| moment is Warren, and the idea's a convertible one, and a positive |
| inspiration for Jarley. Have the acrostic.' |
| |
| 'I suppose it's very dear,' said Mrs Jarley. |
| |
| 'Five shillings,' returned Mr Slum, using his pencil as a toothpick. |
| 'Cheaper than any prose.' |
| |
| 'I couldn't give more than three,' said Mrs Jarley. |
| |
| '--And six,' retorted Slum. 'Come. Three-and-six.' |
| |
| Mrs Jarley was not proof against the poet's insinuating manner, and Mr |
| Slum entered the order in a small note-book as a three-and-sixpenny |
| one. Mr Slum then withdrew to alter the acrostic, after taking a most |
| affectionate leave of his patroness, and promising to return, as soon |
| as he possibly could, with a fair copy for the printer. |
| |
| As his presence had not interfered with or interrupted the |
| preparations, they were now far advanced, and were completed shortly |
| after his departure. When the festoons were all put up as tastily as |
| they might be, the stupendous collection was uncovered, and there were |
| displayed, on a raised platform some two feet from the floor, running |
| round the room and parted from the rude public by a crimson rope breast |
| high, divers sprightly effigies of celebrated characters, singly and in |
| groups, clad in glittering dresses of various climes and times, and |
| standing more or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very |
| wide open, and their nostrils very much inflated, and the muscles of |
| their legs and arms very strongly developed, and all their countenances |
| expressing great surprise. All the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted |
| and very blue about the beards; and all the ladies were miraculous |
| figures; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen were looking |
| intensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary earnestness at |
| nothing. |
| |
| When Nell had exhausted her first raptures at this glorious sight, Mrs |
| Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the child, |
| and, sitting herself down in an arm-chair in the centre, formally |
| invested Nell with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out |
| the characters, and was at great pains to instruct her in her duty. |
| |
| 'That,' said Mrs Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a |
| figure at the beginning of the platform, 'is an unfortunate Maid of |
| Honour in the Time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her |
| finger in consequence of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood |
| which is trickling from her finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the |
| period, with which she is at work.' |
| |
| All this, Nell repeated twice or thrice: pointing to the finger and the |
| needle at the right times: and then passed on to the next. |
| |
| 'That, ladies and gentlemen,' said Mrs Jarley, 'is Jasper Packlemerton |
| of atrocious memory, who courted and married fourteen wives, and |
| destroyed them all, by tickling the soles of their feet when they were |
| sleeping in the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being |
| brought to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what he had done, |
| he replied yes, he was sorry for having let 'em off so easy, and hoped |
| all Christian husbands would pardon him the offence. Let this be a |
| warning to all young ladies to be particular in the character of the |
| gentlemen of their choice. Observe that his fingers are curled as if |
| in the act of tickling, and that his face is represented with a wink, |
| as he appeared when committing his barbarous murders.' |
| |
| When Nell knew all about Mr Packlemerton, and could say it without |
| faltering, Mrs Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin |
| man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a |
| hundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who |
| poisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other historical |
| characters and interesting but misguided individuals. And so well did |
| Nell profit by her instructions, and so apt was she to remember them, |
| that by the time they had been shut up together for a couple of hours, |
| she was in full possession of the history of the whole establishment, |
| and perfectly competent to the enlightenment of visitors. |
| |
| Mrs Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at this happy result, |
| and carried her young friend and pupil to inspect the remaining |
| arrangements within doors, by virtue of which the passage had been |
| already converted into a grove of green-baize hung with the inscription |
| she had already seen (Mr Slum's productions), and a highly ornamented |
| table placed at the upper end for Mrs Jarley herself, at which she was |
| to preside and take the money, in company with his Majesty King George |
| the Third, Mr Grimaldi as clown, Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous |
| gentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and Mr Pitt holding in his hand a |
| correct model of the bill for the imposition of the window duty. The |
| preparations without doors had not been neglected either; a nun of |
| great personal attractions was telling her beads on the little portico |
| over the door; and a brigand with the blackest possible head of hair, |
| and the clearest possible complexion, was at that moment going round |
| the town in a cart, consulting the miniature of a lady. |
| |
| It now only remained that Mr Slum's compositions should be judiciously |
| distributed; that the pathetic effusions should find their way to all |
| private houses and tradespeople; and that the parody commencing 'If I |
| know'd a donkey,' should be confined to the taverns, and circulated |
| only among the lawyers' clerks and choice spirits of the place. When |
| this had been done, and Mrs Jarley had waited upon the boarding-schools |
| in person, with a handbill composed expressly for them, in which it was |
| distinctly proved that wax-work refined the mind, cultivated the taste, |
| and enlarged the sphere of the human understanding, that indefatigable |
| lady sat down to dinner, and drank out of the suspicious bottle to a |
| flourishing campaign. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 29 |
| |
| Unquestionably Mrs Jarley had an inventive genius. In the midst of the |
| various devices for attracting visitors to the exhibition, little Nell |
| was not forgotten. The light cart in which the Brigand usually made |
| his perambulations being gaily dressed with flags and streamers, and |
| the Brigand placed therein, contemplating the miniature of his beloved |
| as usual, Nell was accommodated with a seat beside him, decorated with |
| artificial flowers, and in this state and ceremony rode slowly through |
| the town every morning, dispersing handbills from a basket, to the |
| sound of drum and trumpet. The beauty of the child, coupled with her |
| gentle and timid bearing, produced quite a sensation in the little |
| country place. The Brigand, heretofore a source of exclusive interest |
| in the streets, became a mere secondary consideration, and to be |
| important only as a part of the show of which she was the chief |
| attraction. Grown-up folks began to be interested in the bright-eyed |
| girl, and some score of little boys fell desperately in love, and |
| constantly left enclosures of nuts and apples, directed in small-text, |
| at the wax-work door. |
| |
| This desirable impression was not lost on Mrs Jarley, who, lest Nell |
| should become too cheap, soon sent the Brigand out alone again, and |
| kept her in the exhibition room, where she described the figures every |
| half-hour to the great satisfaction of admiring audiences. And these |
| audiences were of a very superior description, including a great many |
| young ladies' boarding-schools, whose favour Mrs Jarley had been at |
| great pains to conciliate, by altering the face and costume of Mr |
| Grimaldi as clown to represent Mr Lindley Murray as he appeared when |
| engaged in the composition of his English Grammar, and turning a |
| murderess of great renown into Mrs Hannah More--both of which |
| likenesses were admitted by Miss Monflathers, who was at the head of |
| the head Boarding and Day Establishment in the town, and who |
| condescended to take a Private View with eight chosen young ladies, to |
| be quite startling from their extreme correctness. Mr Pitt in a |
| nightcap and bedgown, and without his boots, represented the poet |
| Cowper with perfect exactness; and Mary Queen of Scots in a dark wig, |
| white shirt-collar, and male attire, was such a complete image of Lord |
| Byron that the young ladies quite screamed when they saw it. Miss |
| Monflathers, however, rebuked this enthusiasm, and took occasion to |
| reprove Mrs Jarley for not keeping her collection more select: |
| observing that His Lordship had held certain opinions quite |
| incompatible with wax-work honours, and adding something about a Dean |
| and Chapter, which Mrs Jarley did not understand. |
| |
| Although her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell found in the lady |
| of the caravan a very kind and considerate person, who had not only a |
| peculiar relish for being comfortable herself, but for making everybody |
| about her comfortable also; which latter taste, it may be remarked, is, |
| even in persons who live in much finer places than caravans, a far more |
| rare and uncommon one than the first, and is not by any means its |
| necessary consequence. As her popularity procured her various little |
| fees from the visitors on which her patroness never demanded any toll, |
| and as her grandfather too was well-treated and useful, she had no |
| cause of anxiety in connexion with the wax-work, beyond that which |
| sprung from her recollection of Quilp, and her fears that he might |
| return and one day suddenly encounter them. |
| |
| Quilp indeed was a perpetual night-mare to the child, who was |
| constantly haunted by a vision of his ugly face and stunted figure. |
| She slept, for their better security, in the room where the wax-work |
| figures were, and she never retired to this place at night but she |
| tortured herself--she could not help it--with imagining a resemblance, |
| in some one or other of their death-like faces, to the dwarf, and this |
| fancy would sometimes so gain upon her that she would almost believe he |
| had removed the figure and stood within the clothes. Then there were |
| so many of them with their great glassy eyes--and, as they stood one |
| behind the other all about her bed, they looked so like living |
| creatures, and yet so unlike in their grim stillness and silence, that |
| she had a kind of terror of them for their own sakes, and would often |
| lie watching their dusky figures until she was obliged to rise and |
| light a candle, or go and sit at the open window and feel a |
| companionship in the bright stars. At these times, she would recall |
| the old house and the window at which she used to sit alone; and then |
| she would think of poor Kit and all his kindness, until the tears came |
| into her eyes, and she would weep and smile together. |
| |
| Often and anxiously at this silent hour, her thoughts reverted to her |
| grandfather, and she would wonder how much he remembered of their |
| former life, and whether he was ever really mindful of the change in |
| their condition and of their late helplessness and destitution. When |
| they were wandering about, she seldom thought of this, but now she |
| could not help considering what would become of them if he fell sick, |
| or her own strength were to fail her. He was very patient and willing, |
| happy to execute any little task, and glad to be of use; but he was in |
| the same listless state, with no prospect of improvement--a mere |
| child--a poor, thoughtless, vacant creature--a harmless fond old man, |
| susceptible of tender love and regard for her, and of pleasant and |
| painful impressions, but alive to nothing more. It made her very sad |
| to know that this was so--so sad to see it that sometimes when he sat |
| idly by, smiling and nodding to her when she looked round, or when he |
| caressed some little child and carried it to and fro, as he was fond of |
| doing by the hour together, perplexed by its simple questions, yet |
| patient under his own infirmity, and seeming almost conscious of it |
| too, and humbled even before the mind of an infant--so sad it made her |
| to see him thus, that she would burst into tears, and, withdrawing into |
| some secret place, fall down upon her knees and pray that he might be |
| restored. |
| |
| But, the bitterness of her grief was not in beholding him in this |
| condition, when he was at least content and tranquil, nor in her |
| solitary meditations on his altered state, though these were trials for |
| a young heart. Cause for deeper and heavier sorrow was yet to come. |
| |
| One evening, a holiday night with them, Nell and her grandfather went |
| out to walk. They had been rather closely confined for some days, and |
| the weather being warm, they strolled a long distance. Clear of the |
| town, they took a footpath which struck through some pleasant fields, |
| judging that it would terminate in the road they quitted and enable |
| them to return that way. It made, however, a much wider circuit than |
| they had supposed, and thus they were tempted onward until sunset, when |
| they reached the track of which they were in search, and stopped to |
| rest. |
| |
| It had been gradually getting overcast, and now the sky was dark and |
| lowering, save where the glory of the departing sun piled up masses of |
| gold and burning fire, decaying embers of which gleamed here and there |
| through the black veil, and shone redly down upon the earth. The wind |
| began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun went down carrying glad day |
| elsewhere; and a train of dull clouds coming up against it, menaced |
| thunder and lightning. Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and, as |
| the storm clouds came sailing onward, others supplied the void they |
| left behind and spread over all the sky. Then was heard the low |
| rumbling of distant thunder, then the lightning quivered, and then the |
| darkness of an hour seemed to have gathered in an instant. |
| |
| Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the old man and the |
| child hurried along the high road, hoping to find some house in which |
| they could seek a refuge from the storm, which had now burst forth in |
| earnest, and every moment increased in violence. Drenched with the |
| pelting rain, confused by the deafening thunder, and bewildered by the |
| glare of the forked lightning, they would have passed a solitary house |
| without being aware of its vicinity, had not a man, who was standing at |
| the door, called lustily to them to enter. |
| |
| 'Your ears ought to be better than other folks' at any rate, if you |
| make so little of the chance of being struck blind,' he said, |
| retreating from the door and shading his eyes with his hands as the |
| jagged lightning came again. 'What were you going past for, eh?' he |
| added, as he closed the door and led the way along a passage to a room |
| behind. |
| |
| 'We didn't see the house, sir, till we heard you calling,' Nell replied. |
| |
| 'No wonder,' said the man, 'with this lightning in one's eyes, |
| by-the-by. You had better stand by the fire here, and dry yourselves a |
| bit. You can call for what you like if you want anything. If you |
| don't want anything, you are not obliged to give an order. Don't be |
| afraid of that. This is a public-house, that's all. The Valiant |
| Soldier is pretty well known hereabouts.' |
| |
| 'Is this house called the Valiant Soldier, Sir?' asked Nell. |
| |
| 'I thought everybody knew that,' replied the landlord. 'Where have you |
| come from, if you don't know the Valiant Soldier as well as the church |
| catechism? This is the Valiant Soldier, by James Groves--Jem |
| Groves--honest Jem Groves, as is a man of unblemished moral character, |
| and has a good dry skittle-ground. If any man has got anything to say |
| again Jem Groves, let him say it TO Jem Groves, and Jem Groves can |
| accommodate him with a customer on any terms from four pound a side to |
| forty. |
| |
| With these words, the speaker tapped himself on the waistcoat to |
| intimate that he was the Jem Groves so highly eulogized; sparred |
| scientifically at a counterfeit Jem Groves, who was sparring at society |
| in general from a black frame over the chimney-piece; and, applying a |
| half-emptied glass of spirits and water to his lips, drank Jem Groves's |
| health. |
| |
| The night being warm, there was a large screen drawn across the room, |
| for a barrier against the heat of the fire. It seemed as if somebody |
| on the other side of this screen had been insinuating doubts of Mr |
| Groves's prowess, and had thereby given rise to these egotistical |
| expressions, for Mr Groves wound up his defiance by giving a loud knock |
| upon it with his knuckles and pausing for a reply from the other side. |
| |
| 'There an't many men,' said Mr Groves, no answer being returned, 'who |
| would ventur' to cross Jem Groves under his own roof. There's only one |
| man, I know, that has nerve enough for that, and that man's not a |
| hundred mile from here neither. But he's worth a dozen men, and I let |
| him say of me whatever he likes in consequence--he knows that.' |
| |
| In return for this complimentary address, a very gruff hoarse voice |
| bade Mr Groves 'hold his noise and light a candle.' And the same voice |
| remarked that the same gentleman 'needn't waste his breath in brag, for |
| most people knew pretty well what sort of stuff he was made of.' |
| |
| 'Nell, they're--they're playing cards,' whispered the old man, suddenly |
| interested. 'Don't you hear them?' |
| |
| 'Look sharp with that candle,' said the voice; 'it's as much as I can |
| do to see the pips on the cards as it is; and get this shutter closed |
| as quick as you can, will you? Your beer will be the worse for |
| to-night's thunder I expect.--Game! Seven-and-sixpence to me, old |
| Isaac. Hand over.' |
| |
| 'Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them?' whispered the old man again, |
| with increased earnestness, as the money chinked upon the table. |
| |
| 'I haven't seen such a storm as this,' said a sharp cracked voice of |
| most disagreeable quality, when a tremendous peal of thunder had died |
| away, 'since the night when old Luke Withers won thirteen times running |
| on the red. We all said he had the Devil's luck and his own, and as it |
| was the kind of night for the Devil to be out and busy, I suppose he |
| was looking over his shoulder, if anybody could have seen him.' |
| |
| 'Ah!' returned the gruff voice; 'for all old Luke's winning through |
| thick and thin of late years, I remember the time when he was the |
| unluckiest and unfortunatest of men. He never took a dice-box in his |
| hand, or held a card, but he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned out |
| completely.' |
| |
| 'Do you hear what he says?' whispered the old man. 'Do you hear that, |
| Nell?' |
| |
| The child saw with astonishment and alarm that his whole appearance had |
| undergone a complete change. His face was flushed and eager, his eyes |
| were strained, his teeth set, his breath came short and thick, and the |
| hand he laid upon her arm trembled so violently that she shook beneath |
| its grasp. |
| |
| 'Bear witness,' he muttered, looking upward, 'that I always said it; |
| that I knew it, dreamed of it, felt it was the truth, and that it must |
| be so! What money have we, Nell? Come! I saw you with money |
| yesterday. What money have we? Give it to me.' |
| |
| 'No, no, let me keep it, grandfather,' said the frightened child. 'Let |
| us go away from here. Do not mind the rain. Pray let us go.' |
| |
| 'Give it to me, I say,' returned the old man fiercely. 'Hush, hush, |
| don't cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear, I didn't mean it. It's for |
| thy good. I have wronged thee, Nell, but I will right thee yet, I will |
| indeed. Where is the money?' |
| |
| 'Do not take it,' said the child. 'Pray do not take it, dear. For |
| both our sakes let me keep it, or let me throw it away--better let me |
| throw it away, than you take it now. Let us go; do let us go.' |
| |
| 'Give me the money,' returned the old man, 'I must have it. |
| There--there--that's my dear Nell. I'll right thee one day, child, |
| I'll right thee, never fear!' |
| |
| She took from her pocket a little purse. He seized it with the same |
| rapid impatience which had characterised his speech, and hastily made |
| his way to the other side of the screen. It was impossible to restrain |
| him, and the trembling child followed close behind. |
| |
| The landlord had placed a light upon the table, and was engaged in |
| drawing the curtain of the window. The speakers whom they had heard |
| were two men, who had a pack of cards and some silver money between |
| them, while upon the screen itself the games they had played were |
| scored in chalk. The man with the rough voice was a burly fellow of |
| middle age, with large black whiskers, broad cheeks, a coarse wide |
| mouth, and bull neck, which was pretty freely displayed as his shirt |
| collar was only confined by a loose red neckerchief. He wore his hat, |
| which was of a brownish-white, and had beside him a thick knotted |
| stick. The other man, whom his companion had called Isaac, was of a |
| more slender figure--stooping, and high in the shoulders--with a very |
| ill-favoured face, and a most sinister and villainous squint. |
| |
| 'Now old gentleman,' said Isaac, looking round. 'Do you know either of |
| us? This side of the screen is private, sir.' |
| |
| 'No offence, I hope,' returned the old man. |
| |
| 'But by G--, sir, there is offence,' said the other, interrupting him, |
| 'when you intrude yourself upon a couple of gentlemen who are |
| particularly engaged.' |
| |
| 'I had no intention to offend,' said the old man, looking anxiously at |
| the cards. 'I thought that--' |
| |
| 'But you had no right to think, sir,' retorted the other. 'What the |
| devil has a man at your time of life to do with thinking?' |
| |
| 'Now bully boy,' said the stout man, raising his eyes from his cards |
| for the first time, 'can't you let him speak?' |
| |
| The landlord, who had apparently resolved to remain neutral until he |
| knew which side of the question the stout man would espouse, chimed in |
| at this place with 'Ah, to be sure, can't you let him speak, Isaac |
| List?' |
| |
| 'Can't I let him speak,' sneered Isaac in reply, mimicking as nearly as |
| he could, in his shrill voice, the tones of the landlord. 'Yes, I can |
| let him speak, Jemmy Groves.' |
| |
| 'Well then, do it, will you?' said the landlord. |
| |
| Mr List's squint assumed a portentous character, which seemed to |
| threaten a prolongation of this controversy, when his companion, who |
| had been looking sharply at the old man, put a timely stop to it. |
| |
| 'Who knows,' said he, with a cunning look, 'but the gentleman may have |
| civilly meant to ask if he might have the honour to take a hand with |
| us!' |
| |
| 'I did mean it,' cried the old man. 'That is what I mean. That is |
| what I want now!' |
| |
| 'I thought so,' returned the same man. 'Then who knows but the |
| gentleman, anticipating our objection to play for love, civilly desired |
| to play for money?' |
| |
| The old man replied by shaking the little purse in his eager hand, and |
| then throwing it down upon the table, and gathering up the cards as a |
| miser would clutch at gold. |
| |
| 'Oh! That indeed,' said Isaac; 'if that's what the gentleman meant, I |
| beg the gentleman's pardon. Is this the gentleman's little purse? A |
| very pretty little purse. Rather a light purse,' added Isaac, throwing |
| it into the air and catching it dexterously, 'but enough to amuse a |
| gentleman for half an hour or so.' |
| |
| 'We'll make a four-handed game of it, and take in Groves,' said the |
| stout man. 'Come, Jemmy.' |
| |
| The landlord, who conducted himself like one who was well used to such |
| little parties, approached the table and took his seat. The child, in |
| a perfect agony, drew her grandfather aside, and implored him, even |
| then, to come away. |
| |
| 'Come; and we may be so happy,' said the child. |
| |
| 'We WILL be happy,' replied the old man hastily. 'Let me go, Nell. |
| The means of happiness are on the cards and the dice. We must rise |
| from little winnings to great. There's little to be won here; but |
| great will come in time. I shall but win back my own, and it's all for |
| thee, my darling.' |
| |
| 'God help us!' cried the child. 'Oh! what hard fortune brought us |
| here?' |
| |
| 'Hush!' rejoined the old man laying his hand upon her mouth, 'Fortune |
| will not bear chiding. We must not reproach her, or she shuns us; I |
| have found that out.' |
| |
| 'Now, mister,' said the stout man. 'If you're not coming yourself, |
| give us the cards, will you?' |
| |
| 'I am coming,' cried the old man. 'Sit thee down, Nell, sit thee down |
| and look on. Be of good heart, it's all for thee--all--every penny. |
| I don't tell them, no, no, or else they wouldn't play, dreading the |
| chance that such a cause must give me. Look at them. See what they |
| are and what thou art. Who doubts that we must win!' |
| |
| 'The gentleman has thought better of it, and isn't coming,' said Isaac, |
| making as though he would rise from the table. 'I'm sorry the |
| gentleman's daunted--nothing venture, nothing have--but the gentleman |
| knows best.' |
| |
| 'Why I am ready. You have all been slow but me,' said the old man. 'I |
| wonder who is more anxious to begin than I.' |
| |
| As he spoke he drew a chair to the table; and the other three closing |
| round it at the same time, the game commenced. |
| |
| The child sat by, and watched its progress with a troubled mind. |
| Regardless of the run of luck, and mindful only of the desperate |
| passion which had its hold upon her grandfather, losses and gains were |
| to her alike. Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast down by a |
| defeat, there he sat so wild and restless, so feverishly and intensely |
| anxious, so terribly eager, so ravenous for the paltry stakes, that she |
| could have almost better borne to see him dead. And yet she was the |
| innocent cause of all this torture, and he, gambling with such a savage |
| thirst for gain as the most insatiable gambler never felt, had not one |
| selfish thought! |
| |
| On the contrary, the other three--knaves and gamesters by their |
| trade--while intent upon their game, were yet as cool and quiet as if |
| every virtue had been centered in their breasts. Sometimes one would |
| look up to smile to another, or to snuff the feeble candle, or to |
| glance at the lightning as it shot through the open window and |
| fluttering curtain, or to listen to some louder peal of thunder than |
| the rest, with a kind of momentary impatience, as if it put him out; |
| but there they sat, with a calm indifference to everything but their |
| cards, perfect philosophers in appearance, and with no greater show of |
| passion or excitement than if they had been made of stone. |
| |
| The storm had raged for full three hours; the lightning had grown |
| fainter and less frequent; the thunder, from seeming to roll and break |
| above their heads, had gradually died away into a deep hoarse distance; |
| and still the game went on, and still the anxious child was quite |
| forgotten. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 30 |
| |
| At length the play came to an end, and Mr Isaac List rose the only |
| winner. Mat and the landlord bore their losses with professional |
| fortitude. Isaac pocketed his gains with the air of a man who had |
| quite made up his mind to win, all along, and was neither surprised nor |
| pleased. |
| |
| Nell's little purse was exhausted; but although it lay empty by his |
| side, and the other players had now risen from the table, the old man |
| sat poring over the cards, dealing them as they had been dealt before, |
| and turning up the different hands to see what each man would have held |
| if they had still been playing. He was quite absorbed in this |
| occupation, when the child drew near and laid her hand upon his |
| shoulder, telling him it was near midnight. |
| |
| 'See the curse of poverty, Nell,' he said, pointing to the packs he had |
| spread out upon the table. 'If I could have gone on a little longer, |
| only a little longer, the luck would have turned on my side. Yes, it's |
| as plain as the marks upon the cards. See here--and there--and here |
| again.' |
| |
| 'Put them away,' urged the child. 'Try to forget them.' |
| |
| 'Try to forget them!' he rejoined, raising his haggard face to hers, |
| and regarding her with an incredulous stare. 'To forget them! How are |
| we ever to grow rich if I forget them?' |
| |
| The child could only shake her head. |
| |
| 'No, no, Nell,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'they must not be |
| forgotten. We must make amends for this as soon as we can. |
| Patience--patience, and we'll right thee yet, I promise thee. Lose |
| to-day, win to-morrow. And nothing can be won without anxiety and |
| care--nothing. Come, I am ready.' |
| |
| 'Do you know what the time is?' said Mr Groves, who was smoking with |
| his friends. 'Past twelve o'clock--' |
| |
| '--And a rainy night,' added the stout man. |
| |
| 'The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves. Good beds. Cheap entertainment |
| for man and beast,' said Mr Groves, quoting his sign-board. 'Half-past |
| twelve o'clock.' |
| |
| 'It's very late,' said the uneasy child. 'I wish we had gone before. |
| What will they think of us! It will be two o'clock by the time we get |
| back. What would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?' |
| |
| 'Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper and beer one shilling; total |
| two shillings and sixpence,' replied the Valiant Soldier. |
| |
| Now, Nell had still the piece of gold sewn in her dress; and when she |
| came to consider the lateness of the hour, and the somnolent habits of |
| Mrs Jarley, and to imagine the state of consternation in which they |
| would certainly throw that good lady by knocking her up in the middle |
| of the night--and when she reflected, on the other hand, that if they |
| remained where they were, and rose early in the morning, they might get |
| back before she awoke, and could plead the violence of the storm by |
| which they had been overtaken, as a good apology for their absence--she |
| decided, after a great deal of hesitation, to remain. She therefore |
| took her grandfather aside, and telling him that she had still enough |
| left to defray the cost of their lodging, proposed that they should |
| stay there for the night. |
| |
| 'If I had had but that money before--If I had only known of it a few |
| minutes ago!' muttered the old man. |
| |
| 'We will decide to stop here if you please,' said Nell, turning hastily |
| to the landlord. |
| |
| 'I think that's prudent,' returned Mr Groves. 'You shall have your |
| suppers directly.' |
| |
| Accordingly, when Mr Groves had smoked his pipe out, knocked out the |
| ashes, and placed it carefully in a corner of the fire-place, with the |
| bowl downwards, he brought in the bread and cheese, and beer, with many |
| high encomiums upon their excellence, and bade his guests fall to, and |
| make themselves at home. Nell and her grandfather ate sparingly, for |
| both were occupied with their own reflections; the other gentlemen, for |
| whose constitutions beer was too weak and tame a liquid, consoled |
| themselves with spirits and tobacco. |
| |
| As they would leave the house very early in the morning, the child was |
| anxious to pay for their entertainment before they retired to bed. But |
| as she felt the necessity of concealing her little hoard from her |
| grandfather, and had to change the piece of gold, she took it secretly |
| from its place of concealment, and embraced an opportunity of following |
| the landlord when he went out of the room, and tendered it to him in |
| the little bar. |
| |
| 'Will you give me the change here, if you please?' said the child. |
| |
| Mr James Groves was evidently surprised, and looked at the money, and |
| rang it, and looked at the child, and at the money again, as though he |
| had a mind to inquire how she came by it. The coin being genuine, |
| however, and changed at his house, he probably felt, like a wise |
| landlord, that it was no business of his. At any rate, he counted out |
| the change, and gave it her. The child was returning to the room where |
| they had passed the evening, when she fancied she saw a figure just |
| gliding in at the door. There was nothing but a long dark passage |
| between this door and the place where she had changed the money, and, |
| being very certain that no person had passed in or out while she stood |
| there, the thought struck her that she had been watched. |
| |
| But by whom? When she re-entered the room, she found its inmates |
| exactly as she had left them. The stout fellow lay upon two chairs, |
| resting his head on his hand, and the squinting man reposed in a |
| similar attitude on the opposite side of the table. Between them sat |
| her grandfather, looking intently at the winner with a kind of hungry |
| admiration, and hanging upon his words as if he were some superior |
| being. She was puzzled for a moment, and looked round to see if any |
| else were there. No. Then she asked her grandfather in a whisper |
| whether anybody had left the room while she was absent. 'No,' he said, |
| 'nobody.' |
| |
| It must have been her fancy then; and yet it was strange, that, without |
| anything in her previous thoughts to lead to it, she should have |
| imagined this figure so very distinctly. She was still wondering and |
| thinking of it, when a girl came to light her to bed. |
| |
| The old man took leave of the company at the same time, and they went |
| up stairs together. It was a great, rambling house, with dull |
| corridors and wide staircases which the flaring candles seemed to make |
| more gloomy. She left her grandfather in his chamber, and followed her |
| guide to another, which was at the end of a passage, and approached by |
| some half-dozen crazy steps. This was prepared for her. The girl |
| lingered a little while to talk, and tell her grievances. She had not |
| a good place, she said; the wages were low, and the work was hard. She |
| was going to leave it in a fortnight; the child couldn't recommend her |
| to another, she supposed? Instead she was afraid another would be |
| difficult to get after living there, for the house had a very |
| indifferent character; there was far too much card-playing, and such |
| like. She was very much mistaken if some of the people who came there |
| oftenest were quite as honest as they might be, but she wouldn't have |
| it known that she had said so, for the world. Then there were some |
| rambling allusions to a rejected sweetheart, who had threatened to go a |
| soldiering--a final promise of knocking at the door early in the |
| morning--and 'Good night.' |
| |
| The child did not feel comfortable when she was left alone. She could |
| not help thinking of the figure stealing through the passage down |
| stairs; and what the girl had said did not tend to reassure her. The |
| men were very ill-looking. They might get their living by robbing and |
| murdering travellers. Who could tell? |
| |
| Reasoning herself out of these fears, or losing sight of them for a |
| little while, there came the anxiety to which the adventures of the |
| night gave rise. Here was the old passion awakened again in her |
| grandfather's breast, and to what further distraction it might tempt |
| him Heaven only knew. What fears their absence might have occasioned |
| already! Persons might be seeking for them even then. Would they be |
| forgiven in the morning, or turned adrift again! Oh! why had they |
| stopped in that strange place? It would have been better, under any |
| circumstances, to have gone on! |
| |
| At last, sleep gradually stole upon her--a broken, fitful sleep, |
| troubled by dreams of falling from high towers, and waking with a start |
| and in great terror. A deeper slumber followed this--and then--What! |
| That figure in the room. |
| |
| A figure was there. Yes, she had drawn up the blind to admit the light |
| when it should be dawn, and there, between the foot of the bed and the |
| dark casement, it crouched and slunk along, groping its way with |
| noiseless hands, and stealing round the bed. She had no voice to cry |
| for help, no power to move, but lay still, watching it. |
| |
| On it came--on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's head. The breath |
| so near her pillow, that she shrunk back into it, lest those wandering |
| hands should light upon her face. Back again it stole to the |
| window--then turned its head towards her. |
| |
| The dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter darkness of the room, |
| but she saw the turning of the head, and felt and knew how the eyes |
| looked and the ears listened. There it remained, motionless as she. |
| At length, still keeping the face towards her, it busied its hands in |
| something, and she heard the chink of money. |
| |
| Then, on it came again, silent and stealthy as before, and replacing |
| the garments it had taken from the bedside, dropped upon its hands and |
| knees, and crawled away. How slowly it seemed to move, now that she |
| could hear but not see it, creeping along the floor! It reached the |
| door at last, and stood upon its feet. The steps creaked beneath its |
| noiseless tread, and it was gone. |
| |
| The first impulse of the child was to fly from the terror of being by |
| herself in that room--to have somebody by--not to be alone--and then |
| her power of speech would be restored. With no consciousness of having |
| moved, she gained the door. |
| |
| There was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the bottom of the steps. |
| |
| She could not pass it; she might have done so, perhaps, in the darkness |
| without being seized, but her blood curdled at the thought. The figure |
| stood quite still, and so did she; not boldly, but of necessity; for |
| going back into the room was hardly less terrible than going on. |
| |
| The rain beat fast and furiously without, and ran down in plashing |
| streams from the thatched roof. Some summer insect, with no escape |
| into the air, flew blindly to and fro, beating its body against the |
| walls and ceiling, and filling the silent place with murmurs. The |
| figure moved again. The child involuntarily did the same. Once in her |
| grandfather's room, she would be safe. |
| |
| It crept along the passage until it came to the very door she longed so |
| ardently to reach. The child, in the agony of being so near, had |
| almost darted forward with the design of bursting into the room and |
| closing it behind her, when the figure stopped again. |
| |
| The idea flashed suddenly upon her--what if it entered there, and had a |
| design upon the old man's life! She turned faint and sick. It did. |
| It went in. There was a light inside. The figure was now within the |
| chamber, and she, still dumb--quite dumb, and almost senseless--stood |
| looking on. |
| |
| The door was partly open. Not knowing what she meant to do, but |
| meaning to preserve him or be killed herself, she staggered forward and |
| looked in. What sight was that which met her view! |
| |
| The bed had not been lain on, but was smooth and empty. And at a table |
| sat the old man himself; the only living creature there; his white face |
| pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally |
| bright--counting the money of which his hands had robbed her. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 31 |
| |
| With steps more faltering and unsteady than those with which she had |
| approached the room, the child withdrew from the door, and groped her |
| way back to her own chamber. The terror she had lately felt was |
| nothing compared with that which now oppressed her. No strange robber, |
| no treacherous host conniving at the plunder of his guests, or stealing |
| to their beds to kill them in their sleep, no nightly prowler, however |
| terrible and cruel, could have awakened in her bosom half the dread |
| which the recognition of her silent visitor inspired. The grey-headed |
| old man gliding like a ghost into her room and acting the thief while |
| he supposed her fast asleep, then bearing off his prize and hanging |
| over it with the ghastly exultation she had witnessed, was |
| worse--immeasurably worse, and far more dreadful, for the moment, to |
| reflect upon--than anything her wildest fancy could have suggested. |
| If he should return--there was no lock or bolt upon the door, and if, |
| distrustful of having left some money yet behind, he should come back |
| to seek for more--a vague awe and horror surrounded the idea of his |
| slinking in again with stealthy tread, and turning his face toward the |
| empty bed, while she shrank down close at his feet to avoid his touch, |
| which was almost insupportable. She sat and listened. Hark! A |
| footstep on the stairs, and now the door was slowly opening. It was |
| but imagination, yet imagination had all the terrors of reality; nay, |
| it was worse, for the reality would have come and gone, and there an |
| end, but in imagination it was always coming, and never went away. |
| |
| The feeling which beset the child was one of dim uncertain horror. She |
| had no fear of the dear old grandfather, in whose love for her this |
| disease of the brain had been engendered; but the man she had seen that |
| night, wrapt in the game of chance, lurking in her room, and counting |
| the money by the glimmering light, seemed like another creature in his |
| shape, a monstrous distortion of his image, a something to recoil from, |
| and be the more afraid of, because it bore a likeness to him, and kept |
| close about her, as he did. She could scarcely connect her own |
| affectionate companion, save by his loss, with this old man, so like |
| yet so unlike him. She had wept to see him dull and quiet. How much |
| greater cause she had for weeping now! |
| |
| The child sat watching and thinking of these things, until the phantom |
| in her mind so increased in gloom and terror, that she felt it would be |
| a relief to hear the old man's voice, or, if he were asleep, even to |
| see him, and banish some of the fears that clustered round his image. |
| She stole down the stairs and passage again. The door was still ajar |
| as she had left it, and the candle burning as before. |
| |
| She had her own candle in her hand, prepared to say, if he were waking, |
| that she was uneasy and could not rest, and had come to see if his were |
| still alight. Looking into the room, she saw him lying calmly on his |
| bed, and so took courage to enter. |
| |
| Fast asleep. No passion in the face, no avarice, no anxiety, no wild |
| desire; all gentle, tranquil, and at peace. This was not the gambler, |
| or the shadow in her room; this was not even the worn and jaded man |
| whose face had so often met her own in the grey morning light; this was |
| her dear old friend, her harmless fellow-traveller, her good, kind |
| grandfather. |
| |
| She had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering features, but she had |
| a deep and weighty sorrow, and it found its relief in tears. |
| |
| 'God bless him!' said the child, stooping softly to kiss his placid |
| cheek. 'I see too well now, that they would indeed part us if they |
| found us out, and shut him up from the light of the sun and sky. He |
| has only me to help him. God bless us both!' |
| |
| Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had come, and, |
| gaining her own room once more, sat up during the remainder of that |
| long, long, miserable night. |
| |
| At last the day turned her waning candle pale, and she fell asleep. |
| She was quickly roused by the girl who had shown her up to bed; and, as |
| soon as she was dressed, prepared to go down to her grandfather. But |
| first she searched her pocket and found that her money was all |
| gone--not a sixpence remained. |
| |
| The old man was ready, and in a few seconds they were on their road. |
| The child thought he rather avoided her eye, and appeared to expect |
| that she would tell him of her loss. She felt she must do that, or he |
| might suspect the truth. |
| |
| 'Grandfather,' she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked |
| about a mile in silence, 'do you think they are honest people at the |
| house yonder?' |
| |
| 'Why?' returned the old man trembling. 'Do I think them honest--yes, |
| they played honestly.' |
| |
| 'I'll tell you why I ask,' rejoined Nell. 'I lost some money last |
| night--out of my bedroom, I am sure. Unless it was taken by somebody |
| in jest--only in jest, dear grandfather, which would make me laugh |
| heartily if I could but know it--' |
| |
| 'Who would take money in jest?' returned the old man in a hurried |
| manner. 'Those who take money, take it to keep. Don't talk of jest.' |
| |
| 'Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,' said the child, whose last |
| hope was destroyed by the manner of this reply. |
| |
| 'But is there no more, Nell?' said the old man; 'no more anywhere? Was |
| it all taken--every farthing of it--was there nothing left?' |
| |
| 'Nothing,' replied the child. |
| |
| 'We must get more,' said the old man, 'we must earn it, Nell, hoard it |
| up, scrape it together, come by it somehow. Never mind this loss. |
| Tell nobody of it, and perhaps we may regain it. Don't ask how;--we |
| may regain it, and a great deal more;--but tell nobody, or trouble may |
| come of it. And so they took it out of thy room, when thou wert |
| asleep!' he added in a compassionate tone, very different from the |
| secret, cunning way in which he had spoken until now. 'Poor Nell, poor |
| little Nell!' |
| |
| The child hung down her head and wept. The sympathising tone in which |
| he spoke, was quite sincere; she was sure of that. It was not the |
| lightest part of her sorrow to know that this was done for her. |
| |
| 'Not a word about it to any one but me,' said the old man, 'no, not |
| even to me,' he added hastily, 'for it can do no good. All the losses |
| that ever were, are not worth tears from thy eyes, darling. Why should |
| they be, when we will win them back?' |
| |
| 'Let them go,' said the child looking up. 'Let them go, once and for |
| ever, and I would never shed another tear if every penny had been a |
| thousand pounds.' |
| |
| 'Well, well,' returned the old man, checking himself as some impetuous |
| answer rose to his lips, 'she knows no better. I ought to be thankful |
| of it.' |
| |
| 'But listen to me,' said the child earnestly, 'will you listen to me?' |
| |
| 'Aye, aye, I'll listen,' returned the old man, still without looking at |
| her; 'a pretty voice. It has always a sweet sound to me. It always |
| had when it was her mother's, poor child.' |
| |
| 'Let me persuade you, then--oh, do let me persuade you,' said the |
| child, 'to think no more of gains or losses, and to try no fortune but |
| the fortune we pursue together.' |
| |
| 'We pursue this aim together,' retorted her grandfather, still looking |
| away and seeming to confer with himself. 'Whose image sanctifies the |
| game?' |
| |
| 'Have we been worse off,' resumed the child, 'since you forgot these |
| cares, and we have been travelling on together? Have we not been much |
| better and happier without a home to shelter us, than ever we were in |
| that unhappy house, when they were on your mind?' |
| |
| 'She speaks the truth,' murmured the old man in the same tone as |
| before. 'It must not turn me, but it is the truth; no doubt it is.' |
| |
| 'Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we |
| turned our backs upon it for the last time,' said Nell, 'only remember |
| what we have been since we have been free of all those miseries--what |
| peaceful days and quiet nights we have had--what pleasant times we have |
| known--what happiness we have enjoyed. If we have been tired or |
| hungry, we have been soon refreshed, and slept the sounder for it. |
| Think what beautiful things we have seen, and how contented we have |
| felt. And why was this blessed change?' |
| |
| He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no |
| more just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek, |
| still motioning her to silence, and walked on, looking far before him, |
| and sometimes stopping and gazing with a puckered brow upon the ground, |
| as if he were painfully trying to collect his disordered thoughts. |
| Once she saw tears in his eyes. When he had gone on thus for some |
| time, he took her hand in his as he was accustomed to do, with nothing |
| of the violence or animation of his late manner; and so, by degrees so |
| fine that the child could not trace them, he settled down into his |
| usual quiet way, and suffered her to lead him where she would. |
| |
| When they presented themselves in the midst of the stupendous |
| collection, they found, as Nell had anticipated, that Mrs Jarley was |
| not yet out of bed, and that, although she had suffered some uneasiness |
| on their account overnight, and had indeed sat up for them until past |
| eleven o'clock, she had retired in the persuasion, that, being |
| overtaken by storm at some distance from home, they had sought the |
| nearest shelter, and would not return before morning. Nell immediately |
| applied herself with great assiduity to the decoration and preparation |
| of the room, and had the satisfaction of completing her task, and |
| dressing herself neatly, before the beloved of the Royal Family came |
| down to breakfast. |
| |
| 'We haven't had,' said Mrs Jarley when the meal was over, 'more than |
| eight of Miss Monflathers's young ladies all the time we've been here, |
| and there's twenty-six of 'em, as I was told by the cook when I asked |
| her a question or two and put her on the free-list. We must try 'em |
| with a parcel of new bills, and you shall take it, my dear, and see |
| what effect that has upon 'em.' |
| |
| The proposed expedition being one of paramount importance, Mrs Jarley |
| adjusted Nell's bonnet with her own hands, and declaring that she |
| certainly did look very pretty, and reflected credit on the |
| establishment, dismissed her with many commendations, and certain |
| needful directions as to the turnings on the right which she was to |
| take, and the turnings on the left which she was to avoid. Thus |
| instructed, Nell had no difficulty in finding out Miss Monflathers's |
| Boarding and Day Establishment, which was a large house, with a high |
| wall, and a large garden-gate with a large brass plate, and a small |
| grating through which Miss Monflathers's parlour-maid inspected all |
| visitors before admitting them; for nothing in the shape of a man--no, |
| not even a milkman--was suffered, without special license, to pass that |
| gate. Even the tax-gatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a |
| broad-brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating. More |
| obdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this gate of Miss Monflathers's |
| frowned on all mankind. The very butcher respected it as a gate of |
| mystery, and left off whistling when he rang the bell. |
| |
| As Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon its hinges |
| with a creaking noise, and, forth from the solemn grove beyond, came a |
| long file of young ladies, two and two, all with open books in their |
| hands, and some with parasols likewise. And last of the goodly |
| procession came Miss Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac |
| silk, and supported by two smiling teachers, each mortally envious of |
| the other, and devoted unto Miss Monflathers. |
| |
| Confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell stood with |
| downcast eyes and suffered the procession to pass on, until Miss |
| Monflathers, bringing up the rear, approached her, when she curtseyed |
| and presented her little packet; on receipt whereof Miss Monflathers |
| commanded that the line should halt. |
| |
| 'You're the wax-work child, are you not?' said Miss Monflathers. |
| |
| 'Yes, ma'am,' replied Nell, colouring deeply, for the young ladies had |
| collected about her, and she was the centre on which all eyes were |
| fixed. |
| |
| 'And don't you think you must be a very wicked little child,' said Miss |
| Monflathers, who was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no |
| opportunity of impressing moral truths upon the tender minds of the |
| young ladies, 'to be a wax-work child at all?' |
| |
| Poor Nell had never viewed her position in this light, and not knowing |
| what to say, remained silent, blushing more deeply than before. |
| |
| 'Don't you know,' said Miss Monflathers, 'that it's very naughty and |
| unfeminine, and a perversion of the properties wisely and benignantly |
| transmitted to us, with expansive powers to be roused from their |
| dormant state through the medium of cultivation?' |
| |
| The two teachers murmured their respectful approval of this |
| home-thrust, and looked at Nell as though they would have said that |
| there indeed Miss Monflathers had hit her very hard. Then they smiled |
| and glanced at Miss Monflathers, and then, their eyes meeting, they |
| exchanged looks which plainly said that each considered herself smiler |
| in ordinary to Miss Monflathers, and regarded the other as having no |
| right to smile, and that her so doing was an act of presumption and |
| impertinence. |
| |
| 'Don't you feel how naughty it is of you,' resumed Miss Monflathers, |
| 'to be a wax-work child, when you might have the proud consciousness of |
| assisting, to the extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of |
| your country; of improving your mind by the constant contemplation of |
| the steam-engine; and of earning a comfortable and independent |
| subsistence of from two-and-ninepence to three shillings per week? |
| Don't you know that the harder you are at work, the happier you are?' |
| |
| '"How doth the little--"' murmured one of the teachers, in quotation |
| from Doctor Watts. |
| |
| 'Eh?' said Miss Monflathers, turning smartly round. 'Who said that?' |
| |
| Of course the teacher who had not said it, indicated the rival who had, |
| whom Miss Monflathers frowningly requested to hold her peace; by that |
| means throwing the informing teacher into raptures of joy. |
| |
| 'The little busy bee,' said Miss Monflathers, drawing herself up, 'is |
| applicable only to genteel children. |
| |
| "In books, or work, or healthful play" |
| |
| is quite right as far as they are concerned; and the work means |
| painting on velvet, fancy needle-work, or embroidery. In such cases as |
| these,' pointing to Nell, with her parasol, 'and in the case of all |
| poor people's children, we should read it thus: |
| |
| |
| "In work, work, work. In work alway |
| Let my first years be past, |
| That I may give for ev'ry day |
| Some good account at last."' |
| |
| |
| A deep hum of applause rose not only from the two teachers, but from |
| all the pupils, who were equally astonished to hear Miss Monflathers |
| improvising after this brilliant style; for although she had been long |
| known as a politician, she had never appeared before as an original |
| poet. Just then somebody happened to discover that Nell was crying, |
| and all eyes were again turned towards her. |
| |
| There were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out her handkerchief |
| to brush them away, she happened to let it fall. Before she could |
| stoop to pick it up, one young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who |
| had been standing a little apart from the others, as though she had no |
| recognised place among them, sprang forward and put it in her hand. |
| She was gliding timidly away again, when she was arrested by the |
| governess. |
| |
| 'It was Miss Edwards who did that, I KNOW,' said Miss Monflathers |
| predictively. 'Now I am sure that was Miss Edwards.' |
| |
| It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss Edwards, and Miss |
| Edwards herself admitted that it was. |
| |
| 'Is it not,' said Miss Monflathers, putting down her parasol to take a |
| severer view of the offender, 'a most remarkable thing, Miss Edwards, |
| that you have an attachment to the lower classes which always draws you |
| to their sides; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary thing that |
| all I say and do will not wean you from propensities which your |
| original station in life have unhappily rendered habitual to you, you |
| extremely vulgar-minded girl?' |
| |
| 'I really intended no harm, ma'am,' said a sweet voice. 'It was a |
| momentary impulse, indeed.' |
| |
| 'An impulse!' repeated Miss Monflathers scornfully. 'I wonder that you |
| presume to speak of impulses to me'--both the teachers assented--'I am |
| astonished'--both the teachers were astonished--'I suppose it is an |
| impulse which induces you to take the part of every grovelling and |
| debased person that comes in your way'--both the teachers supposed so |
| too. |
| |
| 'But I would have you know, Miss Edwards,' resumed the governess in a |
| tone of increased severity, 'that you cannot be permitted--if it be |
| only for the sake of preserving a proper example and decorum in this |
| establishment--that you cannot be permitted, and that you shall not be |
| permitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in this exceedingly |
| gross manner. If you have no reason to feel a becoming pride before |
| wax-work children, there are young ladies here who have, and you must |
| either defer to those young ladies or leave the establishment, Miss |
| Edwards.' |
| |
| This young lady, being motherless and poor, was apprenticed at the |
| school--taught for nothing--teaching others what she learnt, for |
| nothing--boarded for nothing--lodged for nothing--and set down and |
| rated as something immeasurably less than nothing, by all the dwellers |
| in the house. The servant-maids felt her inferiority, for they were |
| better treated; free to come and go, and regarded in their stations |
| with much more respect. The teachers were infinitely superior, for |
| they had paid to go to school in their time, and were paid now. The |
| pupils cared little for a companion who had no grand stories to tell |
| about home; no friends to come with post-horses, and be received in all |
| humility, with cake and wine, by the governess; no deferential servant |
| to attend and bear her home for the holidays; nothing genteel to talk |
| about, and nothing to display. But why was Miss Monflathers always |
| vexed and irritated with the poor apprentice--how did that come to pass? |
| |
| Why, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's cap, and the brightest |
| glory of Miss Monflathers's school, was a baronet's daughter--the real |
| live daughter of a real live baronet--who, by some extraordinary |
| reversal of the Laws of Nature, was not only plain in features but dull |
| in intellect, while the poor apprentice had both a ready wit, and a |
| handsome face and figure. It seems incredible. Here was Miss Edwards, |
| who only paid a small premium which had been spent long ago, every day |
| outshining and excelling the baronet's daughter, who learned all the |
| extras (or was taught them all) and whose half-yearly bill came to |
| double that of any other young lady's in the school, making no account |
| of the honour and reputation of her pupilage. Therefore, and because |
| she was a dependent, Miss Monflathers had a great dislike to Miss |
| Edwards, and was spiteful to her, and aggravated by her, and, when she |
| had compassion on little Nell, verbally fell upon and maltreated her as |
| we have already seen. |
| |
| 'You will not take the air to-day, Miss Edwards,' said Miss |
| Monflathers. 'Have the goodness to retire to your own room, and not to |
| leave it without permission.' |
| |
| The poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was suddenly, in |
| nautical phrase, 'brought to' by a subdued shriek from Miss Monflathers. |
| |
| 'She has passed me without any salute!' cried the governess, raising |
| her eyes to the sky. 'She has actually passed me without the slightest |
| acknowledgment of my presence!' |
| |
| The young lady turned and curtsied. Nell could see that she raised her |
| dark eyes to the face of her superior, and that their expression, and |
| that of her whole attitude for the instant, was one of mute but most |
| touching appeal against this ungenerous usage. Miss Monflathers only |
| tossed her head in reply, and the great gate closed upon a bursting |
| heart. |
| |
| 'As for you, you wicked child,' said Miss Monflathers, turning to Nell, |
| 'tell your mistress that if she presumes to take the liberty of sending |
| to me any more, I will write to the legislative authorities and have |
| her put in the stocks, or compelled to do penance in a white sheet; and |
| you may depend upon it that you shall certainly experience the |
| treadmill if you dare to come here again. Now ladies, on.' |
| |
| The procession filed off, two and two, with the books and parasols, and |
| Miss Monflathers, calling the Baronet's daughter to walk with her and |
| smooth her ruffled feelings, discarded the two teachers--who by this |
| time had exchanged their smiles for looks of sympathy--and left them |
| to bring up the rear, and hate each other a little more for being |
| obliged to walk together. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 32 |
| |
| Mrs Jarley's wrath on first learning that she had been threatened with |
| the indignity of Stocks and Penance, passed all description. The |
| genuine and only Jarley exposed to public scorn, jeered by children, |
| and flouted by beadles! The delight of the Nobility and Gentry shorn |
| of a bonnet which a Lady Mayoress might have sighed to wear, and |
| arrayed in a white sheet as a spectacle of mortification and humility! |
| And Miss Monflathers, the audacious creature who presumed, even in the |
| dimmest and remotest distance of her imagination, to conjure up the |
| degrading picture, 'I am a'most inclined,' said Mrs Jarley, bursting |
| with the fulness of her anger and the weakness of her means of revenge, |
| 'to turn atheist when I think of it!' |
| |
| But instead of adopting this course of retaliation, Mrs Jarley, on |
| second thoughts, brought out the suspicious bottle, and ordering |
| glasses to be set forth upon her favourite drum, and sinking into a |
| chair behind it, called her satellites about her, and to them several |
| times recounted, word for word, the affronts she had received. This |
| done, she begged them in a kind of deep despair to drink; then laughed, |
| then cried, then took a little sip herself, then laughed and cried |
| again, and took a little more; and so, by degrees, the worthy lady went |
| on, increasing in smiles and decreasing in tears, until at last she |
| could not laugh enough at Miss Monflathers, who, from being an object |
| of dire vexation, became one of sheer ridicule and absurdity. |
| |
| 'For which of us is best off, I wonder,' quoth Mrs Jarley, 'she or me! |
| It's only talking, when all is said and done, and if she talks of me in |
| the stocks, why I can talk of her in the stocks, which is a good deal |
| funnier if we come to that. Lord, what does it matter, after all!' |
| |
| Having arrived at this comfortable frame of mind (to which she had been |
| greatly assisted by certain short interjectional remarks of the |
| philosophical George), Mrs Jarley consoled Nell with many kind words, |
| and requested as a personal favour that whenever she thought of Miss |
| Monflathers, she would do nothing else but laugh at her, all the days |
| of her life. |
| |
| So ended Mrs Jarley's wrath, which subsided long before the going down |
| of the sun. Nell's anxieties, however, were of a deeper kind, and the |
| checks they imposed upon her cheerfulness were not so easily removed. |
| |
| That evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole away, and did |
| not come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she was, and |
| fatigued in mind and body, she sat up alone, counting the minutes, |
| until he returned--penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched, but still |
| hotly bent upon his infatuation. |
| |
| 'Get me money,' he said wildly, as they parted for the night. 'I must |
| have money, Nell. It shall be paid thee back with gallant interest one |
| day, but all the money that comes into thy hands, must be mine--not for |
| myself, but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee!' |
| |
| What could the child do with the knowledge she had, but give him every |
| penny that came into her hands, lest he should be tempted on to rob |
| their benefactress? If she told the truth (so thought the child) he |
| would be treated as a madman; if she did not supply him with money, he |
| would supply himself; supplying him, she fed the fire that burnt him |
| up, and put him perhaps beyond recovery. Distracted by these thoughts, |
| borne down by the weight of the sorrow which she dared not tell, |
| tortured by a crowd of apprehensions whenever the old man was absent, |
| and dreading alike his stay and his return, the colour forsook her |
| cheek, her eye grew dim, and her heart was oppressed and heavy. All |
| her old sorrows had come back upon her, augmented by new fears and |
| doubts; by day they were ever present to her mind; by night they |
| hovered round her pillow, and haunted her in dreams. |
| |
| It was natural that, in the midst of her affliction, she should often |
| revert to that sweet young lady of whom she had only caught a hasty |
| glance, but whose sympathy, expressed in one slight brief action, dwelt |
| in her memory like the kindnesses of years. She would often think, if |
| she had such a friend as that to whom to tell her griefs, how much |
| lighter her heart would be--that if she were but free to hear that |
| voice, she would be happier. Then she would wish that she were |
| something better, that she were not quite so poor and humble, that she |
| dared address her without fearing a repulse; and then feel that there |
| was an immeasurable distance between them, and have no hope that the |
| young lady thought of her any more. |
| |
| It was now holiday-time at the schools, and the young ladies had gone |
| home, and Miss Monflathers was reported to be flourishing in London, |
| and damaging the hearts of middle-aged gentlemen, but nobody said |
| anything about Miss Edwards, whether she had gone home, or whether she |
| had any home to go to, whether she was still at the school, or anything |
| about her. But one evening, as Nell was returning from a lonely walk, |
| she happened to pass the inn where the stage-coaches stopped, just as |
| one drove up, and there was the beautiful girl she so well remembered, |
| pressing forward to embrace a young child whom they were helping down |
| from the roof. |
| |
| Well, this was her sister, her little sister, much younger than Nell, |
| whom she had not seen (so the story went afterwards) for five years, |
| and to bring whom to that place on a short visit, she had been saving |
| her poor means all that time. Nell felt as if her heart would break |
| when she saw them meet. They went a little apart from the knot of |
| people who had congregated about the coach, and fell upon each other's |
| neck, and sobbed, and wept with joy. Their plain and simple dress, the |
| distance which the child had come alone, their agitation and delight, |
| and the tears they shed, would have told their history by themselves. |
| |
| They became a little more composed in a short time, and went away, not |
| so much hand in hand as clinging to each other. 'Are you sure you're |
| happy, sister?' said the child as they passed where Nell was standing. |
| 'Quite happy now,' she answered. 'But always?' said the child. 'Ah, |
| sister, why do you turn away your face?' |
| |
| Nell could not help following at a little distance. They went to the |
| house of an old nurse, where the elder sister had engaged a bed-room |
| for the child. 'I shall come to you early every morning,' she said, |
| 'and we can be together all the day.' |
| |
| 'Why not at night-time too? Dear sister, would they be angry with you |
| for that?' |
| |
| Why were the eyes of little Nell wet, that night, with tears like those |
| of the two sisters? Why did she bear a grateful heart because they had |
| met, and feel it pain to think that they would shortly part? Let us |
| not believe that any selfish reference--unconscious though it might |
| have been--to her own trials awoke this sympathy, but thank God that |
| the innocent joys of others can strongly move us, and that we, even in |
| our fallen nature, have one source of pure emotion which must be prized |
| in Heaven! |
| |
| By morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still by evening's gentle |
| light, the child, with a respect for the short and happy intercourse of |
| these two sisters which forbade her to approach and say a thankful |
| word, although she yearned to do so, followed them at a distance in |
| their walks and rambles, stopping when they stopped, sitting on the |
| grass when they sat down, rising when they went on, and feeling it a |
| companionship and delight to be so near them. Their evening walk was |
| by a river's side. Here, every night, the child was too, unseen by |
| them, unthought of, unregarded; but feeling as if they were her |
| friends, as if they had confidences and trusts together, as if her load |
| were lightened and less hard to bear; as if they mingled their sorrows, |
| and found mutual consolation. It was a weak fancy perhaps, the |
| childish fancy of a young and lonely creature; but night after night, |
| and still the sisters loitered in the same place, and still the child |
| followed with a mild and softened heart. |
| |
| She was much startled, on returning home one night, to find that Mrs |
| Jarley had commanded an announcement to be prepared, to the effect that |
| the stupendous collection would only remain in its present quarters one |
| day longer; in fulfilment of which threat (for all announcements |
| connected with public amusements are well known to be irrevocable and |
| most exact), the stupendous collection shut up next day. |
| |
| 'Are we going from this place directly, ma'am?' said Nell. |
| |
| 'Look here, child,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'That'll inform you.' And so |
| saying Mrs Jarley produced another announcement, wherein it was stated, |
| that, in consequence of numerous inquiries at the wax-work door, and in |
| consequence of crowds having been disappointed in obtaining admission, |
| the Exhibition would be continued for one week longer, and would |
| re-open next day. |
| |
| 'For now that the schools are gone, and the regular sight-seers |
| exhausted,' said Mrs Jarley, 'we come to the General Public, and they |
| want stimulating.' |
| |
| Upon the following day at noon, Mrs Jarley established herself behind |
| the highly-ornamented table, attended by the distinguished effigies |
| before mentioned, and ordered the doors to be thrown open for the |
| readmission of a discerning and enlightened public. But the first |
| day's operations were by no means of a successful character, inasmuch |
| as the general public, though they manifested a lively interest in Mrs |
| Jarley personally, and such of her waxen satellites as were to be seen |
| for nothing, were not affected by any impulses moving them to the |
| payment of sixpence a head. Thus, notwithstanding that a great many |
| people continued to stare at the entry and the figures therein |
| displayed; and remained there with great perseverance, by the hour at a |
| time, to hear the barrel-organ played and to read the bills; and |
| notwithstanding that they were kind enough to recommend their friends |
| to patronise the exhibition in the like manner, until the door-way was |
| regularly blockaded by half the population of the town, who, when they |
| went off duty, were relieved by the other half; it was not found that |
| the treasury was any the richer, or that the prospects of the |
| establishment were at all encouraging. |
| |
| In this depressed state of the classical market, Mrs Jarley made |
| extraordinary efforts to stimulate the popular taste, and whet the |
| popular curiosity. Certain machinery in the body of the nun on the |
| leads over the door was cleaned up and put in motion, so that the |
| figure shook its head paralytically all day long, to the great |
| admiration of a drunken, but very Protestant, barber over the way, who |
| looked upon the said paralytic motion as typical of the degrading |
| effect wrought upon the human mind by the ceremonies of the Romish |
| Church and discoursed upon that theme with great eloquence and |
| morality. The two carters constantly passed in and out of the |
| exhibition-room, under various disguises, protesting aloud that the |
| sight was better worth the money than anything they had beheld in all |
| their lives, and urging the bystanders, with tears in their eyes, not |
| to neglect such a brilliant gratification. Mrs Jarley sat in the |
| pay-place, chinking silver moneys from noon till night, and solemnly |
| calling upon the crowd to take notice that the price of admission was |
| only sixpence, and that the departure of the whole collection, on a |
| short tour among the Crowned Heads of Europe, was positively fixed for |
| that day week. |
| |
| 'So be in time, be in time, be in time,' said Mrs Jarley at the close |
| of every such address. 'Remember that this is Jarley's stupendous |
| collection of upwards of One Hundred Figures, and that it is the only |
| collection in the world; all others being imposters and deceptions. Be |
| in time, be in time, be in time!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 33 |
| |
| As the course of this tale requires that we should become acquainted, |
| somewhere hereabouts, with a few particulars connected with the |
| domestic economy of Mr Sampson Brass, and as a more convenient place |
| than the present is not likely to occur for that purpose, the historian |
| takes the friendly reader by the hand, and springing with him into the |
| air, and cleaving the same at a greater rate than ever Don Cleophas |
| Leandro Perez Zambullo and his familiar travelled through that pleasant |
| region in company, alights with him upon the pavement of Bevis Marks. |
| |
| The intrepid aeronauts alight before a small dark house, once the |
| residence of Mr Sampson Brass. |
| |
| In the parlour window of this little habitation, which is so close upon |
| the footway that the passenger who takes the wall brushes the dim glass |
| with his coat sleeve--much to its improvement, for it is very dirty--in |
| this parlour window in the days of its occupation by Sampson Brass, |
| there hung, all awry and slack, and discoloured by the sun, a curtain |
| of faded green, so threadbare from long service as by no means to |
| intercept the view of the little dark room, but rather to afford a |
| favourable medium through which to observe it accurately. There was |
| not much to look at. A rickety table, with spare bundles of papers, |
| yellow and ragged from long carriage in the pocket, ostentatiously |
| displayed upon its top; a couple of stools set face to face on opposite |
| sides of this crazy piece of furniture; a treacherous old chair by the |
| fire-place, whose withered arms had hugged full many a client and |
| helped to squeeze him dry; a second-hand wig box, used as a depository |
| for blank writs and declarations and other small forms of law, once the |
| sole contents of the head which belonged to the wig which belonged to |
| the box, as they were now of the box itself; two or three common books |
| of practice; a jar of ink, a pounce box, a stunted hearth-broom, a |
| carpet trodden to shreds but still clinging with the tightness of |
| desperation to its tacks--these, with the yellow wainscot of the walls, |
| the smoke-discoloured ceiling, the dust and cobwebs, were among the |
| most prominent decorations of the office of Mr Sampson Brass. |
| |
| But this was mere still-life, of no greater importance than the plate, |
| 'BRASS, Solicitor,' upon the door, and the bill, 'First floor to let to |
| a single gentleman,' which was tied to the knocker. The office |
| commonly held two examples of animated nature, more to the purpose of |
| this history, and in whom it has a stronger interest and more |
| particular concern. |
| |
| Of these, one was Mr Brass himself, who has already appeared in these |
| pages. The other was his clerk, assistant, housekeeper, secretary, |
| confidential plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill of cost increaser, |
| Miss Brass--a kind of amazon at common law, of whom it may be desirable |
| to offer a brief description. |
| |
| Miss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of thirty-five or thereabouts, of a |
| gaunt and bony figure, and a resolute bearing, which if it repressed |
| the softer emotions of love, and kept admirers at a distance, certainly |
| inspired a feeling akin to awe in the breasts of those male strangers |
| who had the happiness to approach her. In face she bore a striking |
| resemblance to her brother, Sampson--so exact, indeed, was the likeness |
| between them, that had it consorted with Miss Brass's maiden modesty |
| and gentle womanhood to have assumed her brother's clothes in a frolic |
| and sat down beside him, it would have been difficult for the oldest |
| friend of the family to determine which was Sampson and which Sally, |
| especially as the lady carried upon her upper lip certain reddish |
| demonstrations, which, if the imagination had been assisted by her |
| attire, might have been mistaken for a beard. These were, however, in |
| all probability, nothing more than eyelashes in a wrong place, as the |
| eyes of Miss Brass were quite free from any such natural |
| impertinencies. In complexion Miss Brass was sallow--rather a dirty |
| sallow, so to speak--but this hue was agreeably relieved by the healthy |
| glow which mantled in the extreme tip of her laughing nose. Her voice |
| was exceedingly impressive--deep and rich in quality, and, once heard, |
| not easily forgotten. Her usual dress was a green gown, in colour not |
| unlike the curtain of the office window, made tight to the figure, and |
| terminating at the throat, where it was fastened behind by a peculiarly |
| large and massive button. Feeling, no doubt, that simplicity and |
| plainness are the soul of elegance, Miss Brass wore no collar or |
| kerchief except upon her head, which was invariably ornamented with a |
| brown gauze scarf, like the wing of the fabled vampire, and which, |
| twisted into any form that happened to suggest itself, formed an easy |
| and graceful head-dress. |
| |
| Such was Miss Brass in person. In mind, she was of a strong and |
| vigorous turn, having from her earliest youth devoted herself with |
| uncommon ardour to the study of law; not wasting her speculations upon |
| its eagle flights, which are rare, but tracing it attentively through |
| all the slippery and eel-like crawlings in which it commonly pursues |
| its way. Nor had she, like many persons of great intellect, confined |
| herself to theory, or stopped short where practical usefulness begins; |
| inasmuch as she could ingross, fair-copy, fill up printed forms with |
| perfect accuracy, and, in short, transact any ordinary duty of the |
| office down to pouncing a skin of parchment or mending a pen. It is |
| difficult to understand how, possessed of these combined attractions, |
| she should remain Miss Brass; but whether she had steeled her heart |
| against mankind, or whether those who might have wooed and won her, |
| were deterred by fears that, being learned in the law, she might have |
| too near her fingers' ends those particular statutes which regulate |
| what are familiarly termed actions for breach, certain it is that she |
| was still in a state of celibacy, and still in daily occupation of her |
| old stool opposite to that of her brother Sampson. And equally certain |
| it is, by the way, that between these two stools a great many people |
| had come to the ground. |
| |
| One morning Mr Sampson Brass sat upon his stool copying some legal |
| process, and viciously digging his pen deep into the paper, as if he |
| were writing upon the very heart of the party against whom it was |
| directed; and Miss Sally Brass sat upon her stool making a new pen |
| preparatory to drawing out a little bill, which was her favourite |
| occupation; and so they sat in silence for a long time, until Miss |
| Brass broke silence. |
| |
| 'Have you nearly done, Sammy?' said Miss Brass; for in her mild and |
| feminine lips, Sampson became Sammy, and all things were softened down. |
| |
| 'No,' returned her brother. 'It would have been all done though, if |
| you had helped at the right time.' |
| |
| 'Oh yes, indeed,' cried Miss Sally; 'you want my help, don't you?--YOU, |
| too, that are going to keep a clerk!' |
| |
| 'Am I going to keep a clerk for my own pleasure, or because of my own |
| wish, you provoking rascal!' said Mr Brass, putting his pen in his |
| mouth, and grinning spitefully at his sister. 'What do you taunt me |
| about going to keep a clerk for?' |
| |
| It may be observed in this place, lest the fact of Mr Brass calling a |
| lady a rascal, should occasion any wonderment or surprise, that he was |
| so habituated to having her near him in a man's capacity, that he had |
| gradually accustomed himself to talk to her as though she were really a |
| man. And this feeling was so perfectly reciprocal, that not only did |
| Mr Brass often call Miss Brass a rascal, or even put an adjective |
| before the rascal, but Miss Brass looked upon it as quite a matter of |
| course, and was as little moved as any other lady would be by being |
| called an angel. |
| |
| 'What do you taunt me, after three hours' talk last night, with going |
| to keep a clerk for?' repeated Mr Brass, grinning again with the pen in |
| his mouth, like some nobleman's or gentleman's crest. 'Is it my fault?' |
| |
| 'All I know is,' said Miss Sally, smiling drily, for she delighted in |
| nothing so much as irritating her brother, 'that if every one of your |
| clients is to force us to keep a clerk, whether we want to or not, you |
| had better leave off business, strike yourself off the roll, and get |
| taken in execution, as soon as you can.' |
| |
| 'Have we got any other client like him?' said Brass. 'Have we got |
| another client like him now--will you answer me that?' |
| |
| 'Do you mean in the face!' said his sister. |
| |
| 'Do I mean in the face!' sneered Sampson Brass, reaching over to take |
| up the bill-book, and fluttering its leaves rapidly. 'Look |
| here--Daniel Quilp, Esquire--Daniel Quilp, Esquire--Daniel Quilp, |
| Esquire--all through. Whether should I take a clerk that he |
| recommends, and says, "this is the man for you," or lose all this, eh?' |
| |
| Miss Sally deigned to make no reply, but smiled again, and went on with |
| her work. |
| |
| 'But I know what it is,' resumed Brass after a short silence. 'You're |
| afraid you won't have as long a finger in the business as you've been |
| used to have. Do you think I don't see through that?' |
| |
| 'The business wouldn't go on very long, I expect, without me,' returned |
| his sister composedly. 'Don't you be a fool and provoke me, Sammy, but |
| mind what you're doing, and do it.' |
| |
| Sampson Brass, who was at heart in great fear of his sister, sulkily |
| bent over his writing again, and listened as she said: |
| |
| 'If I determined that the clerk ought not to come, of course he |
| wouldn't be allowed to come. You know that well enough, so don't talk |
| nonsense.' |
| |
| Mr Brass received this observation with increased meekness, merely |
| remarking, under his breath, that he didn't like that kind of joking, |
| and that Miss Sally would be 'a much better fellow' if she forbore to |
| aggravate him. To this compliment Miss Sally replied, that she had a |
| relish for the amusement, and had no intention to forego its |
| gratification. Mr Brass not caring, as it seemed, to pursue the |
| subject any further, they both plied their pens at a great pace, and |
| there the discussion ended. |
| |
| While they were thus employed, the window was suddenly darkened, as by |
| some person standing close against it. As Mr Brass and Miss Sally |
| looked up to ascertain the cause, the top sash was nimbly lowered from |
| without, and Quilp thrust in his head. |
| |
| 'Hallo!' he said, standing on tip-toe on the window-sill, and looking |
| down into the room. 'Is there anybody at home? Is there any of the |
| Devil's ware here? Is Brass at a premium, eh?' |
| |
| 'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the lawyer in an affected ecstasy. 'Oh, very |
| good, Sir! Oh, very good indeed! Quite eccentric! Dear me, what |
| humour he has!' |
| |
| 'Is that my Sally?' croaked the dwarf, ogling the fair Miss Brass. 'Is |
| it Justice with the bandage off her eyes, and without the sword and |
| scales? Is it the Strong Arm of the Law? Is it the Virgin of Bevis?' |
| |
| 'What an amazing flow of spirits!' cried Brass. 'Upon my word, it's |
| quite extraordinary!' |
| |
| 'Open the door,' said Quilp, 'I've got him here. Such a clerk for you, |
| Brass, such a prize, such an ace of trumps. Be quick and open the |
| door, or if there's another lawyer near and he should happen to look |
| out of window, he'll snap him up before your eyes, he will.' |
| |
| It is probable that the loss of the phoenix of clerks, even to a rival |
| practitioner, would not have broken Mr Brass's heart; but, pretending |
| great alacrity, he rose from his seat, and going to the door, returned, |
| introducing his client, who led by the hand no less a person than Mr |
| Richard Swiveller. |
| |
| 'There she is,' said Quilp, stopping short at the door, and wrinkling |
| up his eyebrows as he looked towards Miss Sally; 'there is the woman I |
| ought to have married--there is the beautiful Sarah--there is the |
| female who has all the charms of her sex and none of their weaknesses. |
| Oh Sally, Sally!' |
| |
| To this amorous address Miss Brass briefly responded 'Bother!' |
| |
| 'Hard-hearted as the metal from which she takes her name,' said Quilp. |
| 'Why don't she change it--melt down the brass, and take another name?' |
| |
| 'Hold your nonsense, Mr Quilp, do,' returned Miss Sally, with a grim |
| smile. 'I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself before a strange young |
| man.' |
| |
| 'The strange young man,' said Quilp, handing Dick Swiveller forward, |
| 'is too susceptible himself not to understand me well. This is Mr |
| Swiveller, my intimate friend--a gentleman of good family and great |
| expectations, but who, having rather involved himself by youthful |
| indiscretion, is content for a time to fill the humble station of a |
| clerk--humble, but here most enviable. What a delicious atmosphere!' |
| |
| If Mr Quilp spoke figuratively, and meant to imply that the air |
| breathed by Miss Sally Brass was sweetened and rarefied by that dainty |
| creature, he had doubtless good reason for what he said. But if he |
| spoke of the delights of the atmosphere of Mr Brass's office in a |
| literal sense, he had certainly a peculiar taste, as it was of a close |
| and earthy kind, and, besides being frequently impregnated with strong |
| whiffs of the second-hand wearing apparel exposed for sale in Duke's |
| Place and Houndsditch, had a decided flavour of rats and mice, and a |
| taint of mouldiness. Perhaps some doubts of its pure delight presented |
| themselves to Mr Swiveller, as he gave vent to one or two short abrupt |
| sniffs, and looked incredulously at the grinning dwarf. |
| |
| 'Mr Swiveller,' said Quilp, 'being pretty well accustomed to the |
| agricultural pursuits of sowing wild oats, Miss Sally, prudently |
| considers that half a loaf is better than no bread. To be out of |
| harm's way he prudently thinks is something too, and therefore he |
| accepts your brother's offer. Brass, Mr Swiveller is yours.' |
| |
| 'I am very glad, Sir,' said Mr Brass, 'very glad indeed. Mr Swiveller, |
| Sir, is fortunate enough to have your friendship. You may be very |
| proud, Sir, to have the friendship of Mr Quilp.' |
| |
| Dick murmured something about never wanting a friend or a bottle to |
| give him, and also gasped forth his favourite allusion to the wing of |
| friendship and its never moulting a feather; but his faculties appeared |
| to be absorbed in the contemplation of Miss Sally Brass, at whom he |
| stared with blank and rueful looks, which delighted the watchful dwarf |
| beyond measure. As to the divine Miss Sally herself, she rubbed her |
| hands as men of business do, and took a few turns up and down the |
| office with her pen behind her ear. |
| |
| 'I suppose,' said the dwarf, turning briskly to his legal friend, 'that |
| Mr Swiveller enters upon his duties at once? It's Monday morning.' |
| |
| 'At once, if you please, Sir, by all means,' returned Brass. |
| |
| 'Miss Sally will teach him law, the delightful study of the law,' said |
| Quilp; 'she'll be his guide, his friend, his companion, his Blackstone, |
| his Coke upon Littleton, his Young Lawyer's Best Companion.' |
| |
| 'He is exceedingly eloquent,' said Brass, like a man abstracted, and |
| looking at the roofs of the opposite houses, with his hands in his |
| pockets; 'he has an extraordinary flow of language. Beautiful, really.' |
| |
| 'With Miss Sally,' Quilp went on, 'and the beautiful fictions of the |
| law, his days will pass like minutes. Those charming creations of the |
| poet, John Doe and Richard Roe, when they first dawn upon him, will |
| open a new world for the enlargement of his mind and the improvement of |
| his heart.' |
| |
| 'Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Beau-ti-ful indeed!' cried Brass. 'It's a |
| treat to hear him!' |
| |
| 'Where will Mr Swiveller sit?' said Quilp, looking round. |
| |
| 'Why, we'll buy another stool, sir,' returned Brass. 'We hadn't any |
| thoughts of having a gentleman with us, sir, until you were kind enough |
| to suggest it, and our accommodation's not extensive. We'll look about |
| for a second-hand stool, sir. In the meantime, if Mr Swiveller will |
| take my seat, and try his hand at a fair copy of this ejectment, as I |
| shall be out pretty well all the morning--' |
| |
| 'Walk with me,' said Quilp. 'I have a word or two to say to you on |
| points of business. Can you spare the time?' |
| |
| 'Can I spare the time to walk with you, sir? You're joking, sir, |
| you're joking with me,' replied the lawyer, putting on his hat. 'I'm |
| ready, sir, quite ready. My time must be fully occupied indeed, sir, |
| not to leave me time to walk with you. It's not everybody, sir, who |
| has an opportunity of improving himself by the conversation of Mr |
| Quilp.' |
| |
| The dwarf glanced sarcastically at his brazen friend, and, with a short |
| dry cough, turned upon his heel to bid adieu to Miss Sally. After a |
| very gallant parting on his side, and a very cool and gentlemanly sort |
| of one on hers, he nodded to Dick Swiveller, and withdrew with the |
| attorney. |
| |
| Dick stood at the desk in a state of utter stupefaction, staring with |
| all his might at the beauteous Sally, as if she had been some curious |
| animal whose like had never lived. When the dwarf got into the street, |
| he mounted again upon the window-sill, and looked into the office for a |
| moment with a grinning face, as a man might peep into a cage. Dick |
| glanced upward at him, but without any token of recognition; and long |
| after he had disappeared, still stood gazing upon Miss Sally Brass, |
| seeing or thinking of nothing else, and rooted to the spot. |
| |
| Miss Brass being by this time deep in the bill of costs, took no notice |
| whatever of Dick, but went scratching on, with a noisy pen, scoring |
| down the figures with evident delight, and working like a steam-engine. |
| There stood Dick, gazing now at the green gown, now at the brown |
| head-dress, now at the face, and now at the rapid pen, in a state of |
| stupid perplexity, wondering how he got into the company of that |
| strange monster, and whether it was a dream and he would ever wake. At |
| last he heaved a deep sigh, and began slowly pulling off his coat. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller pulled off his coat, and folded it up with great |
| elaboration, staring at Miss Sally all the time; then put on a blue |
| jacket with a double row of gilt buttons, which he had originally |
| ordered for aquatic expeditions, but had brought with him that morning |
| for office purposes; and, still keeping his eye upon her, suffered |
| himself to drop down silently upon Mr Brass's stool. Then he underwent |
| a relapse, and becoming powerless again, rested his chin upon his hand, |
| and opened his eyes so wide, that it appeared quite out of the question |
| that he could ever close them any more. |
| |
| When he had looked so long that he could see nothing, Dick took his |
| eyes off the fair object of his amazement, turned over the leaves of |
| the draft he was to copy, dipped his pen into the inkstand, and at |
| last, and by slow approaches, began to write. But he had not written |
| half-a-dozen words when, reaching over to the inkstand to take a fresh |
| dip, he happened to raise his eyes. There was the intolerable brown |
| head-dress--there was the green gown--there, in short, was Miss Sally |
| Brass, arrayed in all her charms, and more tremendous than ever. |
| |
| This happened so often, that Mr Swiveller by degrees began to feel |
| strange influences creeping over him--horrible desires to annihilate |
| this Sally Brass--mysterious promptings to knock her head-dress off and |
| try how she looked without it. There was a very large ruler on the |
| table; a large, black, shining ruler. Mr Swiveller took it up and |
| began to rub his nose with it. |
| |
| From rubbing his nose with the ruler, to poising it in his hand and |
| giving it an occasional flourish after the tomahawk manner, the |
| transition was easy and natural. In some of these flourishes it went |
| close to Miss Sally's head; the ragged edges of the head-dress |
| fluttered with the wind it raised; advance it but an inch, and that |
| great brown knot was on the ground: yet still the unconscious maiden |
| worked away, and never raised her eyes. |
| |
| Well, this was a great relief. It was a good thing to write doggedly |
| and obstinately until he was desperate, and then snatch up the ruler |
| and whirl it about the brown head-dress with the consciousness that he |
| could have it off if he liked. It was a good thing to draw it back, |
| and rub his nose very hard with it, if he thought Miss Sally was going |
| to look up, and to recompense himself with more hardy flourishes when |
| he found she was still absorbed. By these means Mr Swiveller calmed |
| the agitation of his feelings, until his applications to the ruler |
| became less fierce and frequent, and he could even write as many as |
| half-a-dozen consecutive lines without having recourse to it--which was |
| a great victory. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 34 |
| |
| In course of time, that is to say, after a couple of hours or so, of |
| diligent application, Miss Brass arrived at the conclusion of her task, |
| and recorded the fact by wiping her pen upon the green gown, and taking |
| a pinch of snuff from a little round tin box which she carried in her |
| pocket. Having disposed of this temperate refreshment, she arose from |
| her stool, tied her papers into a formal packet with red tape, and |
| taking them under her arm, marched out of the office. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller had scarcely sprung off his seat and commenced the |
| performance of a maniac hornpipe, when he was interrupted, in the |
| fulness of his joy at being again alone, by the opening of the door, |
| and the reappearance of Miss Sally's head. |
| |
| 'I am going out,' said Miss Brass. |
| |
| 'Very good, ma'am,' returned Dick. 'And don't hurry yourself on my |
| account to come back, ma'am,' he added inwardly. |
| |
| 'If anybody comes on office business, take their messages, and say that |
| the gentleman who attends to that matter isn't in at present, will |
| you?' said Miss Brass. |
| |
| 'I will, ma'am,' replied Dick. |
| |
| 'I shan't be very long,' said Miss Brass, retiring. |
| |
| 'I'm sorry to hear it, ma'am,' rejoined Dick when she had shut the |
| door. 'I hope you may be unexpectedly detained, ma'am. If you could |
| manage to be run over, ma'am, but not seriously, so much the better.' |
| |
| Uttering these expressions of good-will with extreme gravity, Mr |
| Swiveller sat down in the client's chair and pondered; then took a few |
| turns up and down the room and fell into the chair again. |
| |
| 'So I'm Brass's clerk, am I?' said Dick. 'Brass's clerk, eh? And the |
| clerk of Brass's sister--clerk to a female Dragon. Very good, very |
| good! What shall I be next? Shall I be a convict in a felt hat and a |
| grey suit, trotting about a dockyard with my number neatly embroidered |
| on my uniform, and the order of the garter on my leg, restrained from |
| chafing my ankle by a twisted belcher handkerchief? Shall I be that? |
| Will that do, or is it too genteel? Whatever you please, have it your |
| own way, of course.' |
| |
| As he was entirely alone, it may be presumed that, in these remarks, Mr |
| Swiveller addressed himself to his fate or destiny, whom, as we learn |
| by the precedents, it is the custom of heroes to taunt in a very bitter |
| and ironical manner when they find themselves in situations of an |
| unpleasant nature. This is the more probable from the circumstance of |
| Mr Swiveller directing his observations to the ceiling, which these |
| bodily personages are usually supposed to inhabit--except in theatrical |
| cases, when they live in the heart of the great chandelier. |
| |
| 'Quilp offers me this place, which he says he can insure me,' resumed |
| Dick after a thoughtful silence, and telling off the circumstances of |
| his position, one by one, upon his fingers; 'Fred, who, I could have |
| taken my affidavit, would not have heard of such a thing, backs Quilp |
| to my astonishment, and urges me to take it also--staggerer, number |
| one! My aunt in the country stops the supplies, and writes an |
| affectionate note to say that she has made a new will, and left me out |
| of it--staggerer, number two. No money; no credit; no support from |
| Fred, who seems to turn steady all at once; notice to quit the old |
| lodgings--staggerers, three, four, five, and six! Under an |
| accumulation of staggerers, no man can be considered a free agent. No |
| man knocks himself down; if his destiny knocks him down, his destiny |
| must pick him up again. Then I'm very glad that mine has brought all |
| this upon itself, and I shall be as careless as I can, and make myself |
| quite at home to spite it. So go on my buck,' said Mr Swiveller, |
| taking his leave of the ceiling with a significant nod, 'and let us see |
| which of us will be tired first!' |
| |
| Dismissing the subject of his downfall with these reflections, which |
| were no doubt very profound, and are indeed not altogether unknown in |
| certain systems of moral philosophy, Mr Swiveller shook off his |
| despondency and assumed the cheerful ease of an irresponsible clerk. |
| |
| As a means towards his composure and self-possession, he entered into a |
| more minute examination of the office than he had yet had time to make; |
| looked into the wig-box, the books, and ink-bottle; untied and |
| inspected all the papers; carved a few devices on the table with a |
| sharp blade of Mr Brass's penknife; and wrote his name on the inside of |
| the wooden coal-scuttle. Having, as it were, taken formal possession |
| of his clerkship in virtue of these proceedings, he opened the window |
| and leaned negligently out of it until a beer-boy happened to pass, |
| whom he commanded to set down his tray and to serve him with a pint of |
| mild porter, which he drank upon the spot and promptly paid for, with |
| the view of breaking ground for a system of future credit and opening a |
| correspondence tending thereto, without loss of time. Then, three or |
| four little boys dropped in, on legal errands from three or four |
| attorneys of the Brass grade: whom Mr Swiveller received and dismissed |
| with about as professional a manner, and as correct and comprehensive |
| an understanding of their business, as would have been shown by a clown |
| in a pantomime under similar circumstances. These things done and |
| over, he got upon his stool again and tried his hand at drawing |
| caricatures of Miss Brass with a pen and ink, whistling very cheerfully |
| all the time. |
| |
| He was occupied in this diversion when a coach stopped near the door, |
| and presently afterwards there was a loud double-knock. As this was no |
| business of Mr Swiveller's, the person not ringing the office bell, he |
| pursued his diversion with perfect composure, notwithstanding that he |
| rather thought there was nobody else in the house. |
| |
| In this, however, he was mistaken; for, after the knock had been |
| repeated with increased impatience, the door was opened, and somebody |
| with a very heavy tread went up the stairs and into the room above. Mr |
| Swiveller was wondering whether this might be another Miss Brass, twin |
| sister to the Dragon, when there came a rapping of knuckles at the |
| office door. |
| |
| 'Come in!' said Dick. 'Don't stand upon ceremony. The business will |
| get rather complicated if I've many more customers. Come in!' |
| |
| 'Oh, please,' said a little voice very low down in the doorway, 'will |
| you come and show the lodgings?' |
| |
| Dick leant over the table, and descried a small slipshod girl in a |
| dirty coarse apron and bib, which left nothing of her visible but her |
| face and feet. She might as well have been dressed in a violin-case. |
| |
| 'Why, who are you?' said Dick. |
| |
| To which the only reply was, 'Oh, please will you come and show the |
| lodgings?' |
| |
| There never was such an old-fashioned child in her looks and manner. |
| She must have been at work from her cradle. She seemed as much afraid |
| of Dick, as Dick was amazed at her. |
| |
| 'I hav'n't got anything to do with the lodgings,' said Dick. 'Tell 'em |
| to call again.' |
| |
| 'Oh, but please will you come and show the lodgings,' returned the |
| girl; 'It's eighteen shillings a week and us finding plate and linen. |
| Boots and clothes is extra, and fires in winter-time is eightpence a |
| day.' |
| |
| 'Why don't you show 'em yourself? You seem to know all about 'em,' |
| said Dick. |
| |
| 'Miss Sally said I wasn't to, because people wouldn't believe the |
| attendance was good if they saw how small I was first.' |
| |
| 'Well, but they'll see how small you are afterwards, won't they?' said |
| Dick. |
| |
| 'Ah! But then they'll have taken 'em for a fortnight certain,' replied |
| the child with a shrewd look; 'and people don't like moving when |
| they're once settled.' |
| |
| 'This is a queer sort of thing,' muttered Dick, rising. 'What do you |
| mean to say you are--the cook?' |
| |
| 'Yes, I do plain cooking;' replied the child. 'I'm housemaid too; I do |
| all the work of the house.' |
| |
| 'I suppose Brass and the Dragon and I do the dirtiest part of it,' |
| thought Dick. And he might have thought much more, being in a doubtful |
| and hesitating mood, but that the girl again urged her request, and |
| certain mysterious bumping sounds on the passage and staircase seemed |
| to give note of the applicant's impatience. Richard Swiveller, |
| therefore, sticking a pen behind each ear, and carrying another in his |
| mouth as a token of his great importance and devotion to business, |
| hurried out to meet and treat with the single gentleman. |
| |
| He was a little surprised to perceive that the bumping sounds were |
| occasioned by the progress up-stairs of the single gentleman's trunk, |
| which, being nearly twice as wide as the staircase, and exceedingly |
| heavy withal, it was no easy matter for the united exertions of the |
| single gentleman and the coachman to convey up the steep ascent. But |
| there they were, crushing each other, and pushing and pulling with all |
| their might, and getting the trunk tight and fast in all kinds of |
| impossible angles, and to pass them was out of the question; for which |
| sufficient reason, Mr Swiveller followed slowly behind, entering a new |
| protest on every stair against the house of Mr Sampson Brass being thus |
| taken by storm. |
| |
| To these remonstrances, the single gentleman answered not a word, but |
| when the trunk was at last got into the bed-room, sat down upon it and |
| wiped his bald head and face with his handkerchief. He was very warm, |
| and well he might be; for, not to mention the exertion of getting the |
| trunk up stairs, he was closely muffled in winter garments, though the |
| thermometer had stood all day at eighty-one in the shade. |
| |
| 'I believe, sir,' said Richard Swiveller, taking his pen out of his |
| mouth, 'that you desire to look at these apartments. They are very |
| charming apartments, sir. They command an uninterrupted view of--of |
| over the way, and they are within one minute's walk of--of the corner |
| of the street. There is exceedingly mild porter, sir, in the immediate |
| vicinity, and the contingent advantages are extraordinary.' |
| |
| 'What's the rent?' said the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'One pound per week,' replied Dick, improving on the terms. |
| |
| 'I'll take 'em.' |
| |
| 'The boots and clothes are extras,' said Dick; 'and the fires in winter |
| time are--' |
| |
| 'Are all agreed to,' answered the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'Two weeks certain,' said Dick, 'are the--' |
| |
| 'Two weeks!' cried the single gentleman gruffly, eyeing him from top to |
| toe. 'Two years. I shall live here for two years. Here. Ten pounds |
| down. The bargain's made.' |
| |
| 'Why you see,' said Dick, 'my name is not Brass, and--' |
| |
| 'Who said it was? My name's not Brass. What then?' |
| |
| 'The name of the master of the house is,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'I'm glad of it,' returned the single gentleman; 'it's a good name for |
| a lawyer. Coachman, you may go. So may you, Sir.' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller was so much confounded by the single gentleman riding |
| roughshod over him at this rate, that he stood looking at him almost as |
| hard as he had looked at Miss Sally. The single gentleman, however, |
| was not in the slightest degree affected by this circumstance, but |
| proceeded with perfect composure to unwind the shawl which was tied |
| round his neck, and then to pull off his boots. Freed of these |
| encumbrances, he went on to divest himself of his other clothing, which |
| he folded up, piece by piece, and ranged in order on the trunk. Then, |
| he pulled down the window-blinds, drew the curtains, wound up his |
| watch, and, quite leisurely and methodically, got into bed. |
| |
| 'Take down the bill,' were his parting words, as he looked out from |
| between the curtains; 'and let nobody call me till I ring the bell.' |
| |
| With that the curtains closed, and he seemed to snore immediately. |
| |
| 'This is a most remarkable and supernatural sort of house!' said Mr |
| Swiveller, as he walked into the office with the bill in his hand. |
| 'She-dragons in the business, conducting themselves like professional |
| gentlemen; plain cooks of three feet high appearing mysteriously from |
| under ground; strangers walking in and going to bed without leave or |
| licence in the middle of the day! If he should be one of the |
| miraculous fellows that turn up now and then, and has gone to sleep for |
| two years, I shall be in a pleasant situation. It's my destiny, |
| however, and I hope Brass may like it. I shall be sorry if he don't. |
| But it's no business of mine--I have nothing whatever to do with it!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 35 |
| |
| Mr Brass on returning home received the report of his clerk with much |
| complacency and satisfaction, and was particular in inquiring after the |
| ten-pound note, which, proving on examination to be a good and lawful |
| note of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England, increased his |
| good-humour considerably. Indeed he so overflowed with liberality and |
| condescension, that, in the fulness of his heart, he invited Mr |
| Swiveller to partake of a bowl of punch with him at that remote and |
| indefinite period which is currently denominated 'one of these days,' |
| and paid him many handsome compliments on the uncommon aptitude for |
| business which his conduct on the first day of his devotion to it had |
| so plainly evinced. |
| |
| It was a maxim with Mr Brass that the habit of paying compliments kept |
| a man's tongue oiled without any expense; and, as that useful member |
| ought never to grow rusty or creak in turning on its hinges in the case |
| of a practitioner of the law, in whom it should be always glib and |
| easy, he lost few opportunities of improving himself by the utterance |
| of handsome speeches and eulogistic expressions. And this had passed |
| into such a habit with him, that, if he could not be correctly said to |
| have his tongue at his fingers' ends, he might certainly be said to |
| have it anywhere but in his face: which being, as we have already seen, |
| of a harsh and repulsive character, was not oiled so easily, but |
| frowned above all the smooth speeches--one of nature's beacons, warning |
| off those who navigated the shoals and breakers of the World, or of |
| that dangerous strait the Law, and admonishing them to seek less |
| treacherous harbours and try their fortune elsewhere. |
| |
| While Mr Brass by turns overwhelmed his clerk with compliments and |
| inspected the ten-pound note, Miss Sally showed little emotion and that |
| of no pleasurable kind, for as the tendency of her legal practice had |
| been to fix her thoughts on small gains and gripings, and to whet and |
| sharpen her natural wisdom, she was not a little disappointed that the |
| single gentleman had obtained the lodgings at such an easy rate, |
| arguing that when he was seen to have set his mind upon them, he should |
| have been at the least charged double or treble the usual terms, and |
| that, in exact proportion as he pressed forward, Mr Swiveller should |
| have hung back. But neither the good opinion of Mr Brass, nor the |
| dissatisfaction of Miss Sally, wrought any impression upon that young |
| gentleman, who, throwing the responsibility of this and all other acts |
| and deeds thereafter to be done by him, upon his unlucky destiny, was |
| quite resigned and comfortable: fully prepared for the worst, and |
| philosophically indifferent to the best. |
| |
| |
| 'Good morning, Mr Richard,' said Brass, on the second day of Mr |
| Swiveller's clerkship. 'Sally found you a second-hand stool, Sir, |
| yesterday evening, in Whitechapel. She's a rare fellow at a bargain, I |
| can tell you, Mr Richard. You'll find that a first-rate stool, Sir, |
| take my word for it.' |
| |
| 'It's rather a crazy one to look at,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'You'll find it a most amazing stool to sit down upon, you may depend,' |
| returned Mr Brass. 'It was bought in the open street just opposite the |
| hospital, and as it has been standing there a month of two, it has got |
| rather dusty and a little brown from being in the sun, that's all.' |
| |
| 'I hope it hasn't got any fevers or anything of that sort in it,' said |
| Dick, sitting himself down discontentedly, between Mr Sampson and the |
| chaste Sally. 'One of the legs is longer than the others.' |
| |
| 'Then we get a bit of timber in, Sir,' retorted Brass. 'Ha, ha, ha! |
| We get a bit of timber in, Sir, and that's another advantage of my |
| sister's going to market for us. Miss Brass, Mr Richard is the--' |
| |
| 'Will you keep quiet?' interrupted the fair subject of these remarks, |
| looking up from her papers. 'How am I to work if you keep on |
| chattering?' |
| |
| 'What an uncertain chap you are!' returned the lawyer. 'Sometimes |
| you're all for a chat. At another time you're all for work. A man |
| never knows what humour he'll find you in.' |
| |
| 'I'm in a working humour now,' said Sally, 'so don't disturb me, if you |
| please. And don't take him,' Miss Sally pointed with the feather of |
| her pen to Richard, 'off his business. He won't do more than he can |
| help, I dare say.' |
| |
| Mr Brass had evidently a strong inclination to make an angry reply, but |
| was deterred by prudent or timid considerations, as he only muttered |
| something about aggravation and a vagabond; not associating the terms |
| with any individual, but mentioning them as connected with some |
| abstract ideas which happened to occur to him. They went on writing |
| for a long time in silence after this--in such a dull silence that Mr |
| Swiveller (who required excitement) had several times fallen asleep, |
| and written divers strange words in an unknown character with his eyes |
| shut, when Miss Sally at length broke in upon the monotony of the |
| office by pulling out the little tin box, taking a noisy pinch of |
| snuff, and then expressing her opinion that Mr Richard Swiveller had |
| 'done it.' |
| |
| 'Done what, ma'am?' said Richard. |
| |
| 'Do you know,' returned Miss Brass, 'that the lodger isn't up yet-- |
| that nothing has been seen or heard of him since he went to bed |
| yesterday afternoon?' |
| |
| 'Well, ma'am,' said Dick, 'I suppose he may sleep his ten pound out, in |
| peace and quietness, if he likes.' |
| |
| 'Ah! I begin to think he'll never wake,' observed Miss Sally. |
| |
| 'It's a very remarkable circumstance,' said Brass, laying down his pen; |
| 'really, very remarkable. Mr Richard, you'll remember, if this |
| gentleman should be found to have hung himself to the bed-post, or any |
| unpleasant accident of that kind should happen--you'll remember, Mr |
| Richard, that this ten pound note was given to you in part payment of |
| two years' rent? You'll bear that in mind, Mr Richard; you had better |
| make a note of it, sir, in case you should ever be called upon to give |
| evidence.' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller took a large sheet of foolscap, and with a countenance of |
| profound gravity, began to make a very small note in one corner. |
| |
| 'We can never be too cautious,' said Mr Brass. 'There is a deal of |
| wickedness going about the world, a deal of wickedness. Did the |
| gentleman happen to say, Sir--but never mind that at present, sir; |
| finish that little memorandum first.' |
| |
| Dick did so, and handed it to Mr Brass, who had dismounted from his |
| stool, and was walking up and down the office. |
| |
| 'Oh, this is the memorandum, is it?' said Brass, running his eye over |
| the document. 'Very good. Now, Mr Richard, did the gentleman say |
| anything else?' |
| |
| 'No.' |
| |
| 'Are you sure, Mr Richard,' said Brass, solemnly, 'that the gentleman |
| said nothing else?' |
| |
| 'Devil a word, Sir,' replied Dick. |
| |
| 'Think again, Sir,' said Brass; 'it's my duty, Sir, in the position in |
| which I stand, and as an honourable member of the legal profession--the |
| first profession in this country, Sir, or in any other country, or in |
| any of the planets that shine above us at night and are supposed to be |
| inhabited--it's my duty, Sir, as an honourable member of that |
| profession, not to put to you a leading question in a matter of this |
| delicacy and importance. Did the gentleman, Sir, who took the first |
| floor of you yesterday afternoon, and who brought with him a box of |
| property--a box of property--say anything more than is set down in this |
| memorandum?' |
| |
| 'Come, don't be a fool,' said Miss Sally. |
| |
| Dick looked at her, and then at Brass, and then at Miss Sally again, |
| and still said 'No.' |
| |
| 'Pooh, pooh! Deuce take it, Mr Richard, how dull you are!' cried |
| Brass, relaxing into a smile. 'Did he say anything about his |
| property?--there!' |
| |
| 'That's the way to put it,' said Miss Sally, nodding to her brother. |
| |
| 'Did he say, for instance,' added Brass, in a kind of comfortable, cozy |
| tone--'I don't assert that he did say so, mind; I only ask you, to |
| refresh your memory--did he say, for instance, that he was a stranger |
| in London--that it was not his humour or within his ability to give any |
| references--that he felt we had a right to require them--and that, in |
| case anything should happen to him, at any time, he particularly |
| desired that whatever property he had upon the premises should be |
| considered mine, as some slight recompense for the trouble and |
| annoyance I should sustain--and were you, in short,' added Brass, still |
| more comfortably and cozily than before, 'were you induced to accept |
| him on my behalf, as a tenant, upon those conditions?' |
| |
| 'Certainly not,' replied Dick. |
| |
| 'Why then, Mr Richard,' said Brass, darting at him a supercilious and |
| reproachful look, 'it's my opinion that you've mistaken your calling, |
| and will never make a lawyer.' |
| |
| 'Not if you live a thousand years,' added Miss Sally. Whereupon the |
| brother and sister took each a noisy pinch of snuff from the little tin |
| box, and fell into a gloomy thoughtfulness. |
| |
| Nothing further passed up to Mr Swiveller's dinner-time, which was at |
| three o'clock, and seemed about three weeks in coming. At the first |
| stroke of the hour, the new clerk disappeared. At the last stroke of |
| five, he reappeared, and the office, as if by magic, became fragrant |
| with the smell of gin and water and lemon-peel. |
| |
| 'Mr Richard,' said Brass, 'this man's not up yet. Nothing will wake |
| him, sir. What's to be done?' |
| |
| 'I should let him have his sleep out,' returned Dick. |
| |
| 'Sleep out!' cried Brass; 'why he has been asleep now, six-and-twenty |
| hours. We have been moving chests of drawers over his head, we have |
| knocked double knocks at the street-door, we have made the servant-girl |
| fall down stairs several times (she's a light weight, and it don't hurt |
| her much,) but nothing wakes him.' |
| |
| 'Perhaps a ladder,' suggested Dick, 'and getting in at the first-floor |
| window--' |
| |
| 'But then there's a door between; besides, the neighbours would be up |
| in arms,' said Brass. |
| |
| 'What do you say to getting on the roof of the house through the |
| trap-door, and dropping down the chimney?' suggested Dick. |
| |
| 'That would be an excellent plan,' said Brass, 'if anybody would be--' |
| and here he looked very hard at Mr Swiveller--'would be kind, and |
| friendly, and generous enough, to undertake it. I dare say it would |
| not be anything like as disagreeable as one supposes.' |
| |
| Dick had made the suggestion, thinking that the duty might possibly |
| fall within Miss Sally's department. As he said nothing further, and |
| declined taking the hint, Mr Brass was fain to propose that they should |
| go up stairs together, and make a last effort to awaken the sleeper by |
| some less violent means, which, if they failed on this last trial, must |
| positively be succeeded by stronger measures. Mr Swiveller, assenting, |
| armed himself with his stool and the large ruler, and repaired with his |
| employer to the scene of action, where Miss Brass was already ringing a |
| hand-bell with all her might, and yet without producing the smallest |
| effect upon their mysterious lodger. |
| |
| 'There are his boots, Mr Richard!' said Brass. |
| |
| 'Very obstinate-looking articles they are too,' quoth Richard |
| Swiveller. And truly, they were as sturdy and bluff a pair of boots as |
| one would wish to see; as firmly planted on the ground as if their |
| owner's legs and feet had been in them; and seeming, with their broad |
| soles and blunt toes, to hold possession of their place by main force. |
| |
| 'I can't see anything but the curtain of the bed,' said Brass, applying |
| his eye to the keyhole of the door. 'Is he a strong man, Mr Richard?' |
| |
| 'Very,' answered Dick. |
| |
| 'It would be an extremely unpleasant circumstance if he was to bounce |
| out suddenly,' said Brass. 'Keep the stairs clear. I should be more |
| than a match for him, of course, but I'm the master of the house, and |
| the laws of hospitality must be respected.--Hallo there! Hallo, hallo!' |
| |
| While Mr Brass, with his eye curiously twisted into the keyhole, |
| uttered these sounds as a means of attracting the lodger's attention, |
| and while Miss Brass plied the hand-bell, Mr Swiveller put his stool |
| close against the wall by the side of the door, and mounting on the top |
| and standing bolt upright, so that if the lodger did make a rush, he |
| would most probably pass him in its onward fury, began a violent |
| battery with the ruler upon the upper panels of the door. Captivated |
| with his own ingenuity, and confident in the strength of his position, |
| which he had taken up after the method of those hardy individuals who |
| open the pit and gallery doors of theatres on crowded nights, Mr |
| Swiveller rained down such a shower of blows, that the noise of the |
| bell was drowned; and the small servant, who lingered on the stairs |
| below, ready to fly at a moment's notice, was obliged to hold her ears |
| lest she should be rendered deaf for life. |
| |
| Suddenly the door was unlocked on the inside, and flung violently open. |
| The small servant flew to the coal-cellar; Miss Sally dived into her |
| own bed-room; Mr Brass, who was not remarkable for personal courage, |
| ran into the next street, and finding that nobody followed him, armed |
| with a poker or other offensive weapon, put his hands in his pockets, |
| walked very slowly all at once, and whistled. |
| |
| Meanwhile, Mr Swiveller, on the top of the stool, drew himself into as |
| flat a shape as possible against the wall, and looked, not |
| unconcernedly, down upon the single gentleman, who appeared at the door |
| growling and cursing in a very awful manner, and, with the boots in his |
| hand, seemed to have an intention of hurling them down stairs on |
| speculation. This idea, however, he abandoned. He was turning into |
| his room again, still growling vengefully, when his eyes met those of |
| the watchful Richard. |
| |
| 'Have YOU been making that horrible noise?' said the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'I have been helping, sir,' returned Dick, keeping his eye upon him, |
| and waving the ruler gently in his right hand, as an indication of what |
| the single gentleman had to expect if he attempted any violence. |
| |
| 'How dare you then,' said the lodger, 'Eh?' |
| |
| To this, Dick made no other reply than by inquiring whether the lodger |
| held it to be consistent with the conduct and character of a gentleman |
| to go to sleep for six-and-twenty hours at a stretch, and whether the |
| peace of an amiable and virtuous family was to weigh as nothing in the |
| balance. |
| |
| 'Is my peace nothing?' said the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'Is their peace nothing, sir?' returned Dick. 'I don't wish to hold |
| out any threats, sir--indeed the law does not allow of threats, for to |
| threaten is an indictable offence--but if ever you do that again, take |
| care you're not sat upon by the coroner and buried in a cross road |
| before you wake. We have been distracted with fears that you were |
| dead, Sir,' said Dick, gently sliding to the ground, 'and the short and |
| the long of it is, that we cannot allow single gentlemen to come into |
| this establishment and sleep like double gentlemen without paying extra |
| for it.' |
| |
| 'Indeed!' cried the lodger. |
| |
| 'Yes, Sir, indeed,' returned Dick, yielding to his destiny and saying |
| whatever came uppermost; 'an equal quantity of slumber was never got |
| out of one bed and bedstead, and if you're going to sleep in that way, |
| you must pay for a double-bedded room.' |
| |
| Instead of being thrown into a greater passion by these remarks, the |
| lodger lapsed into a broad grin and looked at Mr Swiveller with |
| twinkling eyes. He was a brown-faced sun-burnt man, and appeared |
| browner and more sun-burnt from having a white nightcap on. As it was |
| clear that he was a choleric fellow in some respects, Mr Swiveller was |
| relieved to find him in such good humour, and, to encourage him in it, |
| smiled himself. |
| |
| The lodger, in the testiness of being so rudely roused, had pushed his |
| nightcap very much on one side of his bald head. This gave him a |
| rakish eccentric air which, now that he had leisure to observe it, |
| charmed Mr Swiveller exceedingly; therefore, by way of propitiation, he |
| expressed his hope that the gentleman was going to get up, and further |
| that he would never do so any more. |
| |
| 'Come here, you impudent rascal!' was the lodger's answer as he |
| re-entered his room. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller followed him in, leaving the stool outside, but reserving |
| the ruler in case of a surprise. He rather congratulated himself on |
| his prudence when the single gentleman, without notice or explanation |
| of any kind, double-locked the door. |
| |
| 'Can you drink anything?' was his next inquiry. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller replied that he had very recently been assuaging the pangs |
| of thirst, but that he was still open to 'a modest quencher,' if the |
| materials were at hand. Without another word spoken on either side, |
| the lodger took from his great trunk, a kind of temple, shining as of |
| polished silver, and placed it carefully on the table. |
| |
| Greatly interested in his proceedings, Mr Swiveller observed him |
| closely. Into one little chamber of this temple, he dropped an egg; |
| into another some coffee; into a third a compact piece of raw steak |
| from a neat tin case; into a fourth, he poured some water. Then, with |
| the aid of a phosphorus-box and some matches, he procured a light and |
| applied it to a spirit-lamp which had a place of its own below the |
| temple; then, he shut down the lids of all the little chambers; then he |
| opened them; and then, by some wonderful and unseen agency, the steak |
| was done, the egg was boiled, the coffee was accurately prepared, and |
| his breakfast was ready. |
| |
| 'Hot water--' said the lodger, handing it to Mr Swiveller with as much |
| coolness as if he had a kitchen fire before him--'extraordinary |
| rum--sugar--and a travelling glass. Mix for yourself. And make haste.' |
| |
| Dick complied, his eyes wandering all the time from the temple on the |
| table, which seemed to do everything, to the great trunk which seemed |
| to hold everything. The lodger took his breakfast like a man who was |
| used to work these miracles, and thought nothing of them. |
| |
| 'The man of the house is a lawyer, is he not?' said the lodger. |
| |
| Dick nodded. The rum was amazing. |
| |
| 'The woman of the house--what's she?' |
| |
| 'A dragon,' said Dick. |
| |
| The single gentleman, perhaps because he had met with such things in |
| his travels, or perhaps because he WAS a single gentleman, evinced no |
| surprise, but merely inquired 'Wife or sister?'--'Sister,' said |
| Dick.--'So much the better,' said the single gentleman, 'he can get rid |
| of her when he likes.' |
| |
| 'I want to do as I like, young man,' he added after a short silence; |
| 'to go to bed when I like, get up when I like, come in when I like, go |
| out when I like--to be asked no questions and be surrounded by no |
| spies. In this last respect, servants are the devil. There's only one |
| here.' |
| |
| 'And a very little one,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'And a very little one,' repeated the lodger. 'Well, the place will |
| suit me, will it?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Sharks, I suppose?' said the lodger. |
| |
| Dick nodded assent, and drained his glass. |
| |
| 'Let them know my humour,' said the single gentleman, rising. 'If they |
| disturb me, they lose a good tenant. If they know me to be that, they |
| know enough. If they try to know more, it's a notice to quit. It's |
| better to understand these things at once. Good day.' |
| |
| 'I beg your pardon,' said Dick, halting in his passage to the door, |
| which the lodger prepared to open. 'When he who adores thee has left |
| but the name--' |
| |
| 'What do you mean?' |
| |
| '--But the name,' said Dick--'has left but the name--in case of letters |
| or parcels--' |
| |
| 'I never have any,' returned the lodger. |
| |
| 'Or in the case anybody should call.' |
| |
| 'Nobody ever calls on me.' |
| |
| 'If any mistake should arise from not having the name, don't say it was |
| my fault, Sir,' added Dick, still lingering.--'Oh blame not the bard--' |
| |
| 'I'll blame nobody,' said the lodger, with such irascibility that in a |
| moment Dick found himself on the staircase, and the locked door between |
| them. |
| |
| Mr Brass and Miss Sally were lurking hard by, having been, indeed, only |
| routed from the keyhole by Mr Swiveller's abrupt exit. As their utmost |
| exertions had not enabled them to overhear a word of the interview, |
| however, in consequence of a quarrel for precedence, which, though |
| limited of necessity to pushes and pinches and such quiet pantomime, |
| had lasted the whole time, they hurried him down to the office to hear |
| his account of the conversation. |
| |
| This Mr Swiveller gave them--faithfully as regarded the wishes and |
| character of the single gentleman, and poetically as concerned the |
| great trunk, of which he gave a description more remarkable for |
| brilliancy of imagination than a strict adherence to truth; declaring, |
| with many strong asseverations, that it contained a specimen of every |
| kind of rich food and wine, known in these times, and in particular |
| that it was of a self-acting kind and served up whatever was required, |
| as he supposed by clock-work. He also gave them to understand that the |
| cooking apparatus roasted a fine piece of sirloin of beef, weighing |
| about six pounds avoir-dupoise, in two minutes and a quarter, as he had |
| himself witnessed, and proved by his sense of taste; and further, that, |
| however the effect was produced, he had distinctly seen water boil and |
| bubble up when the single gentleman winked; from which facts he (Mr |
| Swiveller) was led to infer that the lodger was some great conjuror or |
| chemist, or both, whose residence under that roof could not fail at |
| some future days to shed a great credit and distinction on the name of |
| Brass, and add a new interest to the history of Bevis Marks. |
| |
| There was one point which Mr Swiveller deemed it unnecessary to enlarge |
| upon, and that was the fact of the modest quencher, which, by reason of |
| its intrinsic strength and its coming close upon the heels of the |
| temperate beverage he had discussed at dinner, awakened a slight degree |
| of fever, and rendered necessary two or three other modest quenchers at |
| the public-house in the course of the evening. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 36 |
| |
| As the single gentleman after some weeks' occupation of his lodgings, |
| still declined to correspond, by word or gesture, either with Mr Brass |
| or his sister Sally, but invariably chose Richard Swiveller as his |
| channel of communication; and as he proved himself in all respects a |
| highly desirable inmate, paying for everything beforehand, giving very |
| little trouble, making no noise, and keeping early hours; Mr Richard |
| imperceptibly rose to an important position in the family, as one who |
| had influence over this mysterious lodger, and could negotiate with |
| him, for good or evil, when nobody else durst approach his person. |
| |
| If the truth must be told, even Mr Swiveller's approaches to the single |
| gentleman were of a very distant kind, and met with small |
| encouragement; but, as he never returned from a monosyllabic conference |
| with the unknown, without quoting such expressions as 'Swiveller, I |
| know I can rely upon you,'--'I have no hesitation in saying, Swiveller, |
| that I entertain a regard for you,'--'Swiveller, you are my friend, and |
| will stand by me I am sure,' with many other short speeches of the same |
| familiar and confiding kind, purporting to have been addressed by the |
| single gentleman to himself, and to form the staple of their ordinary |
| discourse, neither Mr Brass nor Miss Sally for a moment questioned the |
| extent of his influence, but accorded to him their fullest and most |
| unqualified belief. |
| |
| But quite apart from, and independent of, this source of popularity, Mr |
| Swiveller had another, which promised to be equally enduring, and to |
| lighten his position considerably. |
| |
| He found favour in the eyes of Miss Sally Brass. Let not the light |
| scorners of female fascination erect their ears to listen to a new tale |
| of love which shall serve them for a jest; for Miss Brass, however |
| accurately formed to be beloved, was not of the loving kind. That |
| amiable virgin, having clung to the skirts of the Law from her earliest |
| youth; having sustained herself by their aid, as it were, in her first |
| running alone, and maintained a firm grasp upon them ever since; had |
| passed her life in a kind of legal childhood. She had been remarkable, |
| when a tender prattler for an uncommon talent in counterfeiting the |
| walk and manner of a bailiff: in which character she had learned to tap |
| her little playfellows on the shoulder, and to carry them off to |
| imaginary sponging-houses, with a correctness of imitation which was |
| the surprise and delight of all who witnessed her performances, and |
| which was only to be exceeded by her exquisite manner of putting an |
| execution into her doll's house, and taking an exact inventory of the |
| chairs and tables. These artless sports had naturally soothed and |
| cheered the decline of her widowed father: a most exemplary gentleman |
| (called 'old Foxey' by his friends from his extreme sagacity,) who |
| encouraged them to the utmost, and whose chief regret, on finding that |
| he drew near to Houndsditch churchyard, was, that his daughter could |
| not take out an attorney's certificate and hold a place upon the roll. |
| Filled with this affectionate and touching sorrow, he had solemnly |
| confided her to his son Sampson as an invaluable auxiliary; and from |
| the old gentleman's decease to the period of which we treat, Miss Sally |
| Brass had been the prop and pillar of his business. |
| |
| It is obvious that, having devoted herself from infancy to this one |
| pursuit and study, Miss Brass could know but little of the world, |
| otherwise than in connection with the law; and that from a lady gifted |
| with such high tastes, proficiency in those gentler and softer arts in |
| which women usually excel, was scarcely to be looked for. Miss Sally's |
| accomplishments were all of a masculine and strictly legal kind. They |
| began with the practice of an attorney and they ended with it. She was |
| in a state of lawful innocence, so to speak. The law had been her |
| nurse. And, as bandy-legs or such physical deformities in children are |
| held to be the consequence of bad nursing, so, if in a mind so |
| beautiful any moral twist or handiness could be found, Miss Sally |
| Brass's nurse was alone to blame. |
| |
| It was upon this lady, then, that Mr Swiveller burst in full freshness as |
| something new and hitherto undreamed of, lighting up the office with |
| scraps of song and merriment, conjuring with inkstands and boxes of |
| wafers, catching three oranges in one hand, balancing stools upon his |
| chin and penknives on his nose, and constantly performing a hundred |
| other feats with equal ingenuity; for with such unbendings did Richard, |
| in Mr Brass's absence, relieve the tedium of his confinement. These |
| social qualities, which Miss Sally first discovered by accident, |
| gradually made such an impression upon her, that she would entreat Mr |
| Swiveller to relax as though she were not by, which Mr Swiveller, |
| nothing loth, would readily consent to do. By these means a friendship |
| sprung up between them. Mr Swiveller gradually came to look upon her |
| as her brother Sampson did, and as he would have looked upon any other |
| clerk. He imparted to her the mystery of going the odd man or plain |
| Newmarket for fruit, ginger-beer, baked potatoes, or even a modest |
| quencher, of which Miss Brass did not scruple to partake. He would |
| often persuade her to undertake his share of writing in addition to her |
| own; nay, he would sometimes reward her with a hearty slap on the back, |
| and protest that she was a devilish good fellow, a jolly dog, and so |
| forth; all of which compliments Miss Sally would receive in entire good |
| part and with perfect satisfaction. |
| |
| One circumstance troubled Mr Swiveller's mind very much, and that was |
| that the small servant always remained somewhere in the bowels of the |
| earth under Bevis Marks, and never came to the surface unless the |
| single gentleman rang his bell, when she would answer it and |
| immediately disappear again. She never went out, or came into the |
| office, or had a clean face, or took off the coarse apron, or looked |
| out of any one of the windows, or stood at the street-door for a breath |
| of air, or had any rest or enjoyment whatever. Nobody ever came to see |
| her, nobody spoke of her, nobody cared about her. Mr Brass had said |
| once, that he believed she was a 'love-child' (which means anything but |
| a child of love), and that was all the information Richard Swiveller |
| could obtain. |
| |
| 'It's of no use asking the dragon,' thought Dick one day, as he sat |
| contemplating the features of Miss Sally Brass. 'I suspect if I asked |
| any questions on that head, our alliance would be at an end. I wonder |
| whether she is a dragon by-the-bye, or something in the mermaid way. |
| She has rather a scaly appearance. But mermaids are fond of looking at |
| themselves in the glass, which she can't be. And they have a habit of |
| combing their hair, which she hasn't. No, she's a dragon.' |
| |
| 'Where are you going, old fellow?' said Dick aloud, as Miss Sally wiped |
| her pen as usual on the green dress, and uprose from her seat. |
| |
| 'To dinner,' answered the dragon. |
| |
| 'To dinner!' thought Dick, 'that's another circumstance. I don't |
| believe that small servant ever has anything to eat.' |
| |
| 'Sammy won't be home,' said Miss Brass. 'Stop till I come back. I |
| sha'n't be long.' |
| |
| Dick nodded, and followed Miss Brass--with his eyes to the door, and |
| with his ears to a little back parlour, where she and her brother took |
| their meals. |
| |
| 'Now,' said Dick, walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, |
| 'I'd give something--if I had it--to know how they use that child, and |
| where they keep her. My mother must have been a very inquisitive |
| woman; I have no doubt I'm marked with a note of interrogation |
| somewhere. My feelings I smother, but thou hast been the cause of this |
| anguish, my--upon my word,' said Mr Swiveller, checking himself and |
| falling thoughtfully into the client's chair, 'I should like to know |
| how they use her!' |
| |
| After running on, in this way, for some time, Mr Swiveller softly |
| opened the office door, with the intention of darting across the street |
| for a glass of the mild porter. At that moment he caught a parting |
| glimpse of the brown head-dress of Miss Brass flitting down the kitchen |
| stairs. 'And by Jove!' thought Dick, 'she's going to feed the small |
| servant. Now or never!' |
| |
| First peeping over the handrail and allowing the head-dress to |
| disappear in the darkness below, he groped his way down, and arrived at |
| the door of a back kitchen immediately after Miss Brass had entered the |
| same, bearing in her hand a cold leg of mutton. It was a very dark |
| miserable place, very low and very damp: the walls disfigured by a |
| thousand rents and blotches. The water was trickling out of a leaky |
| butt, and a most wretched cat was lapping up the drops with the sickly |
| eagerness of starvation. The grate, which was a wide one, was wound |
| and screwed up tight, so as to hold no more than a little thin sandwich |
| of fire. Everything was locked up; the coal-cellar, the candle-box, |
| the salt-box, the meat-safe, were all padlocked. There was nothing |
| that a beetle could have lunched upon. The pinched and meagre aspect |
| of the place would have killed a chameleon. He would have known, at |
| the first mouthful, that the air was not eatable, and must have given up |
| the ghost in despair. The small servant stood with humility in presence |
| of Miss Sally, and hung her head. |
| |
| 'Are you there?' said Miss Sally. |
| |
| 'Yes, ma'am,' was the answer in a weak voice. |
| |
| 'Go further away from the leg of mutton, or you'll be picking it, I |
| know,' said Miss Sally. |
| |
| The girl withdrew into a corner, while Miss Brass took a key from her |
| pocket, and opening the safe, brought from it a dreary waste of cold |
| potatoes, looking as eatable as Stonehenge. This she placed before the |
| small servant, ordering her to sit down before it, and then, taking up |
| a great carving-knife, made a mighty show of sharpening it upon the |
| carving-fork. |
| |
| 'Do you see this?' said Miss Brass, slicing off about two square inches |
| of cold mutton, after all this preparation, and holding it out on the |
| point of the fork. |
| |
| The small servant looked hard enough at it with her hungry eyes to see |
| every shred of it, small as it was, and answered, 'yes.' |
| |
| 'Then don't you ever go and say,' retorted Miss Sally, 'that you hadn't |
| meat here. There, eat it up.' |
| |
| This was soon done. 'Now, do you want any more?' said Miss Sally. |
| |
| The hungry creature answered with a faint 'No.' They were evidently |
| going through an established form. |
| |
| 'You've been helped once to meat,' said Miss Brass, summing up the |
| facts; 'you have had as much as you can eat, you're asked if you want |
| any more, and you answer, 'no!' Then don't you ever go and say you were |
| allowanced, mind that.' |
| |
| With those words, Miss Sally put the meat away and locked the safe, and |
| then drawing near to the small servant, overlooked her while she |
| finished the potatoes. |
| |
| It was plain that some extraordinary grudge was working in Miss Brass's |
| gentle breast, and that it was that which impelled her, without the |
| smallest present cause, to rap the child with the blade of the knife, |
| now on her hand, now on her head, and now on her back, as if she found |
| it quite impossible to stand so close to her without administering a |
| few slight knocks. But Mr Swiveller was not a little surprised to see |
| his fellow-clerk, after walking slowly backwards towards the door, as |
| if she were trying to withdraw herself from the room but could not |
| accomplish it, dart suddenly forward, and falling on the small servant |
| give her some hard blows with her clenched hand. The victim cried, but |
| in a subdued manner as if she feared to raise her voice, and Miss |
| Sally, comforting herself with a pinch of snuff, ascended the stairs, |
| just as Richard had safely reached the office. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 37 |
| |
| The single gentleman among his other peculiarities--and he had a very |
| plentiful stock, of which he every day furnished some new |
| specimen--took a most extraordinary and remarkable interest in the |
| exhibition of Punch. If the sound of a Punch's voice, at ever so |
| remote a distance, reached Bevis Marks, the single gentleman, though in |
| bed and asleep, would start up, and, hurrying on his clothes, make for |
| the spot with all speed, and presently return at the head of a long |
| procession of idlers, having in the midst the theatre and its |
| proprietors. Straightway, the stage would be set up in front of Mr |
| Brass's house; the single gentleman would establish himself at the |
| first floor window; and the entertainment would proceed, with all its |
| exciting accompaniments of fife and drum and shout, to the excessive |
| consternation of all sober votaries of business in that silent |
| thoroughfare. It might have been expected that when the play was done, |
| both players and audience would have dispersed; but the epilogue was as |
| bad as the play, for no sooner was the Devil dead, than the manager of |
| the puppets and his partner were summoned by the single gentleman to |
| his chamber, where they were regaled with strong waters from his |
| private store, and where they held with him long conversations, the |
| purport of which no human being could fathom. But the secret of these |
| discussions was of little importance. It was sufficient to know that |
| while they were proceeding, the concourse without still lingered round |
| the house; that boys beat upon the drum with their fists, and imitated |
| Punch with their tender voices; that the office-window was rendered |
| opaque by flattened noses, and the key-hole of the street-door luminous |
| with eyes; that every time the single gentleman or either of his guests |
| was seen at the upper window, or so much as the end of one of their |
| noses was visible, there was a great shout of execration from the |
| excluded mob, who remained howling and yelling, and refusing |
| consolation, until the exhibitors were delivered up to them to be |
| attended elsewhere. It was sufficient, in short, to know that Bevis |
| Marks was revolutionised by these popular movements, and that peace and |
| quietness fled from its precincts. |
| |
| Nobody was rendered more indignant by these proceedings than Mr Sampson |
| Brass, who, as he could by no means afford to lose so profitable an |
| inmate, deemed it prudent to pocket his lodger's affront along with his |
| cash, and to annoy the audiences who clustered round his door by such |
| imperfect means of retaliation as were open to him, and which were |
| confined to the trickling down of foul water on their heads from unseen |
| watering pots, pelting them with fragments of tile and mortar from the |
| roof of the house, and bribing the drivers of hackney cabriolets to |
| come suddenly round the corner and dash in among them precipitately. |
| It may, at first sight, be matter of surprise to the thoughtless few |
| that Mr Brass, being a professional gentleman, should not have legally |
| indicted some party or parties, active in the promotion of the |
| nuisance, but they will be good enough to remember, that as Doctors |
| seldom take their own prescriptions, and Divines do not always practise |
| what they preach, so lawyers are shy of meddling with the Law on their |
| own account: knowing it to be an edged tool of uncertain application, |
| very expensive in the working, and rather remarkable for its properties |
| of close shaving, than for its always shaving the right person. |
| |
| 'Come,' said Mr Brass one afternoon, 'this is two days without a Punch. |
| I'm in hopes he has run through 'em all, at last.' |
| |
| 'Why are you in hopes?' returned Miss Sally. 'What harm do they do?' |
| |
| 'Here's a pretty sort of a fellow!' cried Brass, laying down his pen in |
| despair. 'Now here's an aggravating animal!' |
| |
| 'Well, what harm do they do?' retorted Sally. |
| |
| 'What harm!' cried Brass. 'Is it no harm to have a constant hallooing |
| and hooting under one's very nose, distracting one from business, and |
| making one grind one's teeth with vexation? Is it no harm to be |
| blinded and choked up, and have the king's highway stopped with a set |
| of screamers and roarers whose throats must be made of--of--' |
| |
| 'Brass,' suggested Mr Swiveller. |
| |
| 'Ah! of brass,' said the lawyer, glancing at his clerk, to assure |
| himself that he had suggested the word in good faith and without any |
| sinister intention. 'Is that no harm?' |
| |
| The lawyer stopped short in his invective, and listening for a moment, |
| and recognising the well-known voice, rested his head upon his hand, |
| raised his eyes to the ceiling, and muttered faintly, 'There's another!' |
| |
| Up went the single gentleman's window directly. |
| |
| 'There's another,' repeated Brass; 'and if I could get a break and four |
| blood horses to cut into the Marks when the crowd is at its thickest, |
| I'd give eighteen-pence and never grudge it!' |
| |
| The distant squeak was heard again. The single gentleman's door burst |
| open. He ran violently down the stairs, out into the street, and so |
| past the window, without any hat, towards the quarter whence the sound |
| proceeded--bent, no doubt, upon securing the strangers' services |
| directly. |
| |
| 'I wish I only knew who his friends were,' muttered Sampson, filling |
| his pocket with papers; 'if they'd just get up a pretty little |
| Commission de lunatico at the Gray's Inn Coffee House and give me the |
| job, I'd be content to have the lodgings empty for one while, at all |
| events.' |
| |
| With which words, and knocking his hat over his eyes as if for the |
| purpose of shutting out even a glimpse of the dreadful visitation, Mr |
| Brass rushed from the house and hurried away. |
| |
| As Mr Swiveller was decidedly favourable to these performances, upon |
| the ground that looking at a Punch, or indeed looking at anything out |
| of window, was better than working; and as he had been, for this |
| reason, at some pains to awaken in his fellow clerk a sense of their |
| beauties and manifold deserts; both he and Miss Sally rose as with one |
| accord and took up their positions at the window: upon the sill |
| whereof, as in a post of honour, sundry young ladies and gentlemen who |
| were employed in the dry nurture of babies, and who made a point of |
| being present, with their young charges, on such occasions, had already |
| established themselves as comfortably as the circumstances would allow. |
| |
| The glass being dim, Mr Swiveller, agreeably to a friendly custom which |
| he had established between them, hitched off the brown head-dress from |
| Miss Sally's head, and dusted it carefully therewith. By the time he |
| had handed it back, and its beautiful wearer had put it on again (which |
| she did with perfect composure and indifference), the lodger returned |
| with the show and showmen at his heels, and a strong addition to the |
| body of spectators. The exhibitor disappeared with all speed behind |
| the drapery; and his partner, stationing himself by the side of the |
| Theatre, surveyed the audience with a remarkable expression of |
| melancholy, which became more remarkable still when he breathed a |
| hornpipe tune into that sweet musical instrument which is popularly |
| termed a mouth-organ, without at all changing the mournful expression |
| of the upper part of his face, though his mouth and chin were, of |
| necessity, in lively spasms. |
| |
| The drama proceeded to its close, and held the spectators enchained in |
| the customary manner. The sensation which kindles in large assemblies, |
| when they are relieved from a state of breathless suspense and are |
| again free to speak and move, was yet rife, when the lodger, as usual, |
| summoned the men up stairs. |
| |
| 'Both of you,' he called from the window; for only the actual |
| exhibitor--a little fat man--prepared to obey the summons. 'I want to |
| talk to you. Come both of you!' |
| |
| 'Come, Tommy,' said the little man. |
| |
| 'I an't a talker,' replied the other. 'Tell him so. What should I go |
| and talk for?' |
| |
| 'Don't you see the gentleman's got a bottle and glass up there?' |
| returned the little man. |
| |
| 'And couldn't you have said so at first?' retorted the other with |
| sudden alacrity. 'Now, what are you waiting for? Are you going to |
| keep the gentleman expecting us all day? haven't you no manners?' |
| |
| With this remonstrance, the melancholy man, who was no other than Mr |
| Thomas Codlin, pushed past his friend and brother in the craft, Mr |
| Harris, otherwise Short or Trotters, and hurried before him to the |
| single gentleman's apartment. |
| |
| 'Now, my men,' said the single gentleman; 'you have done very well. |
| What will you take? Tell that little man behind, to shut the door.' |
| |
| 'Shut the door, can't you?' said Mr Codlin, turning gruffly to his |
| friend. 'You might have knowed that the gentleman wanted the door |
| shut, without being told, I think.' |
| |
| Mr Short obeyed, observing under his breath that his friend seemed |
| unusually 'cranky,' and expressing a hope that there was no dairy in |
| the neighbourhood, or his temper would certainly spoil its contents. |
| |
| The gentleman pointed to a couple of chairs, and intimated by an |
| emphatic nod of his head that he expected them to be seated. Messrs |
| Codlin and Short, after looking at each other with considerable doubt |
| and indecision, at length sat down--each on the extreme edge of the |
| chair pointed out to him--and held their hats very tight, while the |
| single gentleman filled a couple of glasses from a bottle on the table |
| beside him, and presented them in due form. |
| |
| 'You're pretty well browned by the sun, both of you,' said their |
| entertainer. 'Have you been travelling?' |
| |
| Mr Short replied in the affirmative with a nod and a smile. Mr Codlin |
| added a corroborative nod and a short groan, as if he still felt the |
| weight of the Temple on his shoulders. |
| |
| 'To fairs, markets, races, and so forth, I suppose?' pursued the single |
| gentleman. |
| |
| 'Yes, sir,' returned Short, 'pretty nigh all over the West of England.' |
| |
| 'I have talked to men of your craft from North, East, and South,' |
| returned their host, in rather a hasty manner; 'but I never lighted on |
| any from the West before.' |
| |
| 'It's our reg'lar summer circuit is the West, master,' said Short; |
| 'that's where it is. We takes the East of London in the spring and |
| winter, and the West of England in the summer time. Many's the hard |
| day's walking in rain and mud, and with never a penny earned, we've had |
| down in the West.' |
| |
| 'Let me fill your glass again.' |
| |
| 'Much obleeged to you sir, I think I will,' said Mr Codlin, suddenly |
| thrusting in his own and turning Short's aside. 'I'm the sufferer, |
| sir, in all the travelling, and in all the staying at home. In town or |
| country, wet or dry, hot or cold, Tom Codlin suffers. But Tom Codlin |
| isn't to complain for all that. Oh, no! Short may complain, but if |
| Codlin grumbles by so much as a word--oh dear, down with him, down |
| with him directly. It isn't his place to grumble. That's quite out of |
| the question.' |
| |
| 'Codlin an't without his usefulness,' observed Short with an arch look, |
| 'but he don't always keep his eyes open. He falls asleep sometimes, |
| you know. Remember them last races, Tommy.' |
| |
| 'Will you never leave off aggravating a man?' said Codlin. 'It's very |
| like I was asleep when five-and-tenpence was collected, in one round, |
| isn't it? I was attending to my business, and couldn't have my eyes in |
| twenty places at once, like a peacock, no more than you could. If I |
| an't a match for an old man and a young child, you an't neither, so |
| don't throw that out against me, for the cap fits your head quite as |
| correct as it fits mine.' |
| |
| 'You may as well drop the subject, Tom,' said Short. 'It isn't |
| particular agreeable to the gentleman, I dare say.' |
| |
| 'Then you shouldn't have brought it up,' returned Mr Codlin; 'and I ask |
| the gentleman's pardon on your account, as a giddy chap that likes to |
| hear himself talk, and don't much care what he talks about, so that he |
| does talk.' |
| |
| Their entertainer had sat perfectly quiet in the beginning of this |
| dispute, looking first at one man and then at the other, as if he were |
| lying in wait for an opportunity of putting some further question, or |
| reverting to that from which the discourse had strayed. But, from the |
| point where Mr Codlin was charged with sleepiness, he had shown an |
| increasing interest in the discussion: which now attained a very high |
| pitch. |
| |
| 'You are the two men I want,' he said, 'the two men I have been looking |
| for, and searching after! Where are that old man and that child you |
| speak of?' |
| |
| 'Sir?' said Short, hesitating, and looking towards his friend. |
| |
| 'The old man and his grandchild who travelled with you--where are they? |
| It will be worth your while to speak out, I assure you; much better |
| worth your while than you believe. They left you, you say--at those |
| races, as I understand. They have been traced to that place, and there |
| lost sight of. Have you no clue, can you suggest no clue, to their |
| recovery?' |
| |
| 'Did I always say, Thomas,' cried Short, turning with a look of |
| amazement to his friend, 'that there was sure to be an inquiry after |
| them two travellers?' |
| |
| 'YOU said!' returned Mr Codlin. 'Did I always say that that 'ere |
| blessed child was the most interesting I ever see? Did I always say I |
| loved her, and doated on her? Pretty creetur, I think I hear her now. |
| "Codlin's my friend," she says, with a tear of gratitude a trickling |
| down her little eye; "Codlin's my friend," she says--"not Short. |
| Short's very well," she says; "I've no quarrel with Short; he means |
| kind, I dare say; but Codlin," she says, "has the feelings for my |
| money, though he mayn't look it."' |
| |
| Repeating these words with great emotion, Mr Codlin rubbed the bridge |
| of his nose with his coat-sleeve, and shaking his head mournfully from |
| side to side, left the single gentleman to infer that, from the moment |
| when he lost sight of his dear young charge, his peace of mind and |
| happiness had fled. |
| |
| 'Good Heaven!' said the single gentleman, pacing up and down the room, |
| 'have I found these men at last, only to discover that they can give me |
| no information or assistance! It would have been better to have lived |
| on, in hope, from day to day, and never to have lighted on them, than |
| to have my expectations scattered thus.' |
| |
| 'Stay a minute,' said Short. 'A man of the name of Jerry--you know |
| Jerry, Thomas?' |
| |
| 'Oh, don't talk to me of Jerrys,' replied Mr Codlin. 'How can I care a |
| pinch of snuff for Jerrys, when I think of that 'ere darling child? |
| "Codlin's my friend," she says, "dear, good, kind Codlin, as is always |
| a devising pleasures for me! I don't object to Short," she says, "but |
| I cotton to Codlin." Once,' said that gentleman reflectively, 'she |
| called me Father Codlin. I thought I should have bust!' |
| |
| 'A man of the name of Jerry, sir,' said Short, turning from his selfish |
| colleague to their new acquaintance, 'wot keeps a company of dancing |
| dogs, told me, in a accidental sort of way, that he had seen the old |
| gentleman in connexion with a travelling wax-work, unbeknown to him. |
| As they'd given us the slip, and nothing had come of it, and this was |
| down in the country that he'd been seen, I took no measures about it, |
| and asked no questions--But I can, if you like.' |
| |
| 'Is this man in town?' said the impatient single gentleman. 'Speak |
| faster.' |
| |
| 'No he isn't, but he will be to-morrow, for he lodges in our house,' |
| replied Mr Short rapidly. |
| |
| 'Then bring him here,' said the single gentleman. 'Here's a sovereign |
| a-piece. If I can find these people through your means, it is but a |
| prelude to twenty more. Return to me to-morrow, and keep your own |
| counsel on this subject--though I need hardly tell you that; for you'll |
| do so for your own sakes. Now, give me your address, and leave me.' |
| |
| The address was given, the two men departed, the crowd went with them, |
| and the single gentleman for two mortal hours walked in uncommon |
| agitation up and down his room, over the wondering heads of Mr |
| Swiveller and Miss Sally Brass. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 38 |
| |
| Kit--for it happens at this juncture, not only that we have breathing |
| time to follow his fortunes, but that the necessities of these |
| adventures so adapt themselves to our ease and inclination as to call |
| upon us imperatively to pursue the track we most desire to take--Kit, |
| while the matters treated of in the last fifteen chapters were yet in |
| progress, was, as the reader may suppose, gradually familiarising |
| himself more and more with Mr and Mrs Garland, Mr Abel, the pony, and |
| Barbara, and gradually coming to consider them one and all as his |
| particular private friends, and Abel Cottage, Finchley, as his own |
| proper home. |
| |
| Stay--the words are written, and may go, but if they convey any notion |
| that Kit, in the plentiful board and comfortable lodging of his new |
| abode, began to think slightingly of the poor fare and furniture of his |
| old dwelling, they do their office badly and commit injustice. Who so |
| mindful of those he left at home--albeit they were but a mother and two |
| young babies--as Kit? What boastful father in the fulness of his heart |
| ever related such wonders of his infant prodigy, as Kit never wearied |
| of telling Barbara in the evening time, concerning little Jacob? Was |
| there ever such a mother as Kit's mother, on her son's showing; or was |
| there ever such comfort in poverty as in the poverty of Kit's family, |
| if any correct judgment might be arrived at, from his own glowing |
| account! |
| |
| And let me linger in this place, for an instant, to remark that if ever |
| household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful |
| in the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home may |
| be forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble |
| hearth are of the truer metal and bear the stamp of Heaven. The man of |
| high descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as part of |
| himself: as trophies of his birth and power; his associations with them |
| are associations of pride and wealth and triumph; the poor man's |
| attachment to the tenements he holds, which strangers have held before, |
| and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a |
| purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy |
| of silver, gold, or precious stone; he has no property but in the |
| affections of his own heart; and when they endear bare floors and |
| walls, despite of rags and toil and scanty fare, that man has his love |
| of home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place. |
| |
| Oh! if those who rule the destinies of nations would but remember |
| this--if they would but think how hard it is for the very poor to have |
| engendered in their hearts, that love of home from which all domestic |
| virtues spring, when they live in dense and squalid masses where social |
| decency is lost, or rather never found--if they would but turn aside |
| from the wide thoroughfares and great houses, and strive to improve the |
| wretched dwellings in bye-ways where only Poverty may walk--many low |
| roofs would point more truly to the sky, than the loftiest steeple that |
| now rears proudly up from the midst of guilt, and crime, and horrible |
| disease, to mock them by its contrast. In hollow voices from |
| Workhouse, Hospital, and jail, this truth is preached from day to day, |
| and has been proclaimed for years. It is no light matter--no outcry |
| from the working vulgar--no mere question of the people's health and |
| comforts that may be whistled down on Wednesday nights. In love of |
| home, the love of country has its rise; and who are the truer patriots |
| or the better in time of need--those who venerate the land, owning its |
| wood, and stream, and earth, and all that they produce? or those who |
| love their country, boasting not a foot of ground in all its wide |
| domain! |
| |
| Kit knew nothing about such questions, but he knew that his old home |
| was a very poor place, and that his new one was very unlike it, and yet |
| he was constantly looking back with grateful satisfaction and |
| affectionate anxiety, and often indited square-folded letters to his |
| mother, enclosing a shilling or eighteenpence or such other small |
| remittance, which Mr Abel's liberality enabled him to make. Sometimes |
| being in the neighbourhood, he had leisure to call upon her, and then |
| great was the joy and pride of Kit's mother, and extremely noisy the |
| satisfaction of little Jacob and the baby, and cordial the |
| congratulations of the whole court, who listened with admiring ears to |
| the accounts of Abel Cottage, and could never be told too much of its |
| wonders and magnificence. |
| |
| Although Kit was in the very highest favour with the old lady and |
| gentleman, and Mr Abel, and Barbara, it is certain that no member of |
| the family evinced such a remarkable partiality for him as the |
| self-willed pony, who, from being the most obstinate and opinionated |
| pony on the face of the earth, was, in his hands, the meekest and most |
| tractable of animals. It is true that in exact proportion as he became |
| manageable by Kit he became utterly ungovernable by anybody else (as if |
| he had determined to keep him in the family at all risks and hazards), |
| and that, even under the guidance of his favourite, he would sometimes |
| perform a great variety of strange freaks and capers, to the extreme |
| discomposure of the old lady's nerves; but as Kit always represented |
| that this was only his fun, or a way he had of showing his attachment |
| to his employers, Mrs Garland gradually suffered herself to be |
| persuaded into the belief, in which she at last became so strongly |
| confirmed, that if, in one of these ebullitions, he had overturned the |
| chaise, she would have been quite satisfied that he did it with the |
| very best intentions. |
| |
| Besides becoming in a short time a perfect marvel in all stable |
| matters, Kit soon made himself a very tolerable gardener, a handy |
| fellow within doors, and an indispensable attendant on Mr Abel, who |
| every day gave him some new proof of his confidence and approbation. |
| Mr Witherden the notary, too, regarded him with a friendly eye; and |
| even Mr Chuckster would sometimes condescend to give him a slight nod, |
| or to honour him with that peculiar form of recognition which is called |
| 'taking a sight,' or to favour him with some other salute combining |
| pleasantry with patronage. |
| |
| One morning Kit drove Mr Abel to the Notary's office, as he sometimes |
| did, and having set him down at the house, was about to drive off to a |
| livery stable hard by, when this same Mr Chuckster emerged from the |
| office door, and cried 'Woa-a-a-a-a-a!'--dwelling upon the note a long |
| time, for the purpose of striking terror into the pony's heart, and |
| asserting the supremacy of man over the inferior animals. |
| |
| 'Pull up, Snobby,' cried Mr Chuckster, addressing himself to Kit. |
| 'You're wanted inside here.' |
| |
| 'Has Mr Abel forgotten anything, I wonder?' said Kit as he dismounted. |
| |
| 'Ask no questions, Snobby,' returned Mr Chuckster, 'but go and see. |
| Woa-a-a then, will you? If that pony was mine, I'd break him.' |
| |
| 'You must be very gentle with him, if you please,' said Kit, 'or you'll |
| find him troublesome. You'd better not keep on pulling his ears, |
| please. I know he won't like it.' |
| |
| To this remonstrance Mr Chuckster deigned no other answer, than |
| addressing Kit with a lofty and distant air as 'young feller,' and |
| requesting him to cut and come again with all speed. The 'young |
| feller' complying, Mr Chuckster put his hands in his pockets, and tried |
| to look as if he were not minding the pony, but happened to be lounging |
| there by accident. |
| |
| Kit scraped his shoes very carefully (for he had not yet lost his |
| reverence for the bundles of papers and the tin boxes,) and tapped at |
| the office-door, which was quickly opened by the Notary himself. |
| |
| 'Oh! come in, Christopher,' said Mr Witherden. |
| |
| 'Is that the lad?' asked an elderly gentleman, but of a stout, bluff |
| figure--who was in the room. |
| |
| 'That's the lad,' said Mr Witherden. 'He fell in with my client, Mr |
| Garland, sir, at this very door. I have reason to think he is a good |
| lad, sir, and that you may believe what he says. Let me introduce Mr |
| Abel Garland, sir--his young master; my articled pupil, sir, and most |
| particular friend:--my most particular friend, sir,' repeated the |
| Notary, drawing out his silk handkerchief and flourishing it about his |
| face. |
| |
| 'Your servant, sir,' said the stranger gentleman. |
| |
| 'Yours, sir, I'm sure,' replied Mr Abel mildly. 'You were wishing to |
| speak to Christopher, sir?' |
| |
| 'Yes, I was. Have I your permission?' |
| |
| 'By all means.' |
| |
| 'My business is no secret; or I should rather say it need be no secret |
| here,' said the stranger, observing that Mr Abel and the Notary were |
| preparing to retire. 'It relates to a dealer in curiosities with whom |
| he lived, and in whom I am earnestly and warmly interested. I have |
| been a stranger to this country, gentlemen, for very many years, and if |
| I am deficient in form and ceremony, I hope you will forgive me.' |
| |
| 'No forgiveness is necessary, sir;--none whatever,' replied the Notary. |
| And so said Mr Abel. |
| |
| 'I have been making inquiries in the neighbourhood in which his old |
| master lived,' said the stranger, 'and I learn that he was served by |
| this lad. I have found out his mother's house, and have been directed |
| by her to this place as the nearest in which I should be likely to find |
| him. That's the cause of my presenting myself here this morning.' |
| |
| 'I am very glad of any cause, sir,' said the Notary, 'which procures me |
| the honour of this visit.' |
| |
| 'Sir,' retorted the stranger, 'you speak like a mere man of the world, |
| and I think you something better. Therefore, pray do not sink your |
| real character in paying unmeaning compliments to me.' |
| |
| 'Hem!' coughed the Notary. 'You're a plain speaker, sir.' |
| |
| 'And a plain dealer,' returned the stranger. 'It may be my long |
| absence and inexperience that lead me to the conclusion; but if plain |
| speakers are scarce in this part of the world, I fancy plain dealers |
| are still scarcer. If my speaking should offend you, sir, my dealing, |
| I hope, will make amends.' |
| |
| Mr Witherden seemed a little disconcerted by the elderly gentleman's |
| mode of conducting the dialogue; and as for Kit, he looked at him in |
| open-mouthed astonishment: wondering what kind of language he would |
| address to him, if he talked in that free and easy way to a Notary. It |
| was with no harshness, however, though with something of constitutional |
| irritability and haste, that he turned to Kit and said: |
| |
| 'If you think, my lad, that I am pursuing these inquiries with any |
| other view than that of serving and reclaiming those I am in search of, |
| you do me a very great wrong, and deceive yourself. Don't be deceived, |
| I beg of you, but rely upon my assurance. The fact is, gentlemen,' he |
| added, turning again to the Notary and his pupil, 'that I am in a very |
| painful and wholly unexpected position. I came to this city with a |
| darling object at my heart, expecting to find no obstacle or difficulty |
| in the way of its attainment. I find myself suddenly checked and |
| stopped short, in the execution of my design, by a mystery which I |
| cannot penetrate. Every effort I have made to penetrate it, has only |
| served to render it darker and more obscure; and I am afraid to stir |
| openly in the matter, lest those whom I anxiously pursue, should fly |
| still farther from me. I assure you that if you could give me any |
| assistance, you would not be sorry to do so, if you knew how greatly I |
| stand in need of it, and what a load it would relieve me from.' |
| |
| There was a simplicity in this confidence which occasioned it to find a |
| quick response in the breast of the good-natured Notary, who replied, |
| in the same spirit, that the stranger had not mistaken his desire, and |
| that if he could be of service to him, he would, most readily. |
| |
| Kit was then put under examination and closely questioned by the |
| unknown gentleman, touching his old master and the child, their lonely |
| way of life, their retired habits, and strict seclusion. The nightly |
| absence of the old man, the solitary existence of the child at those |
| times, his illness and recovery, Quilp's possession of the house, and |
| their sudden disappearance, were all the subjects of much questioning |
| and answer. Finally, Kit informed the gentleman that the premises were |
| now to let, and that a board upon the door referred all inquirers to Mr |
| Sampson Brass, Solicitor, of Bevis Marks, from whom he might perhaps |
| learn some further particulars. |
| |
| 'Not by inquiry,' said the gentleman shaking his head. 'I live there.' |
| |
| 'Live at Brass's the attorney's!' cried Mr Witherden in some surprise: |
| having professional knowledge of the gentleman in question. |
| |
| 'Aye,' was the reply. 'I entered on his lodgings t'other day, chiefly |
| because I had seen this very board. It matters little to me where I |
| live, and I had a desperate hope that some intelligence might be cast |
| in my way there, which would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I live at |
| Brass's--more shame for me, I suppose?' |
| |
| 'That's a mere matter of opinion,' said the Notary, shrugging his |
| shoulders. 'He is looked upon as rather a doubtful character.' |
| |
| 'Doubtful?' echoed the other. 'I am glad to hear there's any doubt |
| about it. I supposed that had been thoroughly settled, long ago. But |
| will you let me speak a word or two with you in private?' |
| |
| Mr Witherden consenting, they walked into that gentleman's private |
| closet, and remained there, in close conversation, for some quarter of |
| an hour, when they returned into the outer office. The stranger had |
| left his hat in Mr Witherden's room, and seemed to have established |
| himself in this short interval on quite a friendly footing. |
| |
| 'I'll not detain you any longer now,' he said, putting a crown into |
| Kit's hand, and looking towards the Notary. 'You shall hear from me |
| again. Not a word of this, you know, except to your master and |
| mistress.' |
| |
| 'Mother, sir, would be glad to know--' said Kit, faltering. |
| |
| 'Glad to know what?' |
| |
| 'Anything--so that it was no harm--about Miss Nell.' |
| |
| 'Would she? Well then, you may tell her if she can keep a secret. But |
| mind, not a word of this to anybody else. Don't forget that. Be |
| particular.' |
| |
| 'I'll take care, sir,' said Kit. 'Thankee, sir, and good morning.' |
| |
| Now, it happened that the gentleman, in his anxiety to impress upon Kit |
| that he was not to tell anybody what had passed between them, followed |
| him out to the door to repeat his caution, and it further happened that |
| at that moment the eyes of Mr Richard Swiveller were turned in that |
| direction, and beheld his mysterious friend and Kit together. |
| |
| It was quite an accident, and the way in which it came about was this. |
| Mr Chuckster, being a gentleman of a cultivated taste and refined |
| spirit, was one of that Lodge of Glorious Apollos whereof Mr Swiveller |
| was Perpetual Grand. Mr Swiveller, passing through the street in the |
| execution of some Brazen errand, and beholding one of his Glorious |
| Brotherhood intently gazing on a pony, crossed over to give him that |
| fraternal greeting with which Perpetual Grands are, by the very |
| constitution of their office, bound to cheer and encourage their |
| disciples. He had scarcely bestowed upon him his blessing, and |
| followed it with a general remark touching the present state and |
| prospects of the weather, when, lifting up his eyes, he beheld the |
| single gentleman of Bevis Marks in earnest conversation with |
| Christopher Nubbles. |
| |
| 'Hallo!' said Dick, 'who is that?' |
| |
| 'He called to see my Governor this morning,' replied Mr Chuckster; |
| 'beyond that, I don't know him from Adam.' |
| |
| 'At least you know his name?' said Dick. |
| |
| To which Mr Chuckster replied, with an elevation of speech becoming a |
| Glorious Apollo, that he was 'everlastingly blessed' if he did. |
| |
| 'All I know, my dear feller,' said Mr Chuckster, running his fingers |
| through his hair, 'is, that he is the cause of my having stood here |
| twenty minutes, for which I hate him with a mortal and undying hatred, |
| and would pursue him to the confines of eternity if I could afford the |
| time.' |
| |
| While they were thus discoursing, the subject of their conversation |
| (who had not appeared to recognise Mr Richard Swiveller) re-entered the |
| house, and Kit came down the steps and joined them; to whom Mr |
| Swiveller again propounded his inquiry with no better success. |
| |
| 'He is a very nice gentleman, Sir,' said Kit, 'and that's all I know |
| about him.' |
| |
| Mr Chuckster waxed wroth at this answer, and without applying the |
| remark to any particular case, mentioned, as a general truth, that it |
| was expedient to break the heads of Snobs, and to tweak their noses. |
| Without expressing his concurrence in this sentiment, Mr Swiveller |
| after a few moments of abstraction inquired which way Kit was driving, |
| and, being informed, declared it was his way, and that he would |
| trespass on him for a lift. Kit would gladly have declined the |
| proffered honour, but as Mr Swiveller was already established in the |
| seat beside him, he had no means of doing so, otherwise than by a |
| forcible ejectment, and therefore, drove briskly off--so briskly |
| indeed, as to cut short the leave-taking between Mr Chuckster and his |
| Grand Master, and to occasion the former gentleman some inconvenience |
| from having his corns squeezed by the impatient pony. |
| |
| As Whisker was tired of standing, and Mr Swiveller was kind enough to |
| stimulate him by shrill whistles, and various sporting cries, they |
| rattled off at too sharp a pace to admit of much conversation: |
| especially as the pony, incensed by Mr Swiveller's admonitions, took a |
| particular fancy for the lamp-posts and cart-wheels, and evinced a |
| strong desire to run on the pavement and rasp himself against the brick |
| walls. It was not, therefore, until they had arrived at the stable, |
| and the chaise had been extricated from a very small doorway, into |
| which the pony dragged it under the impression that he could take it |
| along with him into his usual stall, that Mr Swiveller found time to |
| talk. |
| |
| 'It's hard work,' said Richard. 'What do you say to some beer?' |
| |
| Kit at first declined, but presently consented, and they adjourned to |
| the neighbouring bar together. |
| |
| 'We'll drink our friend what's-his-name,' said Dick, holding up the |
| bright frothy pot; '--that was talking to you this morning, you know--I |
| know him--a good fellow, but eccentric--very--here's what's-his-name!' |
| |
| Kit pledged him. |
| |
| 'He lives in my house,' said Dick; 'at least in the house occupied by |
| the firm in which I'm a sort of a--of a managing partner--a difficult |
| fellow to get anything out of, but we like him--we like him.' |
| |
| 'I must be going, sir, if you please,' said Kit, moving away. |
| |
| 'Don't be in a hurry, Christopher,' replied his patron, 'we'll drink |
| your mother.' |
| |
| 'Thank you, sir.' |
| |
| 'An excellent woman that mother of yours, Christopher,' said Mr |
| Swiveller. 'Who ran to catch me when I fell, and kissed the place to |
| make it well? My mother. A charming woman. He's a liberal sort of |
| fellow. We must get him to do something for your mother. Does he know |
| her, Christopher?' |
| |
| Kit shook his head, and glancing slyly at his questioner, thanked him, |
| and made off before he could say another word. |
| |
| 'Humph!' said Mr Swiveller pondering, 'this is queer. Nothing but |
| mysteries in connection with Brass's house. I'll keep my own counsel, |
| however. Everybody and anybody has been in my confidence as yet, but |
| now I think I'll set up in business for myself. Queer--very queer!' |
| |
| After pondering deeply and with a face of exceeding wisdom for some |
| time, Mr Swiveller drank some more of the beer, and summoning a small |
| boy who had been watching his proceedings, poured forth the few |
| remaining drops as a libation on the gravel, and bade him carry the |
| empty vessel to the bar with his compliments, and above all things to |
| lead a sober and temperate life, and abstain from all intoxicating and |
| exciting liquors. Having given him this piece of moral advice for his |
| trouble (which, as he wisely observed, was far better than half-pence) |
| the Perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious Apollos thrust his hands |
| into his pockets and sauntered away: still pondering as he went. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 39 |
| |
| All that day, though he waited for Mr Abel until evening, Kit kept |
| clear of his mother's house, determined not to anticipate the pleasures |
| of the morrow, but to let them come in their full rush of delight; for |
| to-morrow was the great and long looked-for epoch in his |
| life--to-morrow was the end of his first quarter--the day of receiving, |
| for the first time, one fourth part of his annual income of Six Pounds |
| in one vast sum of Thirty Shillings--to-morrow was to be a half-holiday |
| devoted to a whirl of entertainments, and little Jacob was to know what |
| oysters meant, and to see a play. |
| |
| All manner of incidents combined in favour of the occasion: not only |
| had Mr and Mrs Garland forewarned him that they intended to make no |
| deduction for his outfit from the great amount, but to pay it him |
| unbroken in all its gigantic grandeur; not only had the unknown |
| gentleman increased the stock by the sum of five shillings, which was a |
| perfect god-send and in itself a fortune; not only had these things |
| come to pass which nobody could have calculated upon, or in their |
| wildest dreams have hoped; but it was Barbara's quarter too--Barbara's |
| quarter, that very day--and Barbara had a half-holiday as well as Kit, |
| and Barbara's mother was going to make one of the party, and to take |
| tea with Kit's mother, and cultivate her acquaintance. |
| |
| To be sure Kit looked out of his window very early that morning to see |
| which way the clouds were flying, and to be sure Barbara would have |
| been at hers too, if she had not sat up so late over-night, starching |
| and ironing small pieces of muslin, and crimping them into frills, and |
| sewing them on to other pieces to form magnificent wholes for next |
| day's wear. But they were both up very early for all that, and had |
| small appetites for breakfast and less for dinner, and were in a state |
| of great excitement when Barbara's mother came in, with astonishing |
| accounts of the fineness of the weather out of doors (but with a very |
| large umbrella notwithstanding, for people like Barbara's mother seldom |
| make holiday without one), and when the bell rang for them to go up |
| stairs and receive their quarter's money in gold and silver. |
| |
| Well, wasn't Mr Garland kind when he said 'Christopher, here's your |
| money, and you have earned it well;' and wasn't Mrs Garland kind when |
| she said 'Barbara, here's yours, and I'm much pleased with you;' and |
| didn't Kit sign his name bold to his receipt, and didn't Barbara sign |
| her name all a trembling to hers; and wasn't it beautiful to see how |
| Mrs Garland poured out Barbara's mother a glass of wine; and didn't |
| Barbara's mother speak up when she said 'Here's blessing you, ma'am, as |
| a good lady, and you, sir, as a good gentleman, and Barbara, my love to |
| you, and here's towards you, Mr Christopher;' and wasn't she as long |
| drinking it as if it had been a tumblerful; and didn't she look |
| genteel, standing there with her gloves on; and wasn't there plenty of |
| laughing and talking among them as they reviewed all these things upon |
| the top of the coach, and didn't they pity the people who hadn't got a |
| holiday! |
| |
| But Kit's mother, again--wouldn't anybody have supposed she had come of |
| a good stock and been a lady all her life! There she was, quite ready |
| to receive them, with a display of tea-things that might have warmed |
| the heart of a china-shop; and little Jacob and the baby in such a |
| state of perfection that their clothes looked as good as new, though |
| Heaven knows they were old enough! Didn't she say before they had sat |
| down five minutes that Barbara's mother was exactly the sort of lady |
| she expected, and didn't Barbara's mother say that Kit's mother was the |
| very picture of what she had expected, and didn't Kit's mother |
| compliment Barbara's mother on Barbara, and didn't Barbara's mother |
| compliment Kit's mother on Kit, and wasn't Barbara herself quite |
| fascinated with little Jacob, and did ever a child show off when he was |
| wanted, as that child did, or make such friends as he made! |
| |
| 'And we are both widows too!' said Barbara's mother. 'We must have |
| been made to know each other.' |
| |
| 'I haven't a doubt about it,' returned Mrs Nubbles. 'And what a pity |
| it is we didn't know each other sooner.' |
| |
| 'But then, you know, it's such a pleasure,' said Barbara's mother, 'to |
| have it brought about by one's son and daughter, that it's fully made |
| up for. Now, an't it?' |
| |
| To this, Kit's mother yielded her full assent, and tracing things back |
| from effects to causes, they naturally reverted to their deceased |
| husbands, respecting whose lives, deaths, and burials, they compared |
| notes, and discovered sundry circumstances that tallied with wonderful |
| exactness; such as Barbara's father having been exactly four years and |
| ten months older than Kit's father, and one of them having died on a |
| Wednesday and the other on a Thursday, and both of them having been of |
| a very fine make and remarkably good-looking, with other extraordinary |
| coincidences. These recollections being of a kind calculated to cast a |
| shadow on the brightness of the holiday, Kit diverted the conversation |
| to general topics, and they were soon in great force again, and as |
| merry as before. Among other things, Kit told them about his old |
| place, and the extraordinary beauty of Nell (of whom he had talked to |
| Barbara a thousand times already); but the last-named circumstance |
| failed to interest his hearers to anything like the extent he had |
| supposed, and even his mother said (looking accidentally at Barbara at |
| the same time) that there was no doubt Miss Nell was very pretty, but |
| she was but a child after all, and there were many young women quite as |
| pretty as she; and Barbara mildly observed that she should think so, |
| and that she never could help believing Mr Christopher must be under a |
| mistake--which Kit wondered at very much, not being able to conceive |
| what reason she had for doubting him. Barbara's mother too, observed |
| that it was very common for young folks to change at about fourteen or |
| fifteen, and whereas they had been very pretty before, to grow up quite |
| plain; which truth she illustrated by many forcible examples, |
| especially one of a young man, who, being a builder with great |
| prospects, had been particular in his attentions to Barbara, but whom |
| Barbara would have nothing to say to; which (though everything happened |
| for the best) she almost thought was a pity. Kit said he thought so |
| too, and so he did honestly, and he wondered what made Barbara so |
| silent all at once, and why his mother looked at him as if he shouldn't |
| have said it. |
| |
| However, it was high time now to be thinking of the play; for which |
| great preparation was required, in the way of shawls and bonnets, not |
| to mention one handkerchief full of oranges and another of apples, |
| which took some time tying up, in consequence of the fruit having a |
| tendency to roll out at the corners. At length, everything was ready, |
| and they went off very fast; Kit's mother carrying the baby, who was |
| dreadfully wide awake, and Kit holding little Jacob in one hand, and |
| escorting Barbara with the other--a state of things which occasioned |
| the two mothers, who walked behind, to declare that they looked quite |
| family folks, and caused Barbara to blush and say, 'Now don't, mother!' |
| But Kit said she had no call to mind what they said; and indeed she |
| need not have had, if she had known how very far from Kit's thoughts |
| any love-making was. Poor Barbara! |
| |
| At last they got to the theatre, which was Astley's: and in some two |
| minutes after they had reached the yet unopened door, little Jacob was |
| squeezed flat, and the baby had received divers concussions, and |
| Barbara's mother's umbrella had been carried several yards off and |
| passed back to her over the shoulders of the people, and Kit had hit a |
| man on the head with the handkerchief of apples for 'scrowdging' his |
| parent with unnecessary violence, and there was a great uproar. But, |
| when they were once past the pay-place and tearing away for very life |
| with their checks in their hands, and, above all, when they were fairly |
| in the theatre, and seated in such places that they couldn't have had |
| better if they had picked them out, and taken them beforehand, all this |
| was looked upon as quite a capital joke, and an essential part of the |
| entertainment. |
| |
| Dear, dear, what a place it looked, that Astley's; with all the paint, |
| gilding, and looking-glass; the vague smell of horses suggestive of |
| coming wonders; the curtain that hid such gorgeous mysteries; the clean |
| white sawdust down in the circus; the company coming in and taking |
| their places; the fiddlers looking carelessly up at them while they |
| tuned their instruments, as if they didn't want the play to begin, and |
| knew it all beforehand! What a glow was that, which burst upon them |
| all, when that long, clear, brilliant row of lights came slowly up; and |
| what the feverish excitement when the little bell rang and the music |
| began in good earnest, with strong parts for the drums, and sweet |
| effects for the triangles! Well might Barbara's mother say to Kit's |
| mother that the gallery was the place to see from, and wonder it wasn't |
| much dearer than the boxes; well might Barbara feel doubtful whether to |
| laugh or cry, in her flutter of delight. |
| |
| Then the play itself! the horses which little Jacob believed from the |
| first to be alive, and the ladies and gentlemen of whose reality he |
| could be by no means persuaded, having never seen or heard anything at |
| all like them--the firing, which made Barbara wink--the forlorn lady, |
| who made her cry--the tyrant, who made her tremble--the man who sang |
| the song with the lady's-maid and danced the chorus, who made her |
| laugh--the pony who reared up on his hind legs when he saw the |
| murderer, and wouldn't hear of walking on all fours again until he was |
| taken into custody--the clown who ventured on such familiarities with |
| the military man in boots--the lady who jumped over the nine-and-twenty |
| ribbons and came down safe upon the horse's back--everything was |
| delightful, splendid, and surprising! Little Jacob applauded till his |
| hands were sore; Kit cried 'an-kor' at the end of everything, the |
| three-act piece included; and Barbara's mother beat her umbrella on the |
| floor, in her ecstasies, until it was nearly worn down to the gingham. |
| |
| In the midst of all these fascinations, Barbara's thoughts seemed to |
| have been still running on what Kit had said at tea-time; for, when |
| they were coming out of the play, she asked him, with an hysterical |
| simper, if Miss Nell was as handsome as the lady who jumped over the |
| ribbons. |
| |
| 'As handsome as her?' said Kit. 'Double as handsome.' |
| |
| 'Oh Christopher! I'm sure she was the beautifullest creature ever was,' |
| said Barbara. |
| |
| 'Nonsense!' returned Kit. 'She was well enough, I don't deny that; but |
| think how she was dressed and painted, and what a difference that made. |
| Why YOU are a good deal better looking than her, Barbara.' |
| |
| 'Oh Christopher!' said Barbara, looking down. |
| |
| 'You are, any day,' said Kit, '--and so's your mother.' |
| |
| Poor Barbara! |
| |
| What was all this though--even all this--to the extraordinary |
| dissipation that ensued, when Kit, walking into an oyster-shop as bold |
| as if he lived there, and not so much as looking at the counter or the |
| man behind it, led his party into a box--a private box, fitted up with |
| red curtains, white table-cloth, and cruet-stand complete--and ordered |
| a fierce gentleman with whiskers, who acted as waiter and called him, |
| him Christopher Nubbles, 'sir,' to bring three dozen of his |
| largest-sized oysters, and to look sharp about it! Yes, Kit told this |
| gentleman to look sharp, and he not only said he would look sharp, but |
| he actually did, and presently came running back with the newest |
| loaves, and the freshest butter, and the largest oysters, ever seen. |
| Then said Kit to this gentleman, 'a pot of beer'--just so--and the |
| gentleman, instead of replying, 'Sir, did you address that language to |
| me?' only said, 'Pot o' beer, sir? Yes, sir,' and went off and fetched |
| it, and put it on the table in a small decanter-stand, like those which |
| blind-men's dogs carry about the streets in their mouths, to catch the |
| half-pence in; and both Kit's mother and Barbara's mother declared as |
| he turned away that he was one of the slimmest and gracefullest young |
| men she had ever looked upon. |
| |
| Then they fell to work upon the supper in earnest; and there was |
| Barbara, that foolish Barbara, declaring that she could not eat more |
| than two, and wanting more pressing than you would believe before she |
| would eat four: though her mother and Kit's mother made up for it |
| pretty well, and ate and laughed and enjoyed themselves so thoroughly |
| that it did Kit good to see them, and made him laugh and eat likewise |
| from strong sympathy. But the greatest miracle of the night was little |
| Jacob, who ate oysters as if he had been born and bred to the |
| business--sprinkled the pepper and the vinegar with a discretion beyond |
| his years--and afterwards built a grotto on the table with the shells. |
| There was the baby too, who had never closed an eye all night, but had |
| sat as good as gold, trying to force a large orange into his mouth, and |
| gazing intently at the lights in the chandelier--there he was, sitting |
| up in his mother's lap, staring at the gas without winking, and making |
| indentations in his soft visage with an oyster-shell, to that degree |
| that a heart of iron must have loved him! In short, there never was a |
| more successful supper; and when Kit ordered in a glass of something |
| hot to finish with, and proposed Mr and Mrs Garland before sending it |
| round, there were not six happier people in all the world. |
| |
| But all happiness has an end--hence the chief pleasure of its next |
| beginning--and as it was now growing late, they agreed it was time to |
| turn their faces homewards. So, after going a little out of their way |
| to see Barbara and Barbara's mother safe to a friend's house where they |
| were to pass the night, Kit and his mother left them at the door, with |
| an early appointment for returning to Finchley next morning, and a |
| great many plans for next quarter's enjoyment. Then, Kit took little |
| Jacob on his back, and giving his arm to his mother, and a kiss to the |
| baby, they all trudged merrily home together. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 40 |
| |
| Full of that vague kind of penitence which holidays awaken next |
| morning, Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with his faith in last night's |
| enjoyments a little shaken by cool daylight and the return to every-day |
| duties and occupations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at the |
| appointed place. And being careful not to awaken any of the little |
| household, who were yet resting from their unusual fatigues, Kit left |
| his money on the chimney-piece, with an inscription in chalk calling |
| his mother's attention to the circumstance, and informing her that it |
| came from her dutiful son; and went his way, with a heart something |
| heavier than his pockets, but free from any very great oppression |
| notwithstanding. |
| |
| Oh these holidays! why will they leave us some regret? why cannot we |
| push them back, only a week or two in our memories, so as to put them |
| at once at that convenient distance whence they may be regarded either |
| with a calm indifference or a pleasant effort of recollection! why will |
| they hang about us, like the flavour of yesterday's wine, suggestive of |
| headaches and lassitude, and those good intentions for the future, |
| which, under the earth, form the everlasting pavement of a large |
| estate, and, upon it, usually endure until dinner-time or thereabouts! |
| |
| Who will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that Barbara's mother |
| was disposed to be cross, or that she slightly underrated Astley's, and |
| thought the clown was older than they had taken him to be last night? |
| Kit was not surprised to hear her say so--not he. He had already had a |
| misgiving that the inconstant actors in that dazzling vision had been |
| doing the same thing the night before last, and would do it again that |
| night, and the next, and for weeks and months to come, though he would |
| not be there. Such is the difference between yesterday and today. We |
| are all going to the play, or coming home from it. |
| |
| However, the Sun himself is weak when he first rises, and gathers |
| strength and courage as the day gets on. By degrees, they began to |
| recall circumstances more and more pleasant in their nature, until, |
| what between talking, walking, and laughing, they reached Finchley in |
| such good heart, that Barbara's mother declared she never felt less |
| tired or in better spirits. And so said Kit. Barbara had been silent |
| all the way, but she said so too. Poor little Barbara! She was very |
| quiet. |
| |
| They were at home in such good time that Kit had rubbed down the pony |
| and made him as spruce as a race-horse, before Mr Garland came down to |
| breakfast; which punctual and industrious conduct the old lady, and the |
| old gentleman, and Mr Abel, highly extolled. At his usual hour (or |
| rather at his usual minute and second, for he was the soul of |
| punctuality) Mr Abel walked out, to be overtaken by the London coach, |
| and Kit and the old gentleman went to work in the garden. |
| |
| This was not the least pleasant of Kit's employments. On a fine day |
| they were quite a family party; the old lady sitting hard by with her |
| work-basket on a little table; the old gentleman digging, or pruning, |
| or clipping about with a large pair of shears, or helping Kit in some |
| way or other with great assiduity; and Whisker looking on from his |
| paddock in placid contemplation of them all. To-day they were to trim |
| the grape-vine, so Kit mounted half-way up a short ladder, and began to |
| snip and hammer away, while the old gentleman, with a great interest in |
| his proceedings, handed up the nails and shreds of cloth as he wanted |
| them. The old lady and Whisker looked on as usual. |
| |
| 'Well, Christopher,' said Mr Garland, 'and so you have made a new |
| friend, eh?' |
| |
| 'I beg your pardon, Sir?' returned Kit, looking down from the ladder. |
| |
| 'You have made a new friend, I hear from Mr Abel,' said the old |
| gentleman, 'at the office!' |
| |
| 'Oh! Yes Sir, yes. He behaved very handsome, Sir.' |
| |
| 'I'm glad to hear it,' returned the old gentlemen with a smile. 'He is |
| disposed to behave more handsomely still, though, Christopher.' |
| |
| 'Indeed, Sir! It's very kind in him, but I don't want him to, I'm |
| sure,' said Kit, hammering stoutly at an obdurate nail. |
| |
| 'He is rather anxious,' pursued the old gentleman, 'to have you in his |
| own service--take care what you're doing, or you will fall down and |
| hurt yourself.' |
| |
| 'To have me in his service, Sir?' cried Kit, who had stopped short in |
| his work and faced about on the ladder like some dexterous tumbler. |
| 'Why, Sir, I don't think he can be in earnest when he says that.' |
| |
| 'Oh! But he is indeed,' said Mr Garland. 'And he has told Mr Abel so.' |
| |
| 'I never heard of such a thing!' muttered Kit, looking ruefully at his |
| master and mistress. 'I wonder at him; that I do.' |
| |
| 'You see, Christopher,' said Mr Garland, 'this is a point of much |
| importance to you, and you should understand and consider it in that |
| light. This gentleman is able to give you more money than I--not, I |
| hope, to carry through the various relations of master and servant, |
| more kindness and confidence, but certainly, Christopher, to give you |
| more money.' |
| |
| 'Well,' said Kit, 'after that, Sir--' |
| |
| 'Wait a moment,' interposed Mr Garland. 'That is not all. You were a |
| very faithful servant to your old employers, as I understand, and |
| should this gentleman recover them, as it is his purpose to attempt |
| doing by every means in his power, I have no doubt that you, being in |
| his service, would meet with your reward. Besides,' added the old |
| gentleman with stronger emphasis, 'besides having the pleasure of being |
| again brought into communication with those to whom you seem to be very |
| strongly and disinterestedly attached. You must think of all this, |
| Christopher, and not be rash or hasty in your choice.' |
| |
| Kit did suffer one twinge, one momentary pang, in keeping the |
| resolution he had already formed, when this last argument passed |
| swiftly into his thoughts, and conjured up the realization of all his |
| hopes and fancies. But it was gone in a minute, and he sturdily |
| rejoined that the gentleman must look out for somebody else, as he did |
| think he might have done at first. |
| |
| 'He has no right to think that I'd be led away to go to him, sir,' said |
| Kit, turning round again after half a minute's hammering. 'Does he |
| think I'm a fool?' |
| |
| 'He may, perhaps, Christopher, if you refuse his offer,' said Mr |
| Garland gravely. |
| |
| 'Then let him, sir,' retorted Kit; 'what do I care, sir, what he |
| thinks? why should I care for his thinking, sir, when I know that I |
| should be a fool, and worse than a fool, sir, to leave the kindest |
| master and mistress that ever was or can be, who took me out of the |
| streets a very poor and hungry lad indeed--poorer and hungrier perhaps |
| than even you think for, sir--to go to him or anybody? If Miss Nell |
| was to come back, ma'am,' added Kit, turning suddenly to his mistress, |
| 'why that would be another thing, and perhaps if she wanted me, I might |
| ask you now and then to let me work for her when all was done at home. |
| But when she comes back, I see now that she'll be rich as old master |
| always said she would, and being a rich young lady, what could she want |
| of me? No, no,' added Kit, shaking his head sorrowfully, 'she'll never |
| want me any more, and bless her, I hope she never may, though I should |
| like to see her too!' |
| |
| Here Kit drove a nail into the wall, very hard--much harder than was |
| necessary--and having done so, faced about again. |
| |
| 'There's the pony, sir,' said Kit--'Whisker, ma'am (and he knows so |
| well I'm talking about him that he begins to neigh directly, |
| Sir)--would he let anybody come near him but me, ma'am? Here's the |
| garden, sir, and Mr Abel, ma'am. Would Mr Abel part with me, Sir, or |
| is there anybody that could be fonder of the garden, ma'am? It would |
| break mother's heart, Sir, and even little Jacob would have sense |
| enough to cry his eyes out, ma'am, if he thought that Mr Abel could |
| wish to part with me so soon, after having told me, only the other day, |
| that he hoped we might be together for years to come--' |
| |
| There is no telling how long Kit might have stood upon the ladder, |
| addressing his master and mistress by turns, and generally turning |
| towards the wrong person, if Barbara had not at that moment come |
| running up to say that a messenger from the office had brought a note, |
| which, with an expression of some surprise at Kit's oratorical |
| appearance, she put into her master's hand. |
| |
| 'Oh!' said the old gentleman after reading it, 'ask the messenger to |
| walk this way.' Barbara tripping off to do as she was bid, he turned |
| to Kit and said that they would not pursue the subject any further, and |
| that Kit could not be more unwilling to part with them, than they would |
| be to part with Kit; a sentiment which the old lady very generously |
| echoed. |
| |
| 'At the same time, Christopher,' added Mr Garland, glancing at the note |
| in his hand, 'if the gentleman should want to borrow you now and then |
| for an hour or so, or even a day or so, at a time, we must consent to |
| lend you, and you must consent to be lent.--Oh! here is the young |
| gentleman. How do you do, Sir?' |
| |
| This salutation was addressed to Mr Chuckster, who, with his hat |
| extremely on one side, and his hair a long way beyond it, came |
| swaggering up the walk. |
| |
| 'Hope I see you well sir,' returned that gentleman. 'Hope I see YOU |
| well, ma'am. Charming box this, sir. Delicious country to be sure.' |
| |
| 'You want to take Kit back with you, I find?' observed Mr Garland. |
| |
| 'I have got a chariot-cab waiting on purpose,' replied the clerk. 'A |
| very spanking grey in that cab, sir, if you're a judge of horse-flesh.' |
| |
| Declining to inspect the spanking grey, on the plea that he was but |
| poorly acquainted with such matters, and would but imperfectly |
| appreciate his beauties, Mr Garland invited Mr Chuckster to partake of |
| a slight repast in the way of lunch. That gentleman readily |
| consenting, certain cold viands, flanked with ale and wine, were |
| speedily prepared for his refreshment. |
| |
| At this repast, Mr Chuckster exerted his utmost abilities to enchant |
| his entertainers, and impress them with a conviction of the mental |
| superiority of those who dwelt in town; with which view he led the |
| discourse to the small scandal of the day, in which he was justly |
| considered by his friends to shine prodigiously. Thus, he was in a |
| condition to relate the exact circumstances of the difference between |
| the Marquis of Mizzler and Lord Bobby, which it appeared originated in |
| a disputed bottle of champagne, and not in a pigeon-pie, as erroneously |
| reported in the newspapers; neither had Lord Bobby said to the Marquis |
| of Mizzler, 'Mizzler, one of us two tells a lie, and I'm not the man,' |
| as incorrectly stated by the same authorities; but 'Mizzler, you know |
| where I'm to be found, and damme, sir, find me if you want me'--which, |
| of course, entirely changed the aspect of this interesting question, |
| and placed it in a very different light. He also acquainted them with |
| the precise amount of the income guaranteed by the Duke of Thigsberry |
| to Violetta Stetta of the Italian Opera, which it appeared was payable |
| quarterly, and not half-yearly, as the public had been given to |
| understand, and which was EXclusive, and not INclusive (as had been |
| monstrously stated,) of jewellery, perfumery, hair-powder for five |
| footmen, and two daily changes of kid-gloves for a page. Having |
| entreated the old lady and gentleman to set their minds at rest on |
| these absorbing points, for they might rely on his statement being the |
| correct one, Mr Chuckster entertained them with theatrical chit-chat |
| and the court circular; and so wound up a brilliant and fascinating |
| conversation which he had maintained alone, and without any assistance |
| whatever, for upwards of three-quarters of an hour. |
| |
| 'And now that the nag has got his wind again,' said Mr Chuckster rising |
| in a graceful manner, 'I'm afraid I must cut my stick.' |
| |
| Neither Mr nor Mrs Garland offered any opposition to his tearing |
| himself away (feeling, no doubt, that such a man could ill be spared |
| from his proper sphere of action), and therefore Mr Chuckster and Kit |
| were shortly afterwards upon their way to town; Kit being perched upon |
| the box of the cabriolet beside the driver, and Mr Chuckster seated in |
| solitary state inside, with one of his boots sticking out at each of |
| the front windows. |
| |
| When they reached the Notary's house, Kit followed into the office, and |
| was desired by Mr Abel to sit down and wait, for the gentleman who |
| wanted him had gone out, and perhaps might not return for some time. |
| This anticipation was strictly verified, for Kit had had his dinner, |
| and his tea, and had read all the lighter matter in the Law-List, and |
| the Post-Office Directory, and had fallen asleep a great many times, |
| before the gentleman whom he had seen before, came in; which he did at |
| last in a very great hurry. |
| |
| He was closeted with Mr Witherden for some little time, and Mr Abel had |
| been called in to assist at the conference, before Kit, wondering very |
| much what he was wanted for, was summoned to attend them. |
| |
| 'Christopher,' said the gentleman, turning to him directly he entered |
| the room, 'I have found your old master and young mistress.' |
| |
| 'No, Sir! Have you, though?' returned Kit, his eyes sparkling with |
| delight. 'Where are they, Sir? How are they, Sir? Are they--are they |
| near here?' |
| |
| 'A long way from here,' returned the gentleman, shaking his head. 'But |
| I am going away to-night to bring them back, and I want you to go with |
| me.' |
| |
| 'Me, Sir?' cried Kit, full of joy and surprise. |
| |
| 'The place,' said the strange gentleman, turning thoughtfully to the |
| Notary, 'indicated by this man of the dogs, is--how far from |
| here--sixty miles?' |
| |
| 'From sixty to seventy.' |
| |
| 'Humph! If we travel post all night, we shall reach there in good time |
| to-morrow morning. Now, the only question is, as they will not know |
| me, and the child, God bless her, would think that any stranger |
| pursuing them had a design upon her grandfather's liberty--can I do |
| better than take this lad, whom they both know and will readily |
| remember, as an assurance to them of my friendly intentions?' |
| |
| 'Certainly not,' replied the Notary. 'Take Christopher by all means.' |
| |
| 'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Kit, who had listened to this discourse |
| with a lengthening countenance, 'but if that's the reason, I'm afraid I |
| should do more harm than good--Miss Nell, Sir, she knows me, and would |
| trust in me, I am sure; but old master--I don't know why, gentlemen; |
| nobody does--would not bear me in his sight after he had been ill, and |
| Miss Nell herself told me that I must not go near him or let him see me |
| any more. I should spoil all that you were doing if I went, I'm |
| afraid. I'd give the world to go, but you had better not take me, Sir.' |
| |
| 'Another difficulty!' cried the impetuous gentleman. 'Was ever man so |
| beset as I? Is there nobody else that knew them, nobody else in whom |
| they had any confidence? Solitary as their lives were, is there no one |
| person who would serve my purpose?' |
| |
| 'IS there, Christopher?' said the Notary. |
| |
| 'Not one, Sir,' replied Kit.--'Yes, though--there's my mother.' |
| |
| 'Did they know her?' said the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'Know her, Sir! why, she was always coming backwards and forwards. |
| They were as kind to her as they were to me. Bless you, Sir, she |
| expected they'd come back to her house.' |
| |
| 'Then where the devil is the woman?' said the impatient gentleman, |
| catching up his hat. 'Why isn't she here? Why is that woman always |
| out of the way when she is most wanted?' |
| |
| In a word, the single gentleman was bursting out of the office, bent |
| upon laying violent hands on Kit's mother, forcing her into a |
| post-chaise, and carrying her off, when this novel kind of abduction |
| was with some difficulty prevented by the joint efforts of Mr Abel and |
| the Notary, who restrained him by dint of their remonstrances, and |
| persuaded him to sound Kit upon the probability of her being able and |
| willing to undertake such a journey on so short a notice. |
| |
| This occasioned some doubts on the part of Kit, and some violent |
| demonstrations on that of the single gentleman, and a great many |
| soothing speeches on that of the Notary and Mr Abel. The upshot of the |
| business was, that Kit, after weighing the matter in his mind and |
| considering it carefully, promised, on behalf of his mother, that she |
| should be ready within two hours from that time to undertake the |
| expedition, and engaged to produce her in that place, in all respects |
| equipped and prepared for the journey, before the specified period had |
| expired. |
| |
| Having given this pledge, which was rather a bold one, and not |
| particularly easy of redemption, Kit lost no time in sallying forth, |
| and taking measures for its immediate fulfilment. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 41 |
| |
| Kit made his way through the crowded streets, dividing the stream of |
| people, dashing across the busy road-ways, diving into lanes and |
| alleys, and stopping or turning aside for nothing, until he came in |
| front of the Old Curiosity Shop, when he came to a stand; partly from |
| habit and partly from being out of breath. |
| |
| It was a gloomy autumn evening, and he thought the old place had never |
| looked so dismal as in its dreary twilight. The windows broken, the |
| rusty sashes rattling in their frames, the deserted house a dull |
| barrier dividing the glaring lights and bustle of the street into two |
| long lines, and standing in the midst, cold, dark, and empty--presented |
| a cheerless spectacle which mingled harshly with the bright prospects |
| the boy had been building up for its late inmates, and came like a |
| disappointment or misfortune. Kit would have had a good fire roaring |
| up the empty chimneys, lights sparkling and shining through the |
| windows, people moving briskly to and fro, voices in cheerful |
| conversation, something in unison with the new hopes that were astir. |
| He had not expected that the house would wear any different aspect--had |
| known indeed that it could not--but coming upon it in the midst of |
| eager thoughts and expectations, it checked the current in its flow, |
| and darkened it with a mournful shadow. |
| |
| Kit, however, fortunately for himself, was not learned enough or |
| contemplative enough to be troubled with presages of evil afar off, |
| and, having no mental spectacles to assist his vision in this respect, |
| saw nothing but the dull house, which jarred uncomfortably upon his |
| previous thoughts. So, almost wishing that he had not passed it, |
| though hardly knowing why, he hurried on again, making up by his |
| increased speed for the few moments he had lost. |
| |
| 'Now, if she should be out,' thought Kit, as he approached the poor |
| dwelling of his mother, 'and I not able to find her, this impatient |
| gentleman would be in a pretty taking. And sure enough there's no |
| light, and the door's fast. Now, God forgive me for saying so, but if |
| this is Little Bethel's doing, I wish Little Bethel was--was farther |
| off,' said Kit checking himself, and knocking at the door. |
| |
| A second knock brought no reply from within the house; but caused a |
| woman over the way to look out and inquire who that was, awanting Mrs |
| Nubbles. |
| |
| 'Me,' said Kit. 'She's at--at Little Bethel, I suppose?'--getting out |
| the name of the obnoxious conventicle with some reluctance, and laying |
| a spiteful emphasis upon the words. |
| |
| The neighbour nodded assent. |
| |
| 'Then pray tell me where it is,' said Kit, 'for I have come on a |
| pressing matter, and must fetch her out, even if she was in the pulpit.' |
| |
| It was not very easy to procure a direction to the fold in question, as |
| none of the neighbours were of the flock that resorted thither, and few |
| knew anything more of it than the name. At last, a gossip of Mrs |
| Nubbles's, who had accompanied her to chapel on one or two occasions |
| when a comfortable cup of tea had preceded her devotions, furnished the |
| needful information, which Kit had no sooner obtained than he started |
| off again. |
| |
| Little Bethel might have been nearer, and might have been in a |
| straighter road, though in that case the reverend gentleman who |
| presided over its congregation would have lost his favourite allusion |
| to the crooked ways by which it was approached, and which enabled him |
| to liken it to Paradise itself, in contradistinction to the parish |
| church and the broad thoroughfare leading thereunto. Kit found it, at |
| last, after some trouble, and pausing at the door to take breath that |
| he might enter with becoming decency, passed into the chapel. |
| |
| It was not badly named in one respect, being in truth a particularly |
| little Bethel--a Bethel of the smallest dimensions--with a small |
| number of small pews, and a small pulpit, in which a small gentleman |
| (by trade a Shoemaker, and by calling a Divine) was delivering in a by |
| no means small voice, a by no means small sermon, judging of its |
| dimensions by the condition of his audience, which, if their gross |
| amount were but small, comprised a still smaller number of hearers, as |
| the majority were slumbering. |
| |
| Among these was Kit's mother, who, finding it matter of extreme |
| difficulty to keep her eyes open after the fatigues of last night, and |
| feeling their inclination to close strongly backed and seconded by the |
| arguments of the preacher, had yielded to the drowsiness that |
| overpowered her, and fallen asleep; though not so soundly but that she |
| could, from time to time, utter a slight and almost inaudible groan, as |
| if in recognition of the orator's doctrines. The baby in her arms was |
| as fast asleep as she; and little Jacob, whose youth prevented him from |
| recognising in this prolonged spiritual nourishment anything half as |
| interesting as oysters, was alternately very fast asleep and very wide |
| awake, as his inclination to slumber, or his terror of being personally |
| alluded to in the discourse, gained the mastery over him. |
| |
| 'And now I'm here,' thought Kit, gliding into the nearest empty pew |
| which was opposite his mother's, and on the other side of the little |
| aisle, 'how am I ever to get at her, or persuade her to come out! I |
| might as well be twenty miles off. She'll never wake till it's all |
| over, and there goes the clock again! If he would but leave off for a |
| minute, or if they'd only sing!' |
| |
| But there was little encouragement to believe that either event would |
| happen for a couple of hours to come. The preacher went on telling |
| them what he meant to convince them of before he had done, and it was |
| clear that if he only kept to one-half of his promises and forgot the |
| other, he was good for that time at least. |
| |
| In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes about the chapel, |
| and happening to let them fall upon a little seat in front of the |
| clerk's desk, could scarcely believe them when they showed him--Quilp! |
| |
| He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted that Quilp was |
| there, and there indeed he was, sitting with his hands upon his knees, |
| and his hat between them on a little wooden bracket, with the |
| accustomed grin on his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. |
| He certainly did not glance at Kit or at his mother, and appeared |
| utterly unconscious of their presence; still Kit could not help |
| feeling, directly, that the attention of the sly little fiend was |
| fastened upon them, and upon nothing else. |
| |
| But, astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf among the |
| Little Bethelites, and not free from a misgiving that it was the |
| forerunner of some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue his |
| wonder and to take active measures for the withdrawal of his parent, as |
| the evening was now creeping on, and the matter grew serious. |
| Therefore, the next time little Jacob woke, Kit set himself to attract |
| his wandering attention, and this not being a very difficult task (one |
| sneeze effected it), he signed to him to rouse his mother. |
| |
| Ill-luck would have it, however, that, just then, the preacher, in a |
| forcible exposition of one head of his discourse, leaned over upon the |
| pulpit-desk so that very little more of him than his legs remained |
| inside; and, while he made vehement gestures with his right hand, and |
| held on with his left, stared, or seemed to stare, straight into little |
| Jacob's eyes, threatening him by his strained look and attitude--so it |
| appeared to the child--that if he so much as moved a muscle, he, the |
| preacher, would be literally, and not figuratively, 'down upon him' |
| that instant. In this fearful state of things, distracted by the |
| sudden appearance of Kit, and fascinated by the eyes of the preacher, |
| the miserable Jacob sat bolt upright, wholly incapable of motion, |
| strongly disposed to cry but afraid to do so, and returning his |
| pastor's gaze until his infant eyes seemed starting from their sockets. |
| |
| 'If I must do it openly, I must,' thought Kit. With that he walked |
| softly out of his pew and into his mother's, and as Mr Swiveller would |
| have observed if he had been present, 'collared' the baby without |
| speaking a word. |
| |
| 'Hush, mother!' whispered Kit. 'Come along with me, I've got something |
| to tell you.' |
| |
| 'Where am I?' said Mrs Nubbles. |
| |
| 'In this blessed Little Bethel,' returned her son, peevishly. |
| |
| 'Blessed indeed!' cried Mrs Nubbles, catching at the word. 'Oh, |
| Christopher, how have I been edified this night!' |
| |
| 'Yes, yes, I know,' said Kit hastily; 'but come along, mother, |
| everybody's looking at us. Don't make a noise--bring Jacob--that's |
| right!' |
| |
| 'Stay, Satan, stay!' cried the preacher, as Kit was moving off. |
| |
| |
| 'This gentleman says you're to stay, Christopher,' whispered his mother. |
| |
| 'Stay, Satan, stay!' roared the preacher again. 'Tempt not the woman |
| that doth incline her ear to thee, but harken to the voice of him that |
| calleth. He hath a lamb from the fold!' cried the preacher, raising |
| his voice still higher and pointing to the baby. 'He beareth off a |
| lamb, a precious lamb! He goeth about, like a wolf in the night |
| season, and inveigleth the tender lambs!' |
| |
| Kit was the best-tempered fellow in the world, but considering this |
| strong language, and being somewhat excited by the circumstances in |
| which he was placed, he faced round to the pulpit with the baby in his |
| arms, and replied aloud, 'No, I don't. He's my brother.' |
| |
| 'He's MY brother!' cried the preacher. |
| |
| 'He isn't,' said Kit indignantly. 'How can you say such a thing? And |
| don't call me names if you please; what harm have I done? I shouldn't |
| have come to take 'em away, unless I was obliged, you may depend upon |
| that. I wanted to do it very quiet, but you wouldn't let me. Now, you |
| have the goodness to abuse Satan and them, as much as you like, Sir, |
| and to let me alone if you please.' |
| |
| So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by his mother and |
| little Jacob, and found himself in the open air, with an indistinct |
| recollection of having seen the people wake up and look surprised, and |
| of Quilp having remained, throughout the interruption, in his old |
| attitude, without moving his eyes from the ceiling, or appearing to |
| take the smallest notice of anything that passed. |
| |
| 'Oh Kit!' said his mother, with her handkerchief to her eyes, 'what |
| have you done! I never can go there again--never!' |
| |
| 'I'm glad of it, mother. What was there in the little bit of pleasure |
| you took last night that made it necessary for you to be low-spirited |
| and sorrowful tonight? That's the way you do. If you're happy or |
| merry ever, you come here to say, along with that chap, that you're |
| sorry for it. More shame for you, mother, I was going to say.' |
| |
| 'Hush, dear!' said Mrs Nubbles; 'you don't mean what you say I know, |
| but you're talking sinfulness.' |
| |
| 'Don't mean it? But I do mean it!' retorted Kit. 'I don't believe, |
| mother, that harmless cheerfulness and good humour are thought greater |
| sins in Heaven than shirt-collars are, and I do believe that those |
| chaps are just about as right and sensible in putting down the one as |
| in leaving off the other--that's my belief. But I won't say anything |
| more about it, if you'll promise not to cry, that's all; and you take |
| the baby that's a lighter weight, and give me little Jacob; and as we |
| go along (which we must do pretty quick) I'll give you the news I |
| bring, which will surprise you a little, I can tell you. There--that's |
| right. Now you look as if you'd never seen Little Bethel in all your |
| life, as I hope you never will again; and here's the baby; and little |
| Jacob, you get atop of my back and catch hold of me tight round the |
| neck, and whenever a Little Bethel parson calls you a precious lamb or |
| says your brother's one, you tell him it's the truest things he's said |
| for a twelvemonth, and that if he'd got a little more of the lamb |
| himself, and less of the mint-sauce--not being quite so sharp and sour |
| over it--I should like him all the better. That's what you've got to |
| say to him, Jacob.' |
| |
| Talking on in this way, half in jest and half in earnest, and cheering |
| up his mother, the children, and himself, by the one simple process of |
| determining to be in a good humour, Kit led them briskly forward; and |
| on the road home, he related what had passed at the Notary's house, and |
| the purpose with which he had intruded on the solemnities of Little |
| Bethel. |
| |
| His mother was not a little startled on learning what service was |
| required of her, and presently fell into a confusion of ideas, of which |
| the most prominent were that it was a great honour and dignity to ride |
| in a post-chaise, and that it was a moral impossibility to leave the |
| children behind. But this objection, and a great many others, founded |
| on certain articles of dress being at the wash, and certain other |
| articles having no existence in the wardrobe of Mrs Nubbles, were |
| overcome by Kit, who opposed to each and every of them, the pleasure of |
| recovering Nell, and the delight it would be to bring her back in |
| triumph. |
| |
| 'There's only ten minutes now, mother,' said Kit when they reached |
| home. 'There's a bandbox. Throw in what you want, and we'll be off |
| directly.' |
| |
| To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of things which |
| could, by no remote contingency, be wanted, and how he left out |
| everything likely to be of the smallest use; how a neighbour was |
| persuaded to come and stop with the children, and how the children at |
| first cried dismally, and then laughed heartily on being promised all |
| kinds of impossible and unheard-of toys; how Kit's mother wouldn't |
| leave off kissing them, and how Kit couldn't make up his mind to be |
| vexed with her for doing it; would take more time and room than you and |
| I can spare. So, passing over all such matters, it is sufficient to |
| say that within a few minutes after the two hours had expired, Kit and |
| his mother arrived at the Notary's door, where a post-chaise was |
| already waiting. |
| |
| 'With four horses I declare!' said Kit, quite aghast at the |
| preparations. 'Well you ARE going to do it, mother! Here she is, Sir. |
| Here's my mother. She's quite ready, sir.' |
| |
| 'That's well,' returned the gentleman. 'Now, don't be in a flutter, |
| ma'am; you'll be taken great care of. Where's the box with the new |
| clothing and necessaries for them?' |
| |
| 'Here it is,' said the Notary. 'In with it, Christopher.' |
| |
| 'All right, Sir,' replied Kit. 'Quite ready now, sir.' |
| |
| 'Then come along,' said the single gentleman. And thereupon he gave |
| his arm to Kit's mother, handed her into the carriage as politely as |
| you please, and took his seat beside her. |
| |
| Up went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled the wheels, and |
| off they rattled, with Kit's mother hanging out at one window waving a |
| damp pocket-handkerchief and screaming out a great many messages to |
| little Jacob and the baby, of which nobody heard a word. |
| |
| Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after them with tears |
| in his eyes--not brought there by the departure he witnessed, but by |
| the return to which he looked forward. 'They went away,' he thought, |
| 'on foot with nobody to speak to them or say a kind word at parting, |
| and they'll come back, drawn by four horses, with this rich gentleman |
| for their friend, and all their troubles over! She'll forget that she |
| taught me to write--' |
| |
| Whatever Kit thought about after this, took some time to think of, for |
| he stood gazing up the lines of shining lamps, long after the chaise |
| had disappeared, and did not return into the house until the Notary and |
| Mr Abel, who had themselves lingered outside till the sound of the |
| wheels was no longer distinguishable, had several times wondered what |
| could possibly detain him. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 42 |
| |
| It behoves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and expectant, and |
| to follow the fortunes of little Nell; resuming the thread of the |
| narrative at the point where it was left, some chapters back. |
| |
| In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when, following the two |
| sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in her sympathy with them and |
| her recognition in their trials of something akin to her own loneliness |
| of spirit, a comfort and consolation which made such moments a time of |
| deep delight, though the softened pleasure they yielded was of that |
| kind which lives and dies in tears--in one of those wanderings at the |
| quiet hour of twilight, when sky, and earth, and air, and rippling |
| water, and sound of distant bells, claimed kindred with the emotions of |
| the solitary child, and inspired her with soothing thoughts, but not of |
| a child's world or its easy joys--in one of those rambles which had now |
| become her only pleasure or relief from care, light had faded into |
| darkness and evening deepened into night, and still the young creature |
| lingered in the gloom; feeling a companionship in Nature so serene and |
| still, when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights would have been |
| solitude indeed. |
| |
| The sisters had gone home, and she was alone. She raised her eyes to |
| the bright stars, looking down so mildly from the wide worlds of air, |
| and, gazing on them, found new stars burst upon her view, and more |
| beyond, and more beyond again, until the whole great expanse sparkled |
| with shining spheres, rising higher and higher in immeasurable space, |
| eternal in their numbers as in their changeless and incorruptible |
| existence. She bent over the calm river, and saw them shining in the |
| same majestic order as when the dove beheld them gleaming through the |
| swollen waters, upon the mountain tops down far below, and dead |
| mankind, a million fathoms deep. |
| |
| The child sat silently beneath a tree, hushed in her very breath by the |
| stillness of the night, and all its attendant wonders. The time and |
| place awoke reflection, and she thought with a quiet hope--less hope, |
| perhaps, than resignation--on the past, and present, and what was yet |
| before her. Between the old man and herself there had come a gradual |
| separation, harder to bear than any former sorrow. Every evening, and |
| often in the day-time too, he was absent, alone; and although she well |
| knew where he went, and why--too well from the constant drain upon her |
| scanty purse and from his haggard looks--he evaded all inquiry, |
| maintained a strict reserve, and even shunned her presence. |
| |
| She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and mingling it, as it |
| were, with everything about her, when the distant church-clock bell |
| struck nine. Rising at the sound, she retraced her steps, and turned |
| thoughtfully towards the town. |
| |
| She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown across the stream, |
| led into a meadow in her way, when she came suddenly upon a ruddy |
| light, and looking forward more attentively, discerned that it |
| proceeded from what appeared to be an encampment of gipsies, who had |
| made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path, and were |
| sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have any fear of |
| them, she did not alter her course (which, indeed, she could not have |
| done without going a long way round), but quickened her pace a little, |
| and kept straight on. |
| |
| A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she approached the |
| spot, to glance towards the fire. There was a form between it and her, |
| the outline strongly developed against the light, which caused her to |
| stop abruptly. Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and were |
| assured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself that it was not |
| that of the person she had supposed, she went on again. |
| |
| But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was, which had been |
| carrying on near this fire was resumed, and the tones of the voice that |
| spoke--she could not distinguish words--sounded as familiar to her as |
| her own. |
| |
| She turned, and looked back. The person had been seated before, but |
| was now in a standing posture, and leaning forward on a stick on which |
| he rested both hands. The attitude was no less familiar to her than |
| the tone of voice had been. It was her grandfather. |
| |
| Her first impulse was to call to him; her next to wonder who his |
| associates could be, and for what purpose they were together. Some |
| vague apprehension succeeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination |
| it awakened, she drew nearer to the place; not advancing across the |
| open field, however, but creeping towards it by the hedge. |
| |
| In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire, and standing |
| among a few young trees, could both see and hear, without much danger |
| of being observed. |
| |
| There were no women or children, as she had seen in other gipsy camps |
| they had passed in their wayfaring, and but one gipsy--a tall athletic |
| man, who stood with his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little |
| distance off, looking now at the fire, and now, under his black |
| eyelashes, at three other men who were there, with a watchful but |
| half-concealed interest in their conversation. Of these, her |
| grandfather was one; the others she recognised as the first |
| card-players at the public-house on the eventful night of the |
| storm--the man whom they had called Isaac List, and his gruff |
| companion. One of the low, arched gipsy-tents, common to that people, |
| was pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared to be, empty. |
| |
| 'Well, are you going?' said the stout man, looking up from the ground |
| where he was lying at his ease, into her grandfather's face. 'You were |
| in a mighty hurry a minute ago. Go, if you like. You're your own |
| master, I hope?' |
| |
| 'Don't vex him,' returned Isaac List, who was squatting like a frog on |
| the other side of the fire, and had so screwed himself up that he |
| seemed to be squinting all over; 'he didn't mean any offence.' |
| |
| 'You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport and jest of me |
| besides,' said the old man, turning from one to the other. 'Ye'll |
| drive me mad among ye.' |
| |
| The utter irresolution and feebleness of the grey-haired child, |
| contrasted with the keen and cunning looks of those in whose hands he |
| was, smote upon the little listener's heart. But she constrained |
| herself to attend to all that passed, and to note each look and word. |
| |
| 'Confound you, what do you mean?' said the stout man rising a little, |
| and supporting himself on his elbow. 'Keep you poor! You'd keep us |
| poor if you could, wouldn't you? That's the way with you whining, |
| puny, pitiful players. When you lose, you're martyrs; but I don't find |
| that when you win, you look upon the other losers in that light. As to |
| plunder!' cried the fellow, raising his voice--'Damme, what do you |
| mean by such ungentlemanly language as plunder, eh?' |
| |
| The speaker laid himself down again at full length, and gave one or two |
| short, angry kicks, as if in further expression of his unbounded |
| indignation. It was quite plain that he acted the bully, and his |
| friend the peacemaker, for some particular purpose; or rather, it would |
| have been to any one but the weak old man; for they exchanged glances |
| quite openly, both with each other and with the gipsy, who grinned his |
| approval of the jest until his white teeth shone again. |
| |
| The old man stood helplessly among them for a little time, and then |
| said, turning to his assailant: |
| |
| 'You yourself were speaking of plunder just now, you know. Don't be so |
| violent with me. You were, were you not?' |
| |
| 'Not of plundering among present company! Honour among--among |
| gentlemen, Sir,' returned the other, who seemed to have been very near |
| giving an awkward termination to the sentence. |
| |
| 'Don't be hard upon him, Jowl,' said Isaac List. 'He's very sorry for |
| giving offence. There--go on with what you were saying--go on.' |
| |
| 'I'm a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am,' cried Mr Jowl, 'to be |
| sitting here at my time of life giving advice when I know it won't be |
| taken, and that I shall get nothing but abuse for my pains. But that's |
| the way I've gone through life. Experience has never put a chill upon |
| my warm-heartedness.' |
| |
| 'I tell you he's very sorry, don't I?' remonstrated Isaac List, 'and |
| that he wishes you'd go on.' |
| |
| 'Does he wish it?' said the other. |
| |
| 'Ay,' groaned the old man sitting down, and rocking himself to and fro. |
| 'Go on, go on. It's in vain to fight with it; I can't do it; go on.' |
| |
| 'I go on then,' said Jowl, 'where I left off, when you got up so quick. |
| If you're persuaded that it's time for luck to turn, as it certainly |
| is, and find that you haven't means enough to try it (and that's where |
| it is, for you know, yourself, that you never have the funds to keep on |
| long enough at a sitting), help yourself to what seems put in your way |
| on purpose. Borrow it, I say, and, when you're able, pay it back |
| again.' |
| |
| 'Certainly,' Isaac List struck in, 'if this good lady as keeps the |
| wax-works has money, and does keep it in a tin box when she goes to |
| bed, and doesn't lock her door for fear of fire, it seems a easy thing; |
| quite a Providence, I should call it--but then I've been religiously |
| brought up.' |
| |
| 'You see, Isaac,' said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing |
| himself closer to the old man, while he signed to the gipsy not to come |
| between them; 'you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every |
| hour of the day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these |
| strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in the |
| cupboard; suspicion would be very wide, and would fall a long way from |
| the mark, no doubt. I'd give him his revenge to the last farthing he |
| brought, whatever the amount was.' |
| |
| 'But could you?' urged Isaac List. 'Is your bank strong enough?' |
| |
| 'Strong enough!' answered the other, with assumed disdain. 'Here, you |
| Sir, give me that box out of the straw!' |
| |
| This was addressed to the gipsy, who crawled into the low tent on all |
| fours, and after some rummaging and rustling returned with a cash-box, |
| which the man who had spoken opened with a key he wore about his person. |
| |
| 'Do you see this?' he said, gathering up the money in his hand and |
| letting it drop back into the box, between his fingers, like water. |
| 'Do you hear it? Do you know the sound of gold? There, put it |
| back--and don't talk about banks again, Isaac, till you've got one of |
| your own.' |
| |
| Isaac List, with great apparent humility, protested that he had never |
| doubted the credit of a gentleman so notorious for his honourable |
| dealing as Mr Jowl, and that he had hinted at the production of the |
| box, not for the satisfaction of his doubts, for he could have none, |
| but with a view to being regaled with a sight of so much wealth, which, |
| though it might be deemed by some but an unsubstantial and visionary |
| pleasure, was to one in his circumstances a source of extreme delight, |
| only to be surpassed by its safe depository in his own personal |
| pockets. Although Mr List and Mr Jowl addressed themselves to each |
| other, it was remarkable that they both looked narrowly at the old man, |
| who, with his eyes fixed upon the fire, sat brooding over it, yet |
| listening eagerly--as it seemed from a certain involuntary motion of |
| the head, or twitching of the face from time to time--to all they said. |
| |
| 'My advice,' said Jowl, lying down again with a careless air, 'is |
| plain--I have given it, in fact. I act as a friend. Why should I help |
| a man to the means perhaps of winning all I have, unless I considered |
| him my friend? It's foolish, I dare say, to be so thoughtful of the |
| welfare of other people, but that's my constitution, and I can't help |
| it; so don't blame me, Isaac List.' |
| |
| 'I blame you!' returned the person addressed; 'not for the world, Mr |
| Jowl. I wish I could afford to be as liberal as you; and, as you say, |
| he might pay it back if he won--and if he lost--' |
| |
| 'You're not to take that into consideration at all,' said Jowl. |
| |
| 'But suppose he did (and nothing's less likely, from all I know of |
| chances), why, it's better to lose other people's money than one's own, |
| I hope?' |
| |
| 'Ah!' cried Isaac List rapturously, 'the pleasures of winning! The |
| delight of picking up the money--the bright, shining yellow-boys--and |
| sweeping 'em into one's pocket! The deliciousness of having a triumph |
| at last, and thinking that one didn't stop short and turn back, but |
| went half-way to meet it! The--but you're not going, old gentleman?' |
| |
| 'I'll do it,' said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three |
| hurried steps away, and now returned as hurriedly. 'I'll have it, |
| every penny.' |
| |
| 'Why, that's brave,' cried Isaac, jumping up and slapping him on the |
| shoulder; 'and I respect you for having so much young blood left. Ha, |
| ha, ha! Joe Jowl's half sorry he advised you now. We've got the laugh |
| against him. Ha, ha, ha!' |
| |
| 'He gives me my revenge, mind,' said the old man, pointing to him |
| eagerly with his shrivelled hand: 'mind--he stakes coin against coin, |
| down to the last one in the box, be there many or few. Remember that!' |
| |
| 'I'm witness,' returned Isaac. 'I'll see fair between you.' |
| |
| 'I have passed my word,' said Jowl with feigned reluctance, 'and I'll |
| keep it. When does this match come off? I wish it was over.--To-night?' |
| |
| 'I must have the money first,' said the old man; 'and that I'll have |
| to-morrow--' |
| |
| 'Why not to-night?' urged Jowl. |
| |
| 'It's late now, and I should be flushed and flurried,' said the old |
| man. 'It must be softly done. No, to-morrow night.' |
| |
| 'Then to-morrow be it,' said Jowl. 'A drop of comfort here. Luck to |
| the best man! Fill!' |
| |
| The gipsy produced three tin cups, and filled them to the brim with |
| brandy. The old man turned aside and muttered to himself before he |
| drank. Her own name struck upon the listener's ear, coupled with some |
| wish so fervent, that he seemed to breathe it in an agony of |
| supplication. |
| |
| 'God be merciful to us!' cried the child within herself, 'and help us |
| in this trying hour! What shall I do to save him!' |
| |
| The remainder of their conversation was carried on in a lower tone of |
| voice, and was sufficiently concise; relating merely to the execution |
| of the project, and the best precautions for diverting suspicion. The |
| old man then shook hands with his tempters, and withdrew. |
| |
| They watched his bowed and stooping figure as it retreated slowly, and |
| when he turned his head to look back, which he often did, waved their |
| hands, or shouted some brief encouragement. It was not until they had |
| seen him gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the distant road, |
| that they turned to each other, and ventured to laugh aloud. |
| |
| 'So,' said Jowl, warming his hands at the fire, 'it's done at last. He |
| wanted more persuading than I expected. It's three weeks ago, since we |
| first put this in his head. What'll he bring, do you think?' |
| |
| 'Whatever he brings, it's halved between us,' returned Isaac List. |
| |
| The other man nodded. 'We must make quick work of it,' he said, 'and |
| then cut his acquaintance, or we may be suspected. Sharp's the word.' |
| |
| List and the gipsy acquiesced. When they had all three amused |
| themselves a little with their victim's infatuation, they dismissed the |
| subject as one which had been sufficiently discussed, and began to talk |
| in a jargon which the child did not understand. As their discourse |
| appeared to relate to matters in which they were warmly interested, |
| however, she deemed it the best time for escaping unobserved; and crept |
| away with slow and cautious steps, keeping in the shadow of the hedges, |
| or forcing a path through them or the dry ditches, until she could |
| emerge upon the road at a point beyond their range of vision. Then she |
| fled homeward as quickly as she could, torn and bleeding from the |
| wounds of thorns and briars, but more lacerated in mind, and threw |
| herself upon her bed, distracted. |
| |
| The first idea that flashed upon her mind was flight, instant flight; |
| dragging him from that place, and rather dying of want upon the |
| roadside, than ever exposing him again to such terrible temptations. |
| Then, she remembered that the crime was not to be committed until next |
| night, and there was the intermediate time for thinking, and resolving |
| what to do. Then, she was distracted with a horrible fear that he |
| might be committing it at that moment; with a dread of hearing shrieks |
| and cries piercing the silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of |
| what he might be tempted and led on to do, if he were detected in the |
| act, and had but a woman to struggle with. It was impossible to bear |
| such torture. She stole to the room where the money was, opened the |
| door, and looked in. God be praised! He was not there, and she was |
| sleeping soundly. |
| |
| She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. |
| But who could sleep--sleep! who could lie passively down, distracted by |
| such terrors? They came upon her more and more strongly yet. Half |
| undressed, and with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the old |
| man's bedside, clasped him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep. |
| |
| 'What's this!' he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon |
| her spectral face. |
| |
| 'I have had a dreadful dream,' said the child, with an energy that |
| nothing but such terrors could have inspired. 'A dreadful, horrible |
| dream. I have had it once before. It is a dream of grey-haired men |
| like you, in darkened rooms by night, robbing sleepers of their gold. |
| Up, up!' |
| |
| The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who |
| prays. |
| |
| 'Not to me,' said the child, 'not to me--to Heaven, to save us from |
| such deeds! This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay |
| here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. |
| Up! We must fly.' |
| |
| He looked at her as if she were a spirit--she might have been for all |
| the look of earth she had--and trembled more and more. |
| |
| 'There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute,' said the child. |
| 'Up! and away with me!' |
| |
| 'To-night?' murmured the old man. |
| |
| 'Yes, to-night,' replied the child. 'To-morrow night will be too late. |
| The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!' |
| |
| The old man rose from his bed: his forehead bedewed with the cold sweat |
| of fear: and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel |
| messenger sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her. |
| She took him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of the |
| room he had proposed to rob, she shuddered and looked up into his |
| face. What a white face was that, and with what a look did he meet |
| hers! |
| |
| She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding him by the hand as |
| if she feared to lose him for an instant, gathered together the little |
| stock she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his |
| wallet from her hands and strapped it on his shoulders--his staff, |
| too, she had brought away--and then she led him forth. |
| |
| Through the strait streets, and narrow crooked outskirts, their |
| trembling feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill too, crowned by the |
| old grey castle, they toiled with rapid steps, and had not once looked |
| behind. |
| |
| But as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the moon rose in all her |
| gentle glory, and, from their venerable age, garlanded with ivy, moss, |
| and waving grass, the child looked back upon the sleeping town, deep in |
| the valley's shade: and on the far-off river with its winding track of |
| light: and on the distant hills; and as she did so, she clasped the |
| hand she held, less firmly, and bursting into tears, fell upon the old |
| man's neck. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 43 |
| |
| Her momentary weakness past, the child again summoned the resolution |
| which had until now sustained her, and, endeavouring to keep steadily |
| in her view the one idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime, |
| and that her grandfather's preservation must depend solely on her |
| firmness, unaided by one word of advice or any helping hand, urged him |
| onward and looked back no more. |
| |
| While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to crouch before her, and to |
| shrink and cower down, as if in the presence of some superior creature, |
| the child herself was sensible of a new feeling within her, which |
| elevated her nature, and inspired her with an energy and confidence she |
| had never known. There was no divided responsibility now; the whole |
| burden of their two lives had fallen upon her, and henceforth she must |
| think and act for both. 'I have saved him,' she thought. 'In all |
| dangers and distresses, I will remember that.' |
| |
| At any other time, the recollection of having deserted the friend who |
| had shown them so much homely kindness, without a word of |
| justification--the thought that they were guilty, in appearance, of |
| treachery and ingratitude--even the having parted from the two |
| sisters--would have filled her with sorrow and regret. But now, all |
| other considerations were lost in the new uncertainties and anxieties |
| of their wild and wandering life; and the very desperation of their |
| condition roused and stimulated her. |
| |
| In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own to the delicate |
| face where thoughtful care already mingled with the winning grace and |
| loveliness of youth, the too bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips |
| that pressed each other with such high resolve and courage of the |
| heart, the slight figure firm in its bearing and yet so very weak, told |
| their silent tale; but told it only to the wind that rustled by, which, |
| taking up its burden, carried, perhaps to some mother's pillow, faint |
| dreams of childhood fading in its bloom, and resting in the sleep that |
| knows no waking. |
| |
| The night crept on apace, the moon went down, the stars grew pale and |
| dim, and morning, cold as they, slowly approached. Then, from behind a |
| distant hill, the noble sun rose up, driving the mists in phantom |
| shapes before it, and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till |
| darkness came again. When it had climbed higher into the sky, and |
| there was warmth in its cheerful beams, they laid them down to sleep, |
| upon a bank, hard by some water. |
| |
| But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's arm, and long after he |
| was slumbering soundly, watched him with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole |
| over her at last; her grasp relaxed, tightened, relaxed again, and they |
| slept side by side. |
| |
| A confused sound of voices, mingling with her dreams, awoke her. A man |
| of very uncouth and rough appearance was standing over them, and two of |
| his companions were looking on, from a long heavy boat which had come |
| close to the bank while they were sleeping. The boat had neither oar |
| nor sail, but was towed by a couple of horses, who, with the rope to |
| which they were harnessed slack and dripping in the water, were resting |
| on the path. |
| |
| 'Holloa!' said the man roughly. 'What's the matter here?' |
| |
| 'We were only asleep, Sir,' said Nell. 'We have been walking all |
| night.' |
| |
| 'A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night,' observed the man |
| who had first accosted them. 'One of you is a trifle too old for that |
| sort of work, and the other a trifle too young. Where are you going?' |
| |
| Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards the West, upon which the |
| man inquired if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to |
| avoid more questioning, said 'Yes, that was the place.' |
| |
| 'Where have you come from?' was the next question; and this being an |
| easier one to answer, Nell mentioned the name of the village in which |
| their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known |
| to the men or to provoke further inquiry. |
| |
| 'I thought somebody had been robbing and ill-using you, might be,' said |
| the man. 'That's all. Good day.' |
| |
| Returning his salute and feeling greatly relieved by his departure, |
| Nell looked after him as he mounted one of the horses, and the boat |
| went on. It had not gone very far, when it stopped again, and she saw |
| the men beckoning to her. |
| |
| 'Did you call to me?' said Nell, running up to them. |
| |
| 'You may go with us if you like,' replied one of those in the boat. |
| 'We're going to the same place.' |
| |
| The child hesitated for a moment. Thinking, as she had thought with |
| great trepidation more than once before, that the men whom she had seen |
| with her grandfather might, perhaps, in their eagerness for the booty, |
| follow them, and regaining their influence over him, set hers at |
| nought; and that if they went with these men, all traces of them must |
| surely be lost at that spot; determined to accept the offer. The boat |
| came close to the bank again, and before she had had any more time for |
| consideration, she and her grandfather were on board, and gliding |
| smoothly down the canal. |
| |
| The sun shone pleasantly on the bright water, which was sometimes |
| shaded by trees, and sometimes open to a wide extent of country, |
| intersected by running streams, and rich with wooded hills, cultivated |
| land, and sheltered farms. Now and then, a village with its modest |
| spire, thatched roofs, and gable-ends, would peep out from among the |
| trees; and, more than once, a distant town, with great church towers |
| looming through its smoke, and high factories or workshops rising above |
| the mass of houses, would come in view, and, by the length of time it |
| lingered in the distance, show them how slowly they travelled. Their |
| way lay, for the most part, through the low grounds, and open plains; |
| and except these distant places, and occasionally some men working in |
| the fields, or lounging on the bridges under which they passed, to see |
| them creep along, nothing encroached on their monotonous and secluded |
| track. |
| |
| Nell was rather disheartened, when they stopped at a kind of wharf late |
| in the afternoon, to learn from one of the men that they would not |
| reach their place of destination until next day, and that, if she had |
| no provision with her, she had better buy it there. She had but a few |
| pence, having already bargained with them for some bread, but even of |
| these it was necessary to be very careful, as they were on their way to |
| an utterly strange place, with no resource whatever. A small loaf and |
| a morsel of cheese, therefore, were all she could afford, and with |
| these she took her place in the boat again, and, after half an hour's |
| delay during which the men were drinking at the public-house, proceeded |
| on the journey. |
| |
| They brought some beer and spirits into the boat with them, and what |
| with drinking freely before, and again now, were soon in a fair way of |
| being quarrelsome and intoxicated. Avoiding the small cabin, |
| therefore, which was very dark and filthy, and to which they often |
| invited both her and her grandfather, Nell sat in the open air with the |
| old man by her side: listening to their boisterous hosts with a |
| palpitating heart, and almost wishing herself safe on shore again |
| though she should have to walk all night. |
| |
| They were, in truth, very rugged, noisy fellows, and quite brutal among |
| themselves, though civil enough to their two passengers. Thus, when a |
| quarrel arose between the man who was steering and his friend in the |
| cabin, upon the question who had first suggested the propriety of |
| offering Nell some beer, and when the quarrel led to a scuffle in which |
| they beat each other fearfully, to her inexpressible terror, neither |
| visited his displeasure upon her, but each contented himself with |
| venting it on his adversary, on whom, in addition to blows, he bestowed |
| a variety of compliments, which, happily for the child, were conveyed |
| in terms, to her quite unintelligible. The difference was finally |
| adjusted, by the man who had come out of the cabin knocking the other |
| into it head first, and taking the helm into his own hands, without |
| evincing the least discomposure himself, or causing any in his friend, |
| who, being of a tolerably strong constitution and perfectly inured to |
| such trifles, went to sleep as he was, with his heels upwards, and in a |
| couple of minutes or so was snoring comfortably. |
| |
| By this time it was night again, and though the child felt cold, being |
| but poorly clad, her anxious thoughts were far removed from her own |
| suffering or uneasiness, and busily engaged in endeavouring to devise |
| some scheme for their joint subsistence. The same spirit which had |
| supported her on the previous night, upheld and sustained her now. Her |
| grandfather lay sleeping safely at her side, and the crime to which his |
| madness urged him, was not committed. That was her comfort. |
| |
| How every circumstance of her short, eventful life, came thronging into |
| her mind, as they travelled on! Slight incidents, never thought of or |
| remembered until now; faces, seen once and ever since forgotten; words |
| scarcely heeded at the time; scenes, of a year ago and those of |
| yesterday, mixing up and linking themselves together; familiar places |
| shaping themselves out in the darkness from things which, when |
| approached, were, of all others, the most remote and most unlike them; |
| sometimes, a strange confusion in her mind relative to the occasion of |
| her being there, and the place to which she was going, and the people |
| she was with; and imagination suggesting remarks and questions which |
| sounded so plainly in her ears, that she would start, and turn, and be |
| almost tempted to reply;--all the fancies and contradictions common in |
| watching and excitement and restless change of place, beset the child. |
| |
| She happened, while she was thus engaged, to encounter the face of the |
| man on deck, in whom the sentimental stage of drunkenness had now |
| succeeded to the boisterous, and who, taking from his mouth a short |
| pipe, quilted over with string for its longer preservation, requested |
| that she would oblige him with a song. |
| |
| 'You've got a very pretty voice, a very soft eye, and a very strong |
| memory,' said this gentleman; 'the voice and eye I've got evidence for, |
| and the memory's an opinion of my own. And I'm never wrong. Let me |
| hear a song this minute.' |
| |
| 'I don't think I know one, sir,' returned Nell. |
| |
| 'You know forty-seven songs,' said the man, with a gravity which |
| admitted of no altercation on the subject. 'Forty-seven's your number. |
| Let me hear one of 'em--the best. Give me a song this minute.' |
| |
| Not knowing what might be the consequences of irritating her friend, |
| and trembling with the fear of doing so, poor Nell sang him some little |
| ditty which she had learned in happier times, and which was so |
| agreeable to his ear, that on its conclusion he in the same peremptory |
| manner requested to be favoured with another, to which he was so |
| obliging as to roar a chorus to no particular tune, and with no words |
| at all, but which amply made up in its amazing energy for its |
| deficiency in other respects. The noise of this vocal performance |
| awakened the other man, who, staggering upon deck and shaking his late |
| opponent by the hand, swore that singing was his pride and joy and |
| chief delight, and that he desired no better entertainment. With a |
| third call, more imperative than either of the two former, Nell felt |
| obliged to comply, and this time a chorus was maintained not only by |
| the two men together, but also by the third man on horseback, who being |
| by his position debarred from a nearer participation in the revels of |
| the night, roared when his companions roared, and rent the very air. |
| In this way, with little cessation, and singing the same songs again |
| and again, the tired and exhausted child kept them in good humour all |
| that night; and many a cottager, who was roused from his soundest sleep |
| by the discordant chorus as it floated away upon the wind, hid his head |
| beneath the bed-clothes and trembled at the sounds. |
| |
| At length the morning dawned. It was no sooner light than it began to |
| rain heavily. As the child could not endure the intolerable vapours of |
| the cabin, they covered her, in return for her exertions, with some |
| pieces of sail-cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to keep her |
| tolerably dry and to shelter her grandfather besides. As the day |
| advanced the rain increased. At noon it poured down more hopelessly |
| and heavily than ever without the faintest promise of abatement. |
| |
| They had, for some time, been gradually approaching the place for which |
| they were bound. The water had become thicker and dirtier; other |
| barges, coming from it, passed them frequently; the paths of coal-ash |
| and huts of staring brick, marked the vicinity of some great |
| manufacturing town; while scattered streets and houses, and smoke from |
| distant furnaces, indicated that they were already in the outskirts. |
| Now, the clustered roofs, and piles of buildings, trembling with the |
| working of engines, and dimly resounding with their shrieks and |
| throbbings; the tall chimneys vomiting forth a black vapour, which hung |
| in a dense ill-favoured cloud above the housetops and filled the air |
| with gloom; the clank of hammers beating upon iron, the roar of busy |
| streets and noisy crowds, gradually augmenting until all the various |
| sounds blended into one and none was distinguishable for itself, |
| announced the termination of their journey. |
| |
| The boat floated into the wharf to which it belonged. The men were |
| occupied directly. The child and her grandfather, after waiting in |
| vain to thank them or ask them whither they should go, passed through a |
| dirty lane into a crowded street, and stood, amid its din and tumult, |
| and in the pouring rain, as strange, bewildered, and confused, as if |
| they had lived a thousand years before, and were raised from the dead |
| and placed there by a miracle. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 44 |
| |
| The throng of people hurried by, in two opposite streams, with no |
| symptom of cessation or exhaustion; intent upon their own affairs; and |
| undisturbed in their business speculations, by the roar of carts and |
| waggons laden with clashing wares, the slipping of horses' feet upon |
| the wet and greasy pavement, the rattling of the rain on windows and |
| umbrella-tops, the jostling of the more impatient passengers, and all |
| the noise and tumult of a crowded street in the high tide of its |
| occupation: while the two poor strangers, stunned and bewildered by the |
| hurry they beheld but had no part in, looked mournfully on; feeling, |
| amidst the crowd, a solitude which has no parallel but in the thirst of |
| the shipwrecked mariner, who, tost to and fro upon the billows of a |
| mighty ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on the water which hems |
| him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his burning tongue. |
| |
| They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the rain, and watched |
| the faces of those who passed, to find in one among them a ray of |
| encouragement or hope. Some frowned, some smiled, some muttered to |
| themselves, some made slight gestures, as if anticipating the |
| conversation in which they would shortly be engaged, some wore the |
| cunning look of bargaining and plotting, some were anxious and eager, |
| some slow and dull; in some countenances, were written gain; in others, |
| loss. It was like being in the confidence of all these people to stand |
| quietly there, looking into their faces as they flitted past. In busy |
| places, where each man has an object of his own, and feels assured that |
| every other man has his, his character and purpose are written broadly |
| in his face. In the public walks and lounges of a town, people go to |
| see and to be seen, and there the same expression, with little variety, |
| is repeated a hundred times. The working-day faces come nearer to the |
| truth, and let it out more plainly. |
| |
| Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a solitude awakens, |
| the child continued to gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering |
| interest, amounting almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own |
| condition. But cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place |
| in which to lay her aching head, soon brought her thoughts back to the |
| point whence they had strayed. No one passed who seemed to notice |
| them, or to whom she durst appeal. After some time, they left their |
| place of refuge from the weather, and mingled with the concourse. |
| |
| Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, with fewer |
| people about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own |
| breasts, and the same indifference from all around. The lights in the |
| streets and shops made them feel yet more desolate, for with their |
| help, night and darkness seemed to come on faster. Shivering with the |
| cold and damp, ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child |
| needed her utmost firmness and resolution even to creep along. |
| |
| Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful |
| country places, in which, at least, they might have hungered and |
| thirsted, with less suffering than in its squalid strife! They were |
| but an atom, here, in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of |
| which increased their hopelessness and suffering. |
| |
| The child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their |
| destitute condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who |
| began to murmur at having been led away from their late abode, and |
| demand that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and no |
| relief or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their steps |
| through the deserted streets, and went back to the wharf, hoping to |
| find the boat in which they had come, and to be allowed to sleep on |
| board that night. But here again they were disappointed, for the gate |
| was closed, and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged |
| them to retreat. |
| |
| 'We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear,' said the child in a |
| weak voice, as they turned away from this last repulse; 'and to-morrow |
| we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country, and try to earn |
| our bread in very humble work.' |
| |
| 'Why did you bring me here?' returned the old man fiercely. 'I cannot |
| bear these close eternal streets. We came from a quiet part. Why did |
| you force me to leave it?' |
| |
| 'Because I must have that dream I told you of, no more,' said the |
| child, with a momentary firmness that lost itself in tears; 'and we |
| must live among poor people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather, |
| you are old and weak, I know; but look at me. I never will complain if |
| you will not, but I have some suffering indeed.' |
| |
| 'Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!' cried the old man, |
| clasping his hands and gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious |
| face, her travel-stained dress, and bruised and swollen feet; 'has all |
| my agony of care brought her to this at last! Was I a happy man once, |
| and have I lost happiness and all I had, for this!' |
| |
| 'If we were in the country now,' said the child, with assumed |
| cheerfulness, as they walked on looking about them for a shelter, we |
| should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he |
| loved us, and nodding and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep, |
| thinking of him while he watched. Please God, we shall be there |
| soon--to-morrow or next day at the farthest--and in the meantime let us |
| think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in |
| the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should |
| pursue us, they could surely never trace us further. There's comfort |
| in that. And here's a deep old doorway--very dark, but quite dry, and |
| warm too, for the wind don't blow in here--What's that!' |
| |
| Uttering a half shriek, she recoiled from a black figure which came |
| suddenly out of the dark recess in which they were about to take |
| refuge, and stood still, looking at them. |
| |
| 'Speak again,' it said; 'do I know the voice?' |
| |
| 'No,' replied the child timidly; 'we are strangers, and having no money |
| for a night's lodging, were going to rest here.' |
| |
| There was a feeble lamp at no great distance; the only one in the |
| place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor |
| and mean it was. To this, the figure beckoned them; at the same time |
| drawing within its rays, as if to show that it had no desire to conceal |
| itself or take them at an advantage. The form was that of a man, |
| miserably clad and begrimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast |
| with the natural colour of his skin, made him look paler than he really |
| was. That he was naturally of a very wan and pallid aspect, however, |
| his hollow cheeks, sharp features, and sunken eyes, no less than a |
| certain look of patient endurance, sufficiently testified. His voice |
| was harsh by nature, but not brutal; and though his face, besides |
| possessing the characteristics already mentioned, was overshadowed by a |
| quantity of long dark hair, its expression was neither ferocious nor |
| bad. |
| |
| 'How came you to think of resting there?' he said. 'Or how,' he added, |
| looking more attentively at the child, 'do you come to want a place of |
| rest at this time of night?' |
| |
| 'Our misfortunes,' the grandfather answered, 'are the cause.' |
| |
| 'Do you know,' said the man, looking still more earnestly at Nell, 'how |
| wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?' |
| |
| 'I know it well, God help me,' he replied. 'What can I do!' |
| |
| The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her garments, from |
| which the rain was running off in little streams. 'I can give you |
| warmth,' he said, after a pause; 'nothing else. Such lodging as I |
| have, is in that house,' pointing to the doorway from which he had |
| emerged, 'but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in |
| a rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll |
| trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder?' |
| |
| They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare hanging in the dark sky; |
| the dull reflection of some distant fire. |
| |
| 'It's not far,' said the man. 'Shall I take you there? You were going |
| to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes--nothing |
| better.' |
| |
| Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in their looks, he |
| took Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow. |
| |
| Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as if she had been an |
| infant, and showing himself both swift and sure of foot, he led the way |
| through what appeared to be the poorest and most wretched quarter of |
| the town; and turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running |
| waterspouts, but holding his course, regardless of such obstructions, |
| and making his way straight through them. They had proceeded thus, in |
| silence, for some quarter of an hour, and had lost sight of the glare |
| to which he had pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which they had |
| come, when it suddenly burst upon them again, streaming up from the |
| high chimney of a building close before them. |
| |
| 'This is the place,' he said, pausing at a door to put Nell down and |
| take her hand. 'Don't be afraid. There's nobody here will harm you.' |
| |
| It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to induce them to |
| enter, and what they saw inside did not diminish their apprehension and |
| alarm. In a large and lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, |
| with great black apertures in the upper walls, open to the external |
| air; echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of |
| furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water, |
| and a hundred strange unearthly noises never heard elsewhere; in this |
| gloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, dimly and |
| fitfully seen, flushed and tormented by the burning fires, and wielding |
| great weapons, a faulty blow from any one of which must have crushed |
| some workman's skull, a number of men laboured like giants. Others, |
| reposing upon heaps of coals or ashes, with their faces turned to the |
| black vault above, slept or rested from their toil. Others again, |
| opening the white-hot furnace-doors, cast fuel on the flames, which |
| came rushing and roaring forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil. |
| Others drew forth, with clashing noise, upon the ground, great sheets |
| of glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep light |
| like that which reddens in the eyes of savage beasts. |
| |
| Through these bewildering sights and deafening sounds, their conductor |
| led them to where, in a dark portion of the building, one furnace burnt |
| by night and day--so, at least, they gathered from the motion of his |
| lips, for as yet they could only see him speak: not hear him. The man |
| who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the |
| present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend, who, |
| spreading Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her |
| where she could hang her outer-clothes to dry, signed to her and the |
| old man to lie down and sleep. For himself, he took his station on a |
| rugged mat before the furnace-door, and resting his chin upon his |
| hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the |
| white ashes as they fell into their bright hot grave below. |
| |
| The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the |
| great fatigue she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place to |
| fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long |
| in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and |
| with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed. |
| |
| It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for how |
| short a time, she had slept. But she found herself protected, both |
| from any cold air that might find its way into the building, and from |
| the scorching heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at |
| their friend saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with |
| a fixed earnestness of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very |
| still that he did not even seem to breathe. She lay in the state |
| between sleeping and waking, looking so long at his motionless figure |
| that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and |
| softly rising and drawing close to him, ventured to whisper in his ear. |
| |
| He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied, |
| as if to assure himself that it was really the child so near him, |
| looked inquiringly into her face. |
| |
| 'I feared you were ill,' she said. 'The other men are all in motion, |
| and you are so very quiet.' |
| |
| 'They leave me to myself,' he replied. 'They know my humour. They |
| laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder there--that's my |
| friend.' |
| |
| 'The fire?' said the child. |
| |
| 'It has been alive as long as I have,' the man made answer. 'We talk |
| and think together all night long.' |
| |
| The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his |
| eyes in their former direction, and was musing as before. |
| |
| 'It's like a book to me,' he said--'the only book I ever learned to |
| read; and many an old story it tells me. It's music, for I should know |
| its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It |
| has its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and |
| different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It's my memory, that |
| fire, and shows me all my life.' |
| |
| The child, bending down to listen to his words, could not help |
| remarking with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse. |
| |
| 'Yes,' he said, with a faint smile, 'it was the same when I was quite a |
| baby, and crawled about it, till I fell asleep. My father watched it |
| then.' |
| |
| 'Had you no mother?' asked the child. |
| |
| 'No, she was dead. Women work hard in these parts. She worked herself |
| to death they told me, and, as they said so then, the fire has gone on |
| saying the same thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have |
| always believed it.' |
| |
| 'Were you brought up here, then?' said the child. |
| |
| 'Summer and winter,' he replied. 'Secretly at first, but when they |
| found it out, they let him keep me here. So the fire nursed me--the |
| same fire. It has never gone out.' |
| |
| 'You are fond of it?' said the child. |
| |
| 'Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall down--just there, |
| where those ashes are burning now--and wondered, I remember, why it |
| didn't help him.' |
| |
| 'Have you been here ever since?' asked the child. |
| |
| 'Ever since I came to watch it; but there was a while between, and a |
| very cold dreary while it was. It burned all the time though, and |
| roared and leaped when I came back, as it used to do in our play days. |
| You may guess, from looking at me, what kind of child I was, but for |
| all the difference between us I was a child, and when I saw you in the |
| street to-night, you put me in mind of myself, as I was after he died, |
| and made me wish to bring you to the fire. I thought of those old |
| times again, when I saw you sleeping by it. You should be sleeping |
| now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!' |
| |
| With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the |
| clothes with which she had found herself enveloped when she woke, |
| returned to his seat, whence he moved no more unless to feed the |
| furnace, but remained motionless as a statue. The child continued to |
| watch him for a little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness that |
| came upon her, and, in the dark strange place and on the heap of ashes, |
| slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace chamber, and the |
| bed, a bed of down. |
| |
| When she awoke again, broad day was shining through the lofty openings |
| in the walls, and, stealing in slanting rays but midway down, seemed to |
| make the building darker than it had been at night. The clang and |
| tumult were still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning |
| fiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or |
| quiet there. |
| |
| Her friend parted his breakfast--a scanty mess of coffee and some |
| coarse bread--with the child and her grandfather, and inquired whither |
| they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country |
| place remote from towns or even other villages, and with a faltering |
| tongue inquired what road they would do best to take. |
| |
| 'I know little of the country,' he said, shaking his head, 'for such as |
| I, pass all our lives before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to |
| breathe. But there are such places yonder.' |
| |
| 'And far from here?' said Nell. |
| |
| 'Aye surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The |
| road lies, too, through miles and miles, all lighted up by fires like |
| ours--a strange black road, and one that would frighten you by night.' |
| |
| 'We are here and must go on,' said the child boldly; for she saw that |
| the old man listened with anxious ears to this account. |
| |
| 'Rough people--paths never made for little feet like yours--a dismal |
| blighted way--is there no turning back, my child?' |
| |
| 'There is none,' cried Nell, pressing forward. 'If you can direct us, |
| do. If not, pray do not seek to turn us from our purpose. Indeed you |
| do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in |
| flying from it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would |
| not.' |
| |
| 'God forbid, if it is so!' said their uncouth protector, glancing from |
| the eager child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes |
| upon the ground. 'I'll direct you from the door, the best I can. I |
| wish I could do more.' |
| |
| He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what |
| course they should hold when they had gained it. He lingered so long |
| on these instructions, that the child, with a fervent blessing, tore |
| herself away, and stayed to hear no more. |
| |
| But, before they had reached the corner of the lane, the man came |
| running after them, and, pressing her hand, left something in it--two |
| old, battered, smoke-encrusted penny pieces. Who knows but they shone |
| as brightly in the eyes of angels, as golden gifts that have been |
| chronicled on tombs? |
| |
| And thus they separated; the child to lead her sacred charge farther |
| from guilt and shame; the labourer to attach a fresh interest to the |
| spot where his guests had slept, and read new histories in his furnace |
| fire. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 45 |
| |
| In all their journeying, they had never longed so ardently, they had |
| never so pined and wearied, for the freedom of pure air and open |
| country, as now. No, not even on that memorable morning, when, |
| deserting their old home, they abandoned themselves to the mercies of a |
| strange world, and left all the dumb and senseless things they had |
| known and loved, behind--not even then, had they so yearned for the |
| fresh solitudes of wood, hillside, and field, as now, when the noise |
| and dirt and vapour, of the great manufacturing town reeking with lean |
| misery and hungry wretchedness, hemmed them in on every side, and |
| seemed to shut out hope, and render escape impossible. |
| |
| 'Two days and nights!' thought the child. 'He said two days and nights |
| we should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh! if we live to |
| reach the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, |
| though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I |
| shall thank God for so much mercy!' |
| |
| With thoughts like this, and with some vague design of travelling to a |
| great distance among streams and mountains, where only very poor and |
| simple people lived, and where they might maintain themselves by very |
| humble helping work in farms, free from such terrors as that from which |
| they fled--the child, with no resource but the poor man's gift, and no |
| encouragement but that which flowed from her own heart, and its sense |
| of the truth and right of what she did, nerved herself to this last |
| journey and boldly pursued her task. |
| |
| 'We shall be very slow to-day, dear,' she said, as they toiled |
| painfully through the streets; 'my feet are sore, and I have pains in |
| all my limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that he looked at us and |
| thought of that, when he said how long we should be upon the road.' |
| |
| 'It was a dreary way he told us of,' returned her grandfather, |
| piteously. 'Is there no other road? Will you not let me go some other |
| way than this?' |
| |
| 'Places lie beyond these,' said the child, firmly, 'where we may live |
| in peace, and be tempted to do no harm. We will take the road that |
| promises to have that end, and we would not turn out of it, if it were |
| a hundred times worse than our fears lead us to expect. We would not, |
| dear, would we?' |
| |
| 'No,' replied the old man, wavering in his voice, no less than in his |
| manner. 'No. Let us go on. I am ready. I am quite ready, Nell.' |
| |
| The child walked with more difficulty than she had led her companion to |
| expect, for the pains that racked her joints were of no common |
| severity, and every exertion increased them. But they wrung from her |
| no complaint, or look of suffering; and, though the two travellers |
| proceeded very slowly, they did proceed. Clearing the town in course |
| of time, they began to feel that they were fairly on their way. |
| |
| A long suburb of red brick houses--some with patches of garden-ground, |
| where coal-dust and factory smoke darkened the shrinking leaves, and |
| coarse rank flowers, and where the struggling vegetation sickened and |
| sank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace, making them by its |
| presence seem yet more blighting and unwholesome than in the town |
| itself--a long, flat, straggling suburb passed, they came, by slow |
| degrees, upon a cheerless region, where not a blade of grass was seen |
| to grow, where not a bud put forth its promise in the spring, where |
| nothing green could live but on the surface of the stagnant pools, |
| which here and there lay idly sweltering by the black road-side. |
| |
| Advancing more and more into the shadow of this mournful place, its |
| dark depressing influence stole upon their spirits, and filled them |
| with a dismal gloom. On every side, and far as the eye could see into |
| the heavy distance, tall chimneys, crowding on each other, and |
| presenting that endless repetition of the same dull, ugly form, which |
| is the horror of oppressive dreams, poured out their plague of smoke, |
| obscured the light, and made foul the melancholy air. On mounds of |
| ashes by the wayside, sheltered only by a few rough boards, or rotten |
| pent-house roofs, strange engines spun and writhed like tortured |
| creatures; clanking their iron chains, shrieking in their rapid whirl |
| from time to time as though in torment unendurable, and making the |
| ground tremble with their agonies. Dismantled houses here and there |
| appeared, tottering to the earth, propped up by fragments of others |
| that had fallen down, unroofed, windowless, blackened, desolate, but |
| yet inhabited. Men, women, children, wan in their looks and ragged in |
| attire, tended the engines, fed their tributary fire, begged upon the |
| road, or scowled half-naked from the doorless houses. Then came more |
| of the wrathful monsters, whose like they almost seemed to be in their |
| wildness and their untamed air, screeching and turning round and round |
| again; and still, before, behind, and to the right and left, was the |
| same interminable perspective of brick towers, never ceasing in their |
| black vomit, blasting all things living or inanimate, shutting out the |
| face of day, and closing in on all these horrors with a dense dark |
| cloud. |
| |
| But night-time in this dreadful spot!--night, when the smoke was |
| changed to fire; when every chimney spirited up its flame; and places, |
| that had been dark vaults all day, now shone red-hot, with figures |
| moving to and fro within their blazing jaws, and calling to one another |
| with hoarse cries--night, when the noise of every strange machine was |
| aggravated by the darkness; when the people near them looked wilder and |
| more savage; when bands of unemployed labourers paraded the roads, or |
| clustered by torch-light round their leaders, who told them, in stern |
| language, of their wrongs, and urged them on to frightful cries and |
| threats; when maddened men, armed with sword and firebrand, spurning |
| the tears and prayers of women who would restrain them, rushed forth on |
| errands of terror and destruction, to work no ruin half so surely as |
| their own--night, when carts came rumbling by, filled with rude |
| coffins (for contagious disease and death had been busy with the living |
| crops); when orphans cried, and distracted women shrieked and followed |
| in their wake--night, when some called for bread, and some for drink to |
| drown their cares, and some with tears, and some with staggering feet, |
| and some with bloodshot eyes, went brooding home--night, which, unlike |
| the night that Heaven sends on earth, brought with it no peace, nor |
| quiet, nor signs of blessed sleep--who shall tell the terrors of the |
| night to the young wandering child! |
| |
| And yet she lay down, with nothing between her and the sky; and, with |
| no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the |
| poor old man. So very weak and spent, she felt, so very calm and |
| unresisting, that she had no thought of any wants of her own, but |
| prayed that God would raise up some friend for him. She tried to |
| recall the way they had come, and to look in the direction where the |
| fire by which they had slept last night was burning. She had forgotten |
| to ask the name of the poor man, their friend, and when she had |
| remembered him in her prayers, it seemed ungrateful not to turn one |
| look towards the spot where he was watching. |
| |
| A penny loaf was all they had had that day. It was very little, but |
| even hunger was forgotten in the strange tranquillity that crept over |
| her senses. She lay down, very gently, and, with a quiet smile upon |
| her face, fell into a slumber. It was not like sleep--and yet it must |
| have been, or why those pleasant dreams of the little scholar all night |
| long! Morning came. Much weaker, diminished powers even of sight and |
| hearing, and yet the child made no complaint--perhaps would have made |
| none, even if she had not had that inducement to be silent, travelling |
| by her side. She felt a hopelessness of their ever being extricated |
| together from that forlorn place; a dull conviction that she was very |
| ill, perhaps dying; but no fear or anxiety. |
| |
| A loathing of food that she was not conscious of until they expended |
| their last penny in the purchase of another loaf, prevented her |
| partaking even of this poor repast. Her grandfather ate greedily, |
| which she was glad to see. |
| |
| Their way lay through the same scenes as yesterday, with no variety or |
| improvement. There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe; the |
| same blighted ground, the same hopeless prospect, the same misery and |
| distress. Objects appeared more dim, the noise less, the path more |
| rugged and uneven, for sometimes she stumbled, and became roused, as it |
| were, in the effort to prevent herself from falling. Poor child! the |
| cause was in her tottering feet. |
| |
| Towards the afternoon, her grandfather complained bitterly of hunger. |
| She approached one of the wretched hovels by the way-side, and knocked |
| with her hand upon the door. |
| |
| 'What would you have here?' said a gaunt man, opening it. |
| |
| 'Charity. A morsel of bread.' |
| |
| 'Do you see that?' returned the man hoarsely, pointing to a kind of |
| bundle on the ground. 'That's a dead child. I and five hundred other |
| men were thrown out of work, three months ago. That is my third dead |
| child, and last. Do you think I have charity to bestow, or a morsel of |
| bread to spare?' |
| |
| The child recoiled from the door, and it closed upon her. Impelled by |
| strong necessity, she knocked at another: a neighbouring one, which, |
| yielding to the slight pressure of her hand, flew open. |
| |
| It seemed that a couple of poor families lived in this hovel, for two |
| women, each among children of her own, occupied different portions of |
| the room. In the centre, stood a grave gentleman in black who appeared |
| to have just entered, and who held by the arm a boy. |
| |
| 'Here, woman,' he said, 'here's your deaf and dumb son. You may thank |
| me for restoring him to you. He was brought before me, this morning, |
| charged with theft; and with any other boy it would have gone hard, I |
| assure you. But, as I had compassion on his infirmities, and thought |
| he might have learnt no better, I have managed to bring him back to |
| you. Take more care of him for the future.' |
| |
| 'And won't you give me back MY son!' said the other woman, hastily |
| rising and confronting him. 'Won't you give me back MY son, Sir, who |
| was transported for the same offence!' |
| |
| 'Was he deaf and dumb, woman?' asked the gentleman sternly. |
| |
| 'Was he not, Sir?' |
| |
| 'You know he was not.' |
| |
| 'He was,' cried the woman. 'He was deaf, dumb, and blind, to all that |
| was good and right, from his cradle. Her boy may have learnt no |
| better! where did mine learn better? where could he? who was there to |
| teach him better, or where was it to be learnt?' |
| |
| 'Peace, woman,' said the gentleman, 'your boy was in possession of all |
| his senses.' |
| |
| 'He was,' cried the mother; 'and he was the more easy to be led astray |
| because he had them. If you save this boy because he may not know |
| right from wrong, why did you not save mine who was never taught the |
| difference? You gentlemen have as good a right to punish her boy, that |
| God has kept in ignorance of sound and speech, as you have to punish |
| mine, that you kept in ignorance yourselves. How many of the girls and |
| boys--ah, men and women too--that are brought before you and you don't |
| pity, are deaf and dumb in their minds, and go wrong in that state, and |
| are punished in that state, body and soul, while you gentlemen are |
| quarrelling among yourselves whether they ought to learn this or |
| that?--Be a just man, Sir, and give me back my son.' |
| |
| 'You are desperate,' said the gentleman, taking out his snuff-box, 'and |
| I am sorry for you.' |
| |
| 'I AM desperate,' returned the woman, 'and you have made me so. Give |
| me back my son, to work for these helpless children. Be a just man, |
| Sir, and, as you have had mercy upon this boy, give me back my son!' |
| |
| The child had seen and heard enough to know that this was not a place |
| at which to ask for alms. She led the old man softly from the door, |
| and they pursued their journey. |
| |
| With less and less of hope or strength, as they went on, but with an |
| undiminished resolution not to betray by any word or sigh her sinking |
| state, so long as she had energy to move, the child, throughout the |
| remainder of that hard day, compelled herself to proceed: not even |
| stopping to rest as frequently as usual, to compensate in some measure |
| for the tardy pace at which she was obliged to walk. Evening was |
| drawing on, but had not closed in, when--still travelling among the |
| same dismal objects--they came to a busy town. |
| |
| Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were insupportable. |
| After humbly asking for relief at some few doors, and being repulsed, |
| they agreed to make their way out of it as speedily as they could, and |
| try if the inmates of any lone house beyond, would have more pity on |
| their exhausted state. |
| |
| They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the |
| child felt that the time was close at hand when her enfeebled powers |
| would bear no more. There appeared before them, at this juncture, |
| going in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, |
| with a portmanteau strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout stick as |
| he walked, and read from a book which he held in his other hand. |
| |
| It was not an easy matter to come up with him, and beseech his aid, for |
| he walked fast, and was a little distance in advance. At length, he |
| stopped, to look more attentively at some passage in his book. |
| Animated with a ray of hope, the child shot on before her grandfather, |
| and, going close to the stranger without rousing him by the sound of |
| her footsteps, began, in a few faint words, to implore his help. |
| |
| He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, uttered a |
| wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 46 |
| |
| It was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the poor schoolmaster. |
| Scarcely less moved and surprised by the sight of the child than she |
| had been on recognising him, he stood, for a moment, silent and |
| confounded by this unexpected apparition, without even the presence of |
| mind to raise her from the ground. |
| |
| But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw down his stick |
| and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, endeavoured, by such |
| simple means as occurred to him, to restore her to herself; while her |
| grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her with |
| many endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only a word. |
| |
| 'She is quite exhausted,' said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into |
| his face. 'You have taxed her powers too far, friend.' |
| |
| 'She is perishing of want,' rejoined the old man. 'I never thought how |
| weak and ill she was, till now.' |
| |
| Casting a look upon him, half-reproachful and half-compassionate, the |
| schoolmaster took the child in his arms, and, bidding the old man |
| gather up her little basket and follow him directly, bore her away at |
| his utmost speed. |
| |
| There was a small inn within sight, to which, it would seem, he had |
| been directing his steps when so unexpectedly overtaken. Towards this |
| place he hurried with his unconscious burden, and rushing into the |
| kitchen, and calling upon the company there assembled to make way for |
| God's sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire. |
| |
| The company, who rose in confusion on the schoolmaster's entrance, did |
| as people usually do under such circumstances. Everybody called for |
| his or her favourite remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more |
| air, at the same time carefully excluding what air there was, by |
| closing round the object of sympathy; and all wondered why somebody |
| else didn't do what it never appeared to occur to them might be done by |
| themselves. |
| |
| The landlady, however, who possessed more readiness and activity than |
| any of them, and who had withal a quicker perception of the merits of |
| the case, soon came running in, with a little hot brandy and water, |
| followed by her servant-girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, |
| smelling-salts, and such other restoratives; which, being duly |
| administered, recovered the child so far as to enable her to thank them |
| in a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the poor schoolmaster, who |
| stood, with an anxious face, hard by. Without suffering her to speak |
| another word, or so much as to stir a finger any more, the women |
| straightway carried her off to bed; and, having covered her up warm, |
| bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they despatched a |
| messenger for the doctor. |
| |
| The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a great bunch of seals |
| dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed black satin, arrived with all |
| speed, and taking his seat by the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his |
| watch, and felt her pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt |
| her pulse again, and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied |
| wine-glass as if in profound abstraction. |
| |
| 'I should give her,' said the doctor at length, 'a tea-spoonful, every |
| now and then, of hot brandy and water.' |
| |
| 'Why, that's exactly what we've done, sir!' said the delighted landlady. |
| |
| 'I should also,' observed the doctor, who had passed the foot-bath on |
| the stairs, 'I should also,' said the doctor, in the voice of an |
| oracle, 'put her feet in hot water, and wrap them up in flannel. I |
| should likewise,' said the doctor with increased solemnity, 'give her |
| something light for supper--the wing of a roasted fowl now--' |
| |
| 'Why, goodness gracious me, sir, it's cooking at the kitchen fire this |
| instant!' cried the landlady. And so indeed it was, for the |
| schoolmaster had ordered it to be put down, and it was getting on so |
| well that the doctor might have smelt it if he had tried; perhaps he |
| did. |
| |
| 'You may then,' said the doctor, rising gravely, 'give her a glass of |
| hot mulled port wine, if she likes wine--' |
| |
| 'And a toast, Sir?' suggested the landlady. |
| |
| 'Ay,' said the doctor, in the tone of a man who makes a dignified |
| concession. 'And a toast--of bread. But be very particular to make it |
| of bread, if you please, ma'am.' |
| |
| With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously delivered, the |
| doctor departed, leaving the whole house in admiration of that wisdom |
| which tallied so closely with their own. Everybody said he was a very |
| shrewd doctor indeed, and knew perfectly what people's constitutions |
| were; which there appears some reason to suppose he did. |
| |
| While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a refreshing sleep, |
| from which they were obliged to rouse her when it was ready. As she |
| evinced extraordinary uneasiness on learning that her grandfather was |
| below stairs, and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their |
| being apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her still very |
| restless on this head, they made him up a bed in an inner room, to |
| which he presently retired. The key of this chamber happened by good |
| fortune to be on that side of the door which was in Nell's room; she |
| turned it on him when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept to bed |
| again with a thankful heart. |
| |
| The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe by the kitchen |
| fire, which was now deserted, thinking, with a very happy face, on the |
| fortunate chance which had brought him so opportunely to the child's |
| assistance, and parrying, as well as in his simple way he could, the |
| inquisitive cross-examination of the landlady, who had a great |
| curiosity to be made acquainted with every particular of Nell's life |
| and history. The poor schoolmaster was so open-hearted, and so little |
| versed in the most ordinary cunning or deceit, that she could not have |
| failed to succeed in the first five minutes, but that he happened to be |
| unacquainted with what she wished to know; and so he told her. The |
| landlady, by no means satisfied with this assurance, which she |
| considered an ingenious evasion of the question, rejoined that he had |
| his reasons of course. Heaven forbid that she should wish to pry into |
| the affairs of her customers, which indeed were no business of hers, |
| who had so many of her own. She had merely asked a civil question, and |
| to be sure she knew it would meet with a civil answer. She was quite |
| satisfied--quite. She had rather perhaps that he would have said at |
| once that he didn't choose to be communicative, because that would have |
| been plain and intelligible. However, she had no right to be offended |
| of course. He was the best judge, and had a perfect right to say what |
| he pleased; nobody could dispute that for a moment. Oh dear, no! |
| |
| 'I assure you, my good lady,' said the mild schoolmaster, 'that I have |
| told you the plain truth. As I hope to be saved, I have told you the |
| truth.' |
| |
| 'Why then, I do believe you are in earnest,' rejoined the landlady, |
| with ready good-humour, 'and I'm very sorry I have teazed you. But |
| curiosity you know is the curse of our sex, and that's the fact.' |
| |
| The landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the curse sometimes |
| involved the other sex likewise; but he was prevented from making any |
| remark to that effect, if he had it in contemplation to do so, by the |
| schoolmaster's rejoinder. |
| |
| 'You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a sitting, and |
| welcome, and I would answer you patiently for the kindness of heart you |
| have shown to-night, if I could,' he said. 'As it is, please to take |
| care of her in the morning, and let me know early how she is; and to |
| understand that I am paymaster for the three.' |
| |
| So, parting with them on most friendly terms (not the less cordial |
| perhaps for this last direction), the schoolmaster went to his bed, and |
| the host and hostess to theirs. |
| |
| The report in the morning was, that the child was better, but was |
| extremely weak, and would at least require a day's rest, and careful |
| nursing, before she could proceed upon her journey. The schoolmaster |
| received this communication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that |
| he had a day to spare--two days for that matter--and could very well |
| afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in the evening, he |
| appointed to visit her in her room at a certain hour, and rambling out |
| with his book, did not return until the hour arrived. |
| |
| Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone; whereat, and at |
| sight of her pale face and wasted figure, the simple schoolmaster shed |
| a few tears himself, at the same time showing in very energetic |
| language how foolish it was to do so, and how very easily it could be |
| avoided, if one tried. |
| |
| 'It makes me unhappy even in the midst of all this kindness' said the |
| child, 'to think that we should be a burden upon you. How can I ever |
| thank you? If I had not met you so far from home, I must have died, |
| and he would have been left alone.' |
| |
| 'We'll not talk about dying,' said the schoolmaster; 'and as to |
| burdens, I have made my fortune since you slept at my cottage.' |
| |
| 'Indeed!' cried the child joyfully. |
| |
| 'Oh yes,' returned her friend. 'I have been appointed clerk and |
| schoolmaster to a village a long way from here--and a long way from the |
| old one as you may suppose--at five-and-thirty pounds a year. |
| Five-and-thirty pounds!' |
| |
| 'I am very glad,' said the child, 'so very, very glad.' |
| |
| 'I am on my way there now,' resumed the schoolmaster. 'They allowed me |
| the stage-coach-hire--outside stage-coach-hire all the way. Bless you, |
| they grudge me nothing. But as the time at which I am expected there, |
| left me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How glad I am, to |
| think I did so!' |
| |
| 'How glad should we be!' |
| |
| 'Yes, yes,' said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in his chair, |
| 'certainly, that's very true. But you--where are you going, where are |
| you coming from, what have you been doing since you left me, what had |
| you been doing before? Now, tell me--do tell me. I know very little |
| of the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise me in its |
| affairs than I am qualified to give advice to you; but I am very |
| sincere, and I have a reason (you have not forgotten it) for loving |
| you. I have felt since that time as if my love for him who died, had |
| been transferred to you who stood beside his bed. If this,' he added, |
| looking upwards, 'is the beautiful creation that springs from ashes, |
| let its peace prosper with me, as I deal tenderly and compassionately |
| by this young child!' |
| |
| The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster, the affectionate |
| earnestness of his speech and manner, the truth which was stamped upon |
| his every word and look, gave the child a confidence in him, which the |
| utmost arts of treachery and dissimulation could never have awakened in |
| her breast. She told him all--that they had no friend or |
| relative--that she had fled with the old man, to save him from a |
| madhouse and all the miseries he dreaded--that she was flying now, to |
| save him from himself--and that she sought an asylum in some remote |
| and primitive place, where the temptation before which he fell would |
| never enter, and her late sorrows and distresses could have no place. |
| |
| The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. 'This child!'--he |
| thought--'Has this child heroically persevered under all doubts and |
| dangers, struggled with poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by |
| strong affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone! And yet the |
| world is full of such heroism. Have I yet to learn that the hardest |
| and best-borne trials are those which are never chronicled in any |
| earthly record, and are suffered every day! And should I be surprised |
| to hear the story of this child!' |
| |
| What more he thought or said, matters not. It was concluded that Nell |
| and her grandfather should accompany him to the village whither he was |
| bound, and that he should endeavour to find them some humble occupation |
| by which they could subsist. 'We shall be sure to succeed,' said the |
| schoolmaster, heartily. 'The cause is too good a one to fail.' |
| |
| They arranged to proceed upon their journey next evening, as a |
| stage-waggon, which travelled for some distance on the same road as |
| they must take, would stop at the inn to change horses, and the driver |
| for a small gratuity would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was |
| soon struck when the waggon came; and in due time it rolled away; with |
| the child comfortably bestowed among the softer packages, her |
| grandfather and the schoolmaster walking on beside the driver, and the |
| landlady and all the good folks of the inn screaming out their good |
| wishes and farewells. |
| |
| What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of travelling, to lie inside |
| that slowly-moving mountain, listening to the tinkling of the horses' |
| bells, the occasional smacking of the carter's whip, the smooth rolling |
| of the great broad wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery |
| good-nights of passing travellers jogging past on little short-stepped |
| horses--all made pleasantly indistinct by the thick awning, which |
| seemed made for lazy listening under, till one fell asleep! The very |
| going to sleep, still with an indistinct idea, as the head jogged to |
| and fro upon the pillow, of moving onward with no trouble or fatigue, |
| and hearing all these sounds like dreamy music, lulling to the |
| senses--and the slow waking up, and finding one's self staring out |
| through the breezy curtain half-opened in the front, far up into the |
| cold bright sky with its countless stars, and downward at the driver's |
| lantern dancing on like its namesake Jack of the swamps and marshes, |
| and sideways at the dark grim trees, and forward at the long bare road |
| rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high ridge as |
| if there were no more road, and all beyond was sky--and the stopping at |
| the inn to bait, and being helped out, and going into a room with fire |
| and candles, and winking very much, and being agreeably reminded that |
| the night was cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to think it |
| colder than it was!--What a delicious journey was that journey in the |
| waggon. |
| |
| Then the going on again--so fresh at first, and shortly afterwards so |
| sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as the mail came dashing past like |
| a highway comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs, and visions of |
| a guard behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a gentleman |
| in a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild and stupefied--the |
| stopping at the turnpike where the man was gone to bed, and knocking at |
| the door until he answered with a smothered shout from under the |
| bed-clothes in the little room above, where the faint light was |
| burning, and presently came down, night-capped and shivering, to throw |
| the gate wide open, and wish all waggons off the road except by day. |
| The cold sharp interval between night and morning--the distant streak |
| of light widening and spreading, and turning from grey to white, and |
| from white to yellow, and from yellow to burning red--the presence of |
| day, with all its cheerfulness and life--men and horses at the |
| plough--birds in the trees and hedges, and boys in solitary fields, |
| frightening them away with rattles. The coming to a town--people busy |
| in the markets; light carts and chaises round the tavern yard; |
| tradesmen standing at their doors; men running horses up and down the |
| street for sale; pigs plunging and grunting in the dirty distance, |
| getting off with long strings at their legs, running into clean |
| chemists' shops and being dislodged with brooms by 'prentices; the |
| night coach changing horses--the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and |
| discontented, with three months' growth of hair in one night--the |
| coachman fresh as from a band-box, and exquisitely beautiful by |
| contrast:--so much bustle, so many things in motion, such a variety of |
| incidents--when was there a journey with so many delights as that |
| journey in the waggon! |
| |
| Sometimes walking for a mile or two while her grandfather rode inside, |
| and sometimes even prevailing upon the schoolmaster to take her place |
| and lie down to rest, Nell travelled on very happily until they came to |
| a large town, where the waggon stopped, and where they spent a night. |
| They passed a large church; and in the streets were a number of old |
| houses, built of a kind of earth or plaster, crossed and re-crossed in |
| a great many directions with black beams, which gave them a remarkable |
| and very ancient look. The doors, too, were arched and low, some with |
| oaken portals and quaint benches, where the former inhabitants had sat |
| on summer evenings. The windows were latticed in little diamond panes, |
| that seemed to wink and blink upon the passengers as if they were dim |
| of sight. They had long since got clear of the smoke and furnaces, |
| except in one or two solitary instances, where a factory planted among |
| fields withered the space about it, like a burning mountain. When they |
| had passed through this town, they entered again upon the country, and |
| began to draw near their place of destination. |
| |
| It was not so near, however, but that they spent another night upon the |
| road; not that their doing so was quite an act of necessity, but that |
| the schoolmaster, when they approached within a few miles of his |
| village, had a fidgety sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was |
| unwilling to make his entry in dusty shoes, and travel-disordered |
| dress. It was a fine, clear, autumn morning, when they came upon the |
| scene of his promotion, and stopped to contemplate its beauties. |
| |
| 'See--here's the church!' cried the delighted schoolmaster in a low |
| voice; 'and that old building close beside it, is the schoolhouse, I'll |
| be sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a-year in this beautiful place!' |
| |
| They admired everything--the old grey porch, the mullioned windows, the |
| venerable gravestones dotting the green churchyard, the ancient tower, |
| the very weathercock; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn, and |
| homestead, peeping from among the trees; the stream that rippled by the |
| distant water-mill; the blue Welsh mountains far away. It was for such |
| a spot the child had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of |
| labour. Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors through |
| which they had forced their way, visions of such scenes--beautiful |
| indeed, but not more beautiful than this sweet reality--had been always |
| present to her mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy |
| distance, as the prospect of ever beholding them again grew fainter; |
| but, as they receded, she had loved and panted for them more. |
| |
| 'I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes,' said the schoolmaster, |
| at length breaking the silence into which they had fallen in their |
| gladness. 'I have a letter to present, and inquiries to make, you |
| know. Where shall I take you? To the little inn yonder?' |
| |
| 'Let us wait here,' rejoined Nell. 'The gate is open. We will sit in |
| the church porch till you come back.' |
| |
| 'A good place too,' said the schoolmaster, leading the way towards it, |
| disencumbering himself of his portmanteau, and placing it on the stone |
| seat. 'Be sure that I come back with good news, and am not long gone!' |
| |
| So, the happy schoolmaster put on a bran-new pair of gloves which he |
| had carried in a little parcel in his pocket all the way, and hurried |
| off, full of ardour and excitement. |
| |
| The child watched him from the porch until the intervening foliage hid |
| him from her view, and then stepped softly out into the old |
| churchyard--so solemn and quiet that every rustle of her dress upon the |
| fallen leaves, which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless, |
| seemed an invasion of its silence. It was a very aged, ghostly place; |
| the church had been built many hundreds of years ago, and had once had |
| a convent or monastery attached; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel |
| windows, and fragments of blackened walls, were yet standing; while |
| other portions of the old building, which had crumbled away and fallen |
| down, were mingled with the churchyard earth and overgrown with grass, |
| as if they too claimed a burying-place and sought to mix their ashes |
| with the dust of men. Hard by these gravestones of dead years, and |
| forming a part of the ruin which some pains had been taken to render |
| habitable in modern times, were two small dwellings with sunken windows |
| and oaken doors, fast hastening to decay, empty and desolate. |
| |
| Upon these tenements, the attention of the child became exclusively |
| riveted. She knew not why. The church, the ruin, the antiquated |
| graves, had equal claims at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but from |
| the moment when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she could |
| turn to nothing else. Even when she had made the circuit of the |
| enclosure, and, returning to the porch, sat pensively waiting for their |
| friend, she took her station where she could still look upon them, and |
| felt as if fascinated towards that spot. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 47 |
| |
| Kit's mother and the single gentleman--upon whose track it is expedient |
| to follow with hurried steps, lest this history should be chargeable |
| with inconstancy, and the offence of leaving its characters in |
| situations of uncertainty and doubt--Kit's mother and the single |
| gentleman, speeding onward in the post-chaise-and-four whose departure |
| from the Notary's door we have already witnessed, soon left the town |
| behind them, and struck fire from the flints of the broad highway. |
| |
| The good woman, being not a little embarrassed by the novelty of her |
| situation, and certain material apprehensions that perhaps by this time |
| little Jacob, or the baby, or both, had fallen into the fire, or |
| tumbled down stairs, or had been squeezed behind doors, or had scalded |
| their windpipes in endeavouring to allay their thirst at the spouts of |
| tea-kettles, preserved an uneasy silence; and meeting from the window |
| the eyes of turnpike-men, omnibus-drivers, and others, felt in the new |
| dignity of her position like a mourner at a funeral, who, not being |
| greatly afflicted by the loss of the departed, recognizes his every-day |
| acquaintance from the window of the mourning coach, but is constrained |
| to preserve a decent solemnity, and the appearance of being indifferent |
| to all external objects. |
| |
| To have been indifferent to the companionship of the single gentleman |
| would have been tantamount to being gifted with nerves of steel. Never |
| did chaise inclose, or horses draw, such a restless gentleman as he. |
| He never sat in the same position for two minutes together, but was |
| perpetually tossing his arms and legs about, pulling up the sashes and |
| letting them violently down, or thrusting his head out of one window to |
| draw it in again and thrust it out of another. He carried in his |
| pocket, too, a fire-box of mysterious and unknown construction; and as |
| sure as ever Kit's mother closed her eyes, so surely--whisk, rattle, |
| fizz--there was the single gentleman consulting his watch by a flame of |
| fire, and letting the sparks fall down among the straw as if there were |
| no such thing as a possibility of himself and Kit's mother being |
| roasted alive before the boys could stop their horses. Whenever they |
| halted to change, there he was--out of the carriage without letting |
| down the steps, bursting about the inn-yard like a lighted cracker, |
| pulling out his watch by lamp-light and forgetting to look at it before |
| he put it up again, and in short committing so many extravagances that |
| Kit's mother was quite afraid of him. Then, when the horses were to, |
| in he came like a Harlequin, and before they had gone a mile, out came |
| the watch and the fire-box together, and Kit's mother as wide awake |
| again, with no hope of a wink of sleep for that stage. |
| |
| 'Are you comfortable?' the single gentleman would say after one of |
| these exploits, turning sharply round. |
| |
| 'Quite, Sir, thank you.' |
| |
| 'Are you sure? An't you cold?' |
| |
| 'It is a little chilly, Sir,' Kit's mother would reply. |
| |
| 'I knew it!' cried the single gentleman, letting down one of the front |
| glasses. 'She wants some brandy and water! Of course she does. How |
| could I forget it? Hallo! Stop at the next inn, and call out for a |
| glass of hot brandy and water.' |
| |
| It was in vain for Kit's mother to protest that she stood in need of |
| nothing of the kind. The single gentleman was inexorable; and whenever |
| he had exhausted all other modes and fashions of restlessness, it |
| invariably occurred to him that Kit's mother wanted brandy and water. |
| |
| In this way they travelled on until near midnight, when they stopped to |
| supper, for which meal the single gentleman ordered everything eatable |
| that the house contained; and because Kit's mother didn't eat |
| everything at once, and eat it all, he took it into his head that she |
| must be ill. |
| |
| 'You're faint,' said the single gentleman, who did nothing himself but |
| walk about the room. 'I see what's the matter with you, ma'am. You're |
| faint.' |
| |
| 'Thank you, sir, I'm not indeed.' |
| |
| 'I know you are. I'm sure of it. I drag this poor woman from the |
| bosom of her family at a minute's notice, and she goes on getting |
| fainter and fainter before my eyes. I'm a pretty fellow! How many |
| children have you got, ma'am?' |
| |
| 'Two, sir, besides Kit.' |
| |
| 'Boys, ma'am?' |
| |
| 'Yes, sir.' |
| |
| 'Are they christened?' |
| |
| 'Only half baptised as yet, sir.' |
| |
| 'I'm godfather to both of 'em. Remember that, if you please, ma'am. |
| You had better have some mulled wine.' |
| |
| 'I couldn't touch a drop indeed, sir.' |
| |
| 'You must,' said the single gentleman. 'I see you want it. I ought to |
| have thought of it before.' |
| |
| Immediately flying to the bell, and calling for mulled wine as |
| impetuously as if it had been wanted for instant use in the recovery of |
| some person apparently drowned, the single gentleman made Kit's mother |
| swallow a bumper of it at such a high temperature that the tears ran |
| down her face, and then hustled her off to the chaise again, where--not |
| impossibly from the effects of this agreeable sedative--she soon became |
| insensible to his restlessness, and fell fast asleep. Nor were the |
| happy effects of this prescription of a transitory nature, as, |
| notwithstanding that the distance was greater, and the journey longer, |
| than the single gentleman had anticipated, she did not awake until it |
| was broad day, and they were clattering over the pavement of a town. |
| |
| 'This is the place!' cried her companion, letting down all the glasses. |
| 'Drive to the wax-work!' |
| |
| The boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and setting spurs to his horse, |
| to the end that they might go in brilliantly, all four broke into a |
| smart canter, and dashed through the streets with a noise that brought |
| the good folks wondering to their doors and windows, and drowned the |
| sober voices of the town-clocks as they chimed out half-past eight. |
| They drove up to a door round which a crowd of persons were collected, |
| and there stopped. |
| |
| 'What's this?' said the single gentleman thrusting out his head. 'Is |
| anything the matter here?' |
| |
| 'A wedding Sir, a wedding!' cried several voices. 'Hurrah!' |
| |
| The single gentleman, rather bewildered by finding himself the centre |
| of this noisy throng, alighted with the assistance of one of the |
| postilions, and handed out Kit's mother, at sight of whom the populace |
| cried out, 'Here's another wedding!' and roared and leaped for joy. |
| |
| 'The world has gone mad, I think,' said the single gentleman, pressing |
| through the concourse with his supposed bride. 'Stand back here, will |
| you, and let me knock.' |
| |
| Anything that makes a noise is satisfactory to a crowd. A score of |
| dirty hands were raised directly to knock for him, and seldom has a |
| knocker of equal powers been made to produce more deafening sounds than |
| this particular engine on the occasion in question. Having rendered |
| these voluntary services, the throng modestly retired a little, |
| preferring that the single gentleman should bear their consequences |
| alone. |
| |
| 'Now, sir, what do you want!' said a man with a large white bow at his |
| button-hole, opening the door, and confronting him with a very stoical |
| aspect. |
| |
| 'Who has been married here, my friend?' said the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'I have.' |
| |
| 'You! and to whom in the devil's name?' |
| |
| 'What right have you to ask?' returned the bridegroom, eyeing him from |
| top to toe. |
| |
| 'What right!' cried the single gentleman, drawing the arm of Kit's |
| mother more tightly through his own, for that good woman evidently had |
| it in contemplation to run away. 'A right you little dream of. Mind, |
| good people, if this fellow has been marrying a minor--tut, tut, that |
| can't be. Where is the child you have here, my good fellow. You call |
| her Nell. Where is she?' |
| |
| As he propounded this question, which Kit's mother echoed, somebody in |
| a room near at hand, uttered a great shriek, and a stout lady in a |
| white dress came running to the door, and supported herself upon the |
| bridegroom's arm. |
| |
| 'Where is she!' cried this lady. 'What news have you brought me? What |
| has become of her?' |
| |
| The single gentleman started back, and gazed upon the face of the late |
| Mrs Jarley (that morning wedded to the philosophic George, to the |
| eternal wrath and despair of Mr Slum the poet), with looks of |
| conflicting apprehension, disappointment, and incredulity. At length |
| he stammered out, |
| |
| 'I ask YOU where she is? What do you mean?' |
| |
| 'Oh sir!' cried the bride, 'If you have come here to do her any good, |
| why weren't you here a week ago?' |
| |
| 'She is not--not dead?' said the person to whom she addressed herself, |
| turning very pale. |
| |
| 'No, not so bad as that.' |
| |
| 'I thank God!' cried the single gentleman feebly. 'Let me come in.' |
| |
| They drew back to admit him, and when he had entered, closed the door. |
| |
| 'You see in me, good people,' he said, turning to the newly-married |
| couple, 'one to whom life itself is not dearer than the two persons |
| whom I seek. They would not know me. My features are strange to them, |
| but if they or either of them are here, take this good woman with you, |
| and let them see her first, for her they both know. If you deny them |
| from any mistaken regard or fear for them, judge of my intentions by |
| their recognition of this person as their old humble friend.' |
| |
| 'I always said it!' cried the bride, 'I knew she was not a common |
| child! Alas, sir! we have no power to help you, for all that we could |
| do, has been tried in vain.' |
| |
| With that, they related to him, without disguise or concealment, all |
| that they knew of Nell and her grandfather, from their first meeting |
| with them, down to the time of their sudden disappearance; adding |
| (which was quite true) that they had made every possible effort to |
| trace them, but without success; having been at first in great alarm |
| for their safety, as well as on account of the suspicions to which they |
| themselves might one day be exposed in consequence of their abrupt |
| departure. They dwelt upon the old man's imbecility of mind, upon the |
| uneasiness the child had always testified when he was absent, upon the |
| company he had been supposed to keep, and upon the increased depression |
| which had gradually crept over her and changed her both in health and |
| spirits. Whether she had missed the old man in the night, and knowing |
| or conjecturing whither he had bent his steps, had gone in pursuit, or |
| whether they had left the house together, they had no means of |
| determining. Certain they considered it, that there was but slender |
| prospect left of hearing of them again, and that whether their flight |
| originated with the old man, or with the child, there was now no hope |
| of their return. To all this, the single gentleman listened with the |
| air of a man quite borne down by grief and disappointment. He shed |
| tears when they spoke of the grandfather, and appeared in deep |
| affliction. |
| |
| Not to protract this portion of our narrative, and to make short work |
| of a long story, let it be briefly written that before the interview |
| came to a close, the single gentleman deemed he had sufficient evidence |
| of having been told the truth, and that he endeavoured to force upon |
| the bride and bridegroom an acknowledgment of their kindness to the |
| unfriended child, which, however, they steadily declined accepting. In |
| the end, the happy couple jolted away in the caravan to spend their |
| honeymoon in a country excursion; and the single gentleman and Kit's |
| mother stood ruefully before their carriage-door. |
| |
| 'Where shall we drive you, sir?' said the post-boy. |
| |
| 'You may drive me,' said the single gentleman, 'to the--' He was not |
| going to add 'inn,' but he added it for the sake of Kit's mother; and |
| to the inn they went. |
| |
| Rumours had already got abroad that the little girl who used to show |
| the wax-work, was the child of great people who had been stolen from |
| her parents in infancy, and had only just been traced. Opinion was |
| divided whether she was the daughter of a prince, a duke, an earl, a |
| viscount, or a baron, but all agreed upon the main fact, and that the |
| single gentleman was her father; and all bent forward to catch a |
| glimpse, though it were only of the tip of his noble nose, as he rode |
| away, desponding, in his four-horse chaise. |
| |
| What would he have given to know, and what sorrow would have been saved |
| if he had only known, that at that moment both child and grandfather |
| were seated in the old church porch, patiently awaiting the |
| schoolmaster's return! |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 48 |
| |
| Popular rumour concerning the single gentleman and his errand, |
| travelling from mouth to mouth, and waxing stronger in the marvellous |
| as it was bandied about--for your popular rumour, unlike the rolling |
| stone of the proverb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its |
| wanderings up and down--occasioned his dismounting at the inn-door to |
| be looked upon as an exciting and attractive spectacle, which could |
| scarcely be enough admired; and drew together a large concourse of |
| idlers, who having recently been, as it were, thrown out of employment |
| by the closing of the wax-work and the completion of the nuptial |
| ceremonies, considered his arrival as little else than a special |
| providence, and hailed it with demonstrations of the liveliest joy. |
| |
| Not at all participating in the general sensation, but wearing the |
| depressed and wearied look of one who sought to meditate on his |
| disappointment in silence and privacy, the single gentleman alighted, |
| and handed out Kit's mother with a gloomy politeness which impressed |
| the lookers-on extremely. That done, he gave her his arm and escorted |
| her into the house, while several active waiters ran on before as a |
| skirmishing party, to clear the way and to show the room which was |
| ready for their reception. |
| |
| 'Any room will do,' said the single gentleman. 'Let it be near at |
| hand, that's all.' |
| |
| 'Close here, sir, if you please to walk this way.' |
| |
| 'Would the gentleman like this room?' said a voice, as a little |
| out-of-the-way door at the foot of the well staircase flew briskly open |
| and a head popped out. 'He's quite welcome to it. He's as welcome as |
| flowers in May, or coals at Christmas. Would you like this room, sir? |
| Honour me by walking in. Do me the favour, pray.' |
| |
| 'Goodness gracious me!' cried Kit's mother, falling back in extreme |
| surprise, 'only think of this!' |
| |
| She had some reason to be astonished, for the person who proffered the |
| gracious invitation was no other than Daniel Quilp. The little door |
| out of which he had thrust his head was close to the inn larder; and |
| there he stood, bowing with grotesque politeness; as much at his ease |
| as if the door were that of his own house; blighting all the legs of |
| mutton and cold roast fowls by his close companionship, and looking |
| like the evil genius of the cellars come from underground upon some |
| work of mischief. |
| |
| 'Would you do me the honour?' said Quilp. |
| |
| 'I prefer being alone,' replied the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Quilp. And with that, he darted in again with one jerk and |
| clapped the little door to, like a figure in a Dutch clock when the |
| hour strikes. |
| |
| 'Why it was only last night, sir,' whispered Kit's mother, 'that I left |
| him in Little Bethel.' |
| |
| 'Indeed!' said her fellow-passenger. 'When did that person come here, |
| waiter?' |
| |
| 'Come down by the night-coach, this morning, sir.' |
| |
| 'Humph! And when is he going?' |
| |
| 'Can't say, sir, really. When the chambermaid asked him just now if he |
| should want a bed, sir, he first made faces at her, and then wanted to |
| kiss her.' |
| |
| 'Beg him to walk this way,' said the single gentleman. 'I should be |
| glad to exchange a word with him, tell him. Beg him to come at once, |
| do you hear?' |
| |
| The man stared on receiving these instructions, for the single |
| gentleman had not only displayed as much astonishment as Kit's mother |
| at sight of the dwarf, but, standing in no fear of him, had been at |
| less pains to conceal his dislike and repugnance. He departed on his |
| errand, however, and immediately returned, ushering in its object. |
| |
| 'Your servant, sir,' said the dwarf, 'I encountered your messenger |
| half-way. I thought you'd allow me to pay my compliments to you. I |
| hope you're well. I hope you're very well.' |
| |
| There was a short pause, while the dwarf, with half-shut eyes and |
| puckered face, stood waiting for an answer. Receiving none, he turned |
| towards his more familiar acquaintance. |
| |
| 'Christopher's mother!' he cried. 'Such a dear lady, such a worthy |
| woman, so blest in her honest son! How is Christopher's mother? Have |
| change of air and scene improved her? Her little family too, and |
| Christopher? Do they thrive? Do they flourish? Are they growing into |
| worthy citizens, eh?' |
| |
| Making his voice ascend in the scale with every succeeding question, Mr |
| Quilp finished in a shrill squeak, and subsided into the panting look |
| which was customary with him, and which, whether it were assumed or |
| natural, had equally the effect of banishing all expression from his |
| face, and rendering it, as far as it afforded any index to his mood or |
| meaning, a perfect blank. |
| |
| 'Mr Quilp,' said the single gentleman. |
| |
| The dwarf put his hand to his great flapped ear, and counterfeited the |
| closest attention. |
| |
| 'We two have met before--' |
| |
| 'Surely,' cried Quilp, nodding his head. 'Oh surely, sir. Such an |
| honour and pleasure--it's both, Christopher's mother, it's both--is |
| not to be forgotten so soon. By no means!' |
| |
| 'You may remember that the day I arrived in London, and found the house |
| to which I drove, empty and deserted, I was directed by some of the |
| neighbours to you, and waited upon you without stopping for rest or |
| refreshment?' |
| |
| 'How precipitate that was, and yet what an earnest and vigorous |
| measure!' said Quilp, conferring with himself, in imitation of his |
| friend Mr Sampson Brass. |
| |
| 'I found,' said the single gentleman, 'you most unaccountably, in |
| possession of everything that had so recently belonged to another man, |
| and that other man, who up to the time of your entering upon his |
| property had been looked upon as affluent, reduced to sudden beggary, |
| and driven from house and home.' |
| |
| 'We had warrant for what we did, my good sir,' rejoined Quilp, 'we had |
| our warrant. Don't say driven either. He went of his own |
| accord--vanished in the night, sir.' |
| |
| 'No matter,' said the single gentleman angrily. 'He was gone.' |
| |
| 'Yes, he was gone,' said Quilp, with the same exasperating composure. |
| 'No doubt he was gone. The only question was, where. And it's a |
| question still.' |
| |
| 'Now, what am I to think,' said the single gentleman, sternly regarding |
| him, 'of you, who, plainly indisposed to give me any information |
| then--nay, obviously holding back, and sheltering yourself with all |
| kinds of cunning, trickery, and evasion--are dogging my footsteps now?' |
| |
| 'I dogging!' cried Quilp. |
| |
| 'Why, are you not?' returned his questioner, fretted into a state of |
| the utmost irritation. 'Were you not a few hours since, sixty miles |
| off, and in the chapel to which this good woman goes to say her |
| prayers?' |
| |
| 'She was there too, I think?' said Quilp, still perfectly unmoved. 'I |
| might say, if I was inclined to be rude, how do I know but you are |
| dogging MY footsteps. Yes, I was at chapel. What then? I've read in |
| books that pilgrims were used to go to chapel before they went on |
| journeys, to put up petitions for their safe return. Wise men! |
| journeys are very perilous--especially outside the coach. Wheels come |
| off, horses take fright, coachmen drive too fast, coaches overturn. I |
| always go to chapel before I start on journeys. It's the last thing I |
| do on such occasions, indeed.' |
| |
| That Quilp lied most heartily in this speech, it needed no very great |
| penetration to discover, although for anything that he suffered to |
| appear in his face, voice, or manner, he might have been clinging to |
| the truth with the quiet constancy of a martyr. |
| |
| 'In the name of all that's calculated to drive one crazy, man,' said |
| the unfortunate single gentleman, 'have you not, for some reason of |
| your own, taken upon yourself my errand? don't you know with what |
| object I have come here, and if you do know, can you throw no light |
| upon it?' |
| |
| 'You think I'm a conjuror, sir,' replied Quilp, shrugging up his |
| shoulders. 'If I was, I should tell my own fortune--and make it.' |
| |
| 'Ah! we have said all we need say, I see,' returned the other, throwing |
| himself impatiently upon a sofa. 'Pray leave us, if you please.' |
| |
| 'Willingly,' returned Quilp. 'Most willingly. Christopher's mother, |
| my good soul, farewell. A pleasant journey--back, sir. Ahem!' |
| |
| With these parting words, and with a grin upon his features altogether |
| indescribable, but which seemed to be compounded of every monstrous |
| grimace of which men or monkeys are capable, the dwarf slowly retreated |
| and closed the door behind him. |
| |
| 'Oho!' he said when he had regained his own room, and sat himself down |
| in a chair with his arms akimbo. 'Oho! Are you there, my friend? |
| In-deed!' |
| |
| Chuckling as though in very great glee, and recompensing himself for |
| the restraint he had lately put upon his countenance by twisting it |
| into all imaginable varieties of ugliness, Mr Quilp, rocking himself to |
| and fro in his chair and nursing his left leg at the same time, fell |
| into certain meditations, of which it may be necessary to relate the |
| substance. |
| |
| First, he reviewed the circumstances which had led to his repairing to |
| that spot, which were briefly these. Dropping in at Mr Sampson Brass's |
| office on the previous evening, in the absence of that gentleman and |
| his learned sister, he had lighted upon Mr Swiveller, who chanced at |
| the moment to be sprinkling a glass of warm gin and water on the dust |
| of the law, and to be moistening his clay, as the phrase goes, rather |
| copiously. But as clay in the abstract, when too much moistened, |
| becomes of a weak and uncertain consistency, breaking down in |
| unexpected places, retaining impressions but faintly, and preserving no |
| strength or steadiness of character, so Mr Swiveller's clay, having |
| imbibed a considerable quantity of moisture, was in a very loose and |
| slippery state, insomuch that the various ideas impressed upon it were |
| fast losing their distinctive character, and running into each other. |
| It is not uncommon for human clay in this condition to value itself |
| above all things upon its great prudence and sagacity; and Mr |
| Swiveller, especially prizing himself upon these qualities, took |
| occasion to remark that he had made strange discoveries in connection |
| with the single gentleman who lodged above, which he had determined to |
| keep within his own bosom, and which neither tortures nor cajolery |
| should ever induce him to reveal. Of this determination Mr Quilp |
| expressed his high approval, and setting himself in the same breath to |
| goad Mr Swiveller on to further hints, soon made out that the single |
| gentleman had been seen in communication with Kit, and that this was |
| the secret which was never to be disclosed. |
| |
| Possessed of this piece of information, Mr Quilp directly supposed that |
| the single gentleman above stairs must be the same individual who had |
| waited on him, and having assured himself by further inquiries that |
| this surmise was correct, had no difficulty in arriving at the |
| conclusion that the intent and object of his correspondence with Kit |
| was the recovery of his old client and the child. Burning with |
| curiosity to know what proceedings were afoot, he resolved to pounce |
| upon Kit's mother as the person least able to resist his arts, and |
| consequently the most likely to be entrapped into such revelations as |
| he sought; so taking an abrupt leave of Mr Swiveller, he hurried to her |
| house. The good woman being from home, he made inquiries of a |
| neighbour, as Kit himself did soon afterwards, and being directed to |
| the chapel be took himself there, in order to waylay her, at the |
| conclusion of the service. |
| |
| He had not sat in the chapel more than a quarter of an hour, and with |
| his eyes piously fixed upon the ceiling was chuckling inwardly over the |
| joke of his being there at all, when Kit himself appeared. Watchful as |
| a lynx, one glance showed the dwarf that he had come on business. |
| Absorbed in appearance, as we have seen, and feigning a profound |
| abstraction, he noted every circumstance of his behaviour, and when he |
| withdrew with his family, shot out after him. In fine, he traced them |
| to the notary's house; learnt the destination of the carriage from one |
| of the postilions; and knowing that a fast night-coach started for the |
| same place, at the very hour which was on the point of striking, from a |
| street hard by, darted round to the coach-office without more ado, and |
| took his seat upon the roof. After passing and repassing the carriage |
| on the road, and being passed and repassed by it sundry times in the |
| course of the night, according as their stoppages were longer or |
| shorter; or their rate of travelling varied, they reached the town |
| almost together. Quilp kept the chaise in sight, mingled with the |
| crowd, learnt the single gentleman's errand, and its failure, and |
| having possessed himself of all that it was material to know, hurried |
| off, reached the inn before him, had the interview just now detailed, |
| and shut himself up in the little room in which he hastily reviewed all |
| these occurrences. |
| |
| 'You are there, are you, my friend?' he repeated, greedily biting his |
| nails. 'I am suspected and thrown aside, and Kit's the confidential |
| agent, is he? I shall have to dispose of him, I fear. If we had come |
| up with them this morning,' he continued, after a thoughtful pause, 'I |
| was ready to prove a pretty good claim. I could have made my profit. |
| But for these canting hypocrites, the lad and his mother, I could get |
| this fiery gentleman as comfortably into my net as our old friend--our |
| mutual friend, ha! ha!--and chubby, rosy Nell. At the worst, it's a |
| golden opportunity, not to be lost. Let us find them first, and I'll |
| find means of draining you of some of your superfluous cash, sir, while |
| there are prison bars, and bolts, and locks, to keep your friend or |
| kinsman safely. I hate your virtuous people!' said the dwarf, throwing |
| off a bumper of brandy, and smacking his lips, 'ah! I hate 'em every |
| one!' |
| |
| This was not a mere empty vaunt, but a deliberate avowal of his real |
| sentiments; for Mr Quilp, who loved nobody, had by little and little |
| come to hate everybody nearly or remotely connected with his ruined |
| client:--the old man himself, because he had been able to deceive him |
| and elude his vigilance--the child, because she was the object of Mrs |
| Quilp's commiseration and constant self-reproach--the single gentleman, |
| because of his unconcealed aversion to himself--Kit and his mother, |
| most mortally, for the reasons shown. Above and beyond that general |
| feeling of opposition to them, which would have been inseparable from |
| his ravenous desire to enrich himself by these altered circumstances, |
| Daniel Quilp hated them every one. |
| |
| In this amiable mood, Mr Quilp enlivened himself and his hatreds with |
| more brandy, and then, changing his quarters, withdrew to an obscure |
| alehouse, under cover of which seclusion he instituted all possible |
| inquiries that might lead to the discovery of the old man and his |
| grandchild. But all was in vain. Not the slightest trace or clue |
| could be obtained. They had left the town by night; no one had seen |
| them go; no one had met them on the road; the driver of no coach, cart, |
| or waggon, had seen any travellers answering their description; nobody |
| had fallen in with them, or heard of them. Convinced at last that for |
| the present all such attempts were hopeless, he appointed two or three |
| scouts, with promises of large rewards in case of their forwarding him |
| any intelligence, and returned to London by next day's coach. |
| |
| It was some gratification to Mr Quilp to find, as he took his place |
| upon the roof, that Kit's mother was alone inside; from which |
| circumstance he derived in the course of the journey much cheerfulness |
| of spirit, inasmuch as her solitary condition enabled him to terrify |
| her with many extraordinary annoyances; such as hanging over the side |
| of the coach at the risk of his life, and staring in with his great |
| goggle eyes, which seemed in hers the more horrible from his face being |
| upside down; dodging her in this way from one window to another; |
| getting nimbly down whenever they changed horses and thrusting his head |
| in at the window with a dismal squint: which ingenious tortures had |
| such an effect upon Mrs Nubbles, that she was quite unable for the time |
| to resist the belief that Mr Quilp did in his own person represent and |
| embody that Evil Power, who was so vigorously attacked at Little |
| Bethel, and who, by reason of her backslidings in respect of Astley's |
| and oysters, was now frolicsome and rampant. |
| |
| Kit, having been apprised by letter of his mother's intended return, |
| was waiting for her at the coach-office; and great was his surprise |
| when he saw, leering over the coachman's shoulder like some familiar |
| demon, invisible to all eyes but his, the well-known face of Quilp. |
| |
| 'How are you, Christopher?' croaked the dwarf from the coach-top. 'All |
| right, Christopher. Mother's inside.' |
| |
| 'Why, how did he come here, mother?' whispered Kit. |
| |
| 'I don't know how he came or why, my dear,' rejoined Mrs Nubbles, |
| dismounting with her son's assistance, 'but he has been a terrifying of |
| me out of my seven senses all this blessed day.' |
| |
| 'He has?' cried Kit. |
| |
| 'You wouldn't believe it, that you wouldn't,' replied his mother, 'but |
| don't say a word to him, for I really don't believe he's human. Hush! |
| Don't turn round as if I was talking of him, but he's a squinting at me |
| now in the full blaze of the coach-lamp, quite awful!' |
| |
| In spite of his mother's injunction, Kit turned sharply round to look. |
| Mr Quilp was serenely gazing at the stars, quite absorbed in celestial |
| contemplation. |
| |
| 'Oh, he's the artfullest creetur!' cried Mrs Nubbles. 'But come away. |
| Don't speak to him for the world.' |
| |
| 'Yes I will, mother. What nonsense. I say, sir--' |
| |
| Mr Quilp affected to start, and looked smilingly round. |
| |
| 'You let my mother alone, will you?' said Kit. 'How dare you tease a |
| poor lone woman like her, making her miserable and melancholy as if she |
| hadn't got enough to make her so, without you. An't you ashamed of |
| yourself, you little monster?' |
| |
| 'Monster!' said Quilp inwardly, with a smile. 'Ugliest dwarf that |
| could be seen anywhere for a penny--monster--ah!' |
| |
| 'You show her any of your impudence again,' resumed Kit, shouldering |
| the bandbox, 'and I tell you what, Mr Quilp, I won't bear with you any |
| more. You have no right to do it; I'm sure we never interfered with |
| you. This isn't the first time; and if ever you worry or frighten her |
| again, you'll oblige me (though I should be very sorry to do it, on |
| account of your size) to beat you.' |
| |
| Quilp said not a word in reply, but walking so close to Kit as to bring |
| his eyes within two or three inches of his face, looked fixedly at him, |
| retreated a little distance without averting his gaze, approached |
| again, again withdrew, and so on for half-a-dozen times, like a head in |
| a phantasmagoria. Kit stood his ground as if in expectation of an |
| immediate assault, but finding that nothing came of these gestures, |
| snapped his fingers and walked away; his mother dragging him off as |
| fast as she could, and, even in the midst of his news of little Jacob |
| and the baby, looking anxiously over her shoulder to see if Quilp were |
| following. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 49 |
| |
| Kit's mother might have spared herself the trouble of looking back so |
| often, for nothing was further from Mr Quilp's thoughts than any |
| intention of pursuing her and her son, or renewing the quarrel with |
| which they had parted. He went his way, whistling from time to time |
| some fragments of a tune; and with a face quite tranquil and composed, |
| jogged pleasantly towards home; entertaining himself as he went with |
| visions of the fears and terrors of Mrs Quilp, who, having received no |
| intelligence of him for three whole days and two nights, and having had |
| no previous notice of his absence, was doubtless by that time in a |
| state of distraction, and constantly fainting away with anxiety and |
| grief. |
| |
| This facetious probability was so congenial to the dwarf's humour, and |
| so exquisitely amusing to him, that he laughed as he went along until |
| the tears ran down his cheeks; and more than once, when he found |
| himself in a bye-street, vented his delight in a shrill scream, which |
| greatly terrifying any lonely passenger, who happened to be walking on |
| before him expecting nothing so little, increased his mirth, and made |
| him remarkably cheerful and light-hearted. |
| |
| In this happy flow of spirits, Mr Quilp reached Tower Hill, when, |
| gazing up at the window of his own sitting-room, he thought he descried |
| more light than is usual in a house of mourning. Drawing nearer, and |
| listening attentively, he could hear several voices in earnest |
| conversation, among which he could distinguish, not only those of his |
| wife and mother-in-law, but the tongues of men. |
| |
| 'Ha!' cried the jealous dwarf, 'What's this! Do they entertain |
| visitors while I'm away!' |
| |
| A smothered cough from above, was the reply. He felt in his pockets |
| for his latch-key, but had forgotten it. There was no resource but to |
| knock at the door. |
| |
| 'A light in the passage,' said Quilp, peeping through the keyhole. 'A |
| very soft knock; and, by your leave, my lady, I may yet steal upon you |
| unawares. Soho!' |
| |
| A very low and gentle rap received no answer from within. But after a |
| second application to the knocker, no louder than the first, the door |
| was softly opened by the boy from the wharf, whom Quilp instantly |
| gagged with one hand, and dragged into the street with the other. |
| |
| 'You'll throttle me, master,' whispered the boy. 'Let go, will you.' |
| |
| 'Who's up stairs, you dog?' retorted Quilp in the same tone. 'Tell me. |
| And don't speak above your breath, or I'll choke you in good earnest.' |
| |
| The boy could only point to the window, and reply with a stifled |
| giggle, expressive of such intense enjoyment, that Quilp clutched him |
| by the throat and might have carried his threat into execution, or at |
| least have made very good progress towards that end, but for the boy's |
| nimbly extricating himself from his grasp, and fortifying himself |
| behind the nearest post, at which, after some fruitless attempts to |
| catch him by the hair of the head, his master was obliged to come to a |
| parley. |
| |
| 'Will you answer me?' said Quilp. 'What's going on, above?' |
| |
| 'You won't let one speak,' replied the boy. 'They--ha, ha, ha!--they |
| think you're--you're dead. Ha ha ha!' |
| |
| 'Dead!' cried Quilp, relaxing into a grim laugh himself. 'No. Do |
| they? Do they really, you dog?' |
| |
| 'They think you're--you're drowned,' replied the boy, who in his |
| malicious nature had a strong infusion of his master. 'You was last |
| seen on the brink of the wharf, and they think you tumbled over. Ha |
| ha!' |
| |
| The prospect of playing the spy under such delicious circumstances, and |
| of disappointing them all by walking in alive, gave more delight to |
| Quilp than the greatest stroke of good fortune could possibly have |
| inspired him with. He was no less tickled than his hopeful assistant, |
| and they both stood for some seconds, grinning and gasping and wagging |
| their heads at each other, on either side of the post, like an |
| unmatchable pair of Chinese idols. |
| |
| 'Not a word,' said Quilp, making towards the door on tiptoe. 'Not a |
| sound, not so much as a creaking board, or a stumble against a cobweb. |
| Drowned, eh, Mrs Quilp! Drowned!' |
| |
| So saying, he blew out the candle, kicked off his shoes, and groped his |
| way up stairs; leaving his delighted young friend in an ecstasy of |
| summersets on the pavement. |
| |
| The bedroom-door on the staircase being unlocked, Mr Quilp slipped in, |
| and planted himself behind the door of communication between that |
| chamber and the sitting-room, which standing ajar to render both more |
| airy, and having a very convenient chink (of which he had often availed |
| himself for purposes of espial, and had indeed enlarged with his |
| pocket-knife), enabled him not only to hear, but to see distinctly, |
| what was passing. |
| |
| Applying his eye to this convenient place, he descried Mr Brass seated |
| at the table with pen, ink, and paper, and the case-bottle of rum--his |
| own case-bottle, and his own particular Jamaica--convenient to his |
| hand; with hot water, fragrant lemons, white lump sugar, and all things |
| fitting; from which choice materials, Sampson, by no means insensible |
| to their claims upon his attention, had compounded a mighty glass of |
| punch reeking hot; which he was at that very moment stirring up with a |
| teaspoon, and contemplating with looks in which a faint assumption of |
| sentimental regret, struggled but weakly with a bland and comfortable |
| joy. At the same table, with both her elbows upon it, was Mrs Jiniwin; |
| no longer sipping other people's punch feloniously with teaspoons, but |
| taking deep draughts from a jorum of her own; while her daughter--not |
| exactly with ashes on her head, or sackcloth on her back, but |
| preserving a very decent and becoming appearance of sorrow |
| nevertheless--was reclining in an easy chair, and soothing her grief |
| with a smaller allowance of the same glib liquid. There were also |
| present, a couple of water-side men, bearing between them certain |
| machines called drags; even these fellows were accommodated with a |
| stiff glass a-piece; and as they drank with a great relish, and were |
| naturally of a red-nosed, pimple-faced, convivial look, their presence |
| rather increased than detracted from that decided appearance of |
| comfort, which was the great characteristic of the party. |
| |
| 'If I could poison that dear old lady's rum and water,' murmured Quilp, |
| 'I'd die happy.' |
| |
| 'Ah!' said Mr Brass, breaking the silence, and raising his eyes to the |
| ceiling with a sigh, 'Who knows but he may be looking down upon us now! |
| Who knows but he may be surveying of us from--from somewheres or |
| another, and contemplating us with a watchful eye! Oh Lor!' |
| |
| Here Mr Brass stopped to drink half his punch, and then resumed; |
| looking at the other half, as he spoke, with a dejected smile. |
| |
| 'I can almost fancy,' said the lawyer shaking his head, 'that I see his |
| eye glistening down at the very bottom of my liquor. When shall we |
| look upon his like again? Never, never!' One minute we are |
| here'--holding his tumbler before his eyes--'the next we are |
| there'--gulping down its contents, and striking himself emphatically a |
| little below the chest--'in the silent tomb. To think that I should be |
| drinking his very rum! It seems like a dream.' |
| |
| With the view, no doubt, of testing the reality of his position, Mr |
| Brass pushed his tumbler as he spoke towards Mrs Jiniwin for the |
| purpose of being replenished; and turned towards the attendant mariners. |
| |
| 'The search has been quite unsuccessful then?' |
| |
| 'Quite, master. But I should say that if he turns up anywhere, he'll |
| come ashore somewhere about Grinidge to-morrow, at ebb tide, eh, mate?' |
| |
| The other gentleman assented, observing that he was expected at the |
| Hospital, and that several pensioners would be ready to receive him |
| whenever he arrived. |
| |
| 'Then we have nothing for it but resignation,' said Mr Brass; 'nothing |
| but resignation and expectation. It would be a comfort to have his |
| body; it would be a dreary comfort.' |
| |
| 'Oh, beyond a doubt,' assented Mrs Jiniwin hastily; 'if we once had |
| that, we should be quite sure.' |
| |
| 'With regard to the descriptive advertisement,' said Sampson Brass, |
| taking up his pen. 'It is a melancholy pleasure to recall his traits. |
| Respecting his legs now--?' |
| |
| 'Crooked, certainly,' said Mrs Jiniwin. 'Do you think they WERE |
| crooked?' said Brass, in an insinuating tone. 'I think I see them now |
| coming up the street very wide apart, in nankeen' pantaloons a little |
| shrunk and without straps. Ah! what a vale of tears we live in. Do we |
| say crooked?' |
| |
| 'I think they were a little so,' observed Mrs Quilp with a sob. |
| |
| 'Legs crooked,' said Brass, writing as he spoke. 'Large head, short |
| body, legs crooked--' |
| |
| 'Very crooked,' suggested Mrs Jiniwin. |
| |
| 'We'll not say very crooked, ma'am,' said Brass piously. 'Let us not |
| bear hard upon the weaknesses of the deceased. He is gone, ma'am, to |
| where his legs will never come in question.--We will content ourselves |
| with crooked, Mrs Jiniwin.' |
| |
| 'I thought you wanted the truth,' said the old lady. 'That's all.' |
| |
| 'Bless your eyes, how I love you,' muttered Quilp. 'There she goes |
| again. Nothing but punch!' |
| |
| 'This is an occupation,' said the lawyer, laying down his pen and |
| emptying his glass, 'which seems to bring him before my eyes like the |
| Ghost of Hamlet's father, in the very clothes that he wore on |
| work-a-days. His coat, his waistcoat, his shoes and stockings, his |
| trousers, his hat, his wit and humour, his pathos and his umbrella, all |
| come before me like visions of my youth. His linen!' said Mr Brass |
| smiling fondly at the wall, 'his linen which was always of a particular |
| colour, for such was his whim and fancy--how plain I see his linen now!' |
| |
| 'You had better go on, sir,' said Mrs Jiniwin impatiently. |
| |
| 'True, ma'am, true,' cried Mr Brass. 'Our faculties must not freeze |
| with grief. I'll trouble you for a little more of that, ma'am. A |
| question now arises, with relation to his nose.' |
| |
| 'Flat,' said Mrs Jiniwin. |
| |
| 'Aquiline!' cried Quilp, thrusting in his head, and striking the |
| feature with his fist. 'Aquiline, you hag. Do you see it? Do you |
| call this flat? Do you? Eh?' |
| |
| 'Oh capital, capital!' shouted Brass, from the mere force of habit. |
| 'Excellent! How very good he is! He's a most remarkable man--so |
| extremely whimsical! Such an amazing power of taking people by |
| surprise!' |
| |
| Quilp paid no regard whatever to these compliments, nor to the dubious |
| and frightened look into which the lawyer gradually subsided, nor to |
| the shrieks of his wife and mother-in-law, nor to the latter's running |
| from the room, nor to the former's fainting away. Keeping his eye |
| fixed on Sampson Brass, he walked up to the table, and beginning with |
| his glass, drank off the contents, and went regularly round until he |
| had emptied the other two, when he seized the case-bottle, and hugging |
| it under his arm, surveyed him with a most extraordinary leer. |
| |
| 'Not yet, Sampson,' said Quilp. 'Not just yet!' |
| |
| 'Oh very good indeed!' cried Brass, recovering his spirits a little. |
| 'Ha ha ha! Oh exceedingly good! There's not another man alive who |
| could carry it off like that. A most difficult position to carry off. |
| But he has such a flow of good-humour, such an amazing flow!' |
| |
| 'Good night,' said the dwarf, nodding expressively. |
| |
| 'Good night, sir, good night,' cried the lawyer, retreating backwards |
| towards the door. 'This is a joyful occasion indeed, extremely joyful. |
| Ha ha ha! oh very rich, very rich indeed, remarkably so!' |
| |
| Waiting until Mr Brass's ejaculations died away in the distance (for he |
| continued to pour them out, all the way down stairs), Quilp advanced |
| towards the two men, who yet lingered in a kind of stupid amazement. |
| |
| 'Have you been dragging the river all day, gentlemen?' said the dwarf, |
| holding the door open with great politeness. |
| |
| 'And yesterday too, master.' |
| |
| 'Dear me, you've had a deal of trouble. Pray consider everything yours |
| that you find upon the--upon the body. Good night!' |
| |
| The men looked at each other, but had evidently no inclination to argue |
| the point just then, and shuffled out of the room. The speedy |
| clearance effected, Quilp locked the doors; and still embracing the |
| case-bottle with shrugged-up shoulders and folded arms, stood looking |
| at his insensible wife like a dismounted nightmare. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 50 |
| |
| Matrimonial differences are usually discussed by the parties concerned |
| in the form of dialogue, in which the lady bears at least her full half |
| share. Those of Mr and Mrs Quilp, however, were an exception to the |
| general rule; the remarks which they occasioned being limited to a long |
| soliloquy on the part of the gentleman, with perhaps a few deprecatory |
| observations from the lady, not extending beyond a trembling |
| monosyllable uttered at long intervals, and in a very submissive and |
| humble tone. On the present occasion, Mrs Quilp did not for a long |
| time venture even on this gentle defence, but when she had recovered |
| from her fainting-fit, sat in a tearful silence, meekly listening to |
| the reproaches of her lord and master. |
| |
| Of these Mr Quilp delivered himself with the utmost animation and |
| rapidity, and with so many distortions of limb and feature, that even |
| his wife, although tolerably well accustomed to his proficiency in |
| these respects, was well-nigh beside herself with alarm. But the |
| Jamaica rum, and the joy of having occasioned a heavy disappointment, |
| by degrees cooled Mr Quilp's wrath; which from being at savage heat, |
| dropped slowly to the bantering or chuckling point, at which it |
| steadily remained. |
| |
| 'So you thought I was dead and gone, did you?' said Quilp. 'You |
| thought you were a widow, eh? Ha, ha, ha, you jade.' |
| |
| 'Indeed, Quilp,' returned his wife. 'I'm very sorry--' |
| |
| 'Who doubts it!' cried the dwarf. 'You very sorry! to be sure you are. |
| Who doubts that you're VERY sorry!' |
| |
| 'I don't mean sorry that you have come home again alive and well,' said |
| his wife, 'but sorry that I should have been led into such a belief. I |
| am glad to see you, Quilp; indeed I am.' |
| |
| In truth Mrs Quilp did seem a great deal more glad to behold her lord |
| than might have been expected, and did evince a degree of interest in |
| his safety which, all things considered, was rather unaccountable. |
| Upon Quilp, however, this circumstance made no impression, farther than |
| as it moved him to snap his fingers close to his wife's eyes, with |
| divers grins of triumph and derision. |
| |
| 'How could you go away so long, without saying a word to me or letting |
| me hear of you or know anything about you?' asked the poor little |
| woman, sobbing. 'How could you be so cruel, Quilp?' |
| |
| 'How could I be so cruel! cruel!' cried the dwarf. 'Because I was in |
| the humour. I'm in the humour now. I shall be cruel when I like. I'm |
| going away again.' |
| |
| 'Not again!' |
| |
| 'Yes, again. I'm going away now. I'm off directly. I mean to go and |
| live wherever the fancy seizes me--at the wharf--at the |
| counting-house--and be a jolly bachelor. You were a widow in |
| anticipation. Damme,' screamed the dwarf, 'I'll be a bachelor in |
| earnest.' |
| |
| 'You can't be serious, Quilp,' sobbed his wife. |
| |
| 'I tell you,' said the dwarf, exulting in his project, 'that I'll be a |
| bachelor, a devil-may-care bachelor; and I'll have my bachelor's hall |
| at the counting-house, and at such times come near it if you dare. And |
| mind too that I don't pounce in upon you at unseasonable hours again, |
| for I'll be a spy upon you, and come and go like a mole or a weazel. |
| Tom Scott--where's Tom Scott?' |
| |
| 'Here I am, master,' cried the voice of the boy, as Quilp threw up the |
| window. |
| |
| 'Wait there, you dog,' returned the dwarf, 'to carry a bachelor's |
| portmanteau. Pack it up, Mrs Quilp. Knock up the dear old lady to |
| help; knock her up. Halloa there! Halloa!' |
| |
| With these exclamations, Mr Quilp caught up the poker, and hurrying to |
| the door of the good lady's sleeping-closet, beat upon it therewith |
| until she awoke in inexpressible terror, thinking that her amiable |
| son-in-law surely intended to murder her in justification of the legs |
| she had slandered. Impressed with this idea, she was no sooner fairly |
| awake than she screamed violently, and would have quickly precipitated |
| herself out of the window and through a neighbouring skylight, if her |
| daughter had not hastened in to undeceive her, and implore her |
| assistance. Somewhat reassured by her account of the service she was |
| required to render, Mrs Jiniwin made her appearance in a flannel |
| dressing-gown; and both mother and daughter, trembling with terror and |
| cold--for the night was now far advanced--obeyed Mr Quilp's directions |
| in submissive silence. Prolonging his preparations as much as |
| possible, for their greater comfort, that eccentric gentleman |
| superintended the packing of his wardrobe, and having added to it with |
| his own hands, a plate, knife and fork, spoon, teacup and saucer, and |
| other small household matters of that nature, strapped up the |
| portmanteau, took it on his shoulders, and actually marched off without |
| another word, and with the case-bottle (which he had never once put |
| down) still tightly clasped under his arm. Consigning his heavier |
| burden to the care of Tom Scott when he reached the street, taking a |
| dram from the bottle for his own encouragement, and giving the boy a |
| rap on the head with it as a small taste for himself, Quilp very |
| deliberately led the way to the wharf, and reached it at between three |
| and four o'clock in the morning. |
| |
| 'Snug!' said Quilp, when he had groped his way to the wooden |
| counting-house, and opened the door with a key he carried about with |
| him. 'Beautifully snug! Call me at eight, you dog.' |
| |
| With no more formal leave-taking or explanation, he clutched the |
| portmanteau, shut the door on his attendant, and climbing on the desk, |
| and rolling himself up as round as a hedgehog, in an old boat-cloak, |
| fell fast asleep. |
| |
| Being roused in the morning at the appointed time, and roused with |
| difficulty, after his late fatigues, Quilp instructed Tom Scott to make |
| a fire in the yard of sundry pieces of old timber, and to prepare some |
| coffee for breakfast; for the better furnishing of which repast he |
| entrusted him with certain small moneys, to be expended in the purchase |
| of hot rolls, butter, sugar, Yarmouth bloaters, and other articles of |
| housekeeping; so that in a few minutes a savoury meal was smoking on |
| the board. With this substantial comfort, the dwarf regaled himself to |
| his heart's content; and being highly satisfied with this free and |
| gipsy mode of life (which he had often meditated, as offering, whenever |
| he chose to avail himself of it, an agreeable freedom from the |
| restraints of matrimony, and a choice means of keeping Mrs Quilp and |
| her mother in a state of incessant agitation and suspense), bestirred |
| himself to improve his retreat, and render it more commodious and |
| comfortable. |
| |
| With this view, he issued forth to a place hard by, where sea-stores |
| were sold, purchased a second-hand hammock, and had it slung in |
| seamanlike fashion from the ceiling of the counting-house. He also |
| caused to be erected, in the same mouldy cabin, an old ship's stove |
| with a rusty funnel to carry the smoke through the roof; and these |
| arrangements completed, surveyed them with ineffable delight. |
| |
| 'I've got a country-house like Robinson Crusoe,' said the dwarf, ogling |
| the accommodations; 'a solitary, sequestered, desolate-island sort of |
| spot, where I can be quite alone when I have business on hand, and be |
| secure from all spies and listeners. Nobody near me here, but rats, |
| and they are fine stealthy secret fellows. I shall be as merry as a |
| grig among these gentry. I'll look out for one like Christopher, and |
| poison him--ha, ha, ha! Business though--business--we must be mindful |
| of business in the midst of pleasure, and the time has flown this |
| morning, I declare.' |
| |
| Enjoining Tom Scott to await his return, and not to stand upon his |
| head, or throw a summerset, or so much as walk upon his hands |
| meanwhile, on pain of lingering torments, the dwarf threw himself into |
| a boat, and crossing to the other side of the river, and then speeding |
| away on foot, reached Mr Swiveller's usual house of entertainment in |
| Bevis Marks, just as that gentleman sat down alone to dinner in its |
| dusky parlour. |
| |
| 'Dick,' said the dwarf, thrusting his head in at the door, 'my pet, my |
| pupil, the apple of my eye, hey, hey!' |
| |
| 'Oh you're there, are you?' returned Mr Swiveller; 'how are you?' |
| |
| 'How's Dick?' retorted Quilp. 'How's the cream of clerkship, eh?' |
| |
| 'Why, rather sour, sir,' replied Mr Swiveller. 'Beginning to border |
| upon cheesiness, in fact.' |
| |
| 'What's the matter?' said the dwarf, advancing. 'Has Sally proved |
| unkind. "Of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like--" eh, |
| Dick!' |
| |
| 'Certainly not,' replied Mr Swiveller, eating his dinner with great |
| gravity, 'none like her. She's the sphynx of private life, is Sally B.' |
| |
| 'You're out of spirits,' said Quilp, drawing up a chair. 'What's the |
| matter?' |
| |
| 'The law don't agree with me,' returned Dick. 'It isn't moist enough, |
| and there's too much confinement. I have been thinking of running |
| away.' |
| |
| 'Bah!' said the dwarf. 'Where would you run to, Dick?' |
| |
| 'I don't know' returned Mr Swiveller. 'Towards Highgate, I suppose. |
| Perhaps the bells might strike up "Turn again Swiveller, Lord Mayor of |
| London." Whittington's name was Dick. I wish cats were scarcer.' |
| |
| Quilp looked at his companion with his eyes screwed up into a comical |
| expression of curiosity, and patiently awaited his further explanation; |
| upon which, however, Mr Swiveller appeared in no hurry to enter, as he |
| ate a very long dinner in profound silence, finally pushed away his |
| plate, threw himself back into his chair, folded his arms, and stared |
| ruefully at the fire, in which some ends of cigars were smoking on |
| their own account, and sending up a fragrant odour. |
| |
| 'Perhaps you'd like a bit of cake'--said Dick, at last turning to the |
| dwarf. 'You're quite welcome to it. You ought to be, for it's of your |
| making.' |
| |
| 'What do you mean?' said Quilp. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller replied by taking from his pocket a small and very greasy |
| parcel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying a little slab of plum-cake |
| extremely indigestible in appearance, and bordered with a paste of |
| white sugar an inch and a half deep. |
| |
| 'What should you say this was?' demanded Mr Swiveller. |
| |
| 'It looks like bride-cake,' replied the dwarf, grinning. |
| |
| 'And whose should you say it was?' inquired Mr Swiveller, rubbing the |
| pastry against his nose with a dreadful calmness. 'Whose?' |
| |
| 'Not--' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Dick, 'the same. You needn't mention her name. There's no |
| such name now. Her name is Cheggs now, Sophy Cheggs. Yet loved I as |
| man never loved that hadn't wooden legs, and my heart, my heart is |
| breaking for the love of Sophy Cheggs.' |
| |
| With this extemporary adaptation of a popular ballad to the distressing |
| circumstances of his own case, Mr Swiveller folded up the parcel again, |
| beat it very flat between the palms of his hands, thrust it into his |
| breast, buttoned his coat over it, and folded his arms upon the whole. |
| |
| 'Now, I hope you're satisfied, sir,' said Dick; 'and I hope Fred's |
| satisfied. You went partners in the mischief, and I hope you like it. |
| This is the triumph I was to have, is it? It's like the old |
| country-dance of that name, where there are two gentlemen to one lady, |
| and one has her, and the other hasn't, but comes limping up behind to |
| make out the figure. But it's Destiny, and mine's a crusher.' |
| |
| Disguising his secret joy in Mr Swiveller's defeat, Daniel Quilp |
| adopted the surest means of soothing him, by ringing the bell, and |
| ordering in a supply of rosy wine (that is to say, of its usual |
| representative), which he put about with great alacrity, calling upon |
| Mr Swiveller to pledge him in various toasts derisive of Cheggs, and |
| eulogistic of the happiness of single men. Such was their impression |
| on Mr Swiveller, coupled with the reflection that no man could oppose |
| his destiny, that in a very short space of time his spirits rose |
| surprisingly, and he was enabled to give the dwarf an account of the |
| receipt of the cake, which, it appeared, had been brought to Bevis |
| Marks by the two surviving Miss Wackleses in person, and delivered at |
| the office door with much giggling and joyfulness. |
| |
| 'Ha!' said Quilp. 'It will be our turn to giggle soon. And that |
| reminds me--you spoke of young Trent--where is he?' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller explained that his respectable friend had recently |
| accepted a responsible situation in a locomotive gaming-house, and was |
| at that time absent on a professional tour among the adventurous |
| spirits of Great Britain. |
| |
| 'That's unfortunate,' said the dwarf, 'for I came, in fact, to ask you |
| about him. A thought has occurred to me, Dick; your friend over the |
| way--' |
| |
| 'Which friend?' |
| |
| 'In the first floor.' |
| |
| 'Yes?' |
| |
| 'Your friend in the first floor, Dick, may know him.' |
| |
| 'No, he don't,' said Mr Swiveller, shaking his head. |
| |
| 'Don't! No, because he has never seen him,' rejoined Quilp; 'but if we |
| were to bring them together, who knows, Dick, but Fred, properly |
| introduced, would serve his turn almost as well as little Nell or her |
| grandfather--who knows but it might make the young fellow's fortune, |
| and, through him, yours, eh?' |
| |
| 'Why, the fact is, you see,' said Mr Swiveller, 'that they HAVE been |
| brought together.' |
| |
| 'Have been!' cried the dwarf, looking suspiciously at his companion. |
| 'Through whose means?' |
| |
| 'Through mine,' said Dick, slightly confused. 'Didn't I mention it to |
| you the last time you called over yonder?' |
| |
| 'You know you didn't,' returned the dwarf. |
| |
| 'I believe you're right,' said Dick. 'No. I didn't, I recollect. Oh |
| yes, I brought 'em together that very day. It was Fred's suggestion.' |
| |
| 'And what came of it?' |
| |
| 'Why, instead of my friend's bursting into tears when he knew who Fred |
| was, embracing him kindly, and telling him that he was his grandfather, |
| or his grandmother in disguise (which we fully expected), he flew into |
| a tremendous passion; called him all manner of names; said it was in a |
| great measure his fault that little Nell and the old gentleman had ever |
| been brought to poverty; didn't hint at our taking anything to drink; |
| and--and in short rather turned us out of the room than otherwise.' |
| |
| 'That's strange,' said the dwarf, musing. |
| |
| 'So we remarked to each other at the time,' returned Dick coolly, 'but |
| quite true.' |
| |
| Quilp was plainly staggered by this intelligence, over which he brooded |
| for some time in moody silence, often raising his eyes to Mr |
| Swiveller's face, and sharply scanning its expression. As he could |
| read in it, however, no additional information or anything to lead him |
| to believe he had spoken falsely; and as Mr Swiveller, left to his own |
| meditations, sighed deeply, and was evidently growing maudlin on the |
| subject of Mrs Cheggs; the dwarf soon broke up the conference and took |
| his departure, leaving the bereaved one to his melancholy ruminations. |
| |
| 'Have been brought together, eh?' said the dwarf as he walked the |
| streets alone. 'My friend has stolen a march upon me. It led him to |
| nothing, and therefore is no great matter, save in the intention. I'm |
| glad he has lost his mistress. Ha ha! The blockhead mustn't leave the |
| law at present. I'm sure of him where he is, whenever I want him for |
| my own purposes, and, besides, he's a good unconscious spy on Brass, |
| and tells, in his cups, all that he sees and hears. You're useful to |
| me, Dick, and cost nothing but a little treating now and then. I am |
| not sure that it may not be worth while, before long, to take credit |
| with the stranger, Dick, by discovering your designs upon the child; |
| but for the present we'll remain the best friends in the world, with |
| your good leave.' |
| |
| Pursuing these thoughts, and gasping as he went along, after his own |
| peculiar fashion, Mr Quilp once more crossed the Thames, and shut |
| himself up in his Bachelor's Hall, which, by reason of its |
| newly-erected chimney depositing the smoke inside the room and carrying |
| none of it off, was not quite so agreeable as more fastidious people |
| might have desired. Such inconveniences, however, instead of |
| disgusting the dwarf with his new abode, rather suited his humour; so, |
| after dining luxuriously from the public-house, he lighted his pipe, |
| and smoked against the chimney until nothing of him was visible through |
| the mist but a pair of red and highly inflamed eyes, with sometimes a |
| dim vision of his head and face, as, in a violent fit of coughing, he |
| slightly stirred the smoke and scattered the heavy wreaths by which |
| they were obscured. In the midst of this atmosphere, which must |
| infallibly have smothered any other man, Mr Quilp passed the evening |
| with great cheerfulness; solacing himself all the time with the pipe |
| and the case-bottle; and occasionally entertaining himself with a |
| melodious howl, intended for a song, but bearing not the faintest |
| resemblance to any scrap of any piece of music, vocal or instrumental, |
| ever invented by man. Thus he amused himself until nearly midnight, |
| when he turned into his hammock with the utmost satisfaction. |
| |
| The first sound that met his ears in the morning--as he half opened his |
| eyes, and, finding himself so unusually near the ceiling, entertained a |
| drowsy idea that he must have been transformed into a fly or |
| blue-bottle in the course of the night,--was that of a stifled sobbing |
| and weeping in the room. Peeping cautiously over the side of his |
| hammock, he descried Mrs Quilp, to whom, after contemplating her for |
| some time in silence, he communicated a violent start by suddenly |
| yelling out--'Halloa!' |
| |
| 'Oh, Quilp!' cried his poor little wife, looking up. 'How you |
| frightened me!' |
| |
| 'I meant to, you jade,' returned the dwarf. 'What do you want here? |
| I'm dead, an't I?' |
| |
| 'Oh, please come home, do come home,' said Mrs Quilp, sobbing; 'we'll |
| never do so any more, Quilp, and after all it was only a mistake that |
| grew out of our anxiety.' |
| |
| 'Out of your anxiety,' grinned the dwarf. 'Yes, I know that--out of |
| your anxiety for my death. I shall come home when I please, I tell |
| you. I shall come home when I please, and go when I please. I'll be a |
| Will o' the Wisp, now here, now there, dancing about you always, |
| starting up when you least expect me, and keeping you in a constant |
| state of restlessness and irritation. Will you begone?' |
| |
| Mrs Quilp durst only make a gesture of entreaty. |
| |
| 'I tell you no,' cried the dwarf. 'No. If you dare to come here again |
| unless you're sent for, I'll keep watch-dogs in the yard that'll growl |
| and bite--I'll have man-traps, cunningly altered and improved for |
| catching women--I'll have spring guns, that shall explode when you |
| tread upon the wires, and blow you into little pieces. Will you |
| begone?' |
| |
| 'Do forgive me. Do come back,' said his wife, earnestly. |
| |
| 'No-o-o-o-o!' roared Quilp. 'Not till my own good time, and then I'll |
| return again as often as I choose, and be accountable to nobody for my |
| goings or comings. You see the door there. Will you go?' |
| |
| Mr Quilp delivered this last command in such a very energetic voice, |
| and moreover accompanied it with such a sudden gesture, indicative of |
| an intention to spring out of his hammock, and, night-capped as he was, |
| bear his wife home again through the public streets, that she sped away |
| like an arrow. Her worthy lord stretched his neck and eyes until she |
| had crossed the yard, and then, not at all sorry to have had this |
| opportunity of carrying his point, and asserting the sanctity of his |
| castle, fell into an immoderate fit of laughter, and laid himself down |
| to sleep again. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 51 |
| |
| The bland and open-hearted proprietor of Bachelor's Hall slept on |
| amidst the congenial accompaniments of rain, mud, dirt, damp, fog, and |
| rats, until late in the day; when, summoning his valet Tom Scott to |
| assist him to rise, and to prepare breakfast, he quitted his couch, and |
| made his toilet. This duty performed, and his repast ended, he again |
| betook himself to Bevis Marks. |
| |
| This visit was not intended for Mr Swiveller, but for his friend and |
| employer Mr Sampson Brass. Both gentlemen however were from home, nor |
| was the life and light of law, Miss Sally, at her post either. The |
| fact of their joint desertion of the office was made known to all |
| comers by a scrap of paper in the hand-writing of Mr Swiveller, which |
| was attached to the bell-handle, and which, giving the reader no clue |
| to the time of day when it was first posted, furnished him with the |
| rather vague and unsatisfactory information that that gentleman would |
| 'return in an hour.' |
| |
| 'There's a servant, I suppose,' said the dwarf, knocking at the |
| house-door. 'She'll do.' |
| |
| After a sufficiently long interval, the door was opened, and a small |
| voice immediately accosted him with, 'Oh please will you leave a card |
| or message?' |
| |
| 'Eh?' said the dwarf, looking down, (it was something quite new to him) |
| upon the small servant. |
| |
| To this, the child, conducting her conversation as upon the occasion of |
| her first interview with Mr Swiveller, again replied, 'Oh please will |
| you leave a card or message?' |
| |
| 'I'll write a note,' said the dwarf, pushing past her into the office; |
| 'and mind your master has it directly he comes home.' So Mr Quilp |
| climbed up to the top of a tall stool to write the note, and the small |
| servant, carefully tutored for such emergencies, looked on with her |
| eyes wide open, ready, if he so much as abstracted a wafer, to rush |
| into the street and give the alarm to the police. |
| |
| As Mr Quilp folded his note (which was soon written: being a very short |
| one) he encountered the gaze of the small servant. He looked at her, |
| long and earnestly. |
| |
| 'How are you?' said the dwarf, moistening a wafer with horrible |
| grimaces. |
| |
| The small servant, perhaps frightened by his looks, returned no audible |
| reply; but it appeared from the motion of her lips that she was |
| inwardly repeating the same form of expression concerning the note or |
| message. |
| |
| 'Do they use you ill here? is your mistress a Tartar?' said Quilp with |
| a chuckle. |
| |
| In reply to the last interrogation, the small servant, with a look of |
| infinite cunning mingled with fear, screwed up her mouth very tight and |
| round, and nodded violently. Whether there was anything in the |
| peculiar slyness of her action which fascinated Mr Quilp, or anything |
| in the expression of her features at the moment which attracted his |
| attention for some other reason; or whether it merely occurred to him |
| as a pleasant whim to stare the small servant out of countenance; |
| certain it is, that he planted his elbows square and firmly on the |
| desk, and squeezing up his cheeks with his hands, looked at her fixedly. |
| |
| 'Where do you come from?' he said after a long pause, stroking his chin. |
| |
| 'I don't know.' |
| |
| 'What's your name?' |
| |
| 'Nothing.' |
| |
| 'Nonsense!' retorted Quilp. 'What does your mistress call you when she |
| wants you?' |
| |
| 'A little devil,' said the child. |
| |
| She added in the same breath, as if fearful of any further questioning, |
| 'But please will you leave a card or message?' |
| |
| These unusual answers might naturally have provoked some more |
| inquiries. Quilp, however, without uttering another word, withdrew his |
| eyes from the small servant, stroked his chin more thoughtfully than |
| before, and then, bending over the note as if to direct it with |
| scrupulous and hair-breadth nicety, looked at her, covertly but very |
| narrowly, from under his bushy eyebrows. The result of this secret |
| survey was, that he shaded his face with his hands, and laughed slyly |
| and noiselessly, until every vein in it was swollen almost to bursting. |
| Pulling his hat over his brow to conceal his mirth and its effects, he |
| tossed the letter to the child, and hastily withdrew. |
| |
| Once in the street, moved by some secret impulse, he laughed, and held |
| his sides, and laughed again, and tried to peer through the dusty area |
| railings as if to catch another glimpse of the child, until he was |
| quite tired out. At last, he travelled back to the Wilderness, which |
| was within rifle-shot of his bachelor retreat, and ordered tea in the |
| wooden summer-house that afternoon for three persons; an invitation to |
| Miss Sally Brass and her brother to partake of that entertainment at |
| that place, having been the object both of his journey and his note. |
| |
| It was not precisely the kind of weather in which people usually take |
| tea in summer-houses, far less in summer-houses in an advanced state of |
| decay, and overlooking the slimy banks of a great river at low water. |
| Nevertheless, it was in this choice retreat that Mr Quilp ordered a |
| cold collation to be prepared, and it was beneath its cracked and leaky |
| roof that he, in due course of time, received Mr Sampson and his sister |
| Sally. |
| |
| 'You're fond of the beauties of nature,' said Quilp with a grin. 'Is |
| this charming, Brass? Is it unusual, unsophisticated, primitive?' |
| |
| 'It's delightful indeed, sir,' replied the lawyer. |
| |
| 'Cool?' said Quilp. |
| |
| 'N-not particularly so, I think, sir,' rejoined Brass, with his teeth |
| chattering in his head. |
| |
| 'Perhaps a little damp and ague-ish?' said Quilp. |
| |
| 'Just damp enough to be cheerful, sir,' rejoined Brass. 'Nothing more, |
| sir, nothing more.' |
| |
| 'And Sally?' said the delighted dwarf. 'Does she like it?' |
| |
| 'She'll like it better,' returned that strong-minded lady, 'when she |
| has tea; so let us have it, and don't bother.' |
| |
| 'Sweet Sally!' cried Quilp, extending his arms as if about to embrace |
| her. 'Gentle, charming, overwhelming Sally.' |
| |
| 'He's a very remarkable man indeed!' soliloquised Mr Brass. 'He's |
| quite a Troubadour, you know; quite a Troubadour!' |
| |
| These complimentary expressions were uttered in a somewhat absent and |
| distracted manner; for the unfortunate lawyer, besides having a bad |
| cold in his head, had got wet in coming, and would have willingly borne |
| some pecuniary sacrifice if he could have shifted his present raw |
| quarters to a warm room, and dried himself at a fire. Quilp, |
| however--who, beyond the gratification of his demon whims, owed Sampson |
| some acknowledgment of the part he had played in the mourning scene of |
| which he had been a hidden witness, marked these symptoms of uneasiness |
| with a delight past all expression, and derived from them a secret joy |
| which the costliest banquet could never have afforded him. |
| |
| It is worthy of remark, too, as illustrating a little feature in the |
| character of Miss Sally Brass, that, although on her own account she |
| would have borne the discomforts of the Wilderness with a very ill |
| grace, and would probably, indeed, have walked off before the tea |
| appeared, she no sooner beheld the latent uneasiness and misery of her |
| brother than she developed a grim satisfaction, and began to enjoy |
| herself after her own manner. Though the wet came stealing through the |
| roof and trickling down upon their heads, Miss Brass uttered no |
| complaint, but presided over the tea equipage with imperturbable |
| composure. While Mr Quilp, in his uproarious hospitality, seated |
| himself upon an empty beer-barrel, vaunted the place as the most |
| beautiful and comfortable in the three kingdoms, and elevating his |
| glass, drank to their next merry-meeting in that jovial spot; and Mr |
| Brass, with the rain plashing down into his tea-cup, made a dismal |
| attempt to pluck up his spirits and appear at his ease; and Tom Scott, |
| who was in waiting at the door under an old umbrella, exulted in his |
| agonies, and bade fair to split his sides with laughing; while all this |
| was passing, Miss Sally Brass, unmindful of the wet which dripped down |
| upon her own feminine person and fair apparel, sat placidly behind the |
| tea-board, erect and grizzly, contemplating the unhappiness of her |
| brother with a mind at ease, and content, in her amiable disregard of |
| self, to sit there all night, witnessing the torments which his |
| avaricious and grovelling nature compelled him to endure and forbade |
| him to resent. And this, it must be observed, or the illustration |
| would be incomplete, although in a business point of view she had the |
| strongest sympathy with Mr Sampson, and would have been beyond measure |
| indignant if he had thwarted their client in any one respect. |
| |
| In the height of his boisterous merriment, Mr Quilp, having on some |
| pretence dismissed his attendant sprite for the moment, resumed his |
| usual manner all at once, dismounted from his cask, and laid his hand |
| upon the lawyer's sleeve. |
| |
| 'A word,' said the dwarf, 'before we go farther. Sally, hark'ee for a |
| minute.' |
| |
| Miss Sally drew closer, as if accustomed to business conferences with |
| their host which were the better for not having air. |
| |
| 'Business,' said the dwarf, glancing from brother to sister. 'Very |
| private business. Lay your heads together when you're by yourselves.' |
| |
| 'Certainly, sir,' returned Brass, taking out his pocket-book and |
| pencil. 'I'll take down the heads if you please, sir. Remarkable |
| documents,' added the lawyer, raising his eyes to the ceiling, 'most |
| remarkable documents. He states his points so clearly that it's a |
| treat to have 'em! I don't know any act of parliament that's equal to |
| him in clearness.' |
| |
| 'I shall deprive you of a treat,' said Quilp. 'Put up your book. We |
| don't want any documents. So. There's a lad named Kit--' |
| |
| Miss Sally nodded, implying that she knew of him. |
| |
| 'Kit!' said Mr Sampson.--'Kit! Ha! I've heard the name before, but I |
| don't exactly call to mind--I don't exactly--' |
| |
| 'You're as slow as a tortoise, and more thick-headed than a |
| rhinoceros,' returned his obliging client with an impatient gesture. |
| |
| 'He's extremely pleasant!' cried the obsequious Sampson. 'His |
| acquaintance with Natural History too is surprising. Quite a Buffoon, |
| quite!' |
| |
| There is no doubt that Mr Brass intended some compliment or other; and |
| it has been argued with show of reason that he would have said Buffon, |
| but made use of a superfluous vowel. Be this as it may, Quilp gave him |
| no time for correction, as he performed that office himself by more |
| than tapping him on the head with the handle of his umbrella. |
| |
| 'Don't let's have any wrangling,' said Miss Sally, staying his hand. |
| 'I've showed you that I know him, and that's enough.' |
| |
| 'She's always foremost!' said the dwarf, patting her on the back and |
| looking contemptuously at Sampson. 'I don't like Kit, Sally.' |
| |
| 'Nor I,' rejoined Miss Brass. |
| |
| 'Nor I,' said Sampson. |
| |
| 'Why, that's right!' cried Quilp. 'Half our work is done already. |
| This Kit is one of your honest people; one of your fair characters; a |
| prowling prying hound; a hypocrite; a double-faced, white-livered, |
| sneaking spy; a crouching cur to those that feed and coax him, and a |
| barking yelping dog to all besides.' |
| |
| 'Fearfully eloquent!' cried Brass with a sneeze. 'Quite appalling!' |
| |
| 'Come to the point,' said Miss Sally, 'and don't talk so much.' |
| |
| 'Right again!' exclaimed Quilp, with another contemptuous look at |
| Sampson, 'always foremost! I say, Sally, he is a yelping, insolent dog |
| to all besides, and most of all, to me. In short, I owe him a grudge.' |
| 'That's enough, sir,' said Sampson. |
| |
| 'No, it's not enough, sir,' sneered Quilp; 'will you hear me out? |
| Besides that I owe him a grudge on that account, he thwarts me at this |
| minute, and stands between me and an end which might otherwise prove a |
| golden one to us all. Apart from that, I repeat that he crosses my |
| humour, and I hate him. Now, you know the lad, and can guess the rest. |
| Devise your own means of putting him out of my way, and execute them. |
| Shall it be done?' |
| |
| 'It shall, sir,' said Sampson. |
| |
| 'Then give me your hand,' retorted Quilp. 'Sally, girl, yours. I rely |
| as much, or more, on you than him. Tom Scott comes back. Lantern, |
| pipes, more grog, and a jolly night of it!' |
| |
| No other word was spoken, no other look exchanged, which had the |
| slightest reference to this, the real occasion of their meeting. The |
| trio were well accustomed to act together, and were linked to each |
| other by ties of mutual interest and advantage, and nothing more was |
| needed. Resuming his boisterous manner with the same ease with which |
| he had thrown it off, Quilp was in an instant the same uproarious, |
| reckless little savage he had been a few seconds before. It was ten |
| o'clock at night before the amiable Sally supported her beloved and |
| loving brother from the Wilderness, by which time he needed the utmost |
| support her tender frame could render; his walk being from some unknown |
| reason anything but steady, and his legs constantly doubling up in |
| unexpected places. |
| |
| Overpowered, notwithstanding his late prolonged slumbers, by the |
| fatigues of the last few days, the dwarf lost no time in creeping to |
| his dainty house, and was soon dreaming in his hammock. Leaving him to |
| visions, in which perhaps the quiet figures we quitted in the old |
| church porch were not without their share, be it our task to rejoin |
| them as they sat and watched. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 52 |
| |
| After a long time, the schoolmaster appeared at the wicket-gate of the |
| churchyard, and hurried towards them, tingling in his hand, as he came |
| along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite breathless with pleasure |
| and haste when he reached the porch, and at first could only point |
| towards the old building which the child had been contemplating so |
| earnestly. |
| |
| 'You see those two old houses,' he said at last. |
| |
| 'Yes, surely,' replied Nell. 'I have been looking at them nearly all |
| the time you have been away.' |
| |
| 'And you would have looked at them more curiously yet, if you could |
| have guessed what I have to tell you,' said her friend. 'One of those |
| houses is mine.' |
| |
| Without saying any more, or giving the child time to reply, the |
| schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest face quite radiant with |
| exultation, led her to the place of which he spoke. |
| |
| They stopped before its low arched door. After trying several of the |
| keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one to fit the huge lock, which |
| turned back, creaking, and admitted them into the house. |
| |
| The room into which they entered was a vaulted chamber once nobly |
| ornamented by cunning architects, and still retaining, in its beautiful |
| groined roof and rich stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient |
| splendour. Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery of |
| Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times the leaves outside |
| had come and gone, while it lived on unchanged. The broken figures |
| supporting the burden of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were |
| still distinguishable for what they had been--far different from the |
| dust without--and showed sadly by the empty hearth, like creatures who |
| had outlived their kind, and mourned their own too slow decay. |
| |
| In some old time--for even change was old in that old place--a wooden |
| partition had been constructed in one part of the chamber to form a |
| sleeping-closet, into which the light was admitted at the same period |
| by a rude window, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen, |
| together with two seats in the broad chimney, had at some forgotten |
| date been part of the church or convent; for the oak, hastily |
| appropriated to its present purpose, had been little altered from its |
| former shape, and presented to the eye a pile of fragments of rich |
| carving from old monkish stalls. |
| |
| An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with the light that |
| came through leaves of ivy, completed the interior of this portion of |
| the ruin. It was not quite destitute of furniture. A few strange |
| chairs, whose arms and legs looked as though they had dwindled away |
| with age; a table, the very spectre of its race: a great old chest that |
| had once held records in the church, with other quaintly-fashioned |
| domestic necessaries, and store of fire-wood for the winter, were |
| scattered around, and gave evident tokens of its occupation as a |
| dwelling-place at no very distant time. |
| |
| The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling with which we |
| contemplate the work of ages that have become but drops of water in the |
| great ocean of eternity. The old man had followed them, but they were |
| all three hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if they |
| feared to break the silence even by so slight a sound. |
| |
| 'It is a very beautiful place!' said the child, in a low voice. |
| |
| 'I almost feared you thought otherwise,' returned the schoolmaster. |
| 'You shivered when we first came in, as if you felt it cold or gloomy.' |
| |
| 'It was not that,' said Nell, glancing round with a slight shudder. |
| 'Indeed I cannot tell you what it was, but when I saw the outside, from |
| the church porch, the same feeling came over me. It is its being so |
| old and grey perhaps.' |
| |
| 'A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so?' said her friend. |
| |
| 'Oh yes,' rejoined the child, clasping her hands earnestly. 'A quiet, |
| happy place--a place to live and learn to die in!' She would have said |
| more, but that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter, |
| and come in trembling whispers from her lips. |
| |
| |
| 'A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of mind and body |
| in,' said the schoolmaster; 'for this old house is yours.' |
| |
| 'Ours!' cried the child. |
| |
| 'Ay,' returned the schoolmaster gaily, 'for many a merry year to come, |
| I hope. I shall be a close neighbour--only next door--but this house |
| is yours.' |
| |
| Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise, the schoolmaster |
| sat down, and drawing Nell to his side, told her how he had learnt that |
| ancient tenement had been occupied for a very long time by an old |
| person, nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the church, |
| opened and closed it for the services, and showed it to strangers; how |
| she had died not many weeks ago, and nobody had yet been found to fill |
| the office; how, learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who |
| was confined to his bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to make mention |
| of his fellow-traveller, which had been so favourably received by that |
| high authority, that he had taken courage, acting on his advice, to |
| propound the matter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his |
| exertions was, that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried before |
| the last-named gentleman next day; and, his approval of their conduct |
| and appearance reserved as a matter of form, that they were already |
| appointed to the vacant post. |
| |
| 'There's a small allowance of money,' said the schoolmaster. 'It is |
| not much, but still enough to live upon in this retired spot. By |
| clubbing our funds together, we shall do bravely; no fear of that.' |
| |
| 'Heaven bless and prosper you!' sobbed the child. |
| |
| 'Amen, my dear,' returned her friend cheerfully; 'and all of us, as it |
| will, and has, in leading us through sorrow and trouble to this |
| tranquil life. But we must look at MY house now. Come!' |
| |
| They repaired to the other tenement; tried the rusty keys as before; at |
| length found the right one; and opened the worm-eaten door. It led |
| into a chamber, vaulted and old, like that from which they had come, |
| but not so spacious, and having only one other little room attached. |
| It was not difficult to divine that the other house was of right the |
| schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself the least |
| commodious, in his care and regard for them. Like the adjoining |
| habitation, it held such old articles of furniture as were absolutely |
| necessary, and had its stack of fire-wood. |
| |
| To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort as they could, |
| was now their pleasant care. In a short time, each had its cheerful |
| fire glowing and crackling on the hearth, and reddening the pale old |
| wall with a hale and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle, |
| repaired the tattered window-hangings, drew together the rents that |
| time had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet, and made them whole |
| and decent. The schoolmaster swept and smoothed the ground before the |
| door, trimmed the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which |
| hung their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and gave to the outer |
| walls a cheery air of home. The old man, sometimes by his side and |
| sometimes with the child, lent his aid to both, went here and there on |
| little patient services, and was happy. Neighbours, too, as they came |
| from work, proffered their help; or sent their children with such small |
| presents or loans as the strangers needed most. It was a busy day; and |
| night came on, and found them wondering that there was yet so much to |
| do, and that it should be dark so soon. |
| |
| They took their supper together, in the house which may be henceforth |
| called the child's; and, when they had finished their meal, drew round |
| the fire, and almost in whispers--their hearts were too quiet and glad |
| for loud expression--discussed their future plans. Before they |
| separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and then, full of |
| gratitude and happiness, they parted for the night. |
| |
| At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping peacefully in |
| his bed, and every sound was hushed, the child lingered before the |
| dying embers, and thought of her past fortunes as if they had been a |
| dream And she only now awoke. The glare of the sinking flame, |
| reflected in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly seen in the |
| dusky roof--the aged walls, where strange shadows came and went with |
| every flickering of the fire--the solemn presence, within, of that |
| decay which falls on senseless things the most enduring in their |
| nature: and, without, and round about on every side, of Death--filled |
| her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but with none of terror or |
| alarm. A change had been gradually stealing over her, in the time of |
| her loneliness and sorrow. With failing strength and heightening |
| resolution, there had sprung up a purified and altered mind; there had |
| grown in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the portion of |
| few but the weak and drooping. There were none to see the frail, |
| perishable figure, as it glided from the fire and leaned pensively at |
| the open casement; none but the stars, to look into the upturned face |
| and read its history. The old church bell rang out the hour with a |
| mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much communing with the |
| dead and unheeded warning to the living; the fallen leaves rustled; the |
| grass stirred upon the graves; all else was still and sleeping. |
| |
| Some of those dreamless sleepers lay close within the shadow of the |
| church--touching the wall, as if they clung to it for comfort and |
| protection. Others had chosen to lie beneath the changing shade of |
| trees; others by the path, that footsteps might come near them; others, |
| among the graves of little children. Some had desired to rest beneath |
| the very ground they had trodden in their daily walks; some, where the |
| setting sun might shine upon their beds; some, where its light would |
| fall upon them when it rose. Perhaps not one of the imprisoned souls |
| had been able quite to separate itself in living thought from its old |
| companion. If any had, it had still felt for it a love like that which |
| captives have been known to bear towards the cell in which they have |
| been long confined, and, even at parting, hung upon its narrow bounds |
| affectionately. |
| |
| It was long before the child closed the window, and approached her bed. |
| Again something of the same sensation as before--an involuntary |
| chill--a momentary feeling akin to fear--but vanishing directly, and |
| leaving no alarm behind. Again, too, dreams of the little scholar; of |
| the roof opening, and a column of bright faces, rising far away into |
| the sky, as she had seen in some old scriptural picture once, and |
| looking down on her, asleep. It was a sweet and happy dream. The |
| quiet spot, outside, seemed to remain the same, saving that there was |
| music in the air, and a sound of angels' wings. After a time the |
| sisters came there, hand in hand, and stood among the graves. And then |
| the dream grew dim, and faded. |
| |
| With the brightness and joy of morning, came the renewal of yesterday's |
| labours, the revival of its pleasant thoughts, the restoration of its |
| energies, cheerfulness, and hope. They worked gaily in ordering and |
| arranging their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergyman. |
| |
| He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking, subdued spirit, |
| accustomed to retirement, and very little acquainted with the world, |
| which he had left many years before to come and settle in that place. |
| His wife had died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long |
| since lost sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond it. |
| |
| He received them very kindly, and at once showed an interest in Nell; |
| asking her name, and age, her birthplace, the circumstances which had |
| led her there, and so forth. The schoolmaster had already told her |
| story. They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and had |
| come to share his fortunes. He loved the child as though she were his |
| own. |
| |
| 'Well, well,' said the clergyman. 'Let it be as you desire. She is |
| very young.' |
| |
| 'Old in adversity and trial, sir,' replied the schoolmaster. |
| |
| 'God help her. Let her rest, and forget them,' said the old gentleman. |
| 'But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you, |
| my child.' |
| |
| 'Oh no, sir,' returned Nell. 'I have no such thoughts, indeed.' |
| |
| 'I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights,' said the old |
| gentleman, laying his hand upon her head, and smiling sadly, 'than have |
| her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches. You must look to |
| this, and see that her heart does not grow heavy among these solemn |
| ruins. Your request is granted, friend.' |
| |
| After more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to the child's |
| house; where they were yet in conversation on their happy fortune, when |
| another friend appeared. |
| |
| This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the parsonage-house, and |
| had resided there (so they learnt soon afterwards) ever since the death |
| of the clergyman's wife, which had happened fifteen years before. He |
| had been his college friend and always his close companion; in the |
| first shock of his grief he had come to console and comfort him; and |
| from that time they had never parted company. The little old gentleman |
| was the active spirit of the place, the adjuster of all differences, |
| the promoter of all merry-makings, the dispenser of his friend's |
| bounty, and of no small charity of his own besides; the universal |
| mediator, comforter, and friend. None of the simple villagers had |
| cared to ask his name, or, when they knew it, to store it in their |
| memory. Perhaps from some vague rumour of his college honours which |
| had been whispered abroad on his first arrival, perhaps because he was |
| an unmarried, unencumbered gentleman, he had been called the bachelor. |
| The name pleased him, or suited him as well as any other, and the |
| Bachelor he had ever since remained. And the bachelor it was, it may |
| be added, who with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which |
| the wanderers had found in their new habitation. |
| |
| The bachelor, then--to call him by his usual appellation--lifted the |
| latch, showed his little round mild face for a moment at the door, and |
| stepped into the room like one who was no stranger to it. |
| |
| 'You are Mr Marton, the new schoolmaster?' he said, greeting Nell's |
| kind friend. |
| |
| 'I am, sir.' |
| |
| 'You come well recommended, and I am glad to see you. I should have |
| been in the way yesterday, expecting you, but I rode across the country |
| to carry a message from a sick mother to her daughter in service some |
| miles off, and have but just now returned. This is our young |
| church-keeper? You are not the less welcome, friend, for her sake, or |
| for this old man's; nor the worse teacher for having learnt humanity.' |
| 'She has been ill, sir, very lately,' said the schoolmaster, in answer |
| to the look with which their visitor regarded Nell when he had kissed |
| her cheek. |
| |
| 'Yes, yes. I know she has,' he rejoined. 'There have been suffering |
| and heartache here.' |
| |
| 'Indeed there have, sir.' |
| |
| The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather, and back again at |
| the child, whose hand he took tenderly in his, and held. |
| |
| 'You will be happier here,' he said; 'we will try, at least, to make |
| you so. You have made great improvements here already. Are they the |
| work of your hands?' |
| |
| 'Yes, sir.' |
| |
| 'We may make some others--not better in themselves, but with better |
| means perhaps,' said the bachelor. 'Let us see now, let us see.' |
| |
| Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and over both the |
| houses, in which he found various small comforts wanting, which he |
| engaged to supply from a certain collection of odds and ends he had at |
| home, and which must have been a very miscellaneous and extensive one, |
| as it comprehended the most opposite articles imaginable. They all |
| came, however, and came without loss of time; for the little old |
| gentleman, disappearing for some five or ten minutes, presently |
| returned, laden with old shelves, rugs, blankets, and other household |
| gear, and followed by a boy bearing a similar load. These being cast |
| on the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a quantity of occupation in |
| arranging, erecting, and putting away; the superintendence of which |
| task evidently afforded the old gentleman extreme delight, and engaged |
| him for some time with great briskness and activity. When nothing more |
| was left to be done, he charged the boy to run off and bring his |
| schoolmates to be marshalled before their new master, and solemnly |
| reviewed. |
| |
| 'As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to see,' he said, |
| turning to the schoolmaster when the boy was gone; 'but I don't let 'em |
| know I think so. That wouldn't do, at all.' |
| |
| The messenger soon returned at the head of a long row of urchins, great |
| and small, who, being confronted by the bachelor at the house door, |
| fell into various convulsions of politeness; clutching their hats and |
| caps, squeezing them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making |
| all manner of bows and scrapes, which the little old gentleman |
| contemplated with excessive satisfaction, and expressed his approval of |
| by a great many nods and smiles. Indeed, his approbation of the boys |
| was by no means so scrupulously disguised as he had led the |
| schoolmaster to suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in sundry loud |
| whispers and confidential remarks which were perfectly audible to them |
| every one. |
| |
| 'This first boy, schoolmaster,' said the bachelor, 'is John |
| Owen; a lad of good parts, sir, and frank, honest temper; but too |
| thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed by far. That boy, my good |
| sir, would break his neck with pleasure, and deprive his parents of |
| their chief comfort--and between ourselves, when you come to see him at |
| hare and hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the finger-post, and |
| sliding down the face of the little quarry, you'll never forget it. |
| It's beautiful!' |
| |
| John Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in perfect possession of |
| the speech aside, the bachelor singled out another boy. |
| |
| 'Now, look at that lad, sir,' said the bachelor. 'You see that fellow? |
| Richard Evans his name is, sir. An amazing boy to learn, blessed with |
| a good memory, and a ready understanding, and moreover with a good |
| voice and ear for psalm-singing, in which he is the best among us. |
| Yet, sir, that boy will come to a bad end; he'll never die in his bed; |
| he's always falling asleep in sermon-time--and to tell you the truth, |
| Mr Marton, I always did the same at his age, and feel quite certain |
| that it was natural to my constitution and I couldn't help it.' |
| |
| This hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible reproval, the bachelor |
| turned to another. |
| |
| 'But if we talk of examples to be shunned,' said he, 'if we come to |
| boys that should be a warning and a beacon to all their fellows, here's |
| the one, and I hope you won't spare him. This is the lad, sir; this |
| one with the blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, sir, this |
| fellow--a diver, Lord save us! This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for |
| plunging into eighteen feet of water, with his clothes on, and bringing |
| up a blind man's dog, who was being drowned by the weight of his chain |
| and collar, while his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank, |
| bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. I sent the boy two guineas |
| anonymously, sir,' added the bachelor, in his peculiar whisper, |
| 'directly I heard of it; but never mention it on any account, for he |
| hasn't the least idea that it came from me.' |
| |
| Having disposed of this culprit, the bachelor turned to another, and |
| from him to another, and so on through the whole array, laying, for |
| their wholesome restriction within due bounds, the same cutting |
| emphasis on such of their propensities as were dearest to his heart and |
| were unquestionably referrable to his own precept and example. |
| Thoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them miserable by |
| his severity, he dismissed them with a small present, and an admonition |
| to walk quietly home, without any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out |
| of the way; which injunction, he informed the schoolmaster in the same |
| audible confidence, he did not think he could have obeyed when he was a |
| boy, had his life depended on it. |
| |
| Hailing these little tokens of the bachelor's disposition as so many |
| assurances of his own welcome course from that time, the schoolmaster |
| parted from him with a light heart and joyous spirits, and deemed |
| himself one of the happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old |
| houses were ruddy again, that night, with the reflection of the |
| cheerful fires that burnt within; and the bachelor and his friend, |
| pausing to look upon them as they returned from their evening walk, |
| spoke softly together of the beautiful child, and looked round upon the |
| churchyard with a sigh. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 53 |
| |
| Nell was stirring early in the morning, and having discharged her |
| household tasks, and put everything in order for the good schoolmaster |
| (though sorely against his will, for he would have spared her the |
| pains), took down, from its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of |
| keys with which the bachelor had formally invested her on the previous |
| day, and went out alone to visit the old church. |
| |
| The sky was serene and bright, the air clear, perfumed with the fresh |
| scent of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to every sense. The |
| neighbouring stream sparkled, and rolled onward with a tuneful sound; |
| the dew glistened on the green mounds, like tears shed by Good Spirits |
| over the dead. Some young children sported among the tombs, and hid |
| from each other, with laughing faces. They had an infant with them, |
| and had laid it down asleep upon a child's grave, in a little bed of |
| leaves. It was a new grave--the resting-place, perhaps, of some little |
| creature, who, meek and patient in its illness, had often sat and |
| watched them, and now seemed, to their minds, scarcely changed. |
| |
| She drew near and asked one of them whose grave it was. The child |
| answered that that was not its name; it was a garden--his brother's. |
| It was greener, he said, than all the other gardens, and the birds |
| loved it better because he had been used to feed them. When he had |
| done speaking, he looked at her with a smile, and kneeling down and |
| nestling for a moment with his cheek against the turf, bounded merrily |
| away. |
| |
| She passed the church, gazing upward at its old tower, went through the |
| wicket gate, and so into the village. The old sexton, leaning on a |
| crutch, was taking the air at his cottage door, and gave her good |
| morrow. |
| |
| 'You are better?' said the child, stopping to speak with him. |
| |
| 'Ay surely,' returned the old man. 'I'm thankful to say, much better.' |
| |
| '_You_ will be quite well soon.' |
| |
| 'With Heaven's leave, and a little patience. But come in, come in!' |
| The old man limped on before, and warning her of the downward step, |
| which he achieved himself with no small difficulty, led the way into |
| his little cottage. |
| |
| 'It is but one room you see. There is another up above, but the stair |
| has got harder to climb o' late years, and I never use it. I'm |
| thinking of taking to it again, next summer, though.' |
| |
| The child wondered how a grey-headed man like him--one of his trade |
| too--could talk of time so easily. He saw her eyes wandering to the |
| tools that hung upon the wall, and smiled. |
| |
| 'I warrant now,' he said, 'that you think all those are used in making |
| graves.' |
| |
| 'Indeed, I wondered that you wanted so many.' |
| |
| 'And well you might. I am a gardener. I dig the ground, and plant |
| things that are to live and grow. My works don't all moulder away, and |
| rot in the earth. You see that spade in the centre?' |
| |
| 'The very old one--so notched and worn? Yes.' |
| |
| 'That's the sexton's spade, and it's a well-used one, as you see. |
| We're healthy people here, but it has done a power of work. If it |
| could speak now, that spade, it would tell you of many an unexpected |
| job that it and I have done together; but I forget 'em, for my memory's |
| a poor one.--That's nothing new,' he added hastily. 'It always was.' |
| |
| 'There are flowers and shrubs to speak to your other work,' said the |
| child. |
| |
| 'Oh yes. And tall trees. But they are not so separate from the |
| sexton's labours as you think.' |
| |
| 'No!' |
| |
| 'Not in my mind, and recollection--such as it is,' said the old man. |
| 'Indeed they often help it. For say that I planted such a tree for |
| such a man. There it stands, to remind me that he died. When I look |
| at its broad shadow, and remember what it was in his time, it helps me |
| to the age of my other work, and I can tell you pretty nearly when I |
| made his grave.' |
| |
| 'But it may remind you of one who is still alive,' said the child. |
| |
| 'Of twenty that are dead, in connexion with that one who lives, then,' |
| rejoined the old man; 'wife, husband, parents, brothers, sisters, |
| children, friends--a score at least. So it happens that the sexton's |
| spade gets worn and battered. I shall need a new one--next summer.' |
| |
| The child looked quickly towards him, thinking that he jested with his |
| age and infirmity: but the unconscious sexton was quite in earnest. |
| |
| 'Ah!' he said, after a brief silence. 'People never learn. They never |
| learn. It's only we who turn up the ground, where nothing grows and |
| everything decays, who think of such things as these--who think of |
| them properly, I mean. You have been into the church?' |
| |
| 'I am going there now,' the child replied. |
| |
| 'There's an old well there,' said the sexton, 'right underneath the |
| belfry; a deep, dark, echoing well. Forty year ago, you had only to |
| let down the bucket till the first knot in the rope was free of the |
| windlass, and you heard it splashing in the cold dull water. By little |
| and little the water fell away, so that in ten year after that, a |
| second knot was made, and you must unwind so much rope, or the bucket |
| swung tight and empty at the end. In ten years' time, the water fell |
| again, and a third knot was made. In ten years more, the well dried |
| up; and now, if you lower the bucket till your arms are tired, and let |
| out nearly all the cord, you'll hear it, of a sudden, clanking and |
| rattling on the ground below; with a sound of being so deep and so far |
| down, that your heart leaps into your mouth, and you start away as if |
| you were falling in.' |
| |
| 'A dreadful place to come on in the dark!' exclaimed the child, who had |
| followed the old man's looks and words until she seemed to stand upon |
| its brink. |
| |
| 'What is it but a grave!' said the sexton. 'What else! And which of |
| our old folks, knowing all this, thought, as the spring subsided, of |
| their own failing strength, and lessening life? Not one!' |
| |
| 'Are you very old yourself?' asked the child, involuntarily. |
| |
| 'I shall be seventy-nine--next summer.' |
| |
| 'You still work when you are well?' |
| |
| 'Work! To be sure. You shall see my gardens hereabout. Look at the |
| window there. I made, and have kept, that plot of ground entirely with |
| my own hands. By this time next year I shall hardly see the sky, the |
| boughs will have grown so thick. I have my winter work at night |
| besides.' |
| |
| He opened, as he spoke, a cupboard close to where he sat, and produced |
| some miniature boxes, carved in a homely manner and made of old wood. |
| |
| 'Some gentlefolks who are fond of ancient days, and what belongs to |
| them,' he said, 'like to buy these keepsakes from our church and ruins. |
| Sometimes, I make them of scraps of oak, that turn up here and there; |
| sometimes of bits of coffins which the vaults have long preserved. See |
| here--this is a little chest of the last kind, clasped at the edges |
| with fragments of brass plates that had writing on 'em once, though it |
| would be hard to read it now. I haven't many by me at this time of |
| year, but these shelves will be full--next summer.' |
| |
| The child admired and praised his work, and shortly afterwards |
| departed; thinking, as she went, how strange it was, that this old man, |
| drawing from his pursuits, and everything around him, one stern moral, |
| never contemplated its application to himself; and, while he dwelt upon |
| the uncertainty of human life, seemed both in word and deed to deem |
| himself immortal. But her musings did not stop here, for she was wise |
| enough to think that by a good and merciful adjustment this must be |
| human nature, and that the old sexton, with his plans for next summer, |
| was but a type of all mankind. |
| |
| Full of these meditations, she reached the church. It was easy to find |
| the key belonging to the outer door, for each was labelled on a scrap |
| of yellow parchment. Its very turning in the lock awoke a hollow |
| sound, and when she entered with a faltering step, the echoes that it |
| raised in closing, made her start. |
| |
| If the peace of the simple village had moved the child more strongly, |
| because of the dark and troubled ways that lay beyond, and through |
| which she had journeyed with such failing feet, what was the deep |
| impression of finding herself alone in that solemn building, where the |
| very light, coming through sunken windows, seemed old and grey, and the |
| air, redolent of earth and mould, seemed laden with decay, purified by |
| time of all its grosser particles, and sighing through arch and aisle, |
| and clustered pillars, like the breath of ages gone! Here was the |
| broken pavement, worn, so long ago, by pious feet, that Time, stealing |
| on the pilgrims' steps, had trodden out their track, and left but |
| crumbling stones. Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the |
| sapped and mouldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, the stately tomb |
| on which no epitaph remained--all--marble, stone, iron, wood, and |
| dust--one common monument of ruin. The best work and the worst, the |
| plainest and the richest, the stateliest and the least imposing--both |
| of Heaven's work and Man's--all found one common level here, and told |
| one common tale. |
| |
| Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and here were |
| effigies of warriors stretched upon their beds of stone with folded |
| hands--cross-legged, those who had fought in the Holy Wars--girded |
| with their swords, and cased in armour as they had lived. Some of |
| these knights had their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging |
| upon the walls hard by, and dangling from rusty hooks. Broken and |
| dilapidated as they were, they yet retained their ancient form, and |
| something of their ancient aspect. Thus violent deeds live after men |
| upon the earth, and traces of war and bloodshed will survive in |
| mournful shapes long after those who worked the desolation are but |
| atoms of earth themselves. |
| |
| The child sat down, in this old, silent place, among the stark figures |
| on the tombs--they made it more quiet there, than elsewhere, to her |
| fancy--and gazing round with a feeling of awe, tempered with a calm |
| delight, felt that now she was happy, and at rest. She took a Bible |
| from the shelf, and read; then, laying it down, thought of the summer |
| days and the bright springtime that would come--of the rays of sun that |
| would fall in aslant, upon the sleeping forms--of the leaves that would |
| flutter at the window, and play in glistening shadows on the |
| pavement--of the songs of birds, and growth of buds and blossoms out of |
| doors--of the sweet air, that would steal in, and gently wave the |
| tattered banners overhead. What if the spot awakened thoughts of |
| death! Die who would, it would still remain the same; these sights and |
| sounds would still go on, as happily as ever. It would be no pain to |
| sleep amidst them. |
| |
| She left the chapel--very slowly and often turning back to gaze |
| again--and coming to a low door, which plainly led into the tower, |
| opened it, and climbed the winding stair in darkness; save where she |
| looked down, through narrow loopholes, on the place she had left, or |
| caught a glimmering vision of the dusty bells. At length she gained |
| the end of the ascent and stood upon the turret top. |
| |
| Oh! the glory of the sudden burst of light; the freshness of the fields |
| and woods, stretching away on every side, and meeting the bright blue |
| sky; the cattle grazing in the pasturage; the smoke, that, coming from |
| among the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth; the |
| children yet at their gambols down below--all, everything, so beautiful |
| and happy! It was like passing from death to life; it was drawing |
| nearer Heaven. |
| |
| The children were gone, when she emerged into the porch, and locked the |
| door. As she passed the school-house she could hear the busy hum of |
| voices. Her friend had begun his labours only on that day. The noise |
| grew louder, and, looking back, she saw the boys come trooping out and |
| disperse themselves with merry shouts and play. 'It's a good thing,' |
| thought the child, 'I am very glad they pass the church.' And then she |
| stopped, to fancy how the noise would sound inside, and how gently it |
| would seem to die away upon the ear. |
| |
| Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the old chapel, and |
| in her former seat read from the same book, or indulged the same quiet |
| train of thought. Even when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of |
| coming night made it more solemn still, the child remained, like one |
| rooted to the spot, and had no fear or thought of stirring. |
| |
| They found her there, at last, and took her home. She looked pale but |
| very happy, until they separated for the night; and then, as the poor |
| schoolmaster stooped down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear |
| upon his face. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 54 |
| |
| The bachelor, among his various occupations, found in the old church a |
| constant source of interest and amusement. Taking that pride in it |
| which men conceive for the wonders of their own little world, he had |
| made its history his study; and many a summer day within its walls, and |
| many a winter's night beside the parsonage fire, had found the bachelor |
| still poring over, and adding to, his goodly store of tale and legend. |
| |
| As he was not one of those rough spirits who would strip fair Truth of |
| every little shadowy vestment in which time and teeming fancies love to |
| array her--and some of which become her pleasantly enough, serving, |
| like the waters of her well, to add new graces to the charms they half |
| conceal and half suggest, and to awaken interest and pursuit rather |
| than languor and indifference--as, unlike this stern and obdurate |
| class, he loved to see the goddess crowned with those garlands of wild |
| flowers which tradition wreathes for her gentle wearing, and which are |
| often freshest in their homeliest shapes--he trod with a light step and |
| bore with a light hand upon the dust of centuries, unwilling to |
| demolish any of the airy shrines that had been raised above it, if any |
| good feeling or affection of the human heart were hiding thereabouts. |
| Thus, in the case of an ancient coffin of rough stone, supposed, for |
| many generations, to contain the bones of a certain baron, who, after |
| ravaging, with cut, and thrust, and plunder, in foreign lands, came |
| back with a penitent and sorrowing heart to die at home, but which had |
| been lately shown by learned antiquaries to be no such thing, as the |
| baron in question (so they contended) had died hard in battle, gnashing |
| his teeth and cursing with his latest breath--the bachelor stoutly |
| maintained that the old tale was the true one; that the baron, |
| repenting him of the evil, had done great charities and meekly given up |
| the ghost; and that, if ever baron went to heaven, that baron was then |
| at peace. In like manner, when the aforesaid antiquaries did argue and |
| contend that a certain secret vault was not the tomb of a grey-haired |
| lady who had been hanged and drawn and quartered by glorious Queen Bess |
| for succouring a wretched priest who fainted of thirst and hunger at |
| her door, the bachelor did solemnly maintain, against all comers, that |
| the church was hallowed by the said poor lady's ashes; that her remains |
| had been collected in the night from four of the city's gates, and |
| thither in secret brought, and there deposited; and the bachelor did |
| further (being highly excited at such times) deny the glory of Queen |
| Bess, and assert the immeasurably greater glory of the meanest woman in |
| her realm, who had a merciful and tender heart. As to the assertion |
| that the flat stone near the door was not the grave of the miser who |
| had disowned his only child and left a sum of money to the church to |
| buy a peal of bells, the bachelor did readily admit the same, and that |
| the place had given birth to no such man. In a word, he would have had |
| every stone, and plate of brass, the monument only of deeds whose |
| memory should survive. All others he was willing to forget. They |
| might be buried in consecrated ground, but he would have had them |
| buried deep, and never brought to light again. |
| |
| It was from the lips of such a tutor, that the child learnt her easy |
| task. Already impressed, beyond all telling, by the silent building |
| and the peaceful beauty of the spot in which it stood--majestic age |
| surrounded by perpetual youth--it seemed to her, when she heard these |
| things, sacred to all goodness and virtue. It was another world, where |
| sin and sorrow never came; a tranquil place of rest, where nothing evil |
| entered. |
| |
| When the bachelor had given her in connection with almost every tomb |
| and flat grave-stone some history of its own, he took her down into the |
| old crypt, now a mere dull vault, and showed her how it had been |
| lighted up in the time of the monks, and how, amid lamps depending from |
| the roof, and swinging censers exhaling scented odours, and habits |
| glittering with gold and silver, and pictures, and precious stuffs, and |
| jewels all flashing and glistening through the low arches, the chaunt |
| of aged voices had been many a time heard there, at midnight, in old |
| days, while hooded figures knelt and prayed around, and told their |
| rosaries of beads. Thence, he took her above ground again, and showed |
| her, high up in the old walls, small galleries, where the nuns had been |
| wont to glide along--dimly seen in their dark dresses so far off--or |
| to pause like gloomy shadows, listening to the prayers. He showed her |
| too, how the warriors, whose figures rested on the tombs, had worn |
| those rotting scraps of armour up above--how this had been a helmet, |
| and that a shield, and that a gauntlet--and how they had wielded the |
| great two-handed swords, and beaten men down, with yonder iron mace. |
| All that he told the child she treasured in her mind; and sometimes, |
| when she awoke at night from dreams of those old times, and rising from |
| her bed looked out at the dark church, she almost hoped to see the |
| windows lighted up, and hear the organ's swell, and sound of voices, on |
| the rushing wind. |
| |
| The old sexton soon got better, and was about again. From him the |
| child learnt many other things, though of a different kind. He was not |
| able to work, but one day there was a grave to be made, and he came to |
| overlook the man who dug it. He was in a talkative mood; and the |
| child, at first standing by his side, and afterwards sitting on the |
| grass at his feet, with her thoughtful face raised towards his, began |
| to converse with him. |
| |
| Now, the man who did the sexton's duty was a little older than he, |
| though much more active. But he was deaf; and when the sexton (who |
| peradventure, on a pinch, might have walked a mile with great |
| difficulty in half-a-dozen hours) exchanged a remark with him about his |
| work, the child could not help noticing that he did so with an |
| impatient kind of pity for his infirmity, as if he were himself the |
| strongest and heartiest man alive. |
| |
| 'I'm sorry to see there is this to do,' said the child when she |
| approached. 'I heard of no one having died.' |
| |
| 'She lived in another hamlet, my dear,' returned the sexton. 'Three |
| mile away.' |
| |
| 'Was she young?' |
| |
| 'Ye-yes' said the sexton; not more than sixty-four, I think. David, |
| was she more than sixty-four?' |
| |
| David, who was digging hard, heard nothing of the question. The |
| sexton, as he could not reach to touch him with his crutch, and was too |
| infirm to rise without assistance, called his attention by throwing a |
| little mould upon his red nightcap. |
| |
| 'What's the matter now?' said David, looking up. |
| |
| 'How old was Becky Morgan?' asked the sexton. |
| |
| 'Becky Morgan?' repeated David. |
| |
| 'Yes,' replied the sexton; adding in a half compassionate, half |
| irritable tone, which the old man couldn't hear, 'you're getting very |
| deaf, Davy, very deaf to be sure!' |
| |
| The old man stopped in his work, and cleansing his spade with a piece |
| of slate he had by him for the purpose--and scraping off, in the |
| process, the essence of Heaven knows how many Becky Morgans--set |
| himself to consider the subject. |
| |
| 'Let me think' quoth he. 'I saw last night what they had put upon the |
| coffin--was it seventy-nine?' |
| |
| 'No, no,' said the sexton. |
| |
| 'Ah yes, it was though,' returned the old man with a sigh. 'For I |
| remember thinking she was very near our age. Yes, it was seventy-nine.' |
| |
| 'Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure, Davy?' asked the sexton, |
| with signs of some emotion. |
| |
| 'What?' said the old man. 'Say that again.' |
| |
| 'He's very deaf. He's very deaf indeed,' cried the sexton petulantly; |
| 'are you sure you're right about the figures?' |
| |
| 'Oh quite,' replied the old man. 'Why not?' |
| |
| 'He's exceedingly deaf,' muttered the sexton to himself. 'I think he's |
| getting foolish.' |
| |
| The child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, as, to say |
| the truth, the old man seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely |
| more robust. As the sexton said nothing more just then, however, she |
| forgot it for the time, and spoke again. |
| |
| 'You were telling me,' she said, 'about your gardening. Do you ever |
| plant things here?' |
| |
| 'In the churchyard?' returned the sexton, 'Not I.' |
| |
| 'I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about,' the child rejoined; |
| 'there are some over there, you see. I thought they were of your |
| rearing, though indeed they grow but poorly.' |
| |
| 'They grow as Heaven wills,' said the old man; 'and it kindly ordains |
| that they shall never flourish here.' |
| |
| 'I do not understand you.' |
| |
| 'Why, this it is,' said the sexton. 'They mark the graves of those who |
| had very tender, loving friends.' |
| |
| 'I was sure they did!' the child exclaimed. 'I am very glad to know |
| they do!' |
| |
| 'Aye,' returned the old man, 'but stay. Look at them. See how they |
| hang their heads, and droop, and wither. Do you guess the reason?' |
| |
| 'No,' the child replied. |
| |
| 'Because the memory of those who lie below, passes away so soon. At |
| first they tend them, morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to come |
| less frequently; from once a day, to once a week; from once a week to |
| once a month; then, at long and uncertain intervals; then, not at all. |
| Such tokens seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer |
| flowers outlive them.' |
| |
| 'I grieve to hear it,' said the child. |
| |
| 'Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look about them,' |
| returned the old man, shaking his head, 'but I say otherwise. "It's a |
| pretty custom you have in this part of the country," they say to me |
| sometimes, "to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see these |
| things all withering or dead." I crave their pardon and tell them that, |
| as I take it, 'tis a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so |
| it is. It's nature.' |
| |
| 'Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the |
| stars by night, and to think that the dead are there, and not in |
| graves,' said the child in an earnest voice. |
| |
| 'Perhaps so,' replied the old man doubtfully. 'It may be.' |
| |
| 'Whether it be as I believe it is, or no,' thought the child within |
| herself, 'I'll make this place my garden. It will be no harm at least |
| to work here day by day, and pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am |
| sure.' |
| |
| Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by the sexton, who |
| turned towards old David, and called him by his name. It was plain |
| that Becky Morgan's age still troubled him; though why, the child could |
| scarcely understand. |
| |
| The second or third repetition of his name attracted the old man's |
| attention. Pausing from his work, he leant on his spade, and put his |
| hand to his dull ear. |
| |
| 'Did you call?' he said. |
| |
| 'I have been thinking, Davy,' replied the sexton, 'that she,' he |
| pointed to the grave, 'must have been a deal older than you or me.' |
| |
| 'Seventy-nine,' answered the old man with a shake of the head, 'I tell |
| you that I saw it.' |
| |
| 'Saw it?' replied the sexton; 'aye, but, Davy, women don't always tell |
| the truth about their age.' |
| |
| 'That's true indeed,' said the other old man, with a sudden sparkle in |
| his eye. 'She might have been older.' |
| |
| 'I'm sure she must have been. Why, only think how old she looked. You |
| and I seemed but boys to her.' |
| |
| 'She did look old,' rejoined David. 'You're right. She did look old.' |
| |
| 'Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long year, and say if |
| she could be but seventy-nine at last--only our age,' said the sexton. |
| |
| 'Five year older at the very least!' cried the other. |
| |
| 'Five!' retorted the sexton. 'Ten. Good eighty-nine. I call to mind |
| the time her daughter died. She was eighty-nine if she was a day, and |
| tries to pass upon us now, for ten year younger. Oh! human vanity!' |
| |
| The other old man was not behindhand with some moral reflections on |
| this fruitful theme, and both adduced a mass of evidence, of such |
| weight as to render it doubtful--not whether the deceased was of the |
| age suggested, but whether she had not almost reached the patriarchal |
| term of a hundred. When they had settled this question to their mutual |
| satisfaction, the sexton, with his friend's assistance, rose to go. |
| |
| 'It's chilly, sitting here, and I must be careful--till the summer,' he |
| said, as he prepared to limp away. |
| |
| 'What?' asked old David. |
| |
| 'He's very deaf, poor fellow!' cried the sexton. 'Good-bye!' |
| |
| 'Ah!' said old David, looking after him. 'He's failing very fast. |
| He ages every day.' |
| |
| And so they parted; each persuaded that the other had less life in him |
| than himself; and both greatly consoled and comforted by the little |
| fiction they had agreed upon, respecting Becky Morgan, whose decease |
| was no longer a precedent of uncomfortable application, and would be no |
| business of theirs for half a score of years to come. |
| |
| The child remained, for some minutes, watching the deaf old man as he |
| threw out the earth with his shovel, and, often stopping to cough and |
| fetch his breath, still muttered to himself, with a kind of sober |
| chuckle, that the sexton was wearing fast. At length she turned away, |
| and walking thoughtfully through the churchyard, came unexpectedly upon |
| the schoolmaster, who was sitting on a green grave in the sun, reading. |
| |
| 'Nell here?' he said cheerfully, as he closed his book. 'It does me |
| good to see you in the air and light. I feared you were again in the |
| church, where you so often are.' |
| |
| 'Feared!' replied the child, sitting down beside him. 'Is it not a |
| good place?' |
| |
| 'Yes, yes,' said the schoolmaster. 'But you must be gay |
| sometimes--nay, don't shake your head and smile so sadly.' |
| |
| 'Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not look at me as if you thought |
| me sorrowful. There is not a happier creature on earth, than I am now.' |
| |
| Full of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand, and folded it |
| between her own. 'It's God's will!' she said, when they had been |
| silent for some time. |
| |
| 'What?' |
| |
| 'All this,' she rejoined; 'all this about us. But which of us is sad |
| now? You see that I am smiling.' |
| |
| 'And so am I,' said the schoolmaster; 'smiling to think how often we |
| shall laugh in this same place. Were you not talking yonder?' |
| |
| 'Yes,'the child rejoined. |
| |
| 'Of something that has made you sorrowful?' |
| |
| There was a long pause. |
| |
| 'What was it?' said the schoolmaster, tenderly. 'Come. Tell me what |
| it was.' |
| |
| 'I rather grieve--I _do_ rather grieve to think,' said the child, |
| bursting into tears, 'that those who die about us, are so soon |
| forgotten.' |
| |
| 'And do you think,' said the schoolmaster, marking the glance she had |
| thrown around, 'that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded |
| flower or two, are tokens of forgetfulness or cold neglect? Do you |
| think there are no deeds, far away from here, in which these dead may |
| be best remembered? Nell, Nell, there may be people busy in the world, |
| at this instant, in whose good actions and good thoughts these very |
| graves--neglected as they look to us--are the chief instruments.' |
| |
| 'Tell me no more,' said the child quickly. 'Tell me no more. I feel, |
| I know it. How could I be unmindful of it, when I thought of you?' |
| |
| 'There is nothing,' cried her friend, 'no, nothing innocent or good, |
| that dies, and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith, or none. An |
| infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the |
| better thoughts of those who loved it, and will play its part, through |
| them, in the redeeming actions of the world, though its body be burnt |
| to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added to |
| the Host of Heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those that |
| loved it here. Forgotten! oh, if the good deeds of human creatures |
| could be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear; |
| for how much charity, mercy, and purified affection, would be seen to |
| have their growth in dusty graves!' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said the child, 'it is the truth; I know it is. Who should feel |
| its force so much as I, in whom your little scholar lives again! Dear, |
| dear, good friend, if you knew the comfort you have given me!' |
| |
| The poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent over her in silence; |
| for his heart was full. |
| |
| They were yet seated in the same place, when the grandfather |
| approached. Before they had spoken many words together, the church |
| clock struck the hour of school, and their friend withdrew. |
| |
| 'A good man,' said the grandfather, looking after him; 'a kind man. |
| Surely he will never harm us, Nell. We are safe here, at last, eh? We |
| will never go away from here?' |
| |
| The child shook her head and smiled. |
| |
| 'She needs rest,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'too pale--too |
| pale. She is not like what she was.' |
| |
| 'When?' asked the child. |
| |
| 'Ha!' said the old man, 'to be sure--when? How many weeks ago? Could |
| I count them on my fingers? Let them rest though; they're better |
| gone.' |
| |
| 'Much better, dear,' replied the child. 'We will forget them; |
| or, if we ever call them to mind, it shall be only as some uneasy dream |
| that has passed away.' |
| |
| 'Hush!' said the old man, motioning hastily to her with his hand and |
| looking over his shoulder; 'no more talk of the dream, and all the |
| miseries it brought. There are no dreams here. 'Tis a quiet place, |
| and they keep away. Let us never think about them, lest they should |
| pursue us again. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks--wet, cold, and |
| famine--and horrors before them all, that were even worse--we must |
| forget such things if we would be tranquil here.' |
| |
| 'Thank Heaven!' inwardly exclaimed the child, 'for this most happy |
| change!' |
| |
| 'I will be patient,' said the old man, 'humble, very thankful, and |
| obedient, if you will let me stay. But do not hide from me; do not |
| steal away alone; let me keep beside you. Indeed, I will be very true |
| and faithful, Nell.' |
| |
| 'I steal away alone! why that,' replied the child, with assumed gaiety, |
| 'would be a pleasant jest indeed. See here, dear grandfather, we'll |
| make this place our garden--why not! It is a very good one--and |
| to-morrow we'll begin, and work together, side by side.' |
| |
| 'It is a brave thought!' cried her grandfather. 'Mind, darling--we |
| begin to-morrow!' |
| |
| Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day began their labour! |
| Who so unconscious of all associations connected with the spot, as he! |
| They plucked the long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the |
| poor shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it of the |
| leaves and weeds. They were yet in the ardour of their work, when the |
| child, raising her head from the ground over which she bent, observed |
| that the bachelor was sitting on the stile close by, watching them in |
| silence. |
| |
| 'A kind office,' said the little gentleman, nodding to Nell as she |
| curtseyed to him. 'Have you done all that, this morning?' |
| |
| 'It is very little, sir,' returned the child, with downcast eyes, 'to |
| what we mean to do.' |
| |
| 'Good work, good work,' said the bachelor. 'But do you only labour at |
| the graves of children, and young people?' |
| |
| 'We shall come to the others in good time, sir,' replied Nell, turning |
| her head aside, and speaking softly. |
| |
| It was a slight incident, and might have been design or accident, or |
| the child's unconscious sympathy with youth. But it seemed to strike |
| upon her grandfather, though he had not noticed it before. He looked |
| in a hurried manner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, then |
| pressed her to his side, and bade her stop to rest. Something he had |
| long forgotten, appeared to struggle faintly in his mind. It did not |
| pass away, as weightier things had done; but came uppermost again, and |
| yet again, and many times that day, and often afterwards. Once, while |
| they were yet at work, the child, seeing that he often turned and |
| looked uneasily at her, as though he were trying to resolve some |
| painful doubts or collect some scattered thoughts, urged him to tell |
| the reason. But he said it was nothing--nothing--and, laying her head |
| upon his arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and muttered that |
| she grew stronger every day, and would be a woman, soon. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 55 |
| |
| From that time, there sprung up in the old man's mind, a solicitude |
| about the child which never slept or left him. There are chords in the |
| human heart--strange, varying strings--which are only struck by |
| accident; which will remain mute and senseless to appeals the most |
| passionate and earnest, and respond at last to the slightest casual |
| touch. In the most insensible or childish minds, there is some train |
| of reflection which art can seldom lead, or skill assist, but which |
| will reveal itself, as great truths have done, by chance, and when the |
| discoverer has the plainest end in view. From that time, the old man |
| never, for a moment, forgot the weakness and devotion of the child; |
| from the time of that slight incident, he who had seen her toiling by |
| his side through so much difficulty and suffering, and had scarcely |
| thought of her otherwise than as the partner of miseries which he felt |
| severely in his own person, and deplored for his own sake at least as |
| much as hers, awoke to a sense of what he owed her, and what those |
| miseries had made her. Never, no, never once, in one unguarded moment |
| from that time to the end, did any care for himself, any thought of his |
| own comfort, any selfish consideration or regard distract his thoughts |
| from the gentle object of his love. |
| |
| He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should tire and lean |
| upon his arm--he would sit opposite to her in the chimney-corner, |
| content to watch, and look, until she raised her head and smiled upon |
| him as of old--he would discharge by stealth, those household duties |
| which tasked her powers too heavily--he would rise, in the cold dark |
| nights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch |
| for hours by her bedside only to touch her hand. He who knows all, can |
| only know what hopes, and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were |
| in that one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on the poor |
| old man. Sometimes--weeks had crept on, then--the child, exhausted, |
| though with little fatigue, would pass whole evenings on a couch beside |
| the fire. At such times, the schoolmaster would bring in books, and |
| read to her aloud; and seldom an evening passed, but the bachelor came |
| in, and took his turn of reading. The old man sat and listened--with |
| little understanding for the words, but with his eyes fixed upon the |
| child--and if she smiled or brightened with the story, he would say it |
| was a good one, and conceive a fondness for the very book. When, in |
| their evening talk, the bachelor told some tale that pleased her (as |
| his tales were sure to do), the old man would painfully try to store it |
| in his mind; nay, when the bachelor left them, he would sometimes slip |
| out after him, and humbly beg that he would tell him such a part again, |
| that he might learn to win a smile from Nell. |
| |
| But these were rare occasions, happily; for the child yearned to be out |
| of doors, and walking in her solemn garden. Parties, too, would come |
| to see the church; and those who came, speaking to others of the child, |
| sent more; so even at that season of the year they had visitors almost |
| daily. The old man would follow them at a little distance through the |
| building, listening to the voice he loved so well; and when the |
| strangers left, and parted from Nell, he would mingle with them to |
| catch up fragments of their conversation; or he would stand for the |
| same purpose, with his grey head uncovered, at the gate as they passed |
| through. |
| |
| They always praised the child, her sense and beauty, and he was proud |
| to hear them! But what was that, so often added, which wrung his |
| heart, and made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner! Alas! |
| even careless strangers--they who had no feeling for her, but the |
| interest of the moment--they who would go away and forget next week |
| that such a being lived--even they saw it--even they pitied her--even |
| they bade him good day compassionately, and whispered as they passed. |
| |
| The people of the village, too, of whom there was not one but grew to |
| have a fondness for poor Nell; even among them, there was the same |
| feeling; a tenderness towards her--a compassionate regard for her, |
| increasing every day. The very schoolboys, light-hearted and |
| thoughtless as they were, even they cared for her. The roughest among |
| them was sorry if he missed her in the usual place upon his way to |
| school, and would turn out of the path to ask for her at the latticed |
| window. If she were sitting in the church, they perhaps might peep in |
| softly at the open door; but they never spoke to her, unless she rose |
| and went to speak to them. Some feeling was abroad which raised the |
| child above them all. |
| |
| So, when Sunday came. They were all poor country people in the church, |
| for the castle in which the old family had lived, was an empty ruin, |
| and there were none but humble folks for seven miles around. There, as |
| elsewhere, they had an interest in Nell. They would gather round her |
| in the porch, before and after service; young children would cluster at |
| her skirts; and aged men and women forsake their gossips, to give her |
| kindly greeting. None of them, young or old, thought of passing the |
| child without a friendly word. Many who came from three or four miles |
| distant, brought her little presents; the humblest and rudest had good |
| wishes to bestow. |
| |
| She had sought out the young children whom she first saw playing in the |
| churchyard. One of these--he who had spoken of his brother--was her |
| little favourite and friend, and often sat by her side in the church, |
| or climbed with her to the tower-top. It was his delight to help her, |
| or to fancy that he did so, and they soon became close companions. |
| |
| It happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by herself one |
| day, this child came running in with his eyes full of tears, and after |
| holding her from him, and looking at her eagerly for a moment, clasped |
| his little arms passionately about her neck. |
| |
| 'What now?' said Nell, soothing him. 'What is the matter?' |
| |
| 'She is not one yet!' cried the boy, embracing her still more closely. |
| 'No, no. Not yet.' |
| |
| She looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair back from his face, |
| and kissing him, asked what he meant. |
| |
| 'You must not be one, dear Nell,' cried the boy. 'We can't see them. |
| They never come to play with us, or talk to us. Be what you are. You |
| are better so.' |
| |
| 'I do not understand you,' said the child. 'Tell me what you mean.' |
| |
| 'Why, they say,' replied the boy, looking up into her face, that you |
| will be an Angel, before the birds sing again. But you won't be, will |
| you? Don't leave us Nell, though the sky is bright. Do not leave us!' |
| |
| The child dropped her head, and put her hands before her face. |
| |
| 'She cannot bear the thought!' cried the boy, exulting through his |
| tears. 'You will not go. You know how sorry we should be. Dear Nell, |
| tell me that you'll stay amongst us. Oh! Pray, pray, tell me that you |
| will.' |
| |
| The little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at her feet. |
| |
| 'Only look at me, Nell,' said the boy, 'and tell me that you'll stop, |
| and then I shall know that they are wrong, and will cry no more. Won't |
| you say yes, Nell?' |
| |
| Still the drooping head and hidden face, and the child quite |
| silent--save for her sobs. |
| |
| 'After a time,' pursued the boy, trying to draw away her hand, 'the kind |
| angels will be glad to think that you are not among them, and that you |
| stayed here to be with us. Willy went away, to join them; but if he |
| had known how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never |
| would have left me, I am sure.' |
| |
| Yet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed as though her heart |
| were bursting. 'Why would you go, dear Nell? I know you would not be |
| happy when you heard that we were crying for your loss. They say that |
| Willy is in Heaven now, and that it's always summer there, and yet I'm |
| sure he grieves when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn |
| to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell,' said the boy, caressing her, and |
| pressing his face to hers, 'be fond of him for my sake. Tell him how I |
| love him still, and how much I loved you; and when I think that you two |
| are together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give you |
| pain by doing wrong--indeed I never will!' |
| |
| The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them round his neck. |
| There was a tearful silence, but it was not long before she looked upon |
| him with a smile, and promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that |
| she would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would let her. He |
| clapped his hands for joy, and thanked her many times; and being |
| charged to tell no person what had passed between them, gave her an |
| earnest promise that he never would. |
| |
| Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her quiet |
| companion in all her walks and musings, and never again adverted to the |
| theme, which he felt had given her pain, although he was unconscious of |
| its cause. Something of distrust lingered about him still; for he |
| would often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid voice |
| outside the door to know if she were safe within; and being answered |
| yes, and bade to enter, would take his station on a low stool at her |
| feet, and sit there patiently until they came to seek, and take him |
| home. Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the house |
| to ask if she were well; and, morning, noon, or night, go where she |
| would, he would forsake his playmates and his sports to bear her |
| company. |
| |
| 'And a good little friend he is, too,' said the old sexton to her once. |
| 'When his elder brother died--elder seems a strange word, for he was |
| only seven years old--I remember this one took it sorely to heart.' |
| |
| The child thought of what the schoolmaster had told her, and felt how |
| its truth was shadowed out even in this infant. |
| |
| 'It has given him something of a quiet way, I think,' said the old man, |
| 'though for that he is merry enough at times. I'd wager now that you |
| and he have been listening by the old well.' |
| |
| 'Indeed we have not,' the child replied. 'I have been afraid to go |
| near it; for I am not often down in that part of the church, and do not |
| know the ground.' |
| |
| 'Come down with me,' said the old man. 'I have known it from a boy. |
| Come!' |
| |
| They descended the narrow steps which led into the crypt, and paused |
| among the gloomy arches, in a dim and murky spot. |
| |
| 'This is the place,' said the old man. 'Give me your hand while you |
| throw back the cover, lest you should stumble and fall in. I am too |
| old--I mean rheumatic--to stoop, myself.' |
| |
| 'A black and dreadful place!' exclaimed the child. |
| |
| 'Look in,' said the old man, pointing downward with his finger. |
| |
| The child complied, and gazed down into the pit. |
| |
| 'It looks like a grave itself,' said the old man. |
| |
| 'It does,' replied the child. |
| |
| 'I have often had the fancy,' said the sexton, 'that it might have been |
| dug at first to make the old place more gloomy, and the old monks more |
| religious. It's to be closed up, and built over.' |
| |
| The child still stood, looking thoughtfully into the vault. |
| |
| 'We shall see,' said the sexton, 'on what gay heads other earth will |
| have closed, when the light is shut out from here. God knows! They'll |
| close it up, next spring.' |
| |
| 'The birds sing again in spring,' thought the child, as she leaned at |
| her casement window, and gazed at the declining sun. 'Spring! a |
| beautiful and happy time!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 56 |
| |
| A day or two after the Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr Swiveller |
| walked into Sampson Brass's office at the usual hour, and being alone |
| in that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking |
| from his pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to |
| folding and pinning the same upon it, after the manner of a hatband. |
| Having completed the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his |
| work with great complacency, and put his hat on again--very much over |
| one eye, to increase the mournfulness of the effect. These |
| arrangements perfected to his entire satisfaction, he thrust his hands |
| into his pockets, and walked up and down the office with measured steps. |
| |
| 'It has always been the same with me,' said Mr Swiveller, 'always. |
| 'Twas ever thus--from childhood's hour I've seen my fondest hopes |
| decay, I never loved a tree or flower but 'twas the first to fade away; |
| I never nursed a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but |
| when it came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to marry a |
| market-gardener.' |
| |
| Overpowered by these reflections, Mr Swiveller stopped short at the |
| clients' chair, and flung himself into its open arms. |
| |
| 'And this,' said Mr Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composure, 'is |
| life, I believe. Oh, certainly. Why not! I'm quite satisfied. I |
| shall wear,' added Richard, taking off his hat again and looking hard |
| at it, as if he were only deterred by pecuniary considerations from |
| spurning it with his foot, 'I shall wear this emblem of woman's |
| perfidy, in remembrance of her with whom I shall never again thread the |
| windings of the mazy; whom I shall never more pledge in the rosy; who, |
| during the short remainder of my existence, will murder the balmy. Ha, |
| ha, ha!' |
| |
| It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any |
| incongruity in the close of this soliloquy, that Mr Swiveller did not |
| wind up with a cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been |
| undoubtedly at variance with his solemn reflections, but that, being in |
| a theatrical mood, he merely achieved that performance which is |
| designated in melodramas 'laughing like a fiend,'--for it seems that |
| your fiends always laugh in syllables, and always in three syllables, |
| never more nor less, which is a remarkable property in such gentry, and |
| one worthy of remembrance. |
| |
| The baleful sounds had hardly died away, and Mr Swiveller was still |
| sitting in a very grim state in the clients' chair, when there came a |
| ring--or, if we may adapt the sound to his then humour, a knell--at |
| the office bell. Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the |
| expressive countenance of Mr Chuckster, between whom and himself a |
| fraternal greeting ensued. |
| |
| 'You're devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughter-house,' said |
| that gentleman, poising himself on one leg, and shaking the other in an |
| easy manner. |
| |
| 'Rather,' returned Dick. |
| |
| 'Rather!' retorted Mr Chuckster, with that air of graceful trifling |
| which so well became him. 'I should think so. Why, my good feller, do |
| you know what o'clock it is--half-past nine a.m. in the morning?' |
| |
| 'Won't you come in?' said Dick. 'All alone. Swiveller solus. "'Tis |
| now the witching--"' |
| |
| '"Hour of night!"' |
| |
| '"When churchyards yawn,"' |
| |
| '"And graves give up their dead."' |
| |
| At the end of this quotation in dialogue, each gentleman struck an |
| attitude, and immediately subsiding into prose walked into the office. |
| Such morsels of enthusiasm are common among the Glorious Apollos, and |
| were indeed the links that bound them together, and raised them above |
| the cold dull earth. |
| |
| 'Well, and how are you my buck?' said Mr Chuckster, taking a stool. 'I |
| was forced to come into the City upon some little private matters of my |
| own, and couldn't pass the corner of the street without looking in, but |
| upon my soul I didn't expect to find you. It is so everlastingly |
| early.' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller expressed his acknowledgments; and it appearing on further |
| conversation that he was in good health, and that Mr Chuckster was in |
| the like enviable condition, both gentlemen, in compliance with a |
| solemn custom of the ancient Brotherhood to which they belonged, joined |
| in a fragment of the popular duet of 'All's Well,' with a long shake |
| at the end. |
| |
| 'And what's the news?' said Richard. |
| |
| 'The town's as flat, my dear feller,' replied Mr Chuckster, 'as the |
| surface of a Dutch oven. There's no news. By-the-bye, that lodger of |
| yours is a most extraordinary person. He quite eludes the most |
| vigorous comprehension, you know. Never was such a feller!' |
| |
| 'What has he been doing now?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'By Jove, Sir,' returned Mr Chuckster, taking out an oblong snuff-box, |
| the lid whereof was ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved in |
| brass, 'that man is an unfathomable. Sir, that man has made friends |
| with our articled clerk. There's no harm in him, but he is so |
| amazingly slow and soft. Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn't he |
| have one that knew a thing or two, and could do him some good by his |
| manners and conversation. I have my faults, sir,' said Mr Chuckster-- |
| |
| 'No, no,' interposed Mr Swiveller. |
| |
| 'Oh yes I have, I have my faults, no man knows his faults better than I |
| know mine. But,' said Mr Chuckster, 'I'm not meek. My worst |
| enemies--every man has his enemies, Sir, and I have mine--never |
| accused me of being meek. And I tell you what, Sir, if I hadn't more |
| of these qualities that commonly endear man to man, than our articled |
| clerk has, I'd steal a Cheshire cheese, tie it round my neck, and drown |
| myself. I'd die degraded, as I had lived. I would upon my honour.' |
| |
| Mr Chuckster paused, rapped the fox's head exactly on the nose with the |
| knuckle of the fore-finger, took a pinch of snuff, and looked steadily |
| at Mr Swiveller, as much as to say that if he thought he was going to |
| sneeze, he would find himself mistaken. |
| |
| 'Not contented, Sir,' said Mr Chuckster, 'with making friends with |
| Abel, he has cultivated the acquaintance of his father and mother. |
| Since he came home from that wild-goose chase, he has been there-- |
| actually been there. He patronises young Snobby besides; you'll find, |
| Sir, that he'll be constantly coming backwards and forwards to this |
| place: yet I don't suppose that beyond the common forms of civility, he |
| has ever exchanged half-a-dozen words with me. Now, upon my soul, you |
| know,' said Mr Chuckster, shaking his head gravely, as men are wont to |
| do when they consider things are going a little too far, 'this is |
| altogether such a low-minded affair, that if I didn't feel for the |
| governor, and know that he could never get on without me, I should be |
| obliged to cut the connection. I should have no alternative.' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller, who sat on another stool opposite to his friend, stirred |
| the fire in an excess of sympathy, but said nothing. |
| |
| 'As to young Snob, sir,' pursued Mr Chuckster with a prophetic look, |
| 'you'll find he'll turn out bad. In our profession we know something |
| of human nature, and take my word for it, that the feller that came |
| back to work out that shilling, will show himself one of these days in |
| his true colours. He's a low thief, sir. He must be.' |
| |
| Mr Chuckster being roused, would probably have pursued this subject |
| further, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door, |
| which seeming to announce the arrival of somebody on business, caused |
| him to assume a greater appearance of meekness than was perhaps quite |
| consistent with his late declaration. Mr Swiveller, hearing the same |
| sound, caused his stool to revolve rapidly on one leg until it brought |
| him to his desk, into which, having forgotten in the sudden flurry of |
| his spirits to part with the poker, he thrust it as he cried 'Come in!' |
| |
| Who should present himself but that very Kit who had been the theme of |
| Mr Chuckster's wrath! Never did man pluck up his courage so quickly, |
| or look so fierce, as Mr Chuckster when he found it was he. Mr |
| Swiveller stared at him for a moment, and then leaping from his stool, |
| and drawing out the poker from its place of concealment, performed the |
| broad-sword exercise with all the cuts and guards complete, in a |
| species of frenzy. |
| |
| 'Is the gentleman at home?' said Kit, rather astonished by this |
| uncommon reception. |
| |
| Before Mr Swiveller could make any reply, Mr Chuckster took occasion to |
| enter his indignant protest against this form of inquiry; which he held |
| to be of a disrespectful and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the |
| inquirer, seeing two gentlemen then and there present, should have |
| spoken of the other gentleman; or rather (for it was not impossible |
| that the object of his search might be of inferior quality) should have |
| mentioned his name, leaving it to his hearers to determine his degree |
| as they thought proper. Mr Chuckster likewise remarked, that he had |
| some reason to believe this form of address was personal to himself, |
| and that he was not a man to be trifled with--as certain snobs (whom he |
| did not more particularly mention or describe) might find to their cost. |
| |
| 'I mean the gentleman up-stairs,' said Kit, turning to Richard |
| Swiveller. 'Is he at home?' |
| |
| 'Why?' rejoined Dick. |
| |
| 'Because if he is, I have a letter for him.' |
| |
| 'From whom?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'From Mr Garland.' |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Dick, with extreme politeness. 'Then you may hand it over, |
| Sir. And if you're to wait for an answer, Sir, you may wait in the |
| passage, Sir, which is an airy and well-ventilated apartment, sir.' |
| |
| 'Thank you,' returned Kit. 'But I am to give it to himself, if you |
| please.' |
| |
| The excessive audacity of this retort so overpowered Mr Chuckster, and |
| so moved his tender regard for his friend's honour, that he declared, |
| if he were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly |
| have annihilated Kit upon the spot; a resentment of the affront which |
| he did consider, under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation |
| attending it, could but have met with the proper sanction and approval |
| of a jury of Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have returned a |
| verdict of justifiable Homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the |
| morals and character of the Avenger. Mr Swiveller, without being quite |
| so hot upon the matter, was rather shamed by his friend's excitement, |
| and not a little puzzled how to act (Kit being quite cool and |
| good-humoured), when the single gentleman was heard to call violently |
| down the stairs. |
| |
| 'Didn't I see somebody for me, come in?' cried the lodger. |
| |
| 'Yes, Sir,' replied Dick. 'Certainly, Sir.' |
| |
| 'Then where is he?' roared the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'He's here, sir,' rejoined Mr Swiveller. 'Now young man, don't you |
| hear you're to go up-stairs? Are you deaf?' |
| |
| Kit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any |
| altercation, but hurried off and left the Glorious Apollos gazing at |
| each other in silence. |
| |
| 'Didn't I tell you so?' said Mr Chuckster. 'What do you think of that?' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller being in the main a good-natured fellow, and not |
| perceiving in the conduct of Kit any villany of enormous magnitude, |
| scarcely knew what answer to return. He was relieved from his |
| perplexity, however, by the entrance of Mr Sampson and his sister, |
| Sally, at sight of whom Mr Chuckster precipitately retired. |
| |
| Mr Brass and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a |
| consultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great |
| interest and importance. On the occasion of such conferences, they |
| generally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual |
| time, and in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and |
| designs had tranquillised their minds and shed a light upon their |
| toilsome way. In the present instance, they seemed particularly gay; |
| Miss Sally's aspect being of a most oily kind, and Mr Brass rubbing his |
| hands in an exceedingly jocose and light-hearted manner. |
| |
| 'Well, Mr Richard,' said Brass. 'How are we this morning? Are we |
| pretty fresh and cheerful sir--eh, Mr Richard?' |
| |
| 'Pretty well, sir,' replied Dick. |
| |
| 'That's well,' said Brass. 'Ha ha! We should be as gay as larks, Mr |
| Richard--why not? It's a pleasant world we live in sir, a very |
| pleasant world. There are bad people in it, Mr Richard, but if there |
| were no bad people, there would be no good lawyers. Ha ha! Any |
| letters by the post this morning, Mr Richard?' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller answered in the negative. |
| |
| 'Ha!' said Brass, 'no matter. If there's little business to-day, |
| there'll be more to-morrow. A contented spirit, Mr Richard, is the |
| sweetness of existence. Anybody been here, sir?' |
| |
| 'Only my friend'--replied Dick. 'May we ne'er want a--' |
| |
| 'Friend,' Brass chimed in quickly, 'or a bottle to give him. Ha ha! |
| That's the way the song runs, isn't it? A very good song, Mr Richard, |
| very good. I like the sentiment of it. Ha ha! Your friend's the |
| young man from Witherden's office I think--yes--May we ne'er want a-- |
| Nobody else at all, been, Mr Richard?' |
| |
| 'Only somebody to the lodger,' replied Mr Swiveller. |
| |
| 'Oh indeed!' cried Brass. 'Somebody to the lodger eh? Ha ha! May we |
| ne'er want a friend, or a---- Somebody to the lodger, eh, Mr Richard?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of |
| spirits which his employer displayed. 'With him now.' |
| |
| 'With him now!' cried Brass; 'Ha ha! There let 'em be, merry and free, |
| toor rul lol le. Eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha!' |
| |
| 'Oh certainly,' replied Dick. |
| |
| 'And who,' said Brass, shuffling among his papers, 'who is the lodger's |
| visitor--not a lady visitor, I hope, eh, Mr Richard? The morals of the |
| Marks you know, sir--"when lovely women stoops to folly"--and all |
| that--eh, Mr Richard?' |
| |
| 'Another young man, who belongs to Witherden's too, or half belongs |
| there,' returned Richard. 'Kit, they call him.' |
| |
| 'Kit, eh!' said Brass. 'Strange name--name of a dancing-master's |
| fiddle, eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha! Kit's there, is he? Oh!' |
| |
| Dick looked at Miss Sally, wondering that she didn't check this |
| uncommon exuberance on the part of Mr Sampson; but as she made no |
| attempt to do so, and rather appeared to exhibit a tacit acquiescence |
| in it, he concluded that they had just been cheating somebody, and |
| receiving the bill. |
| |
| 'Will you have the goodness, Mr Richard,' said Brass, taking a letter |
| from his desk, 'just to step over to Peckham Rye with that? There's no |
| answer, but it's rather particular and should go by hand. Charge the |
| office with your coach-hire back, you know; don't spare the office; get |
| as much out of it as you can--clerk's motto--Eh, Mr Richard? Ha ha!' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller solemnly doffed the aquatic jacket, put on his coat, took |
| down his hat from its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed. As soon |
| as he was gone, up rose Miss Sally Brass, and smiling sweetly at her |
| brother (who nodded and smote his nose in return) withdrew also. |
| |
| Sampson Brass was no sooner left alone, than he set the office-door |
| wide open, and establishing himself at his desk directly opposite, so |
| that he could not fail to see anybody who came down-stairs and passed |
| out at the street door, began to write with extreme cheerfulness and |
| assiduity; humming as he did so, in a voice that was anything but |
| musical, certain vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the |
| union between Church and State, inasmuch as they were compounded of the |
| Evening Hymn and God save the King. |
| |
| Thus, the attorney of Bevis Marks sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a |
| long time, except when he stopped to listen with a very cunning face, |
| and hearing nothing, went on humming louder, and writing slower than |
| ever. At length, in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger's door |
| opened and shut, and footsteps coming down the stairs. Then, Mr Brass |
| left off writing entirely, and, with his pen in his hand, hummed his |
| very loudest; shaking his head meanwhile from side to side, like a man |
| whose whole soul was in the music, and smiling in a manner quite |
| seraphic. |
| |
| It was towards this moving spectacle that the staircase and the sweet |
| sounds guided Kit; on whose arrival before his door, Mr Brass stopped |
| his singing, but not his smiling, and nodded affably: at the same time |
| beckoning to him with his pen. |
| |
| 'Kit,' said Mr Brass, in the pleasantest way imaginable, 'how do you |
| do?' |
| |
| Kit, being rather shy of his friend, made a suitable reply, and had his |
| hand upon the lock of the street door when Mr Brass called him softly |
| back. |
| |
| 'You are not to go, if you please, Kit,' said the attorney in a |
| mysterious and yet business-like way. 'You are to step in here, if you |
| please. Dear me, dear me! When I look at you,' said the lawyer, |
| quitting his stool, and standing before the fire with his back towards |
| it, 'I am reminded of the sweetest little face that ever my eyes |
| beheld. I remember your coming there, twice or thrice, when we were in |
| possession. Ah Kit, my dear fellow, gentleman in my profession have |
| such painful duties to perform sometimes, that you needn't envy us--you |
| needn't indeed!' |
| |
| 'I don't, sir,' said Kit, 'though it isn't for the like of me to judge.' |
| |
| 'Our only consolation, Kit,' pursued the lawyer, looking at him in a |
| sort of pensive abstraction, 'is, that although we cannot turn away the |
| wind, we can soften it; we can temper it, if I may say so, to the shorn |
| lambs.' |
| |
| 'Shorn indeed!' thought Kit. 'Pretty close!' But he didn't say _so_. |
| |
| 'On that occasion, Kit,' said Mr Brass, 'on that occasion that I have |
| just alluded to, I had a hard battle with Mr Quilp (for Mr Quilp is a |
| very hard man) to obtain them the indulgence they had. It might have |
| cost me a client. But suffering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed.' |
| |
| 'He's not so bad after all,' thought honest Kit, as the attorney pursed |
| up his lips and looked like a man who was struggling with his better |
| feelings. |
| |
| 'I respect you, Kit,' said Brass with emotion. 'I saw enough of your |
| conduct, at that time, to respect you, though your station is humble, |
| and your fortune lowly. It isn't the waistcoat that I look at. It is |
| the heart. The checks in the waistcoat are but the wires of the cage. |
| But the heart is the bird. Ah! How many sich birds are perpetually |
| moulting, and putting their beaks through the wires to peck at all |
| mankind!' |
| |
| This poetic figure, which Kit took to be in a special allusion to his |
| own checked waistcoat, quite overcame him; Mr Brass's voice and manner |
| added not a little to its effect, for he discoursed with all the mild |
| austerity of a hermit, and wanted but a cord round the waist of his |
| rusty surtout, and a skull on the chimney-piece, to be completely set |
| up in that line of business. |
| |
| 'Well, well,' said Sampson, smiling as good men smile when they |
| compassionate their own weakness or that of their fellow-creatures, |
| 'this is wide of the bull's-eye. You're to take that, if you please.' |
| As he spoke, he pointed to a couple of half-crowns on the desk. |
| |
| Kit looked at the coins, and then at Sampson, and hesitated. |
| |
| 'For yourself,' said Brass. 'From--' |
| |
| 'No matter about the person they came from,' replied the lawyer. 'Say |
| me, if you like. We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit, and we |
| mustn't ask questions or talk too much--you understand? You're to take |
| them, that's all; and between you and me, I don't think they'll be the |
| last you'll have to take from the same place. I hope not. Good bye, |
| Kit. Good bye!' |
| |
| With many thanks, and many more self-reproaches for having on such |
| slight grounds suspected one who in their very first conversation |
| turned out such a different man from what he had supposed, Kit took the |
| money and made the best of his way home. Mr Brass remained airing |
| himself at the fire, and resumed his vocal exercise, and his seraphic |
| smile, simultaneously. |
| |
| 'May I come in?' said Miss Sally, peeping. |
| |
| 'Oh yes, you may come in,' returned her brother. |
| |
| 'Ahem!' coughed Miss Brass interrogatively. |
| |
| 'Why, yes,' returned Sampson, 'I should say as good as done.' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 57 |
| |
| Mr Chuckster's indignant apprehensions were not without foundation. |
| Certainly the friendship between the single gentleman and Mr Garland |
| was not suffered to cool, but had a rapid growth and flourished |
| exceedingly. They were soon in habits of constant intercourse and |
| communication; and the single gentleman labouring at this time under a |
| slight attack of illness--the consequence most probably of his late |
| excited feelings and subsequent disappointment--furnished a reason for |
| their holding yet more frequent correspondence; so that some one of the |
| inmates of Abel Cottage, Finchley, came backwards and forwards between |
| that place and Bevis Marks, almost every day. |
| |
| As the pony had now thrown off all disguise, and without any mincing of |
| the matter or beating about the bush, sturdily refused to be driven by |
| anybody but Kit, it generally happened that whether old Mr Garland |
| came, or Mr Abel, Kit was of the party. Of all messages and inquiries, |
| Kit was, in right of his position, the bearer; thus it came about that, |
| while the single gentleman remained indisposed, Kit turned into Bevis |
| Marks every morning with nearly as much regularity as the General |
| Postman. |
| |
| Mr Sampson Brass, who no doubt had his reasons for looking sharply |
| about him, soon learnt to distinguish the pony's trot and the clatter |
| of the little chaise at the corner of the street. Whenever the sound |
| reached his ears, he would immediately lay down his pen and fall to |
| rubbing his hands and exhibiting the greatest glee. |
| |
| 'Ha ha!' he would cry. 'Here's the pony again! Most remarkable pony, |
| extremely docile, eh, Mr Richard, eh sir?' |
| |
| Dick would return some matter-of-course reply, and Mr Brass standing on |
| the bottom rail of his stool, so as to get a view of the street over |
| the top of the window-blind, would take an observation of the visitors. |
| |
| 'The old gentleman again!' he would exclaim, 'a very prepossessing old |
| gentleman, Mr Richard--charming countenance, sir--extremely |
| calm--benevolence in every feature, sir. He quite realises my idea of |
| King Lear, as he appeared when in possession of his kingdom, Mr |
| Richard--the same good humour, the same white hair and partial |
| baldness, the same liability to be imposed upon. Ah! A sweet subject |
| for contemplation, sir, very sweet!' |
| |
| Then Mr Garland having alighted and gone up-stairs, Sampson would nod |
| and smile to Kit from the window, and presently walk out into the |
| street to greet him, when some such conversation as the following would |
| ensue. |
| |
| 'Admirably groomed, Kit'--Mr Brass is patting the pony--'does you great |
| credit--amazingly sleek and bright to be sure. He literally looks as |
| if he had been varnished all over.' |
| |
| Kit touches his hat, smiles, pats the pony himself, and expresses his |
| conviction, 'that Mr Brass will not find many like him.' |
| |
| 'A beautiful animal indeed!' cries Brass. 'Sagacious too?' |
| |
| 'Bless you!' replies Kit, 'he knows what you say to him as well as a |
| Christian does.' |
| |
| 'Does he indeed!' cries Brass, who has heard the same thing in the same |
| place from the same person in the same words a dozen times, but is |
| paralysed with astonishment notwithstanding. 'Dear me!' |
| |
| 'I little thought the first time I saw him, Sir,' says Kit, pleased |
| with the attorney's strong interest in his favourite, 'that I should |
| come to be as intimate with him as I am now.' |
| |
| 'Ah!' rejoins Mr Brass, brim-full of moral precepts and love of virtue. |
| 'A charming subject of reflection for you, very charming. A subject of |
| proper pride and congratulation, Christopher. Honesty is the best |
| policy.--I always find it so myself. I lost forty-seven pound ten by |
| being honest this morning. But it's all gain, it's gain!' |
| |
| Mr Brass slyly tickles his nose with his pen, and looks at Kit with the |
| water standing in his eyes. Kit thinks that if ever there was a good |
| man who belied his appearance, that man is Sampson Brass. |
| |
| 'A man,' says Sampson, 'who loses forty-seven pound ten in one morning |
| by his honesty, is a man to be envied. If it had been eighty pound, |
| the luxuriousness of feeling would have been increased. Every pound |
| lost, would have been a hundredweight of happiness gained. The still |
| small voice, Christopher,' cries Brass, smiling, and tapping himself on |
| the bosom, 'is a-singing comic songs within me, and all is happiness |
| and joy!' |
| |
| Kit is so improved by the conversation, and finds it go so completely |
| home to his feelings, that he is considering what he shall say, when Mr |
| Garland appears. The old gentleman is helped into the chaise with |
| great obsequiousness by Mr Sampson Brass; and the pony, after shaking |
| his head several times, and standing for three or four minutes with all |
| his four legs planted firmly on the ground, as if he had made up his |
| mind never to stir from that spot, but there to live and die, suddenly |
| darts off, without the smallest notice, at the rate of twelve English |
| miles an hour. Then, Mr Brass and his sister (who has joined him at |
| the door) exchange an odd kind of smile--not at all a pleasant one in |
| its expression--and return to the society of Mr Richard Swiveller, |
| who, during their absence, has been regaling himself with various feats |
| of pantomime, and is discovered at his desk, in a very flushed and |
| heated condition, violently scratching out nothing with half a penknife. |
| |
| Whenever Kit came alone, and without the chaise, it always happened |
| that Sampson Brass was reminded of some mission, calling Mr Swiveller, |
| if not to Peckham Rye again, at all events to some pretty distant place |
| from which he could not be expected to return for two or three hours, |
| or in all probability a much longer period, as that gentleman was not, |
| to say the truth, renowned for using great expedition on such |
| occasions, but rather for protracting and spinning out the time to the |
| very utmost limit of possibility. Mr Swiveller out of sight, Miss |
| Sally immediately withdrew. Mr Brass would then set the office-door |
| wide open, hum his old tune with great gaiety of heart, and smile |
| seraphically as before. Kit coming down-stairs would be called in; |
| entertained with some moral and agreeable conversation; perhaps |
| entreated to mind the office for an instant while Mr Brass stepped over |
| the way; and afterwards presented with one or two half-crowns as the |
| case might be. This occurred so often, that Kit, nothing doubting but |
| that they came from the single gentleman who had already rewarded his |
| mother with great liberality, could not enough admire his generosity; |
| and bought so many cheap presents for her, and for little Jacob, and |
| for the baby, and for Barbara to boot, that one or other of them was |
| having some new trifle every day of their lives. |
| |
| While these acts and deeds were in progress in and out of the office of |
| Sampson Brass, Richard Swiveller, being often left alone therein, began |
| to find the time hang heavy on his hands. For the better preservation |
| of his cheerfulness therefore, and to prevent his faculties from |
| rusting, he provided himself with a cribbage-board and pack of cards, |
| and accustomed himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty, |
| thirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand pounds aside, besides many |
| hazardous bets to a considerable amount. |
| |
| As these games were very silently conducted, notwithstanding the |
| magnitude of the interests involved, Mr Swiveller began to think that |
| on those evenings when Mr and Miss Brass were out (and they often went |
| out now) he heard a kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the |
| direction of the door, which it occurred to him, after some reflection, |
| must proceed from the small servant, who always had a cold from damp |
| living. Looking intently that way one night, he plainly distinguished |
| an eye gleaming and glistening at the keyhole; and having now no doubt |
| that his suspicions were correct, he stole softly to the door, and |
| pounced upon her before she was aware of his approach. |
| |
| 'Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed, upon my word I didn't,' cried the |
| small servant, struggling like a much larger one. 'It's so very dull, |
| down-stairs, Please don't you tell upon me, please don't.' |
| |
| 'Tell upon you!' said Dick. 'Do you mean to say you were looking |
| through the keyhole for company?' |
| |
| 'Yes, upon my word I was,' replied the small servant. |
| |
| 'How long have you been cooling your eye there?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before.' |
| |
| Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had |
| refreshed himself after the fatigues of business, and to all of which, |
| no doubt, the small servant was a party, rather disconcerted Mr |
| Swiveller; but he was not very sensitive on such points, and recovered |
| himself speedily. |
| |
| 'Well--come in'--he said, after a little consideration. 'Here--sit |
| down, and I'll teach you how to play.' |
| |
| 'Oh! I durstn't do it,' rejoined the small servant; 'Miss Sally 'ud |
| kill me, if she know'd I come up here.' |
| |
| 'Have you got a fire down-stairs?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'A very little one,' replied the small servant. |
| |
| 'Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went down there, so I'll |
| come,' said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. 'Why, how thin |
| you are! What do you mean by it?' |
| |
| 'It ain't my fault.' |
| |
| 'Could you eat any bread and meat?' said Dick, taking down his hat. |
| 'Yes? Ah! I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?' |
| |
| 'I had a sip of it once,' said the small servant. |
| |
| 'Here's a state of things!' cried Mr Swiveller, raising his eyes to the |
| ceiling. 'She never tasted it--it can't be tasted in a sip! Why, how |
| old are you?' |
| |
| 'I don't know.' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a |
| moment; then, bidding the child mind the door until he came back, |
| vanished straightway. |
| |
| Presently, he returned, followed by the boy from the public-house, who |
| bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great |
| pot, filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a |
| grateful steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after a particular |
| recipe which Mr Swiveller had imparted to the landlord, at a period |
| when he was deep in his books and desirous to conciliate his |
| friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging |
| his little companion to fasten it to prevent surprise, Mr Swiveller |
| followed her into the kitchen. |
| |
| 'There!' said Richard, putting the plate before her. 'First of all |
| clear that off, and then you'll see what's next.' |
| |
| The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon |
| empty. |
| |
| 'Next,' said Dick, handing the purl, 'take a pull at that; but moderate |
| your transports, you know, for you're not used to it. Well, is it |
| good?' |
| |
| 'Oh! isn't it?' said the small servant. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller appeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply, |
| and took a long draught himself, steadfastly regarding his companion |
| while he did so. These preliminaries disposed of, he applied himself |
| to teaching her the game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being |
| both sharp-witted and cunning. |
| |
| 'Now,' said Mr Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and |
| trimming the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt, |
| 'those are the stakes. If you win, you get 'em all. If I win, I get |
| 'em. To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall call you the |
| Marchioness, do you hear?' |
| |
| The small servant nodded. |
| |
| 'Then, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'fire away!' |
| |
| The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered |
| which to play, and Mr Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air |
| which such society required, took another pull at the tankard, and |
| waited for her lead. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 58 |
| |
| Mr Swiveller and his partner played several rubbers with varying |
| success, until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the |
| purl, and the striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that |
| gentleman mindful of the flight of Time, and the expediency of |
| withdrawing before Mr Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned. |
| |
| 'With which object in view, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller gravely, 'I |
| shall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and |
| to retire from the presence when I have finished this tankard; merely |
| observing, Marchioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care |
| not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such purl on the bank still |
| is growing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness, |
| your health. You will excuse my wearing my hat, but the palace is |
| damp, and the marble floor is--if I may be allowed the |
| expression--sloppy.' |
| |
| As a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr Swiveller had |
| been sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude |
| he now gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly |
| sipped the last choice drops of nectar. |
| |
| 'The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the |
| Play?' said Mr Swiveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, |
| and raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a |
| theatrical bandit. |
| |
| The Marchioness nodded. |
| |
| 'Ha!' said Mr Swiveller, with a portentous frown. ''Tis well. |
| Marchioness!--but no matter. Some wine there. Ho!' He illustrated |
| these melodramatic morsels by handing the tankard to himself with great |
| humility, receiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and |
| smacking his lips fiercely. |
| |
| The small servant, who was not so well acquainted with theatrical |
| conventionalities as Mr Swiveller (having indeed never seen a play, or |
| heard one spoken of, except by chance through chinks of doors and in |
| other forbidden places), was rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel |
| in their nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks, that |
| Mr Swiveller felt it necessary to discharge his brigand manner for one |
| more suitable to private life, as he asked, |
| |
| 'Do they often go where glory waits 'em, and leave you here?' |
| |
| 'Oh, yes; I believe you they do,' returned the small servant. 'Miss |
| Sally's such a one-er for that, she is.' |
| |
| 'Such a what?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Such a one-er,' returned the Marchioness. |
| |
| After a moment's reflection, Mr Swiveller determined to forego his |
| responsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on; as |
| it was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her |
| opportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a |
| momentary check of little consequence. |
| |
| 'They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp,' said the small servant with a |
| shrewd look; 'they go to a many places, bless you!' |
| |
| 'Is Mr Brass a wunner?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn't,' replied the small servant, |
| shaking her head. 'Bless you, he'd never do anything without her.' |
| |
| 'Oh! He wouldn't, wouldn't he?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Miss Sally keeps him in such order,' said the small servant; 'he |
| always asks her advice, he does; and he catches it sometimes. Bless |
| you, you wouldn't believe how much he catches it.' |
| |
| 'I suppose,' said Dick, 'that they consult together, a good deal, and |
| talk about a great many people--about me for instance, sometimes, eh, |
| Marchioness?' |
| |
| The Marchioness nodded amazingly. |
| |
| 'Complimentary?' said Mr Swiveller. |
| |
| The Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which had not yet left |
| off nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side, with a |
| vehemence which threatened to dislocate her neck. |
| |
| 'Humph!' Dick muttered. 'Would it be any breach of confidence, |
| Marchioness, to relate what they say of the humble individual who has |
| now the honour to--?' |
| |
| 'Miss Sally says you're a funny chap,' replied his friend. |
| |
| 'Well, Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'that's not uncomplimentary. |
| Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or a degrading quality. Old King |
| Cole was himself a merry old soul, if we may put any faith in the pages |
| of history.' |
| |
| 'But she says,' pursued his companion, 'that you an't to be trusted.' |
| |
| 'Why, really Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully; 'several |
| ladies and gentlemen--not exactly professional persons, but |
| tradespeople, ma'am, tradespeople--have made the same remark. The |
| obscure citizen who keeps the hotel over the way, inclined strongly to |
| that opinion to-night when I ordered him to prepare the banquet. It's |
| a popular prejudice, Marchioness; and yet I am sure I don't know why, |
| for I have been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, and I can |
| safely say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me--never. |
| Mr Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose?' |
| |
| His friend nodded again, with a cunning look which seemed to hint that |
| Mr Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister; and |
| seeming to recollect herself, added imploringly, 'But don't you ever |
| tell upon me, or I shall be beat to death.' |
| |
| 'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, rising, 'the word of a gentleman is |
| as good as his bond--sometimes better, as in the present case, where |
| his bond might prove but a doubtful sort of security. I am your |
| friend, and I hope we shall play many more rubbers together in this |
| same saloon. But, Marchioness,' added Richard, stopping in his way to |
| the door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small servant, who was |
| following with the candle; 'it occurs to me that you must be in the |
| constant habit of airing your eye at keyholes, to know all this.' |
| |
| 'I only wanted,' replied the trembling Marchioness, 'to know where the |
| key of the safe was hid; that was all; and I wouldn't have taken much, |
| if I had found it--only enough to squench my hunger.' |
| |
| 'You didn't find it then?' said Dick. 'But of course you didn't, or |
| you'd be plumper. Good night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for |
| ever, then for ever fare thee well--and put up the chain, Marchioness, |
| in case of accidents.' |
| |
| With this parting injunction, Mr Swiveller emerged from the house; and |
| feeling that he had by this time taken quite as much to drink as |
| promised to be good for his constitution (purl being a rather strong |
| and heady compound), wisely resolved to betake himself to his lodgings, |
| and to bed at once. Homeward he went therefore; and his apartments |
| (for he still retained the plural fiction) being at no great distance |
| from the office, he was soon seated in his own bed-chamber, where, |
| having pulled off one boot and forgotten the other, he fell into deep |
| cogitation. |
| |
| 'This Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, folding his arms, 'is a very |
| extraordinary person--surrounded by mysteries, ignorant of the taste of |
| beer, unacquainted with her own name (which is less remarkable), and |
| taking a limited view of society through the keyholes of doors--can |
| these things be her destiny, or has some unknown person started an |
| opposition to the decrees of fate? It is a most inscrutable and |
| unmitigated staggerer!' |
| |
| When his meditations had attained this satisfactory point, he became |
| aware of his remaining boot, of which, with unimpaired solemnity he |
| proceeded to divest himself; shaking his head with exceeding gravity |
| all the time, and sighing deeply. |
| |
| 'These rubbers,' said Mr Swiveller, putting on his nightcap in exactly |
| the same style as he wore his hat, 'remind me of the matrimonial |
| fireside. Cheggs's wife plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. She rings |
| the changes on 'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her to banish |
| her regrets, and when they win a smile from her, they think that she |
| forgets--but she don't. By this time, I should say,' added Richard, |
| getting his left cheek into profile, and looking complacently at the |
| reflection of a very little scrap of whisker in the looking-glass; 'by |
| this time, I should say, the iron has entered into her soul. It serves |
| her right!' |
| |
| Melting from this stern and obdurate, into the tender and pathetic |
| mood, Mr Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly up and down, and |
| even made a show of tearing his hair, which, however, he thought better |
| of, and wrenched the tassel from his nightcap instead. At last, |
| undressing himself with a gloomy resolution, he got into bed. |
| |
| Some men in his blighted position would have taken to drinking; but as |
| Mr Swiveller had taken to that before, he only took, on receiving the |
| news that Sophy Wackles was lost to him for ever, to playing the flute; |
| thinking after mature consideration that it was a good, sound, dismal |
| occupation, not only in unison with his own sad thoughts, but |
| calculated to awaken a fellow-feeling in the bosoms of his neighbours. |
| In pursuance of this resolution, he now drew a little table to his |
| bedside, and arranging the light and a small oblong music-book to the |
| best advantage, took his flute from its box, and began to play most |
| mournfully. |
| |
| The air was 'Away with melancholy'--a composition, which, when it is |
| played very slowly on the flute, in bed, with the further disadvantage |
| of being performed by a gentleman but imperfectly acquainted with the |
| instrument, who repeats one note a great many times before he can find |
| the next, has not a lively effect. Yet, for half the night, or more, |
| Mr Swiveller, lying sometimes on his back with his eyes upon the |
| ceiling, and sometimes half out of bed to correct himself by the book, |
| played this unhappy tune over and over again; never leaving off, save |
| for a minute or two at a time to take breath and soliloquise about the |
| Marchioness, and then beginning again with renewed vigour. It was not |
| until he had quite exhausted his several subjects of meditation, and |
| had breathed into the flute the whole sentiment of the purl down to its |
| very dregs, and had nearly maddened the people of the house, and at |
| both the next doors, and over the way--that he shut up the music-book, |
| extinguished the candle, and finding himself greatly lightened and |
| relieved in his mind, turned round and fell asleep. |
| |
| He awoke in the morning, much refreshed; and having taken half an |
| hour's exercise at the flute, and graciously received a notice to quit |
| from his landlady, who had been in waiting on the stairs for that |
| purpose since the dawn of day, repaired to Bevis Marks; where the |
| beautiful Sally was already at her post, bearing in her looks a |
| radiance, mild as that which beameth from the virgin moon. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller acknowledged her presence by a nod, and exchanged his coat |
| for the aquatic jacket; which usually took some time fitting on, for in |
| consequence of a tightness in the sleeves, it was only to be got into |
| by a series of struggles. This difficulty overcome, he took his seat |
| at the desk. |
| |
| 'I say'--quoth Miss Brass, abruptly breaking silence, 'you haven't seen |
| a silver pencil-case this morning, have you?' |
| |
| 'I didn't meet many in the street,' rejoined Mr Swiveller. 'I saw |
| one--a stout pencil-case of respectable appearance--but as he was in |
| company with an elderly penknife, and a young toothpick with whom he |
| was in earnest conversation, I felt a delicacy in speaking to him.' |
| |
| 'No, but have you?' returned Miss Brass. 'Seriously, you know.' |
| |
| 'What a dull dog you must be to ask me such a question seriously,' said |
| Mr Swiveller. 'Haven't I this moment come?' |
| |
| 'Well, all I know is,' replied Miss Sally, 'that it's not to be found, |
| and that it disappeared one day this week, when I left it on the desk.' |
| |
| 'Halloa!' thought Richard, 'I hope the Marchioness hasn't been at work |
| here.' |
| |
| 'There was a knife too,' said Miss Sally, 'of the same pattern. They |
| were given to me by my father, years ago, and are both gone. You |
| haven't missed anything yourself, have you?' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller involuntarily clapped his hands to the jacket to be quite |
| sure that it WAS a jacket and not a skirted coat; and having satisfied |
| himself of the safety of this, his only moveable in Bevis Marks, made |
| answer in the negative. |
| |
| 'It's a very unpleasant thing, Dick,' said Miss Brass, pulling out the |
| tin box and refreshing herself with a pinch of snuff; 'but between you |
| and me--between friends you know, for if Sammy knew it, I should never |
| hear the last of it--some of the office-money, too, that has been left |
| about, has gone in the same way. In particular, I have missed three |
| half-crowns at three different times.' |
| |
| 'You don't mean that?' cried Dick. 'Be careful what you say, old boy, |
| for this is a serious matter. Are you quite sure? Is there no |
| mistake?' |
| |
| 'It is so, and there can't be any mistake at all,' rejoined Miss Brass |
| emphatically. |
| |
| 'Then by Jove,' thought Richard, laying down his pen, 'I am afraid the |
| Marchioness is done for!' |
| |
| The more he discussed the subject in his thoughts, the more probable it |
| appeared to Dick that the miserable little servant was the culprit. |
| When he considered on what a spare allowance of food she lived, how |
| neglected and untaught she was, and how her natural cunning had been |
| sharpened by necessity and privation, he scarcely doubted it. And yet |
| he pitied her so much, and felt so unwilling to have a matter of such |
| gravity disturbing the oddity of their acquaintance, that he thought, |
| and thought truly, that rather than receive fifty pounds down, he would |
| have the Marchioness proved innocent. |
| |
| While he was plunged in very profound and serious meditation upon this |
| theme, Miss Sally sat shaking her head with an air of great mystery and |
| doubt; when the voice of her brother Sampson, carolling a cheerful |
| strain, was heard in the passage, and that gentleman himself, beaming |
| with virtuous smiles, appeared. |
| |
| 'Mr Richard, sir, good morning! Here we are again, sir, entering upon |
| another day, with our bodies strengthened by slumber and breakfast, and |
| our spirits fresh and flowing. Here we are, Mr Richard, rising with |
| the sun to run our little course--our course of duty, sir--and, like |
| him, to get through our day's work with credit to ourselves and |
| advantage to our fellow-creatures. A charming reflection sir, very |
| charming!' |
| |
| While he addressed his clerk in these words, Mr Brass was, somewhat |
| ostentatiously, engaged in minutely examining and holding up against |
| the light a five-pound bank note, which he had brought in, in his hand. |
| |
| Mr Richard not receiving his remarks with anything like enthusiasm, his |
| employer turned his eyes to his face, and observed that it wore a |
| troubled expression. |
| |
| 'You're out of spirits, sir,' said Brass. 'Mr Richard, sir, we should |
| fall to work cheerfully, and not in a despondent state. It becomes us, |
| Mr Richard, sir, to--' |
| |
| Here the chaste Sarah heaved a loud sigh. |
| |
| 'Dear me!' said Mr Sampson, 'you too! Is anything the matter? Mr |
| Richard, sir--' |
| |
| Dick, glancing at Miss Sally, saw that she was making signals to him, |
| to acquaint her brother with the subject of their recent conversation. |
| As his own position was not a very pleasant one until the matter was |
| set at rest one way or other, he did so; and Miss Brass, plying her |
| snuff-box at a most wasteful rate, corroborated his account. |
| |
| The countenance of Sampson fell, and anxiety overspread his features. |
| Instead of passionately bewailing the loss of his money, as Miss Sally |
| had expected, he walked on tiptoe to the door, opened it, looked |
| outside, shut it softly, returned on tiptoe, and said in a whisper, |
| |
| 'This is a most extraordinary and painful circumstance--Mr Richard, |
| sir, a most painful circumstance. The fact is, that I myself have |
| missed several small sums from the desk, of late, and have refrained |
| from mentioning it, hoping that accident would discover the offender; |
| but it has not done so--it has not done so. Sally--Mr Richard, |
| sir--this is a particularly distressing affair!' |
| |
| As Sampson spoke, he laid the bank-note upon the desk among some |
| papers, in an absent manner, and thrust his hands into his pockets. |
| Richard Swiveller pointed to it, and admonished him to take it up. |
| |
| 'No, Mr Richard, sir,' rejoined Brass with emotion, 'I will not take it |
| up. I will let it lie there, sir. To take it up, Mr Richard, sir, |
| would imply a doubt of you; and in you, sir, I have unlimited |
| confidence. We will let it lie there, Sir, if you please, and we will |
| not take it up by any means.' With that, Mr Brass patted him twice or |
| thrice on the shoulder, in a most friendly manner, and entreated him to |
| believe that he had as much faith in his honesty as he had in his own. |
| |
| Although at another time Mr Swiveller might have looked upon this as a |
| doubtful compliment, he felt it, under the then-existing circumstances, |
| a great relief to be assured that he was not wrongfully suspected. |
| When he had made a suitable reply, Mr Brass wrung him by the hand, and |
| fell into a brown study, as did Miss Sally likewise. Richard too |
| remained in a thoughtful state; fearing every moment to hear the |
| Marchioness impeached, and unable to resist the conviction that she |
| must be guilty. |
| |
| When they had severally remained in this condition for some minutes, |
| Miss Sally all at once gave a loud rap upon the desk with her clenched |
| fist, and cried, 'I've hit it!'--as indeed she had, and chipped a piece |
| out of it too; but that was not her meaning. |
| |
| 'Well,' cried Brass anxiously. 'Go on, will you!' |
| |
| 'Why,' replied his sister with an air of triumph, 'hasn't there been |
| somebody always coming in and out of this office for the last three or |
| four weeks; hasn't that somebody been left alone in it |
| sometimes--thanks to you; and do you mean to tell me that that somebody |
| isn't the thief!' |
| |
| 'What somebody?' blustered Brass. |
| |
| 'Why, what do you call him--Kit.' |
| |
| 'Mr Garland's young man?' |
| |
| 'To be sure.' |
| |
| 'Never!' cried Brass. 'Never. I'll not hear of it. Don't tell |
| me'--said Sampson, shaking his head, and working with both his hands as |
| if he were clearing away ten thousand cobwebs. 'I'll never believe it |
| of him. Never!' |
| |
| 'I say,' repeated Miss Brass, taking another pinch of snuff, 'that he's |
| the thief.' |
| |
| 'I say,' returned Sampson violently, 'that he is not. What do you |
| mean? How dare you? Are characters to be whispered away like this? |
| Do you know that he's the honestest and faithfullest fellow that ever |
| lived, and that he has an irreproachable good name? Come in, come in!' |
| |
| These last words were not addressed to Miss Sally, though they partook |
| of the tone in which the indignant remonstrances that preceded them had |
| been uttered. They were addressed to some person who had knocked at |
| the office-door; and they had hardly passed the lips of Mr Brass, when |
| this very Kit himself looked in. |
| |
| 'Is the gentleman up-stairs, sir, if you please?' |
| |
| 'Yes, Kit,' said Brass, still fired with an honest indignation, and |
| frowning with knotted brows upon his sister; 'Yes Kit, he is. I am |
| glad to see you Kit, I am rejoiced to see you. Look in again, as you |
| come down-stairs, Kit. That lad a robber!' cried Brass when he had |
| withdrawn, 'with that frank and open countenance! I'd trust him with |
| untold gold. Mr Richard, sir, have the goodness to step directly to |
| Wrasp and Co.'s in Broad Street, and inquire if they have had |
| instructions to appear in Carkem and Painter. THAT lad a robber,' |
| sneered Sampson, flushed and heated with his wrath. 'Am I blind, deaf, |
| silly; do I know nothing of human nature when I see it before me? Kit |
| a robber! Bah!' |
| |
| Flinging this final interjection at Miss Sally with immeasurable scorn |
| and contempt, Sampson Brass thrust his head into his desk, as if to |
| shut the base world from his view, and breathed defiance from under its |
| half-closed lid. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 59 |
| |
| When Kit, having discharged his errand, came down-stairs from the |
| single gentleman's apartment after the lapse of a quarter of an hour or |
| so, Mr Sampson Brass was alone in the office. He was not singing as |
| usual, nor was he seated at his desk. The open door showed him |
| standing before the fire with his back towards it, and looking so very |
| strange that Kit supposed he must have been suddenly taken ill. |
| |
| 'Is anything the matter, sir?' said Kit. |
| |
| 'Matter!' cried Brass. 'No. Why anything the matter?' |
| |
| 'You are so very pale,' said Kit, 'that I should hardly have known you.' |
| |
| 'Pooh pooh! mere fancy,' cried Brass, stooping to throw up the cinders. |
| 'Never better, Kit, never better in all my life. Merry too. Ha ha! |
| How's our friend above-stairs, eh?' |
| |
| 'A great deal better,' said Kit. |
| |
| 'I'm glad to hear it,' rejoined Brass; 'thankful, I may say. An |
| excellent gentleman--worthy, liberal, generous, gives very little |
| trouble--an admirable lodger. Ha ha! Mr Garland--he's well I hope, |
| Kit--and the pony--my friend, my particular friend you know. Ha ha!' |
| |
| Kit gave a satisfactory account of all the little household at Abel |
| Cottage. Mr Brass, who seemed remarkably inattentive and impatient, |
| mounted on his stool, and beckoning him to come nearer, took him by the |
| button-hole. |
| |
| 'I have been thinking, Kit,' said the lawyer, 'that I could throw some |
| little emoluments in your mother's way--You have a mother, I think? If |
| I recollect right, you told me--' |
| |
| 'Oh yes, Sir, yes certainly.' |
| |
| 'A widow, I think? an industrious widow?' |
| |
| 'A harder-working woman or a better mother never lived, Sir.' |
| |
| 'Ah!' cried Brass. 'That's affecting, truly affecting. A poor widow |
| struggling to maintain her orphans in decency and comfort, is a |
| delicious picture of human goodness.--Put down your hat, Kit.' |
| |
| 'Thank you Sir, I must be going directly.' |
| |
| 'Put it down while you stay, at any rate,' said Brass, taking it from |
| him and making some confusion among the papers, in finding a place for |
| it on the desk. 'I was thinking, Kit, that we have often houses to let |
| for people we are concerned for, and matters of that sort. Now you |
| know we're obliged to put people into those houses to take care of |
| 'em--very often undeserving people that we can't depend upon. What's |
| to prevent our having a person that we CAN depend upon, and enjoying |
| the delight of doing a good action at the same time? I say, what's to |
| prevent our employing this worthy woman, your mother? What with one |
| job and another, there's lodging--and good lodging too--pretty well |
| all the year round, rent free, and a weekly allowance besides, Kit, |
| that would provide her with a great many comforts she don't at present |
| enjoy. Now what do you think of that? Do you see any objection? My |
| only desire is to serve you, Kit; therefore if you do, say so freely.' |
| |
| As Brass spoke, he moved the hat twice or thrice, and shuffled among |
| the papers again, as if in search of something. |
| |
| 'How can I see any objection to such a kind offer, sir?' replied Kit |
| with his whole heart. 'I don't know how to thank you sir, I don't |
| indeed.' |
| |
| 'Why then,' said Brass, suddenly turning upon him and thrusting his |
| face close to Kit's with such a repulsive smile that the latter, even |
| in the very height of his gratitude, drew back, quite startled. 'Why |
| then, it's done.' |
| |
| Kit looked at him in some confusion. |
| |
| 'Done, I say,' added Sampson, rubbing his hands and veiling himself |
| again in his usual oily manner. 'Ha ha! and so you shall find Kit, so |
| you shall find. But dear me,' said Brass, 'what a time Mr Richard is |
| gone! A sad loiterer to be sure! Will you mind the office one minute, |
| while I run up-stairs? Only one minute. I'll not detain you an |
| instant longer, on any account, Kit.' |
| |
| Talking as he went, Mr Brass bustled out of the office, and in a very |
| short time returned. Mr Swiveller came back, almost at the same |
| instant; and as Kit was leaving the room hastily, to make up for lost |
| time, Miss Brass herself encountered him in the doorway. |
| |
| 'Oh!' sneered Sally, looking after him as she entered. 'There goes |
| your pet, Sammy, eh?' |
| |
| 'Ah! There he goes,' replied Brass. 'My pet, if you please. An |
| honest fellow, Mr Richard, sir--a worthy fellow indeed!' |
| |
| 'Hem!' coughed Miss Brass. |
| |
| 'I tell you, you aggravating vagabond,' said the angry Sampson, 'that |
| I'd stake my life upon his honesty. Am I never to hear the last of |
| this? Am I always to be baited, and beset, by your mean suspicions? |
| Have you no regard for true merit, you malignant fellow? If you come |
| to that, I'd sooner suspect your honesty than his.' |
| |
| Miss Sally pulled out the tin snuff-box, and took a long, slow pinch, |
| regarding her brother with a steady gaze all the time. |
| |
| 'She drives me wild, Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass, 'she exasperates me |
| beyond all bearing. I am heated and excited, sir, I know I am. These |
| are not business manners, sir, nor business looks, but she carries me |
| out of myself.' |
| |
| 'Why don't you leave him alone?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Because she can't, sir,' retorted Brass; 'because to chafe and vex me |
| is a part of her nature, Sir, and she will and must do it, or I don't |
| believe she'd have her health. But never mind,' said Brass, 'never |
| mind. I've carried my point. I've shown my confidence in the lad. He |
| has minded the office again. Ha ha! Ugh, you viper!' |
| |
| The beautiful virgin took another pinch, and put the snuff-box in her |
| pocket; still looking at her brother with perfect composure. |
| |
| 'He has minded the office again,' said Brass triumphantly; 'he has had |
| my confidence, and he shall continue to have it; he--why, where's the--' |
| |
| 'What have you lost?' inquired Mr Swiveller. |
| |
| 'Dear me!' said Brass, slapping all his pockets, one after another, and |
| looking into his desk, and under it, and upon it, and wildly tossing |
| the papers about, 'the note, Mr Richard, sir, the five-pound note--what |
| can have become of it? I laid it down here--God bless me!' |
| |
| 'What!' cried Miss Sally, starting up, clapping her hands, and |
| scattering the papers on the floor. 'Gone! Now who's right? Now |
| who's got it? Never mind five pounds--what's five pounds? He's |
| honest, you know, quite honest. It would be mean to suspect him. |
| Don't run after him. No, no, not for the world!' |
| |
| 'Is it really gone though?' said Dick, looking at Brass with a face as |
| pale as his own. |
| |
| 'Upon my word, Mr Richard, Sir,' replied the lawyer, feeling in all his |
| pockets with looks of the greatest agitation, 'I fear this is a black |
| business. It's certainly gone, Sir. What's to be done?' |
| |
| 'Don't run after him,' said Miss Sally, taking more snuff. 'Don't run |
| after him on any account. Give him time to get rid of it, you know. |
| It would be cruel to find him out!' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller and Sampson Brass looked from Miss Sally to each other, in |
| a state of bewilderment, and then, as by one impulse, caught up their |
| hats and rushed out into the street--darting along in the middle of the |
| road, and dashing aside all obstructions, as though they were running |
| for their lives. |
| |
| It happened that Kit had been running too, though not so fast, and |
| having the start of them by some few minutes, was a good distance |
| ahead. As they were pretty certain of the road he must have taken, |
| however, and kept on at a great pace, they came up with him, at the |
| very moment when he had taken breath, and was breaking into a run again. |
| |
| 'Stop!' cried Sampson, laying his hand on one shoulder, while Mr |
| Swiveller pounced upon the other. 'Not so fast sir. You're in a |
| hurry?' |
| |
| 'Yes, I am,' said Kit, looking from one to the other in great surprise. |
| |
| 'I--I--can hardly believe it,' panted Sampson, 'but something of value |
| is missing from the office. I hope you don't know what.' |
| |
| 'Know what! good Heaven, Mr Brass!' cried Kit, trembling from head to |
| foot; 'you don't suppose--' |
| |
| 'No, no,' rejoined Brass quickly, 'I don't suppose anything. Don't say |
| I said you did. You'll come back quietly, I hope?' |
| |
| 'Of course I will,' returned Kit. 'Why not?' |
| |
| 'To be sure!' said Brass. 'Why not? I hope there may turn out to be |
| no why not. If you knew the trouble I've been in, this morning, |
| through taking your part, Christopher, you'd be sorry for it.' |
| |
| 'And I am sure you'll be sorry for having suspected me sir,' replied |
| Kit. 'Come. Let us make haste back.' |
| |
| 'Certainly!' cried Brass, 'the quicker, the better. Mr Richard--have |
| the goodness, sir, to take that arm. I'll take this one. It's not |
| easy walking three abreast, but under these circumstances it must be |
| done, sir; there's no help for it.' |
| |
| Kit did turn from white to red, and from red to white again, when they |
| secured him thus, and for a moment seemed disposed to resist. But, |
| quickly recollecting himself, and remembering that if he made any |
| struggle, he would perhaps be dragged by the collar through the public |
| streets, he only repeated, with great earnestness and with the tears |
| standing in his eyes, that they would be sorry for this--and suffered |
| them to lead him off. While they were on the way back, Mr Swiveller, |
| upon whom his present functions sat very irksomely, took an opportunity |
| of whispering in his ear that if he would confess his guilt, even by so |
| much as a nod, and promise not to do so any more, he would connive at |
| his kicking Sampson Brass on the shins and escaping up a court; but Kit |
| indignantly rejecting this proposal, Mr Richard had nothing for it, but |
| to hold him tight until they reached Bevis Marks, and ushered him into |
| the presence of the charming Sarah, who immediately took the precaution |
| of locking the door. |
| |
| 'Now, you know,' said Brass, 'if this is a case of innocence, it is a |
| case of that description, Christopher, where the fullest disclosure is |
| the best satisfaction for everybody. Therefore if you'll consent to an |
| examination,' he demonstrated what kind of examination he meant by |
| turning back the cuffs of his coat, 'it will be a comfortable and |
| pleasant thing for all parties.' |
| |
| 'Search me,' said Kit, proudly holding up his arms. 'But mind, sir--I |
| know you'll be sorry for this, to the last day of your life.' |
| |
| 'It is certainly a very painful occurrence,' said Brass with a sigh, as |
| he dived into one of Kit's pockets, and fished up a miscellaneous |
| collection of small articles; 'very painful. Nothing here, Mr Richard, |
| Sir, all perfectly satisfactory. Nor here, sir. Nor in the waistcoat, |
| Mr Richard, nor in the coat tails. So far, I am rejoiced, I am sure.' |
| |
| Richard Swiveller, holding Kit's hat in his hand, was watching the |
| proceedings with great interest, and bore upon his face the slightest |
| possible indication of a smile, as Brass, shutting one of his eyes, |
| looked with the other up the inside of one of the poor fellow's sleeves |
| as if it were a telescope--when Sampson turning hastily to him, bade |
| him search the hat. |
| |
| 'Here's a handkerchief,' said Dick. |
| |
| 'No harm in that sir,' rejoined Brass, applying his eye to the other |
| sleeve, and speaking in the voice of one who was contemplating an |
| immense extent of prospect. 'No harm in a handkerchief Sir, whatever. |
| The faculty don't consider it a healthy custom, I believe, Mr Richard, |
| to carry one's handkerchief in one's hat--I have heard that it keeps |
| the head too warm--but in every other point of view, its being there, |
| is extremely satisfactory--extremely so.' |
| |
| An exclamation, at once from Richard Swiveller, Miss Sally, and Kit |
| himself, cut the lawyer short. He turned his head, and saw Dick |
| standing with the bank-note in his hand. |
| |
| 'In the hat?' cried Brass in a sort of shriek. |
| |
| 'Under the handkerchief, and tucked beneath the lining,' said Dick, |
| aghast at the discovery. |
| |
| Mr Brass looked at him, at his sister, at the walls, at the ceiling, at |
| the floor--everywhere but at Kit, who stood quite stupefied and |
| motionless. |
| |
| 'And this,' cried Sampson, clasping his hands, 'is the world that turns |
| upon its own axis, and has Lunar influences, and revolutions round |
| Heavenly Bodies, and various games of that sort! This is human natur, |
| is it! Oh natur, natur! This is the miscreant that I was going to |
| benefit with all my little arts, and that, even now, I feel so much |
| for, as to wish to let him go! But,' added Mr Brass with greater |
| fortitude, 'I am myself a lawyer, and bound to set an example in |
| carrying the laws of my happy country into effect. Sally my dear, |
| forgive me, and catch hold of him on the other side. Mr Richard, sir, |
| have the goodness to run and fetch a constable. The weakness is past |
| and over sir, and moral strength returns. A constable, sir, if you |
| please!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 60 |
| |
| Kit stood as one entranced, with his eyes opened wide and fixed upon |
| the ground, regardless alike of the tremulous hold which Mr Brass |
| maintained on one side of his cravat, and of the firmer grasp of Miss |
| Sally upon the other; although this latter detention was in itself no |
| small inconvenience, as that fascinating woman, besides screwing her |
| knuckles inconveniently into his throat from time to time, had fastened |
| upon him in the first instance with so tight a grip that even in the |
| disorder and distraction of his thoughts he could not divest himself of |
| an uneasy sense of choking. Between the brother and sister he remained |
| in this posture, quite unresisting and passive, until Mr Swiveller |
| returned, with a police constable at his heels. |
| |
| This functionary, being, of course, well used to such scenes; looking |
| upon all kinds of robbery, from petty larceny up to housebreaking or |
| ventures on the highway, as matters in the regular course of business; |
| and regarding the perpetrators in the light of so many customers coming |
| to be served at the wholesale and retail shop of criminal law where he |
| stood behind the counter; received Mr Brass's statement of facts with |
| about as much interest and surprise, as an undertaker might evince if |
| required to listen to a circumstantial account of the last illness of a |
| person whom he was called in to wait upon professionally; and took Kit |
| into custody with a decent indifference. |
| |
| 'We had better,' said this subordinate minister of justice, 'get to the |
| office while there's a magistrate sitting. I shall want you to come |
| along with us, Mr Brass, and the--' he looked at Miss Sally as if in |
| some doubt whether she might not be a griffin or other fabulous monster. |
| |
| 'The lady, eh?' said Sampson. |
| |
| 'Ah!' replied the constable. 'Yes--the lady. Likewise the young man |
| that found the property.' |
| |
| 'Mr Richard, Sir,' said Brass in a mournful voice. 'A sad necessity. |
| But the altar of our country sir--' |
| |
| 'You'll have a hackney-coach, I suppose?' interrupted the constable, |
| holding Kit (whom his other captors had released) carelessly by the |
| arm, a little above the elbow. 'Be so good as send for one, will you?' |
| |
| 'But, hear me speak a word,' cried Kit, raising his eyes and looking |
| imploringly about him. 'Hear me speak a word. I am no more guilty |
| than any one of you. Upon my soul I am not. I a thief! Oh, Mr Brass, |
| you know me better. I am sure you know me better. This is not right |
| of you, indeed.' |
| |
| 'I give you my word, constable--' said Brass. But here the constable |
| interposed with the constitutional principle 'words be blowed;' |
| observing that words were but spoon-meat for babes and sucklings, and |
| that oaths were the food for strong men. |
| |
| 'Quite true, constable,' assented Brass in the same mournful tone. |
| 'Strictly correct. I give you my oath, constable, that down to a few |
| minutes ago, when this fatal discovery was made, I had such confidence |
| in that lad, that I'd have trusted him with--a hackney-coach, Mr |
| Richard, sir; you're very slow, Sir.' |
| |
| 'Who is there that knows me,' cried Kit, 'that would not trust me-- |
| that does not? ask anybody whether they have ever doubted me; whether I |
| have ever wronged them of a farthing. Was I ever once dishonest when I |
| was poor and hungry, and is it likely I would begin now! Oh consider |
| what you do. How can I meet the kindest friends that ever human |
| creature had, with this dreadful charge upon me!' |
| |
| Mr Brass rejoined that it would have been well for the prisoner if he |
| had thought of that before and was about to make some other gloomy |
| observations when the voice of the single gentleman was heard, |
| demanding from above-stairs what was the matter, and what was the cause |
| of all that noise and hurry. Kit made an involuntary start towards the |
| door in his anxiety to answer for himself, but being speedily detained |
| by the constable, had the agony of seeing Sampson Brass run out alone |
| to tell the story in his own way. |
| |
| 'And he can hardly believe it, either,' said Sampson, when he returned, |
| 'nor nobody will. I wish I could doubt the evidence of my senses, but |
| their depositions are unimpeachable. It's of no use cross-examining my |
| eyes,' cried Sampson, winking and rubbing them, 'they stick to their |
| first account, and will. Now, Sarah, I hear the coach in the Marks; |
| get on your bonnet, and we'll be off. A sad errand! a moral funeral, |
| quite!' |
| |
| 'Mr Brass,' said Kit. 'Do me one favour. Take me to Mr Witherden's |
| first.' |
| |
| Sampson shook his head irresolutely. |
| |
| 'Do,' said Kit. 'My master's there. For Heaven's sake, take me there, |
| first.' |
| |
| 'Well, I don't know,' stammered Brass, who perhaps had his reasons for |
| wishing to show as fair as possible in the eyes of the notary. 'How do |
| we stand in point of time, constable, eh?' |
| |
| The constable, who had been chewing a straw all this while with great |
| philosophy, replied that if they went away at once they would have time |
| enough, but that if they stood shilly-shallying there, any longer, they |
| must go straight to the Mansion House; and finally expressed his |
| opinion that that was where it was, and that was all about it. |
| |
| Mr Richard Swiveller having arrived inside the coach, and still |
| remaining immoveable in the most commodious corner with his face to the |
| horses, Mr Brass instructed the officer to remove his prisoner, and |
| declared himself quite ready. Therefore, the constable, still holding |
| Kit in the same manner, and pushing him on a little before him, so as |
| to keep him at about three-quarters of an arm's length in advance |
| (which is the professional mode), thrust him into the vehicle and |
| followed himself. Miss Sally entered next; and there being now four |
| inside, Sampson Brass got upon the box, and made the coachman drive on. |
| |
| Still completely stunned by the sudden and terrible change which had |
| taken place in his affairs, Kit sat gazing out of the coach window, |
| almost hoping to see some monstrous phenomenon in the streets which |
| might give him reason to believe he was in a dream. Alas! Everything |
| was too real and familiar: the same succession of turnings, the same |
| houses, the same streams of people running side by side in different |
| directions upon the pavement, the same bustle of carts and carriages in |
| the road, the same well-remembered objects in the shop windows: a |
| regularity in the very noise and hurry which no dream ever mirrored. |
| Dream-like as the story was, it was true. He stood charged with |
| robbery; the note had been found upon him, though he was innocent in |
| thought and deed; and they were carrying him back, a prisoner. |
| |
| Absorbed in these painful ruminations, thinking with a drooping heart |
| of his mother and little Jacob, feeling as though even the |
| consciousness of innocence would be insufficient to support him in the |
| presence of his friends if they believed him guilty, and sinking in |
| hope and courage more and more as they drew nearer to the notary's, |
| poor Kit was looking earnestly out of the window, observant of |
| nothing,--when all at once, as though it had been conjured up by magic, |
| he became aware of the face of Quilp. |
| |
| And what a leer there was upon the face! It was from the open window |
| of a tavern that it looked out; and the dwarf had so spread himself |
| over it, with his elbows on the window-sill and his head resting on |
| both his hands, that what between this attitude and his being swoln |
| with suppressed laughter, he looked puffed and bloated into twice his |
| usual breadth. Mr Brass, on recognising him, immediately stopped the |
| coach. As it came to a halt directly opposite to where he stood, the |
| dwarf pulled off his hat, and saluted the party with a hideous and |
| grotesque politeness. |
| |
| 'Aha!' he cried. 'Where now, Brass? where now? Sally with you too? |
| Sweet Sally! And Dick? Pleasant Dick! And Kit! Honest Kit!' |
| |
| 'He's extremely cheerful!' said Brass to the coachman. 'Very much so! |
| Ah, sir--a sad business! Never believe in honesty any more, sir.' |
| |
| 'Why not?' returned the dwarf. 'Why not, you rogue of a lawyer, why |
| not?' |
| |
| 'Bank-note lost in our office sir,' said Brass, shaking his head. |
| 'Found in his hat sir--he previously left alone there--no mistake at |
| all sir--chain of evidence complete--not a link wanting.' |
| |
| 'What!' cried the dwarf, leaning half his body out of window. 'Kit a |
| thief! Kit a thief! Ha ha ha! Why, he's an uglier-looking thief than |
| can be seen anywhere for a penny. Eh, Kit--eh? Ha ha ha! Have you |
| taken Kit into custody before he had time and opportunity to beat me! |
| Eh, Kit, eh?' And with that, he burst into a yell of laughter, |
| manifestly to the great terror of the coachman, and pointed to a dyer's |
| pole hard by, where a dangling suit of clothes bore some resemblance to |
| a man upon a gibbet. |
| |
| 'Is it coming to that, Kit!' cried the dwarf, rubbing his hands |
| violently. 'Ha ha ha ha! What a disappointment for little Jacob, and |
| for his darling mother! Let him have the Bethel minister to comfort |
| and console him, Brass. Eh, Kit, eh? Drive on coachey, drive on. Bye |
| bye, Kit; all good go with you; keep up your spirits; my love to the |
| Garlands--the dear old lady and gentleman. Say I inquired after 'em, |
| will you? Blessings on 'em, on you, and on everybody, Kit. Blessings |
| on all the world!' |
| |
| With such good wishes and farewells, poured out in a rapid torrent |
| until they were out of hearing, Quilp suffered them to depart; and when |
| he could see the coach no longer, drew in his head, and rolled upon the |
| ground in an ecstacy of enjoyment. |
| |
| When they reached the notary's, which they were not long in doing, for |
| they had encountered the dwarf in a bye street at a very little |
| distance from the house, Mr Brass dismounted; and opening the coach |
| door with a melancholy visage, requested his sister to accompany him |
| into the office, with the view of preparing the good people within, for |
| the mournful intelligence that awaited them. Miss Sally complying, he |
| desired Mr Swiveller to accompany them. So, into the office they went; |
| Mr Sampson and his sister arm-in-arm; and Mr Swiveller following, alone. |
| |
| The notary was standing before the fire in the outer office, talking to |
| Mr Abel and the elder Mr Garland, while Mr Chuckster sat writing at the |
| desk, picking up such crumbs of their conversation as happened to fall |
| in his way. This posture of affairs Mr Brass observed through the |
| glass-door as he was turning the handle, and seeing that the notary |
| recognised him, he began to shake his head and sigh deeply while that |
| partition yet divided them. |
| |
| 'Sir,' said Sampson, taking off his hat, and kissing the two |
| fore-fingers of his right hand beaver glove, 'my name is Brass--Brass |
| of Bevis Marks, Sir. I have had the honour and pleasure, Sir, of being |
| concerned against you in some little testamentary matters. How do you |
| do, sir?' |
| |
| 'My clerk will attend to any business you may have come upon, Mr |
| Brass,' said the notary, turning away. |
| |
| 'Thank you Sir,' said Brass, 'thank you, I am sure. Allow me, Sir, to |
| introduce my sister--quite one of us Sir, although of the weaker |
| sex--of great use in my business Sir, I assure you. Mr Richard, sir, |
| have the goodness to come foward if you please--No really,' said Brass, |
| stepping between the notary and his private office (towards which he |
| had begun to retreat), and speaking in the tone of an injured man, |
| 'really Sir, I must, under favour, request a word or two with you, |
| indeed.' |
| |
| 'Mr Brass,' said the other, in a decided tone, 'I am engaged. You see |
| that I am occupied with these gentlemen. If you will communicate your |
| business to Mr Chuckster yonder, you will receive every attention.' |
| |
| 'Gentlemen,' said Brass, laying his right hand on his waistcoat, and |
| looking towards the father and son with a smooth smile--'Gentlemen, I |
| appeal to you--really, gentlemen--consider, I beg of you. I am of the |
| law. I am styled "gentleman" by Act of Parliament. I maintain the |
| title by the annual payment of twelve pound sterling for a certificate. |
| I am not one of your players of music, stage actors, writers of books, |
| or painters of pictures, who assume a station that the laws of their |
| country don't recognise. I am none of your strollers or vagabonds. If |
| any man brings his action against me, he must describe me as a |
| gentleman, or his action is null and void. I appeal to you--is this |
| quite respectful? Really gentlemen--' |
| |
| 'Well, will you have the goodness to state your business then, Mr |
| Brass?' said the notary. |
| |
| 'Sir,' rejoined Brass, 'I will. Ah Mr Witherden! you little know |
| the--but I will not be tempted to travel from the point, sir, I believe |
| the name of one of these gentlemen is Garland.' |
| |
| 'Of both,' said the notary. |
| |
| 'In-deed!' rejoined Brass, cringing excessively. 'But I might have |
| known that, from the uncommon likeness. Extremely happy, I am sure, to |
| have the honour of an introduction to two such gentlemen, although the |
| occasion is a most painful one. One of you gentlemen has a servant |
| called Kit?' |
| |
| 'Both,' replied the notary. |
| |
| 'Two Kits?' said Brass smiling. 'Dear me!' |
| |
| 'One Kit, sir,' returned Mr Witherden angrily, 'who is employed by both |
| gentlemen. What of him?' |
| |
| 'This of him, sir,' rejoined Brass, dropping his voice impressively. |
| 'That young man, sir, that I have felt unbounded and unlimited |
| confidence in, and always behaved to as if he was my equal--that young |
| man has this morning committed a robbery in my office, and been taken |
| almost in the fact.' |
| |
| 'This must be some falsehood!' cried the notary. |
| |
| 'It is not possible,' said Mr Abel. |
| |
| 'I'll not believe one word of it,' exclaimed the old gentleman. |
| |
| Mr Brass looked mildly round upon them, and rejoined, |
| |
| 'Mr Witherden, sir, YOUR words are actionable, and if I was a man of |
| low and mean standing, who couldn't afford to be slandered, I should |
| proceed for damages. Hows'ever, sir, being what I am, I merely scorn |
| such expressions. The honest warmth of the other gentleman I respect, |
| and I'm truly sorry to be the messenger of such unpleasant news. I |
| shouldn't have put myself in this painful position, I assure you, but |
| that the lad himself desired to be brought here in the first instance, |
| and I yielded to his prayers. Mr Chuckster, sir, will you have the |
| goodness to tap at the window for the constable that's waiting in the |
| coach?' |
| |
| The three gentlemen looked at each other with blank faces when these |
| words were uttered, and Mr Chuckster, doing as he was desired, and |
| leaping off his stool with something of the excitement of an inspired |
| prophet whose foretellings had in the fulness of time been realised, |
| held the door open for the entrance of the wretched captive. |
| |
| Such a scene as there was, when Kit came in, and bursting into the rude |
| eloquence with which Truth at length inspired him, called Heaven to |
| witness that he was innocent, and that how the property came to be |
| found upon him he knew not! Such a confusion of tongues, before the |
| circumstances were related, and the proofs disclosed! Such a dead |
| silence when all was told, and his three friends exchanged looks of |
| doubt and amazement! |
| |
| 'Is it not possible,' said Mr Witherden, after a long pause, 'that this |
| note may have found its way into the hat by some accident,--such as |
| the removal of papers on the desk, for instance?' |
| |
| But this was clearly shown to be quite impossible. Mr Swiveller, |
| though an unwilling witness, could not help proving to demonstration, |
| from the position in which it was found, that it must have been |
| designedly secreted. |
| |
| 'It's very distressing,' said Brass, 'immensely distressing, I am sure. |
| When he comes to be tried, I shall be very happy to recommend him to |
| mercy on account of his previous good character. I did lose money |
| before, certainly, but it doesn't quite follow that he took it. The |
| presumption's against him--strongly against him--but we're Christians, |
| I hope?' |
| |
| 'I suppose,' said the constable, looking round, 'that no gentleman here |
| can give evidence as to whether he's been flush of money of late, Do |
| you happen to know, Sir?' |
| |
| 'He has had money from time to time, certainly,' returned Mr Garland, |
| to whom the man had put the question. 'But that, as he always told me, |
| was given him by Mr Brass himself.' |
| |
| 'Yes to be sure,' said Kit eagerly. 'You can bear me out in that, Sir?' |
| |
| 'Eh?' cried Brass, looking from face to face with an expression of |
| stupid amazement. |
| |
| 'The money you know, the half-crowns, that you gave me--from the |
| lodger,' said Kit. |
| |
| 'Oh dear me!' cried Brass, shaking his head and frowning heavily. |
| 'This is a bad case, I find; a very bad case indeed.' |
| |
| 'What! Did you give him no money on account of anybody, Sir?' asked Mr |
| Garland, with great anxiety. |
| |
| 'I give him money, Sir!' returned Sampson. 'Oh, come you know, this is |
| too barefaced. Constable, my good fellow, we had better be going.' |
| |
| 'What!' shrieked Kit. 'Does he deny that he did? ask him, somebody, |
| pray. Ask him to tell you whether he did or not!' |
| |
| 'Did you, sir?' asked the notary. |
| |
| 'I tell you what, gentlemen,' replied Brass, in a very grave manner, |
| 'he'll not serve his case this way, and really, if you feel any |
| interest in him, you had better advise him to go upon some other tack. |
| Did I, sir? Of course I never did.' |
| |
| 'Gentlemen,' cried Kit, on whom a light broke suddenly, 'Master, Mr |
| Abel, Mr Witherden, every one of you--he did it! What I have done to |
| offend him, I don't know, but this is a plot to ruin me. Mind, |
| gentlemen, it's a plot, and whatever comes of it, I will say with my |
| dying breath that he put that note in my hat himself! Look at him, |
| gentlemen! see how he changes colour. Which of us looks the guilty |
| person--he, or I?' |
| |
| 'You hear him, gentlemen?' said Brass, smiling, 'you hear him. Now, |
| does this case strike you as assuming rather a black complexion, or |
| does it not? Is it at all a treacherous case, do you think, or is it |
| one of mere ordinary guilt? Perhaps, gentlemen, if he had not said |
| this in your presence and I had reported it, you'd have held this to be |
| impossible likewise, eh?' |
| |
| With such pacific and bantering remarks did Mr Brass refute the foul |
| aspersion on his character; but the virtuous Sarah, moved by stronger |
| feelings, and having at heart, perhaps, a more jealous regard for the |
| honour of her family, flew from her brother's side, without any |
| previous intimation of her design, and darted at the prisoner with the |
| utmost fury. It would undoubtedly have gone hard with Kit's face, but |
| that the wary constable, foreseeing her design, drew him aside at the |
| critical moment, and thus placed Mr Chuckster in circumstances of some |
| jeopardy; for that gentleman happening to be next the object of Miss |
| Brass's wrath; and rage being, like love and fortune, blind; was |
| pounced upon by the fair enslaver, and had a false collar plucked up by |
| the roots, and his hair very much dishevelled, before the exertions of |
| the company could make her sensible of her mistake. |
| |
| The constable, taking warning by this desperate attack, and thinking |
| perhaps that it would be more satisfactory to the ends of justice if |
| the prisoner were taken before a magistrate, whole, rather than in |
| small pieces, led him back to the hackney-coach without more ado, and |
| moreover insisted on Miss Brass becoming an outside passenger; to which |
| proposal the charming creature, after a little angry discussion, |
| yielded her consent; and so took her brother Sampson's place upon the |
| box: Mr Brass with some reluctance agreeing to occupy her seat inside. |
| These arrangements perfected, they drove to the justice-room with all |
| speed, followed by the notary and his two friends in another coach. Mr |
| Chuckster alone was left behind--greatly to his indignation; for he |
| held the evidence he could have given, relative to Kit's returning to |
| work out the shilling, to be so very material as bearing upon his |
| hypocritical and designing character, that he considered its |
| suppression little better than a compromise of felony. |
| |
| At the justice-room, they found the single gentleman, who had gone |
| straight there, and was expecting them with desperate impatience. But |
| not fifty single gentlemen rolled into one could have helped poor Kit, |
| who in half an hour afterwards was committed for trial, and was assured |
| by a friendly officer on his way to prison that there was no occasion |
| to be cast down, for the sessions would soon be on, and he would, in |
| all likelihood, get his little affair disposed of, and be comfortably |
| transported, in less than a fortnight. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 61 |
| |
| Let moralists and philosophers say what they may, it is very |
| questionable whether a guilty man would have felt half as much misery |
| that night, as Kit did, being innocent. The world, being in the |
| constant commission of vast quantities of injustice, is a little too |
| apt to comfort itself with the idea that if the victim of its falsehood |
| and malice have a clear conscience, he cannot fail to be sustained |
| under his trials, and somehow or other to come right at last; 'in which |
| case,' say they who have hunted him down, '--though we certainly don't |
| expect it--nobody will be better pleased than we.' Whereas, the world |
| would do well to reflect, that injustice is in itself, to every |
| generous and properly constituted mind, an injury, of all others the |
| most insufferable, the most torturing, and the most hard to bear; and |
| that many clear consciences have gone to their account elsewhere, and |
| many sound hearts have broken, because of this very reason; the |
| knowledge of their own deserts only aggravating their sufferings, and |
| rendering them the less endurable. |
| |
| The world, however, was not in fault in Kit's case. But Kit was |
| innocent; and knowing this, and feeling that his best friends deemed |
| him guilty--that Mr and Mrs Garland would look upon him as a monster of |
| ingratitude--that Barbara would associate him with all that was bad and |
| criminal--that the pony would consider himself forsaken--and that even |
| his own mother might perhaps yield to the strong appearances against |
| him, and believe him to be the wretch he seemed--knowing and feeling |
| all this, he experienced, at first, an agony of mind which no words can |
| describe, and walked up and down the little cell in which he was locked |
| up for the night, almost beside himself with grief. |
| |
| Even when the violence of these emotions had in some degree subsided, |
| and he was beginning to grow more calm, there came into his mind a new |
| thought, the anguish of which was scarcely less. The child--the bright |
| star of the simple fellow's life--she, who always came back upon him |
| like a beautiful dream--who had made the poorest part of his existence, |
| the happiest and best--who had ever been so gentle, and considerate, |
| and good--if she were ever to hear of this, what would she think! As |
| this idea occurred to him, the walls of the prison seemed to melt away, |
| and the old place to reveal itself in their stead, as it was wont to be |
| on winter nights--the fireside, the little supper table, the old man's |
| hat, and coat, and stick--the half-opened door, leading to her little |
| room--they were all there. And Nell herself was there, and he--both |
| laughing heartily as they had often done--and when he had got as far as |
| this, Kit could go no farther, but flung himself upon his poor bedstead |
| and wept. |
| |
| It was a long night, which seemed as though it would have no end; but |
| he slept too, and dreamed--always of being at liberty, and roving |
| about, now with one person and now with another, but ever with a vague |
| dread of being recalled to prison; not that prison, but one which was |
| in itself a dim idea--not of a place, but of a care and sorrow: of |
| something oppressive and always present, and yet impossible to define. |
| At last, the morning dawned, and there was the jail itself--cold, |
| black, and dreary, and very real indeed. |
| |
| He was left to himself, |
| however, and there was comfort in that. He had liberty to walk in a |
| small paved yard at a certain hour, and learnt from the turnkey, who |
| came to unlock his cell and show him where to wash, that there was a |
| regular time for visiting, every day, and that if any of his friends |
| came to see him, he would be fetched down to the grate. When he had |
| given him this information, and a tin porringer containing his |
| breakfast, the man locked him up again; and went clattering along the |
| stone passage, opening and shutting a great many other doors, and |
| raising numberless loud echoes which resounded through the building for |
| a long time, as if they were in prison too, and unable to get out. |
| |
| This turnkey had given him to understand that he was lodged, like some |
| few others in the jail, apart from the mass of prisoners; because he |
| was not supposed to be utterly depraved and irreclaimable, and had |
| never occupied apartments in that mansion before. Kit was thankful for |
| this indulgence, and sat reading the church catechism very attentively |
| (though he had known it by heart from a little child), until he heard |
| the key in the lock, and the man entered again. |
| |
| 'Now then,' he said, 'come on!' |
| |
| 'Where to, Sir?' asked Kit. |
| |
| The man contented himself by briefly replying 'Wisitors;' and taking |
| him by the arm in exactly the same manner as the constable had done the |
| day before, led him, through several winding ways and strong gates, |
| into a passage, where he placed him at a grating and turned upon his |
| heel. Beyond this grating, at the distance of about four or five feet, |
| was another exactly like it. In the space between, sat a turnkey |
| reading a newspaper, and outside the further railing, Kit saw, with a |
| palpitating heart, his mother with the baby in her arms; Barbara's |
| mother with her never-failing umbrella; and poor little Jacob, staring |
| in with all his might, as though he were looking for the bird, or the |
| wild beast, and thought the men were mere accidents with whom the bars |
| could have no possible concern. |
| |
| But when little Jacob saw his brother, and, thrusting his arms between |
| the rails to hug him, found that he came no nearer, but still stood |
| afar off with his head resting on the arm by which he held to one of |
| the bars, he began to cry most piteously; whereupon, Kit's mother and |
| Barbara's mother, who had restrained themselves as much as possible, |
| burst out sobbing and weeping afresh. Poor Kit could not help joining |
| them, and not one of them could speak a word. During this melancholy |
| pause, the turnkey read his newspaper with a waggish look (he had |
| evidently got among the facetious paragraphs) until, happening to take |
| his eyes off for an instant, as if to get by dint of contemplation at |
| the very marrow of some joke of a deeper sort than the rest, it |
| appeared to occur to him, for the first time, that somebody was crying. |
| |
| 'Now, ladies, ladies,' he said, looking round with surprise, 'I'd |
| advise you not to waste time like this. It's allowanced here, you |
| know. You mustn't let that child make that noise either. It's against |
| all rules.' |
| |
| 'I'm his poor mother, sir,'--sobbed Mrs Nubbles, curtseying humbly, |
| 'and this is his brother, sir. Oh dear me, dear me!' |
| |
| 'Well!' replied the turnkey, folding his paper on his knee, so as to |
| get with greater convenience at the top of the next column. 'It can't |
| be helped you know. He ain't the only one in the same fix. You |
| mustn't make a noise about it!' |
| |
| With that he went on reading. The man was not unnaturally cruel or |
| hard-hearted. He had come to look upon felony as a kind of disorder, |
| like the scarlet fever or erysipelas: some people had it--some |
| hadn't--just as it might be. |
| |
| 'Oh! my darling Kit,' said his mother, whom Barbara's mother had |
| charitably relieved of the baby, 'that I should see my poor boy here!' |
| |
| 'You don't believe that I did what they accuse me of, mother dear?' |
| cried Kit, in a choking voice. |
| |
| 'I believe it!' exclaimed the poor woman, 'I that never knew you tell a |
| lie, or do a bad action from your cradle--that have never had a |
| moment's sorrow on your account, except it was the poor meals that you |
| have taken with such good humour and content, that I forgot how little |
| there was, when I thought how kind and thoughtful you were, though you |
| were but a child!--I believe it of the son that's been a comfort to me |
| from the hour of his birth until this time, and that I never laid down |
| one night in anger with! I believe it of you Kit!--' |
| |
| 'Why then, thank God!' said Kit, clutching the bars with an earnestness |
| that shook them, 'and I can bear it, mother! Come what may, I shall |
| always have one drop of happiness in my heart when I think that you |
| said that.' |
| |
| At this the poor woman fell a-crying again, and Barbara's mother too. |
| And little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time resolved |
| themselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit couldn't go out |
| for a walk if he wanted, and that there were no birds, lions, tigers or |
| other natural curiosities behind those bars--nothing indeed, but a |
| caged brother--added his tears to theirs with as little noise as |
| possible. |
| |
| Kit's mother, drying her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul, more |
| than she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket, and |
| submissively addressed herself to the turnkey, saying, would he please |
| to listen to her for a minute? The turnkey, being in the very crisis |
| and passion of a joke, motioned to her with his hand to keep silent one |
| minute longer, for her life. Nor did he remove his hand into its |
| former posture, but kept it in the same warning attitude until he had |
| finished the paragraph, when he paused for a few seconds, with a smile |
| upon his face, as who should say 'this editor is a comical blade--a |
| funny dog,' and then asked her what she wanted. |
| |
| 'I have brought him a little something to eat,' said the good woman. |
| 'If you please, Sir, might he have it?' |
| |
| 'Yes,--he may have it. There's no rule against that. Give it to me |
| when you go, and I'll take care he has it.' |
| |
| 'No, but if you please sir--don't be angry with me sir--I am his |
| mother, and you had a mother once--if I might only see him eat a little |
| bit, I should go away, so much more satisfied that he was all |
| comfortable.' |
| |
| And again the tears of Kit's mother burst forth, and of Barbara's |
| mother, and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it was crowing and |
| laughing with its might--under the idea, apparently, that the whole |
| scene had been invented and got up for its particular satisfaction. |
| |
| The turnkey looked as if he thought the request a strange one and |
| rather out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid down his paper, |
| and coming round where Kit's mother stood, took the basket from her, |
| and after inspecting its contents, handed it to Kit, and went back to |
| his place. It may be easily conceived that the prisoner had no great |
| appetite, but he sat down on the ground, and ate as hard as he could, |
| while, at every morsel he put into his mouth, his mother sobbed and |
| wept afresh, though with a softened grief that bespoke the satisfaction |
| the sight afforded her. |
| |
| While he was thus engaged, Kit made some anxious inquiries about his |
| employers, and whether they had expressed any opinion concerning him; |
| but all he could learn was that Mr Abel had himself broken the |
| intelligence to his mother, with great kindness and delicacy, late on |
| the previous night, but had himself expressed no opinion of his |
| innocence or guilt. Kit was on the point of mustering courage to ask |
| Barbara's mother about Barbara, when the turnkey who had conducted him, |
| reappeared, a second turnkey appeared behind his visitors, and the |
| third turnkey with the newspaper cried 'Time's up!'--adding in the same |
| breath 'Now for the next party!' and then plunging deep into his |
| newspaper again. Kit was taken off in an instant, with a blessing from |
| his mother, and a scream from little Jacob, ringing in his ears. As he |
| was crossing the next yard with the basket in his hand, under the |
| guidance of his former conductor, another officer called to them to |
| stop, and came up with a pint pot of porter in his hand. |
| |
| 'This is Christopher Nubbles, isn't it, that come in last night for |
| felony?' said the man. |
| |
| His comrade replied that this was the chicken in question. |
| |
| 'Then here's your beer,' said the other man to Christopher. 'What are |
| you looking at? There an't a discharge in it.' |
| |
| 'I beg your pardon,' said Kit. 'Who sent it me?' |
| |
| 'Why, your friend,' replied the man. 'You're to have it every day, he |
| says. And so you will, if he pays for it.' |
| |
| 'My friend!' repeated Kit. |
| |
| 'You're all abroad, seemingly,' returned the other man. 'There's his |
| letter. Take hold!' |
| |
| Kit took it, and when he was locked up again, read as follows. |
| |
| 'Drink of this cup, you'll find there's a spell in its every drop |
| 'gainst the ills of mortality. Talk of the cordial that sparkled for |
| Helen! HER cup was a fiction, but this is reality (Barclay and |
| Co.'s).--If they ever send it in a flat state, complain to the |
| Governor. Yours, R. S.' |
| |
| 'R. S.!' said Kit, after some consideration. 'It must be Mr Richard |
| Swiveller. Well, its very kind of him, and I thank him heartily.' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 62 |
| |
| A faint light, twinkling from the window of the counting-house on |
| Quilp's wharf, and looking inflamed and red through the night-fog, as |
| though it suffered from it like an eye, forewarned Mr Sampson Brass, as |
| he approached the wooden cabin with a cautious step, that the excellent |
| proprietor, his esteemed client, was inside, and probably waiting with |
| his accustomed patience and sweetness of temper the fulfilment of the |
| appointment which now brought Mr Brass within his fair domain. |
| |
| 'A treacherous place to pick one's steps in, of a dark night,' muttered |
| Sampson, as he stumbled for the twentieth time over some stray lumber, |
| and limped in pain. 'I believe that boy strews the ground differently |
| every day, on purpose to bruise and maim one; unless his master does it |
| with his own hands, which is more than likely. I hate to come to this |
| place without Sally. She's more protection than a dozen men.' |
| |
| As he paid this compliment to the merit of the absent charmer, Mr Brass |
| came to a halt; looking doubtfully towards the light, and over his |
| shoulder. |
| |
| 'What's he about, I wonder?' murmured the lawyer, standing on tiptoe, |
| and endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of what was passing inside, which |
| at that distance was impossible--'drinking, I suppose,--making himself |
| more fiery and furious, and heating his malice and mischievousness till |
| they boil. I'm always afraid to come here by myself, when his |
| account's a pretty large one. I don't believe he'd mind throttling me, |
| and dropping me softly into the river when the tide was at its |
| strongest, any more than he'd mind killing a rat--indeed I don't know |
| whether he wouldn't consider it a pleasant joke. Hark! Now he's |
| singing!' |
| |
| Mr Quilp was certainly entertaining himself with vocal exercise, but it |
| was rather a kind of chant than a song; being a monotonous repetition |
| of one sentence in a very rapid manner, with a long stress upon the |
| last word, which he swelled into a dismal roar. Nor did the burden of |
| this performance bear any reference to love, or war, or wine, or |
| loyalty, or any other, the standard topics of song, but to a subject |
| not often set to music or generally known in ballads; the words being |
| these:--'The worthy magistrate, after remarking that the prisoner would |
| find some difficulty in persuading a jury to believe his tale, |
| committed him to take his trial at the approaching sessions; and |
| directed the customary recognisances to be entered into for the |
| pros-e-cu-tion.' |
| |
| Every time he came to this concluding word, and had exhausted all |
| possible stress upon it, Quilp burst into a shriek of laughter, and |
| began again. |
| |
| 'He's dreadfully imprudent,' muttered Brass, after he had listened to |
| two or three repetitions of the chant. 'Horribly imprudent. I wish he |
| was dumb. I wish he was deaf. I wish he was blind. Hang him,' cried |
| Brass, as the chant began again. 'I wish he was dead!' |
| |
| Giving utterance to these friendly aspirations in behalf of his client, |
| Mr Sampson composed his face into its usual state of smoothness, and |
| waiting until the shriek came again and was dying away, went up to the |
| wooden house, and knocked at the door. |
| |
| 'Come in!' cried the dwarf. |
| |
| 'How do you do to-night sir?' said Sampson, peeping in. 'Ha ha ha! |
| How do you do sir? Oh dear me, how very whimsical! Amazingly |
| whimsical to be sure!' |
| |
| 'Come in, you fool!' returned the dwarf, 'and don't stand there shaking |
| your head and showing your teeth. Come in, you false witness, you |
| perjurer, you suborner of evidence, come in!' |
| |
| 'He has the richest humour!' cried Brass, shutting the door behind him; |
| 'the most amazing vein of comicality! But isn't it rather injudicious, |
| sir--?' |
| |
| 'What?' demanded Quilp. 'What, Judas?' |
| |
| 'Judas!' cried Brass. 'He has such extraordinary spirits! His humour |
| is so extremely playful! Judas! Oh yes--dear me, how very good! Ha |
| ha ha!' |
| |
| All this time, Sampson was rubbing his hands, and staring, with |
| ludicrous surprise and dismay, at a great, goggle-eyed, blunt-nosed |
| figure-head of some old ship, which was reared up against the wall in a |
| corner near the stove, looking like a goblin or hideous idol whom the |
| dwarf worshipped. A mass of timber on its head, carved into the dim |
| and distant semblance of a cocked hat, together with a representation |
| of a star on the left breast and epaulettes on the shoulders, denoted |
| that it was intended for the effigy of some famous admiral; but, |
| without those helps, any observer might have supposed it the authentic |
| portrait of a distinguished merman, or great sea-monster. Being |
| originally much too large for the apartment which it was now employed |
| to decorate, it had been sawn short off at the waist. Even in this |
| state it reached from floor to ceiling; and thrusting itself forward, |
| with that excessively wide-awake aspect, and air of somewhat obtrusive |
| politeness, by which figure-heads are usually characterised, seemed to |
| reduce everything else to mere pigmy proportions. |
| |
| 'Do you know it?' said the dwarf, watching Sampson's eyes. 'Do you see |
| the likeness?' |
| |
| 'Eh?' said Brass, holding his head on one side, and throwing it a |
| little back, as connoisseurs do. 'Now I look at it again, I fancy I |
| see a--yes, there certainly is something in the smile that reminds me |
| of--and yet upon my word I--' |
| |
| Now, the fact was, that Sampson, having never seen anything in the |
| smallest degree resembling this substantial phantom, was much |
| perplexed; being uncertain whether Mr Quilp considered it like himself, |
| and had therefore bought it for a family portrait; or whether he was |
| pleased to consider it as the likeness of some enemy. He was not very |
| long in doubt; for, while he was surveying it with that knowing look |
| which people assume when they are contemplating for the first time |
| portraits which they ought to recognise but don't, the dwarf threw down |
| the newspaper from which he had been chanting the words already quoted, |
| and seizing a rusty iron bar, which he used in lieu of poker, dealt the |
| figure such a stroke on the nose that it rocked again. |
| |
| 'Is it like Kit--is it his picture, his image, his very self?' cried |
| the dwarf, aiming a shower of blows at the insensible countenance, and |
| covering it with deep dimples. 'Is it the exact model and counterpart |
| of the dog--is it--is it--is it?' And with every repetition of the |
| question, he battered the great image, until the perspiration streamed |
| down his face with the violence of the exercise. |
| |
| Although this might have been a very comical thing to look at from a |
| secure gallery, as a bull-fight is found to be a comfortable spectacle |
| by those who are not in the arena, and a house on fire is better than a |
| play to people who don't live near it, there was something in the |
| earnestness of Mr Quilp's manner which made his legal adviser feel that |
| the counting-house was a little too small, and a deal too lonely, for |
| the complete enjoyment of these humours. Therefore, he stood as far |
| off as he could, while the dwarf was thus engaged; whimpering out but |
| feeble applause; and when Quilp left off and sat down again from pure |
| exhaustion, approached with more obsequiousness than ever. |
| |
| 'Excellent indeed!' cried Brass. 'He he! Oh, very good Sir. You |
| know,' said Sampson, looking round as if in appeal to the bruised |
| animal, 'he's quite a remarkable man--quite!' |
| |
| 'Sit down,' said the dwarf. 'I bought the dog yesterday. I've been |
| screwing gimlets into him, and sticking forks in his eyes, and cutting |
| my name on him. I mean to burn him at last.' |
| |
| 'Ha ha!' cried Brass. 'Extremely entertaining, indeed!' |
| |
| 'Come here,' said Quilp, beckoning him to draw near. 'What's |
| injudicious, hey?' |
| |
| 'Nothing Sir--nothing. Scarcely worth mentioning Sir; but I thought |
| that song--admirably humorous in itself you know--was perhaps rather--' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Quilp, 'rather what?' |
| |
| 'Just bordering, or as one may say remotely verging, upon the confines |
| of injudiciousness perhaps, Sir,' returned Brass, looking timidly at |
| the dwarf's cunning eyes, which were turned towards the fire and |
| reflected its red light. |
| |
| 'Why?' inquired Quilp, without looking up. |
| |
| 'Why, you know, sir,' returned Brass, venturing to be more familiar: |
| '--the fact is, sir, that any allusion to these little combinings |
| together, of friends, for objects in themselves extremely laudable, but |
| which the law terms conspiracies, are--you take me, sir?--best kept |
| snug and among friends, you know.' |
| |
| 'Eh!' said Quilp, looking up with a perfectly vacant countenance. |
| 'What do you mean?' |
| |
| 'Cautious, exceedingly cautious, very right and proper!' cried Brass, |
| nodding his head. 'Mum, sir, even here--my meaning, sir, exactly.' |
| |
| 'YOUR meaning exactly, you brazen scarecrow,--what's your meaning?' |
| retorted Quilp. 'Why do you talk to me of combining together? Do I |
| combine? Do I know anything about your combinings?' |
| |
| 'No no, sir--certainly not; not by any means,' returned Brass. |
| |
| 'If you so wink and nod at me,' said the dwarf, looking about him as if |
| for his poker, 'I'll spoil the expression of your monkey's face, I |
| will.' |
| |
| 'Don't put yourself out of the way I beg, sir,' rejoined Brass, |
| checking himself with great alacrity. 'You're quite right, sir, quite |
| right. I shouldn't have mentioned the subject, sir. It's much better |
| not to. You're quite right, sir. Let us change it, if you please. |
| You were asking, sir, Sally told me, about our lodger. He has not |
| returned, sir.' |
| |
| 'No?' said Quilp, heating some rum in a little saucepan, and watching |
| it to prevent its boiling over. 'Why not?' |
| |
| 'Why, sir,' returned Brass, 'he--dear me, Mr Quilp, sir--' |
| |
| 'What's the matter?' said the dwarf, stopping his hand in the act of |
| carrying the saucepan to his mouth. |
| |
| 'You have forgotten the water, sir,' said Brass. 'And--excuse me, |
| sir--but it's burning hot.' |
| |
| Deigning no other than a practical answer to this remonstrance, Mr |
| Quilp raised the hot saucepan to his lips, and deliberately drank off |
| all the spirit it contained, which might have been in quantity about |
| half a pint, and had been but a moment before, when he took it off the |
| fire, bubbling and hissing fiercely. Having swallowed this gentle |
| stimulant, and shaken his fist at the admiral, he bade Mr Brass proceed. |
| |
| 'But first,' said Quilp, with his accustomed grin, 'have a drop |
| yourself--a nice drop--a good, warm, fiery drop.' |
| |
| 'Why, sir,' replied Brass, 'if there was such a thing as a mouthful of |
| water that could be got without trouble--' |
| |
| 'There's no such thing to be had here,' cried the dwarf. 'Water for |
| lawyers! Melted lead and brimstone, you mean, nice hot blistering |
| pitch and tar--that's the thing for them--eh, Brass, eh?' |
| |
| 'Ha ha ha!' laughed Mr Brass. 'Oh very biting! and yet it's like being |
| tickled--there's a pleasure in it too, sir!' |
| |
| 'Drink that,' said the dwarf, who had by this time heated some more. |
| 'Toss it off, don't leave any heeltap, scorch your throat and be happy!' |
| |
| The wretched Sampson took a few short sips of the liquor, which |
| immediately distilled itself into burning tears, and in that form came |
| rolling down his cheeks into the pipkin again, turning the colour of |
| his face and eyelids to a deep red, and giving rise to a violent fit of |
| coughing, in the midst of which he was still heard to declare, with the |
| constancy of a martyr, that it was 'beautiful indeed!' While he was |
| yet in unspeakable agonies, the dwarf renewed their conversation. |
| |
| 'The lodger,' said Quilp, '--what about him?' |
| |
| 'He is still, sir,' |
| returned Brass, with intervals of coughing, 'stopping with the Garland |
| family. He has only been home once, Sir, since the day of the |
| examination of that culprit. He informed Mr Richard, sir, that he |
| couldn't bear the house after what had taken place; that he was |
| wretched in it; and that he looked upon himself as being in a certain |
| kind of way the cause of the occurrence.--A very excellent lodger Sir. |
| I hope we may not lose him.' |
| |
| 'Yah!' cried the dwarf. 'Never thinking of anybody but yourself--why |
| don't you retrench then--scrape up, hoard, economise, eh?' |
| |
| 'Why, sir,' replied Brass, 'upon my word I think Sarah's as good an |
| economiser as any going. I do indeed, Mr Quilp.' |
| |
| 'Moisten your clay, wet the other eye, drink, man!' cried the dwarf. |
| 'You took a clerk to oblige me.' |
| |
| 'Delighted, sir, I am sure, at any time,' replied Sampson. 'Yes, Sir, |
| I did.' |
| |
| 'Then now you may discharge him,' said Quilp. 'There's a means of |
| retrenchment for you at once.' |
| |
| 'Discharge Mr Richard, sir?' cried Brass. |
| |
| 'Have you more than one clerk, you parrot, that you ask the question? |
| Yes.' |
| |
| 'Upon my word, Sir,' said Brass, 'I wasn't prepared for this--' |
| |
| 'How could you be?' sneered the dwarf, 'when I wasn't? How often am I |
| to tell you that I brought him to you that I might always have my eye |
| on him and know where he was--and that I had a plot, a scheme, a little |
| quiet piece of enjoyment afoot, of which the very cream and essence |
| was, that this old man and grandchild (who have sunk underground I |
| think) should be, while he and his precious friend believed them rich, |
| in reality as poor as frozen rats?' |
| |
| 'I quite understood that, sir,' rejoined Brass. 'Thoroughly.' |
| |
| 'Well, Sir,' retorted Quilp, 'and do you understand now, that they're |
| not poor--that they can't be, if they have such men as your lodger |
| searching for them, and scouring the country far and wide?' |
| |
| 'Of course I do, Sir,' said Sampson. |
| |
| 'Of course you do,' retorted the dwarf, viciously snapping at his |
| words. 'Of course do you understand then, that it's no matter what |
| comes of this fellow? of course do you understand that for any other |
| purpose he's no man for me, nor for you?' |
| |
| 'I have frequently said to Sarah, sir,' returned Brass, 'that he was of |
| no use at all in the business. You can't put any confidence in him, |
| sir. If you'll believe me I've found that fellow, in the commonest |
| little matters of the office that have been trusted to him, blurting |
| out the truth, though expressly cautioned. The aggravation of that |
| chap sir, has exceeded anything you can imagine, it has indeed. |
| Nothing but the respect and obligation I owe to you, sir--' |
| |
| As it was plain that Sampson was bent on a complimentary harangue, |
| unless he received a timely interruption, Mr Quilp politely tapped him |
| on the crown of his head with the little saucepan, and requested that |
| he would be so obliging as to hold his peace. |
| |
| 'Practical, sir, practical,' said Brass, rubbing the place and smiling; |
| 'but still extremely pleasant--immensely so!' |
| |
| 'Hearken to me, will you?' returned Quilp, 'or I'll be a little more |
| pleasant, presently. There's no chance of his comrade and friend |
| returning. The scamp has been obliged to fly, as I learn, for some |
| knavery, and has found his way abroad. Let him rot there.' |
| |
| 'Certainly, sir. Quite proper.--Forcible!' cried Brass, glancing at |
| the admiral again, as if he made a third in company. 'Extremely |
| forcible!' |
| |
| 'I hate him,' said Quilp between his teeth, 'and have always hated him, |
| for family reasons. Besides, he was an intractable ruffian; otherwise |
| he would have been of use. This fellow is pigeon-hearted and |
| light-headed. I don't want him any longer. Let him hang or |
| drown--starve--go to the devil.' |
| |
| 'By all means, sir,' returned Brass. 'When would you wish him, sir, |
| to--ha, ha!--to make that little excursion?' |
| |
| 'When this trial's over,' said Quilp. 'As soon as that's ended, send |
| him about his business.' |
| |
| 'It shall be done, sir,' returned Brass; 'by all means. It will be |
| rather a blow to Sarah, sir, but she has all her feelings under |
| control. Ah, Mr Quilp, I often think, sir, if it had only pleased |
| Providence to bring you and Sarah together, in earlier life, what |
| blessed results would have flowed from such a union! You never saw our |
| dear father, sir?--A charming gentleman. Sarah was his pride and joy, |
| sir. He would have closed his eyes in bliss, would Foxey, Mr Quilp, if |
| he could have found her such a partner. You esteem her, sir?' |
| |
| 'I love her,' croaked the dwarf. |
| |
| 'You're very good, Sir,' returned Brass, 'I am sure. Is there any |
| other order, sir, that I can take a note of, besides this little matter |
| of Mr Richard?' |
| |
| 'None,' replied the dwarf, seizing the saucepan. 'Let us drink the |
| lovely Sarah.' |
| |
| 'If we could do it in something, sir, that wasn't quite boiling,' |
| suggested Brass humbly, 'perhaps it would be better. I think it will |
| be more agreeable to Sarah's feelings, when she comes to hear from me |
| of the honour you have done her, if she learns it was in liquor rather |
| cooler than the last, Sir.' |
| |
| But to these remonstrances, Mr Quilp turned a deaf ear. Sampson Brass, |
| who was, by this time, anything but sober, being compelled to take |
| further draughts of the same strong bowl, found that, instead of at all |
| contributing to his recovery, they had the novel effect of making the |
| counting-house spin round and round with extreme velocity, and causing |
| the floor and ceiling to heave in a very distressing manner. After a |
| brief stupor, he awoke to a consciousness of being partly under the |
| table and partly under the grate. This position not being the most |
| comfortable one he could have chosen for himself, he managed to stagger |
| to his feet, and, holding on by the admiral, looked round for his host. |
| |
| Mr Brass's first impression was, that his host was gone and had left |
| him there alone--perhaps locked him in for the night. A strong smell |
| of tobacco, however, suggested a new train of ideas, he looked upward, |
| and saw that the dwarf was smoking in his hammock. |
| |
| 'Good bye, Sir,' cried Brass faintly. 'Good bye, Sir.' |
| |
| 'Won't you stop all night?' said the dwarf, peeping out. 'Do stop all |
| night!' |
| |
| 'I couldn't indeed, Sir,' replied Brass, who was almost dead from |
| nausea and the closeness of the room. 'If you'd have the goodness to |
| show me a light, so that I may see my way across the yard, sir--' |
| |
| Quilp was out in an instant; not with his legs first, or his head |
| first, or his arms first, but bodily--altogether. |
| |
| 'To be sure,' he said, taking up a lantern, which was now the only |
| light in the place. 'Be careful how you go, my dear friend. Be sure |
| to pick your way among the timber, for all the rusty nails are upwards. |
| There's a dog in the lane. He bit a man last night, and a woman the |
| night before, and last Tuesday he killed a child--but that was in play. |
| Don't go too near him.' |
| |
| 'Which side of the road is he, sir?' asked Brass, in great dismay. |
| |
| 'He lives on the right hand,' said Quilp, 'but sometimes he hides on |
| the left, ready for a spring. He's uncertain in that respect. Mind |
| you take care of yourself. I'll never forgive you if you don't. |
| There's the light out--never mind--you know the way--straight on!' |
| Quilp had slily shaded the light by holding it against his breast, and |
| now stood chuckling and shaking from head to foot in a rapture of |
| delight, as he heard the lawyer stumbling up the yard, and now and then |
| falling heavily down. At length, however, he got quit of the place, |
| and was out of hearing. |
| |
| The dwarf shut himself up again, and sprang once more into his hammock. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 63 |
| |
| The professional gentleman who had given Kit the consolatory piece of |
| information relative to the settlement of his trifle of business at the |
| Old Bailey, and the probability of its being very soon disposed of, |
| turned out to be quite correct in his prognostications. In eight days' |
| time, the sessions commenced. In one day afterwards, the Grand Jury |
| found a True Bill against Christopher Nubbles for felony; and in two |
| days from that finding, the aforesaid Christopher Nubbles was called |
| upon to plead Guilty or Not Guilty to an Indictment for that he the |
| said Christopher did feloniously abstract and steal from the |
| dwelling-house and office of one Sampson Brass, gentleman, one Bank |
| Note for Five Pounds issued by the Governor and Company of the Bank of |
| England; in contravention of the Statutes in that case made and |
| provided, and against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his |
| crown and dignity. |
| |
| To this indictment, Christopher Nubbles, in a low and trembling voice, |
| pleaded Not Guilty; and here, let those who are in the habit of forming |
| hasty judgments from appearances, and who would have had Christopher, |
| if innocent, speak out very strong and loud, observe, that confinement |
| and anxiety will subdue the stoutest hearts; and that to one who has |
| been close shut up, though it be only for ten or eleven days, seeing |
| but stone walls and a very few stony faces, the sudden entrance into a |
| great hall filled with life, is a rather disconcerting and startling |
| circumstance. To this, it must be added, that life in a wig is to a |
| large class of people much more terrifying and impressive than life |
| with its own head of hair; and if, in addition to these considerations, |
| there be taken into account Kit's natural emotion on seeing the two Mr |
| Garlands and the little Notary looking on with pale and anxious faces, |
| it will perhaps seem matter of no very great wonder that he should have |
| been rather out of sorts, and unable to make himself quite at home. |
| |
| Although he had never seen either of the Mr Garlands, or Mr Witherden, |
| since the time of his arrest, he had been given to understand that they |
| had employed counsel for him. Therefore, when one of the gentlemen in |
| wigs got up and said 'I am for the prisoner, my Lord,' Kit made him a |
| bow; and when another gentleman in a wig got up and said 'And I'm |
| against him, my Lord,' Kit trembled very much, and bowed to him too. |
| And didn't he hope in his own heart that his gentleman was a match for |
| the other gentleman, and would make him ashamed of himself in no time! |
| |
| The gentleman who was against him had to speak first, and being in |
| dreadfully good spirits (for he had, in the last trial, very nearly |
| procured the acquittal of a young gentleman who had had the misfortune |
| to murder his father) he spoke up, you may be sure; telling the jury |
| that if they acquitted this prisoner they must expect to suffer no less |
| pangs and agonies than he had told the other jury they would certainly |
| undergo if they convicted that prisoner. And when he had told them all |
| about the case, and that he had never known a worse case, he stopped a |
| little while, like a man who had something terrible to tell them, and |
| then said that he understood an attempt would be made by his learned |
| friend (and here he looked sideways at Kit's gentleman) to impeach the |
| testimony of those immaculate witnesses whom he should call before |
| them; but he did hope and trust that his learned friend would have a |
| greater respect and veneration for the character of the prosecutor; |
| than whom, as he well knew, there did not exist, and never had existed, |
| a more honourable member of that most honourable profession to which he |
| was attached. And then he said, did the jury know Bevis Marks? And if |
| they did know Bevis Marks (as he trusted for their own character, they |
| did) did they know the historical and elevating associations connected |
| with that most remarkable spot? Did they believe that a man like Brass |
| could reside in a place like Bevis Marks, and not be a virtuous and |
| most upright character? And when he had said a great deal to them on |
| this point, he remembered that it was an insult to their understandings |
| to make any remarks on what they must have felt so strongly without |
| him, and therefore called Sampson Brass into the witness-box, |
| straightway. |
| |
| Then up comes Mr Brass, very brisk and fresh; and, having bowed to the |
| judge, like a man who has had the pleasure of seeing him before, and |
| who hopes he has been pretty well since their last meeting, folds his |
| arms, and looks at his gentleman as much as to say 'Here I am--full of |
| evidence--Tap me!' And the gentleman does tap him presently, and with |
| great discretion too; drawing off the evidence by little and little, |
| and making it run quite clear and bright in the eyes of all present. |
| Then, Kit's gentleman takes him in hand, but can make nothing of him; |
| and after a great many very long questions and very short answers, Mr |
| Sampson Brass goes down in glory. |
| |
| To him succeeds Sarah, who in like manner is easy to be managed by Mr |
| Brass's gentleman, but very obdurate to Kit's. In short, Kit's |
| gentleman can get nothing out of her but a repetition of what she has |
| said before (only a little stronger this time, as against his client), |
| and therefore lets her go, in some confusion. Then, Mr Brass's |
| gentleman calls Richard Swiveller, and Richard Swiveller appears |
| accordingly. |
| |
| Now, Mr Brass's gentleman has it whispered in his ear that this witness |
| is disposed to be friendly to the prisoner--which, to say the truth, he |
| is rather glad to hear, as his strength is considered to lie in what is |
| familiarly termed badgering. Wherefore, he begins by requesting the |
| officer to be quite sure that this witness kisses the book, then goes |
| to work at him, tooth and nail. |
| |
| 'Mr Swiveller,' says this gentleman to Dick, when he had told his tale |
| with evident reluctance and a desire to make the best of it: 'Pray sir, |
| where did you dine yesterday?'--'Where did I dine yesterday?'--'Aye, |
| sir, where did you dine yesterday--was it near here, sir?'--'Oh to be |
| sure--yes--just over the way.'--'To be sure. Yes. Just over the way,' |
| repeats Mr Brass's gentleman, with a glance at the court.--'Alone, |
| sir?'--'I beg your pardon,' says Mr Swiveller, who has not caught the |
| question--'Alone, sir?' repeats Mr Brass's gentleman in a voice of |
| thunder, 'did you dine alone? Did you treat anybody, sir? Come!'--'Oh |
| yes, to be sure--yes, I did,' says Mr Swiveller with a smile.--'Have |
| the goodness to banish a levity, sir, which is very ill-suited to the |
| place in which you stand (though perhaps you have reason to be thankful |
| that it's only that place),' says Mr Brass's gentleman, with a nod of |
| the head, insinuating that the dock is Mr Swiveller's legitimate sphere |
| of action; 'and attend to me. You were waiting about here, yesterday, |
| in expectation that this trial was coming on. You dined over the way. |
| You treated somebody. Now, was that somebody brother to the prisoner |
| at the bar?'--Mr Swiveller is proceeding to explain--'Yes or No, sir,' |
| cries Mr Brass's gentleman--'But will you allow me--'--'Yes or No, |
| sir'--'Yes it was, but--'--'Yes it was,' cries the gentleman, taking |
| him up short. 'And a very pretty witness YOU are!' |
| |
| Down sits Mr Brass's gentleman. Kit's gentleman, not knowing how the |
| matter really stands, is afraid to pursue the subject. Richard |
| Swiveller retires abashed. Judge, jury and spectators have visions of |
| his lounging about, with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute |
| young fellow of six feet high. The reality is, little Jacob, with the |
| calves of his legs exposed to the open air, and himself tied up in a |
| shawl. Nobody knows the truth; everybody believes a falsehood; and all |
| because of the ingenuity of Mr Brass's gentleman. |
| |
| Then come the witnesses to character, and here Mr Brass's gentleman |
| shines again. It turns out that Mr Garland has had no character with |
| Kit, no recommendation of him but from his own mother, and that he was |
| suddenly dismissed by his former master for unknown reasons. 'Really |
| Mr Garland,' says Mr Brass's gentleman, 'for a person who has arrived |
| at your time of life, you are, to say the least of it, singularly |
| indiscreet, I think.' The jury think so too, and find Kit guilty. He |
| is taken off, humbly protesting his innocence. The spectators settle |
| themselves in their places with renewed attention, for there are |
| several female witnesses to be examined in the next case, and it has |
| been rumoured that Mr Brass's gentleman will make great fun in |
| cross-examining them for the prisoner. |
| |
| Kit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs, |
| accompanied by Barbara's mother (who, honest soul! never does anything |
| but cry, and hold the baby), and a sad interview ensues. The |
| newspaper-reading turnkey has told them all. He don't think it will be |
| transportation for life, because there's time to prove the good |
| character yet, and that is sure to serve him. He wonders what he did |
| it for. 'He never did it!' cries Kit's mother. 'Well,' says the |
| turnkey, 'I won't contradict you. It's all one, now, whether he did it |
| or not.' |
| |
| Kit's mother can reach his hand through the bars, and she clasps it-- |
| God, and those to whom he has given such tenderness, only know in how |
| much agony. Kit bids her keep a good heart, and, under pretence of |
| having the children lifted up to kiss him, prays Barbara's mother in a |
| whisper to take her home. |
| |
| 'Some friend will rise up for us, mother,' cried Kit, 'I am sure. If |
| not now, before long. My innocence will come out, mother, and I shall |
| be brought back again; I feel confidence in that. You must teach |
| little Jacob and the baby how all this was, for if they thought I had |
| ever been dishonest, when they grew old enough to understand, it would |
| break my heart to know it, if I was thousands of miles away.--Oh! is |
| there no good gentleman here, who will take care of her!' |
| |
| The hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon the |
| earth, insensible. Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the |
| bystanders out of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in one arm |
| after the manner of theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to Kit, and |
| commanding Barbara's mother to follow, for he has a coach waiting, |
| bears her swiftly off. |
| |
| Well; Richard took her home. And what astonishing absurdities in the |
| way of quotation from song and poem he perpetrated on the road, no man |
| knows. He took her home, and stayed till she was recovered; and, |
| having no money to pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis Marks, |
| bidding the driver (for it was Saturday night) wait at the door while |
| he went in for 'change.' |
| |
| 'Mr Richard, sir,' said Brass cheerfully, 'Good evening!' |
| |
| Monstrous as Kit's tale had appeared, at first, Mr Richard did, that |
| night, half suspect his affable employer of some deep villany. Perhaps |
| it was but the misery he had just witnessed which gave his careless |
| nature this impulse; but, be that as it may, it was very strong upon |
| him, and he said in as few words as possible, what he wanted. |
| |
| 'Money?' cried Brass, taking out his purse. 'Ha ha! To be sure, Mr |
| Richard, to be sure, sir. All men must live. You haven't change for a |
| five-pound note, have you sir?' |
| |
| 'No,' returned Dick, shortly. |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Brass, 'here's the very sum. That saves trouble. You're |
| very welcome I'm sure.--Mr Richard, sir--' |
| |
| Dick, who had by this time reached the door, turned round. |
| |
| 'You needn't,' said Brass, 'trouble yourself to come back any more, |
| Sir.' |
| |
| 'Eh?' |
| |
| 'You see, Mr Richard,' said Brass, thrusting his hands in his pockets, |
| and rocking himself to and fro on his stool, 'the fact is, that a man |
| of your abilities is lost, Sir, quite lost, in our dry and mouldy line. |
| It's terrible drudgery--shocking. I should say, now, that the stage, |
| or the--or the army, Mr Richard--or something very superior in the |
| licensed victualling way--was the kind of thing that would call out the |
| genius of such a man as you. I hope you'll look in to see us now and |
| then. Sally, Sir, will be delighted I'm sure. She's extremely sorry |
| to lose you, Mr Richard, but a sense of her duty to society reconciles |
| her. An amazing creature that, sir! You'll find the money quite |
| correct, I think. There's a cracked window sir, but I've not made any |
| deduction on that account. Whenever we part with friends, Mr Richard, |
| let us part liberally. A delightful sentiment, sir!' |
| |
| To all these rambling observations, Mr Swiveller answered not one word, |
| but, returning for the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight round |
| ball: looking steadily at Brass meanwhile as if he had some intention |
| of bowling him down with it. He only took it under his arm, however, |
| and marched out of the office in profound silence. When he had closed |
| the door, he re-opened it, stared in again for a few moments with the |
| same portentous gravity, and nodding his head once, in a slow and |
| ghost-like manner, vanished. |
| |
| He paid the coachman, and turned his back on Bevis Marks, big with |
| great designs for the comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit |
| himself. |
| |
| But the lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures as Richard |
| Swiveller, are extremely precarious. The spiritual excitement of the |
| last fortnight, working upon a system affected in no slight degree by |
| the spirituous excitement of some years, proved a little too much for |
| him. That very night, Mr Richard was seized with an alarming illness, |
| and in twenty-four hours was stricken with a raging fever. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 64 |
| |
| Tossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented by a fierce |
| thirst which nothing could appease; unable to find, in any change of |
| posture, a moment's peace or ease; and rambling, ever, through deserts |
| of thought where there was no resting-place, no sight or sound |
| suggestive of refreshment or repose, nothing but a dull eternal |
| weariness, with no change but the restless shiftings of his miserable |
| body, and the weary wandering of his mind, constant still to one |
| ever-present anxiety--to a sense of something left undone, of some |
| fearful obstacle to be surmounted, of some carking care that would not |
| be driven away, and which haunted the distempered brain, now in this |
| form, now in that, always shadowy and dim, but recognisable for the |
| same phantom in every shape it took: darkening every vision like an |
| evil conscience, and making slumber horrible--in these slow tortures |
| of his dread disease, the unfortunate Richard lay wasting and consuming |
| inch by inch, until, at last, when he seemed to fight and struggle to |
| rise up, and to be held down by devils, he sank into a deep sleep, and |
| dreamed no more. |
| |
| He awoke. With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than sleep |
| itself, he began gradually to remember something of these sufferings, |
| and to think what a long night it had been, and whether he had not been |
| delirious twice or thrice. Happening, in the midst of these |
| cogitations, to raise his hand, he was astonished to find how heavy it |
| seemed, and yet how thin and light it really was. Still, he felt |
| indifferent and happy; and having no curiosity to pursue the subject, |
| remained in the same waking slumber until his attention was attracted |
| by a cough. This made him doubt whether he had locked his door last |
| night, and feel a little surprised at having a companion in the room. |
| Still, he lacked energy to follow up this train of thought; and |
| unconsciously fell, in a luxury of repose, to staring at some green |
| stripes on the bed-furniture, and associating them strangely with |
| patches of fresh turf, while the yellow ground between made |
| gravel-walks, and so helped out a long perspective of trim gardens. |
| |
| He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, and had quite lost |
| himself among them indeed, when he heard the cough once more. The |
| walks shrunk into stripes again at the sound, and raising himself a |
| little in the bed, and holding the curtain open with one hand, he |
| looked out. |
| |
| The same room certainly, and still by candlelight; but with what |
| unbounded astonishment did he see all those bottles, and basins, and |
| articles of linen airing by the fire, and such-like furniture of a sick |
| chamber--all very clean and neat, but all quite different from anything |
| he had left there, when he went to bed! The atmosphere, too, filled |
| with a cool smell of herbs and vinegar; the floor newly sprinkled; |
| the--the what? The Marchioness? |
| |
| Yes; playing cribbage with herself at the table. There she sat, intent |
| upon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner as if she |
| feared to disturb him--shuffling the cards, cutting, dealing, playing, |
| counting, pegging--going through all the mysteries of cribbage as if |
| she had been in full practice from her cradle! Mr Swiveller |
| contemplated these things for a short time, and suffering the curtain |
| to fall into its former position, laid his head on the pillow again. |
| |
| 'I'm dreaming,' thought Richard, 'that's clear. When I went to bed, my |
| hands were not made of egg-shells; and now I can almost see through |
| 'em. If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian |
| Night, instead of a London one. But I have no doubt I'm asleep. Not |
| the least.' |
| |
| Here the small servant had another cough. |
| |
| 'Very remarkable!' thought Mr Swiveller. 'I never dreamt such a real |
| cough as that before. I don't know, indeed, that I ever dreamt either |
| a cough or a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of dreams |
| that one never does. There's another--and another--I say!--I'm |
| dreaming rather fast!' |
| |
| For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr Swiveller, after some |
| reflection, pinched himself in the arm. |
| |
| 'Queerer still!' he thought. 'I came to bed rather plump than |
| otherwise, and now there's nothing to lay hold of. I'll take another |
| survey.' |
| |
| The result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr Swiveller |
| that the objects by which he was surrounded were real, and that he saw |
| them, beyond all question, with his waking eyes. |
| |
| 'It's an Arabian Night; that's what it is,' said Richard. 'I'm in |
| Damascus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having had a |
| wager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young man alive, |
| and the worthiest to be the husband of the Princess of China, has |
| brought me away, room and all, to compare us together. Perhaps,' said |
| Mr Swiveller, turning languidly round on his pillow, and looking on |
| that side of his bed which was next the wall, 'the Princess may be |
| still--No, she's gone.' |
| |
| Not feeling quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking it |
| to be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and doubt, Mr |
| Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take the first |
| favourable opportunity of addressing his companion. An occasion |
| presented itself. The Marchioness dealt, turned up a knave, and |
| omitted to take the usual advantage; upon which Mr Swiveller called out |
| as loud as he could--'Two for his heels!' |
| |
| The Marchioness jumped up quickly and clapped her hands. 'Arabian |
| Night, certainly,' thought Mr Swiveller; 'they always clap their hands |
| instead of ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black slaves, |
| with jars of jewels on their heads!' |
| |
| It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy; for |
| directly afterward she began to laugh, and then to cry; declaring, not |
| in choice Arabic but in familiar English, that she was 'so glad, she |
| didn't know what to do.' |
| |
| 'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, thoughtfully, 'be pleased to draw |
| nearer. First of all, will you have the goodness to inform me where I |
| shall find my voice; and secondly, what has become of my flesh?' |
| |
| The Marchioness only shook her head mournfully, and cried again; |
| whereupon Mr Swiveller (being very weak) felt his own eyes affected |
| likewise. |
| |
| 'I begin to infer, from your manner, and these appearances, |
| Marchioness,' said Richard after a pause, and smiling with a trembling |
| lip, 'that I have been ill.' |
| |
| 'You just have!' replied the small servant, wiping her eyes. 'And |
| haven't you been a talking nonsense!' |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Dick. 'Very ill, Marchioness, have I been?' |
| |
| 'Dead, all but,' replied the small servant. 'I never thought you'd get |
| better. Thank Heaven you have!' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller was silent for a long while. By and bye, he began to talk |
| again, inquiring how long he had been there. |
| |
| 'Three weeks to-morrow,' replied the servant. |
| |
| 'Three what?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Weeks,' returned the Marchioness emphatically; 'three long, slow |
| weeks.' |
| |
| The bare thought of having been in such extremity, caused Richard to |
| fall into another silence, and to lie flat down again, at his full |
| length. The Marchioness, having arranged the bed-clothes more |
| comfortably, and felt that his hands and forehead were quite cool--a |
| discovery that filled her with delight--cried a little more, and then |
| applied herself to getting tea ready, and making some thin dry toast. |
| |
| While she was thus engaged, Mr Swiveller looked on with a grateful |
| heart, very much astonished to see how thoroughly at home she made |
| herself, and attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally Brass, |
| whom, in his own mind, he could not thank enough. When the Marchioness |
| had finished her toasting, she spread a clean cloth on a tray, and |
| brought him some crisp slices and a great basin of weak tea, with which |
| (she said) the doctor had left word he might refresh himself when he |
| awoke. She propped him up with pillows, if not as skilfully as if she |
| had been a professional nurse all her life, at least as tenderly; and |
| looked on with unutterable satisfaction while the patient--stopping |
| every now and then to shake her by the hand--took his poor meal with an |
| appetite and relish, which the greatest dainties of the earth, under |
| any other circumstances, would have failed to provoke. Having cleared |
| away, and disposed everything comfortably about him again, she sat down |
| at the table to take her own tea. |
| |
| 'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, 'how's Sally?' |
| |
| The small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very |
| uttermost entanglement of slyness, and shook her head. |
| |
| 'What, haven't you seen her lately?' said Dick. |
| |
| 'Seen her!' cried the small servant. 'Bless you, I've run away!' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller immediately laid himself down again quite flat, and so |
| remained for about five minutes. By slow degrees he resumed his |
| sitting posture after that lapse of time, and inquired: |
| |
| 'And where do you live, Marchioness?' |
| |
| 'Live!' cried the small servant. 'Here!' |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Mr Swiveller. |
| |
| And with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly as if he had been |
| shot. Thus he remained, motionless and bereft of speech, until she had |
| finished her meal, put everything in its place, and swept the hearth; |
| when he motioned her to bring a chair to the bedside, and, being |
| propped up again, opened a farther conversation. |
| |
| 'And so,' said Dick, 'you have run away?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said the Marchioness, 'and they've been a tizing of me.' |
| |
| 'Been--I beg your pardon,' said Dick--'what have they been doing?' |
| |
| 'Been a tizing of me--tizing you know--in the newspapers,' rejoined the |
| Marchioness. |
| |
| 'Aye, aye,' said Dick, 'advertising?' |
| |
| The small servant nodded, and winked. Her eyes were so red with waking |
| and crying, that the Tragic Muse might have winked with greater |
| consistency. And so Dick felt. |
| |
| 'Tell me,' said he, 'how it was that you thought of coming here.' |
| |
| 'Why, you see,' returned the Marchioness, 'when you was gone, I hadn't |
| any friend at all, because the lodger he never come back, and I didn't |
| know where either him or you was to be found, you know. But one |
| morning, when I was--' |
| |
| 'Was near a keyhole?' suggested Mr Swiveller, observing that she |
| faltered. |
| |
| 'Well then,' said the small servant, nodding; 'when I was near the |
| office keyhole--as you see me through, you know--I heard somebody |
| saying that she lived here, and was the lady whose house you lodged at, |
| and that you was took very bad, and wouldn't nobody come and take care |
| of you. Mr Brass, he says, "It's no business of mine," he says; and |
| Miss Sally, she says, "He's a funny chap, but it's no business of |
| mine;" and the lady went away, and slammed the door to, when she went |
| out, I can tell you. So I run away that night, and come here, and told |
| 'em you was my brother, and they believed me, and I've been here ever |
| since.' |
| |
| 'This poor little Marchioness has been wearing herself to death!' cried |
| Dick. |
| |
| 'No I haven't,' she returned, 'not a bit of it. Don't you mind about |
| me. I like sitting up, and I've often had a sleep, bless you, in one |
| of them chairs. But if you could have seen how you tried to jump out |
| o' winder, and if you could have heard how you used to keep on singing |
| and making speeches, you wouldn't have believed it--I'm so glad you're |
| better, Mr Liverer.' |
| |
| 'Liverer indeed!' said Dick thoughtfully. 'It's well I am a liverer. |
| I strongly suspect I should have died, Marchioness, but for you.' |
| |
| At this point, Mr Swiveller took the small servant's hand in his again, |
| and being, as we have seen, but poorly, might in struggling to express |
| his thanks have made his eyes as red as hers, but that she quickly |
| changed the theme by making him lie down, and urging him to keep very |
| quiet. |
| |
| 'The doctor,' she told him, 'said you was to be kept quite still, and |
| there was to be no noise nor nothing. Now, take a rest, and then we'll |
| talk again. I'll sit by you, you know. If you shut your eyes, perhaps |
| you'll go to sleep. You'll be all the better for it, if you do.' |
| |
| The Marchioness, in saying these words, brought a little table to the |
| bedside, took her seat at it, and began to work away at the concoction |
| of some cooling drink, with the address of a score of chemists. |
| Richard Swiveller being indeed fatigued, fell into a slumber, and |
| waking in about half an hour, inquired what time it was. |
| |
| 'Just gone half after six,' replied his small friend, helping him to |
| sit up again. |
| |
| 'Marchioness,' said Richard, passing his hand over his forehead and |
| turning suddenly round, as though the subject but that moment flashed |
| upon him, 'what has become of Kit?' |
| |
| He had been sentenced to transportation for a great many years, she |
| said. |
| |
| 'Has he gone?' asked Dick--'his mother--how is she,--what has become of |
| her?' |
| |
| His nurse shook her head, and answered that she knew nothing about |
| them. 'But, if I thought,' said she, very slowly, 'that you'd keep |
| quiet, and not put yourself into another fever, I could tell you--but |
| I won't now.' |
| |
| 'Yes, do,' said Dick. 'It will amuse me.' |
| |
| 'Oh! would it though!' rejoined the small servant, with a horrified |
| look. 'I know better than that. Wait till you're better and then I'll |
| tell you.' |
| |
| |
| Dick looked very earnestly at his little friend: and his eyes, being |
| large and hollow from illness, assisted the expression so much, that |
| she was quite frightened, and besought him not to think any more about |
| it. What had already fallen from her, however, had not only piqued his |
| curiosity, but seriously alarmed him, wherefore he urged her to tell |
| him the worst at once. |
| |
| 'Oh there's no worst in it,' said the small servant. 'It hasn't |
| anything to do with you.' |
| |
| 'Has it anything to do with--is it anything you heard through chinks or |
| keyholes--and that you were not intended to hear?' asked Dick, in a |
| breathless state. |
| |
| 'Yes,' replied the small servant. |
| |
| 'In--in Bevis Marks?' pursued Dick hastily. 'Conversations between |
| Brass and Sally?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' cried the small servant again. |
| |
| Richard Swiveller thrust his lank arm out of bed, and, gripping her by |
| the wrist and drawing her close to him, bade her out with it, and |
| freely too, or he would not answer for the consequences; being wholly |
| unable to endure the state of excitement and expectation. She, seeing |
| that he was greatly agitated, and that the effects of postponing her |
| revelation might be much more injurious than any that were likely to |
| ensue from its being made at once, promised compliance, on condition |
| that the patient kept himself perfectly quiet, and abstained from |
| starting up or tossing about. |
| |
| 'But if you begin to do that,' said the small servant, 'I'll leave off. |
| And so I tell you.' |
| |
| 'You can't leave off, till you have gone on,' said Dick. 'And do go |
| on, there's a darling. Speak, sister, speak. Pretty Polly say. Oh |
| tell me when, and tell me where, pray Marchioness, I beseech you!' |
| |
| Unable to resist these fervent adjurations, which Richard Swiveller |
| poured out as passionately as if they had been of the most solemn and |
| tremendous nature, his companion spoke thus: |
| |
| 'Well! Before I run away, I used to sleep in the kitchen--where we |
| played cards, you know. Miss Sally used to keep the key of the kitchen |
| door in her pocket, and she always come down at night to take away the |
| candle and rake out the fire. When she had done that, she left me to |
| go to bed in the dark, locked the door on the outside, put the key in |
| her pocket again, and kept me locked up till she come down in the |
| morning--very early I can tell you--and let me out. I was terrible |
| afraid of being kept like this, because if there was a fire, I thought |
| they might forget me and only take care of themselves you know. So, |
| whenever I see an old rusty key anywhere, I picked it up and tried if |
| it would fit the door, and at last I found in the dust cellar a key |
| that did fit it.' |
| |
| Here, Mr Swiveller made a violent demonstration with his legs. But the |
| small servant immediately pausing in her talk, he subsided again, and |
| pleading a momentary forgetfulness of their compact, entreated her to |
| proceed. |
| |
| 'They kept me very short,' said the small servant. 'Oh! you can't |
| think how short they kept me! So I used to come out at night after |
| they'd gone to bed, and feel about in the dark for bits of biscuit, or |
| sangwitches that you'd left in the office, or even pieces of orange |
| peel to put into cold water and make believe it was wine. Did you ever |
| taste orange peel and water?' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller replied that he had never tasted that ardent liquor; and |
| once more urged his friend to resume the thread of her narrative. |
| |
| 'If you make believe very much, it's quite nice,' said the small |
| servant, 'but if you don't, you know, it seems as if it would bear a |
| little more seasoning, certainly. Well, sometimes I used to come out |
| after they'd gone to bed, and sometimes before, you know; and one or |
| two nights before there was all that precious noise in the office--when |
| the young man was took, I mean--I come upstairs while Mr Brass and Miss |
| Sally was a-sittin' at the office fire; and I tell you the truth, that |
| I come to listen again, about the key of the safe.' |
| |
| Mr Swiveller gathered up his knees so as to make a great cone of the |
| bedclothes, and conveyed into his countenance an expression of the |
| utmost concern. But the small servant pausing, and holding up her |
| finger, the cone gently disappeared, though the look of concern did not. |
| |
| 'There was him and her,' said the small servant, 'a-sittin' by the |
| fire, and talking softly together. Mr Brass says to Miss Sally, "Upon |
| my word," he says "it's a dangerous thing, and it might get us into a |
| world of trouble, and I don't half like it." She says--you know her |
| way--she says, "You're the chickenest-hearted, feeblest, faintest man I |
| ever see, and I think," she says, "that I ought to have been the |
| brother, and you the sister. Isn't Quilp," she says, "our principal |
| support?" "He certainly is," says Mr Brass, "And an't we," she says, |
| "constantly ruining somebody or other in the way of business?" "We |
| certainly are," says Mr Brass. "Then does it signify," she says, |
| "about ruining this Kit when Quilp desires it?" "It certainly does not |
| signify," says Mr Brass. Then they whispered and laughed for a long |
| time about there being no danger if it was well done, and then Mr Brass |
| pulls out his pocket-book, and says, "Well," he says, "here it |
| is--Quilp's own five-pound note. We'll agree that way, then," he says. |
| "Kit's coming to-morrow morning, I know. While he's up-stairs, you'll |
| get out of the way, and I'll clear off Mr Richard. Having Kit alone, |
| I'll hold him in conversation, and put this property in his hat. I'll |
| manage so, besides," he says, "that Mr Richard shall find it there, and |
| be the evidence. And if that don't get Christopher out of Mr Quilp's |
| way, and satisfy Mr Quilp's grudges," he says, "the Devil's in it." |
| Miss Sally laughed, and said that was the plan, and as they seemed to |
| be moving away, and I was afraid to stop any longer, I went down-stairs |
| again.--There!' |
| |
| The small servant had gradually worked herself into as much agitation |
| as Mr Swiveller, and therefore made no effort to restrain him when he |
| sat up in bed and hastily demanded whether this story had been told to |
| anybody. |
| |
| 'How could it be?' replied his nurse. 'I was almost afraid to think |
| about it, and hoped the young man would be let off. When I heard 'em |
| say they had found him guilty of what he didn't do, you was gone, and |
| so was the lodger--though I think I should have been frightened to tell |
| him, even if he'd been there. Ever since I come here, you've been out |
| of your senses, and what would have been the good of telling you then?' |
| |
| 'Marchioness,' said Mr Swiveller, plucking off his nightcap and |
| flinging it to the other end of the room; 'if you'll do me the favour |
| to retire for a few minutes and see what sort of a night it is, I'll |
| get up.' |
| |
| 'You mustn't think of such a thing,' cried his nurse. |
| |
| 'I must indeed,' said the patient, looking round the room. |
| 'Whereabouts are my clothes?' |
| |
| 'Oh, I'm so glad--you haven't got any,' replied the Marchioness. |
| |
| 'Ma'am!' said Mr Swiveller, in great astonishment. |
| |
| 'I've been obliged to sell them, every one, to get the things that was |
| ordered for you. But don't take on about that,' urged the Marchioness, |
| as Dick fell back upon his pillow. 'You're too weak to stand, indeed.' |
| |
| 'I am afraid,' said Richard dolefully, 'that you're right. What ought |
| I to do! what is to be done!' |
| |
| It naturally occurred to him on very little reflection, that the first |
| step to take would be to communicate with one of the Mr Garlands |
| instantly. It was very possible that Mr Abel had not yet left the |
| office. In as little time as it takes to tell it, the small servant |
| had the address in pencil on a piece of paper; a verbal description of |
| father and son, which would enable her to recognise either, without |
| difficulty; and a special caution to be shy of Mr Chuckster, in |
| consequence of that gentleman's known antipathy to Kit. Armed with |
| these slender powers, she hurried away, commissioned to bring either |
| old Mr Garland or Mr Abel, bodily, to that apartment. |
| |
| 'I suppose,' said Dick, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped into |
| the room again, to make sure that he was comfortable, 'I suppose |
| there's nothing left--not so much as a waistcoat even?' |
| |
| 'No, nothing.' |
| |
| 'It's embarrassing,' said Mr Swiveller, 'in case of fire--even an |
| umbrella would be something--but you did quite right, dear Marchioness. |
| I should have died without you!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 65 |
| |
| It was well for the small servant that she was of a sharp, quick |
| nature, or the consequence of sending her out alone, from the very |
| neighbourhood in which it was most dangerous for her to appear, would |
| probably have been the restoration of Miss Sally Brass to the supreme |
| authority over her person. Not unmindful of the risk she ran, however, |
| the Marchioness no sooner left the house than she dived into the first |
| dark by-way that presented itself, and, without any present reference |
| to the point to which her journey tended, made it her first business to |
| put two good miles of brick and mortar between herself and Bevis Marks. |
| |
| When she had accomplished this object, she began to shape her course |
| for the notary's office, to which--shrewdly inquiring of apple-women |
| and oyster-sellers at street-corners, rather than in lighted shops or |
| of well-dressed people, at the hazard of attracting notice--she easily |
| procured a direction. As carrier-pigeons, on being first let loose in |
| a strange place, beat the air at random for a short time before darting |
| off towards the spot for which they are designed, so did the |
| Marchioness flutter round and round until she believed herself in |
| safety, and then bear swiftly down upon the port for which she was |
| bound. |
| |
| She had no bonnet--nothing on her head but a great cap which, in some |
| old time, had been worn by Sally Brass, whose taste in head-dresses |
| was, as we have seen, peculiar--and her speed was rather retarded than |
| assisted by her shoes, which, being extremely large and slipshod, flew |
| off every now and then, and were difficult to find again, among the |
| crowd of passengers. Indeed, the poor little creature experienced so |
| much trouble and delay from having to grope for these articles of dress |
| in mud and kennel, and suffered in these researches so much jostling, |
| pushing, squeezing and bandying from hand to hand, that by the time she |
| reached the street in which the notary lived, she was fairly worn out |
| and exhausted, and could not refrain from tears. |
| |
| But to have got there at last was a great comfort, especially as there |
| were lights still burning in the office window, and therefore some hope |
| that she was not too late. So the Marchioness dried her eyes with the |
| backs of her hands, and, stealing softly up the steps, peeped in |
| through the glass door. |
| |
| Mr Chuckster was standing behind the lid of his desk, making such |
| preparations towards finishing off for the night, as pulling down his |
| wristbands and pulling up his shirt-collar, settling his neck more |
| gracefully in his stock, and secretly arranging his whiskers by the aid |
| of a little triangular bit of looking glass. Before the ashes of the |
| fire stood two gentlemen, one of whom she rightly judged to be the |
| notary, and the other (who was buttoning his great-coat and was |
| evidently about to depart immediately) Mr Abel Garland. |
| |
| Having made these observations, the small spy took counsel with |
| herself, and resolved to wait in the street until Mr Abel came out, as |
| there would be then no fear of having to speak before Mr Chuckster, and |
| less difficulty in delivering her message. With this purpose she |
| slipped out again, and crossing the road, sat down upon a door-step |
| just opposite. |
| |
| She had hardly taken this position, when there came dancing up the |
| street, with his legs all wrong, and his head everywhere by turns, a |
| pony. This pony had a little phaeton behind him, and a man in it; but |
| neither man nor phaeton seemed to embarrass him in the least, as he |
| reared up on his hind legs, or stopped, or went on, or stood still |
| again, or backed, or went side-ways, without the smallest reference to |
| them--just as the fancy seized him, and as if he were the freest animal |
| in creation. When they came to the notary's door, the man called out |
| in a very respectful manner, 'Woa then'--intimating that if he might |
| venture to express a wish, it would be that they stopped there. The |
| pony made a moment's pause; but, as if it occurred to him that to stop |
| when he was required might be to establish an inconvenient and |
| dangerous precedent, he immediately started off again, rattled at a |
| fast trot to the street corner, wheeled round, came back, and then |
| stopped of his own accord. |
| |
| 'Oh! you're a precious creatur!' said the man--who didn't venture by |
| the bye to come out in his true colours until he was safe on the |
| pavement. 'I wish I had the rewarding of you--I do.' |
| |
| 'What has he been doing?' said Mr Abel, tying a shawl round his neck as |
| he came down the steps. |
| |
| 'He's enough to fret a man's heart out,' replied the hostler. 'He is |
| the most wicious rascal--Woa then, will you?' |
| |
| 'He'll never stand still, if you call him names,' said Mr Abel, getting |
| in, and taking the reins. 'He's a very good fellow if you know how to |
| manage him. This is the first time he has been out, this long while, |
| for he has lost his old driver and wouldn't stir for anybody else, till |
| this morning. The lamps are right, are they? That's well. Be here to |
| take him to-morrow, if you please. Good night!' |
| |
| And, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his own invention, the |
| pony yielded to Mr Abel's mildness, and trotted gently off. |
| |
| All this time Mr Chuckster had been standing at the door, and the small |
| servant had been afraid to approach. She had nothing for it now, |
| therefore, but to run after the chaise, and to call to Mr Abel to stop. |
| Being out of breath when she came up with it, she was unable to make |
| him hear. The case was desperate; for the pony was quickening his |
| pace. The Marchioness hung on behind for a few moments, and, feeling |
| that she could go no farther, and must soon yield, clambered by a |
| vigorous effort into the hinder seat, and in so doing lost one of the |
| shoes for ever. |
| |
| Mr Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite enough to |
| do to keep the pony going, went jogging on without looking round: |
| little dreaming of the strange figure that was close behind him, until |
| the Marchioness, having in some degree recovered her breath, and the |
| loss of her shoe, and the novelty of her position, uttered close into |
| his ear, the words--'I say, Sir'-- |
| |
| He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried, |
| with some trepidation, 'God bless me, what is this!' |
| |
| 'Don't be frightened, Sir,' replied the still panting messenger. 'Oh |
| I've run such a way after you!' |
| |
| 'What do you want with me?' said Mr Abel. 'How did you come here?' |
| |
| 'I got in behind,' replied the Marchioness. 'Oh please drive on, |
| sir--don't stop--and go towards the City, will you? And oh do please |
| make haste, because it's of consequence. There's somebody wants to see |
| you there. He sent me to say would you come directly, and that he |
| knowed all about Kit, and could save him yet, and prove his innocence.' |
| |
| 'What do you tell me, child?' |
| |
| 'The truth, upon my word and honour I do. But please to drive on-- |
| quick, please! I've been such a time gone, he'll think I'm lost.' |
| |
| Mr Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward. The pony, impelled by |
| some secret sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a great pace, and |
| neither slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric performances, until |
| they arrived at the door of Mr Swiveller's lodging, where, marvellous |
| to relate, he consented to stop when Mr Abel checked him. |
| |
| 'See! It's the room up there,' said the Marchioness, pointing to one |
| where there was a faint light. 'Come!' |
| |
| Mr Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in |
| existence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard of |
| people being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and murdered, |
| under circumstances very like the present, and, for anything he knew to |
| the contrary, by guides very like the Marchioness. His regard for Kit, |
| however, overcame every other consideration. So, entrusting Whisker to |
| the charge of a man who was lingering hard by in expectation of the |
| job, he suffered his companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the |
| dark and narrow stairs. |
| |
| He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a |
| dimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed. |
| |
| 'An't it nice to see him lying there so quiet?' said his guide, in an |
| earnest whisper. 'Oh! you'd say it was, if you had only seen him two |
| or three days ago.' |
| |
| Mr Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from the |
| bed and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to understand his |
| reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached |
| the bed. As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in |
| the wasted face the features of Richard Swiveller. |
| |
| 'Why, how is this?' said Mr Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him. |
| 'You have been ill?' |
| |
| 'Very,' replied Dick. 'Nearly dead. You might have chanced to hear of |
| your Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you. |
| Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, Sir.' |
| |
| Mr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide, |
| and took a chair by the bedside. |
| |
| 'I have sent for you, Sir,' said Dick--'but she told you on what |
| account?' |
| |
| 'She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don't know what |
| to say or think,' replied Mr Abel. |
| |
| 'You'll say that presently,' retorted Dick. 'Marchioness, take a seat |
| on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me; |
| and be particular. Don't you speak another word, Sir.' |
| |
| The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before, |
| without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his eyes |
| fixed on his visitor during its narration, and directly it was |
| concluded, took the word again. |
| |
| 'You have heard it all, and you'll not forget it. I'm too giddy and |
| too queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what |
| to do. After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you |
| went home fast in your life, go home fast to-night. Don't stop to say |
| one word to me, but go. She will be found here, whenever she's wanted; |
| and as to me, you're pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two. |
| There are more reasons than one for that. Marchioness, a light! If |
| you lose another minute in looking at me, sir, I'll never forgive you!' |
| |
| Mr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an |
| instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him down-stairs, |
| reported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had |
| dashed away at full gallop. |
| |
| 'That's right!' said Dick; 'and hearty of him; and I honour him from |
| this time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you |
| must be tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as much good to |
| see you take it as if I might drink it myself.' |
| |
| Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to |
| indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr Swiveller's |
| extreme contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat |
| order, she wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug |
| before the fire. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, 'Strew then, oh |
| strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning blushes. Good |
| night, Marchioness!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 66 |
| |
| On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow |
| degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the |
| curtains, he espied Mr Garland, Mr Abel, the notary, and the single |
| gentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with |
| great earnestness but in very subdued tones--fearing, no doubt, to |
| disturb him. He lost no time in letting them know that this precaution |
| was unnecessary, and all four gentlemen directly approached his |
| bedside. Old Mr Garland was the first to stretch out his hand, and |
| inquire how he felt. |
| |
| Dick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as weak |
| as need be, when his little nurse, pushing the visitors aside and |
| pressing up to his pillow as if in jealousy of their interference, set |
| his breakfast before him, and insisted on his taking it before he |
| underwent the fatigue of speaking or of being spoken to. Mr Swiveller, |
| who was perfectly ravenous, and had had, all night, amazingly distinct |
| and consistent dreams of mutton chops, double stout, and similar |
| delicacies, felt even the weak tea and dry toast such irresistible |
| temptations, that he consented to eat and drink on one condition. |
| |
| 'And that is,' said Dick, returning the pressure of Mr Garland's hand, |
| 'that you answer me this question truly, before I take a bit or drop. |
| Is it too late?' |
| |
| 'For completing the work you began so well last night?' returned the |
| old gentleman. 'No. Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not, |
| I assure you.' |
| |
| Comforted by this intelligence, the patient applied himself to his food |
| with a keen appetite, though evidently not with a greater zest in the |
| eating than his nurse appeared to have in seeing him eat. The manner |
| of this meal was this:--Mr Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup |
| of tea in his left hand, and taking a bite or drink, as the case might |
| be, constantly kept, in his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight |
| locked; and to shake, or even to kiss this imprisoned hand, he would |
| stop every now and then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect |
| seriousness of intention, and the utmost gravity. As often as he put |
| anything into his mouth, whether for eating or drinking, the face of |
| the Marchioness lighted up beyond all description; but whenever he gave |
| her one or other of these tokens of recognition, her countenance became |
| overshadowed, and she began to sob. Now, whether she was in her |
| laughing joy, or in her crying one, the Marchioness could not help |
| turning to the visitors with an appealing look, which seemed to say, |
| 'You see this fellow--can I help this?'--and they, being thus made, as |
| it were, parties to the scene, as regularly answered by another look, |
| 'No. Certainly not.' This dumb-show, taking place during the whole |
| time of the invalid's breakfast, and the invalid himself, pale and |
| emaciated, performing no small part in the same, it may be fairly |
| questioned whether at any meal, where no word, good or bad, was spoken |
| from beginning to end, so much was expressed by gestures in themselves |
| so slight and unimportant. |
| |
| At length--and to say the truth before very long--Mr Swiveller had |
| despatched as much toast and tea as in that stage of his recovery it |
| was discreet to let him have. But the cares of the Marchioness did not |
| stop here; for, disappearing for an instant and presently returning |
| with a basin of fair water, she laved his face and hands, brushed his |
| hair, and in short made him as spruce and smart as anybody under such |
| circumstances could be made; and all this, in as brisk and |
| business-like a manner, as if he were a very little boy, and she his |
| grown-up nurse. To these various attentions, Mr Swiveller submitted in |
| a kind of grateful astonishment beyond the reach of language. When |
| they were at last brought to an end, and the Marchioness had withdrawn |
| into a distant corner to take her own poor breakfast (cold enough by |
| that time), he turned his face away for some few moments, and shook |
| hands heartily with the air. |
| |
| 'Gentlemen,' said Dick, rousing himself from this pause, and turning |
| round again, 'you'll excuse me. Men who have been brought so low as I |
| have been, are easily fatigued. I am fresh again now, and fit for |
| talking. We're short of chairs here, among other trifles, but if |
| you'll do me the favour to sit upon the bed--' |
| |
| 'What can we do for you?' said Mr Garland, kindly. |
| |
| 'If you could make the Marchioness yonder, a Marchioness, in real, |
| sober earnest,' returned Dick, 'I'd thank you to get it done off-hand. |
| But as you can't, and as the question is not what you will do for me, |
| but what you will do for somebody else who has a better claim upon you, |
| pray sir let me know what you intend doing.' |
| |
| 'It's chiefly on that account that we have come just now,' said the |
| single gentleman, 'for you will have another visitor presently. We |
| feared you would be anxious unless you knew from ourselves what steps |
| we intended to take, and therefore came to you before we stirred in the |
| matter.' |
| |
| 'Gentlemen,' returned Dick, 'I thank you. Anybody in the helpless |
| state that you see me in, is naturally anxious. Don't let me interrupt |
| you, sir.' |
| |
| 'Then, you see, my good fellow,' said the single gentleman, 'that while |
| we have no doubt whatever of the truth of this disclosure, which has so |
| providentially come to light--' |
| |
| 'Meaning hers?' said Dick, pointing towards the Marchioness. |
| |
| '--Meaning hers, of course. While we have no doubt of that, or that a |
| proper use of it would procure the poor lad's immediate pardon and |
| liberation, we have a great doubt whether it would, by itself, enable |
| us to reach Quilp, the chief agent in this villany. I should tell you |
| that this doubt has been confirmed into something very nearly |
| approaching certainty by the best opinions we have been enabled, in |
| this short space of time, to take upon the subject. You'll agree with |
| us, that to give him even the most distant chance of escape, if we |
| could help it, would be monstrous. You say with us, no doubt, if |
| somebody must escape, let it be any one but he.' |
| |
| 'Yes,' returned Dick, 'certainly. That is if somebody must--but upon |
| my word, I'm unwilling that anybody should. Since laws were made for |
| every degree, to curb vice in others as well as in me--and so forth |
| you know--doesn't it strike you in that light?' |
| |
| The single gentleman smiled as if the light in which Mr Swiveller had |
| put the question were not the clearest in the world, and proceeded to |
| explain that they contemplated proceeding by stratagem in the first |
| instance; and that their design was to endeavour to extort a confession |
| from the gentle Sarah. |
| |
| 'When she finds how much we know, and how we know it,' he said, 'and |
| that she is clearly compromised already, we are not without strong |
| hopes that we may be enabled through her means to punish the other two |
| effectually. If we could do that, she might go scot-free for aught I |
| cared.' |
| |
| Dick received this project in anything but a gracious manner, |
| representing with as much warmth as he was then capable of showing, |
| that they would find the old buck (meaning Sarah) more difficult to |
| manage than Quilp himself--that, for any tampering, terrifying, or |
| cajolery, she was a very unpromising and unyielding subject--that she |
| was of a kind of brass not easily melted or moulded into shape--in |
| short, that they were no match for her, and would be signally defeated. |
| But it was in vain to urge them to adopt some other course. The single |
| gentleman has been described as explaining their joint intentions, but |
| it should have been written that they all spoke together; that if any |
| one of them by chance held his peace for a moment, he stood gasping and |
| panting for an opportunity to strike in again: in a word, that they had |
| reached that pitch of impatience and anxiety where men can neither be |
| persuaded nor reasoned with; and that it would have been as easy to |
| turn the most impetuous wind that ever blew, as to prevail on them to |
| reconsider their determination. So, after telling Mr Swiveller how |
| they had not lost sight of Kit's mother and the children; how they had |
| never once even lost sight of Kit himself, but had been unremitting in |
| their endeavours to procure a mitigation of his sentence; how they had |
| been perfectly distracted between the strong proofs of his guilt, and |
| their own fading hopes of his innocence; and how he, Richard Swiveller, |
| might keep his mind at rest, for everything should be happily adjusted |
| between that time and night;--after telling him all this, and adding a |
| great many kind and cordial expressions, personal to himself, which it |
| is unnecessary to recite, Mr Garland, the notary, and the single |
| gentleman, took their leaves at a very critical time, or Richard |
| Swiveller must assuredly have been driven into another fever, whereof |
| the results might have been fatal. |
| |
| Mr Abel remained behind, very often looking at his watch and at the |
| room door, until Mr Swiveller was roused from a short nap, by the |
| setting-down on the landing-place outside, as from the shoulders of a |
| porter, of some giant load, which seemed to shake the house, and made |
| the little physic bottles on the mantel-shelf ring again. Directly |
| this sound reached his ears, Mr Abel started up, and hobbled to the |
| door, and opened it; and behold! there stood a strong man, with a |
| mighty hamper, which, being hauled into the room and presently |
| unpacked, disgorged such treasures as tea, and coffee, and wine, and |
| rusks, and oranges, and grapes, and fowls ready trussed for boiling, |
| and calves'-foot jelly, and arrow-root, and sago, and other delicate |
| restoratives, that the small servant, who had never thought it possible |
| that such things could be, except in shops, stood rooted to the spot in |
| her one shoe, with her mouth and eyes watering in unison, and her power |
| of speech quite gone. But, not so Mr Abel; or the strong man who |
| emptied the hamper, big as it was, in a twinkling; and not so the nice |
| old lady, who appeared so suddenly that she might have come out of the |
| hamper too (it was quite large enough), and who, bustling about on |
| tiptoe and without noise--now here, now there, now everywhere at |
| once--began to fill out the jelly in tea-cups, and to make chicken |
| broth in small saucepans, and to peel oranges for the sick man and to |
| cut them up in little pieces, and to ply the small servant with glasses |
| of wine and choice bits of everything until more substantial meat could |
| be prepared for her refreshment. The whole of which appearances were |
| so unexpected and bewildering, that Mr Swiveller, when he had taken two |
| oranges and a little jelly, and had seen the strong man walk off with |
| the empty basket, plainly leaving all that abundance for his use and |
| benefit, was fain to lie down and fall asleep again, from sheer |
| inability to entertain such wonders in his mind. |
| |
| Meanwhile, the single gentleman, the Notary, and Mr Garland, repaired |
| to a certain coffee-house, and from that place indited and sent a |
| letter to Miss Sally Brass, requesting her, in terms mysterious and |
| brief, to favour an unknown friend who wished to consult her, with her |
| company there, as speedily as possible. The communication performed |
| its errand so well, that within ten minutes of the messenger's return |
| and report of its delivery, Miss Brass herself was announced. |
| |
| 'Pray ma'am,' said the single gentleman, whom she found alone in the |
| room, 'take a chair.' |
| |
| Miss Brass sat herself down, in a very stiff and frigid state, and |
| seemed--as indeed she was--not a little astonished to find that the |
| lodger and her mysterious correspondent were one and the same person. |
| |
| 'You did not expect to see me?' said the single gentleman. |
| |
| 'I didn't think much about it,' returned the beauty. 'I supposed it |
| was business of some kind or other. If it's about the apartments, of |
| course you'll give my brother regular notice, you know--or money. |
| That's very easily settled. You're a responsible party, and in such a |
| case lawful money and lawful notice are pretty much the same.' |
| |
| 'I am obliged to you for your good opinion,' retorted the single |
| gentleman, 'and quite concur in these sentiments. But that is not the |
| subject on which I wish to speak with you.' |
| |
| 'Oh!' said Sally. 'Then just state the particulars, will you? I |
| suppose it's professional business?' |
| |
| 'Why, it is connected with the law, certainly.' |
| |
| 'Very well,' returned Miss Brass. 'My brother and I are just the same. |
| I can take any instructions, or give you any advice.' |
| |
| 'As there are other parties interested besides myself,' said the single |
| gentleman, rising and opening the door of an inner room, 'we had better |
| confer together. Miss Brass is here, gentlemen.' |
| |
| Mr Garland and the Notary walked in, looking very grave; and, drawing up |
| two chairs, one on each side of the single gentleman, formed a kind of |
| fence round the gentle Sarah, and penned her into a corner. Her brother |
| Sampson under such circumstances would certainly have evinced some |
| confusion or anxiety, but she--all composure--pulled out the tin box, |
| and calmly took a pinch of snuff. |
| |
| 'Miss Brass,' said the Notary, taking the word at this crisis, 'we |
| professional people understand each other, and, when we choose, can say |
| what we have to say, in very few words. You advertised a runaway |
| servant, the other day?' |
| |
| 'Well,' returned Miss Sally, with a sudden flush overspreading her |
| features, 'what of that?' |
| |
| 'She is found, ma'am,' said the Notary, pulling out his |
| pocket-handkerchief with a flourish. 'She is found.' |
| |
| 'Who found her?' demanded Sarah hastily. |
| |
| 'We did, ma'am--we three. Only last night, or you would have heard |
| from us before.' |
| |
| 'And now I have heard from you,' said Miss Brass, folding her arms as |
| though she were about to deny something to the death, 'what have you |
| got to say? Something you have got into your heads about her, of |
| course. Prove it, will you--that's all. Prove it. You have found |
| her, you say. I can tell you (if you don't know it) that you have |
| found the most artful, lying, pilfering, devilish little minx that was |
| ever born.--Have you got her here?' she added, looking sharply round. |
| |
| 'No, she is not here at present,' returned the Notary. 'But she is |
| quite safe.' |
| |
| 'Ha!' cried Sally, twitching a pinch of snuff out of her box, as |
| spitefully as if she were in the very act of wrenching off the small |
| servant's nose; 'she shall be safe enough from this time, I warrant |
| you.' |
| |
| 'I hope so,' replied the Notary. 'Did it occur to you for the first |
| time, when you found she had run away, that there were two keys to your |
| kitchen door?' |
| |
| Miss Sally took another pinch, and putting her head on one side, looked |
| at her questioner, with a curious kind of spasm about her mouth, but |
| with a cunning aspect of immense expression. |
| |
| 'Two keys,' repeated the Notary; 'one of which gave her the |
| opportunities of roaming through the house at nights when you supposed |
| her fast locked up, and of overhearing confidential |
| consultations--among others, that particular conference, to be |
| described to-day before a justice, which you will have an opportunity |
| of hearing her relate; that conference which you and Mr Brass held |
| together, on the night before that most unfortunate and innocent young |
| man was accused of robbery, by a horrible device of which I will only |
| say that it may be characterised by the epithets which you have applied |
| to this wretched little witness, and by a few stronger ones besides.' |
| |
| Sally took another pinch. Although her face was wonderfully composed, |
| it was apparent that she was wholly taken by surprise, and that what |
| she had expected to be taxed with, in connection with her small |
| servant, was something very different from this. |
| |
| 'Come, come, Miss Brass,' said the Notary, 'you have great command of |
| feature, but you feel, I see, that by a chance which never entered your |
| imagination, this base design is revealed, and two of its plotters must |
| be brought to justice. Now, you know the pains and penalties you are |
| liable to, and so I need not dilate upon them, but I have a proposal to |
| make to you. You have the honour of being sister to one of the |
| greatest scoundrels unhung; and, if I may venture to say so to a lady, |
| you are in every respect quite worthy of him. But connected with you |
| two is a third party, a villain of the name of Quilp, the prime mover |
| of the whole diabolical device, who I believe to be worse than either. |
| For his sake, Miss Brass, do us the favour to reveal the whole history |
| of this affair. Let me remind you that your doing so, at our instance, |
| will place you in a safe and comfortable position--your present one is |
| not desirable--and cannot injure your brother; for against him and you |
| we have quite sufficient evidence (as you hear) already. I will not |
| say to you that we suggest this course in mercy (for, to tell you the |
| truth, we do not entertain any regard for you), but it is a necessity |
| to which we are reduced, and I recommend it to you as a matter of the |
| very best policy. Time,' said Mr Witherden, pulling out his watch, 'in |
| a business like this, is exceedingly precious. Favour us with your |
| decision as speedily as possible, ma'am.' |
| |
| With a smile upon her face, and looking at each of the three by turns, |
| Miss Brass took two or three more pinches of snuff, and having by this |
| time very little left, travelled round and round the box with her |
| forefinger and thumb, scraping up another. Having disposed of this |
| likewise and put the box carefully in her pocket, she said,-- |
| |
| 'I am to accept or reject at once, am I?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' said Mr Witherden. |
| |
| The charming creature was opening her lips to speak in reply, when the |
| door was hastily opened too, and the head of Sampson Brass was thrust |
| into the room. |
| |
| 'Excuse me,' said the gentleman hastily. 'Wait a bit!' |
| |
| So saying, and quite indifferent to the astonishment his presence |
| occasioned, he crept in, shut the door, kissed his greasy glove as |
| servilely as if it were the dust, and made a most abject bow. |
| |
| 'Sarah,' said Brass, 'hold your tongue if you please, and let me speak. |
| Gentlemen, if I could express the pleasure it gives me to see three |
| such men in a happy unity of feeling and concord of sentiment, I think |
| you would hardly believe me. But though I am unfortunate--nay, |
| gentlemen, criminal, if we are to use harsh expressions in a company |
| like this--still, I have my feelings like other men. I have heard of a |
| poet, who remarked that feelings were the common lot of all. If he |
| could have been a pig, gentlemen, and have uttered that sentiment, he |
| would still have been immortal.' |
| |
| 'If you're not an idiot,' said Miss Brass harshly, 'hold your peace.' |
| |
| 'Sarah, my dear,' returned her brother, 'thank you. But I know what I |
| am about, my love, and will take the liberty of expressing myself |
| accordingly. Mr Witherden, Sir, your handkerchief is hanging out of |
| your pocket--would you allow me to--, |
| |
| As Mr Brass advanced to remedy this accident, the Notary shrunk from |
| him with an air of disgust. Brass, who over and above his usual |
| prepossessing qualities, had a scratched face, a green shade over one |
| eye, and a hat grievously crushed, stopped short, and looked round with |
| a pitiful smile. |
| |
| 'He shuns me,' said Sampson, 'even when I would, as I may say, heap |
| coals of fire upon his head. Well! Ah! But I am a falling house, and |
| the rats (if I may be allowed the expression in reference to a |
| gentleman I respect and love beyond everything) fly from me! |
| Gentlemen--regarding your conversation just now, I happened to see my |
| sister on her way here, and, wondering where she could be going to, and |
| being--may I venture to say?--naturally of a suspicious turn, followed |
| her. Since then, I have been listening.' |
| |
| 'If you're not mad,' interposed Miss Sally, 'stop there, and say no |
| more.' |
| |
| 'Sarah, my dear,' rejoined Brass with undiminished politeness, 'I thank |
| you kindly, but will still proceed. Mr Witherden, sir, as we have the |
| honour to be members of the same profession--to say nothing of that |
| other gentleman having been my lodger, and having partaken, as one may |
| say, of the hospitality of my roof--I think you might have given me the |
| refusal of this offer in the first instance. I do indeed. Now, my |
| dear Sir,' cried Brass, seeing that the Notary was about to interrupt |
| him, 'suffer me to speak, I beg.' |
| |
| Mr Witherden was silent, and Brass went on. |
| |
| 'If you will do me the favour,' he said, holding up the green shade, |
| and revealing an eye most horribly discoloured, 'to look at this, you |
| will naturally inquire, in your own minds, how did I get it. If you |
| look from that, to my face, you will wonder what could have been the |
| cause of all these scratches. And if from them to my hat, how it came |
| into the state in which you see it. Gentlemen,' said Brass, striking |
| the hat fiercely with his clenched hand, 'to all these questions I |
| answer--Quilp!' |
| |
| The three gentlemen looked at each other, but said nothing. |
| |
| 'I say,' pursued Brass, glancing aside at his sister, as though he were |
| talking for her information, and speaking with a snarling malignity, in |
| violent contrast to his usual smoothness, 'that I answer to all these |
| questions,--Quilp--Quilp, who deludes me into his infernal den, and |
| takes a delight in looking on and chuckling while I scorch, and burn, |
| and bruise, and maim myself--Quilp, who never once, no never once, in |
| all our communications together, has treated me otherwise than as a |
| dog--Quilp, whom I have always hated with my whole heart, but never so |
| much as lately. He gives me the cold shoulder on this very matter as |
| if he had had nothing to do with it, instead of being the first to |
| propose it. I can't trust him. In one of his howling, raving, blazing |
| humours, I believe he'd let it out, if it was murder, and never think |
| of himself so long as he could terrify me. Now,' said Brass, picking |
| up his hat again and replacing the shade over his eye, and actually |
| crouching down, in the excess of his servility, 'what does all this |
| lead to?--what should you say it led me to, gentlemen?--could you guess |
| at all near the mark?' |
| |
| Nobody spoke. Brass stood smirking for a little while, as if he had |
| propounded some choice conundrum; and then said: |
| |
| 'To be short with you, then, it leads me to this. If the truth has |
| come out, as it plainly has in a manner that there's no standing up |
| against--and a very sublime and grand thing is Truth, gentlemen, in its |
| way, though like other sublime and grand things, such as thunder-storms |
| and that, we're not always over and above glad to see it--I had better |
| turn upon this man than let this man turn upon me. It's clear to me |
| that I am done for. Therefore, if anybody is to split, I had better be |
| the person and have the advantage of it. Sarah, my dear, comparatively |
| speaking you're safe. I relate these circumstances for my own profit.' |
| |
| With that, Mr Brass, in a great hurry, revealed the whole story; |
| bearing as heavily as possible on his amiable employer, and making |
| himself out to be rather a saint-like and holy character, though |
| subject--he acknowledged--to human weaknesses. He concluded thus: |
| |
| 'Now, gentlemen, I am not a man who does things by halves. Being in |
| for a penny, I am ready, as the saying is, to be in for a pound. You |
| must do with me what you please, and take me where you please. If you |
| wish to have this in writing, we'll reduce it into manuscript |
| immediately. You will be tender with me, I am sure. I am quite |
| confident you will be tender with me. You are men of honour, and have |
| feeling hearts. I yielded from necessity to Quilp, for though |
| necessity has no law, she has her lawyers. I yield to you from |
| necessity too; from policy besides; and because of feelings that have |
| been a pretty long time working within me. Punish Quilp, gentlemen. |
| Weigh heavily upon him. Grind him down. Tread him under foot. He has |
| done as much by me, for many and many a day.' |
| |
| Having now arrived at the conclusion of his discourse, Sampson checked |
| the current of his wrath, kissed his glove again, and smiled as only |
| parasites and cowards can. |
| |
| 'And this,' said Miss Brass, raising her head, with which she had |
| hitherto sat resting on her hands, and surveying him from head to foot |
| with a bitter sneer, 'this is my brother, is it! This is my brother, |
| that I have worked and toiled for, and believed to have had something |
| of the man in him!' |
| |
| 'Sarah, my dear,' returned Sampson, rubbing his hands feebly; 'you |
| disturb our friends. Besides you--you're disappointed, Sarah, and, not |
| knowing what you say, expose yourself.' |
| |
| 'Yes, you pitiful dastard,' retorted the lovely damsel, 'I understand |
| you. You feared that I should be beforehand with you. But do you |
| think that I would have been enticed to say a word! I'd have scorned |
| it, if they had tried and tempted me for twenty years.' |
| |
| 'He he!' simpered Brass, who, in his deep debasement, really seemed to |
| have changed sexes with his sister, and to have made over to her any |
| spark of manliness he might have possessed. 'You think so, Sarah, you |
| think so perhaps; but you would have acted quite different, my good |
| fellow. You will not have forgotten that it was a maxim with |
| Foxey--our revered father, gentlemen--"Always suspect everybody." |
| That's the maxim to go through life with! If you were not actually |
| about to purchase your own safety when I showed myself, I suspect you'd |
| have done it by this time. And therefore I've done it myself, and |
| spared you the trouble as well as the shame. The shame, gentlemen,' |
| added Brass, allowing himself to be slightly overcome, 'if there is |
| any, is mine. It's better that a female should be spared it.' |
| |
| With deference to the better opinion of Mr Brass, and more particularly |
| to the authority of his Great Ancestor, it may be doubted, with |
| humility, whether the elevating principle laid down by the latter |
| gentleman, and acted upon by his descendant, is always a prudent one, |
| or attended in practice with the desired results. This is, beyond |
| question, a bold and presumptuous doubt, inasmuch as many distinguished |
| characters, called men of the world, long-headed customers, knowing |
| dogs, shrewd fellows, capital hands at business, and the like, have |
| made, and do daily make, this axiom their polar star and compass. |
| Still, the doubt may be gently insinuated. And in illustration it may |
| be observed, that if Mr Brass, not being over-suspicious, had, without |
| prying and listening, left his sister to manage the conference on their |
| joint behalf, or prying and listening, had not been in such a mighty |
| hurry to anticipate her (which he would not have been, but for his |
| distrust and jealousy), he would probably have found himself much |
| better off in the end. Thus, it will always happen that these men of |
| the world, who go through it in armour, defend themselves from quite as |
| much good as evil; to say nothing of the inconvenience and absurdity of |
| mounting guard with a microscope at all times, and of wearing a coat of |
| mail on the most innocent occasions. |
| |
| The three gentlemen spoke together apart, for a few moments. At the |
| end of their consultation, which was very brief, the Notary pointed to |
| the writing materials on the table, and informed Mr Brass that if he |
| wished to make any statement in writing, he had the opportunity of |
| doing so. At the same time he felt bound to tell him that they would |
| require his attendance, presently, before a justice of the peace, and |
| that in what he did or said, he was guided entirely by his own |
| discretion. |
| |
| 'Gentlemen,' said Brass, drawing off his glove, and crawling in spirit |
| upon the ground before them, 'I will justify the tenderness with which |
| I know I shall be treated; and as, without tenderness, I should, now |
| that this discovery has been made, stand in the worst position of the |
| three, you may depend upon it I will make a clean breast. Mr |
| Witherden, sir, a kind of faintness is upon my spirits--if you would |
| do me the favour to ring the bell and order up a glass of something |
| warm and spicy, I shall, notwithstanding what has passed, have a |
| melancholy pleasure in drinking your good health. I had hoped,' said |
| Brass, looking round with a mournful smile, 'to have seen you three |
| gentlemen, one day or another, with your legs under the mahogany in my |
| humble parlour in the Marks. But hopes are fleeting. Dear me!' |
| |
| Mr Brass found himself so exceedingly affected, at this point, that he |
| could say or do nothing more until some refreshment arrived. Having |
| partaken of it, pretty freely for one in his agitated state, he sat |
| down to write. |
| |
| The lovely Sarah, now with her arms folded, and now with her hands |
| clasped behind her, paced the room with manly strides while her brother |
| was thus employed, and sometimes stopped to pull out her snuff-box and |
| bite the lid. She continued to pace up and down until she was quite |
| tired, and then fell asleep on a chair near the door. |
| |
| It has been since supposed, with some reason, that this slumber was a |
| sham or feint, as she contrived to slip away unobserved in the dusk of |
| the afternoon. Whether this was an intentional and waking departure, |
| or a somnambulistic leave-taking and walking in her sleep, may remain a |
| subject of contention; but, on one point (and indeed the main one) all |
| parties are agreed. In whatever state she walked away, she certainly |
| did not walk back again. |
| |
| Mention having been made of the dusk of the afternoon, it will be |
| inferred that Mr Brass's task occupied some time in the completion. It |
| was not finished until evening; but, being done at last, that worthy |
| person and the three friends adjourned in a hackney-coach to the |
| private office of a justice, who, giving Mr Brass a warm reception and |
| detaining him in a secure place that he might insure to himself the |
| pleasure of seeing him on the morrow, dismissed the others with the |
| cheering assurance that a warrant could not fail to be granted next day |
| for the apprehension of Mr Quilp, and that a proper application and |
| statement of all the circumstances to the secretary of state (who was |
| fortunately in town), would no doubt procure Kit's free pardon and |
| liberation without delay. |
| |
| And now, indeed, it seemed that Quilp's malignant career was drawing to |
| a close, and that retribution, which often travels slowly--especially |
| when heaviest--had tracked his footsteps with a sure and certain scent |
| and was gaining on him fast. Unmindful of her stealthy tread, her |
| victim holds his course in fancied triumph. Still at his heels she |
| comes, and once afoot, is never turned aside! |
| |
| Their business ended, the three gentlemen hastened back to the lodgings |
| of Mr Swiveller, whom they found progressing so favourably in his |
| recovery as to have been able to sit up for half an hour, and to have |
| conversed with cheerfulness. Mrs Garland had gone home some time |
| since, but Mr Abel was still sitting with him. After telling him all |
| they had done, the two Mr Garlands and the single gentleman, as if by |
| some previous understanding, took their leaves for the night, leaving |
| the invalid alone with the Notary and the small servant. |
| |
| 'As you are so much better,' said Mr Witherden, sitting down at the |
| bedside, 'I may venture to communicate to you a piece of news which has |
| come to me professionally.' |
| |
| The idea of any professional intelligence from a gentleman connected |
| with legal matters, appeared to afford Richard any-thing but a pleasing |
| anticipation. Perhaps he connected it in his own mind with one or two |
| outstanding accounts, in reference to which he had already received |
| divers threatening letters. His countenance fell as he replied, |
| |
| 'Certainly, sir. I hope it's not anything of a very disagreeable |
| nature, though?' |
| |
| 'If I thought it so, I should choose some better time for communicating |
| it,' replied the Notary. 'Let me tell you, first, that my friends who |
| have been here to-day, know nothing of it, and that their kindness to |
| you has been quite spontaneous and with no hope of return. It may do a |
| thoughtless, careless man, good, to know that.' |
| |
| Dick thanked him, and said he hoped it would. |
| |
| 'I have been making some inquiries about you,' said Mr Witherden, |
| 'little thinking that I should find you under such circumstances as |
| those which have brought us together. You are the nephew of Rebecca |
| Swiveller, spinster, deceased, of Cheselbourne in Dorsetshire.' |
| |
| 'Deceased!' cried Dick. |
| |
| 'Deceased. If you had been another sort of nephew, you would have come |
| into possession (so says the will, and I see no reason to doubt it) of |
| five-and-twenty thousand pounds. As it is, you have fallen into an |
| annuity of one hundred and fifty pounds a year; but I think I may |
| congratulate you even upon that.' |
| |
| 'Sir,' said Dick, sobbing and laughing together, 'you may. For, please |
| God, we'll make a scholar of the poor Marchioness yet! And she shall |
| walk in silk attire, and siller have to spare, or may I never rise from |
| this bed again!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 67 |
| |
| Unconscious of the proceedings faithfully narrated in the last chapter, |
| and little dreaming of the mine which had been sprung beneath him (for, |
| to the end that he should have no warning of the business a-foot, the |
| profoundest secrecy was observed in the whole transaction), Mr Quilp |
| remained shut up in his hermitage, undisturbed by any suspicion, and |
| extremely well satisfied with the result of his machinations. Being |
| engaged in the adjustment of some accounts--an occupation to which the |
| silence and solitude of his retreat were very favourable--he had not |
| strayed from his den for two whole days. The third day of his devotion |
| to this pursuit found him still hard at work, and little disposed to |
| stir abroad. |
| |
| It was the day next after Mr Brass's confession, and consequently, that |
| which threatened the restriction of Mr Quilp's liberty, and the abrupt |
| communication to him of some very unpleasant and unwelcome facts. |
| Having no intuitive perception of the cloud which lowered upon his |
| house, the dwarf was in his ordinary state of cheerfulness; and, when |
| he found he was becoming too much engrossed by business with a due |
| regard to his health and spirits, he varied its monotonous routine with |
| a little screeching, or howling, or some other innocent relaxation of |
| that nature. |
| |
| He was attended, as usual, by Tom Scott, who sat crouching over the |
| fire after the manner of a toad, and, from time to time, when his |
| master's back was turned, imitating his grimaces with a fearful |
| exactness. The figure-head had not yet disappeared, but remained in |
| its old place. The face, horribly seared by the frequent application |
| of the red-hot poker, and further ornamented by the insertion, in the |
| tip of the nose, of a tenpenny nail, yet smiled blandly in its less |
| lacerated parts, and seemed, like a sturdy martyr, to provoke its |
| tormentor to the commission of new outrages and insults. |
| |
| The day, in the highest and brightest quarters of the town, was damp, |
| dark, cold and gloomy. In that low and marshy spot, the fog filled |
| every nook and corner with a thick dense cloud. Every object was |
| obscure at one or two yards' distance. The warning lights and fires |
| upon the river were powerless beneath this pall, and, but for a raw and |
| piercing chillness in the air, and now and then the cry of some |
| bewildered boatman as he rested on his oars and tried to make out where |
| he was, the river itself might have been miles away. |
| |
| The mist, though sluggish and slow to move, was of a keenly searching |
| kind. No muffling up in furs and broadcloth kept it out. It seemed to |
| penetrate into the very bones of the shrinking wayfarers, and to rack |
| them with cold and pains. Everything was wet and clammy to the touch. |
| The warm blaze alone defied it, and leaped and sparkled merrily. It |
| was a day to be at home, crowding about the fire, telling stories of |
| travellers who had lost their way in such weather on heaths and moors; |
| and to love a warm hearth more than ever. |
| |
| The dwarf's humour, as we know, was to have a fireside to himself; and |
| when he was disposed to be convivial, to enjoy himself alone. By no |
| means insensible to the comfort of being within doors, he ordered Tom |
| Scott to pile the little stove with coals, and, dismissing his work for |
| that day, determined to be jovial. |
| |
| To this end, he lighted up fresh candles and heaped more fuel on the |
| fire; and having dined off a beefsteak, which he cooked himself in |
| somewhat of a savage and cannibal-like manner, brewed a great bowl of |
| hot punch, lighted his pipe, and sat down to spend the evening. |
| |
| At this moment, a low knocking at the cabin-door arrested his |
| attention. When it had been twice or thrice repeated, he softly opened |
| the little window, and thrusting his head out, demanded who was there. |
| |
| 'Only me, Quilp,' replied a woman's voice. |
| |
| 'Only you!' cried the dwarf, stretching his neck to obtain a better |
| view of his visitor. 'And what brings you here, you jade? How dare |
| you approach the ogre's castle, eh?' |
| |
| 'I have come with some news,' rejoined his spouse. 'Don't be angry |
| with me.' |
| |
| 'Is it good news, pleasant news, news to make a man skip and snap his |
| fingers?' said the dwarf. 'Is the dear old lady dead?' |
| |
| 'I don't know what news it is, or whether it's good or bad,' rejoined |
| his wife. |
| |
| 'Then she's alive,' said Quilp, 'and there's nothing the matter with |
| her. Go home again, you bird of evil note, go home!' |
| |
| 'I have brought a letter,' cried the meek little woman. |
| |
| 'Toss it in at the window here, and go your ways,' said Quilp, |
| interrupting her, 'or I'll come out and scratch you.' |
| |
| 'No, but please, Quilp--do hear me speak,' urged his submissive wife, |
| in tears. 'Please do!' |
| |
| 'Speak then,' growled the dwarf with a malicious grin. 'Be quick and |
| short about it. Speak, will you?' |
| |
| 'It was left at our house this afternoon,' said Mrs Quilp, trembling, |
| 'by a boy who said he didn't know from whom it came, but that it was |
| given to him to leave, and that he was told to say it must be brought |
| on to you directly, for it was of the very greatest consequence.--But |
| please,' she added, as her husband stretched out his hand for it, |
| 'please let me in. You don't know how wet and cold I am, or how many |
| times I have lost my way in coming here through this thick fog. Let me |
| dry myself at the fire for five minutes. I'll go away directly you |
| tell me to, Quilp. Upon my word I will.' |
| |
| Her amiable husband hesitated for a few moments; but, bethinking |
| himself that the letter might require some answer, of which she could |
| be the bearer, closed the window, opened the door, and bade her enter. |
| Mrs Quilp obeyed right willingly, and, kneeling down before the fire to |
| warm her hands, delivered into his a little packet. |
| |
| 'I'm glad you're wet,' said Quilp, snatching it, and squinting at her. |
| 'I'm glad you're cold. I'm glad you lost your way. I'm glad your eyes |
| are red with crying. It does my heart good to see your little nose so |
| pinched and frosty.' |
| |
| 'Oh Quilp!' sobbed his wife. 'How cruel it is of you!' |
| |
| 'Did she think I was dead?' said Quilp, wrinkling his face into a most |
| extraordinary series of grimaces. 'Did she think she was going to have |
| all the money, and to marry somebody she liked? Ha ha ha! Did she?' |
| |
| These taunts elicited no reply from the poor little woman, who remained |
| on her knees, warming her hands, and sobbing, to Mr Quilp's great |
| delight. But, just as he was contemplating her, and chuckling |
| excessively, he happened to observe that Tom Scott was delighted too; |
| wherefore, that he might have no presumptuous partner in his glee, the |
| dwarf instantly collared him, dragged him to the door, and after a |
| short scuffle, kicked him into the yard. In return for this mark of |
| attention, Tom immediately walked upon his hands to the window, and--if |
| the expression be allowable--looked in with his shoes: besides |
| rattling his feet upon the glass like a Banshee upside down. As a |
| matter of course, Mr Quilp lost no time in resorting to the infallible |
| poker, with which, after some dodging and lying in ambush, he paid his |
| young friend one or two such unequivocal compliments that he vanished |
| precipitately, and left him in quiet possession of the field. |
| |
| 'So! That little job being disposed of,' said the dwarf, coolly, 'I'll |
| read my letter. Humph!' he muttered, looking at the direction. 'I |
| ought to know this writing. Beautiful Sally!' |
| |
| Opening it, he read, in a fair, round, legal hand, as follows: |
| |
| 'Sammy has been practised upon, and has broken confidence. It has all |
| come out. You had better not be in the way, for strangers are going to |
| call upon you. They have been very quiet as yet, because they mean to |
| surprise you. Don't lose time. I didn't. I am not to be found |
| anywhere. If I was you, I wouldn't either. S. B., late of B. M.' |
| |
| To describe the changes that passed over Quilp's face, as he read this |
| letter half-a-dozen times, would require some new language: such, for |
| power of expression, as was never written, read, or spoken. For a long |
| time he did not utter one word; but, after a considerable interval, |
| during which Mrs Quilp was almost paralysed with the alarm his looks |
| engendered, he contrived to gasp out, |
| |
| 'If I had him here. If I only had him here--' |
| |
| 'Oh Quilp!' said his wife, 'what's the matter? Who are you angry with?' |
| |
| '--I should drown him,' said the dwarf, not heeding her. 'Too easy a |
| death, too short, too quick--but the river runs close at hand. Oh! if |
| I had him here! just to take him to the brink coaxingly and |
| pleasantly,--holding him by the button-hole--joking with him,--and, |
| with a sudden push, to send him splashing down! Drowning men come to |
| the surface three times they say. Ah! To see him those three times, |
| and mock him as his face came bobbing up,--oh, what a rich treat that |
| would be!' |
| |
| 'Quilp!' stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on |
| the shoulder: 'what has gone wrong?' |
| |
| She was so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure |
| to himself that she could scarcely make herself intelligible. |
| |
| 'Such a bloodless cur!' said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and |
| pressing them tight together. 'I thought his cowardice and servility |
| were the best guarantee for his keeping silence. Oh Brass, Brass--my |
| dear, good, affectionate, faithful, complimentary, charming friend--if |
| I only had you here!' |
| |
| His wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these |
| mutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak, |
| when he hurried to the door, and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his |
| late gentle admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately. |
| |
| 'There!' said the dwarf, pulling him in. 'Take her home. Don't come |
| here to-morrow, for this place will be shut up. Come back no more till |
| you hear from me or see me. Do you mind?' |
| |
| Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned Mrs Quilp to lead the way. |
| |
| 'As for you,' said the dwarf, addressing himself to her, 'ask no |
| questions about me, make no search for me, say nothing concerning me. |
| I shall not be dead, mistress, and that'll comfort you. He'll take |
| care of you.' |
| |
| 'But, Quilp? What is the matter? Where are you going? Do say |
| something more?' |
| |
| 'I'll say that,' said the dwarf, seizing her by the arm, 'and do that |
| too, which undone and unsaid would be best for you, unless you go |
| directly.' |
| |
| 'Has anything happened?' cried his wife. 'Oh! Do tell me that?' |
| |
| 'Yes,' snarled the dwarf. 'No. What matter which? I have told you |
| what to do. Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey me by a |
| hair's breadth. Will you go!' |
| |
| 'I am going, I'll go directly; but,' faltered his wife, 'answer me one |
| question first. Has this letter any connexion with dear little Nell? |
| I must ask you that--I must indeed, Quilp. You cannot think what days |
| and nights of sorrow I have had through having once deceived that |
| child. I don't know what harm I may have brought about, but, great or |
| little, I did it for you, Quilp. My conscience misgave me when I did |
| it. Do answer me this question, if you please?' |
| |
| The exasperated dwarf returned no answer, but turned round and caught |
| up his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom Scott dragged his |
| charge away, by main force, and as swiftly as he could. It was well he |
| did so, for Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued them to the |
| neighbouring lane, and might have prolonged the chase but for the dense |
| mist which obscured them from his view and appeared to thicken every |
| moment. |
| |
| 'It will be a good night for travelling anonymously,' he said, as he |
| returned slowly, being pretty well breathed with his run. 'Stay. We |
| may look better here. This is too hospitable and free.' |
| |
| By a great exertion of strength, he closed the two old gates, which |
| were deeply sunken in the mud, and barred them with a heavy beam. That |
| done, he shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried |
| them.--Strong and fast. |
| |
| 'The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed,' said the |
| dwarf, when he had taken these precautions. 'There's a back lane, too, |
| from there. That shall be my way out. A man need know his road well, |
| to find it in this lovely place to-night. I need fear no unwelcome |
| visitors while this lasts, I think.' |
| |
| Almost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands (it |
| had grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he returned to |
| his lair; and, after musing for some time over the fire, busied himself |
| in preparations for a speedy departure. |
| |
| While he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into his |
| pockets, he never once ceased communing with himself in a low voice, or |
| unclenched his teeth, which he had ground together on finishing Miss |
| Brass's note. |
| |
| 'Oh Sampson!' he muttered, 'good worthy creature--if I could but hug |
| you! If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze your ribs, as I |
| COULD squeeze them if I once had you tight--what a meeting there would |
| be between us! If we ever do cross each other again, Sampson, we'll |
| have a greeting not easily to be forgotten, trust me. This time, |
| Sampson, this moment when all had gone on so well, was so nicely |
| chosen! It was so thoughtful of you, so penitent, so good. Oh, if we |
| were face to face in this room again, my white-livered man of law, how |
| well contented one of us would be!' |
| |
| There he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to his lips, drank a |
| long deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched |
| mouth. Setting it down abruptly, and resuming his preparations, he |
| went on with his soliloquy. |
| |
| 'There's Sally,' he said, with flashing eyes; 'the woman has spirit, |
| determination, purpose--was she asleep, or petrified? She could have |
| stabbed him--poisoned him safely. She might have seen this coming on. |
| Why does she give me notice when it's too late? When he sat |
| there,--yonder there, over there,--with his white face, and red head, |
| and sickly smile, why didn't I know what was passing in his heart? It |
| should have stopped beating, that night, if I had been in his secret, |
| or there are no drugs to lull a man to sleep, or no fire to burn him!' |
| |
| Another draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a |
| ferocious aspect, he muttered to himself again. |
| |
| 'And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late |
| times, springs from that old dotard and his darling child--two wretched |
| feeble wanderers! I'll be their evil genius yet. And you, sweet Kit, |
| honest Kit, virtuous, innocent Kit, look to yourself. Where I hate, I |
| bite. I hate you, my darling fellow, with good cause, and proud as you |
| are to-night, I'll have my turn.----What's that?' |
| |
| A knocking at the gate he had closed. A loud and violent knocking. |
| Then, a pause; as if those who knocked had stopped to listen. Then, |
| the noise again, more clamorous and importunate than before. |
| |
| 'So soon!' said the dwarf. 'And so eager! I am afraid I shall disappoint |
| you. It's well I'm quite prepared. Sally, I thank you!' |
| |
| As he spoke, he extinguished the candle. In his impetuous attempts to |
| subdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which came |
| tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the burning embers it had |
| shot forth in its descent, leaving the room in pitchy darkness. The |
| noise at the gate still continuing, he felt his way to the door, and |
| stepped into the open air. |
| |
| At that moment the knocking ceased. It was about eight o'clock; but |
| the dead of the darkest night would have been as noon-day in comparison |
| with the thick cloud which then rested upon the earth, and shrouded |
| everything from view. He darted forward for a few paces, as if into |
| the mouth of some dim, yawning cavern; then, thinking he had gone |
| wrong, changed the direction of his steps; then stood still, not |
| knowing where to turn. |
| |
| 'If they would knock again,' said Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom |
| by which he was surrounded, 'the sound might guide me! Come! Batter |
| the gate once more!' |
| |
| He stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed. Nothing |
| was to be heard in that deserted place, but, at intervals, the distant |
| barkings of dogs. The sound was far away--now in one quarter, now |
| answered in another--nor was it any guide, for it often came from |
| shipboard, as he knew. |
| |
| 'If I could find a wall or fence,' said the dwarf, stretching out his |
| arms, and walking slowly on, 'I should know which way to turn. A good, |
| black, devil's night this, to have my dear friend here! If I had but |
| that wish, it might, for anything I cared, never be day again.' |
| |
| As the word passed his lips, he staggered and fell--and next moment was |
| fighting with the cold dark water! |
| |
| For all its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could hear the |
| knocking at the gate again--could hear a shout that followed it--could |
| recognise the voice. For all his struggling and plashing, he could |
| understand that they had lost their way, and had wandered back to the |
| point from which they started; that they were all but looking on, while |
| he was drowned; that they were close at hand, but could not make an |
| effort to save him; that he himself had shut and barred them out. He |
| answered the shout--with a yell, which seemed to make the hundred fires |
| that danced before his eyes tremble and flicker, as if a gust of wind |
| had stirred them. It was of no avail. The strong tide filled his |
| throat, and bore him on, upon its rapid current. |
| |
| Another mortal struggle, and he was up again, beating the water with |
| his hands, and looking out, with wild and glaring eyes that showed him |
| some black object he was drifting close upon. The hull of a ship! He |
| could touch its smooth and slippery surface with his hand. One loud |
| cry, now--but the resistless water bore him down before he could give |
| it utterance, and, driving him under it, carried away a corpse. |
| |
| It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it against |
| the slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now dragging |
| it heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to |
| its own element, and in the same action luring it away, until, tired of |
| the ugly plaything, it flung it on a swamp--a dismal place where |
| pirates had swung in chains through many a wintry night--and left it |
| there to bleach. |
| |
| And there it lay alone. The sky was red with flame, and the water that |
| bore it there had been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed along. |
| The place the deserted carcass had left so recently, a living man, was |
| now a blazing ruin. There was something of the glare upon its face. |
| The hair, stirred by the damp breeze, played in a kind of mockery of |
| death--such a mockery as the dead man himself would have delighted in |
| when alive--about its head, and its dress fluttered idly in the night |
| wind. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 68 |
| |
| Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the music of glad voices, |
| words of love and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness--what a |
| change is this! But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening. |
| They are awaiting him, he knows. He fears he will die of joy, before |
| he gets among them. |
| |
| They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried off |
| to-morrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let him |
| know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and |
| perhaps he may be pardoned after all. At last, the evening being come, |
| they bring him to a room where some gentlemen are assembled. Foremost |
| among them is his good old master, who comes and takes him by the hand. |
| He hears that his innocence is established, and that he is pardoned. |
| He cannot see the speaker, but he turns towards the voice, and in |
| trying to answer, falls down insensible. |
| |
| They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear this |
| like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother. It is |
| because he does think of her so much, that the happy news had |
| overpowered him. They crowd about him, and tell him that the truth has |
| gone abroad, and that all the town and country ring with sympathy for |
| his misfortunes. He has no ears for this. His thoughts, as yet, have |
| no wider range than home. Does she know it? what did she say? who |
| told her? He can speak of nothing else. |
| |
| They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while, |
| until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them. He is free |
| to go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went |
| away. The gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands with him. He |
| feels very grateful to them for the interest they have in him, and for |
| the kind promises they make; but the power of speech is gone again, and |
| he has much ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's |
| arm. |
| |
| As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail who |
| are in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on his |
| release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not quite |
| hearty--there is something of surliness in his compliments. He looks |
| upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission to that |
| place on false pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without being |
| duly qualified. He may be a very good sort of young man, he thinks, |
| but he has no business there, and the sooner he is gone, the better. |
| |
| The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall, and |
| stand in the open air--in the street he has so often pictured to |
| himself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all |
| his dreams. It seems wider and more busy than it used to be. The |
| night is bad, and yet how cheerful and gay in his eyes! One of the |
| gentlemen, in taking leave of him, pressed some money into his hand. |
| He has not counted it; but when they have gone a few paces beyond the |
| box for poor Prisoners, he hastily returns and drops it in. |
| |
| Mr Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and, taking |
| Kit inside with him, bids the man drive home. At first, they can only |
| travel at a foot pace, and then with torches going on before, because |
| of the heavy fog. But, as they get farther from the river, and leave |
| the closer portions of the town behind, they are able to dispense with |
| this precaution and to proceed at a brisker rate. On the road, hard |
| galloping would be too slow for Kit; but, when they are drawing near |
| their journey's end, he begs they may go more slowly, and, when the |
| house appears in sight, that they may stop--only for a minute or two, |
| to give him time to breathe. |
| |
| But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly to |
| him, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the |
| garden-gate. Next minute, they are at the door. There is a noise of |
| tongues, and tread of feet, inside. It opens. Kit rushes in, and |
| finds his mother clinging round his neck. |
| |
| And there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, still holding |
| the baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day when they |
| little hoped to have such joy as this--there she is, Heaven bless her, |
| crying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed before; and |
| there is little Barbara--poor little Barbara, so much thinner and so |
| much paler, and yet so very pretty--trembling like a leaf and |
| supporting herself against the wall; and there is Mrs Garland, neater |
| and nicer than ever, fainting away stone dead with nobody to help her; |
| and there is Mr Abel, violently blowing his nose, and wanting to |
| embrace everybody; and there is the single gentleman hovering round |
| them all, and constant to nothing for an instant; and there is that |
| good, dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all alone by himself on |
| the bottom stair, with his hands on his knees like an old man, roaring |
| fearfully without giving any trouble to anybody; and each and all of |
| them are for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and |
| severally commit all manner of follies. |
| |
| And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves again, |
| and can find words and smiles, Barbara--that soft-hearted, gentle, |
| foolish little Barbara--is suddenly missed, and found to be in a swoon |
| by herself in the back parlour, from which swoon she falls into |
| hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon again, and is, indeed, |
| so bad, that despite a mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water she is |
| hardly a bit better at last than she was at first. Then, Kit's mother |
| comes in and says, will he come and speak to her; and Kit says 'Yes,' |
| and goes; and he says in a kind voice 'Barbara!' and Barbara's mother |
| tells her that 'it's only Kit;' and Barbara says (with her eyes closed |
| all the time) 'Oh! but is it him indeed?' and Barbara's mother says 'To |
| be sure it is, my dear; there's nothing the matter now.' And in |
| further assurance that he's safe and sound, Kit speaks to her again; |
| and then Barbara goes off into another fit of laughter, and then into |
| another fit of crying; and then Barbara's mother and Kit's mother nod |
| to each other and pretend to scold her--but only to bring her to |
| herself the faster, bless you!--and being experienced matrons, and |
| acute at perceiving the first dawning symptoms of recovery, they |
| comfort Kit with the assurance that 'she'll do now,' and so dismiss him |
| to the place from whence he came. |
| |
| Well! In that place (which is the next room) there are decanters of |
| wine, and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kit and his |
| friends were first-rate company; and there is little Jacob, walking, as |
| the popular phrase is, into a home-made plum-cake, at a most surprising |
| pace, and keeping his eye on the figs and oranges which are to follow, |
| and making the best use of his time, you may believe. Kit no sooner |
| comes in, than that single gentleman (never was such a busy gentleman) |
| charges all the glasses--bumpers--and drinks his health, and tells him |
| he shall never want a friend while he lives; and so does Mr Garland, |
| and so does Mrs Garland, and so does Mr Abel. But even this honour and |
| distinction is not all, for the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of |
| his pocket a massive silver watch--going hard, and right to half a |
| second--and upon the back of this watch is engraved Kit's name, with |
| flourishes all over; and in short it is Kit's watch, bought expressly |
| for him, and presented to him on the spot. You may rest assured that |
| Mr and Mrs Garland can't help hinting about their present, in store, |
| and that Mr Abel tells outright that he has his; and that Kit is the |
| happiest of the happy. |
| |
| There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be |
| conveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being |
| an iron-shod quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of slipping |
| away and hurrying to the stable. The moment he lays his hand upon the |
| latch, the pony neighs the loudest pony's greeting; before he has |
| crossed the threshold, the pony is capering about his loose box (for he |
| brooks not the indignity of a halter), mad to give him welcome; and |
| when Kit goes up to caress and pat him, the pony rubs his nose against |
| his coat, and fondles him more lovingly than ever pony fondled man. It |
| is the crowning circumstance of his earnest, heartfelt reception; and |
| Kit fairly puts his arm round Whisker's neck and hugs him. |
| |
| But how comes Barbara to trip in there? and how smart she is again! |
| she has been at her glass since she recovered. How comes Barbara in |
| the stable, of all places in the world? Why, since Kit has been away, |
| the pony would take his food from nobody but her, and Barbara, you see, |
| not dreaming that Christopher was there, and just looking in, to see |
| that everything was right, has come upon him unawares. Blushing little |
| Barbara! |
| |
| It may be that Kit has caressed the pony enough; it may be that there |
| are even better things to caress than ponies. He leaves him for |
| Barbara at any rate, and hopes she is better. Yes. Barbara is a great |
| deal better. She is afraid--and here Barbara looks down and blushes |
| more--that he must have thought her very foolish. 'Not at all,' says |
| Kit. Barbara is glad of that, and coughs--Hem!--just the slightest |
| cough possible--not more than that. |
| |
| What a discreet pony when he chooses! He is as quiet now as if he were |
| of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always has. 'We |
| have hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara,' says Kit. Barbara gives |
| him hers. Why, she is trembling now! Foolish, fluttering Barbara! |
| |
| Arm's length? The length of an arm is not much. Barbara's was not a |
| long arm, by any means, and besides, she didn't hold it out straight, |
| but bent a little. Kit was so near her when they shook hands, that he |
| could see a small tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash. It was |
| natural that he should look at it, unknown to Barbara. It was natural |
| that Barbara should raise her eyes unconsciously, and find him out. |
| Was it natural that at that instant, without any previous impulse or |
| design, Kit should kiss Barbara? He did it, whether or no. Barbara |
| said 'for shame,' but let him do it too--twice. He might have done it |
| thrice, but the pony kicked up his heels and shook his head, as if he |
| were suddenly taken with convulsions of delight, and Barbara being |
| frightened, ran away--not straight to where her mother and Kit's mother |
| were, though, lest they should see how red her cheeks were, and should |
| ask her why. Sly little Barbara! |
| |
| When the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kit and |
| his mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby |
| to boot, had had their suppers together--which there was no hurrying |
| over, for they were going to stop there all night--Mr Garland called |
| Kit to him, and taking him into a room where they could be alone, told |
| him that he had something yet to say, which would surprise him greatly. |
| Kit looked so anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old |
| gentleman hastened to add, he would be agreeably surprised; and asked |
| him if he would be ready next morning for a journey. |
| |
| 'For a journey, sir!' cried Kit. |
| |
| 'In company with me and my friend in the next room. Can you guess its |
| purpose?' |
| |
| Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head. |
| |
| 'Oh yes. I think you do already,' said his master. 'Try.' |
| |
| Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but he |
| plainly pronounced the words 'Miss Nell,' three or four times--shaking |
| his head while he did so, as if he would add that there was no hope of |
| that. |
| |
| But Mr Garland, instead of saying 'Try again,' as Kit had made sure he |
| would, told him very seriously, that he had guessed right. |
| |
| 'The place of their retreat is indeed discovered,' he said, 'at last. |
| And that is our journey's end.' |
| |
| Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and how had it been |
| found, and how long since, and was she well and happy? |
| |
| 'Happy she is, beyond all doubt,' said Mr Garland. 'And well, I--I |
| trust she will be soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I learn, but |
| she was better when I heard this morning, and they were full of hope. |
| Sit you down, and you shall hear the rest.' |
| |
| Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told. Mr |
| Garland then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he would |
| remember to have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was |
| a young man, hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a long |
| way off, in a country-place, with an old clergyman who had been his |
| early friend. How, although they loved each other as brothers should, |
| they had not met for many years, but had communicated by letter from |
| time to time, always looking forward to some period when they would |
| take each other by the hand once more, and still letting the Present |
| time steal on, as it was the habit for men to do, and suffering the |
| Future to melt into the Past. How this brother, whose temper was very |
| mild and quiet and retiring--such as Mr Abel's--was greatly beloved by |
| the simple people among whom he dwelt, who quite revered the Bachelor |
| (for so they called him), and had every one experienced his charity and |
| benevolence. How even those slight circumstances had come to his |
| knowledge, very slowly and in course of years, for the Bachelor was one |
| of those whose goodness shuns the light, and who have more pleasure in |
| discovering and extolling the good deeds of others, than in trumpeting |
| their own, be they never so commendable. How, for that reason, he |
| seldom told them of his village friends; but how, for all that, his |
| mind had become so full of two among them--a child and an old man, to |
| whom he had been very kind--that, in a letter received a few days |
| before, he had dwelt upon them from first to last, and had told such a |
| tale of their wandering, and mutual love, that few could read it |
| without being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of that letter, |
| was directly led to the belief that these must be the very wanderers |
| for whom so much search had been made, and whom Heaven had directed to |
| his brother's care. How he had written for such further information as |
| would put the fact beyond all doubt; how it had that morning arrived; |
| had confirmed his first impression into a certainty; and was the |
| immediate cause of that journey being planned, which they were to take |
| to-morrow. |
| |
| 'In the meantime,' said the old gentleman rising, and laying his hand |
| on Kit's shoulder, 'you have a great need of rest; for such a day as |
| this would wear out the strongest man. Good night, and Heaven send our |
| journey may have a prosperous ending!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 69 |
| |
| Kit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed some time |
| before day, began to prepare for his welcome expedition. The hurry of |
| spirits consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected |
| intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the |
| long dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that |
| it was best to rise. |
| |
| But, had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end |
| in view--had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be |
| performed on foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued |
| under very privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great |
| distress, fatigue, and suffering--had it been the dawn of some painful |
| enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and |
| endurance, and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if |
| happily achieved, in good fortune and delight to Nell--Kit's cheerful |
| zeal would have been as highly roused: Kit's ardour and impatience |
| would have been, at least, the same. |
| |
| Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of |
| an hour the whole house were astir and busy. Everybody hurried to do |
| something towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman, |
| it is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else |
| and was more locomotive than anybody. The work of packing and making |
| ready went briskly on, and by daybreak every preparation for the |
| journey was completed. Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite |
| so nimble; for the travelling-carriage which had been hired for the |
| occasion was not to arrive until nine o'clock, and there was nothing |
| but breakfast to fill up the intervening blank of one hour and a half. |
| Yes there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara was busy, to be |
| sure, but so much the better--Kit could help her, and that would pass |
| away the time better than any means that could be devised. Barbara had |
| no objection to this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea which |
| had come upon him so suddenly overnight, began to think that surely |
| Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond of Barbara. |
| |
| Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told--as it must and ought to |
| be--Barbara seemed, of all the little household, to take least pleasure |
| in the bustle of the occasion; and when Kit, in the openness of his |
| heart, told her how glad and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more |
| downcast still, and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than before! |
| |
| 'You have not been home so long, Christopher,' said Barbara--and it is |
| impossible to tell how carelessly she said it--'You have not been home |
| so long, that you need to be glad to go away again, I should think.' |
| |
| 'But for such a purpose,' returned Kit. 'To bring back Miss Nell! To |
| see her again! Only think of that! I am so pleased too, to think that |
| you will see her, Barbara, at last.' |
| |
| Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no gratification on this |
| point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of |
| her head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his |
| simplicity, why she was so cool about it. |
| |
| 'You'll say she has the sweetest and beautifullest face you ever saw, I |
| know,' said Kit, rubbing his hands. 'I'm sure you'll say that.' |
| |
| Barbara tossed her head again. |
| |
| 'What's the matter, Barbara?' said Kit. |
| |
| 'Nothing,' cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted--not sulkily, or in an |
| ugly manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than |
| ever. |
| |
| There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which |
| Kit became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what |
| Barbara meant now--he had his lesson by heart all at once--she was the |
| book--there it was before him, as plain as print. |
| |
| 'Barbara,' said Kit, 'you're not cross with me?' |
| |
| Oh dear no! Why should Barbara be cross? And what right had she to be |
| cross? And what did it matter whether she was cross or not? Who |
| minded her! |
| |
| 'Why, I do,' said Kit. 'Of course I do.' |
| |
| Barbara didn't see why it was of course, at all. |
| |
| Kit was sure she must. Would she think again? |
| |
| Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn't see why it was of |
| course. She didn't understand what Christopher meant. And besides she |
| was sure they wanted her up stairs by this time, and she must go, |
| indeed-- |
| |
| 'No, but Barbara,' said Kit, detaining her gently, 'let us part |
| friends. I was always thinking of you, in my troubles. I should have |
| been a great deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn't been for you.' |
| |
| Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she coloured--and when |
| she trembled, like a little shrinking bird! |
| |
| 'I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so |
| strong as I could wish,' said Kit. 'When I want you to be pleased to |
| see Miss Nell, it's only because I like you to be pleased with what |
| pleases me--that's all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could almost die |
| to do her service, but you would think so too, if you knew her as I do. |
| I am sure you would.' |
| |
| Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent. |
| |
| 'I have been used, you see,' said Kit, 'to talk and think of her, |
| almost as if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her |
| again, I think of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see |
| me, and putting out her hand and saying, "It's my own old Kit," or some |
| such words as those--like what she used to say. I think of seeing her |
| happy, and with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves, and |
| as she ought to be. When I think of myself, it's as her old servant, |
| and one that loved her dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress; and |
| who would have gone--yes, and still would go--through any harm to serve |
| her. Once, I couldn't help being afraid that if she came back with |
| friends about her she might forget, or be ashamed of having known, a |
| humble lad like me, and so might speak coldly, which would have cut me, |
| Barbara, deeper than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I |
| felt sure that I was doing her wrong in this; and so I went on, as I |
| did at first, hoping to see her once more, just as she used to be. |
| Hoping this, and remembering what she was, has made me feel as if I |
| would always try to please her, and always be what I should like to |
| seem to her if I was still her servant. If I'm the better for |
| that--and I don't think I'm the worse--I am grateful to her for it, and |
| love and honour her the more. That's the plain honest truth, dear |
| Barbara, upon my word it is!' |
| |
| Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and, being |
| full of remorse, melted into tears. To what more conversation this |
| might have led, we need not stop to inquire; for the wheels of the |
| carriage were heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring |
| at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which had laid |
| dormant for a short time, to burst again into tenfold life and vigour. |
| |
| Simultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr Chuckster in a |
| hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single |
| gentleman, into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discharged, |
| he subsided into the bosom of the family; and, entertaining himself |
| with a strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched, with genteel |
| indifference, the process of loading the carriage. |
| |
| 'Snobby's in this, I see, Sir?' he said to Mr Abel Garland. 'I thought |
| he wasn't in the last trip because it was expected that his presence |
| wouldn't be acceptable to the ancient buffalo.' |
| |
| 'To whom, Sir?' demanded Mr Abel. |
| |
| 'To the old gentleman,' returned Mr Chuckster, slightly abashed. |
| |
| 'Our client prefers to take him now,' said Mr Abel, drily. 'There is |
| no longer any need for that precaution, as my father's relationship to |
| a gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence, |
| will be a sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand.' |
| |
| 'Ah!' thought Mr Chuckster, looking out of window, 'anybody but me! |
| Snobby before me, of course. He didn't happen to take that particular |
| five-pound note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he's always up |
| to something of that sort. I always said it, long before this came |
| out. Devilish pretty girl that! 'Pon my soul, an amazing little |
| creature!' |
| |
| Barbara was the subject of Mr Chuckster's commendations; and as she was |
| lingering near the carriage (all being now ready for its departure), |
| that gentleman was suddenly seized with a strong interest in the |
| proceedings, which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take up |
| his position at a convenient ogling distance. Having had great |
| experience of the sex, and being perfectly acquainted with all those |
| little artifices which find the readiest road to their hearts, Mr |
| Chuckster, on taking his ground, planted one hand on his hip, and with |
| the other adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favourite attitude in |
| the polite circles, and, accompanied with a graceful whistling, has |
| been known to do immense execution. |
| |
| Such, however, is the difference between town and country, that nobody |
| took the smallest notice of this insinuating figure; the wretches being |
| wholly engaged in bidding the travellers farewell, in kissing hands to |
| each other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar |
| practices. For now the single gentleman and Mr Garland were in the |
| carriage, and the post-boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped and |
| muffled up, was in the rumble behind; and Mrs Garland was there, and Mr |
| Abel was there, and Kit's mother was there, and little Jacob was there, |
| and Barbara's mother was visible in remote perspective, nursing the |
| ever-wakeful baby; and all were nodding, beckoning, curtseying, or |
| crying out, 'Good bye!' with all the energy they could express. In |
| another minute, the carriage was out of sight; and Mr Chuckster |
| remained alone on the spot where it had lately been, with a vision of |
| Kit standing up in the rumble waving his hand to Barbara, and of |
| Barbara in the full light and lustre of his eyes--his |
| eyes--Chuckster's--Chuckster the successful--on whom ladies of quality |
| had looked with favour from phaetons in the parks on Sundays--waving |
| hers to Kit! |
| |
| How Mr Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some time |
| rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the Prince |
| of felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul of Snobs, and |
| how he clearly traced this revolting circumstance back to that old |
| villany of the shilling, are matters foreign to our purpose; which is |
| to track the rolling wheels, and bear the travellers company on their |
| cold, bleak journey. |
| |
| It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and rushed against them |
| fiercely: bleaching the hard ground, shaking the white frost from the |
| trees and hedges, and whirling it away like dust. But little cared Kit |
| for weather. There was a freedom and freshness in the wind, as it came |
| howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was welcome. As it swept |
| on with its cloud of frost, bearing down the dry twigs and boughs and |
| withered leaves, and carrying them away pell-mell, it seemed as though |
| some general sympathy had got abroad, and everything was in a hurry, |
| like themselves. The harder the gusts, the better progress they |
| appeared to make. It was a good thing to go struggling and fighting |
| forward, vanquishing them one by one; to watch them driving up, |
| gathering strength and fury as they came along; to bend for a moment, |
| as they whistled past; and then to look back and see them speed away, |
| their hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the stout trees cowering |
| down before them. |
| |
| All day long, it blew without cessation. The night was clear and |
| starlit, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing. |
| Sometimes--towards the end of a long stage--Kit could not help wishing |
| it were a little warmer: but when they stopped to change horses, and he |
| had had a good run, and what with that, and the bustle of paying the |
| old postilion, and rousing the new one, and running to and fro again |
| until the horses were put to, he was so warm that the blood tingled and |
| smarted in his fingers' ends--then, he felt as if to have it one |
| degree less cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the |
| journey: and up he jumped again, right cheerily, singing to the merry |
| music of the wheels as they rolled away, and, leaving the townspeople |
| in their warm beds, pursued their course along the lonely road. |
| |
| Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little disposed to sleep, |
| beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious and |
| expectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of their expedition, on |
| the manner in which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and |
| fears they entertained respecting it. Of the former they had many, of |
| the latter few--none perhaps beyond that indefinable uneasiness which |
| is inseparable from suddenly awakened hope, and protracted expectation. |
| |
| In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night had |
| worn away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more and more |
| silent and thoughtful, turned to his companion and said abruptly: |
| |
| 'Are you a good listener?' |
| |
| 'Like most other men, I suppose,' returned Mr Garland, smiling. 'I can |
| be, if I am interested; and if not interested, I should still try to |
| appear so. Why do you ask?' |
| |
| 'I have a short narrative on my lips,' rejoined his friend, 'and will |
| try you with it. It is very brief.' |
| |
| Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentleman's sleeve, |
| and proceeded thus: |
| |
| 'There were once two brothers, who loved each other dearly. There was |
| a disparity in their ages--some twelve years. I am not sure but they |
| may insensibly have loved each other the better for that reason. Wide |
| as the interval between them was, however, they became rivals too soon. |
| The deepest and strongest affection of both their hearts settled upon |
| one object. |
| |
| 'The youngest--there were reasons for his being sensitive and |
| watchful--was the first to find this out. I will not tell you what |
| misery he underwent, what agony of soul he knew, how great his mental |
| struggle was. He had been a sickly child. His brother, patient and |
| considerate in the midst of his own high health and strength, had many |
| and many a day denied himself the sports he loved, to sit beside his |
| couch, telling him old stories till his pale face lighted up with an |
| unwonted glow; to carry him in his arms to some green spot, where he |
| could tend the poor pensive boy as he looked upon the bright summer |
| day, and saw all nature healthy but himself; to be, in any way, his |
| fond and faithful nurse. I may not dwell on all he did, to make the |
| poor, weak creature love him, or my tale would have no end. But when |
| the time of trial came, the younger brother's heart was full of those |
| old days. Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of |
| inconsiderate youth by one of thoughtful manhood. He left his brother |
| to be happy. The truth never passed his lips, and he quitted the |
| country, hoping to die abroad. |
| |
| 'The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven before long, and |
| left him with an infant daughter. |
| |
| 'If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you will |
| remember how the same face and figure--often the fairest and slightest |
| of them all--come upon you in different generations; and how you trace |
| the same sweet girl through a long line of portraits--never growing |
| old or changing--the Good Angel of the race--abiding by them in all |
| reverses--redeeming all their sins-- |
| |
| 'In this daughter the mother lived again. You may judge with what |
| devotion he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to this |
| girl, her breathing image. She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart |
| to one who could not know its worth. Well! Her fond father could not |
| see her pine and droop. He might be more deserving than he thought |
| him. He surely might become so, with a wife like her. He joined their |
| hands, and they were married. |
| |
| 'Through all the misery that followed this union; through all the cold |
| neglect and undeserved reproach; through all the poverty he brought |
| upon her; through all the struggles of their daily life, too mean and |
| pitiful to tell, but dreadful to endure; she toiled on, in the deep |
| devotion of her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can. |
| Her means and substance wasted; her father nearly beggared by her |
| husband's hand, and the hourly witness (for they lived now under one |
| roof) of her ill-usage and unhappiness,--she never, but for him, |
| bewailed her fate. Patient, and upheld by strong affection to the |
| last, she died a widow of some three weeks' date, leaving to her |
| father's care two orphans; one a son of ten or twelve years old; the |
| other a girl--such another infant child--the same in helplessness, in |
| age, in form, in feature--as she had been herself when her young mother |
| died. |
| |
| 'The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a broken |
| man; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of years than by the |
| heavy hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his possessions, he began to |
| trade--in pictures first, and then in curious ancient things. He had |
| entertained a fondness for such matters from a boy, and the tastes he |
| had cultivated were now to yield him an anxious and precarious |
| subsistence. |
| |
| 'The boy grew like his father in mind and person; the girl so like her |
| mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked into her |
| mild blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his |
| daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy soon spurned the |
| shelter of his roof, and sought associates more congenial to his taste. |
| The old man and the child dwelt alone together. |
| |
| 'It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest and |
| dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight creature; when |
| her face, constantly before him, reminded him, from hour to hour, of |
| the too early change he had seen in such another--of all the |
| sufferings he had watched and known, and all his child had undergone; |
| when the young man's profligate and hardened course drained him of |
| money as his father's had, and even sometimes occasioned them temporary |
| privation and distress; it was then that there began to beset him, and |
| to be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty and want. He had no |
| thought for himself in this. His fear was for the child. It was a |
| spectre in his house, and haunted him night and day. |
| |
| 'The younger brother had been a traveller in many countries, and had |
| made his pilgrimage through life alone. His voluntary banishment had |
| been misconstrued, and he had borne (not without pain) reproach and |
| slight for doing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful |
| shadow on his path. Apart from this, communication between him and the |
| elder was difficult, and uncertain, and often failed; still, it was not |
| so wholly broken off but that he learnt--with long blanks and gaps |
| between each interval of information--all that I have told you now. |
| |
| 'Then, dreams of their young, happy life--happy to him though laden |
| with pain and early care--visited his pillow yet oftener than before; |
| and every night, a boy again, he was at his brother's side. With the |
| utmost speed he could exert, he settled his affairs; converted into |
| money all the goods he had; and, with honourable wealth enough for |
| both, with open heart and hand, with limbs that trembled as they bore |
| him on, with emotion such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one |
| evening at his brother's door!' |
| |
| The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped. |
| |
| 'The rest,' said Mr Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, 'I know.' |
| |
| 'Yes,' rejoined his friend, 'we may spare ourselves the sequel. You |
| know the poor result of all my search. Even when by dint of such |
| inquiries as the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we |
| found they had been seen with two poor travelling showmen--and in time |
| discovered the men themselves--and in time, the actual place of their |
| retreat; even then, we were too late. Pray God, we are not too late |
| again!' |
| |
| 'We cannot be,' said Mr Garland. 'This time we must succeed.' |
| |
| 'I have believed and hoped so,' returned the other. 'I try to believe |
| and hope so still. But a heavy weight has fallen on my spirits, my |
| good friend, and the sadness that gathers over me, will yield to |
| neither hope nor reason.' |
| |
| 'That does not surprise me,' said Mr Garland; 'it is a natural |
| consequence of the events you have recalled; of this dreary time and |
| place; and above all, of this wild and dismal night. A dismal night, |
| indeed! Hark! how the wind is howling!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 70 |
| |
| Day broke, and found them still upon their way. Since leaving home, |
| they had halted here and there for necessary refreshment, and had |
| frequently been delayed, especially in the night time, by waiting for |
| fresh horses. They had made no other stoppages, but the weather |
| continued rough, and the roads were often steep and heavy. It would be |
| night again before they reached their place of destination. |
| |
| Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on manfully; and, |
| having enough to do to keep his blood circulating, to picture to |
| himself the happy end of this adventurous journey, and to look about |
| him and be amazed at everything, had little spare time for thinking of |
| discomforts. Though his impatience, and that of his fellow-travellers, |
| rapidly increased as the day waned, the hours did not stand still. The |
| short daylight of winter soon faded away, and it was dark again when |
| they had yet many miles to travel. |
| |
| As it grew dusk, the wind fell; its distant moanings were more low and |
| mournful; and, as it came creeping up the road, and rattling covertly |
| among the dry brambles on either hand, it seemed like some great |
| phantom for whom the way was narrow, whose garments rustled as it |
| stalked along. By degrees it lulled and died away, and then it came on |
| to snow. |
| |
| The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground some inches |
| deep, and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. The rolling wheels were |
| noiseless, and the sharp ring and clatter of the horses' hoofs, became |
| a dull, muffled tramp. The life of their progress seemed to be slowly |
| hushed, and something death-like to usurp its place. |
| |
| Shading his eyes from the falling snow, which froze upon their lashes |
| and obscured his sight, Kit often tried to catch the earliest glimpse |
| of twinkling lights, denoting their approach to some not distant town. |
| He could descry objects enough at such times, but none correctly. Now, |
| a tall church spire appeared in view, which presently became a tree, a |
| barn, a shadow on the ground, thrown on it by their own bright lamps. |
| Now, there were horsemen, foot-passengers, carriages, going on before, |
| or meeting them in narrow ways; which, when they were close upon them, |
| turned to shadows too. A wall, a ruin, a sturdy gable end, would rise |
| up in the road; and, when they were plunging headlong at it, would be |
| the road itself. Strange turnings too, bridges, and sheets of water, |
| appeared to start up here and there, making the way doubtful and |
| uncertain; and yet they were on the same bare road, and these things, |
| like the others, as they were passed, turned into dim illusions. |
| |
| He descended slowly from his seat--for his limbs were numbed--when |
| they arrived at a lone posting-house, and inquired how far they had to |
| go to reach their journey's end. It was a late hour in such by-places, |
| and the people were abed; but a voice answered from an upper window, |
| Ten miles. The ten minutes that ensued appeared an hour; but at the |
| end of that time, a shivering figure led out the horses they required, |
| and after another brief delay they were again in motion. |
| |
| It was a cross-country road, full, after the first three or four miles, |
| of holes and cart-ruts, which, being covered by the snow, were so many |
| pitfalls to the trembling horses, and obliged them to keep a footpace. |
| As it was next to impossible for men so much agitated as they were by |
| this time, to sit still and move so slowly, all three got out and |
| plodded on behind the carriage. The distance seemed interminable, and |
| the walk was most laborious. As each was thinking within himself that |
| the driver must have lost his way, a church bell, close at hand, struck |
| the hour of midnight, and the carriage stopped. It had moved softly |
| enough, but when it ceased to crunch the snow, the silence was as |
| startling as if some great noise had been replaced by perfect stillness. |
| |
| 'This is the place, gentlemen,' said the driver, dismounting from his |
| horse, and knocking at the door of a little inn. 'Halloa! Past twelve |
| o'clock is the dead of night here.' |
| |
| The knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse the drowsy |
| inmates. All continued dark and silent as before. They fell back a |
| little, and looked up at the windows, which were mere black patches in |
| the whitened house front. No light appeared. The house might have |
| been deserted, or the sleepers dead, for any air of life it had about |
| it. |
| |
| They spoke together with a strange inconsistency, in whispers; |
| unwilling to disturb again the dreary echoes they had just now raised. |
| |
| 'Let us go on,' said the younger brother, 'and leave this good fellow |
| to wake them, if he can. I cannot rest until I know that we are not |
| too late. Let us go on, in the name of Heaven!' |
| |
| They did so, leaving the postilion to order such accommodation as the |
| house afforded, and to renew his knocking. Kit accompanied them with a |
| little bundle, which he had hung in the carriage when they left home, |
| and had not forgotten since--the bird in his old cage--just as she had |
| left him. She would be glad to see her bird, he knew. |
| |
| The road wound gently downward. As they proceeded, they lost sight of |
| the church whose clock they had heard, and of the small village |
| clustering round it. The knocking, which was now renewed, and which in |
| that stillness they could plainly hear, troubled them. They wished the |
| man would forbear, or that they had told him not to break the silence |
| until they returned. |
| |
| The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure cold white, again |
| rose up before them, and a few moments brought them close beside it. A |
| venerable building--grey, even in the midst of the hoary landscape. An |
| ancient sun-dial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by the |
| snow-drift, and scarcely to be known for what it was. Time itself |
| seemed to have grown dull and old, as if no day were ever to displace |
| the melancholy night. |
| |
| A wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more than one path |
| across the churchyard to which it led, and, uncertain which to take, |
| they came to a stand again. |
| |
| The village street--if street that could be called which was an |
| irregular cluster of poor cottages of many heights and ages, some with |
| their fronts, some with their backs, and some with gable ends towards |
| the road, with here and there a signpost, or a shed encroaching on the |
| path--was close at hand. There was a faint light in a chamber window |
| not far off, and Kit ran towards that house to ask their way. |
| |
| His first shout was answered by an old man within, who presently |
| appeared at the casement, wrapping some garment round his throat as a |
| protection from the cold, and demanded who was abroad at that |
| unseasonable hour, wanting him. |
| |
| ''Tis hard weather this,' he grumbled, 'and not a night to call me up |
| in. My trade is not of that kind that I need be roused from bed. The |
| business on which folks want me, will keep cold, especially at this |
| season. What do you want?' |
| |
| 'I would not have roused you, if I had known you were old and ill,' |
| said Kit. |
| |
| 'Old!' repeated the other peevishly. 'How do you know I am old? Not |
| so old as you think, friend, perhaps. As to being ill, you will find |
| many young people in worse case than I am. More's the pity that it |
| should be so--not that I should be strong and hearty for my years, I |
| mean, but that they should be weak and tender. I ask your pardon |
| though,' said the old man, 'if I spoke rather rough at first. My eyes |
| are not good at night--that's neither age nor illness; they never |
| were--and I didn't see you were a stranger.' |
| |
| 'I am sorry to call you from your bed,' said Kit, 'but those gentlemen |
| you may see by the churchyard gate, are strangers too, who have just |
| arrived from a long journey, and seek the parsonage-house. You can |
| direct us?' |
| |
| 'I should be able to,' answered the old man, in a trembling voice, |
| 'for, come next summer, I have been sexton here, good fifty years. The |
| right hand path, friend, is the road.--There is no ill news for our |
| good gentleman, I hope?' |
| |
| Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the negative; he was |
| turning back, when his attention was caught by the voice of a child. |
| Looking up, he saw a very little creature at a neighbouring window. |
| |
| 'What is that?' cried the child, earnestly. 'Has my dream come true? |
| Pray speak to me, whoever that is, awake and up.' |
| |
| 'Poor boy!' said the sexton, before Kit could answer, 'how goes it, |
| darling?' |
| |
| 'Has my dream come true?' exclaimed the child again, in a |
| voice so fervent that it might have thrilled to the heart of any |
| listener. 'But no, that can never be! How could it be--Oh! how could |
| it!' |
| |
| 'I guess his meaning,' said the sexton. 'To bed again, poor boy!' |
| |
| 'Ay!' cried the child, in a burst of despair. 'I knew it could never |
| be, I felt too sure of that, before I asked! But, all to-night, and |
| last night too, it was the same. I never fall asleep, but that cruel |
| dream comes back.' |
| |
| 'Try to sleep again,' said the old man, soothingly. 'It will go in |
| time.' |
| |
| 'No no, I would rather that it staid--cruel as it is, I would rather |
| that it staid,' rejoined the child. 'I am not afraid to have it in my |
| sleep, but I am so sad--so very, very sad.' |
| |
| The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied Good night, and Kit |
| was again alone. |
| |
| He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though more by the child's |
| manner than by anything he had said, as his meaning was hidden from |
| him. They took the path indicated by the sexton, and soon arrived |
| before the parsonage wall. Turning round to look about them when they |
| had got thus far, they saw, among some ruined buildings at a distance, |
| one single solitary light. |
| |
| It shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window, and being |
| surrounded by the deep shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled like a |
| star. Bright and glimmering as the stars above their heads, lonely and |
| motionless as they, it seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal |
| lamps of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them. |
| |
| 'What light is that!' said the younger brother. |
| |
| 'It is surely,' said Mr Garland, 'in the ruin where they live. I see |
| no other ruin hereabouts.' |
| |
| 'They cannot,' returned the brother hastily, 'be waking at this late |
| hour--' |
| |
| Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they rang and waited at |
| the gate, they would let him make his way to where this light was |
| shining, and try to ascertain if any people were about. Obtaining the |
| permission he desired, he darted off with breathless eagerness, and, |
| still carrying the birdcage in his hand, made straight towards the spot. |
| |
| It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, and at another time |
| he might have gone more slowly, or round by the path. Unmindful of all |
| obstacles, however, he pressed forward without slackening his speed, |
| and soon arrived within a few yards of the window. He approached as |
| softly as he could, and advancing so near the wall as to brush the |
| whitened ivy with his dress, listened. There was no sound inside. The |
| church itself was not more quiet. Touching the glass with his cheek, |
| he listened again. No. And yet there was such a silence all around, |
| that he felt sure he could have heard even the breathing of a sleeper, |
| if there had been one there. |
| |
| A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that time of night, |
| with no one near it. |
| |
| A curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the window, and he |
| could not see into the room. But there was no shadow thrown upon it |
| from within. To have gained a footing on the wall and tried to look in |
| from above, would have been attended with some danger--certainly with |
| some noise, and the chance of terrifying the child, if that really were |
| her habitation. Again and again he listened; again and again the same |
| wearisome blank. |
| |
| Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and skirting the ruin |
| for a few paces, he came at length to a door. He knocked. No answer. |
| But there was a curious noise inside. It was difficult to determine |
| what it was. It bore a resemblance to the low moaning of one in pain, |
| but it was not that, being far too regular and constant. Now it seemed |
| a kind of song, now a wail--seemed, that is, to his changing fancy, for |
| the sound itself was never changed or checked. It was unlike anything |
| he had ever heard; and in its tone there was something fearful, |
| chilling, and unearthly. |
| |
| The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had done in frost and |
| snow, but he knocked again. There was no answer, and the sound went on |
| without any interruption. He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and |
| put his knee against the door. It was secured on the inside, but |
| yielded to the pressure, and turned upon its hinges. He saw the |
| glimmering of a fire upon the old walls, and entered. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 71 |
| |
| The dull, red glow of a wood fire--for no lamp or candle burnt within |
| the room--showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back |
| towards him, bending over the fitful light. The attitude was that of |
| one who sought the heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping |
| posture and the cowering form were there, but no hands were stretched |
| out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver compared its luxury |
| with the piercing cold outside. With limbs huddled together, head |
| bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched, |
| it rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause, |
| accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had heard. |
| |
| The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that |
| made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave |
| in any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form |
| was that of an old man, his white head akin in colour to the mouldering |
| embers upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, |
| the time-worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all |
| in fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin! |
| |
| Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words, though what they were |
| he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on--still the |
| same rocking in the chair--the same stricken figure was there, |
| unchanged and heedless of his presence. |
| |
| He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form--distinctly |
| seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up--arrested |
| it. He returned to where he had stood before--advanced a |
| pace--another--another still. Another, and he saw the face. Yes! |
| Changed as it was, he knew it well. |
| |
| 'Master!' he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand. |
| 'Dear master. Speak to me!' |
| |
| The old man turned slowly towards him; and muttered in a hollow voice, |
| |
| 'This is another!--How many of these spirits there have been to-night!' |
| |
| 'No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now, I |
| am sure? Miss Nell--where is she--where is she?' |
| |
| 'They all say that!' cried the old man. 'They all ask the same |
| question. A spirit!' |
| |
| 'Where is she?' demanded Kit. 'Oh tell me but that,--but that, dear |
| master!' |
| |
| 'She is asleep--yonder--in there.' |
| |
| 'Thank God!' |
| |
| 'Aye! Thank God!' returned the old man. 'I have prayed to Him, many, |
| and many, and many a livelong night, when she has been asleep, He |
| knows. Hark! Did she call?' |
| |
| 'I heard no voice.' |
| |
| 'You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't hear THAT?' |
| |
| He started up, and listened again. |
| |
| 'Nor that?' he cried, with a triumphant smile, 'Can any body know that |
| voice so well as I? Hush! Hush!' |
| |
| Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber. |
| After a short absence (during which he could be heard to speak in a |
| softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp. |
| |
| 'She is still asleep,' he whispered. 'You were right. She did not |
| call--unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in her |
| sleep before now, sir; as I have sat by, watching, I have seen her lips |
| move, and have known, though no sound came from them, that she spoke of |
| me. I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so I |
| brought it here.' |
| |
| He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when he had put the |
| lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary |
| recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face. Then, as if |
| forgetting his motive in the very action, he turned away and put it |
| down again. |
| |
| 'She is sleeping soundly,' he said; 'but no wonder. Angel hands have |
| strewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may be |
| lighter yet; and the very birds are dead, that they may not wake her. |
| She used to feed them, Sir. Though never so cold and hungry, the timid |
| things would fly from us. They never flew from her!' |
| |
| Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened for a |
| long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took out |
| some clothes as fondly as if they had been living things, and began to |
| smooth and brush them with his hand. |
| |
| 'Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell,' he murmured, 'when there |
| are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them! |
| Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends come creeping |
| to the door, crying "where is Nell--sweet Nell?"--and sob, and weep, |
| because they do not see thee. She was always gentle with children. |
| The wildest would do her bidding--she had a tender way with them, |
| indeed she had!' |
| |
| Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears. |
| |
| 'Her little homely dress,--her favourite!' cried the old man, pressing |
| it to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand. 'She will |
| miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here in sport, but she shall |
| have it--she shall have it. I would not vex my darling, for the wide |
| world's riches. See here--these shoes--how worn they are--she kept |
| them to remind her of our last long journey. You see where the little |
| feet went bare upon the ground. They told me, afterwards, that the |
| stones had cut and bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, God |
| bless her! and, I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir, |
| that I might not see how lame she was--but yet she had my hand in hers, |
| and seemed to lead me still.' |
| |
| He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back again, |
| went on communing with himself--looking wistfully from time to time |
| towards the chamber he had lately visited. |
| |
| 'She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then. We must |
| have patience. When she is well again, she will rise early, as she |
| used to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morning time. I often |
| tried to track the way she had gone, but her small footstep left no |
| print upon the dewy ground, to guide me. Who is that? Shut the door. |
| Quick!--Have we not enough to do to drive away that marble cold, and |
| keep her warm!' |
| |
| The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr Garland and his |
| friend, accompanied by two other persons. These were the schoolmaster, |
| and the bachelor. The former held a light in his hand. He had, it |
| seemed, but gone to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp, at |
| the moment when Kit came up and found the old man alone. |
| |
| He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying aside the |
| angry manner--if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can be |
| applied--in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed his |
| former seat, and subsided, by little and little into the old action, |
| and the old, dull, wandering sound. |
| |
| Of the strangers, he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but |
| appeared quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The younger brother |
| stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat |
| down close beside him. After a long silence, he ventured to speak. |
| |
| 'Another night, and not in bed!' he said softly; 'I hoped you would be |
| more mindful of your promise to me. Why do you not take some rest?' |
| |
| 'Sleep has left me,' returned the old man. 'It is all with her!' |
| |
| 'It would pain her very much to know that you were watching thus,' said |
| the bachelor. 'You would not give her pain?' |
| |
| 'I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She has slept |
| so very long. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and happy |
| sleep--eh?' |
| |
| 'Indeed it is,' returned the bachelor. 'Indeed, indeed, it is!' |
| |
| 'That's well!--and the waking--' faltered the old man. |
| |
| 'Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man conceive.' |
| |
| They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber |
| where the lamp had been replaced. They listened as he spoke again |
| within its silent walls. They looked into the faces of each other, and |
| no man's cheek was free from tears. He came back, whispering that she |
| was still asleep, but that he thought she had moved. It was her hand, |
| he said--a little--a very, very little--but he was pretty sure she had |
| moved it--perhaps in seeking his. He had known her do that, before |
| now, though in the deepest sleep the while. And when he had said this, |
| he dropped into his chair again, and clasping his hands above his head, |
| uttered a cry never to be forgotten. |
| |
| The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come on |
| the other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his fingers, |
| which he had twisted in his grey hair, and pressed them in their own. |
| |
| 'He will hear me,' said the schoolmaster, 'I am sure. He will hear |
| either me or you if we beseech him. She would, at all times.' |
| |
| 'I will hear any voice she liked to hear,' cried the old man. 'I love |
| all she loved!' |
| |
| 'I know you do,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I am certain of it. |
| Think of her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared |
| together; of all the trials, and all the peaceful pleasures, you have |
| jointly known.' |
| |
| 'I do. I do. I think of nothing else.' |
| |
| 'I would have you think of nothing else to-night--of nothing but those |
| things which will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to old |
| affections and old times. It is so that she would speak to you |
| herself, and in her name it is that I speak now.' |
| |
| 'You do well to speak softly,' said the old man. 'We will not wake |
| her. I should be glad to see her eyes again, and to see her smile. |
| There is a smile upon her young face now, but it is fixed and |
| changeless. I would have it come and go. That shall be in Heaven's |
| good time. We will not wake her.' |
| |
| 'Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be when you |
| were journeying together, far away--as she was at home, in the old |
| house from which you fled together--as she was, in the old cheerful |
| time,' said the schoolmaster. |
| |
| 'She was always cheerful--very cheerful,' cried the old man, looking |
| steadfastly at him. 'There was ever something mild and quiet about |
| her, I remember, from the first; but she was of a happy nature.' |
| |
| 'We have heard you say,' pursued the schoolmaster, 'that in this and in |
| all goodness, she was like her mother. You can think of, and remember |
| her?' |
| |
| He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer. |
| |
| 'Or even one before her,' said the bachelor. 'It is many years ago, |
| and affliction makes the time longer, but you have not forgotten her |
| whose death contributed to make this child so dear to you, even before |
| you knew her worth or could read her heart? Say, that you could carry |
| back your thoughts to very distant days--to the time of your early |
| life--when, unlike this fair flower, you did not pass your youth alone. |
| Say, that you could remember, long ago, another child who loved you |
| dearly, you being but a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother, |
| long forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now, at last, |
| in your utmost need came back to comfort and console you--' |
| |
| 'To be to you what you were once to him,' cried the younger, falling on |
| his knee before him; 'to repay your old affection, brother dear, by |
| constant care, solicitude, and love; to be, at your right hand, what he |
| has never ceased to be when oceans rolled between us; to call to |
| witness his unchanging truth and mindfulness of bygone days, whole |
| years of desolation. Give me but one word of recognition, brother--and |
| never--no never, in the brightest moment of our youngest days, when, |
| poor silly boys, we thought to pass our lives together--have we been |
| half as dear and precious to each other as we shall be from this time |
| hence!' |
| |
| The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved; but no sound |
| came from them in reply. |
| |
| 'If we were knit together then,' pursued the younger brother, 'what |
| will be the bond between us now! Our love and fellowship began in |
| childhood, when life was all before us, and will be resumed when we |
| have proved it, and are but children at the last. As many restless |
| spirits, who have hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the world, |
| retire in their decline to where they first drew breath, vainly seeking |
| to be children once again before they die, so we, less fortunate than |
| they in early life, but happier in its closing scenes, will set up our |
| rest again among our boyish haunts, and going home with no hope |
| realised, that had its growth in manhood--carrying back nothing that |
| we brought away, but our old yearnings to each other--saving no |
| fragment from the wreck of life, but that which first endeared it--may |
| be, indeed, but children as at first. And even,' he added in an |
| altered voice, 'even if what I dread to name has come to pass--even if |
| that be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid and spare us!)--still, |
| dear brother, we are not apart, and have that comfort in our great |
| affliction.' |
| |
| By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner |
| chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he |
| replied, with trembling lips. |
| |
| 'You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You never will do |
| that--never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her--I |
| never had--I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late |
| to part us now.' |
| |
| Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he |
| stole into the room. They who were left behind, drew close together, |
| and after a few whispered words--not unbroken by emotion, or easily |
| uttered--followed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps made |
| no noise; but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief |
| and mourning. |
| |
| For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The |
| solemn stillness was no marvel now. |
| |
| She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of |
| pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand |
| of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and |
| suffered death. |
| |
| Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green |
| leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. 'When I die, |
| put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above |
| it always.' Those were her words. |
| |
| She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little |
| bird--a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have |
| crushed--was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its |
| child mistress was mute and motionless for ever. |
| |
| Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? |
| All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect |
| happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. |
| |
| And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. |
| The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed, |
| like a dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the |
| poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon |
| the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had |
| been the same mild lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their |
| majesty, after death. |
| |
| The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight |
| folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched |
| out to him with her last smile--the hand that had led him on, through |
| all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then |
| hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and, |
| as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if |
| imploring them to help her. |
| |
| She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she |
| had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast--the |
| garden she had tended--the eyes she had gladdened--the noiseless haunts |
| of many a thoughtful hour--the paths she had trodden as it were but |
| yesterday--could know her never more. |
| |
| 'It is not,' said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the |
| cheek, and gave his tears free vent, 'it is not on earth that Heaven's |
| justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the World to which |
| her young spirit has winged its early flight; and say, if one |
| deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her |
| back to life, which of us would utter it!' |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 72 |
| |
| When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of |
| their grief, they heard how her life had closed. |
| |
| She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, |
| knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. |
| They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night, |
| but as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what |
| she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings |
| with the old man; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had |
| helped and used them kindly, for she often said 'God bless you!' with |
| great fervour. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and |
| that was of beautiful music which she said was in the air. God knows. |
| It may have been. |
| |
| Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they |
| would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a |
| lovely smile upon her face--such, they said, as they had never seen, |
| and never could forget--and clung with both her arms about his neck. |
| They did not know that she was dead, at first. |
| |
| She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like |
| dear friends to her. She wished they could be told how much she |
| thought about them, and how she had watched them as they walked |
| together, by the river side at night. She would like to see poor Kit, |
| she had often said of late. She wished there was somebody to take her |
| love to Kit. And, even then, she never thought or spoke about him, but |
| with something of her old, clear, merry laugh. |
| |
| For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a quiet |
| mind, and manner quite unaltered--save that she every day became more |
| earnest and more grateful to them--faded like the light upon a summer's |
| evening. |
| |
| The child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon as |
| it was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to |
| lay upon her breast. It was he who had come to the window overnight |
| and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small |
| feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which she lay, |
| before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, that they had left |
| her there alone; and could not bear the thought. |
| |
| He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored |
| to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her, saying |
| that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being |
| alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all day long when he |
| was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his |
| wish; and indeed he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a |
| lesson to them all. |
| |
| Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once--except to her--or |
| stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little favourite, he |
| was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would |
| have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears |
| for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of |
| this child had done him good, left them alone together. |
| |
| Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to |
| take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And |
| when the day came on, which must remove her in her earthly shape from |
| earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she |
| was taken from him. |
| |
| They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was |
| Sunday--a bright, clear, wintry afternoon--and as they traversed the |
| village street, those who were walking in their path drew back to make |
| way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some shook the old |
| man kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered while he tottered by, and |
| many cried 'God help him!' as he passed along. |
| |
| 'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where his young |
| guide's mother dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are nearly all in black |
| to-day? I have seen a mourning ribbon or a piece of crape on almost |
| every one.' |
| |
| She could not tell, the woman said. |
| |
| 'Why, you yourself--you wear the colour too?' he said. 'Windows are |
| closed that never used to be by day. What does this mean?' |
| |
| Again the woman said she could not tell. |
| |
| 'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what this |
| is.' |
| |
| 'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him. 'Remember what you promised. |
| Our way is to the old green lane, where she and I so often were, and |
| where you found us, more than once, making those garlands for her |
| garden. Do not turn back!' |
| |
| 'Where is she now?' said the old man. 'Tell me that.' |
| |
| 'Do you not know?' returned the child. 'Did we not leave her, but just |
| now?' |
| |
| 'True. True. It was her we left--was it?' |
| |
| He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if |
| impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the |
| sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the |
| fire. Both rose up, on seeing who it was. |
| |
| The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the action |
| of an instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite enough. |
| |
| 'Do you--do you bury any one to-day?' he said, eagerly. |
| |
| 'No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton. |
| |
| 'Aye, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed!' |
| |
| 'It is a holiday with us, good Sir,' returned the sexton mildly. 'We |
| have no work to do to-day.' |
| |
| 'Why then, I'll go where you will,' said the old man, turning to the |
| child. 'You're sure of what you tell me? You would not deceive me? I |
| am changed, even in the little time since you last saw me.' |
| |
| 'Go thy ways with him, Sir,' cried the sexton, 'and Heaven be with ye |
| both!' |
| |
| 'I am quite ready,' said the old man, meekly. 'Come, boy, come--' and |
| so submitted to be led away. |
| |
| And now the bell--the bell she had so often heard, by night and day, |
| and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice--rung |
| its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. |
| Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless |
| infancy, poured forth--on crutches, in the pride of strength and |
| health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life--to |
| gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and |
| senses failing--grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and |
| still been old--the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living |
| dead in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave. |
| What was the death it would shut in, to that which still could crawl |
| and creep above it! |
| |
| Along the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen snow |
| that covered it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under the |
| porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that |
| peaceful spot, she passed again; and the old church received her in its |
| quiet shade. |
| |
| They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time |
| sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light |
| streamed on it through the coloured window--a window, where the boughs |
| of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang |
| sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among |
| those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light, would |
| fall upon her grave. |
| |
| Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Many a young hand |
| dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some--and |
| they were not a few--knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in |
| their sorrow. |
| |
| The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed |
| round to look into the grave before the pavement-stone should be |
| replaced. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very |
| spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a |
| pensive face upon the sky. Another told, how he had wondered much that |
| one so delicate as she, should be so bold; how she had never feared to |
| enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all |
| was quiet, and even to climb the tower stair, with no more light than |
| that of the moon rays stealing through the loopholes in the thick old |
| wall. A whisper went about among the oldest, that she had seen and |
| talked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked, |
| and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so, indeed. |
| Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and |
| giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three |
| or four, the church was cleared in time, of all but the sexton and the |
| mourning friends. |
| |
| They saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down. Then, when the |
| dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred |
| stillness of the place--when the bright moon poured in her light on |
| tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it |
| seemed to them) upon her quiet grave--in that calm time, when outward |
| things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and |
| worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them--then, with |
| tranquil and submissive hearts they turned away, and left the child |
| with God. |
| |
| Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach, |
| but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a |
| mighty, universal Truth. When Death strikes down the innocent and |
| young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit |
| free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to |
| walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals |
| shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature |
| comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that |
| defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven. |
| |
| It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his own |
| dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back; and, rendered drowsy |
| by his long ramble and late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep |
| by the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they were careful not |
| to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time, and when he at length |
| awoke the moon was shining. |
| |
| The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching at |
| the door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his |
| little guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging the old |
| man to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps |
| towards the house. |
| |
| He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding what he had left |
| there, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were |
| assembled. From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, |
| calling her name. They followed close upon him, and when he had vainly |
| searched it, brought him home. |
| |
| With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they |
| prevailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they should tell |
| him. Then endeavouring by every little artifice to prepare his mind |
| for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the happy |
| lot to which she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth. |
| The moment it had passed their lips, he fell down among them like a |
| murdered man. |
| |
| For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving; but grief is |
| strong, and he recovered. |
| |
| If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death--the |
| weary void--the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest |
| minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn--the |
| connection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of |
| recollection, when every household god becomes a monument and every |
| room a grave--if there be any who have not known this, and proved it by |
| their own experience, they can never faintly guess how, for many days, |
| the old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there |
| as seeking something, and had no comfort. |
| |
| Whatever power of thought or memory he retained, was all bound up in |
| her. He never understood, or seemed to care to understand, about his |
| brother. To every endearment and attention he continued listless. If |
| they spoke to him on this, or any other theme--save one--he would hear |
| them patiently for awhile, then turn away, and go on seeking as before. |
| |
| On that one theme, which was in his and all their minds, it was |
| impossible to touch. Dead! He could not hear or bear the word. The |
| slightest hint of it would throw him into a paroxysm, like that he had |
| had when it was first spoken. In what hope he lived, no man could |
| tell; but that he had some hope of finding her again--some faint and |
| shadowy hope, deferred from day to day, and making him from day to day |
| more sick and sore at heart--was plain to all. |
| |
| They bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last sorrow; of |
| trying whether change of place would rouse or cheer him. His brother |
| sought the advice of those who were accounted skilful in such matters, |
| and they came and saw him. Some of the number staid upon the spot, |
| conversed with him when he would converse, and watched him as he |
| wandered up and down, alone and silent. Move him where they might, |
| they said, he would ever seek to get back there. His mind would run |
| upon that spot. If they confined him closely, and kept a strict guard |
| upon him, they might hold him prisoner, but if he could by any means |
| escape, he would surely wander back to that place, or die upon the road. |
| |
| The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any influence |
| with him. At times he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or |
| would even take such notice of his presence as giving him his hand, or |
| would stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other times, |
| he would entreat him--not unkindly--to be gone, and would not brook him |
| near. But, whether alone, or with this pliant friend, or with those |
| who would have given him, at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or |
| some peace of mind, if happily the means could have been devised; he |
| was at all times the same--with no love or care for anything in life--a |
| broken-hearted man. |
| |
| At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his |
| knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little |
| basket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As |
| they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened |
| schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the |
| church--upon her grave, he said. |
| |
| They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in the |
| attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, |
| but kept a watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he |
| rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, 'She |
| will come to-morrow!' |
| |
| Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and still |
| at night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, 'She will come |
| to-morrow!' |
| |
| And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave, |
| for her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of |
| resting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and |
| woods, and paths not often trodden--how many tones of that one |
| well-remembered voice, how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering |
| dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind--how many visions of |
| what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be--rose up before him, in |
| the old, dull, silent church! He never told them what he thought, or |
| where he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering with a |
| secret satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight that he and she |
| would take before night came again; and still they would hear him |
| whisper in his prayers, 'Lord! Let her come to-morrow!' |
| |
| The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at the |
| usual hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead upon the |
| stone. |
| |
| They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in the |
| church where they had often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in |
| hand, the child and the old man slept together. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| CHAPTER 73 |
| |
| The magic reel, which, rolling on before, has led the chronicler thus |
| far, now slackens in its pace, and stops. It lies before the goal; the |
| pursuit is at an end. |
| |
| It remains but to dismiss the leaders of the little crowd who have |
| borne us company upon the road, and so to close the journey. |
| |
| Foremost among them, smooth Sampson Brass and Sally, arm in arm, claim |
| our polite attention. |
| |
| Mr Sampson, then, being detained, as already has been shown, by the |
| justice upon whom he called, and being so strongly pressed to protract |
| his stay that he could by no means refuse, remained under his |
| protection for a considerable time, during which the great attention of |
| his entertainer kept him so extremely close, that he was quite lost to |
| society, and never even went abroad for exercise saving into a small |
| paved yard. So well, indeed, was his modest and retiring temper |
| understood by those with whom he had to deal, and so jealous were they |
| of his absence, that they required a kind of friendly bond to be |
| entered into by two substantial housekeepers, in the sum of fifteen |
| hundred pounds a-piece, before they would suffer him to quit their |
| hospitable roof--doubting, it appeared, that he would return, if once |
| let loose, on any other terms. Mr Brass, struck with the humour of |
| this jest, and carrying out its spirit to the utmost, sought from his |
| wide connection a pair of friends whose joint possessions fell some |
| halfpence short of fifteen pence, and proffered them as bail--for that |
| was the merry word agreed upon both sides. These gentlemen being |
| rejected after twenty-four hours' pleasantry, Mr Brass consented to |
| remain, and did remain, until a club of choice spirits called a Grand |
| jury (who were in the joke) summoned him to a trial before twelve other |
| wags for perjury and fraud, who in their turn found him guilty with a |
| most facetious joy,--nay, the very populace entered into the whim, and |
| when Mr Brass was moving in a hackney-coach towards the building where |
| these wags assembled, saluted him with rotten eggs and carcases of |
| kittens, and feigned to wish to tear him into shreds, which greatly |
| increased the comicality of the thing, and made him relish it the more, |
| no doubt. |
| |
| To work this sportive vein still further, Mr Brass, by his counsel, |
| moved in arrest of judgment that he had been led to criminate himself, |
| by assurances of safety and promises of pardon, and claimed the |
| leniency which the law extends to such confiding natures as are thus |
| deluded. After solemn argument, this point (with others of a technical |
| nature, whose humorous extravagance it would be difficult to |
| exaggerate) was referred to the judges for their decision, Sampson |
| being meantime removed to his former quarters. Finally, some of the |
| points were given in Sampson's favour, and some against him; and the |
| upshot was, that, instead of being desired to travel for a time in |
| foreign parts, he was permitted to grace the mother country under |
| certain insignificant restrictions. |
| |
| These were, that he should, for a term of years, reside in a spacious |
| mansion where several other gentlemen were lodged and boarded at the |
| public charge, who went clad in a sober uniform of grey turned up with |
| yellow, had their hair cut extremely short, and chiefly lived on gruel |
| and light soup. It was also required of him that he should partake of |
| their exercise of constantly ascending an endless flight of stairs; |
| and, lest his legs, unused to such exertion, should be weakened by it, |
| that he should wear upon one ankle an amulet or charm of iron. These |
| conditions being arranged, he was removed one evening to his new abode, |
| and enjoyed, in common with nine other gentlemen, and two ladies, the |
| privilege of being taken to his place of retirement in one of Royalty's |
| own carriages. |
| |
| Over and above these trifling penalties, his name was erased and |
| blotted out from the roll of attorneys; which erasure has been always |
| held in these latter times to be a great degradation and reproach, and |
| to imply the commission of some amazing villany--as indeed it would |
| seem to be the case, when so many worthless names remain among its |
| better records, unmolested. |
| |
| Of Sally Brass, conflicting rumours went abroad. Some said with |
| confidence that she had gone down to the docks in male attire, and had |
| become a female sailor; others darkly whispered that she had enlisted |
| as a private in the second regiment of Foot Guards, and had been seen |
| in uniform, and on duty, to wit, leaning on her musket and looking out |
| of a sentry-box in St James's Park, one evening. There were many such |
| whispers as these in circulation; but the truth appears to be that, |
| after the lapse of some five years (during which there is no direct |
| evidence of her having been seen at all), two wretched people were more |
| than once observed to crawl at dusk from the inmost recesses of St |
| Giles's, and to take their way along the streets, with shuffling steps |
| and cowering shivering forms, looking into the roads and kennels as |
| they went in search of refuse food or disregarded offal. These forms |
| were never beheld but in those nights of cold and gloom, when the |
| terrible spectres, who lie at all other times in the obscene |
| hiding-places of London, in archways, dark vaults and cellars, venture |
| to creep into the streets; the embodied spirits of Disease, and Vice, |
| and Famine. It was whispered by those who should have known, that |
| these were Sampson and his sister Sally; and to this day, it is said, |
| they sometimes pass, on bad nights, in the same loathsome guise, close |
| at the elbow of the shrinking passenger. |
| |
| The body of Quilp being found--though not until some days had |
| elapsed--an inquest was held on it near the spot where it had been |
| washed ashore. The general supposition was that he had committed |
| suicide, and, this appearing to be favoured by all the circumstances of |
| his death, the verdict was to that effect. He was left to be buried |
| with a stake through his heart in the centre of four lonely roads. |
| |
| It was rumoured afterwards that this horrible and barbarous ceremony |
| had been dispensed with, and that the remains had been secretly given |
| up to Tom Scott. But even here, opinion was divided; for some said Tom |
| dug them up at midnight, and carried them to a place indicated to him |
| by the widow. It is probable that both these stories may have had |
| their origin in the simple fact of Tom's shedding tears upon the |
| inquest--which he certainly did, extraordinary as it may appear. He |
| manifested, besides, a strong desire to assault the jury; and being |
| restrained and conducted out of court, darkened its only window by |
| standing on his head upon the sill, until he was dexterously tilted |
| upon his feet again by a cautious beadle. |
| |
| Being cast upon the world by his master's death, he determined to go |
| through it upon his head and hands, and accordingly began to tumble for |
| his bread. Finding, however, his English birth an insurmountable |
| obstacle to his advancement in this pursuit (notwithstanding that his |
| art was in high repute and favour), he assumed the name of an Italian |
| image lad, with whom he had become acquainted; and afterwards tumbled |
| with extraordinary success, and to overflowing audiences. |
| |
| Little Mrs Quilp never quite forgave herself the one deceit that lay so |
| heavy on her conscience, and never spoke or thought of it but with |
| bitter tears. Her husband had no relations, and she was rich. He had |
| made no will, or she would probably have been poor. Having married the |
| first time at her mother's instigation, she consulted in her second |
| choice nobody but herself. It fell upon a smart young fellow enough; |
| and as he made it a preliminary condition that Mrs Jiniwin should be |
| thenceforth an out-pensioner, they lived together after marriage with no |
| more than the average amount of quarrelling, and led a merry life upon |
| the dead dwarf's money. |
| |
| Mr and Mrs Garland, and Mr Abel, went out as usual (except that there |
| was a change in their household, as will be seen presently), and in due |
| time the latter went into partnership with his friend the notary, on |
| which occasion there was a dinner, and a ball, and great extent of |
| dissipation. Unto this ball there happened to be invited the most |
| bashful young lady that was ever seen, with whom Mr Abel happened to |
| fall in love. HOW it happened, or how they found it out, or which of |
| them first communicated the discovery to the other, nobody knows. But |
| certain it is that in course of time they were married; and equally |
| certain it is that they were the happiest of the happy; and no less |
| certain it is that they deserved to be so. And it is pleasant to write |
| down that they reared a family; because any propagation of goodness and |
| benevolence is no small addition to the aristocracy of nature, and no |
| small subject of rejoicing for mankind at large. |
| |
| The pony preserved his character for independence and principle down to |
| the last moment of his life; which was an unusually long one, and |
| caused him to be looked upon, indeed, as the very Old Parr of ponies. |
| He often went to and fro with the little phaeton between Mr Garland's |
| and his son's, and, as the old people and the young were frequently |
| together, had a stable of his own at the new establishment, into which |
| he would walk of himself with surprising dignity. He condescended to |
| play with the children, as they grew old enough to cultivate his |
| friendship, and would run up and down the little paddock with them like |
| a dog; but though he relaxed so far, and allowed them such small |
| freedoms as caresses, or even to look at his shoes or hang on by his |
| tail, he never permitted any one among them to mount his back or drive |
| him; thus showing that even their familiarity must have its limits, and |
| that there were points between them far too serious for trifling. |
| |
| He was not unsusceptible of warm attachments in his later life, for |
| when the good bachelor came to live with Mr Garland upon the |
| clergyman's decease, he conceived a great friendship for him, and |
| amiably submitted to be driven by his hands without the least |
| resistance. He did no work for two or three years before he died, but |
| lived in clover; and his last act (like a choleric old gentleman) was |
| to kick his doctor. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his illness, and entering |
| into the receipt of his annuity, bought for the Marchioness a handsome |
| stock of clothes, and put her to school forthwith, in redemption of the |
| vow he had made upon his fevered bed. After casting about for some |
| time for a name which should be worthy of her, he decided in favour of |
| Sophronia Sphynx, as being euphonious and genteel, and furthermore |
| indicative of mystery. Under this title the Marchioness repaired, in |
| tears, to the school of his selection, from which, as she soon |
| distanced all competitors, she was removed before the lapse of many |
| quarters to one of a higher grade. It is but bare justice to Mr |
| Swiveller to say, that, although the expenses of her education kept him |
| in straitened circumstances for half a dozen years, he never slackened |
| in his zeal, and always held himself sufficiently repaid by the |
| accounts he heard (with great gravity) of her advancement, on his |
| monthly visits to the governess, who looked upon him as a literary |
| gentleman of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent in |
| quotation. |
| |
| In a word, Mr Swiveller kept the Marchioness at this establishment |
| until she was, at a moderate guess, full nineteen years of age-- |
| good-looking, clever, and good-humoured; when he began to consider |
| seriously what was to be done next. On one of his periodical visits, |
| while he was revolving this question in his mind, the Marchioness came |
| down to him, alone, looking more smiling and more fresh than ever. |
| Then, it occurred to him, but not for the first time, that if she would |
| marry him, how comfortable they might be! So Richard asked her; |
| whatever she said, it wasn't No; and they were married in good earnest |
| that day week. Which gave Mr Swiveller frequent occasion to remark at |
| divers subsequent periods that there had been a young lady saving up |
| for him after all. |
| |
| A little cottage at Hampstead being to let, which had in its garden a |
| smoking-box, the envy of the civilised world, they agreed to become its |
| tenants, and, when the honey-moon was over, entered upon its |
| occupation. To this retreat Mr Chuckster repaired regularly every |
| Sunday to spend the day--usually beginning with breakfast--and here he |
| was the great purveyor of general news and fashionable intelligence. |
| For some years he continued a deadly foe to Kit, protesting that he had |
| a better opinion of him when he was supposed to have stolen the |
| five-pound note, than when he was shown to be perfectly free of the |
| crime; inasmuch as his guilt would have had in it something daring and |
| bold, whereas his innocence was but another proof of a sneaking and |
| crafty disposition. By slow degrees, however, he was reconciled to him |
| in the end; and even went so far as to honour him with his patronage, |
| as one who had in some measure reformed, and was therefore to be |
| forgiven. But he never forgot or pardoned that circumstance of the |
| shilling; holding that if he had come back to get another he would have |
| done well enough, but that his returning to work out the former gift |
| was a stain upon his moral character which no penitence or contrition |
| could ever wash away. |
| |
| Mr Swiveller, having always been in some measure of a philosophic and |
| reflective turn, grew immensely contemplative, at times, in the |
| smoking-box, and was accustomed at such periods to debate in his own |
| mind the mysterious question of Sophronia's parentage. Sophronia |
| herself supposed she was an orphan; but Mr Swiveller, putting various |
| slight circumstances together, often thought Miss Brass must know |
| better than that; and, having heard from his wife of her strange |
| interview with Quilp, entertained sundry misgivings whether that |
| person, in his lifetime, might not also have been able to solve the |
| riddle, had he chosen. These speculations, however, gave him no |
| uneasiness; for Sophronia was ever a most cheerful, affectionate, and |
| provident wife to him; and Dick (excepting for an occasional outbreak |
| with Mr Chuckster, which she had the good sense rather to encourage |
| than oppose) was to her an attached and domesticated husband. And they |
| played many hundred thousand games of cribbage together. And let it be |
| added, to Dick's honour, that, though we have called her Sophronia, he |
| called her the Marchioness from first to last; and that upon every |
| anniversary of the day on which he found her in his sick room, Mr |
| Chuckster came to dinner, and there was great glorification. |
| |
| The gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl, with their trusty confederate Mr |
| James Groves of unimpeachable memory, pursued their course with varying |
| success, until the failure of a spirited enterprise in the way of their |
| profession, dispersed them in various directions, and caused their |
| career to receive a sudden check from the long and strong arm of the |
| law. This defeat had its origin in the untoward detection of a new |
| associate--young Frederick Trent--who thus became the unconscious |
| instrument of their punishment and his own. |
| |
| For the young man himself, he rioted abroad for a brief term, living by |
| his wits--which means by the abuse of every faculty that worthily |
| employed raises man above the beasts, and so degraded, sinks him far |
| below them. It was not long before his body was recognised by a |
| stranger, who chanced to visit that hospital in Paris where the drowned |
| are laid out to be owned; despite the bruises and disfigurements which |
| were said to have been occasioned by some previous scuffle. But the |
| stranger kept his own counsel until he returned home, and it was never |
| claimed or cared for. |
| |
| The younger brother, or the single gentleman, for that designation is |
| more familiar, would have drawn the poor schoolmaster from his lone |
| retreat, and made him his companion and friend. But the humble village |
| teacher was timid of venturing into the noisy world, and had become |
| fond of his dwelling in the old churchyard. Calmly happy in his |
| school, and in the spot, and in the attachment of Her little mourner, |
| he pursued his quiet course in peace; and was, through the righteous |
| gratitude of his friend--let this brief mention suffice for that--a |
| POOR school-master no more. |
| |
| That friend--single gentleman, or younger brother, which you will--had |
| at his heart a heavy sorrow; but it bred in him no misanthropy or |
| monastic gloom. He went forth into the world, a lover of his kind. |
| For a long, long time, it was his chief delight to travel in the steps |
| of the old man and the child (so far as he could trace them from her |
| last narrative), to halt where they had halted, sympathise where they |
| had suffered, and rejoice where they had been made glad. Those who had |
| been kind to them, did not escape his search. The sisters at the |
| school--they who were her friends, because themselves so |
| friendless--Mrs Jarley of the wax-work, Codlin, Short--he found them |
| all; and trust me, the man who fed the furnace fire was not forgotten. |
| |
| Kit's story having got abroad, raised him up a host of friends, and |
| many offers of provision for his future life. He had no idea at first |
| of ever quitting Mr Garland's service; but, after serious remonstrance |
| and advice from that gentleman, began to contemplate the possibility of |
| such a change being brought about in time. A good post was procured |
| for him, with a rapidity which took away his breath, by some of the |
| gentlemen who had believed him guilty of the offence laid to his |
| charge, and who had acted upon that belief. Through the same kind |
| agency, his mother was secured from want, and made quite happy. Thus, |
| as Kit often said, his great misfortune turned out to be the source of |
| all his subsequent prosperity. |
| |
| Did Kit live a single man all his days, or did he marry? Of course he |
| married, and who should be his wife but Barbara? And the best of it |
| was, he married so soon that little Jacob was an uncle, before the |
| calves of his legs, already mentioned in this history, had ever been |
| encased in broadcloth pantaloons,--though that was not quite the best |
| either, for of necessity the baby was an uncle too. The delight of |
| Kit's mother and of Barbara's mother upon the great occasion is past |
| all telling; finding they agreed so well on that, and on all other |
| subjects, they took up their abode together, and were a most harmonious |
| pair of friends from that time forth. And hadn't Astley's cause to |
| bless itself for their all going together once a quarter--to the |
| pit--and didn't Kit's mother always say, when they painted the outside, |
| that Kit's last treat had helped to that, and wonder what the manager |
| would feel if he but knew it as they passed his house! |
| |
| When Kit had children six and seven years old, there was a Barbara |
| among them, and a pretty Barbara she was. Nor was there wanting an |
| exact facsimile and copy of little Jacob, as he appeared in those |
| remote times when they taught him what oysters meant. Of course there |
| was an Abel, own godson to the Mr Garland of that name; and there was a |
| Dick, whom Mr Swiveller did especially favour. The little group would |
| often gather round him of a night and beg him to tell again that story |
| of good Miss Nell who died. This, Kit would do; and when they cried to |
| hear it, wishing it longer too, he would teach them how she had gone to |
| Heaven, as all good people did; and how, if they were good, like her, |
| they might hope to be there too, one day, and to see and know her as he |
| had done when he was quite a boy. Then, he would relate to them how |
| needy he used to be, and how she had taught him what he was otherwise |
| too poor to learn, and how the old man had been used to say 'she always |
| laughs at Kit;' at which they would brush away their tears, and laugh |
| themselves to think that she had done so, and be again quite merry. |
| |
| He sometimes took them to the street where she had lived; but new |
| improvements had altered it so much, it was not like the same. The old |
| house had been long ago pulled down, and a fine broad road was in its |
| place. At first he would draw with his stick a square upon the ground |
| to show them where it used to stand. But he soon became uncertain of |
| the spot, and could only say it was thereabouts, he thought, and these |
| alterations were confusing. |
| |
| Such are the changes which a few years bring about, and so do things |
| pass away, like a tale that is told! |