TO SAMUEL ROGERS,
ESQUIRE.
--------------------
MY DEAR SIR, Let me
have my Pleasures of Memory in connexion with this book, by dedicating it to a
Poet whose writings (as all the world knos) are replete with generous and
earnest feeling; and to a Man whose daily life (as all the world does not know)
is one of active sympathy with the poorest and humblest of his kind.
Your faithful friend,
CHARLES DICKENS.
WHEN the author
commenced this Work, he proposed to himself three objects
First. To establish a
periodical, which should enable him to present, under one general head, and not
as separate and distinct publications, certain fictions which he had it in
contemplation to write.
Secondly. To produce
these Tales in weekly numbers; hoping that to shorten the intervals of
communication between himself and his readers, would be to knot more closely
the pleasant relations they had held for Forty Months.
Thirdly. In the
execution of this weekly task, to have as much regard as its exigencies would
permit, to each story as a whole, and to the possibility of its publication at
some distant day, apart from the machinery in which it had its origin.
The characters of Master
Humphrey and his three friends, and the little fancy of the clock, were the
result of these considerations. When he sought to interest his readers in those
who talked, and read, and listened, he revived Mr. Pickwick and his humble
friends; not with any intention of reopening an exhausted and abandoned mine,
but to connect them in the thoughts of those whose favourites they had been,
with the tranquil enjoyments of Master Humphrey.
It was never the author’s
intention to make the Members of Master Humphrey’s Clock, active agents in the
stories they are supposed to relate. Having brought himself in the commencement
of his undertaking to feel an interest in these quiet creatures, and to imagine
them in their old chamber of meeting, eager listeners to all he had to tell,
the author hoped--as authors will--to succeed in awakening some of his own
emotions in the bosoms of his readers. Imagining Master Humphrey in his
chimney-corner, resuming, night after night, the narrative,--say, of the Old
Curiosity Shop--picturing to himself the various sensations of his
hearers--thinking how Jack Redburn might incline to poor Kit, and perhaps lean
too favourably even towards the lighter vices of Mr. Richard Swiveller--how the
deaf gentleman would have his favourite, and Mr. Miles his--and how all these
gentle spirits would trace some faint reflection of their past lives in the
varying current of the tale--he has insensibly fallen into the belief that they
are present to his readers as they are to him, and has forgotten that like one
whose vision is disordered he may be conjuring up bright figures where there is
nothing but empty space.
The short papers which
are to be found at the beginning of this volume were indispensable to the form
of publication and the limited extent of each number, as no story of lengthened
interest could be begun until “The Clock” was wound up and fairly going.
The author would fain
hope that there are not many who would disturb Master Humphrey and his friends
in their seclusion; who would have them forego their present enjoyments, to
exchange these confidences with each other, the absence of which is the
foundation of their mutual trust. For when their occupation is gone, when their
tales are ended and but their personal histories remain, the chimney-corner
will be growing cold, and the Clock will be about to stop for ever.
One other word on his
own person, and he returns to the more grateful task of speaking for those
imaginary people whose little world lies within these pages.
It may be some consolation
to the well-disposed ladies or gentlemen who, in the interval between the
conclusion of his last work, and the commencement of this, originated a report
that he had gone raving mad, to know that it spread as rapidly as could be
desired, and was made the subject of considerable dispute; not as regarded the
fact, for that was as thoroughly established as the duel between Sir Peter
Teazle and Charles Surface in the School or Scandal; but with reference to the
unfortunate lunatic’s place of confinement: one party insisting positively on
Bedlam, another inclining favourably towards Saint Luke’s, and a third swearing
strongly by the asylum at Hanwell; while each backed its case by circumstantial
evidence of the same excellent nature as that brought to bear by Sir Benjamin
Backbite on he postol-shot, which struck against the little bronze bust of
Shakespeare over the fire-place, grazed out of the window at a right angle, and
wounded the postman, who was coming to the door with a double letter from
Northamptonshire.
It will be a great
affliction to these ladies and gentlemen to learn--and he is so unwilling to
give pain, that he would not whisper the circumstance on any account, did he
not feel in a manner bound to do so, in gratitude to those among his friends who
were at the trouble of being angry with the absurdity--that their invention
made the author’s home unusually merry, and gave rise to an extraordinary
number of jests, of which he will only add, in the words of the good Vicar of
Wakefield, ‘I cannot say whether we had more wit among us than usual; but I am
sure we had more laughing.”
Devonshire Terrace,
York Gate. September, 1840.
THE reader must not
expect to know where I live. At present, it is true, my abode may be a question
of little or no import to anybody; but if I should carry my readers with me, as
I hope to do, and there should spring up between them and me feelings of homely
affection and regard attaching something of interest to matters ever so
slightly connected with my fortunes or my speculations, even my place of
residence might one day have a kind of charm for them. Bearing this possible
contingency in mind, I wish them to understand, in the outset, that they must
never expect to know it.
I am not a churlish old
man. Friendless I can never be, for all mankind are my kindred, and I am on ill
terms with no one member of my great family. But for many years I have led a
lonely, solitary life; -- what wound I sought to heal, what sorrow to forget,
originally, matters not now; it is sufficient that retirement has become a
habit with me, and that I am unwilling to break the spell which for so long a
time has shed its quiet influence upon my home and heart.
I live in a venerable
suburb of London, in an old house which in bygone days was a famous resort for
merry roysterers and peerless ladies, long since departed. It is a silent,
shady place, with a paved courtyard so full of echoes, that sometimes I am
tempted to believe that faint responses to the noises of old times linger there
yet, and that these ghosts of sound haunt my footsteps as I pace it up and
down. I am the more confirmed in this belief, because, of late years, the
echoes that attend my walks have been less loud and marked than they were wont
to be; and it is pleasanter to imagine in them the rustling of silk brocade,
and the light step of some lovely girl, than to recognise in their altered note
the failing tread of an old man.
Those who like to read
of brilliant rooms and gorgeous furniture would derive but little pleasure from
a minute description of my simple dwelling. It is dear to me for the same
reason that they would hold it in slight regard. Its worm-eaten doors, and low
ceilings crossed by clumsy beams; its walls of wainscot, dark stairs, and
gaping closets; its small chambers, communicating with each other by winding
passages or narrow steps; its many nooks, scarce larger than its
corner-cupboards; its very dust and dulness, are all dear to me. The moth and
spider are my constant tenants; for in my house the one basks in his long
sleep, and the other plies his busy loom secure and undisturbed. I have a
pleasure in thinking on a summer’s day how many butterflies have sprung for the
first time into light and sunshine from some dark corner of these old walls.
When I first came to
live here, which was many years ago, the neighbours were curious to know who I
was, and whence I came, and why I lived so much alone. As time went on, and
they still remained unsatisfied on these points, I became the centre of a popular
ferment, extending for half a mile round, and in one direction for a full mile.
Various rumours were circulated to my prejudice. I was a spy, an infidel, a
conjurer, a kidnapper of children, a refugee, a priest, a monster. Mothers
caught up their infants and ran into their houses as I passed; men eyed me
spitefully, and muttered threats and curses. I was the object of suspicion and
distrust -- ay, of downright hatred too.
But when in course of
time they found I did no harm, but, on the contrary, inclined towards them
despite their unjust usage, they began to relent. I found my footsteps no
longer dogged, as they had often been before, and observed that the women and
children no longer retreated, but would stand and gaze at me as I passed their
doors. I took this for a good omen, and waited patiently for better times. By
degrees I began to make friends among these humble folks; and though they were
yet shy of speaking, would give them “good day,” and so pass on. In a little
time, those whom I had thus accosted would make a point of coming to their
doors and windows at the usual hour, and nod or courtesy to me; children, too,
came timidly within my reach, and ran away quite scared when I patted their
heads and bade them be good at school. These little people soon grew more
familiar. From exchanging mere words of course with my older neighbours, I
gradually became their friend and adviser, the depositary of their cares and
sorrows, and sometimes, it may be, the reliever, in my small way, of their
distresses. And now I never walk abroad but pleasant recognitions and smiling
faces wait on Master Humphrey.
It was a whim of mine,
perhaps as a whet to the curiosity of my neighbours, and a kind of retaliation
upon them for their suspicions -- it was, I say, a whim of mine, when I first
took up my abode in this place, to acknowledge no other name than Humphrey.
With my detractors, I was Ugly Humphrey. When I began to convert them into
friends, I was Mr. Humphrey and Old Mr. Humphrey. At length I settled down into
plain Master Humphrey, which was understood to be the title most pleasant to my
ear; and so completely a matter of course has it become, that sometimes when I
am taking my morning walk in my little courtyard, I overhear my barber -- who
has a profound respect for me, and would not, I am sure, abridge my honours for
the world -- holding forth on the other side of the wall, touching the state of
“Master Humphrey’s” health, and communicating to some friend the substance of
the conversation that he and Master Humphrey have had together in the course of
the shaving which he has just concluded.
That I may not make
acquaintance with my readers under false pretences, or give them cause to
complain hereafter that I have withheld any matter which it was essential for
them to have learnt at first, I wish them to know -- and I smile sorrowfully to
think that the time has been when the confession would have given me pain -
that I am a misshapen, deformed old man.
I have never been made
a misanthrope by this cause. I have never been stung by any insult, nor wounded
by any jest upon my crooked figure. As a child I was melancholy and timid, but
that was because the gentle consideration paid to my misfortune sunk deep into
my spirit and made me sad, even in those early days. I was but a very young
creature when my poor mother died, and yet I remember that often when I hung
around her neck, and oftener still when I played about the room before her, she
would catch me to her bosom, and bursting into tears, would soothe me with every
term of fondness and affection. God knows I was a happy child at those times,
-- happy to nestle in her breast, -- happy to weep when she did, -- happy in
not knowing why.
These occasions are so
strongly impressed upon my memory, that they seem to have occupied whole years.
I had numbered very, very few when they ceased for ever, but before then their
meaning had been revealed to me.
I do not know whether
all children are imbued with a quick perception of childish grace and beauty,
and a strong love for it, but I was. I had no thought that I remember, either
that I possessed it myself or that I lacked it, but I admired it with an
intensity that I cannot describe. A little knot of playmates -- they must have
been beautiful, for I see them now -- were clustered one day round my mother’s
knee in eager admiration of some picture representing a group of infant angels,
which she held in her hand. Whose the picture was, whether it was familiar to
me or otherwise, or how all the children came to be there, I forget; I have
some dim thought it was my birthday, but the beginning of my recollection is
that we were all together in a garden, and it was summer weather, -- I am sure
of that, for one of the little girls had roses in her sash. There were many
lovely angels in this picture, and I remember the fancy coming upon me to point
out which of them represented each child there, and that when I had gone
through my companions, I stopped and hesitated, wondering which was most like
me. I remember the children looking at each other, and my turning red and hot,
and their crowding round to kiss me, saying that they loved me all the same;
and then, and when the old sorrow came into my dear mother’s mild and tender
look, the truth broke upon me for the first time, and I knew, while watching my
awkward and ungainly sports, how keenly she had felt for her poor crippled boy.
I used frequently to
dream of it afterwards, and now my heart aches for that child as if I had never
been he, when I think how often he awoke from some fairy change to his own old
form, and sobbed himself to sleep again.
Well, well, -- all
these sorrows are past. My glancing at them may not be without its use, for it
may help in some measure to explain why I have all my life been attached to the
inanimate objects that people my chamber, and how I have come to look upon them
rather in the light of old and constant friends, than as mere chairs and tables
which a little money could replace at will.
Chief and first among
all these is my Clock, -- my old, cheerful, companionable Clock. How can I ever
convey to others an idea of the comfort and consolation that this old Clock has
been for years to me!
It is associated with
my earliest recollections. It stood upon the staircase at home (I call it home
still mechanically), nigh sixty years ago. I like it for that; but it is not on
that account, nor because it is a quaint old thing in a huge oaken case
curiously and richly carved, that I prize it as I do. I incline to it as if it
were alive, and could understand and give me back the love I bear it.
And what other thing
that has not life could cheer me as it does? what other thing that has not life
(I will not say how few things that have) could have proved the same patient,
true, untiring friend? How often have I sat in the long winter evenings feeling
such society in its cricket-voice, that raising my eyes from my book and
looking gratefully towards it, the face reddened by the glow of the shining
fire has seemed to relax from its staid expression and to regard me kindly! how
often in the summer twilight, when my thoughts have wandered back to a
melancholy past, have its regular whisperings recalled them to the calm and
peaceful present! how often in the dead tranquillity of night has its bell
broken the oppressive silence, and seemed to give me assurance that the old
clock was still a faithful watcher at my chamber-door! My easy-chair, my desk,
my ancient furniture, my very books, I can scarcely bring myself to love even
these last like my old clock.
It stands in a snug
corner, midway between the fireside and a low arched door leading to my
bedroom. Its fame is diffused so extensively throughout the neighbourhood, that
I have often the satisfaction of hearing the publican, or the baker, and
sometimes even the parish-clerk, petitioning my housekeeper (of whom I shall
have much to say by-and-by) to inform him the exact time by Master Humphrey’s
clock. My barber, to whom I have referred, would sooner believe it than the
sun. Nor are these its only distinctions. It has acquired, I am happy to say,
another, inseparably connecting it not only with my enjoyments and reflections,
but with those of other men; as I shall now relate.
I lived alone here for
a long time without any friend or acquaintance. In the course of my wanderings
by night and day, at all hours and seasons, in city streets and quiet country
parts, I came to be familiar with certain faces, and to take it to heart as
quite a heavy disappointment if they failed to present themselves each at its
accustomed spot. But these were the only friends I knew, and beyond them I had
none.
It happened, however,
when I had gone on thus for a long time, that I formed an acquaintance with a
deaf gentleman, which ripened into intimacy and close companionship. To this
hour, I am ignorant of his name. It is his humour to conceal it, or he has a
reason and purpose for so doing. In either case, I feel that he has a right to
require a return of the trust he has reposed; and as he has never sought to
discover my secret, I have never sought to penetrate his. There may have been
something in this tacit confidence in each other flattering and pleasant to us
both, and it may have imparted in the beginning an additional zest, perhaps, to
our friendship. Be this as it may, we have grown to be like brothers, and still
I only know him as the deaf gentleman.
I have said that
retirement has become a habit with me. When I add, that the deaf gentleman and
I have two friends, I communicate nothing which is inconsistent with that
declaration. I spend many hours of every day in solitude and study, have no
friends or change of friends but these, only see them at stated periods, and am
supposed to be of a retired spirit by the very nature and object of our
association.
We are men of secluded
habits, with something of a cloud upon our early fortunes, whose enthusiasm,
nevertheless, has not cooled with age, whose spirit of romance is not yet
quenched, who are content to ramble through the world in a pleasant dream,
rather than ever waken again to its harsh realities. We are alchemists who
would extract the essence of perpetual youth from dust and ashes, tempt coy
Truth in many light and airy forms from the bottom of her well, and discover
one crumb of comfort or one grain of good in the commonest and least-regarded
matter that passes through our crucible. Spirits of past times, creatures of
imagination, and people of to-day are alike the objects of our seeking, and,
unlike the objects of search with most philosophers, we can insure their coming
at our command.
The deaf gentleman and
I first began to beguile our days with these fancies, and our nights in
communicating them to each other. We are now four. But in my room there are six
old chairs, and we have decided that the two empty seats shall always be placed
at our table when we meet, to remind us that we may yet increase our company by
that number, if we should find two men to our mind. When one among us dies, his
chair will always be set in its usual place, but never occupied again; and I
have caused my will to be so drawn out, that when we are all dead the house
shall be shut up, and the vacant chairs still left in their accustomed places.
It is pleasant to think that even then our shades may, perhaps, assemble
together as of yore we did, and join in ghostly converse.
One night in every
week, as the clock strikes ten, we meet. At the second stroke of two, I am
alone.
And now shall I tell
how that my old servant, besides giving us note of time, and ticking cheerful
encouragement of our proceedings, lends its name to our society, which for its
punctuality and my love is christened “Master Humphrey’s Clock?” Now shall I
tell how that in the bottom of the old dark closet, where the steady pendulum
throbs and beats with healthy action, though the pulse of him who made it stood
still long ago, and never moved again, there are piles of dusty papers
constantly placed there by our hands, that we may link our enjoyments with my
old friend, and draw means to beguile time from the heart of time itself? Shall
I, or can I, tell with what a secret pride I open this repository when we meet
at night, and still find new store of pleasure in my dear old Clock?
Friend and companion of
my solitude! mine is not a selfish love; I would not keep your merits to
myself, but disperse something of pleasant association with your image through
the whole wide world; I would have men couple with your name cheerful and
healthy thoughts; I would have them believe that you keep true and honest time;
and how it would gladden me to know that they recognised some hearty English
work in Master Humphrey’s clock!
IT is my intention
constantly to address my readers from the chimney-corner, and I would fain hope
that such accounts as I shall give them of our histories and proceedings, our
quiet speculations or more busy adventures, will never be unwelcome. Lest,
however, I should grow prolix in the outset by lingering too long upon our
little association, confounding the enthusiasm with which I regard this chief
happiness of my life with that minor degree of interest which those to whom I
address myself may be supposed to feel for it, I have deemed it expedient to
break off as they have seen.
But, still clinging to
my old friend, and naturally desirous that all its merits should be known, I am
tempted to open (somewhat irregularly and against our laws, I must admit) the
clock-case. The first roll of paper on which I lay my hand is in the writing of
the deaf gentleman. I shall have to speak of him in my next paper; and how can
I better approach that welcome task than by prefacing it with a production of
his own pen, consigned to the safe keeping of my honest Clock by his own hand?
The manuscript runs
thus
Once upon a time, that
is to say, in this our time, -- the exact year, month, and day are of no
matter, -- there dwelt in the city of London a substantial citizen, who united
in his single person the dignities of wholesale fruiterer, alderman,
common-councilman, and member of the worshipful Company of Patten-makers; who
had superadded to these extraordinary distinctions the important post and title
of Sheriff, and who at length, and to crown all, stood next in rotation for the
high and honourable office of Lord Mayor.
He was a very
substantial citizen indeed. His face was like the full moon in a fog, with two
little holes punched out for his eyes, a very ripe pear stuck on for his nose,
and a wide gash to serve for a mouth. The girth of his waistcoat was hung up
and lettered in his tailor’s shop as an extraordinary curiosity. He breathed
like a heavy snorer, and his voice in speaking came thickly forth, as if it
were oppressed and stifled by feather-beds. He trod the ground like an
elephant, and eat and drank like -- like nothing but an alderman, as he was.
This worthy citizen had
risen to his great eminence from small beginnings. He had once been a very
lean, weazen little boy, never dreaming of carrying such a weight of flesh upon
his bones or of money in his pockets, and glad enough to take his dinner at a
baker’s door, and his tea at a pump. But he had long ago forgotten all this, as
it was proper that a wholesale fruiterer, alderman, common-councilman, member
of the worshipful Company of Patten- makers, past sheriff, and, above all, a
Lord Mayor that was to be, should; and he never forgot it more completely in
all his life than on the eighth of November in the year of his election to the
great golden civic chair, which was the day before his grand dinner at
Guildhall.
It happened that as he
sat that evening all alone in his counting- house, looking over the bill of
fare for next day, and checking off the fat capons in fifties, and the
turtle-soup by the hundred quarts, for his private amusement, -- it happened
that as he sat alone occupied in these pleasant calculations, a strange man
came in and asked him how he did, adding, “If I am half as much changed as you,
sir, you have no recollection of me, I am sure.”
The strange man was not
over and above well dressed, and was very far from being fat or rich-looking in
any sense of the word, yet he spoke with a kind of modest confidence, and
assumed an easy, gentlemanly sort of an air, to which nobody but a rich man can
lawfully presume. Besides this, he interrupted the good citizen just as he had reckoned
three hundred and seventy-two fat capons, and was carrying them over to the
next column; and as if that were not aggravation enough, the learned recorder
for the city of London had only ten minutes previously gone out at that very
same door, and had turned round and said, “Good night, my lord.” Yes, he had
said, ‘my lord;’ -- he, a man of birth and education, of the Honourable Society
of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law, -- he who had an uncle in the House of
Commons, and an aunt almost but not quite in the House of Lords (for she had
married a feeble peer, and made him vote as she liked), -- he, this man, this
learned recorder, had said, ‘my lord.’ “I’ll not wait till to-morrow to give
you your title, my Lord Mayor,” says he, with a bow and a smile; “you are Lord
Mayor de facto, if not de jure. Good night, my lord!rdquo;
The Lord Mayor elect
thought of this, and turning to the stranger, and sternly bidding him “go out
of his private counting-house,” brought forward the three hundred and seventy-two
fat capons, and went on with his account.
“Do you remember,” said
the other, stepping forward, -- “Do you remember little Joe Toddyhigh?”
The port wine fled for
a moment from the fruiterer’s nose as he muttered, “Joe Toddyhigh! What about
Joe Toddyhigh?”
“I am Joe Toddyhigh,”
cried the visitor. “Look at me, look hard at me, -- harder, harder. You know me
now? You know little Joe again? What a happiness to us both, to meet the very
night before your grandeur! O! give me your hand, Jack, -- both hands, -- both,
for the sake of old times.”
“You pinch me, sir. You’re
a-hurting of me,” said the Lord Mayor elect pettishly. “Don’t, -- suppose
anybody should come, -- Mr. Toddyhigh, sir.”
“Mr. Toddyhigh!”
repeated the other ruefully.
“Oh! don’t bother,” said
the Lord Mayor elect, scratching his head. “Dear me! Why, I thought you was
dead. What a fellow you are!”
Indeed, it was a pretty
state of things, and worthy the tone of vexation and disappointment in which
the Lord Mayor spoke. Joe Toddyhigh had been a poor boy with him at Hull, and
had oftentimes divided his last penny and parted his last crust to relieve his
wants; for though Joe was a destitute child in those times, he was as faithful
and affectionate in his friendship as ever man of might could be. They parted
one day to seek their fortunes in different directions. Joe went to sea, and
the now wealthy citizen begged his way to London, They separated with many
tears, like foolish fellows as they were, and agreed to remain fast friends,
and if they lived, soon to communicate again.
When he was an
errand-boy, and even in the early days of his apprenticeship, the citizen had
many a time trudged to the Post- office to ask if there were any letter from
poor little Joe, and had gone home again with tears in his eyes, when he found
no news of his only friend. The world is a wide place, and it was a long time
before the letter came; when it did, the writer was forgotten. It turned from
white to yellow from lying in the Post-office with nobody to claim it, and in
course of time was torn up with five hundred others, and sold for waste-paper.
And now at last, and when it might least have been expected, here was this Joe
Toddyhigh turning up and claiming acquaintance with a great public character,
who on the morrow would be cracking jokes with the Prime Minister of England,
and who had only, at any time during the next twelve months, to say the word,
and he could shut up Temple Bar, and make it no thoroughfare for the king
himself!
“I am sure I don’t know
what to say, Mr. Toddyhigh,” said the Lord Mayor elect; “I really don’t. It’s
very inconvenient. I’d sooner have given twenty pound, -- it’s very
inconvenient, really.”
A thought had come into
his mind, that perhaps his old friend might say something passionate which
would give him an excuse for being angry himself. No such thing. Joe looked at
him steadily, but very mildly, and did not open his lips.
“Of course I shall pay
you what I owe you,” said the Lord Mayor elect, fidgeting in his chair. “You
lent me -- I think it was a shilling or some small coin -- when we parted
company, and that of course I shall pay with good interest. I can pay my way
with any man, and always have done. If you look into the Mansion House the day
after to-morrow, -- some time after dusk, -- and ask for my private clerk, you’ll
find he has a draft for you. I haven’t got time to say anything more just now,
unless,” -- he hesitated, for, coupled with a strong desire to glitter for once
in all his glory in the eyes of his former companion, was a distrust of his
appearance, which might be more shabby than he could tell by that feeble light,
-- “unless you’d like to come to the dinner to-morrow. I don’t mind your having
this ticket, if you like to take it. A great many people would give their ears
for it, I can tell you.”
His old friend took the
card without speaking a word, and instantly departed. His sunburnt face and
gray hair were present to the citizen’s mind for a moment; but by the time he
reached three hundred and eighty-one fat capons, he had quite forgotten him.
Joe Toddyhigh had never
been in the capital of Europe before, and he wandered up and down the streets
that night amazed at the number of churches and other public buildings, the
splendour of the shops, the riches that were heaped up on every side, the glare
of light in which they were displayed, and the concourse of people who hurried
to and fro, indifferent, apparently, to all the wonders that surrounded them.
But in all the long streets and broad squares, there were none but strangers;
it was quite a relief to turn down a by-way and hear his own footsteps on the
pavement. He went home to his inn, thought that London was a dreary, desolate
place, and felt disposed to doubt the existence of one true-hearted man in the
whole worshipful Company of Patten-makers. Finally, he went to bed, and dreamed
that he and the Lord Mayor elect were boys again.
He went next day to the
dinner; and when in a burst of light and music, and in the midst of splendid
decorations and surrounded by brilliant company, his former friend appeared at
the head of the Hall, and was hailed with shouts and cheering, he cheered and
shouted with the best, and for the moment could have cried. The next moment he
cursed his weakness in behalf of a man so changed and selfish, and quite hated
a jolly-looking old gentleman opposite for declaring himself in the pride of
his heart a Patten-maker.
As the banquet
proceeded, he took more and more to heart the rich citizen’s unkindness; and
that, not from any envy, but because he felt that a man of his state and
fortune could all the better afford to recognise an old friend, even if he were
poor and obscure. The more he thought of this, the more lonely and sad he felt.
When the company dispersed and adjourned to the ball-room, he paced the hall
and passages alone, ruminating in a very melancholy condition upon the
disappointment he had experienced.
It chanced, while he
was lounging about in this moody state, that he stumbled upon a flight of
stairs, dark, steep, and narrow, which he ascended without any thought about
the matter, and so came into a little music-gallery, empty and deserted. From
this elevated post, which commanded the whole hall, he amused himself in
looking down upon the attendants who were clearing away the fragments of the
feast very lazily, and drinking out of all the bottles and glasses with most
commendable perseverance.
His attention gradually
relaxed, and he fell fast asleep.
When he awoke, he
thought there must be something the matter with his eyes; but, rubbing them a
little, he soon found that the moonlight was really streaming through the east
window, that the lamps were all extinguished, and that he was alone. He
listened, but no distant murmur in the echoing passages, not even the shutting
of a door, broke the deep silence; he groped his way down the stairs, and found
that the door at the bottom was locked on the other side. He began now to
comprehend that he must have slept a long time, that he had been overlooked,
and was shut up there for the night.
His first sensation,
perhaps, was not altogether a comfortable one, for it was a dark, chilly,
earthy-smelling place, and something too large, for a man so situated, to feel
at home in. However, when the momentary consternation of his surprise was over,
he made light of the accident, and resolved to feel his way up the stairs
again, and make himself as comfortable as he could in the gallery until
morning. As he turned to execute this purpose, he heard the clocks strike
three.
Any such invasion of a
dead stillness as the striking of distant clocks, causes it to appear the more
intense and insupportable when the sound has ceased. He listened with strained
attention in the hope that some clock, lagging behind its fellows, had yet to
strike, -- looking all the time into the profound darkness before him, until it
seemed to weave itself into a black tissue, patterned with a hundred
reflections of his own eyes. But the bells had all pealed out their warning for
that once, and the gust of wind that moaned through the place seemed cold and
heavy with their iron breath.
The time and
circumstances were favourable to reflection. He tried to keep his thoughts to
the current, unpleasant though it was, in which they had moved all day, and to
think with what a romantic feeling he had looked forward to shaking his old
friend by the hand before he died, and what a wide and cruel difference there
was between the meeting they had had, and that which he had so often and so
long anticipated. Still, he was disordered by waking to such sudden loneliness,
and could not prevent his mind from running upon odd tales of people of
undoubted courage, who, being shut up by night in vaults or churches, or other
dismal places, had scaled great heights to get out, and fled from silence as they
had never done from danger. This brought to his mind the moonlight through the
window, and bethinking himself of it, he groped his way back up the crooked
stairs, -- but very stealthily, as though he were fearful of being overheard.
He was very much astonished
when he approached the gallery again, to see a light in the building: still
more so, on advancing hastily and looking round, to observe no visible source
from which it could proceed. But how much greater yet was his astonishment at
the spectacle which this light revealed.
The statues of the two
giants, Gog and Magog, each above fourteen feet in height, those which
succeeded to still older and more barbarous figures, after the Great Fire of
London, and which stand in the Guildhall to this day, were endowed with life
and motion. These guardian genii of the City had quitted their pedestals, and
reclined in easy attitudes in the great stained glass window. Between them was
an ancient cask, which seemed to be full of
wine; for the younger
Giant, clapping his huge hand upon it, and throwing up his mighty leg, burst
into an exulting laugh, which reverberated through the hall like thunder.
Joe Toddyhigh
instinctively stooped down, and, more dead than alive, felt his hair stand on
end, his knees knock together, and a cold damp break out upon his forehead. But
even at that minute curiosity prevailed over every other feeling, and somewhat
reassured by the good-humour of the Giants and their apparent unconsciousness
of his presence, he crouched in a corner of the gallery, in as small a space as
he could, and, peeping between the rails, observed them closely.
TURNING towards his
companion, the elder Giant uttered these words in a grave, majestic tone:--
“Magog, does boisterous
mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this ancient city? Is this becoming demeanour
for a watchful spirit over whose bodiless head so many years have rolled, so
many changes swept like empty air -- in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of
blood and crime, pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been familiar as breath
to mortals -- in whose sight Time has gathered in the harvest of centuries, and
garnered so many crops of human pride, affections, hopes, and sorrows? Bethink
you of our compact. The night wanes; feasting, revelry, and music have
encroached upon our usual hours of solitude, and morning will be here apace.
Ere we are stricken mute again, bethink you of our compact.”
Pronouncing these
latter words with more of impatience than quite accorded with his apparent age
and gravity, the Giant raised a long pole (which he still bears in his hand)
and tapped his brother Giant rather smartly on the head; indeed, the blow was
so smartly administered, that the latter quickly withdrew his lips from the
cask, to which they had been applied, and, catching up his shield and halberd,
assumed an attitude of defence. His irritation was but momentary, for he laid
these weapons aside as hastily as he had assumed them, and said as he did so:
“You know, Gog, old
friend, that when we animate these shapes which the Londoners of old assigned
(and not unworthily) to the guardian genii of their city, we are susceptible of
some of the sensations which belong to human kind. Thus when I taste wine, I
feel blows; when I relish the one, I disrelish the other. Therefore, Gog, the
more especially as your arm is none of the lightest, keep your good staff by
your side, else we may chance to differ. Peace be between us!”
“Amen!” said the other,
leaning his staff in the window-corner. “Why did you laugh just now?”
“To think” replied the
Giant Magog, laying his hand upon the cask, “of him who owned this wine, and
kept it in a cellar hoarded from the light of day, for thirty years, -- ‘till
it should be fit to drink,’ quoth he. He was twoscore and ten years old when he
buried it beneath his house, and yet never thought that he might be scarcely ‘fit
to drink’ when the wine became so. I wonder it never occurred to him to make
himself unfit to be eaten. There is very little of him left by this time.”
“The night is waning,”
said Gog mournfully.
“I know it,” replied
his companion, “and I see you are impatient. But look. Through the eastern
window -- placed opposite to us, that the first beams of the rising sun may
every morning gild our giant faces -- the moon-rays fall upon the pavement in a
stream of light that to my fancy sinks through the cold stone and gushes into
the old crypt below. The night is scarcely past its noon, and our great charge
is sleeping heavily.”
They ceased to speak, and
looked upward at the moon. The sight of their large, black, rolling eyes filled
Joe Toddyhigh with such horror that he could scarcely draw his breath. Still
they took no note of him, and appeared to believe themselves quite alone.
“Our compact,” said Magog
after a pause, “is, if I understand it, that, instead of watching here in
silence through the dreary nights, we entertain each other with stories of our
past experience; with tales of the past, the present, and the future; with
legends of London and her sturdy citizens from the old simple times. That every
night at midnight, when St. Paul’s bell tolls out one, and we may move and
speak, we thus discourse, nor leave such themes till the first gray gleam of
day shall strike us dumb. Is that our bargain, brother?”
“Yes,” said the Giant
Gog, “that is the league between us who guard this city, by day in spirit, and
by night in body also; and never on ancient holidays have its conduits run wine
more merrily than we will pour forth our legendary lore. We are old chroniclers
from this time hence. The crumbled walls encircle us once more, the
postern-gates are closed, the drawbridge is up, and pent in its narrow den
beneath, the water foams and struggles with the sunken starlings. Jerkins and
quarter-staves are in the streets again, the nightly watch is set, the rebel,
sad and lonely in his Tower dungeon, tries to sleep and weeps for home and
children. Aloft upon the gates and walls are noble heads glaring fiercely down
upon the dreaming city, and vexing the hungry dogs that scent them in the air,
and tear the ground beneath with dismal howlings. The axe, the block, the rack,
in their dark chambers give signs of recent use. The Thames, floating past long
lines of cheerful windows whence come a burst of music and a stream of light,
bears suddenly to the Palace wall the last red stain brought on the tide from
Traitor’s Gate. But your pardon, brother. The night wears, and I am talking
idly.”
The other Giant
appeared to be entirely of this opinion, for during the foregoing rhapsody of
his fellow-sentinel he had been scratching his head with an air of comical
uneasiness, or rather with an air that would have been very comical if he had
been a dwarf or an ordinary-sized man. He winked too, and though it could not
be doubted for a moment that he winked to himself, still he certainly cocked
his enormous eye towards the gallery where the listener was concealed. Nor was
this all, for he gaped; and when he gaped, Joe was horribly reminded of the
popular prejudice on the subject of giants, and of their fabled power of
smelling out Englishmen, however closely concealed.
His alarm was such that
he nearly swooned, and it was some little time before his power of sight or
hearing was restored. When he recovered he found that the elder Giant was
pressing the younger to commence the Chronicles, and that the latter was
endeavouring to excuse himself, on the ground that the night was far spent, and
it would be better to wait until the next. Well assured by this that he was
certainly about to begin directly, the listener collected his faculties by a
great effort, and distinctly heard Magog express himself to the following
effect:--
In the sixteenth
century and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth of glorious memory (albeit her
golden days are sadly rusted with blood), there lived in the city of London a
bold young ’prentice who loved his master’s daughter. There were no doubt
within the walls a great many ’prentices in this condition, but I speak of only
one, and his name was Hugh Graham.
This Hugh was
apprenticed to an honest Bowyer who dwelt in the ward of Cheype, and was
rumoured to possess great wealth. Rumour was quite as infallible in those days
as at the present time, but it happened then as now to be sometimes right by
accident. It stumbled upon the truth when it gave the old Bowyer a mint of
money. His trade had been a profitable one in the time of King Henry the
Eighth, who encouraged English archery to the utmost, and he had been prudent
and discreet. Thus it came to pass that Mistress Alice, his only daughter, was
the richest heiress in all his wealthy ward. Young Hugh had often maintained
with staff and cudgel that she was the handsomest. To do him justice, I believe
she was.
If he could have gained
the heart of pretty Mistress Alice by knocking this conviction into stubborn
people’s heads, Hugh would have had no cause to fear. But though the Bowyer’s
daughter smiled in secret to hear of his doughty deeds for her sake, and though
her little waiting-woman reported all her smiles (and many more) to Hugh, and
though he was at a vast expense in kisses and small coin to recompense her
fidelity, he made no progress in his love. He durst not whisper it to Mistress
Alice save on sure encouragement, and that she never gave him. A glance of her
dark eye as she sat at the door on a summer’s evening after prayer-time, while
he and the neighbouring ’prentices exercised themselves in the street with
blunted sword and buckler, would fire Hugh’s blood so that none could stand
before him; but then she glanced at others quite as kindly as on him, and where
was the use of cracking crowns if Mistress Alice smiled upon the cracked as
well as on the cracker?
Still Hugh went on, and
loved her more and more. He thought of her all day, and dreamed of her all night
long. He treasured up her every word and gesture, and had a palpitation of the
heart whenever he heard her footstep on the stairs or her voice in an adjoining
room. To him, the old Bowyer’s house was haunted by an angel; there was
enchantment in the air and space in which she moved. It would have been no
miracle to Hugh if flowers had sprung from the rush-strewn floors beneath the
tread of lovely Mistress Alice.
Never did ’prentice
long to distinguish himself in the eyes of his lady-love so ardently as Hugh.
Sometimes he pictured to himself the house taking fire by night, and he, when
all drew back in fear, rushing through flame and smoke, and bearing her from
the ruins in his arms. At other times he thought of a rising of fierce rebels,
an attack upon the city, a strong assault upon the Bowyer’s house in
particular, and he falling on the threshold pierced with numberless wounds in
defence of Mistress Alice. If he could only enact some prodigy of valour, do
some wonderful deed, and let her know that she had inspired it, he thought he
could die contented.
Sometimes the Bowyer
and his daughter would go out to supper with a worthy citizen at the
fashionable hour of six o’clock, and on such occasions Hugh, wearing his blue ’prentice
cloak as gallantly as ’prentice might, would attend with a lantern and his
trusty club to escort them home. These were the brightest moments of his life.
To hold the light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch her hand as
he helped her over broken ways, to have her leaning on his arm, -- it sometimes
even came to that, -- this was happiness indeed!
When the nights were
fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his eyes riveted on the graceful figure of the
Bowyer’s daughter as she and the old man moved on before him. So they threaded
the narrow winding streets of the city, now passing beneath the overhanging
gables of old wooden houses whence creaking signs projected into the street,
and now emerging from some dark and frowning gateway into the clear moonlight.
At such times, or when the shouts of straggling brawlers met her ear, the
Bowyer’s daughter would look timidly back at Hugh, beseeching him to draw
nearer; and then how he grasped his club and longed to do battle with a dozen
rufflers, for the love of Mistress Alice!
The old Bowyer was in
the habit of lending money on interest to the gallants of the Court, and thus
it happened that many a richly- dressed gentleman dismounted at his door. More
waving plumes and gallant steeds, indeed, were seen at the Bowyer’s house, and
more embroidered silks and velvets sparkled in his dark shop and darker private
closet, than at any merchants in the city. In those times no less than in
the present it would
seem that the richest-looking cavaliers often wanted money the most.
Of these glittering
clients there was one who always came alone. He was nobly mounted, and, having
no attendant, gave his horse in charge to Hugh while he and the Bowyer were
closeted within. Once as he sprung into the saddle Mistress Alice was seated at
an upper window, and before she could withdraw he had doffed his jewelled cap
and kissed his hand. Hugh watched him caracoling down the street, and burnt
with indignation. But how much deeper was the glow that reddened in his cheeks
when, raising his eyes to the casement, he saw that Alice watched the stranger
too!
He came again and
often, each time arrayed more gaily than before, and still the little casement
showed him Mistress Alice. At length one heavy day, she fled from home. It had
cost her a hard struggle, for all her old father’s gifts were strewn about her
chamber as if she had parted from them one by one, and knew that the time must
come when these tokens of his love would wring her heart, -- yet she was gone.
She left a letter
commanding her poor father to the care of Hugh, and wishing he might be happier
than ever he could have been with her, for he deserved the love of a better and
a purer heart than she had to bestow. The old man’s forgiveness (she said) she
had no power to ask, but she prayed God to bless him, -- and so ended with a
blot upon the paper where her tears had fallen.
At first the old man’s
wrath was kindled, and he carried his wrong to the Queen’s throne itself; but
there was no redress he learnt at Court, for his daughter had been conveyed
abroad. This afterwards appeared to be the truth, as there came from France,
after an interval of several years, a letter in her hand. It was written in
trembling characters, and almost illegible. Little could be made out save that
she often thought of home and her old dear pleasant room, -- and that she had
dreamt her father was dead and had not blessed her, -- and that her heart was
breaking.
The poor old Bowyer
lingered on, never suffering Hugh to quit his sight, for he knew now that he
had loved his daughter, and that was the only link that bound him to earth. It
broke at length and he died, -- bequeathing his old ’prentice his trade and all
his wealth, and solemnly charging him with his last breath to revenge his child
if ever he who had worked her misery crossed his path in life again.
From the time of Alice’s
flight, the tilting-ground, the fields, the fencing-school, the summer-evening
sports, knew Hugh no more. His spirit was dead within him. He rose to great
eminence and repute among the citizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never
mingled in their revelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and generous, he was
beloved by all. He was pitied too by those who knew his story, and these were
so many that when he walked along the streets alone at dusk, even the rude
common people doffed their caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy with their
respect.
One night in May -- it
was her birthnight, and twenty years since she had left her home -- Hugh Graham
sat in the room she had hallowed in his boyish days. He was now a gray-haired
man, though still in the prime of life. Old thoughts had borne him company for
many hours, and the chamber had gradually grown quite dark, when he was roused
by a low knocking at the outer door.
He hastened down, and
opening it saw by the light of a lamp which he had seized upon the way, a
female figure crouching in the portal. It hurried swiftly past him and glided
up the stairs. He looked for pursuers. There were none in sight. No, not one.
He was inclined to
think it a vision of his own brain, when suddenly a vague suspicion of the
truth flashed upon his mind. He barred the door, and hastened wildly back. Yes,
there she was, -- there, in the chamber he had quitted, -- there in her old
innocent, happy home, so changed that none but he could trace one gleam of what
she had been, -- there upon her knees, -- with her hands clasped in agony and
shame before her burning face.
“My God, my God!” she
cried, “now strike me dead! Though I have brought death and shame and sorrow on
this roof, O, let me die at home in mercy!”
There was no tear upon
her face then, but she trembled and glanced round the chamber. Everything was
in its old place. Her bed looked as if she had risen from it but that morning.
The sight of these familiar objects, marking the dear remembrance in which she
had been held, and the blight she had brought upon herself, was more than the
woman’s better nature that had carried her there could bear. She wept and fell
upon the ground.
A rumour was spread
about, in a few days’ time, that the Bowyer’s cruel daughter had come home, and
that Master Graham had given her lodging in his house. It was rumoured too that
he had resigned her fortune, in order that she might bestow it in acts of
charity, and that he had vowed to guard her in her solitude, but that they were
never to see each other more. These rumours greatly incensed all virtuous wives
and daughters in the ward, especially when they appeared to receive some
corroboration from the circumstance of Master Graham taking up his abode in
another tenement hard by. The estimation in which he was held, however, forbade
any questioning on the subject; and as the Bowyer’s house was close shut up,
and nobody came forth when public shows and festivities were in progress, or to
flaunt in the public walks, or to buy new fashions at the mercers’ booths, all
the well-conducted females agreed among themselves that there could be no woman
there.
These reports had
scarcely died away when the wonder of every good citizen, male and female, was
utterly absorbed and swallowed up by a Royal Proclamation, in which her
Majesty, strongly censuring the practice of wearing long Spanish rapiers of
preposterous length (as being a bullying and swaggering custom, tending to
bloodshed and public disorder), commanded that on a particular day therein
named, certain grave citizens should repair to the city gates, and there, in
public, break all rapiers worn or carried by persons claiming admission, that
exceeded, though it were only by a quarter of an inch, three standard feet in
length.
Royal Proclamations
usually take their course, let the public wonder never so much. On the
appointed day two citizens of high repute took up their stations at each of the
gates, attended by a party of the city guard, the main body to enforce the
Queen’s will, and take custody of all such rebels (if any) as might have the
temerity to dispute it: and a few to bear the standard measures and instruments
for reducing all unlawful sword-blades to the prescribed dimensions. In pursuance
of these arrangements, Master Graham and another were posted at Lud Gate, on
the hill before St. Paul’s.
A pretty numerous
company were gathered together at this spot, for, besides the officers in
attendance to enforce the proclamation, there was a motley crowd of lookers-on
of various degrees, who raised from time to time such shouts and cries as the
circumstances called forth. A spruce young courtier was the first who
approached: he unsheathed a weapon of burnished steel that shone and glistened in
the sun, and handed it with the newest air to the officer, who, finding it
exactly three feet long, returned it with a bow. Thereupon the gallant raised
his hat and crying, “God save the Queen!” passed on amidst the plaudits of the
mob. Then came another -- a better courtier still -- who wore a blade but two
feet long, whereat the people laughed, much to the disparagement of his honour’s
dignity. Then came a third, a sturdy old officer of the army, girded with a
rapier at least a foot and a half beyond her Majesty’s pleasure; at him they
raised a great shout, and most of the spectators (but especially those who were
armourers or cutlers) laughed very heartily at the breakage which would ensue.
But they were disappointed; for the old campaigner, coolly unbuckling his sword
and bidding his servant carry it home again, passed through unarmed, to the
great indignation of all the beholders. They relieved themselves in some degree
by hooting a tall blustering fellow with a prodigious weapon, who stopped short
on coming in sight of the preparations, and after a little consideration turned
back again. But all this time no rapier had been broken, although it was high
noon, and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance were taking their way
towards Saint Paul’s churchyard.
During these
proceedings, Master Graham had stood apart, strictly confining himself to the
duty imposed upon him, and taking little heed of anything beyond. He stepped
forward now as a richly- dressed gentleman on foot, followed by a single
attendant, was seen advancing up the hill.
As this person drew
nearer, the crowd stopped their clamour, and bent forward with eager looks.
Master Graham standing alone in the gateway, and the stranger coming slowly
towards him, they seemed, as it were, set face to face. The nobleman (for he
looked one) had a haughty and disdainful air, which bespoke the slight
estimation in which he held the citizen. The citizen, on the other hand,
preserved the resolute bearing of one who was not to be frowned down or
daunted, and who cared very little for any nobility but that of worth and
manhood. It was perhaps some consciousness on the part of each, of these
feelings in the other, that infused a more stern expression into their regards
as they came closer together.
“Your rapier, worthy
sir!”
At the instant that he
pronounced these words Graham started, and falling back some paces, laid his
hand upon the dagger in his belt.
“You are the man whose
horse I used to hold before the Bowyer’s door? You are that man? Speak!”
“Out, you ’prentice
hound!” said the other.
“You are he! I know you
well now!” cried Graham. “Let no man step between us two, or I shall be his
murderer.” With that he drew his dagger, and rushed in upon him.
The stranger had drawn
his weapon from the scabbard ready for the scrutiny, before a word was spoken.
He made a thrust at his assailant, but the dagger which Graham clutched in his
left hand being the dirk in use at that time for parrying such blows, promptly
turned the point aside. They closed. The dagger fell rattling on the ground,
and Graham, wresting his adversary’s sword from his grasp, plunged it through
his heart. As he drew it out it snapped in two, leaving a fragment in the dead
man’s body.
All this passed so
swiftly that the bystanders looked on without an effort to interfere; but the
man was no sooner down than an uproar broke forth which rent the air. The
attendant rushing through the gate proclaimed that his master, a nobleman, had
been set upon and slain by a citizen; the word quickly spread from mouth to
mouth; Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smoking-
house in the churchyard poured out its stream of cavaliers and their followers,
who mingling together in a dense tumultuous body, struggled, sword in hand,
towards the spot.
With equal impetuosity,
and stimulating each other by loud cries and shouts, the citizens and common
people took up the quarrel on their side, and encircling Master Graham a
hundred deep, forced him from the gate. In vain he waved the broken sword above
his head, crying that he would die on London’s threshold for their sacred
homes. They bore him on, and ever keeping him in the midst, so that no man
could attack him, fought their way into the city.
The clash of swords and
roar of voices, the dust and heat and pressure, the trampling under foot of
men, the distracted looks and shrieks of women at the windows above as they
recognised their relatives or lovers in the crowd, the rapid tolling of
alarm-bells, the furious rage and passion of the scene, were fearful. Those
who, being on the outskirts of each crowd, could use their weapons with effect,
fought desperately, while those behind, maddened with baffled rage, struck at
each other over the heads of those before them, and crushed their own fellows.
Wherever the broken sword was seen above the people’s heads, towards that spot
the cavaliers made a new rush. Every one of these charges was marked by sudden
gaps in the throng where men were trodden down, but as fast as they were made,
the tide swept over them, and still the multitude pressed on again, a confused
mass of swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes, fragments of rich cloaks and
doublets,
and angry, bleeding
faces, all mixed up together in inextricable disorder.
The design of the
people was to force Master Graham to take refuge in his dwelling, and to defend
it until the authorities could interfere, or they could gain time for parley.
But either from ignorance or in the confusion of the moment they stopped at his
old house, which was closely shut. Some time was lost in beating the doors open
and passing him to the front. About a score of the boldest of the other party
threw themselves into the torrent while this was being done, and reaching the
door at the same moment with himself cut him off from his defenders.
“I never will turn in
such a righteous cause, so help me Heaven!” cried Graham, in a voice that at
last made itself heard, and confronting them as he spoke. “Least of all will I
turn upon this threshold which owes its desolation to such men as ye. I give no
quarter, and I will have none! Strike!”
For a moment they stood
at bay. At that moment a shot from an unseen hand, apparently fired by some
person who had gained access to one of the opposite houses, struck Graham in
the brain, and he fell dead. A low wail was heard in the air, -- many people in
the concourse cried that they had seen a spirit glide across the little
casement window of the Bowyer’s house -
A dead silence
succeeded. After a short time some of the flushed and heated throng laid down
their arms and softly carried the body within doors. Others fell off or slunk
away in knots of two or three, others whispered together in groups, and before
a numerous guard which then rode up could muster in the street, it was nearly
empty.
Those who carried
Master Graham to the bed up-stairs were shocked to see a woman lying beneath
the window with her hands clasped together. After trying to recover her in
vain, they laid her near the citizen, who still retained, tightly grasped in
his right hand, the first and last sword that was broken that day at Lud Gate.
The Giant uttered these
concluding words with sudden precipitation; and on the instant the strange
light which had filled the hall faded away. Joe Toddyhigh glanced involuntarily
at the eastern window, and saw the first pale gleam of morning. He turned his
head again towards the other window in which the Giants had been seated. It was
empty. The cask of wine was gone, and he could dimly make out that the two
great figures stood mute and motionless upon their pedestals.
After rubbing his eyes
and wondering for full half an hour, during which time he observed morning come
creeping on apace, he yielded to the drowsiness which overpowered him and fell
into a refreshing slumber. When he awoke it was broad day; the building was
open, and workmen were busily engaged in removing the vestiges of last night’s
feast.
Stealing gently down
the little stairs, and assuming the air of some early lounger who had dropped
in from the street, he walked up to the foot of each pedestal in turn, and
attentively examined the figure it supported. There could be no doubt about the
features of either; he recollected the exact expression they had worn at
different passages of their conversation, and recognised in every line and
lineament the Giants of the night. Assured that it was no vision, but that he
had heard and seen with his own proper senses, he walked forth, determining at
all hazards to conceal himself in the Guildhall again that evening. He further
resolved to sleep all day, so that he might be very wakeful and vigilant, and
above all that he might take notice of the figures at the precise moment of
their becoming animated and subsiding into their old state, which he greatly
reproached himself for not having done already.
“SIR,
“Before you proceed any
further in your account of your friends and what you say and do when you meet
together, excuse me if I proffer my claim to be elected to one of the vacant
chairs in that old room of yours. Don’t reject me without full consideration;
for if you do, you will be sorry for it afterwards -- you will, upon my life.
“I enclose my card,
sir, in this letter. I never was ashamed of my name, and I never shall be. I am
considered a devilish gentlemanly fellow, and I act up to the character. If you
want a reference, ask any of the men at our club. Ask any fellow who goes there
to write his letters, what sort of conversation mine is. Ask him if he thinks I
have the sort of voice that will suit your deaf friend and make him hear, if he
can hear anything at all. Ask the servants what they think of me. There’s not a
rascal among ’em, sir, but will tremble to hear my name. That reminds me -- don’t
you say too much about that housekeeper of yours; it’s a low subject, damned
low.
“I tell you what, sir.
If you vote me into one of those empty chairs, you’ll have among you a man with
a fund of gentlemanly information that’ll rather astonish you. I can let you
into a few anecdotes about some fine women of title, that are quite high life,
sir -- the tiptop sort of thing. I know the name of every man who has been out
on an affair of honour within the last five-and-twenty years; I know the
private particulars of every cross and squabble that has taken place upon the
turf, at the gaming-table, or elsewhere, during the whole of that time. I have
been called the gentlemanly chronicle. You may consider yourself a lucky dog;
upon my soul, you may congratulate yourself, though I say so.
“It’s an uncommon good
notion that of yours, not letting anybody know where you live. I have tried it,
but there has always been an anxiety respecting me, which has found me out.
Your deaf friend is a cunning fellow to keep his name so close. I have tried
that too, but have always failed. I shall be proud to make his acquaintance -
tell him so, with my compliments.
“You must have been a
queer fellow when you were a child, confounded queer. It’s odd, all that about
the picture in your first paper, -- prosy, but told in a devilish gentlemanly
sort of way. In places like that I could come in with great effect with a touch
of life -- Don’t you feel that?
“I am anxiously waiting
for your next paper to know whether your friends live upon the premises, and at
your expense, which I take it for granted is the case. If I am right in this
impression, I know a charming fellow (an excellent companion and most
delightful company) who will be proud to join you. Some years ago he seconded a
great many prize-fighters, and once fought an amateur match himself; since then
he has driven several mails, broken at different periods all the lamps on the
right-hand side of Oxford- street, and six times carried away every bell-handle
in Bloomsbury- square, besides turning off the gas in various thoroughfares. In
point of gentlemanliness he is unrivalled, and I should say that next to myself
he is of all men the best suited to your purpose.
“Expecting your reply,
“I am,
“ &c. &&c.”
Master Humphrey informs
this gentleman that his application, both as it concerns himself and his
friend, is rejected.
MY old companion tells
me it is midnight. The fire glows brightly, crackling with a sharp and cheerful
sound, as if it loved to burn. The merry cricket on the hearth (my constant
visitor), this ruddy blaze, my clock, and I, seem to share the world among us,
and to be the only things awake. The wind, high and boisterous but now, has
died away and hoarsely mutters in its sleep. I love all times and seasons each
in its turn, and am apt, perhaps, to think the present one the best; but past
or coming I always love this peaceful time of night, when long-buried thoughts,
favoured by the gloom and silence, steal from their graves, and haunt the
scenes of faded happiness and hope.
The popular faith in
ghosts has a remarkable affinity with the whole current of our thoughts at such
an hour as this, and seems to be their necessary and natural consequence. For
who can wonder that man should feel a vague belief in tales of disembodied
spirits wandering through those places which they once dearly affected, when he
himself, scarcely less separated from his old world than they, is for ever
lingering upon past emotions and bygone times, and hovering, the ghost of his
former self, about the places and people that warmed his heart of old? It is
thus that at this quiet hour I haunt the house where I was born, the rooms I
used to tread, the scenes of my infancy, my boyhood, and my youth; it is thus
that I prowl around my buried treasure (though not of gold or silver), and
mourn my loss; it is thus that I revisit the ashes of extinguished fires, and
take my silent stand at old bedsides. If my spirit should ever glide back to
this chamber when my body is mingled with the dust, it will but follow the
course it often took in the old man’s lifetime, and add but one more change to
the subjects of its contemplation.
In all my idle
speculations I am greatly assisted by various legends connected with my
venerable house, which are current in the neighbourhood, and are so numerous
that there is scarce a cupboard or corner that has not some dismal story of its
own. When I first entertained thoughts of becoming its tenant, I was assured
that it was haunted from roof to cellar, and I believe that the bad opinion in
which my neighbours once held me had its rise in my not being torn to pieces,
or at least distracted with terror, on the night I took possession; in either
of which cases I should doubtless have arrived by a short cut at the very
summit of popularity.
But traditions and
rumours all taken into account, who so abets me in every fancy and chimes with
my every thought, as my dear deaf friend? and how often have I cause to bless
the day that brought us two together! Of all days in the year I rejoice to
think that it should have been Christmas Day, with which from childhood we
associate something friendly, hearty, and sincere.
I had walked out to
cheer myself with the happiness of others, and, in the little tokens of
festivity and rejoicing, of which the streets and houses present so many upon
that day, had lost some hours. Now I stopped to look at a merry party hurrying
through the snow on foot to their place of meeting, and now turned back to see
a whole coachful of children safely deposited at the welcome house. At one
time, I admired how carefully the working man carried the baby in its gaudy hat
and feathers, and how his wife, trudging patiently on behind, forgot even her
care of her gay clothes, in exchanging greeting with the child as it crowed and
laughed over the father’s shoulder; at another, I pleased myself with some
passing scene of gallantry or courtship, and was glad to believe that for a
season half the world of poverty was gay.
As the day closed in, I
still rambled through the streets, feeling a companionship in the bright fires
that cast their warm reflection on the windows as I passed, and losing all
sense of my own loneliness in imagining the sociality and kind-fellowship that
everywhere prevailed. At length I happened to stop before a Tavern, and,
encountering a Bill of Fare in the window, it all at once brought it into my
head to wonder what kind of people dined alone in Taverns upon Christmas Day.
Solitary men are
accustomed, I suppose, unconsciously to look upon solitude as their own
peculiar property. I had sat alone in my room on many, many anniversaries of
this great holiday, and had never regarded it but as one of universal
assemblage and rejoicing. I had excepted, and with an aching heart, a crowd of
prisoners and beggars; but THESE were not the men for whom the Tavern doors
were open. Had they any customers, or was it a mere form? -- a form, no doubt.
Trying to feel quite
sure of this, I walked away; but before I had gone many paces, I stopped and
looked back. There was a provoking air of business in the lamp above the door
which I could not overcome. I began to be afraid there might be many customers
-- young men, perhaps, struggling with the world, utter strangers in this great
place, whose friends lived at a long distance off, and whose means were too
slender to enable them to make the journey. The supposition gave rise to so
many distressing little pictures, that in preference to carrying them home with
me, I determined to encounter the realities. So I turned and walked in.
I was at once glad and
sorry to find that there was only one person in the dining-room; glad to know
that there were not more, and sorry that he should be there by himself. He did
not look so old as I, but like me he was advanced in life, and his hair was
nearly white. Though I made more noise in entering and seating myself than was
quite necessary, with the view of attracting his attention and saluting him in
the good old form of that time of year, he did not raise his head, but sat with
it resting on his hand, musing over his half-finished meal.
I called for something
which would give me an excuse for remaining in the room (I had dined early, as
my housekeeper was engaged at night to partake of some friend’s good cheer),
and sat where I could observe without intruding on him. After a time he looked
up. He was aware that somebody had entered, but could see very little of me, as
I sat in the shade and he in the light. He was sad and thoughtful, and I
forbore to trouble him by speaking.
Let me believe it was
something better than curiosity which riveted my attention and impelled me
strongly towards this gentleman. I never saw so patient and kind a face. He
should have been surrounded by friends, and yet here he sat dejected and alone
when all men had their friends about them. As often as he roused himself from
his reverie he would fall into it again, and it was plain that, whatever were
the subject of his thoughts, they were of a melancholy kind, and would not be
controlled.
He was not used to
solitude. I was sure of that; for I know by myself that if he had been, his
manner would have been different, and he would have taken some slight interest
in the arrival of another. I could not fail to mark that he had no appetite;
that he tried to eat in vain; that time after time the plate was pushed away,
and he relapsed into his former posture.
His mind was wandering
among old Christmas days, I thought. Many of them sprung up together, not with
a long gap between each, but in unbroken succession like days of the week. It
was a great change to find himself for the first time (I quite settled that it
was the first) in an empty silent room with no soul to care for. I could not
help following him in imagination through crowds of pleasant faces, and then
coming back to that dull place with its bough of mistletoe sickening in the
gas, and sprigs of holly parched up already by a Simoom of roast and boiled.
The very waiter had gone home; and his representative, a poor, lean, hungry
man, was keeping Christmas in his jacket.
I grew still more
interested in my friend. His dinner done, a decanter of wine was placed before
him. It remained untouched for a long time, but at length with a quivering hand
he filled a glass and raised it to his lips. Some tender wish to which he had
been accustomed to give utterance on that day, or some beloved name that he had
been used to pledge, trembled upon them at the moment. He put it down very
hastily -- took it up once more -- again put it down - pressed his hand upon his
face -- yes -- and tears stole down his cheeks, I am certain.
Without pausing to
consider whether I did right or wrong, I stepped across the room, and sitting
down beside him laid my hand gently on his arm.
“My friend,” I said, “forgive
me if I beseech you to take comfort and consolation from the lips of an old
man. I will not preach to you what I have not practised, indeed. Whatever be
your grief, be of a good heart -- be of a good heart, pray!”
“I see that you speak
earnestly,” he replied, “and kindly I am very sure, but -- ”
I nodded my head to
show that I understood what he would say; for I had already gathered, from a
certain fixed expression in his face, and from the attention with which he
watched me while I spoke, that his sense of hearing was destroyed. “There
should be a freemasonry between us,” said I, pointing from himself to me to
explain my meaning; “if not in our gray hairs, at least in our misfortunes. You
see that I am but a poor cripple.”
I never felt so happy
under my affliction since the trying moment of my first becoming conscious of
it, as when he took my hand in his with a smile that has lighted my path in
life from that day, and we sat down side by side.
This was the beginning
of my friendship with the deaf gentleman; and when was ever the slight and easy
service of a kind word in season repaid by such attachment and devotion as he
has shown to me!
He produced a little
set of tablets and a pencil to facilitate our conversation, on that our first
acquaintance; and I well remember how awkward and constrained I was in writing
down my share of the dialogue, and how easily he guessed my meaning before I
had written half of what I had to say. He told me in a faltering voice that he
had not been accustomed to be alone on that day -- that it had always been a
little festival with him; and seeing that I glanced at his dress in the
expectation that he wore mourning, he added hastily that it was not that; if it
had been he thought he could have borne it better. From that time to the
present we have never touched upon this theme. Upon every return of the same
day we have been together; and although we make it our annual custom to drink
to each other hand in hand after dinner, and to recall with affectionate
garrulity every circumstance of our first meeting, we always avoid this one as
if by mutual consent.
Meantime we have gone
on strengthening in our friendship and regard and forming an attachment which,
I trust and believe, will only be interrupted by death, to be renewed in
another existence. I scarcely know how we communicate as we do; but he has long
since ceased to be deaf to me. He is frequently my companion in my walks, and
even in crowded streets replies to my slightest look or gesture, as though he
could read my thoughts. From the vast number of objects which pass in rapid
succession before our eyes, we frequently select the same for some particular
notice or remark; and when one of these little coincidences occurs, I cannot
describe the pleasure which animates my friend, or the beaming countenance he
will preserve for half-an-hour afterwards at least.
He is a great thinker
from living so much within himself, and, having a lively imagination, has a
facility of conceiving and enlarging upon odd ideas, which renders him
invaluable to our little body, and greatly astonishes our two friends. His
powers in this respect are much assisted by a large pipe, which he assures us
once belonged to a German Student. Be this as it may, it has undoubtedly a very
ancient and mysterious appearance, and is of such capacity that it takes three
hours and a half to smoke it out. I have reason to believe that my barber, who
is the chief authority of a knot of gossips, who congregate every evening at a
small tobacconist’s hard by, has related anecdotes of this pipe and the grim
figures that are carved upon its bowl, at which all the smokers in the
neighbourhood have stood aghast; and I know that my housekeeper, while she
holds it in high veneration, has a superstitious feeling connected with it
which would render her exceedingly unwilling to be left alone in its company
after dark.
Whatever sorrow my dear
friend has known, and whatever grief may linger in some secret corner of his
heart, he is now a cheerful, placid, happy creature. Misfortune can never have
fallen upon such a man but for some good purpose; and when I see its traces in
his gentle nature and his earnest feeling, I am the less disposed to murmur at
such trials as I may have undergone myself. With regard to the pipe, I have a
theory of my own; I cannot help thinking that it is in some manner connected
with the event that brought us together; for I remember that it was a long time
before he even talked about it; that when he did, he grew reserved and
melancholy; and that it was a long time yet before he brought it forth. I have
no curiosity, however, upon this subject; for I know that it promotes his
tranquillity and comfort, and I need no other inducement to regard it with my
utmost favour.
Such is the deaf
gentleman. I can call up his figure now, clad in sober gray, and seated in the
chimney-corner. As he puffs out the smoke from his favourite pipe, he casts a
look on me brimful of cordiality and friendship, and says all manner of kind
and genial things in a cheerful smile; then he raises his eyes to my clock,
which is just about to strike, and, glancing from it to me and back again,
seems to divide his heart between us. For myself, it is not too much to say
that I would gladly part with one of my poor limbs, could he but hear the old
clock’s voice.
Of our two friends, the
first has been all his life one of that easy, wayward, truant class whom the
world is accustomed to designate as nobody’s enemies but their own. Bred to a
profession for which he never qualified himself, and reared in the expectation of
a fortune he has never inherited, he has undergone every vicissitude of which
such an existence is capable. He and his younger brother, both orphans from
their childhood, were educated by a wealthy relative, who taught them to expect
an equal division of his property; but too indolent to court, and too honest to
flatter, the elder gradually lost ground in the affections of a capricious old
man, and the younger, who did not fail to improve his opportunity, now triumphs
in the possession of enormous wealth. His triumph is to hoard it in solitary
wretchedness, and probably to feel with the expenditure of every shilling a
greater pang than the loss of his whole inheritance ever cost his brother.
Jack Redburn -- he was
Jack Redburn at the first little school he went to, where every other child was
mastered and surnamed, and he has been Jack Redburn all his life, or he would
perhaps have been a richer man by this time -- has been an inmate of my house
these eight years past. He is my librarian, secretary, steward, and first
minister; director of all my affairs, and inspector-general of my household. He
is something of a musician, something of an author, something of an actor,
something of a painter, very much of a carpenter, and an extraordinary
gardener, having had all his life a wonderful aptitude for learning everything
that was of no use to him. He is remarkably fond of children, and is the best
and kindest nurse in sickness that ever drew the breath of life. He has mixed
with every grade of society, and known the utmost distress; but there never was
a less selfish, a more tender- hearted, a more enthusiastic, or a more
guileless man; and I dare say, if few have done less good, fewer still have
done less harm in the world than he. By what chance Nature forms such whimsical
jumbles I don’t know; but I do know that she sends them among us very often,
and that the king of the whole race is Jack Redburn.
I should be puzzled to
say how old he is. His health is none of the best, and he wears a quantity of
iron-gray hair, which shades his face and gives it rather a worn appearance;
but we consider him quite a young fellow notwithstanding; and if a youthful
spirit, surviving the roughest contact with the world, confers upon its
possessor any title to be considered young, then he is a mere child. The only
interruptions to his careless cheerfulness are on a wet Sunday, when he is apt
to be unusually religious and solemn, and sometimes of an evening, when he has
been blowing a very slow tune on the flute. On these last-named occasions he is
apt to incline towards the mysterious, or the terrible. As a specimen of his
powers in this mood, I refer my readers to the extract from the clock-case
which follows this paper: he brought it to me not long ago at midnight, and
informed me that the main incident had been suggested by a dream of the night
before.
His apartments are two
cheerful rooms looking towards the garden, and one of his great delights is to
arrange and rearrange the furniture in these chambers, and put it in every possible
variety of position. During the whole time he has been here, I do not think he
has slept for two nights running with the head of his bed in the same place;
and every time he moves it, is to be the last. My housekeeper was at first
well-nigh distracted by these frequent changes; but she has become quite
reconciled to them by degrees, and has so fallen in with his humour, that they
often consult together with great gravity upon the next final alteration.
Whatever his arrangements are, however, they are always a pattern of neatness,
and every one of the manifold articles connected with his manifold occupations
is to be found in its own particular place. Until within the last two or three
years he was subject to an occasional fit (which usually came upon him in very
fine weather), under the influence of which he would dress himself with
peculiar care, and, going out under pretence of taking a walk, disappeared for
several days together. At length, after the interval between each outbreak of
this disorder had gradually grown longer and longer, it wholly disappeared; and
now he seldom stirs abroad, except to stroll out a little way on a summer’s
evening. Whether he yet mistrusts his own constancy in this respect, and is
therefore afraid to wear a coat, I know not; but we seldom see him in any other
upper garment than an old spectral-looking dressing- gown, with very
disproportionate pockets, full of a miscellaneous collection of odd matters,
which he picks up wherever he can lay his hands upon them.
Everything that is a
favourite with our friend is a favourite with us; and thus it happens that the
fourth among us is Mr. Owen Miles, a most worthy gentleman, who had treated
Jack with great kindness before my deaf friend and I encountered him by an
accident, to which I may refer on some future occasion. Mr. Miles was once a
very rich merchant; but receiving a severe shock in the death of his wife, he
retired from business, and devoted himself to a quiet, unostentatious life. He
is an excellent man, of thoroughly sterling character: not of quick
apprehension, and not without some amusing prejudices, which I shall leave to
their own development. He holds us all in profound veneration; but Jack Redburn
he esteems as a kind of pleasant wonder, that he may venture to approach
familiarly. He believes, not only that no man ever lived who could do so many
things as Jack, but that no man ever lived who could do anything so well; and
he never calls my attention to any of his ingenious proceedings, but he
whispers in my ear, nudging me at the same time with his elbow: “If he had only
made it his trade, sir -- if he had only made it his trade!”
They are inseparable
companions; one would almost suppose that, although Mr. Miles never by any
chance does anything in the way of assistance, Jack could do nothing without
him. Whether he is reading, writing, painting, carpentering, gardening,
flute-playing, or what not, there is Mr. Miles beside him, buttoned up to the
chin in his blue coat, and looking on with a face of incredulous delight, as
though he could not credit the testimony of his own senses, and had a misgiving
that no man could be so clever but in a dream.
These are my friends; I
have now introduced myself and them.
I HELD a lieutenant’s
commission in his Majesty’s army, and served abroad in the campaigns of 1677
and 1678. The treaty of Nimeguen being concluded, I returned home, and retiring
from the service, withdrew to a small estate lying a few miles east of London,
which I had recently acquired in right of my wife.
This is the last night
I have to live, and I will set down the naked truth without disguise. I was
never a brave man, and had always been from my childhood of a secret, sullen,
distrustful nature. I speak of myself as if I had passed from the world; for
while I write this, my grave is digging, and my name is written in the
black-book of death.
Soon after my return to
England, my only brother was seized with mortal illness. This circumstance gave
me slight or no pain; for since we had been men, we had associated but very
little together. He was open-hearted and generous, handsomer than I, more
accomplished, and generally beloved. Those who sought my acquaintance abroad or
at home, because they were friends of his, seldom attached themselves to me
long, and would usually say, in our first conversation, that they were
surprised to find two brothers so unlike in their manners and appearance. It
was my habit to lead them on to this avowal; for I knew what comparisons they
must draw between us; and having a rankling envy in my heart, I sought to
justify it to myself.
We had married two
sisters. This additional tie between us, as it may appear to some, only
estranged us the more. His wife knew me well. I never struggled with any secret
jealousy or gall when she was present but that woman knew it as well as I did.
I never raised my eyes at such times but I found hers fixed upon me; I never
bent them on the ground or looked another way but I felt that she overlooked me
always. It was an inexpressible relief to me when we quarrelled, and a greater
relief still when I heard abroad that she was dead. It seems to me now as if
some strange and terrible foreshadowing of what has happened since must have
hung over us then. I was afraid of her; she haunted me; her fixed and steady
look comes back upon me now, like the memory of a dark dream, and makes my
blood run cold.
She died shortly after
giving birth to a child -- a boy. When my brother knew that all hope of his own
recovery was past, he called my wife to his bedside, and confided this orphan,
a child of four years old, to her protection. He bequeathed to him all the
property he had, and willed that, in case of his child’s death, it should pass
to my wife, as the only acknowledgment he could make her for her care and love.
He exchanged a few brotherly words with me, deploring our long separation; and
being exhausted, fell into a slumber, from which he never awoke.
We had no children; and
as there had been a strong affection between the sisters, and my wife had
almost supplied the place of a mother to this boy, she loved him as if he had
been her own. The child was ardently attached to her; but he was his mother’s
image in face and spirit, and always mistrusted me.
I can hardly fix the
date when the feeling first came upon me; but I soon began to be uneasy when
this child was by. I never roused myself from some moody train of thought but I
marked him looking at me; not with mere childish wonder, but with something of
the purpose and meaning that I had so often noted in his mother. It was no
effort of my fancy, founded on close resemblance of feature and expression. I
never could look the boy down. He feared me, but seemed by some instinct to despise
me while he did so; and even when he drew back beneath my gaze -- as he would
when we were alone, to get nearer to the door -- he would keep his bright eyes
upon me still.
Perhaps I hide the
truth from myself, but I do not think that, when this began, I meditated to do
him any wrong. I may have thought how serviceable his inheritance would be to
us, and may have wished him dead; but I believe I had no thought of compassing
his death. Neither did the idea come upon me at once, but by very slow degrees,
presenting itself at first in dim shapes at a very great distance, as men may
think of an earthquake or the last day; then drawing nearer and nearer, and
losing something of its horror and improbability; then coming to be part and
parcel -- nay nearly the whole sum and substance -- of my daily thoughts, and
resolving itself into a question of means and safety; not of doing or
abstaining from the deed.
While this was going on
within me, I never could bear that the child should see me looking at him, and
yet I was under a fascination which made it a kind of business with me to
contemplate his slight and fragile figure and think how easily it might be
done. Sometimes I would steal up-stairs and watch him as he slept; but usually
I hovered in the garden near the window of the room in which he learnt his
little tasks; and there, as he sat upon a low seat beside my wife, I would peer
at him for hours together from behind a tree; starting, like the guilty wretch
I was, at every rustling of a leaf, and still gliding back to look and start
again.
Hard by our cottage,
but quite out of sight, and (if there were any wind astir) of hearing too, was
a deep sheet of water. I spent days in shaping with my pocket-knife a rough
model of a boat, which I finished at last and dropped in the child’s way. Then
I withdrew to a secret place, which he must pass if he stole away alone to swim
this bauble, and lurked there for his coming. He came neither that day nor the
next, though I waited from noon till nightfall. I was sure that I had him in my
net, for I had heard him prattling of the toy, and knew that in his infant
pleasure he kept it by his side in bed. I felt no weariness or fatigue, but
waited patiently, and on the third day he passed me, running joyously along,
with his silken hair streaming in the wind, and he singing -- God have mercy
upon me! -- singing a merry ballad, -- who could hardly lisp the words.
I stole down after him,
creeping under certain shrubs which grow in that place, and none but devils
know with what terror I, a strong, full-grown man, tracked the footsteps of
that baby as he approached the water’s brink. I was close upon him, had sunk
upon my knee and raised my hand to thrust him in, when he saw my shadow in the
stream and turned him round.
His mother’s ghost was
looking from his eyes. The sun burst forth from behind a cloud; it shone in the
bright sky, the glistening earth, the clear water, the sparkling drops of rain
upon the leaves. There were eyes in everything. The whole great universe of
light was there to see the murder done. I know not what he said; he came of
bold and manly blood, and, child as he was, he did not crouch or fawn upon me.
I heard him cry that he would try to love me, -- not that he did, -- and then I
saw him running back towards the house. The next I saw was my own sword naked
in my hand, and he lying at my feet stark dead, -- dabbled here and there with
blood, but otherwise no different from what I had seen him in his sleep -- in
the same attitude too, with his cheek resting upon his little hand.
I took him in my arms
and laid him -- very gently now that he was dead -- in a thicket. My wife was
from home that day, and would not return until the next. Our bedroom window,
the only sleeping-room on that side of the house, was but a few feet from the
ground, and I resolved to descend from it at night and bury him in the garden.
I had no thought that I had failed in my design, no thought that the water
would be dragged and nothing found, that the money must now lie waste, since I
must encourage the idea that the child was lost or stolen. All my thoughts were
bound up and knotted together in the one absorbing necessity of hiding what I
had done.
How I felt when they
came to tell me that the child was missing, when I ordered scouts in all directions,
when I gasped and trembled at every one’s approach, no tongue can tell or mind
of man conceive. I buried him that night. When I parted the boughs and looked
into the dark thicket, there was a glow-worm shining like the visible spirit of
God upon the murdered child. I glanced down into his grave when I had placed
him there, and still it gleamed upon his breast; an eye of fire looking up to
Heaven in supplication to the stars that watched me at my work.
I had to meet my wife,
and break the news, and give her hope that the child would soon be found. All
this I did, -- with some appearance, I suppose, of being sincere, for I was the
object of no suspicion. This done, I sat at the bedroom window all day long,
and watched the spot where the dreadful secret lay.
It was in a piece of
ground which had been dug up to be newly turfed, and which I had chosen on that
account, as the traces of my spade were less likely to attract attention. The
men who laid down the grass must have thought me mad. I called to them
continually to expedite their work, ran out and worked beside them, trod down
the earth with my feet, and hurried them with frantic eagerness. They had
finished their task before night, and then I thought myself comparatively safe.
I slept, -- not as men
do who awake refreshed and cheerful, but I did sleep, passing from vague and
shadowy dreams of being hunted down, to visions of the plot of grass, through
which now a hand, and now a foot, and now the head itself was starting out. At
this point I always woke and stole to the window, to make sure that it was not
really so. That done, I crept to bed again; and thus I spent the night in fits
and starts, getting up and lying down full twenty times, and dreaming the same
dream over and over again, -- which was far worse than lying awake, for every
dream had a whole night’s suffering of its own. Once I thought the child was
alive, and that I had never tried to kill him. To wake from that dream was the
most dreadful agony of all.
The next day I sat at
the window again, never once taking my eyes from the place, which, although it
was covered by the grass, was as plain to me -- its shape, its size, its depth,
its jagged sides, and all -- as if it had been open to the light of day. When a
servant walked across it, I felt as if he must sink in; when he had passed, I
looked to see that his feet had not worn the edges. If a bird lighted there, I
was in terror lest by some tremendous interposition it should be instrumental
in the discovery; if a breath of air sighed across it, to me it whispered
murder. There was not a sight or a sound -- how ordinary, mean, or unimportant
soever -- but was fraught with fear. And in this state of ceaseless watching I
spent three days.
On the fourth there
came to the gate one who had served with me abroad, accompanied by a brother
officer of his whom I had never seen. I felt that I could not bear to be out of
sight of the place. It was a summer evening, and I bade my people take a table
and a flask of wine into the garden. Then I sat down WITH MY CHAIR UPON THE
GRAVE, and being assured that nobody could disturb it now without my knowledge,
tried to drink and talk.
They hoped that my wife
was well, -- that she was not obliged to keep her chamber, -- that they had not
frightened her away. What could I do but tell them with a faltering tongue
about the child? The officer whom I did not know was a down-looking man, and
kept his eyes upon the ground while I was speaking. Even that terrified me. I
could not divest myself of the idea that he saw something there which caused
him to suspect the truth. I asked him hurriedly if he supposed that -- and
stopped. “That the child has been murdered?” said he, looking mildly at me: “Oh,
no! what could a man gain by murdering a poor child?” I could have told him
what a
man gained by such a
deed, no one better: but I held my peace and shivered as with an ague.
Mistaking my emotion,
they were endeavouring to cheer me with the hope that the boy would certainly
be found, -- great cheer that was for me! -- when we heard a low, deep howl,
and presently there sprung over the wall two great dogs, who bounding into the
garden, repeated the baying sound we had heard before.
“Blood-hounds!” cried
my visitors.
What need to tell me
that! I had never seen one of that kind in all my life, but I knew what they
were and for what purpose they had come. I grasped the elbows of my chair, and
neither spoke nor moved.
“They are of the
genuine breed,” said the man whom I had known abroad, “and being out for
exercise have no doubt escaped from their keeper.”
Both he and his friend
turned to look at the dogs, who with their noses to the ground moved restlessly
about, running to and fro, and up and down, and across, and round in circles,
careering about like wild things, and all this time taking no notice of us, but
ever and again repeating the yell we had heard already, then dropping their
noses to the ground again and tracking earnestly here and there. They now began
to snuff the earth more eagerly than they had done yet, and although they were
still very restless, no longer beat about in such wide circuits, but kept near
to one spot, and constantly diminished the distance between themselves and me.
At last they came up
close to the great chair on which I sat, and raising their frightful howl once
more, tried to tear away the wooden rails that kept them from the ground
beneath. I saw how I looked, in the faces of the two who were with me.
“They scent some prey,”
said they, both together.
“They scent no prey!”
cried I.
“In Heaven’s name,
move!” said the one I knew, very earnestly, “or you will be torn to pieces.”
“Let them tear me from
limb to limb, I’ll never leave this place!” cried I. “Are dogs to hurry men to
shameful deaths? Hew them down, cut them in pieces.”
“There is some foul
mystery here!” said the officer whom I did not know, drawing his sword. “In
King Charles’s name, assist me to secure this man.”
They both set upon me
and forced me away, though I fought and bit and caught at them like a madman.
After a struggle, they got me quietly between them; and then, my God! I saw the
angry dogs tearing at the earth and throwing it up into the air like water.
What more have I to
tell? That I fell upon my knees, and with chattering teeth confessed the truth,
and prayed to be forgiven. That I have since denied, and now confess to it
again. That I have been tried for the crime, found guilty, and sentenced. That
I have not the courage to anticipate my doom, or to bear up manfully against
it. That I have no compassion, no consolation, no hope, no friend. That my wife
has happily lost for the time those faculties which would enable her to know my
misery or hers. That I am alone in this stone dungeon with my evil spirit, and
that I die tomorrow.
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 toil 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 heaver 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 thrust, 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
mind 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 a 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 there 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 men 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, 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 men, 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 ensure 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.
MASTER HUMPHREY has
been favoured with the following letter written on strongly-scented paper, and
sealed in light-blue wax with the representation of two very plump doves
interchanging beaks. It does not commence with any of the usual forms of
address, but begins as is here set forth.
Bath, Wednesday night.
Heavens! into what an
indiscretion do I suffer myself to be betrayed! To address these faltering
lines to a total stranger, and that stranger one of a conflicting sex! -- and
yet I am precipitated into the abyss, and have no power of self-snatchation
(forgive me if I coin that phrase) from the yawning gulf before me.
Yes, I am writing to a
man; but let me not think of that, for madness is in the thought. You will
understand my feelings? O yes, I am sure you will; and you will respect them
too, and not despise them, -- will you?
Let me be calm. That
portrait, -- smiling as once he smiled on me; that cane, -- dangling as I have
seen it dangle from his hand I know not how oft; those legs that have glided
through my nightly dreams and never stopped to speak; the perfectly
gentlemanly, though false original, -- can I be mistaken? O no, no.
Let me be calmer yet; I
would be calm as coffins. You have published a letter from one whose likeness
is engraved, but whose name (and wherefore?) is suppressed. Shall I breathe
that name! Is it -- but why ask when my heart tells me too truly that it is!
I would not upbraid him
with his treachery; I would not remind him of those times when he plighted the
most eloquent of vows, and procured from me a small pecuniary accommodation;
and yet I would see him -- see him did I say -- HIM -- alas! such is woman’s
nature. For as the poet beautifully says -- but you will already have
anticipated the sentiment. Is it not sweet? O yes!
It was in this city
(hallowed by the recollection) that I met him first; and assuredly if mortal
happiness be recorded anywhere, then those rubbers with their
three-and-sixpenny points are scored on tablets of celestial brass. He always
held an honour -- generally two. On that eventful night we stood at eight. He
raised his eyes (luminous in their seductive sweetness) to my agitated face. “Can
you?” said he, with peculiar meaning. I felt the gentle pressure of his foot on
mine; our corns throbbed in unison. “Can you?” he said again; and every
lineament of his expressive countenance added the words “resist me?” I murmured
“No,” and fainted.
They said, when I
recovered, it was the weather. I said it was the nutmeg in the negus. How
little did they suspect the truth! How little did they guess the deep
mysterious meaning of that inquiry! He called next morning on his knees; I do
not mean to say that he actually came in that position to the house-door, but
that he went down upon those joints directly the servant had retired. He
brought some verses in his hat, which he said were original, but which I have
since found were Milton’s; likewise a little bottle labelled laudanum; also a
pistol and a sword-stick. He drew the latter, uncorked the former, and clicked
the trigger of the pocket fire-arm. He had come, he said, to conquer or to die.
He did not die. He wrested from me an avowal of my love, and let off the pistol
out of a back window previous to partaking of a slight repast.
Faithless, inconstant
man! How many ages seem to have elapsed since his unaccountable and perfidious
disappearance! Could I still forgive him both that and the borrowed lucre that
he promised to pay next week! Could I spurn him from my feet if he approached
in penitence, and with a matrimonial object! Would the blandishing enchanter
still weave his spells around me, or should I burst them all and turn away in
coldness! I dare not trust my weakness with the thought.
My brain is in a whirl
again. You know his address, his occupations, his mode of life, -- are
acquainted, perhaps, with his inmost thoughts. You are a humane and
philanthropic character; reveal all you know -- all; but especially the street
and number of his lodgings. The post is departing, the bellman rings, -- pray
Heaven it be not the knell of love and hope to
BELINDA.
P.S. Pardon the
wanderings of a bad pen and a distracted mind. Address to the Post-office. The
bellman, rendered impatient by delay, is ringing dreadfully in the passage.
P.P.S. I open this to
say that the bellman is gone, and that you must not expect it till the next
post; so don’t be surprised when you don’t get it.
Master Humphrey does
not feel himself at liberty to furnish his fair correspondent with the address
of the gentleman in question, but he publishes her letter as a public appeal to
his faith and gallantry.
WHEN I am in a
thoughtful mood, I often succeed in diverting the current of some mournful
reflections, by conjuring up a number of fanciful associations with the objects
that surround me, and dwelling upon the scenes and characters they suggest.
I have been led by this
habit to assign to every room in my house and every old staring portrait on its
walls a separate interest of its own. Thus, I am persuaded that a stately dame,
terrible to behold in her rigid modesty, who hangs above the chimney-piece of
my bedroom, is the former lady of the mansion. In the courtyard below is a
stone face of surpassing ugliness, which I have somehow - in a kind of
jealousy, I am afraid -- associated with her husband. Above my study is a
little room with ivy peeping through the lattice, from which I bring their
daughter, a lovely girl of eighteen or nineteen years of age, and dutiful in
all respects save one, that one being her devoted attachment to a young
gentleman on the stairs, whose grandmother (degraded to a disused laundry in
the garden) piques herself upon an old family quarrel, and is the implacable
enemy of their love. With such materials as these I work out many a little
drama, whose chief merit is, that I can bring it to a happy end at will. I have
so many of them on hand, that if on my return home one of these evenings I were
to find some bluff old wight of two centuries ago comfortably seated in my easy
chair, and a lovelorn damsel vainly appealing to his heart, and leaning her
white arm upon my clock itself, I verily believe I should only express my
surprise that they had kept me waiting so long, and never honoured me with a
call before.
I was, in such a mood
as this, sitting in my garden yesterday morning under the shade of a favourite
tree, revelling in all the bloom and brightness about me, and feeling every
sense of hope and enjoyment quickened by this most beautiful season of Spring,
when my meditations were interrupted by the unexpected appearance of my barber
at the end of the walk, who I immediately saw was coming towards me with a
hasty step that betokened something remarkable.
My barber is at all
times a very brisk, bustling, active little man, -- for he is, as it were,
chubby all over, without being stout or unwieldy, -- but yesterday his alacrity
was so very uncommon that it quite took me by surprise. For could I fail to
observe when he came up to me that his gray eyes were twinkling in a most
extraordinary manner, that his little red nose was in an unusual glow, that
every line in his round bright face was twisted and curved into an expression
of pleased surprise, and that his whole countenance was radiant with glee? I
was still more surprised to see my housekeeper, who usually preserves a very
staid air, and stands somewhat upon her dignity, peeping round the hedge at the
bottom of the walk, and exchanging nods and smiles with the barber, who twice
or thrice looked over his shoulder for that purpose. I could conceive no
announcement to which these appearances could be the prelude, unless it were
that they had married each other that morning.
I was, consequently, a
little disappointed when it only came out that there was a gentleman in the
house who wished to speak with me.
“And who is it?” said
I.
The barber, with his
face screwed up still tighter than before, replied that the gentleman would not
send his name, but wished to see me. I pondered for a moment, wondering who
this visitor might be, and I remarked that he embraced the opportunity of
exchanging another nod with the housekeeper, who still lingered in the distance.
“Well!” said I, “bid
the gentleman come here.”
This seemed to be the
consummation of the barber’s hopes, for he turned sharp round, and actually ran
away.
Now, my sight is not
very good at a distance, and therefore when the gentleman first appeared in the
walk, I was not quite clear whether he was a stranger to me or otherwise. He
was an elderly gentleman, but came tripping along in the pleasantest manner
conceivable, avoiding the garden-roller and the borders of the beds with
inimitable dexterity, picking his way among the flower-pots, and smiling with
unspeakable good humour. Before he was half-way up the walk he began to salute
me; then I thought I knew him; but when he came towards me with his hat in his
hand, the sun shining on his bald head, his bland face, his bright spectacles,
his fawn- coloured tights, and his black gaiters, -- then my heart warmed
towards him, and I felt quite certain that it was Mr. Pickwick.
“My dear sir,” said
that gentleman as I rose to receive him, “pray be seated. Pray sit down. Now,
do not stand on my account. I must insist upon it, really.” With these words
Mr. Pickwick gently pressed me down into my seat, and taking my hand in his,
shook it again and again with a warmth of manner perfectly irresistible. I
endeavoured to express in my welcome something of that heartiness and pleasure
which the sight of him awakened, and made him sit down beside me. All this time
he kept alternately releasing my hand and grasping it again, and surveying me
through his spectacles with such a beaming countenance as I never till then
beheld.
“You knew me directly!”
said Mr. Pickwick. “What a pleasure it is to think that you knew me directly!”
I remarked that I had
read his adventures very often, and his features were quite familiar to me from
the published portraits. As I thought it a good opportunity of adverting to the
circumstance, I condoled with him upon the various libels on his character
which had found their way into print. Mr. Pickwick shook his head, and for a
moment looked very indignant, but smiling again directly, added that no doubt I
was acquainted with Cervantes’s introduction to the second part of Don Quixote,
and that it fully expressed his sentiments on the subject.
“But now,” said Mr.
Pickwick, “don’t you wonder how I found you out?”
“I will never wonder,
and, with your good leave, never know,” said I, smiling in my turn. “It is
enough for me that you give me this gratification. I have not the least desire
that you should tell me by what means I have obtained it.”
“You are very kind,”
returned Mr. Pickwick, shaking me by the hand again; “you are so exactly what I
expected! But for what particular purpose do you think I have sought you, my
dear sir? Now what DO you think I have come for?”
Mr. Pickwick put this
question as though he were persuaded that it was morally impossible that I
could by any means divine the deep purpose of his visit, and that it must be
hidden from all human ken. Therefore, although I was rejoiced to think that I
had anticipated his drift, I feigned to be quite ignorant of it, and after a
brief consideration shook my head despairingly.
“What should you say,”
said Mr. Pickwick, laying the forefinger of his left hand upon my coat-sleeve,
and looking at me with his head thrown back, and a little on one side, -- “what
should you say if I confessed that after reading your account of yourself and
your little society, I had come here, a humble candidate for one of those empty
chairs?”
“I should say,” I
returned, “that I know of only one circumstance which could still further
endear that little society to me, and that would be the associating with it my
old friend, -- for you must let me call you so, -- my old friend, Mr. Pickwick.”
As I made him this
answer every feature of Mr. Pickwick’s face fused itself into one all-pervading
expression of delight. After shaking me heartily by both hands at once, he
patted me gently on the back, and then -- I well understood why -- coloured up
to the eyes, and hoped with great earnestness of manner that he had not hurt
me.
If he had, I would have
been content that he should have repeated the offence a hundred times rather
than suppose so; but as he had not, I had no difficulty in changing the subject
by making an inquiry which had been upon my lips twenty times already.
“You have not told me,”
said I, “anything about Sam Weller.”
“Oh! Sam,” replied Mr.
Pickwick, “is the same as ever. The same true, faithful fellow that he ever
was. What should I tell you about Sam, my dear sir, except that he is more
indispensable to my happiness and comfort every day of my life?”
“And Mr. Weller senior?”
said I.
“Old Mr. Weller,”
returned Mr. Pickwick, “is in no respect more altered than Sam, unless it be
that he is a little more opinionated than he was formerly, and perhaps at times
more talkative. He spends a good deal of his time now in our neighbourhood, and
has so constituted himself a part of my bodyguard, that when I ask permission
for Sam to have a seat in your kitchen on clock nights (supposing your three
friends think me worthy to fill one of the chairs), I am afraid I must often
include Mr. Weller too.”
I very readily pledged
myself to give both Sam and his father a free admission to my house at all
hours and seasons, and this point settled, we fell into a lengthy conversation
which was carried on with as little reserve on both sides as if we had been
intimate friends from our youth, and which conveyed to me the comfortable
assurance that Mr. Pickwick’s buoyancy of spirit, and indeed all his old
cheerful characteristics, were wholly unimpaired. As he had spoken of the
consent of my friends as being yet in abeyance, I repeatedly assured him that
his proposal was certain to receive their most joyful sanction, and several
times entreated that he would give me leave to introduce him to Jack Redburn
and Mr. Miles (who were near at hand) without further ceremony.
To this proposal,
however, Mr. Pickwick’s delicacy would by no means allow him to accede, for he
urged that his eligibility must be formally discussed, and that, until this had
been done, he could not think of obtruding himself further. The utmost I could
obtain from him was a promise that he would attend upon our next night of
meeting, that I might have the pleasure of presenting him immediately on his
election.
Mr. Pickwick having
with many blushes placed in my hands a small roll of paper, which he termed his
“qualification,” put a great many questions to me touching my friends, and
particularly Jack Redburn, whom he repeatedly termed “a fine fellow,” and in
whose favour I could see he was strongly predisposed. When I had satisfied him
on these points, I took him up into my room, that he might make acquaintance
with the old chamber which is our place of meeting.
“And this,” said Mr.
Pickwick, stopping short, “is the clock! Dear me! And this is really the old
clock!”
I thought he would
never have come away from it. After advancing towards it softly, and laying his
hand upon it with as much respect and as many smiling looks as if it were
alive, he set himself to consider it in every possible direction, now mounting
on a chair to look at the top, now going down upon his knees to examine the
bottom, now surveying the sides with his spectacles almost touching the case,
and now trying to peep between it and the wall to get a slight view of the
back. Then he would retire a pace or two and look up at the dial to see it go,
and then draw near again and stand with his head on one side to hear it tick:
never failing to glance towards me at intervals of a few seconds each, and nod
his head with such complacent gratification as I am quite unable to describe.
His admiration was not confined to the clock either, but extended itself to
every article in the room; and really, when he had gone through them every one,
and at last sat himself down in all the six chairs, one after another, to try
how they felt, I never saw such a picture of good-humour and happiness as he
presented, from the top of his shining head down to the very last button of his
gaiters.
I should have been well
pleased, and should have had the utmost enjoyment of his company, if he had
remained with me all day, but my favourite, striking the hour, reminded him
that he must take his leave. I could not forbear telling him once more how glad
he had made me, and we shook hands all the way down-stairs.
We had no sooner
arrived in the Hall than my housekeeper, gliding out of her little room (she
had changed her gown and cap, I observed), greeted Mr. Pickwick with her best
smile and courtesy; and the barber, feigning to be accidentally passing on his
way out, made him a vast number of bows. When the housekeeper courtesied, Mr.
Pickwick bowed with the utmost politeness, and when he bowed, the housekeeper
courtesied again; between the housekeeper and the barber, I should say that Mr.
Pickwick faced about and bowed with undiminished affability fifty times at
least.
I saw him to the door;
an omnibus was at the moment passing the corner of the lane, which Mr. Pickwick
hailed and ran after with extraordinary nimbleness. When he had got about
half-way, he turned his head, and seeing that I was still looking after him and
that I waved my hand, stopped, evidently irresolute whether to come back and
shake hands again, or to go on. The man behind the omnibus shouted, and Mr.
Pickwick ran a little way towards him: then he looked round at me, and ran a
little way back again. Then there was another shout, and he turned round once
more and ran the other way. After several of these vibrations, the man settled
the question by taking Mr. Pickwick by the arm and putting him into the
carriage; but his last action was to let down the window and wave his hat to me
as it drove off.
I lost no time in
opening the parcel he had left with me. The following were its contents:-
A GOOD many years have
passed away since old John Podgers lived in the town of Windsor, where he was
born, and where, in course of time, he came to be comfortably and snugly
buried. You may be sure that in the time of King James the First, Windsor was a
very quaint queer old town, and you may take it upon my authority that John
Podgers was a very quaint queer old fellow; consequently he and Windsor fitted
each other to a nicety, and seldom parted company even for half a day.
John Podgers was broad,
sturdy, Dutch-built, short, and a very hard eater, as men of his figure often
are. Being a hard sleeper likewise, he divided his time pretty equally between
these two recreations, always falling asleep when he had done eating, and
always taking another turn at the trencher when he had done sleeping, by which
means he grew more corpulent and more drowsy every day of his life. Indeed it
used to be currently reported that when he sauntered up and down the sunny side
of the street before dinner (as he never failed to do in fair weather), he
enjoyed his soundest nap; but many people held this to be a fiction, as he had
several times been seen to look after fat oxen on market-days, and had even
been heard, by persons of good credit and reputation, to chuckle at the sight,
and say to himself with great glee, “Live beef, live beef!” It was upon this
evidence that the wisest people in Windsor (beginning with the local
authorities of course) held that John Podgers was a man of strong, sound sense,
not what is called smart, perhaps, and it might be of a rather lazy and
apoplectic turn, but still a man of solid parts, and one who meant much more
than he cared to show. This impression was confirmed by a very dignified way he
had of shaking his head and imparting, at the same time, a pendulous motion to
his double chin; in short, he passed for one of those people who, being plunged
into the Thames, would make no vain efforts to set it afire, but would
straightway flop down to the bottom with a deal of gravity, and be highly
respected in consequence by all good men.
Being well to do in the
world, and a peaceful widower, -- having a great appetite, which, as he could
afford to gratify it, was a luxury and no inconvenience, and a power of going
to sleep, which, as he had no occasion to keep awake, was a most enviable
faculty, -- you will readily suppose that John Podgers was a happy man. But
appearances are often deceptive when they least seem so, and the truth is that,
notwithstanding his extreme sleekness, he was rendered uneasy in his mind and
exceedingly uncomfortable by a constant apprehension that beset him night and
day.
You know very well that
in those times there flourished divers evil old women who, under the name of
Witches, spread great disorder through the land, and inflicted various dismal
tortures upon Christian men; sticking pins and needles into them when they
least expected it, and causing them to walk in the air with their feet upwards,
to the great terror of their wives and families, who were naturally very much
disconcerted when the master of the house unexpectedly came home, knocking at
the door with his heels and combing his hair on the scraper. These were their
commonest pranks, but they every day played a hundred others, of which none
were less objectionable, and many were much more so, being improper besides;
the result was that vengeance was denounced against all old women, with whom
even the king himself had no sympathy (as he certainly ought to have had), for
with his own most Gracious hand he penned a most Gracious consignment of them
to everlasting wrath, and devised most Gracious means for their confusion and
slaughter, in virtue whereof scarcely a day passed but one witch at the least
was most graciously hanged, drowned, or roasted in some part of his dominions.
Still the press teemed with strange and terrible news from the North or the
South, or the East or the West, relative to witches and their unhappy victims
in some corner of the country, and the Public’s hair stood on end to that
degree that it lifted its hat off its head, and made its face pale with terror.
You may believe that
the little town of Windsor did not escape the general contagion. The
inhabitants boiled a witch on the king’s birthday and sent a bottle of the
broth to court, with a dutiful address expressive of their loyalty. The king,
being rather frightened by the present, piously bestowed it upon the Archbishop
of Canterbury, and returned an answer to the address, wherein he gave them
golden rules for discovering witches, and laid great stress upon certain
protecting charms, and especially horseshoes. Immediately the towns-people went
to work nailing up horseshoes over every door, and so many anxious parents
apprenticed their children to farriers to keep them out of harm’s way, that it
became quite a genteel trade, and flourished exceedingly.
In the midst of all
this bustle John Podgers ate and slept as usual, but shook his head a great
deal oftener than was his custom, and was observed to look at the oxen less,
and at the old women more. He had a little shelf put up in his sitting-room,
whereon was displayed, in a row which grew longer every week, all the
witchcraft literature of the time; he grew learned in charms and exorcisms,
hinted at certain questionable females on broomsticks whom he had seen from his
chamber window, riding in the air at night, and was in constant terror of being
bewitched. At length, from perpetually dwelling upon this one idea, which,
being alone in his head, had all its own way, the fear of witches became the
single passion of his life. He, who up to that time had never known what it was
to dream, began to have visions of witches whenever he fell asleep; waking,
they were incessantly present to his imagination likewise; and, sleeping or
waking, he had not a moment’s peace. He began to set witch-traps in the
highway, and was often seen lying in wait round the corner for hours together,
to watch their effect. These engines were of simple construction, usually
consisting of two straws disposed in the form of a cross, or a piece of a Bible
cover with a pinch of salt upon it; but they were infallible, and if an old
woman chanced to stumble over them (as not unfrequently happened, the chosen
spot being a broken and stony place), John started from a doze, pounced out
upon her, and hung round her neck till assistance arrived, when she was
immediately carried away and drowned. By dint of constantly inveigling old
ladies and disposing of them in this summary manner, he acquired the reputation
of a great public character; and as he received no harm in these pursuits
beyond a scratched face or so, he came, in the course of time, to be considered
witch-proof.
There was but one
person who entertained the least doubt of John Podgers’s gifts, and that person
was his own nephew, a wild, roving young fellow of twenty who had been brought
up in his uncle’s house and lived there still, -- that is to say, when he was
at home, which was not as often as it might have been. As he was an apt
scholar, it was he who read aloud every fresh piece of strange and terrible
intelligence that John Podgers bought; and this he always did of an evening in
the little porch in front of the house, round which the neighbours would flock
in crowds to hear the direful news, -- for people like to be frightened, and
when they can be frightened for nothing and at another man’s expense, they like
it all the better.
One fine midsummer
evening, a group of persons were gathered in this place, listening intently to
Will Marks (that was the nephew’s name), as with his cap very much on one side,
his arm coiled slyly round the waist of a pretty girl who sat beside him, and
his face screwed into a comical expression intended to represent extreme
gravity, he read -- with Heaven knows how many embellishments of his own -- a
dismal account of a gentleman down in Northamptonshire under the influence of
witchcraft and taken forcible possession of by the Devil, who was playing his
very self with him. John Podgers, in a high sugar-loaf hat and short cloak,
filled the opposite seat, and surveyed the auditory with a look of mingled
pride and horror very edifying to see; while the hearers, with their heads
thrust forward and their mouths open, listened and trembled, and hoped there
was a great deal more to come. Sometimes Will stopped for an instant to look
round upon his eager audience, and then, with a more comical expression of face
than before and a settling of himself comfortably, which included a squeeze of
the young lady before mentioned, he launched into some new wonder surpassing
all the others.
The setting sun shed
his last golden rays upon this little party, who, absorbed in their present
occupation, took no heed of the approach of night, or the glory in which the
day went down, when the sound of a horse, approaching at a good round trot,
invading
the silence of the
hour, caused the reader to make a sudden stop, and the listeners to raise their
heads in wonder. Nor was their wonder diminished when a horseman dashed up to
the porch, and abruptly checking his steed, inquired where one John Podgers
dwelt.
“Here!” cried a dozen
voices, while a dozen hands pointed out sturdy John, still basking in the
terrors of the pamphlet.
The rider, giving his
bridle to one of those who surrounded him, dismounted, and approached John, hat
in hand, but with great haste.
“Whence come ye?” said
John.
“From Kingston, master.”
“And wherefore?”
“On most pressing
business.”
“Of what nature?”
“Witchcraft.”
Witchcraft! Everybody
looked aghast at the breathless messenger, and the breathless messenger looked
equally aghast at everybody -- except Will Marks, who, finding himself
unobserved, not only squeezed the young lady again, but kissed her twice.
Surely he must have been bewitched himself, or he never could have done it --
and the young lady too, or she never would have let him.
“Witchcraft!” cried
Will, drowning the sound of his last kiss, which was rather a loud one.
The messenger turned
towards him, and with a frown repeated the word more solemnly than before; then
told his errand, which was, in brief, that the people of Kingston had been
greatly terrified for some nights past by hideous revels, held by witches
beneath the gibbet within a mile of the town, and related and deposed to by
chance wayfarers who had passed within ear-shot of the spot; that the sound of
their voices in their wild orgies had been plainly heard by many persons; that
three old women laboured under strong suspicion, and that precedents had been
consulted and solemn council had, and it was found that to identify the hags
some single person must watch upon the spot alone; that no single person had
the courage to perform the task; and that he had been despatched express to
solicit John Podgers to undertake it that very night, as being a man of great
renown, who bore a charmed life, and was proof against unholy spells.
John received this
communication with much composure, and said in a few words, that it would have
afforded him inexpressible pleasure to do the Kingston people so slight a
service, if it were not for his unfortunate propensity to fall asleep, which no
man regretted more than himself upon the present occasion, but which quite
settled the question. Nevertheless, he said, there WAS a gentleman present (and
here he looked very hard at a tall farrier), who, having been engaged all his
life in the manufacture of horseshoes, must be quite invulnerable to the power
of witches, and who, he had no doubt, from his own reputation for bravery and
good-nature, would readily accept the commission. The farrier politely thanked
him for his good opinion, which it would always be his study to deserve, but
added that, with regard to the present little matter, he couldn’t think of it
on any account, as his departing on such an errand would certainly occasion the
instant death of his wife, to whom, as they all knew, he was tenderly attached.
Now, so far from this circumstance being notorious, everybody had suspected the
reverse, as the farrier was in the habit of beating his lady rather more than
tender husbands usually do; all the married men present, however, applauded his
resolution with great vehemence, and one and all declared that they would stop
at home and die if needful (which happily it was not) in defence of their
lawful partners.
This burst of
enthusiasm over, they began to look, as by one consent, toward Will Marks, who,
with his cap more on one side than ever, sat watching the proceedings with
extraordinary unconcern. He had never been heard openly to express his
disbelief in witches, but had often cut such jokes at their expense as left it
to be inferred; publicly stating on several occasions that he considered a
broomstick an inconvenient charger, and one especially unsuited to the dignity
of the female character, and indulging in other free remarks of the same
tendency, to the great amusement of his wild companions.
As they looked at Will
they began to whisper and murmur among themselves, and at length one man cried,
“Why don’t you ask Will Marks?”
As this was what
everybody had been thinking of, they all took up the word, and cried in
concert, “Ah! why don’t you ask Will?”
“He don’t care,” said
the farrier.
“Not he,” added another
voice in the crowd.
“He don’t believe in
it, you know,” sneered a little man with a yellow face and a taunting nose and
chin, which he thrust out from under the arm of a long man before him.
“Besides,” said a
red-faced gentleman with a gruff voice, “he’s a single man.”
“That’s the point!”
said the farrier; and all the married men murmured, ah! that was it, and they
only wished they were single themselves; they would show him what spirit was,
very soon.
The messenger looked
towards Will Marks beseechingly.
“It will be a wet
night, friend, and my gray nag is tired after yesterday’s work -- ”
Here there was a
general titter.
“But,” resumed Will, looking
about him with a smile, “if nobody else puts in a better claim to go, for the
credit of the town I am your man, and I would be, if I had to go afoot. In five
minutes I shall be in the saddle, unless I am depriving any worthy gentleman
here of the honour of the adventure, which I wouldn’t do for the world.”
But here arose a double
difficulty, for not only did John Podgers combat the resolution with all the
words he had, which were not many, but the young lady combated it too with all
the tears she had, which were very many indeed. Will, however, being
inflexible, parried his uncle’s objections with a joke, and coaxed the young
lady into a smile in three short whispers. As it was plain that he set his mind
upon it, and would go, John Podgers offered him a few first-rate charms out of
his own pocket, which he dutifully declined to accept; and the young lady gave
him a kiss, which he also returned.
“You see what a rare
thing it is to be married,” said Will, “and how careful and considerate all
these husbands are. There’s not a man among them but his heart is leaping to
forestall me in this adventure, and yet a strong sense of duty keeps him back.
The husbands in this one little town are a pattern to the world, and so must
the wives be too, for that matter, or they could never boast half the influence
they have!”
Waiting for no reply to
this sarcasm, he snapped his fingers and withdrew into the house, and thence
into the stable, while some busied themselves in refreshing the messenger, and
others in baiting his steed. In less than the specified time he returned by
another way, with a good cloak hanging over his arm, a good sword girded by his
side, and leading his good horse caparisoned for the journey.
“Now,” said Will,
leaping into the saddle at a bound, “up and away. Upon your mettle, friend, and
push on. Good night!”
He kissed his hand to
the girl, nodded to his drowsy uncle, waved his cap to the rest -- and off they
flew pell-mell, as if all the witches in England were in their horses’ legs.
They were out of sight in a minute.
The men who were left
behind shook their heads doubtfully, stroked their chins, and shook their heads
again. The farrier said that certainly Will Marks was a good horseman, nobody
should ever say he denied that: but he was rash, very rash, and there
was no telling what the
end of it might be; what did he go for, that was what he wanted to know? He
wished the young fellow no harm, but why did he go? Everybody echoed these
words, and shook their heads again, having done which they wished John Podgers
good night, and straggled home to bed.
The Kingston people
were in their first sleep when Will Marks and his conductor rode through the
town and up to the door of a house where sundry grave functionaries were
assembled, anxiously expecting the arrival of the renowned Podgers. They were a
little disappointed to find a gay young man in his place; but they put the best
face upon the matter, and gave him full instructions how he was to conceal
himself behind the gibbet, and watch and listen to the witches, and how at a
certain time he was to burst forth and cut and slash among them vigorously, so
that the suspected parties might be found bleeding in their beds next day, and
thoroughly confounded. They gave him a great quantity of wholesome advice
besides, and -- which was more to the purpose with Will -- a good supper. All
these things being done, and midnight nearly come, they sallied forth to show
him the spot where he was to keep his dreary vigil.
The night was by this
time dark and threatening. There was a rumbling of distant thunder, and a low
sighing of wind among the trees, which was very dismal. The potentates of the
town kept so uncommonly close to Will that they trod upon his toes, or stumbled
against his ankles, or nearly tripped up his heels at every step he took, and,
besides these annoyances, their teeth chattered so with fear, that he seemed to
be accompanied by a dirge of castanets.
At last they made a
halt at the opening of a lonely, desolate space, and, pointing to a black
object at some distance, asked Will if he saw that, yonder.
“Yes,” he replied. “What
then?”
Informing him abruptly
that it was the gibbet where he was to watch, they wished him good night in an
extremely friendly manner, and ran back as fast as their feet would carry them.
Will walked boldly to
the gibbet, and, glancing upwards when he came under it, saw -- certainly with
satisfaction -- that it was empty, and that nothing dangled from the top but
some iron chains, which swung mournfully to and fro as they were moved by the
breeze. After a careful survey of every quarter he determined to take his
station with his face towards the town; both because that would place him with
his back to the wind, and because, if any trick or surprise were attempted, it would
probably come from that direction in the first instance. Having taken these
precautions, he wrapped his cloak about him so that it left the handle of his
sword free, and ready to his hand, and leaning against the gallows-tree with
his cap not quite so much on one side as it had been before, took up his
position for the night.
WE left Will Marks
leaning under the gibbet with his face towards the town, scanning the distance
with a keen eye, which sought to pierce the darkness and catch the earliest
glimpse of any person or persons that might approach towards him. But all was
quiet, and, save the howling of the wind as it swept across the heath in gusts,
and the creaking of the chains that dangled above his head, there was no sound
to break the sullen stillness of the night. After half an hour or so this
monotony became more disconcerting to Will than the most furious uproar would
have been, and he heartily wished for some one antagonist with whom he might
have a fair stand-up fight, if it were only to warm himself.
Truth to tell, it was a
bitter wind, and seemed to blow to the very heart of a man whose blood, heated
but now with rapid riding, was the more sensitive to the chilling blast. Will
was a daring fellow, and cared not a jot for hard knocks or sharp blades; but
he could not persuade himself to move or walk about, having just that vague
expectation of a sudden assault which made it a comfortable thing to have
something at his back, even though that something were a gallows-tree. He had
no great faith in the superstitions of the age, still such of them as occurred
to him did not serve to lighten the time, or to render his situation the more
endurable. He remembered how witches were said to repair at that ghostly hour
to churchyards and gibbets, and such-like dismal spots, to pluck the bleeding
mandrake or scrape the flesh from dead men’s bones, as choice ingredients for
their spells; how, stealing by night to lonely places, they dug graves with
their finger-nails, or anointed themselves before riding in the air, with a
delicate pomatum made of the fat of infants newly boiled. These, and many other
fabled practices of a no less agreeable nature, and all having some reference
to the circumstances in which he was placed, passed and repassed in quick
succession through the mind of Will Marks, and adding a shadowy dread to that
distrust and watchfulness which his situation inspired, rendered it, upon the
whole, sufficiently uncomfortable. As he had foreseen, too, the rain began to
descend heavily, and driving before the wind in a thick mist, obscured even
those few objects which the darkness of the night had before imperfectly
revealed.
“Look!” shrieked a
voice. “Great Heaven, it has fallen down, and stands erect as if it lived!”
The speaker was close
behind him; the voice was almost at his ear. Will threw off his cloak, drew his
sword, and darting swiftly round, seized a woman by the wrist, who, recoiling
from him with a dreadful shriek, fell struggling upon her knees. Another woman,
clad, like her whom he had grasped, in mourning garments, stood rooted to the
spot on which they were, gazing upon his face with wild and glaring eyes that
quite appalled him.
“Say,” cried Will, when
they had confronted each other thus for some time, “what are ye?”
“Say what are you,”
returned the woman, “who trouble even this obscene resting-place of the dead,
and strip the gibbet of its honoured burden? Where is the body?”
He looked in wonder and
affright from the woman who questioned him to the other whose arm he clutched.
“Where is the body?”
repeated the questioner more firmly than before. “You wear no livery which
marks you for the hireling of the government. You are no friend to us, or I
should recognise you, for the friends of such as we are few in number. What are
you then, and wherefore are you here?”
“I am no foe to the
distressed and helpless,” said Will. “Are ye among that number? ye should be by
your looks.”
“We are!” was the
answer.
“Is it ye who have been
wailing and weeping here under cover of the night?” said Will.
“It is,” replied the
woman sternly; and pointing, as she spoke, towards her companion, “she mourns a
husband, and I a brother. Even the bloody law that wreaks its vengeance on the
dead does not make that a crime, and if it did ’twould be alike to us who are
past its fear or favour.”
Will glanced at the two
females, and could barely discern that the one whom he addressed was much the
elder, and that the other was young and of a slight figure. Both were deadly
pale, their garments wet and worn, their hair dishevelled and streaming in the
wind, themselves bowed down with grief and misery; their whole appearance most
dejected, wretched, and forlorn. A sight so different from any he had expected
to encounter touched him to the quick, and all idea of anything but their
pitiable condition vanished before it.
“I am a rough, blunt
yeoman,” said Will. “Why I came here is told in a word; you have been overheard
at a distance in the silence of the night, and I have undertaken a watch for
hags or spirits. I came here expecting an adventure, and prepared to go through
with any. If there be aught that I can do to help or aid you, name it, and on
the faith of a man who can be secret and trusty, I will stand by you to the death.”
“How comes this gibbet
to be empty?” asked the elder female.
“I swear to you,”
replied Will, “that I know as little as yourself. But this I know, that when I
came here an hour ago or so, it was as it is now; and if, as I gather from your
question, it was not so last night, sure I am that it has been secretly
disturbed without the knowledge of the folks in yonder town. Bethink you,
therefore, whether you have no friends in league with you or with him on whom
the law has done its worst, by whom these sad remains have been removed for
burial.”
The women spoke
together, and Will retired a pace or two while they conversed apart. He could
hear them sob and moan, and saw that they wrung their hands in fruitless agony.
He could make out little that they said, but between whiles he gathered enough
to assure him that his suggestion was not very wide of the mark, and that they
not only suspected by whom the body had been removed, but also whither it had
been conveyed. When they had been in conversation a long time, they turned
towards him once more. This time the younger female spoke.
“You have offered us
your help?”
“I have.”
“And given a pledge
that you are still willing to redeem?”
“Yes. So far as I may,
keeping all plots and conspiracies at arm’s length.”
“Follow us, friend.”
Will, whose
self-possession was now quite restored, needed no second bidding, but with his
drawn sword in his hand, and his cloak so muffled over his left arm as to serve
for a kind of shield without offering any impediment to its free action,
suffered them to lead the way. Through mud and mire, and wind and rain, they
walked in silence a full mile. At length they turned into a dark lane, where,
suddenly starting out from beneath some trees where he had taken shelter, a man
appeared, having in his charge three saddled horses. One of these (his own
apparently), in obedience to a whisper from the women, he consigned to Will,
who, seeing that they mounted, mounted also. Then, without a word spoken, they
rode on together, leaving the attendant behind.
They made no halt nor
slackened their pace until they arrived near Putney. At a large wooden house
which stood apart from any other they alighted, and giving their horses to one
who was already waiting, passed in by a side door, and so up some narrow
creaking stairs into a small panelled chamber, where Will was left alone. He
had not been here very long, when the door was softly opened, and there entered
to him a cavalier whose face was concealed beneath a black mask.
Will stood upon his
guard, and scrutinised this figure from head to foot. The form was that of a
man pretty far advanced in life, but of a firm and stately carriage. His dress
was of a rich and costly kind, but so soiled and disordered that it was
scarcely to be recognised for one of those gorgeous suits which the expensive
taste and fashion of the time prescribed for men of any rank or station.
He was booted and
spurred, and bore about him even as many tokens of the state of the roads as
Will himself. All this he noted, while the eyes behind the mask regarded him
with equal attention. This survey over, the cavalier broke silence.
“Thou’rt young and
bold, and wouldst be richer than thou art?”
“The two first I am,”
returned Will. “The last I have scarcely thought of. But be it so. Say that I
would be richer than I am; what then?”
“The way lies before
thee now,” replied the Mask.
“Show it me.”
“First let me inform
thee, that thou wert brought here to-night lest thou shouldst too soon have
told thy tale to those who placed thee on the watch.”
“I thought as much when
I followed,” said Will. “But I am no blab, not I.”
“Good,” returned the
Mask. “Now listen. He who was to have executed the enterprise of burying that
body, which, as thou hast suspected, was taken down to-night, has left us in
our need.”
Will nodded, and
thought within himself that if the Mask were to attempt to play any tricks, the
first eyelet-hole on the left-hand side of his doublet, counting from the
buttons up the front, would be a very good place in which to pink him neatly.
“Thou art here, and the
emergency is desperate. I propose his task to thee. Convey the body (now
coffined in this house), by means that I shall show, to the Church of St.
Dunstan in London to-morrow night, and thy service shall be richly paid. Thou’rt
about to ask whose corpse it is. Seek not to know. I warn thee, seek not to
know. Felons hang in chains on every moor and heath. Believe, as others do,
that this was one, and ask no further. The murders of state policy, its victims
or avengers, had best remain unknown to such as thee.”
“The mystery of this
service,” said Will, “bespeaks its danger. What is the reward?”
“One hundred golden
unities,” replied the cavalier. “The danger to one who cannot be recognised as
the friend of a fallen cause is not great, but there is some hazard to be run.
Decide between that and the reward.”
“What if I refuse?”
said Will.
“Depart in peace, in
God’s name,” returned the Mask in a melancholy tone, “and keep our secret,
remembering that those who brought thee here were crushed and stricken women,
and that those who bade thee go free could have had thy life with one word, and
no man the wiser.”
Men were readier to
undertake desperate adventures in those times than they are now. In this case
the temptation was great, and the punishment, even in case of detection, was
not likely to be very severe, as Will came of a loyal stock, and his uncle was
in good repute, and a passable tale to account for his possession of the body
and his ignorance of the identity might be easily devised. The cavalier
explained that a coveted cart had been prepared for the purpose; that the time
of departure could be arranged so that he should reach London Bridge at dusk,
and proceed through the City after the day had closed in; that people would be
ready at his journey’s end to place the coffin in a vault without a minute’s
delay; that officious inquirers in the streets would be easily repelled by the
tale that he was carrying for interment the corpse of one who had died of the
plague; and in short showed him every reason why he should succeed, and none
why he should fail. After a time they were joined by another gentleman, masked
like the first, who added new arguments to those which had been already urged;
the wretched wife, too, added her tears and prayers to their calmer
representations; and in the end, Will, moved by compassion and good-nature, by
a love of the marvellous, by a mischievous anticipation of the terrors of the
Kingston people when he should be missing next day, and finally, by the
prospect of gain, took upon himself the task, and devoted all his energies to
its successful execution.
The following night,
when it was quite dark, the hollow echoes of old London Bridge responded to the
rumbling of the cart which contained the ghastly load, the object of Will Marks’
care. Sufficiently disguised to attract no attention by his garb, Will walked
at the horse’s head, as unconcerned as a man could be who was sensible that he
had now arrived at the most dangerous part of his undertaking, but full of
boldness and confidence.
It was now eight o’clock.
After nine, none could walk the streets without danger of their lives, and even
at this hour, robberies and murder were of no uncommon occurrence. The shops
upon the bridge were all closed; the low wooden arches thrown across the way
were like so many black pits, in every one of which ill-favoured fellows lurked
in knots of three or four; some standing upright against the wall, lying in
wait; others skulking in gateways, and thrusting out their uncombed heads and
scowling eyes: others crossing and recrossing, and constantly jostling both
horse and man to provoke a quarrel; others stealing away and summoning their
companions in a low whistle. Once, even in that short passage, there was the noise
of scuffling and the clash of swords behind him, but Will, who knew the City
and its ways, kept straight on and scarcely turned his head.
The streets being
unpaved, the rain of the night before had converted them into a perfect
quagmire, which the splashing water- spouts from the gables, and the filth and
offal cast from the different houses, swelled in no small degree. These odious
matters being left to putrefy in the close and heavy air, emitted an
insupportable stench, to which every court and passage poured forth a
contribution of its own. Many parts, even of the main streets, with their
projecting stories tottering overhead and nearly shutting out the sky, were
more like huge chimneys than open ways. At the corners of some of these, great
bonfires were burning to prevent infection from the plague, of which it was
rumoured that some citizens had lately died; and few, who availing themselves
of the light thus afforded paused for a moment to look around them, would have
been disposed to doubt the existence of the disease, or wonder at its dreadful
visitations.
But it was not in such
scenes as these, or even in the deep and miry road, that Will Marks found the
chief obstacles to his progress. There were kites and ravens feeding in the
streets (the only scavengers the City kept), who, scenting what he carried,
followed the cart or fluttered on its top, and croaked their knowledge of its
burden and their ravenous appetite for prey. There were distant fires, where
the poor
wood and plaster
tenements wasted fiercely, and whither crowds made their way, clamouring
eagerly for plunder, beating down all who came within their reach, and yelling
like devils let loose. There were single-handed men flying from bands of
ruffians, who pursued them with naked weapons, and hunted them savagely; there
were drunken, desperate robbers issuing from their dens and staggering through
the open streets where no man dared molest them; there were vagabond servitors
returning from the Bear Garden, where had been good sport that day, dragging
after them their torn and bleeding dogs, or leaving them to die and rot upon
the road. Nothing was abroad but cruelty, violence, and disorder.
Many were the
interruptions which Will Marks encountered from these stragglers, and many the
narrow escapes he made. Now some stout bully would take his seat upon the cart,
insisting to be driven to his own home, and now two or three men would come
down upon him together, and demand that on peril of his life he showed them
what he had inside. Then a party of the city watch, upon their rounds, would
draw across the road, and not satisfied with his tale, question him closely,
and revenge themselves by a little cuffing and hustling for maltreatment
sustained at other hands that night. All these assailants had to be rebutted,
some by fair words, some by foul, and some by blows. But Will Marks was not the
man to be stopped or turned back now he had penetrated so far, and though he
got on slowly, still he made his way down Fleet-street and reached the church
at last.
As he had been
forewarned, all was in readiness. Directly he stopped, the coffin was removed
by four men, who appeared so suddenly that they seemed to have started from the
earth. A fifth mounted the cart, and scarcely allowing Will time to snatch from
it a little bundle containing such of his own clothes as he had thrown off on
assuming his disguise, drove briskly away. Will never saw cart or man again.
He followed the body
into the church, and it was well he lost no time in doing so, for the door was
immediately closed. There was no light in the building save that which came
from a couple of torches borne by two men in cloaks, who stood upon the brink
of a vault. Each supported a female figure, and all observed a profound
silence.
By this dim and solemn
glare, which made Will feel as though light itself were dead, and its tomb the
dreary arches that frowned above, they placed the coffin in the vault, with
uncovered heads, and closed it up. One of the torch-bearers then turned to
Will, and stretched forth his hand, in which was a purse of gold. Something
told him directly that those were the same eyes which he had seen beneath the
mask.
“Take it,” said the
cavalier in a low voice, “and be happy. Though these have been hasty obsequies,
and no priest has blessed the work, there will not be the less peace with thee
thereafter, for having laid his bones beside those of his little children. Keep
thy own counsel, for thy sake no less than ours, and God be with thee!”
“The blessing of a
widowed mother on thy head, good friend!” cried the younger lady through her
tears; “the blessing of one who has now no hope or rest but in this grave!”
Will stood with the
purse in his hand, and involuntarily made a gesture as though he would return
it, for though a thoughtless fellow, he was of a frank and generous nature. But
the two gentlemen, extinguishing their torches, cautioned him to be gone, as
their common safety would be endangered by a longer delay; and at the same time
their retreating footsteps sounded through the church. He turned, therefore,
towards the point at which he had entered, and seeing by a faint gleam in the
distance that the door was again partially open, groped his way towards it and
so passed into the street.
Meantime the local
authorities of Kingston had kept watch and ward all the previous night,
fancying every now and then that dismal shrieks were borne towards them on the
wind, and frequently winking to each other, and drawing closer to the fire as
they drank the health of the lonely sentinel, upon whom a clerical gentleman
present was especially severe by reason of his levity and youthful folly. Two
or three of the gravest in company, who were of a theological turn, propounded
to him the question, whether such a character was not but poorly armed for
single combat with the Devil, and whether he himself would not have been a
stronger opponent; but the clerical gentleman, sharply reproving them for their
presumption in discussing such questions, clearly showed that a fitter champion
than Will could scarcely have been selected, not only for that being a child of
Satan, he was the less likely to be alarmed by the appearance of his own
father, but because Satan himself would be at his ease in such company, and
would not scruple to kick up his heels to an extent which it was quite certain
he would never venture before clerical eyes, under whose influence (as was
notorious) he became quite a tame and milk-and-water character.
But when next morning
arrived, and with it no Will Marks, and when a strong party repairing to the
spot, as a strong party ventured to do in broad day, found Will gone and the
gibbet empty, matters grew serious indeed. The day passing away and no news
arriving, and the night going on also without any intelligence, the thing grew
more tremendous still; in short, the neighbourhood worked itself up to such a
comfortable pitch of mystery and horror, that it is a great question whether
the general feeling was not one of excessive disappointment, when, on the
second morning, Will Marks returned.
However this may be,
back Will came in a very cool and collected state, and appearing not to trouble
himself much about anybody except old John Podgers, who, having been sent for,
was sitting in the Town Hall crying slowly, and dozing between whiles. Having
embraced his uncle and assured him of his safety, Will mounted on a table and
told his story to the crowd.
And surely they would
have been the most unreasonable crowd that ever assembled together, if they had
been in the least respect disappointed with the tale he told them; for besides
describing the Witches’ Dance to the minutest motion of their legs, and
performing it in character on the table, with the assistance of a broomstick,
he related how they had carried off the body in a copper caldron, and so
bewitched him, that he lost his senses until he found himself lying under a
hedge at least ten miles off, whence he had straightway returned as they then
beheld. The story gained such universal applause that it soon afterwards
brought down express from London the great witch-finder of the age, the
Heaven-born Hopkins, who having examined Will closely on several points,
pronounced it the most extraordinary and the best accredited witch- story ever
known, under which title it was published at the Three Bibles on London Bridge,
in small quarto, with a view of the caldron from an original drawing, and a
portrait of the clerical gentleman as he sat by the fire.
On one point Will was
particularly careful: and that was to describe for the witches he had seen,
three impossible old females, whose likenesses never were or will be. Thus he
saved the lives of the suspected parties, and of all other old women who were
dragged before him to be identified.
This circumstance
occasioned John Podgers much grief and sorrow, until happening one day to cast
his eyes upon his house-keeper, and observing her to be plainly afflicted with
rheumatism, he procured her to be burnt as an undoubted witch. For this service
to the state he was immediately knighted, and became from that time Sir John
Podgers.
Will Marks never gained
any clue to the mystery in which he had been an actor, nor did any inscription
in the church, which he often visited afterwards, nor any of the limited
inquiries that he dared to make, yield him the least assistance. As he kept his
own secret, he was compelled to spend the gold discreetly and sparingly. In the
course of time he married the young lady of whom I have already told you, whose
maiden name is not recorded, with whom he led a prosperous and happy life.
Years and years after this adventure, it was his wont to tell her upon a stormy
night that it was a great comfort to him to think those bones, to whomsoever
they might have once belonged, were not bleaching in the troubled air, but were
mouldering away with the dust of their own kith and kindred in a quiet grave.
BEING very full of Mr.
Pickwick’s application, and highly pleased with the compliment he had paid me,
it will be readily supposed that long before our next night of meeting, I
communicated it to my three friends, who unanimously voted his admission into
our body. We all looked forward with some impatience to the occasion which
would enrol him among us, but I am greatly mistaken if Jack Redburn and myself
were not by many degrees the most impatient of the party.
At length the night
came, and a few minutes after ten Mr. Pickwick’s knock was heard at the
street-door. He was shown into a lower rom, and I directly took my crooked
stick and went to accompany him up stairs, in order that he might be presented
with all honour and formality.
“Mr. Pickwick,” said I
on entering the room, “I am rejoiced to see you -- rejoiced to believe that
this is but the opening of a long series of visits to this house, and but the
beginning of a close and lasting friendship.”
That gentleman made a
suitable reply with a cordiality and frankness peculiarly his own, and glanced
with a smile towards two persons behind the door, whom I had not at first
observed, and whom I immediately recognised as Mr. Samuel Weller and his
father.
It was a warm evening,
but the elder Mr. Weller was attired, notwithstanding, in a most capacious
great coat, and had his chin enveloped in a large speckled shawl, such as is
usually worn by stage-coachmen on active service. He looked very rosy and very
stout, especially about the legs, which appeared to have been compressed into
his top-boots with some difficulty. His broad-brimmed hat he held under his
left arm, and with the fore-finger of his right hand he touched his forehead a
great many times, in acknowledgment of my presence.
“I am very glad to see
you in such good health, Mr. Weller,” said I.
“Why, thankee sir,”
returned Mr. Weller, “the axle an’t broke yet. We keeps up a steady pace -- not
too sewere but with a moderate degree o’ friction -- and the consekens is that
ve’re still a runnin’ and comes in to the time, reg’lar. -- My son Samivel sir,
as you may have read on in history,” added Mr. Weller, introducing his
first-born.
I received Sam very
graciously, but before he could say a word, his father struck in again.
“Samivel Veller, sir,”
said the old gentleman, “has con-ferred upon me the ancient title o’
grandfather, vich had long laid dormouse, and wos s’posed to be nearly
hex-tinct, in our family. Sammy, relate a anecdote o’ vun o’ them boys -- that ’ere
little anecdote about young Tony, sayin’ as he vould smoke a pipe unbeknown to
his mother.”
“Be quiet, can’t you?”
said Sam, “I never see such a old magpie -- never!”
“That ’ere Tony is the
blessedest boy,” -- said Mr. Weller, heedless of this rebuff, “the blessedest
boy as ever I see in my days! of all the charmin’est infants as ever I heerd
tell on, includin’ them as wos kivered over by the robin red-breasts arter they’d
committed sooicide with blackberries, there never wos any llike that ’ere
little Tony. He’s alvays a playin’ with a quart pot that boy is! To see him a
settin’ down on the door step pretending to drink out of it, and fetching a
long breath artervards, and smoking a bit of fire-vood and sayin’ ‘Now I’m
grandfather’ -- to see him a doin’ that at two year old is better than any play
as wos ever wrote. ‘Now I’m grandfather!’ He wouldn’t take a pint pot if you
wos to make him a present on it, but he gets his quart and then he says, ‘Now I’m
grandfather!’ ”
Mr. Weller was so
overpowered by this picture that he straightway fell into a most alarming fit
of coughing, which must certainly have been attended with some fatal
result, but for the
dexterity, but for the dexterity and promptitude of Sam, who taking a firm
grasp of the shawl just under his father’s chin, shook him to and fro with
great violence, at the same time administering some smart blows between his
shoulders. By this curious mode of treatment Mr. Weller was finally recovered,
but with a very crimson face and in a state of great exhaustion.
“He’ll do now, Sam,”
said Mr. Pickwick, who had been in some alarm himself.
“He’ll do sir!” cried
Sam, looking reproachfully at his parent, “Yes, he will do one o’ these days --
he’ll do for his-self and then he’ll wish he hadn’t. did anybody ever see sich
a inconsiderate old file, -- laughing into conwulsions afore company, and
stamping on the floor as if he’d brought his own carpet vith him and wos under
a wager to punch the pattern out in a given time? He’ll begin again in a
minute. there -- he’s a goin’ off -- I said he would!”
In fact, Mr. Weller,
whose mind was still running upon his precocious grandson, was seen to shake
his head from side to side, while a laugh, working like an earthquake, below
the surface, produced various extraordinary appearances in his face, chest, and
shoulders, the more alarming because unaccompanied by any noise whatever. These
emotions, however, gradually subsided, and after three or four short relapses,
he wiped his eyes with the cuff of his coat, and looked about him with
tolerable composure.
“Afore the governor
vith-draws,” said Mr. Weller, “there is a pint, respecting vich Sammy has a
qvestion to ask. Vile that qvestion is a perwadin this here conwersation, p’raps
the genl’mem vill permit me to re-tire.”
“Wot are you goin’ away
for?” demanded Sam, seizing his father by the coat tail.
“I never see such a
undootiful boy as you, Samivel,” returned Mr. Weller. -- “Didn’t you make a
solemn promise, -- amountin’ almost to a speeches o’ wow, -- that you’d put
that ere qvestion on my account?”
“Well, I’m agreeable to
do it,” said Sam; “but not if you go cuttin’ away like that, as the bull turned
round and mildly observed to the drover ven they wos a goadin’ him into the
butcher’s door. The fact is, sir, ” said Sam, adresing me, “that he wantss to
know somethin’ respectin that ere lady as is housekeeper here.”
“Ay! What is that?”
“vy, sir,” said Sam,
grinning still more, “he vishes to know vether she --”
“In short,” interposed
old Mr. Weller, decisively, a perspiration breaking out upon his forehead, “vether
that ’ere old creetur is or is not a widder.”
Mr. Pickwick laughed
heartily, and so did I, as I replied decisively that “my housekeeper was a
spinster.”
“there!” cried Sam, “now
you’re satisfied. You hear she’s a spinster.”
“A wot?” said his
father, with deep scorn.
“A spinster,” replied
Sam.
Mr. Weller looked very
hard at his son for a minute or two, and then said,
“Never mind vether she
makes jokes or not, that’s no matter. Wot I say is, is that ere female a
widder, or is she not?”
“Wot do you mean by her
making jokes?” demanded Sam, quite aghast at the obscurity of his parent’s
speech.
“Never you mind,
Samivel,” returned Mr. Weller, gravely; “puns may be wery good things or they
may be wery bad ’uns, and a female may be none the better, or she may be none
the vurse for making of ’em; that’s got nothing to do vith widders.”
“Vy, now,” said Sam,
looking round, “would anybody believe as a man at his time o’ life could be a
running his head agin spinsters and punsters being the same thing.”
“There an’t a straw’s
difference between ’em,” said Mr. Weller. “Your father didn’t drive a coach for
so many years, not to be ekal to his own langvidge as far as that goes, Sammy.”
Avoiding the question
of etymology, upon which the old gentleman’s mind was quite made up, he was
several times assured that the housekeeper had never been married. He expressed
great satisfaction on hearing this, and apologised for the question, remarking
that he had been greatly terrified by a widow not long before, and that his
natural timidity was increased in consequence.
“It was on the rail,”
said Mr. Weller, with strong emphasis; “I wos a goin’ down to Birmingham by the
rail, and I wos locked up in a close carriage vith a living widder. Alone we
wos; the widder and me wos alone; and I believe it wos only because we wos
alone and there wos no clergyman in the conwayance, that that ’ere widder didn’t
marry me afore ve reached the halfway station. Ven I think how she began a
screaming as we wos a goin’ under them tunnels in the dark -- how she kept on a
faintin’ and kitchin’ hold o’ me -- and how I tried to bust open the door as
wos tight-locked, and perwented all escape -- Ah! It wos a awful thing -- most
awful!”
Mr. Weller was so very
much overcome by this retrospect that he was unable, until he had wiped his
brow several times, to return any reply to the question, whether he approved of
railway communication, notwithstanding that it would appear from the answer
which he ultimately gave, that he entertained strong opinions on the subject.
“I consider,” said Mr.
Weller, “that the rail is unconstitootional and an inwaser o’ priwileges, and I
should wery much like to know what that ’ere old Carter as once stood up for
our liberties, and wun ’em too -- I should like to know wot he vould say if he
wos alive now, to Englishmen being locked up with widders, or with anybody
again their wills. Wot a old Carter would have said, a old Coachman may say;
and I assert that in hat pint o’ view alone, the rail is an inwaser. As to the
comfort, vere’s the comfort o’ sittin’ in a harm cheer, lookin’ at brick walls
or heaps o’ mud, never comin’ to a public house, never seein’ a glass o’ ale,
never goin’ through a pike, never meetin’ a change o’ no kind (horses or
othervise), but alvays comin’ to a place, ven you come to one at all, the wery
picter of the last, vith the same p’leesemen standin’, the same unfort’nate
people standing behind the bars, a waitin’ to be let in; and everythin’ the
same, except the name, vich is wrote up in the same sized letters as the last
name and vith the same colours. As to the honour and dignity o’ travellin’ vere
can that be vithout a coachman; and wot’s the rail to sich coachmen and guards
as is sometimes forced to go by it, but a outrage and a insult! As to the pace,
wot sort ’o pace do you think I, Tony Veller, could have kept a coach goin’ at,
for five hundred thousand pound a mile, paid in adwance, afore the coach was on
the road? And as to the ingein -- a nasty, wheezin’, creaking, gasping puffin’,
bustin’ monster, alvays out o’ breath, vith a shiny green and gold back, like a
unpleasant beetle in that ’ere gas magnifier; -- as to the ingein as is alvays
a pourin’ out red-hot coals at night, and black smoke in the day, the
sensiblest thing it does, in my opinion, is, ven there’s somethin’ in the vay,
and it sets up that ’ere frightful scream, vich seems to say, ‘Now, here’s two
hundred and forty passengers in the wery greatest extremity o’ danger, and here’s
their two hundred and forty screams in vun!’ ”
By this time I began to
fear that my friends would be rendered impatient by my protracted absence. I
therefore begged Mr. Pickwick to accompany me up stairs, and left the two Mr.
Wellers in the care of the housekeeper; laying strict injunctions upon her to
treat them with all possible hospitality.
AS we were going
up-stairs, Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, which he had held in his hand
hitherto; arranged his neckerchief, smoothed down his waistcoat, and made many
other little preparations of that kind which men are accustomed to be mindful
of, when they are going among strangers for the first time, and are anxious to
impress them pleasantly. Seeing that I smiled, he smiled too, and said that if
it had occurred to him before he left home, he would certainly have presented
himself in pumps and silk stockings.
“I would, indeed, my
dear sir,” he said very seriously; “I would have shown my respect for the
society, by laying aside my gaiters.”
“You may rest assured,”
said I, “that they would have regretted your doing so very much, for they are
quite attached to them.”
“No, really!” cried Mr.
Pickwick, with manifest pleasure. “Do you think they care about my gaiters? Do
you seriously think that they identify me at all with my gaiters?”
“I am sure they do,” I
replied.
“Well, now,” said Mr.
Pickwick, “that is one of the most charming and agreeable circumstances that
could possibly have occurred to me!”
I should not have
written down this short conversation, but that it developed a slight point in
Mr. Pickwick’s character, with which I was not previously acquainted. He has a
secret pride in his legs. The manner in which he spoke, and the accompanying
glance he bestowed upon his tights, convince me that Mr. Pickwick regards his
legs with much innocent vanity.
“But here are our
friends,” said I, opening the door and taking his arm in mine; “let them speak
for themselves. -- Gentlemen, I present to you Mr. Pickwick.”
Mr. Pickwick and I must
have been a good contrast just then. I, leaning quietly on my crutch-stick,
with something of a care-worn, patient air; he, having hold of my arm, and
bowing in every direction with the most elastic politeness, and an expression
of face whose sprightly cheerfulness and good-humour knew no bounds. The
difference between us must have been more striking yet, as we advanced towards
the table, and the amiable gentleman, adapting his jocund step to my poor
tread, had his attention divided between treating my infirmities with the
utmost consideration, and affecting to be wholly unconscious that I required
any.
I made him personally
known to each of my friends in turn. First, to the deaf gentleman, whom he regarded
with much interest, and accosted with great frankness and cordiality. He had
evidently some vague idea, at the moment, that my friend being deaf must be
dumb also; for when the latter opened his lips to express the pleasure it
afforded him to know a gentleman of whom he had heard so much, Mr. Pickwick was
so extremely disconcerted, that I was obliged to step in to his relief.
His meeting with Jack
Redburn was quite a treat to see. Mr. Pickwick smiled, and shook hands, and
looked at him through his spectacles, and under them, and over them, and nodded
his head approvingly, and then nodded to me, as much as to say, “This is just
the man; you were quite right;” and then turned to Jack and said a few hearty
words, and then did and said everything over again with unimpaired vivacity. As
to Jack himself, he was quite as much delighted with Mr. Pickwick as Mr.
Pickwick could possibly be with him. Two people never can have met together
since the world began, who exchanged a warmer or more enthusiastic greeting.
It was amusing to
observe the difference between this encounter and that which succeeded, between
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Miles. It was clear that the latter gentleman viewed our
new member as a kind of rival in the affections of Jack Redburn, and besides
this, he had more than once hinted to me, in secret, that although he had no
doubt Mr. Pickwick was a very worthy man, still he did consider that some of
his exploits were unbecoming a gentleman of his years and gravity. Over and
above these grounds of distrust, it is one of his fixed opinions, that the law
never can by possibility do anything wrong; he therefore looks upon Mr.
Pickwick as one who has justly suffered in purse and peace for a breach of his
plighted faith to an unprotected female, and holds that he is called upon to
regard him with some suspicion on that account. These causes led to a rather
cold and formal reception; which Mr. Pickwick acknowledged with the same
stateliness and intense politeness as was displayed on the other side. Indeed, he
assumed an air of such majestic defiance, that I was fearful he might break out
into some solemn protest or declaration, and therefore inducted him into his
chair without a moment’s delay.
This piece of
generalship was perfectly successful. The instant he took his seat, Mr.
Pickwick surveyed us all with a most benevolent aspect, and was taken with a
fit of smiling full five minutes long. His interest in our ceremonies was
immense. They are not very numerous or complicated, and a description of them
may be comprised in very few words. As our transactions have already been, and
must necessarily continue to be, more or less anticipated by being presented in
these pages at different times, and under various forms, they do not require a
detailed account.
Our first proceeding
when we are assembled is to shake hands all round, and greet each other with
cheerful and pleasant looks. Remembering that we assemble not only for the
promotion of our happiness, but with the view of adding something to the common
stock, an air of languor or indifference in any member of our body would be
regarded by the others as a kind of treason. We have never had an offender in
this respect; but if we had, there is no doubt that he would be taken to task
pretty severely.
Our salutation over,
the venerable piece of antiquity from which we take our name is wound up in
silence. The ceremony is always performed by Master Humphrey himself (in
treating of the club, I may be permitted to assume the historical style, and
speak of myself in the third person), who mounts upon a chair for the purpose,
armed with a large key. While it is in progress, Jack Redburn is required to
keep at the farther end of the room under the guardianship of Mr. Miles, for he
is known to entertain certain aspiring and unhallowed thoughts connected with
the clock, and has even gone so far as to state that if he might take the works
out for a day or two, he thinks he could improve them. We pardon him his
presumption in consideration of his good intentions, and his keeping this
respectful distance, which last penalty is insisted on, lest by secretly
wounding the object of our regard in some tender part, in the ardour of his
zeal for its improvement, he should fill us with dismay and consternation.
This regulation afforded
Mr. Pickwick the highest delight, and seemed, if possible, to exalt Jack in his
good opinion.
The next ceremony is
the opening of the clock-case (of which Master Humphrey has likewise the key),
the taking from it as many papers as will furnish forth our evening’s
entertainment, and arranging in the recess such new contributions as have been
provided since our last meeting. This is always done with peculiar solemnity.
The deaf gentleman then fills and lights his pipe, and we once more take our
seats round the table before mentioned, Master Humphrey acting as president, --
if we can be said to have any president, where all are on the same social
footing, -- and our friend Jack as secretary. Our preliminaries being now
concluded, we fall into any train of conversation that happens to suggest
itself, or proceed immediately to one of our readings. In the latter case, the
paper selected is consigned to Master Humphrey, who flattens it carefully on
the table and makes dog’s-ears in the corner of every page, ready for turning
over easily; Jack Redburn trims the lamp with a small machine of his own
invention which usually puts it out; Mr. Miles looks on with great approval
notwithstanding; the deaf gentleman draws in his chair, so that he can follow
the words on the paper or on Master Humphrey’s lips as he pleases; and Master
Humphrey himself, looking round with mighty gratification, and glancing up at
his old clock, begins to read aloud.
Mr. Pickwick’s face,
while his tale was being read, would have attracted the attention of the
dullest man alive. The complacent motion of his head and forefinger as he
gently beat time, and corrected the air with imaginary punctuation, the smile
that mantled on his features at every jocose passage, and the sly look he stole
around to observe its effect, the calm manner in which he shut his eyes and
listened when there was some little piece of description, the changing
expression with which he acted the dialogue to himself, his agony that the deaf
gentleman should know what it was all about, and his extraordinary anxiety to
correct the reader when he hesitated at a word in the manuscript, or
substituted a wrong one, were alike worthy of remark. And when at last,
endeavouring to communicate with the deaf gentleman by means of the finger
alphabet, with which he constructed such words as are unknown in any civilised
or savage language, he took up a slate and wrote in large text, one word in a
line, the question, “How -- do -- you -- like -- it?” -- when he did this, and
handing it over the table awaited the reply, with a countenance only brightened
and improved by his great excitement, even Mr. Miles relaxed, and could not
forbear looking at him for the moment with interest and favour.
“It has occurred to me,”
said the deaf gentleman, who had watched Mr. Pickwick and everybody else with
silent satisfaction -- “it has occurred to me,” said the deaf gentleman, taking
his pipe from his lips, “that now is our time for filling our only empty chair.”
As our conversation had
naturally turned upon the vacant seat, we lent a willing ear to this remark,
and looked at our friend inquiringly.
“I feel sure,” said he,
“that Mr. Pickwick must be acquainted with somebody who would be an acquisition
to us; that he must know the man we want. Pray let us not lose any time, but
set this question at rest. Is it so, Mr. Pickwick?”
The gentleman addressed
was about to return a verbal reply, but remembering our friend’s infirmity, he
substituted for this kind of answer some fifty nods. Then taking up the slate
and printing on it a gigantic “Yes,” he handed it across the table, and rubbing
his hands as he looked round upon our faces, protested that he and the deaf
gentleman quite understood each other, already.
“The person I have in
my mind,” said Mr. Pickwick, “and whom I should not have presumed to mention to
you until some time hence, but for the opportunity you have given me, is a very
strange old man. His name is Bamber.”
“Bamber!” said Jack. “I
have certainly heard the name before.”
“I have no doubt, then,”
returned Mr. Pickwick, “that you remember him in those adventures of mine (the
Posthumous Papers of our old club, I mean), although he is only incidentally
mentioned; and, if I remember right, appears but once.”
“That’s it,” said Jack.
“Let me see. He is the person who has a grave interest in old mouldy chambers
and the Inns of Court, and who relates some anecdotes having reference to his
favourite theme, - and an odd ghost story, -- is that the man?”
“The very same. Now,”
said Mr. Pickwick, lowering his voice to a mysterious and confidential tone, “he
is a very extraordinary and remarkable person; living, and talking, and
looking, like some strange spirit, whose delight is to haunt old buildings; and
absorbed in that one subject which you have just mentioned, to an extent which
is quite wonderful. When I retired into private life, I sought him out, and I
do assure you that the more I see of him, the more strongly I am impressed with
the strange and dreamy character of his mind.”
“Where does he live?” I
inquired.
“He lives,” said Mr.
Pickwick, “in one of those dull, lonely old places with which his thoughts and
stories are all connected; quite alone, and often shut up close for several
weeks together. In this dusty solitude he broods upon the fancies he has so
long indulged, and when he goes into the world, or anybody from the world
without goes to see him, they are still present to his mind and still his
favourite topic. I may say, I believe, that he has brought himself to entertain
a regard for me, and an interest in my visits; feelings which I am certain he
would extend to Master Humphrey’s Clock if he were once tempted to join us. All
I wish you to understand is, that he is a strange, secluded visionary, in the
world but not of it; and as unlike anybody here as he is unlike anybody
elsewhere that I have ever met or known.”
Mr. Miles received this
account of our proposed companion with rather a wry face, and after murmuring
that perhaps he was a little mad, inquired if he were rich.
“I never asked him,”
said Mr. Pickwick.
“You might know, sir,
for all that,” retorted Mr. Miles, sharply.
“Perhaps so, Sir,” said
Mr. Pickwick, no less sharply than the other, “but I do not. Indeed,” he added,
relapsing into his usual mildness, “I have no means of judging. He lives
poorly, but that would seem to be in keeping with his character. I never heard
him allude to his circumstances, and never fell into the society of any man who
had the slightest acquaintance with them. I have really told you all I know
about him, and it rests with you to say whether you wish to know more, or know
quite enough already.”
We were unanimously of
opinion that we would seek to know more; and as a sort of compromise with Mr.
Miles (who, although he said “yes -- oh certainly -- he should like to know
more about the gentleman -- he had no right to put himself in opposition to the
general wish,” and so forth, shook his head doubtfully and hemmed several times
with peculiar gravity), it was arranged that Mr. Pickwick should carry me with
him on an evening visit to the subject of our discussion, for which purpose an
early appointment between that gentleman and myself was immediately agreed
upon; it being understood that I was to act upon my own responsibility, and to
invite him to join us or not, as I might think proper. This solemn question
determined, we returned to the clock-case (where we have been forestalled by
the reader), and between its contents, and the conversation they occasioned,
the remainder of our time passed very quickly.
When we broke up, Mr.
Pickwick took me aside to tell me that he had spent a most charming and
delightful evening. Having made this communication with an air of the strictest
secrecy, he took Jack Redburn into another corner to tell him the same, and
then retired into another corner with the deaf gentleman and the slate, to
repeat the assurance. It was amusing to observe the contest in his mind whether
he should extend his confidence to Mr. Miles, or treat him with dignified
reserve. Half a dozen times he stepped up behind him with a friendly air, and
as often stepped back again without saying a word; at last, when he was close
at that gentleman’s ear and upon the very point of whispering something
conciliating and agreeable, Mr. Miles happened suddenly to turn his head, upon
which Mr. Pickwick skipped away, and said with some fierceness, “Good night,
sir -- I was about to say good night, sir, -- nothing more;” and so made a bow
and left him.
“Now, Sam,” said Mr.
Pickwick, when he had got down-stairs.
“All right, sir,”
replied Mr. Weller. “Hold hard, sir. Right arm fust -- now the left -- now one
strong conwulsion, and the great- coat’s on, sir.”
Mr. Pickwick acted upon
these directions, and being further assisted by Sam, who pulled at one side of
the collar, and Mr. Weller, who pulled hard at the other, was speedily enrobed.
Mr. Weller, senior, then produced a full-sized stable lantern, which he had
carefully deposited in a remote corner, on his arrival, and inquired whether
Mr. Pickwick would have “the lamps alight.”
“I think not to-night,”
said Mr. Pickwick.
“Then if this here lady
vill per-mit,” rejoined Mr. Weller, “we’ll leave it here, ready for next
journey. This here lantern, mum,” said Mr. Weller, handing it to the
housekeeper, “vunce belonged to the celebrated Bill Blinder as is now at grass,
as all on us vill be in our turns. Bill, mum, wos the hostler as had charge o’
them two vell-known piebald leaders that run in the Bristol fast coach, and
vould never go to no other tune but a sutherly vind and a cloudy sky, which wos
consekvently played incessant, by the guard, wenever they wos on duty. He wos
took wery bad one arternoon, arter having been off his feed, and wery shaky on
his legs for some veeks; and he says to his mate, ‘Matey,’ he says, ‘I think I’m
a-goin’ the wrong side o’ the post, and that my foot’s wery near the bucket.
Don’t say I a’nt,rsquo; he says, ‘for I know I am, and don’t let me be
interrupted,’ he says, ‘for I’ve saved a little money, and I’m a-goin’ into the
stable to make my last vill and testymint.’ ‘I’ll take care as nobody
interrupts,’ says his mate, ‘but you on’y hold up your head, and shake your
ears a bit, and you’re good for twenty years to come.’ Bill Blinder makes him
no answer, but he goes avay into the stable, and there he soon artervards lays
himself down a’tween the two piebalds, and dies, -- previously a writin’
outside the corn-chest, ‘This is the last vill and testymint of Villiam
Blinder.’ They wos nat’rally wery much amazed at this, and arter looking among
the litter, and up in the loft, and vere not, they opens the corn-chest, and
finds that he’d been and chalked his vill inside the lid; so the lid was
obligated to be took off the hinges, and sent up to Doctor Commons to be
proved, and under that ’ere wery instrument this here lantern was passed to
Tony Veller; vich circumstarnce, mum, gives it a wally in my eyes, and makes me
rekvest, if you vill be so kind, as to take partickler care on it.”
The housekeeper
graciously promised to keep the object of Mr. Weller’s regard in the safest
possible custody, and Mr. Pickwick, with a laughing face, took his leave. The
bodyguard followed, side by side; old Mr. Weller buttoned and wrapped up from
his boots to his chin; and Sam with his hands in his pockets and his hat half
off his head, remonstrating with his father, as he went, on his extreme
loquacity.
I was not a little
surprised, on turning to go up-stairs, to encounter the barber in the passage
at that late hour; for his attendance is usually confined to some half-hour in the
morning. But Jack Redburn, who finds out (by instinct, I think) everything that
happens in the house, informed me with great glee, that a society in imitation
of our own had been that night formed in the kitchen, under the title of “Mr.
Weller’s Watch,” of which the barber was a member; and that he could pledge
himself to find means of making me acquainted with the whole of its future
proceedings, which I begged him, both on my own account and that of my readers,
by no means to neglect doing.
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 lunging
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 mind. 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 resistence 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 propritiatory 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,”
repled 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 the 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 sleeply and discontented, and had more than once
suggested the proprieity of an immediate departure, when the door opened, and
the child herself appeared.
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 picket. “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 thought, 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 litle creature; poor
protector as he was, say that he died--what we 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 solitutde 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 best 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.
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 forthly,
because the company being accustomed to acandalise 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 venture’d 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 him. 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 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 thiniking.”
“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 pursing 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.
IT seems that the
housekeeper and the two Mr. Wellers were no sooner left together on the
occasion of their first becoming acquainted, than the housekeeper called to her
assistance Mr. Slithers the barber, who had been lurking in the kitchen in
expectation of her summons; and with many smiles and much sweetness introduced
him as one who would assist her in the responsible office of entertaining her
distinguished visitors.
“Indeed,” said she, “without
Mr. Slithers I should have been placed in quite an awkward situation.”
“There is no call for
any hock’erdness, mum,” said Mr. Weller with the utmost politeness; “no call
wotsumever. A lady,” added the old gentleman, looking about him with the air of
one who establishes an incontrovertible position, -- “a lady can’t be hock’erd.
Natur has otherwise purwided.”
The housekeeper
inclined her head and smiled yet more sweetly. The barber, who had been
fluttering about Mr. Weller and Sam in a state of great anxiety to improve
their acquaintance, rubbed his hands and cried, “Hear, hear! Very true, sir;”
whereupon Sam turned about and steadily regarded him for some seconds in
silence.
“I never knew,” said
Sam, fixing his eyes in a ruminative manner upon the blushing barber, -- “I
never knew but vun o’ your trade, but HE wos worth a dozen, and wos indeed
dewoted to his callin’!”
“Was he in the easy
shaving way, sir,” inquired Mr. Slithers; “or in the cutting and curling line?”
“Both,” replied Sam; “easy
shavin’ was his natur’, and cuttin’ and curlin’ was his pride and glory. His
whole delight wos in his trade. He spent all his money in bears, and run in
debt for ’em besides, and there they wos a growling avay down in the front
cellar all day long, and ineffectooally gnashing their teeth, vile the grease o’
their relations and friends wos being re-tailed in gallipots in the shop above,
and the first-floor winder wos ornamented vith their heads; not to speak o’ the
dreadful aggrawation it must have been to ’em to see a man alvays a walkin’ up
and down the pavement outside, vith the portrait of a bear in his last agonies,
and underneath in large letters, ‘Another fine animal wos slaughtered yesterday
at Jinkinson’s!’ Hows’ever, there they wos, and there Jinkinson wos, till he
wos took wery ill with some inn’ard disorder, lost the use of his legs, and wos
confined to his bed, vere he laid a wery long time, but sich wos his pride in
his profession, even then, that wenever he wos worse than usual the doctor used
to go down-stairs and say, ‘Jinkinson’s wery low this mornin’; we must give the
bears a stir;’ and as sure as ever they stirred ’em up a bit and made ’em roar,
Jinkinson opens his eyes if he wos ever so bad, calls out, ‘There’s the bears!’
and rewives agin.”
“Astonishing!” cried
the barber.
“Not a bit,” said Sam, “human
natur’ neat as imported. Vun day the doctor happenin’ to say, ‘I shall look in
as usual to-morrow mornin’,’ Jinkinson catches hold of his hand and says, ‘Doctor,’
he says, ‘will you grant me one favour?’ ‘I will, Jinkinson,’ says the doctor. ‘Then,
doctor,’ says Jinkinson, ‘vill you come unshaved, and let me shave you?’ ‘I
will,’ says the doctor. ‘God bless you,’ says Jinkinson. Next day the doctor
came, and arter he’d been shaved all skilful and reg’lar, he says, ‘Jinkinson,’
he says, ‘it’s wery plain this does you good. Now,’ he says, ‘I’ve got a
coachman as has got a beard that it ’ud warm your heart to work on, and though
the footman,’ he says, ‘hasn’t got much of a beard, still he’s a trying it on
vith a pair o’ viskers to that extent that razors is Christian charity. If they
take it in turns to mind the carriage when it’s a waitin’ below,’ he says, ‘wot’s
to hinder you from operatin’ on both of ’em ev’ry day as well as upon me? you’ve
got six children,’ he says, ‘wot’s to hinder you from shavin’ all their heads
and keepin’ ’em shaved? you’ve got two assistants in the shop down-stairs, wot’s
to hinder you from cuttin’ and curlin’ them as often as you like? Do this,’ he
says, ‘and you’re a man agin.’ Jinkinson squeedged the doctor’s hand and begun
that wery day; he kept his tools upon the bed, and wenever he felt his-self
gettin’ worse, he turned to at vun o’ the children who wos a runnin’ about the
house vith heads like clean Dutch cheeses, and shaved him agin. Vun day the
lawyer come to make his vill; all the time he wos a takin’ it down, Jinkinson
was secretly a clippin’ avay at his hair vith a large pair of scissors. ‘Wot’s
that ’ere snippin’ noise?’ says the lawyer every now and then; ‘it’s like a man
havin’ his hair cut.’ ‘It IS wery like a man havin’ his hair cut,’ says poor
Jinkinson, hidin’ the scissors, and lookin’ quite innocent. By the time the
lawyer found it out, he was wery nearly bald. Jinkinson wos kept alive in this
vay for a long time, but at last vun day he has in all the children vun arter
another, shaves each on ’em wery clean, and gives him vun kiss on the crown o’
his head; then he has in the two assistants, and arter cuttin’ and curlin’ of ’em
in the first style of elegance, says he should like to hear the woice o’ the
greasiest bear, vich rekvest is immediately complied with; then he says that he
feels wery happy in his mind and vishes to be left alone; and then he dies,
previously cuttin’ his own hair and makin’ one flat curl in the wery middle of
his forehead.”
This anecdote produced
an extraordinary effect, not only upon Mr. Slithers, but upon the housekeeper
also, who evinced so much anxiety to please and be pleased, that Mr. Weller,
with a manner betokening some alarm, conveyed a whispered inquiry to his son
whether he had gone “too fur.”
“Wot do you mean by too
fur?” demanded Sam.
“In that ’ere little
compliment respectin’ the want of hock’erdness in ladies, Sammy,” replied his
father.
“You don’t think she’s
fallen in love with you in consekens o’ that, do you?” said Sam.
“More unlikelier things
have come to pass, my boy,” replied Mr. Weller in a hoarse whisper; “I’m always
afeerd of inadwertent captiwation, Sammy. If I know’d how to make myself ugly
or unpleasant, I’d do it, Samivel, rayther than live in this here state of
perpetival terror!”
Mr. Weller had, at that
time, no further opportunity of dwelling upon the apprehensions which beset his
mind, for the immediate occasion of his fears proceeded to lead the way
down-stairs, apologising as they went for conducting him into the kitchen,
which apartment, however, she was induced to proffer for his accommodation in
preference to her own little room, the rather as it afforded greater facilities
for smoking, and was immediately adjoining the ale-cellar. The preparations
which were already made sufficiently proved that these were not mere words of
course, for on the deal table were a sturdy ale-jug and glasses, flanked with
clean pipes and a plentiful supply of tobacco for the old gentleman and his
son, while on a dresser hard by was goodly store of cold meat and other eatables.
At sight of these arrangements Mr. Weller was at first distracted between his
love of joviality and his doubts whether they were not to be considered as so
many evidences of captivation having already taken place; but he soon yielded
to his natural impulse, and took his seat at the table with a very jolly
countenance.
“As to imbibin’ any o’
this here flagrant veed, mum, in the presence of a lady,” said Mr. Weller,
taking up a pipe and laying it down again, “it couldn’t be. Samivel, total
abstinence, if YOU please.”
“But I like it of all
things,” said the housekeeper.
“No,” rejoined Mr.
Weller, shaking his head, -- “no.”
“Upon my word I do,”
said the housekeeper. “Mr. Slithers knows I do.”
Mr. Weller coughed, and
notwithstanding the barber’s confirmation of the statement, said No again, but
more feebly than before. The housekeeper lighted a piece of paper, and insisted
on applying it to the bowl of the pipe with her own fair hands; Mr. Weller
resisted; the housekeeper cried that her fingers would be burnt; Mr. Weller
gave way. The pipe was ignited, Mr. Weller drew a long puff of smoke, and
detecting himself in the very act of smiling on the housekeeper, put a sudden
constraint upon his countenance and looked sternly at the candle, with a
determination not to captivate, himself, or encourage thoughts of captivation
in others. From this iron frame of mind he was roused by the voice of his son.
“I don’t think,” said
Sam, who was smoking with great composure and enjoyment, “that if the lady wos
agreeable it ’ud be wery far out o’ the vay for us four to make up a club of
our own like the governors does up-stairs, and let him,” Sam pointed with the
stem of his pipe towards his parent, “be the president.”
The housekeeper affably
declared that it was the very thing she had been thinking of. The barber said
the same. Mr. Weller said nothing, but he laid down his pipe as if in a fit of
inspiration, and performed the following manoeuvres.
Unbuttoning the three
lower buttons of his waistcoat and pausing for a moment to enjoy the easy flow
of breath consequent upon this process, he laid violent hands upon his
watch-chain, and slowly and with extreme difficulty drew from his fob an
immense double-cased silver watch, which brought the lining of the pocket with it,
and was not to be disentangled but by great exertions and an amazing redness of
face. Having fairly got it out at last, he detached the outer case and wound it
up with a key of corresponding magnitude; then put the case on again, and
having applied the watch to his ear to ascertain that it was still going, gave
it some half-dozen hard knocks on the table to improve its performance.
“That,” said Mr.
Weller, laying it on the table with its face upwards, “is the title and emblem
o’ this here society. Sammy, reach them two stools this vay for the wacant
cheers. Ladies and gen’lmen, Mr. Weller’s Watch is vound up and now a-goin’.
Order!”
By way of enforcing
this proclamation, Mr. Weller, using the watch after the manner of a president’s
hammer, and remarking with great pride that nothing hurt it, and that falls and
concussions of all kinds materially enhanced the excellence of the works and
assisted the regulator, knocked the table a great many times, and declared the
association formally constituted.
“And don’t let’s have
no grinnin’ at the cheer, Samivel,” said Mr. Weller to his son, “or I shall be
committin’ you to the cellar, and then p’r’aps we may get into what the ’Merrikins
call a fix, and the English a qvestion o’ privileges.”
Having uttered this friendly
caution, the President settled himself in his chair with great dignity, and
requested that Mr. Samuel would relate an anecdote.
“I’ve told one,” said
Sam.
“Wery good, sir; tell
another,” returned the chair.
“We wos a talking jist
now, sir,” said Sam, turning to Slithers, “about barbers. Pursuing that ’ere
fruitful theme, sir, I’ll tell you in a wery few words a romantic little story
about another barber as p’r’aps you may never have heerd.”
“Samivel!” said Mr.
Weller, again bringing his watch and the table into smart collision, “address
your obserwations to the cheer, sir, and not to priwate indiwiduals!”
“And if I might rise to
order,” said the barber in a soft voice, and looking round him with a
conciliatory smile as he leant over the table, with the knuckles of his left
hand resting upon it, -- “if I might rise to order, I would suggest that ‘barbers’
is not exactly the kind of language which is agreeable and soothing to our
feelings. You, sir, will correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe there is such a
word in the dictionary as hair-dressers.”
“Well, but suppose he
wasn’t a hair-dresser,” suggested Sam.
“Wy then, sir, be
parliamentary and call him vun all the more,” returned his father. “In the same
vay as ev’ry gen’lman in another place is a Honourable, ev’ry barber in this
place is a hair-dresser. Ven you read the speeches in the papers, and see as
vun gen’lman says of another, ‘the Honourable member, if he vill allow me to
call him so,’ you vill understand, sir, that that means, ‘if he vill allow me
to keep up that ’ere pleasant and uniwersal fiction.’”
It is a common remark,
confirmed by history and experience, that great men rise with the circumstances
in which they are placed. Mr. Weller came out so strong in his capacity of
chairman, that Sam was for some time prevented from speaking by a grin of
surprise, which held his faculties enchained, and at last subsided in a long
whistle of a single note. Nay, the old gentleman appeared even to have
astonished himself, and that to no small extent, as was demonstrated by the
vast amount of chuckling in which he indulged, after the utterance of these
lucid remarks.
“Here’s the story,”
said Sam. “Vunce upon a time there wos a young hair-dresser as opened a wery
smart little shop vith four wax dummies in the winder, two gen’lmen and two
ladies -- the gen’lmen vith blue dots for their beards, wery large viskers,
oudacious heads of hair, uncommon clear eyes, and nostrils of amazin’ pinkness;
the ladies vith their heads o’ one side, their right forefingers on their lips,
and their forms deweloped beautiful, in vich last respect they had the
adwantage over the gen’lmen, as wasn’t allowed but wery little shoulder, and
terminated rayther abrupt in fancy drapery. He had also a many hair-brushes and
tooth-brushes bottled up in the winder, neat glass-cases on the counter, a
floor-clothed cuttin’-room up-stairs, and a weighin’- macheen in the shop,
right opposite the door. But the great attraction and ornament wos the dummies,
which this here young hair-dresser wos constantly a runnin’ out in the road to
look at, and constantly a runnin’ in again to touch up and polish; in short, he
wos so proud on ’em, that ven Sunday come, he wos always wretched and mis’rable
to think they wos behind the shutters, and looked anxiously for Monday on that
account. Vun o’ these dummies wos a favrite vith him beyond the others; and ven
any of his acquaintance asked him wy he didn’t get married -- as the young
ladies he know’d, in partickler, often did -- he used to say, ‘Never! I never
vill enter into the bonds of vedlock,’ he says, ‘until I meet vith a young ’ooman
as realises my idea o’ that ’ere fairest dummy vith the lighthair. Then, and
not till then,’ he says, ‘I vill approach the altar.’ All the young ladies he
know’d as had got dark hair told him this wos wery sinful, and that he wos
wurshippin’ a idle; but them as wos at all near the same shade as the dummy
coloured up wery much, and wos observed to think him a wery nice young man.”
“Samivel,” said Mr.
Weller, gravely, “a member o’ this associashun bein’ one o’ that ’ere tender
sex which is now immedetly referred to, I have to rekvest that you vill make no
reflections.”
“I ain’t a makin’ any,
am I?” inquired Sam.
“Order, sir!” rejoined
Mr. Weller, with severe dignity. Then, sinking the chairman in the father, he
added, in his usual tone of voice: “Samivel, drive on!”
Sam interchanged a
smile with the housekeeper, and proceeded:
“The young hair-dresser
hadn’t been in the habit o’ makin’ this avowal above six months, ven he en-countered
a young lady as wos the wery picter o’ the fairest dummy. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘it’s
all up. I am a slave!’ The young lady wos not only the picter o’ the fairest
dummy, but she was wery romantic, as the young hair-dresser was, too, and he
says, ‘Oh!’ he says, ‘here’s a community o’ feelin’, here’s a flow o’ soul!’ he
says, ‘here’s a interchange o’ sentiment!’ The young lady didn’t say much, o’
course, but she expressed herself agreeable, and shortly artervards vent to see
him vith a mutual friend. The hair-dresser rushes out to meet her, but d’rectly
she sees the dummies she changes colour and falls a tremblin’ wiolently. ‘Look
up, my love,’ says the hair-dresser, ‘behold your imige in my winder, but not
correcter than in my art!’ ‘My imige!’ she says. ‘Yourn!’ replies the
hair-dresser. ‘But whose imige is that?’ she says, a pinting at vun o’ the gen’lmen.
‘No vun’s, my love,’ he says, ‘it is but a idea.’ ‘A idea!’ she cries: ‘it is a
portrait, I feel it is a portrait, and that ’ere noble face must be in the
millingtary!’ ‘Wot do I hear!’ says he, a crumplin’ his curls. ‘Villiam Gibbs,’
she says, quite firm, ‘never renoo the subject. I respect you as a friend,’ she
says, ‘but my affections is set upon that manly brow.’ ‘This,’ says the
hair-dresser, ‘is a reg’lar blight, and in it I perceive the hand of Fate.
Farevell!’ Vith these vords he rushes into the shop, breaks the dummy’s nose
vith a blow of his curlin’-irons, melts him down at the parlour fire, and never
smiles artervards.”
“The young lady, Mr.
Weller?” said the housekeeper.
“Why, ma’am” said Sam, “finding
that Fate had a spite agin her, and everybody she come into contact vith, she
never smiled neither, but read a deal o’ poetry and pined avay, -- by rayther
slow degrees, for she ain’t dead yet. It took a deal o’ poetry to kill the
hair-dresser, and some people say arter all that it was more the gin and water
as caused him to be run over; p’r’aps it was a little o’ both, and came o’
mixing the two.”
The barber declared
that Mr. Weller had related one of the most interesting stories that had ever
come within his knowledge, in which opinion the housekeeper entirely concurred.
“Are you a married man,
sir?” inquired Sam.
The barber replied that
he had not that honour.
“I s’pose you mean to
be?” said Sam.
“Well,” replied the
barber, rubbing his hands smirkingly, “I don’t know, I don’t think it’s very
likely.”
“That’s a bad sign,”
said Sam; “if you’d said you meant to be vun o’ these days, I should ha’ looked
upon you as bein’ safe. You’re in a wery precarious state.”
“I am not conscious of
any danger, at all events,” returned the barber.
“No more wos I, sir,”
said the elder Mr. Weller, interposing; “those vere my symptoms, exactly. I’ve
been took that vay twice. Keep your vether eye open, my friend, or you’re gone.”
There was something so
very solemn about this admonition, both in its matter and manner, and also in
the way in which Mr. Weller still kept his eye fixed upon the unsuspecting
victim, that nobody cared to speak for some little time, and might not have
cared to do so for some time longer, if the housekeeper had not happened to
sigh, which called off the old gentleman’s attention and gave rise to a gallant
inquiry whether, “there wos anythin’ wery piercin’ in that ’ere little heart?”
“Dear me, Mr. Weller!”
said the housekeeper, laughing.
“No, but is there
anythin’ as agitates it?” pursued the old gentleman. “Has it always been
obderrate, always opposed to the happiness o’ human creeturs? Eh? Has it?”
At this critical
juncture for her blushes and confusion, the housekeeper discovered that more
ale was wanted, and hastily withdrew into the cellar to draw the same, followed
by the barber, who insisted on carrying the candle. Having looked after her
with a very complacent expression of face, and after him with some disdain, Mr.
Weller caused his glance to travel slowly round the kitchen, until at length it
rested on his son.
“Sammy,” said Mr.
Weller, “I mistrust that barber.”
“Wot for?” returned
Sam; “wot’s he got to do with you? You’re a nice man, you are, arter pretendin’
all kinds o’ terror, to go a payin’ compliments and talkin’ about hearts and
piercers.”
The imputation of
gallantry appeared to afford Mr. Weller the utmost delight, for he replied in a
voice choked by suppressed laughter, and with the tears in his eyes,
“Wos I a talkin’ about
hearts and piercers, -- wos I though, Sammy, eh?”
“Wos you? of course you
wos.”
“She don’t know no
better, Sammy, there ain’t no harm in it, -- no danger, Sammy; she’s only a
punster. She seemed pleased, though, didn’t she? O’ course, she wos pleased, it’s
nat’ral she should be, wery nat’ral.”
“He’s wain of it!”
exclaimed Sam, joining in his father’s mirth. “He’s actually wain!”
“Hush!” replied Mr.
Weller, composing his features, “they’re a comin’ back, -- the little heart’s a
comin’ back. But mark these wurds o’ mine once more, and remember ’em ven your
father says he said ’em. Samivel, I mistrust that ’ere deceitful barber.”
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 expresively 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 betwen 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 that 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 pactitioner; 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.
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 home 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 addresed, 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, fainly. “Began to ---”
“To be so thoughtful
and dejected, and to forget our old way ot 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
afectionate 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 neary 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
condtiion, 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 alrmed 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.
“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 the moddy
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 supose 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, Richards 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 mind 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 stars
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?” demandedd 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. It 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.
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, dispached
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 certin 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 arrive of a small pewter pyramid, curously 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 poato 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 it!--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 setle when he should be passing presently,
he displayed some pertubation 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, Richards 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 imperturable 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 Chesea,
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 circumbmbient 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 solitrary young lady
of tender years standing on the scraper on the tips of her toes and making
futile attempts to reach the knocker with spelling-book. The several duties of
instruction in this establishment were this discharged. English grammar,
composition, geography, and the use of the dumb-bells, by Miss Melissa Wackles;
writing, arthmetic, 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,
busom girl of twenty; and Miss Jane numbered scarcely sixteen years. Mrs.
Wackles was an excellent but rather vemenous 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, embelished 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 dilitory kind which is usuaully
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 ben 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 snubb 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 Chegs,” 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 intenions 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 premeturely shrill and shrewish,
gave such undue importance to her part that Mr. Swiviller retired in dudgeon,
resigning his mistress to Mr. Cheggs and converying a definance 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 legt 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 wormword 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 Cheegs! 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 mean time, 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.
TWO or three evenings
after the institution of Mr. Weller’s Watch, I thought I heard, as I walked in
the garden, the voice of Mr. Weller himself at no great distance; and stopping
once or twice to listen more attentively, I found that the sounds proceeded
from my housekeeper’s little sitting-room, which is at the back of the house. I
took no further notice of the circumstance at that time, but it formed the
subject of a conversation between me and my friend Jack Redburn next morning,
when I found that I had not been deceived in my impression. Jack furnished me
with the following particulars; and as he appeared to take extraordinary
pleasure in relating them, I have begged him in future to jot down any such
domestic scenes or occurrences that may please his humour, in order that they
may be told in his own way. I must confess that, as Mr. Pickwick and he are
constantly together, I have been influenced, in making this request, by a
secret desire to know something of their proceedings.
On the evening in
question, the housekeeper’s room was arranged with particular care, and the
housekeeper herself was very smartly dressed. The preparations, however, were
not confined to mere showy demonstrations, as tea was prepared for three
persons, with a small display of preserves and jams and sweet cakes, which
heralded some uncommon occasion. Miss Benton (my housekeeper bears that name)
was in a state of great expectation, too, frequently going to the front door
and looking anxiously down the lane, and more than once observing to the
servant-girl that she expected company, and hoped no accident had happened to
delay them.
A modest ring at the
bell at length allayed her fears, and Miss Benton, hurrying into her own room
and shutting herself up, in order that she might preserve that appearance of
being taken by surprise which is so essential to the polite reception of
visitors, awaited their coming with a smiling countenance.
“Good ev’nin’, mum,”
said the older Mr. Weller, looking in at the door after a prefatory tap. “I’m
afeerd we’ve come in rayther arter the time, mum, but the young colt being full
o’ wice, has been’ a boltin’ and shyin’ and gettin’ his leg over the traces to
sich a extent that if he an’t wery soon broke in, he’ll wex me into a broken
heart, and then he’ll never be brought out no more except to learn his letters
from the writin’ on his grandfather’s tombstone.”
With these pathetic
words, which were addressed to something outside the door about two feet six
from the ground, Mr. Weller introduced a very small boy firmly set upon a
couple of very sturdy legs, who looked as if nothing could ever knock him down.
Besides having a very round face strongly resembling Mr. Weller’s, and a stout
little body of exactly his build, this young gentleman, standing with his
little legs very wide apart, as if the top-boots were familiar to them,
actually winked upon the housekeeper with his infant eye, in imitation of his
grandfather.
“There’s a naughty boy,
mum,” said Mr. Weller, bursting with delight, “there’s a immoral Tony. Wos
there ever a little chap o’ four year and eight months old as vinked his eye at
a strange lady afore?”
As little affected by
this observation as by the former appeal to his feelings, Master Weller
elevated in the air a small model of a coach whip which he carried in his hand,
and addressing the housekeeper with a shrill “ya -- hip!” inquired if she was “going
down the road;” at which happy adaptation of a lesson he had been taught from
infancy, Mr. Weller could restrain his feelings no longer, but gave him
twopence on the spot.
“It’s in wain to deny
it, mum,” said Mr. Weller, “this here is a boy arter his grandfather’s own
heart, and beats out all the boys as ever wos or will be. Though at the same
time, mum,” added Mr. Weller, trying to look gravely down upon his favourite, “it
was wery wrong on him to want to -- over all the posts as we come along, and
wery cruel on him to force poor grandfather to lift him cross- legged over
every vun of ’em. He wouldn’t pass vun single blessed post, mum, and at the top
o’ the lane there’s seven-and-forty on ’em all in a row, and wery close
together.”
Here Mr. Weller, whose
feelings were in a perpetual conflict between pride in his grandson’s
achievements and a sense of his own responsibility, and the importance of
impressing him with moral truths, burst into a fit of laughter, and suddenly
checking himself, remarked in a severe tone that little boys as made their
grandfathers put ’em over posts never went to heaven at any price.
By this time the
housekeeper had made tea, and little Tony, placed on a chair beside
her, with his eyes
nearly on a level with the top of the table, was provided with various
delicacies which yielded him extreme contentment. The housekeeper (who seemed
rather afraid of the child, notwithstanding her caresses) then patted him on
the head, and declared that he was the finest boy she had ever seen.
“Wy, mum,” said Mr.
Weller, “I don’t think you’ll see a many sich, and that’s the truth. But if my
son Samivel vould give me my vay, mum, and only dis-pense vith his -- MIGHT I
wenter to say the vurd?”
“What word, Mr. Weller?”
said the housekeeper, blushing slightly.
“Petticuts, mum,”
returned that gentleman, laying his hand upon the garments of his grandson. “If
my son Samivel, mum, vould only dis-pense vith these here, you’d see such a
alteration in his appearance, as the imagination can’t depicter.”
“But what would you
have the child wear instead, Mr. Weller?” said the housekeeper.
“I’ve offered my son
Samivel, mum, agen and agen,” returned the old gentleman, “to purwide him at my
own cost vith a suit o’ clothes as ’ud be the makin’ on him, and form his mind
in infancy for those pursuits as I hope the family o’ the Vellers vill alvays
dewote themselves to. Tony, my boy, tell the lady wot them clothes are, as
grandfather says, father ought to let you vear.”
“A little white hat and
a little sprig weskut and little knee cords and little top-boots and a little
green coat with little bright buttons and a little welwet collar,” replied
Tony, with great readiness and no stops.
“That’s the cos-toom,
mum,” said Mr. Weller, looking proudly at the housekeeper. “Once make sich a
model on him as that, and you’d say he wos an angel!”
Perhaps the housekeeper
thought that in such a guise young Tony would look more like the angel at
Islington than anything else of that name, or perhaps she was disconcerted to
find her previously- conceived ideas disturbed, as angels are not commonly
represented in top-boots and sprig waistcoats. She coughed doubtfully, but said
nothing.
“How many brothers and
sisters have you, my dear?” she asked, after a short silence.
“One brother and no
sister at all,” replied Tony. “Sam his name is, and so’s my father’s. Do you
know my father?”
“O yes, I know him,”
said the housekeeper, graciously.
“Is my father fond of
you?” pursued Tony.
“I hope so,” rejoined
the smiling housekeeper.
Tony considered a
moment, and then said, “Is my grandfather fond of you?”
This would seem a very
easy question to answer, but instead of replying to it, the housekeeper smiled
in great confusion, and said that really children did ask such extraordinary
questions that it was the most difficult thing in the world to talk to them.
Mr. Weller took upon himself to reply that he was very fond of the lady; but
the housekeeper entreating that he would not put such things into the child’s
head, Mr. Weller shook his own while she looked another way, and seemed to be
troubled with a misgiving that captivation was in progress. It was, perhaps, on
this account that he changed the subject precipitately.
“It’s wery wrong in
little boys to make game o’ their grandfathers, an’t it, mum?” said Mr. Weller,
shaking his head waggishly, until Tony looked at him, when he counterfeited the
deepest dejection and sorrow.
“Oh very sad!” assented
the housekeeper. “But I hope no little boys do that?”
“There is vun young
Turk, mum,” said Mr. Weller, “as havin’ seen his grandfather a little overcome
vith drink on the occasion of a friend’s birthday, goes a reelin’ and staggerin’
about the house, and makin’ believe that he’s the old gen’lm’n.”
“Oh quite shocking!”
cried the housekeeper,
“Yes mum,” said Mr.
Weller; “and previously to so doin’, this here young traitor that I’m a speakin’
of, pinches his little nose to make it red, and then he gives a hiccup and
says, ‘I’m all right,’ he says; ‘give us another song!’ Ha, ha! ‘Give us
another song,’ he says. Ha, ha, ha!”
In his excessive
delight, Mr. Weller was quite unmindful of his moral responsibility, until
little Tony kicked up his legs, and laughing immoderately, cried, “That was me,
that was;” whereupon the grandfather, by a great effort, became extremely
solemn.
“No, Tony, not you,”
said Mr. Weller. “I hope it warn’t you, Tony. It must ha’ been that ’ere
naughty little chap as comes sometimes out o’ the empty watch-box round the
corner, -- that same little chap as wos found standing on the table afore the
looking-glass, pretending to shave himself vith a oyster-knife.”
“He didn’t hurt
himself, I hope?” observed the housekeeper.
“Not he, mum,” said Mr.
Weller proudly; “bless your heart, you might trust that ’ere boy vith a
steam-engine a’most, he’s such a knowin’ young” -- but suddenly recollecting
himself and observing that Tony perfectly understood and appreciated the
compliment, the old gentleman groaned and observed that “it wos all wery shockin’
-- wery.”
“Oh he’s a bad ’un,”
said Mr. Weller, “is that ’ere watch-box boy, makin’ such a noise and litter in
the back yard, he does, waterin’ wooden horses and feedin’ of ’em vith grass,
and perpetivally spillin’ his little brother out of a veelbarrow and frightenin’
his mother out of her vits, at the wery moment wen she’s expectin’ to increase
his stock of happiness vith another play-feller, -- O, he’s a bad one! He’s
even gone so far as to put on a pair of paper spectacles as he got his father
to make for him, and walk up and down the garden vith his hands behind him in
imitation of Mr. Pickwick, -- but Tony don’t do sich things, O no!”
“Oh no!” echoed Tony.
“He knows better, he
does,” said Mr. Weller. “He knows that if he wos to come sich games as these
nobody wouldn’t love him, and that his grandfather in partickler couldn’t abear
the sight on him; for vich reasons Tony’s always good.”
“Always good,” echoed
Tony; and his grandfather immediately took him on his knee and kissed him, at
the same time, with many nods and winks, slyly pointing at the child’s head
with his thumb, in order that the housekeeper, otherwise deceived by the
admirable manner in which he (Mr. Weller) had sustained his character, might
not suppose that any other young gentleman was referred to, and might clearly
understand that the boy of the watch-box was but an imaginary creation, and a
fetch of Tony himself, invented for his improvement and reformation.
Not confining himself
to a mere verbal description of his grandson’s abilities, Mr. Weller, when tea
was finished, invited him by various gifts of pence and halfpence to smoke
imaginary pipes, drink visionary beer from real pots, imitate his grandfather
without reserve, and in particular to go through the drunken scene, which threw
the old gentleman into ecstasies and filled the housekeeper with wonder. Nor
was Mr. Weller’s pride satisfied with even this display, for when he took his
leave he carried the child, like some rare and astonishing curiosity, first to
the barber’s house and afterwards to the tobacconist’s, at each of which places
he repeated his performances with the utmost effect to applauding and delighted
audiences. It was half-past nine o’clock when Mr. Weller was last seen carrying
him home upon his shoulder, and it has been whispered abroad that at that time
the infant Tony was rather intoxicated.
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.
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 cries 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.
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!
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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
conversationsand 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.
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.”
“Here 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.
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.
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,”-- “Wo-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.
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?d 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, privated 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.
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.
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.
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, asthough 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!”
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.
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?7rdquo;
“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.
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.
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.
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’ 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’ 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.
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 hed 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.
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 forgotd 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.
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!”
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.
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!”
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.
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 on 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.
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,d ‘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.
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.
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 home merrily together.
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 theymight 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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 teased 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 school-house, 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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Everything in our
lives, whether of good or evil, affects us most by contrast. 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 lips.
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.
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!”
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 rol 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.”
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.”
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.rdquo;
“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.
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.
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!”
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!”
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!”
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.
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 nota 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!”
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 rest 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 starlight, 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!”
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.
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!”
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.
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!
I WAS musing the other
evening upon the characters and incidents with which I had been so long
engaged; wondering how I could ever have looked forward with pleasure to the
completion of my tale, and reproaching myself for having done so, as if it were
a kind of cruelty to those companions of my solitude whom I had now dismissed,
and could never again recall; when my clock struck ten. Punctual to the hour,
my friends appeared.
On our last night of
meeting, we had finished the story which the reader has just concluded. Our
conversation took the same current as the meditations which the entrance of my
friends had interrupted, and The Old Curiosity Shop was the staple of our
discourse.
I may confide to the
reader now, that in connection with this little history I had something upon my
mind; something to communicate which I had all along with difficulty repressed;
something I had deemed it, during the progress of the story, necessary to its
interest to disguise, and which, now that it was over, I wished, and was yet
reluctant, to disclose.
To conceal anything
from those to whom I am attached, is not in my nature. I can never close my
lips where I have opened my heart. This temper, and the consciousness of having
done some violence to it in my narrative, laid me under a restraint which I
should have had great difficulty in overcoming, but for a timely remark from
Mr. Miles, who, as I hinted in a former paper, is a gentleman of business
habits, and of great exactness and propriety in all his transactions.
“I could have wished,”
my friend objected, “that we had been made acquainted with the single gentleman’s
name. I don’t like his withholding his name. It made me look upon him at first
with suspicion, and caused me to doubt his moral character, I assure you. I am
fully satisfied by this time of his being a worthy creature; but in this
respect he certainly would not appear to have acted at all like a man of
business.”
“My friends,” said I,
drawing to the table, at which they were by this time seated in their usual
chairs, “do you remember that this story bore another title besides that one we
have so often heard of late?”
Mr. Miles had his
pocket-book out in an instant, and referring to an entry therein, rejoined, “Certainly.
Personal Adventures of Master Humphrey. Here it is. I made a note of it at the
time.”
I was about to resume
what I had to tell them, when the same Mr. Miles again interrupted me,
observing that the narrative originated in a personal adventure of my own, and
that was no doubt the reason for its being thus designated.
This led me to the point
at once.
“You will one and all
forgive me,” I returned, “if for the greater convenience of the story, and for
its better introduction, that adventure was fictitious. I had my share, indeed,
-- no light or trivial one, -- in the pages we have read, but it was not the
share I feigned to have at first. The younger brother, the single gentleman,
the nameless actor in this little drama, stands before you now.”
It was easy to see they
had not expected this disclosure.
“Yes,” I pursued. “I
can look back upon my part in it with a calm, half-smiling pity for myself as
for some other man. But I am he, indeed; and now the chief sorrows of my life
are yours.”
I need not say what
true gratification I derived from the sympathy and kindness with which this
acknowledgment was received; nor how often it had risen to my lips before; nor
how difficult I had found it -- how impossible, when I came to those passages which
touched me most, and most nearly concerned me -- to sustain the character I had
assumed. It is enough to say that I replaced in the clock-case the record of so
many trials, -- sorrowfully, it is true, but with a softened sorrow which was
almost pleasure; and felt that in living through the past again, and
communicating to others the lesson it had helped to teach me, I had been a
happier man.
We lingered so long
over the leaves from which I had read, that as I consigned them to their former
resting-place, the hand of my trusty clock pointed to twelve, and there came
towards us upon the wind the voice of the deep and distant bell of St. Paul’s
as it struck the hour of midnight.
“This,” said I,
returning with a manuscript I had taken at the moment, from the same
repository, “to be opened to such music, should be a tale where London’s face
by night is darkly seen, and where some deed of such a time as this is dimly
shadowed out. Which of us here has seen the working of that great machine whose
voice has just now ceased?”
Mr. Pickwick had, of
course, and so had Mr. Miles. Jack and my deaf friend were in the minority.
I had seen it but a few
days before, and could not help telling them of the fancy I had about it.
I paid my fee of
twopence upon entering, to one of the money- changers who sit within the
Temple; and falling, after a few turns up and down, into the quiet train of
thought which such a place awakens, paced the echoing stones like some old monk
whose present world lay all within its walls. As I looked afar up into the
lofty dome, I could not help wondering what were his reflections whose genius
reared that mighty pile, when, the last small wedge of timber fixed, the last
nail driven into its home for many centuries, the clang of hammers, and the hum
of busy voices gone, and the Great Silence whole years of noise had helped to
make, reigning undisturbed around, he mused, as I did now, upon his work, and
lost himself amid its vast extent. I could not quite determine whether the
contemplation of it would impress him with a sense of greatness or of
insignificance; but when I remembered how long a time it had taken to erect, in
how short a space it might be traversed even to its remotest parts, for how
brief a term he, or any of those who cared to bear his name, would live to see
it, or know of its existence, I imagined him far more melancholy than proud,
and looking with regret upon his labour done. With these thoughts in my mind, I
began to ascend, almost unconsciously, the flight of steps leading to the several
wonders of the building, and found myself before a barrier where another
money-taker sat, who demanded which among them I would choose to see. There
were the stone gallery, he said, and the whispering gallery, the geometrical
staircase, the room of models, the clock -- the clock being quite in my way, I
stopped him there, and chose that sight from all the rest.
I groped my way into
the Turret which it occupies, and saw before me, in a kind of loft, what seemed
to be a great, old oaken press with folding doors. These being thrown back by
the attendant (who was sleeping when I came upon him, and looked a drowsy
fellow, as though his close companionship with Time had made him quite
indifferent to it), disclosed a complicated crowd of wheels and chains in iron
and brass, -- great, sturdy, rattling engines, -- suggestive of breaking a
finger put in here or there, and grinding the bone to powder, -- and these were
the Clock! Its very pulse, if I may use the word, was like no other clock. It
did not mark the flight of every moment with a gentle second stroke, as though
it would check old Time, and have him stay his pace in pity, but measured it
with one sledge-hammer beat, as if its business were to crush the seconds as
they came trooping on, and remorselessly to clear a path before the Day of
Judgment.
I sat down opposite to
it, and hearing its regular and never- changing voice, that one deep constant
note, uppermost amongst all the noise and clatter in the streets below, --
marking that, let that tumult rise or fall, go on or stop, -- let it be night
or noon, to-morrow or to-day, this year or next, -- it still performed its
functions with the same dull constancy, and regulated the progress of the life
around, the fancy came upon me that this was London’s Heart, -- and that when
it should cease to beat, the City would be no more.
It is night. Calm and
unmoved amidst the scenes that darkness favours, the great heart of London
throbs in its Giant breast. Wealth and beggary, vice and virtue, guilt and
innocence, repletion and the direst hunger, all treading on each other and
crowding together, are gathered round it. Draw but a little circle above the
clustering housetops, and you shall have within its space everything, with its
opposite extreme and contradiction, close beside. Where yonder feeble light is
shining, a man is but this moment dead. The taper at a few yards’ distance is
seen by eyes that have this instant opened on the world. There are two houses
separated by but an inch or two of wall. In one, there are quiet minds at rest;
in the other, a waking conscience that one might think would trouble the very
air. In that close corner where the roofs shrink down and cower together as if
to hide their secrets from the handsome street hard by, there are such dark
crimes, such miseries and horrors, as could be hardly told in whispers. In the
handsome street, there are folks asleep who have dwelt there all their lives,
and have no more knowledge of these things than if they had never been, or were
transacted at the remotest limits of the world, -- who, if they were hinted at,
would shake their heads, look wise, and frown, and say they were impossible,
and out of Nature, -- as if all great towns were not. Does not this Heart of
London, that nothing moves, nor stops, nor quickens, -- that goes on the same
let what will be done, does it not express the City’s character well?
The day begins to
break, and soon there is the hum and noise of life. Those who have spent the
night on doorsteps and cold stones crawl off to beg; they who have slept in
beds come forth to their occupation, too, and business is astir. The fog of
sleep rolls slowly off, and London shines awake. The streets are filled with
carriages and people gaily clad. The jails are full, too, to the throat, nor have
the workhouses or hospitals much room to spare. The courts of law are crowded.
Taverns have their regular frequenters by this time, and every mart of traffic
has its throng. Each of these places is a world, and has its own inhabitants;
each is distinct from, and almost unconscious of the existence of any other.
There are some few people well to do, who remember to have heard it said, that
numbers of men and women -- thousands, they think it was -- get up in London
every day, unknowing where to lay their heads at night; and that there are
quarters of the town where misery and famine always are. They don’t believe it
quite, -- there may be some truth in it, but it is exaggerated, of course. So,
each of these thousand worlds goes on, intent upon itself, until night comes
again, -- first with its lights and pleasures, and its cheerful streets; then
with its guilt and darkness.
Heart of London, there
is a moral in thy every stroke! as I look on at thy indomitable working, which
neither death, nor press of life, nor grief, nor gladness out of doors will
influence one jot, I seem to hear a voice within thee which sinks into my
heart, bidding me, as I elbow my way among the crowd, have some thought for the
meanest wretch that passes, and, being a man, to turn away with scorn and pride
from none that bear the human shape.
I am by no means sure
that I might not have been tempted to enlarge upon the subject, had not the
papers that lay before me on the table been a silent reproach for even this
digression. I took them up again
when I had got thus
far, and seriously prepared to read.
The handwriting was
strange to me, for the manuscript had been fairly copied. As it is against our
rules, in such a case, to inquire into the authorship until the reading is
concluded, I could only glance at the different faces round me, in search of
some expression which should betray the writer. Whoever he might be, he was
prepared for this, and gave no sign for my enlightenment.
I had the papers in my
hand, when my deaf friend interposed with a suggestion.
“It has occurred to me,”
he said, “bearing in mind your sequel to the tale we have finished, that if
such of us as have anything to relate of our own lives could interweave it with
our contribution to the Clock, it would be well to do so. This need be no
restraint upon us, either as to time, or place, or incident, since any real
passage of this kind may be surrounded by fictitious circumstances, and
represented by fictitious characters. What if we make this an article of agreement
among ourselves?”
The proposition was
cordially received, but the difficulty appeared to be that here was a long
story written before we had thought of it.
“Unless,” said I, “it
should have happened that the writer of this tale -- which is not impossible,
for men are apt to do so when they write -- has actually mingled with it
something of his own endurance and experience.”
Nobody spoke, but I
thought I detected in one quarter that this was really the case.
“If I have no assurance
to the contrary,” I added, therefore, “I shall take it for granted that he has
done so, and that even these papers come within our new agreement. Everybody
being mute, we hold that understanding if you please.”
And here I was about to
begin again, when Jack informed us softly, that during the progress of our last
narrative, Mr. Weller’s Watch had adjourned its sittings from the kitchen, and
regularly met outside our door, where he had no doubt that august body would be
found at the present moment. As this was for the convenience of listening to
our stories, he submitted that they might be suffered to come in, and hear them
more pleasantly.
To this we one and all
yielded a ready assent, and the party being discovered, as Jack had supposed,
and invited to walk in, entered (though not without great confusion at having
been detected), and were accommodated with chairs at a little distance.
Then, the lamp being
trimmed, the fire well stirred and burning brightly, the hearth clean swept,
the curtains closely drawn, the clock wound up, we entered on our new story,
BARNABY RUDGE.