﻿Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the
bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the
book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in
it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or
conversations?’

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the
hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure
of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and
picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran
close by her.

There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so
VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, ‘Oh dear!
Oh dear! I shall be late!’ (when she thought it over afterwards, it
occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time
it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually TOOK A WATCH
OUT OF ITS WAISTCOAT-POCKET, and looked at it, and then hurried on,
Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had
never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch
to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field
after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large
rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how
in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then
dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think
about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep
well.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had
plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was
going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what
she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she
looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with
cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures
hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as
she passed; it was labelled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE’, but to her great
disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear
of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as
she fell past it.

‘Well!’ thought Alice to herself, ‘after such a fall as this, I shall
think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they’ll all think me at
home! Why, I wouldn’t say anything about it, even if I fell off the top
of the house!’ (Which was very likely true.)

Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! ‘I wonder how
many miles I’ve fallen by this time?’ she said aloud. ‘I must be getting
somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four
thousand miles down, I think--’ (for, you see, Alice had learnt several
things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this
was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there
was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over)
‘--yes, that’s about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude
or Longitude I’ve got to?’ (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or
Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.)

Presently she began again. ‘I wonder if I shall fall right THROUGH the
earth! How funny it’ll seem to come out among the people that walk with
their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--’ (she was rather glad
there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn’t sound at all the
right word) ‘--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country
is, you know. Please, Ma’am, is this New Zealand or Australia?’ (and
she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you’re falling
through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) ‘And what an
ignorant little girl she’ll think me for asking! No, it’ll never do to
ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.’

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began
talking again. ‘Dinah’ll miss me very much to-night, I should think!’
(Dinah was the cat.) ‘I hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at
tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no
mice in the air, I’m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that’s very
like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?’ And here Alice
began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy
sort of way, ‘Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?’ and sometimes, ‘Do
bats eat cats?’ for, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question,
it didn’t much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing
off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with
Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, ‘Now, Dinah, tell me the truth:
did you ever eat a bat?’ when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon
a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment:
she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another
long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it.
There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and
was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, ‘Oh my ears
and whiskers, how late it’s getting!’ She was close behind it when she
turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found
herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging
from the roof.

There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when
Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every
door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to
get out again.

Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid
glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice’s
first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall;
but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small,
but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second
time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and
behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the
little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!

Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not
much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage
into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of
that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and
those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the
doorway; ‘and even if my head would go through,’ thought poor Alice, ‘it
would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could
shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin.’
For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately,
that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really
impossible.

There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went
back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at
any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this
time she found a little bottle on it, [‘which certainly was not here
before,’ said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper
label, with the words ‘DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large
letters.

It was all very well to say ‘Drink me,’ but the wise little Alice was
not going to do THAT in a hurry. ‘No, I’ll look first,’ she said, ‘and
see whether it’s marked “poison” or not’; for she had read several nice
little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild
beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember
the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot
poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your
finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never
forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked ‘poison,’ it is
almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

However, this bottle was NOT marked ‘poison,’ so Alice ventured to taste
it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour
of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot
buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

‘What a curious feeling!’ said Alice; ‘I must be shutting up like a
telescope.’

And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face
brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going
through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she
waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further:
she felt a little nervous about this; ‘for it might end, you know,’ said
Alice to herself, ‘in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder
what I should be like then?’ And she tried to fancy what the flame of a
candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember
ever having seen such a thing.

After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going
into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the
door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she
went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach
it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her
best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery;
and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing
sat down and cried.

‘Come, there’s no use in crying like that!’ said Alice to herself,
rather sharply; ‘I advise you to leave off this minute!’ She generally
gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it),
and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into
her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having
cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself,
for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people.
‘But it’s no use now,’ thought poor Alice, ‘to pretend to be two people!
Why, there’s hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable person!’

Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table:
she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words
‘EAT ME’ were beautifully marked in currants. ‘Well, I’ll eat it,’ said
Alice, ‘and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it
makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I’ll
get into the garden, and I don’t care which happens!’

She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, ‘Which way? Which
way?’, holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was
growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same
size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice
had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way
things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on
in the common way.

So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *




CHAPTER II. The Pool of Tears

‘Curiouser and curiouser!’ cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that
for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English); ‘now I’m
opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-bye, feet!’
(for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of
sight, they were getting so far off). ‘Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder
who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I’m sure
_I_ shan’t be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble
myself about you: you must manage the best way you can;--but I must be
kind to them,’ thought Alice, ‘or perhaps they won’t walk the way I want
to go! Let me see: I’ll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.’

And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. ‘They must
go by the carrier,’ she thought; ‘and how funny it’ll seem, sending
presents to one’s own feet! And how odd the directions will look!

     ALICE’S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ.
       HEARTHRUG,
         NEAR THE FENDER,
           (WITH ALICE’S LOVE).

Oh dear, what nonsense I’m talking!’

Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was
now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden
key and hurried off to the garden door.

Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to
look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more
hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again.

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ said Alice, ‘a great girl like
you,’ (she might well say this), ‘to go on crying in this way! Stop this
moment, I tell you!’ But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of
tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches
deep and reaching half down the hall.

After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and
she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White
Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in
one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great
hurry, muttering to himself as he came, ‘Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess!
Oh! won’t she be savage if I’ve kept her waiting!’ Alice felt so
desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit
came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, ‘If you please, sir--’
The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan,
and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.

Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she
kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: ‘Dear, dear! How
queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual.
I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the
same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a
little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is, Who
in the world am I? Ah, THAT’S the great puzzle!’ And she began thinking
over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to
see if she could have been changed for any of them.

‘I’m sure I’m not Ada,’ she said, ‘for her hair goes in such long
ringlets, and mine doesn’t go in ringlets at all; and I’m sure I can’t
be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a
very little! Besides, SHE’S she, and I’m I, and--oh dear, how puzzling
it all is! I’ll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me
see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and
four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate!
However, the Multiplication Table doesn’t signify: let’s try Geography.
London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and
Rome--no, THAT’S all wrong, I’m certain! I must have been changed for
Mabel! I’ll try and say “How doth the little--“’ and she crossed her
hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it,
but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the
same as they used to do:--

     ‘How doth the little crocodile
      Improve his shining tail,
     And pour the waters of the Nile
      On every golden scale!

     ‘How cheerfully he seems to grin,
      How neatly spread his claws,
     And welcome little fishes in
      With gently smiling jaws!’

‘I’m sure those are not the right words,’ said poor Alice, and her eyes
filled with tears again as she went on, ‘I must be Mabel after all, and
I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to
no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I’ve
made up my mind about it; if I’m Mabel, I’ll stay down here! It’ll be no
use their putting their heads down and saying “Come up again, dear!” I
shall only look up and say “Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then,
if I like being that person, I’ll come up: if not, I’ll stay down here
till I’m somebody else”--but, oh dear!’ cried Alice, with a sudden burst
of tears, ‘I do wish they WOULD put their heads down! I am so VERY tired
of being all alone here!’

As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see
that she had put on one of the Rabbit’s little white kid gloves while
she was talking. ‘How CAN I have done that?’ she thought. ‘I must
be growing small again.’ She got up and went to the table to measure
herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now
about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly: she soon found
out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped
it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether.

‘That WAS a narrow escape!’ said Alice, a good deal frightened at the
sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; ‘and
now for the garden!’ and she ran with all speed back to the little door:
but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was
lying on the glass table as before, ‘and things are worse than ever,’
thought the poor child, ‘for I never was so small as this before, never!
And I declare it’s too bad, that it is!’

As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash!
she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she
had somehow fallen into the sea, ‘and in that case I can go back by
railway,’ she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in
her life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go
to on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the
sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row
of lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon
made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she
was nine feet high.

‘I wish I hadn’t cried so much!’ said Alice, as she swam about, trying
to find her way out. ‘I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by
being drowned in my own tears! That WILL be a queer thing, to be sure!
However, everything is queer to-day.’

Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way
off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at first she thought
it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small
she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had
slipped in like herself.

‘Would it be of any use, now,’ thought Alice, ‘to speak to this mouse?
Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very
likely it can talk: at any rate, there’s no harm in trying.’ So she
began: ‘O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired
of swimming about here, O Mouse!’ (Alice thought this must be the right
way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but
she remembered having seen in her brother’s Latin Grammar, ‘A mouse--of
a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--O mouse!’) The Mouse looked at her rather
inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes,
but it said nothing.

‘Perhaps it doesn’t understand English,’ thought Alice; ‘I daresay it’s
a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.’ (For, with all
her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago
anything had happened.) So she began again: ‘Ou est ma chatte?’ which
was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a
sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt
the poor animal’s feelings. ‘I quite forgot you didn’t like cats.’

‘Not like cats!’ cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. ‘Would
YOU like cats if you were me?’

‘Well, perhaps not,’ said Alice in a soothing tone: ‘don’t be angry
about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you’d
take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet
thing,’ Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the
pool, ‘and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and
washing her face--and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she’s
such a capital one for catching mice--oh, I beg your pardon!’ cried
Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she
felt certain it must be really offended. ‘We won’t talk about her any
more if you’d rather not.’

‘We indeed!’ cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his
tail. ‘As if I would talk on such a subject! Our family always HATED
cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don’t let me hear the name again!’

‘I won’t indeed!’ said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of
conversation. ‘Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?’ The Mouse did not
answer, so Alice went on eagerly: ‘There is such a nice little dog near
our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you
know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it’ll fetch things when
you throw them, and it’ll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts
of things--I can’t remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer,
you know, and he says it’s so useful, it’s worth a hundred pounds! He
says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!’ cried Alice in a sorrowful
tone, ‘I’m afraid I’ve offended it again!’ For the Mouse was swimming
away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in
the pool as it went.

So she called softly after it, ‘Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we
won’t talk about cats or dogs either, if you don’t like them!’ When the
Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its
face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low
trembling voice, ‘Let us get to the shore, and then I’ll tell you my
history, and you’ll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs.’

It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the
birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo,
a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the
way, and the whole party swam to the shore.




CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale

They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the
birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close
to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable.

The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a
consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural
to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had
known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the
Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, ‘I am older than
you, and must know better’; and this Alice would not allow without
knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its
age, there was no more to be said.

At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them,
called out, ‘Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I’LL soon make you
dry enough!’ They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse
in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt
sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.

‘Ahem!’ said the Mouse with an important air, ‘are you all ready? This
is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! “William
the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted
to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much
accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of
Mercia and Northumbria--“’

‘Ugh!’ said the Lory, with a shiver.

‘I beg your pardon!’ said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: ‘Did
you speak?’

‘Not I!’ said the Lory hastily.

‘I thought you did,’ said the Mouse. ‘--I proceed. “Edwin and Morcar,
the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand,
the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--“’

‘Found WHAT?’ said the Duck.

‘Found IT,’ the Mouse replied rather crossly: ‘of course you know what
“it” means.’

‘I know what “it” means well enough, when I find a thing,’ said the
Duck: ‘it’s generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the
archbishop find?’

The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, ‘“--found
it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the
crown. William’s conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his
Normans--” How are you getting on now, my dear?’ it continued, turning
to Alice as it spoke.

‘As wet as ever,’ said Alice in a melancholy tone: ‘it doesn’t seem to
dry me at all.’

‘In that case,’ said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, ‘I move
that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic
remedies--’

‘Speak English!’ said the Eaglet. ‘I don’t know the meaning of half
those long words, and, what’s more, I don’t believe you do either!’ And
the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds
tittered audibly.

‘What I was going to say,’ said the Dodo in an offended tone, ‘was, that
the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.’

‘What IS a Caucus-race?’ said Alice; not that she wanted much to know,
but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak,
and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.

‘Why,’ said the Dodo, ‘the best way to explain it is to do it.’ (And, as
you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell
you how the Dodo managed it.)

First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, [‘the exact
shape doesn’t matter,’ it said,) and then all the party were placed
along the course, here and there. There was no ‘One, two, three, and
away,’ but they began running when they liked, and left off when they
liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However,
when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again,
the Dodo suddenly called out ‘The race is over!’ and they all crowded
round it, panting, and asking, ‘But who has won?’

This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought,
and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead
(the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures
of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said,
‘EVERYBODY has won, and all must have prizes.’

‘But who is to give the prizes?’ quite a chorus of voices asked.

‘Why, SHE, of course,’ said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger;
and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused
way, ‘Prizes! Prizes!’

Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her
pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had
not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one
a-piece all round.

‘But she must have a prize herself, you know,’ said the Mouse.

‘Of course,’ the Dodo replied very gravely. ‘What else have you got in
your pocket?’ he went on, turning to Alice.

‘Only a thimble,’ said Alice sadly.

‘Hand it over here,’ said the Dodo.

Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly
presented the thimble, saying ‘We beg your acceptance of this elegant
thimble’; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered.

Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave
that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything
to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she
could.

The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and
confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste
theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back.
However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and
begged the Mouse to tell them something more.

‘You promised to tell me your history, you know,’ said Alice, ‘and why
it is you hate--C and D,’ she added in a whisper, half afraid that it
would be offended again.

‘Mine is a long and a sad tale!’ said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and
sighing.

‘It IS a long tail, certainly,’ said Alice, looking down with wonder at
the Mouse’s tail; ‘but why do you call it sad?’ And she kept on puzzling
about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was
something like this:--
‘You are not attending!’ said the Mouse to Alice severely. ‘What are you
thinking of?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Alice very humbly: ‘you had got to the fifth
bend, I think?’

‘I had NOT!’ cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.

‘A knot!’ said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking
anxiously about her. ‘Oh, do let me help to undo it!’

‘I shall do nothing of the sort,’ said the Mouse, getting up and walking
away. ‘You insult me by talking such nonsense!’

‘I didn’t mean it!’ pleaded poor Alice. ‘But you’re so easily offended,
you know!’

The Mouse only growled in reply.

‘Please come back and finish your story!’ Alice called after it; and the
others all joined in chorus, ‘Yes, please do!’ but the Mouse only shook
its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker.

‘What a pity it wouldn’t stay!’ sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite
out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her
daughter ‘Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose
YOUR temper!’ ‘Hold your tongue, Ma!’ said the young Crab, a little
snappishly. ‘You’re enough to try the patience of an oyster!’

‘I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!’ said Alice aloud, addressing
nobody in particular. ‘She’d soon fetch it back!’

‘And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?’ said the
Lory.

Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet:
‘Dinah’s our cat. And she’s such a capital one for catching mice you
can’t think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why,
she’ll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!’

This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the
birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very
carefully, remarking, ‘I really must be getting home; the night-air
doesn’t suit my throat!’ and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to
its children, ‘Come away, my dears! It’s high time you were all in bed!’
On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone.

‘I wish I hadn’t mentioned Dinah!’ she said to herself in a melancholy
tone. ‘Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I’m sure she’s the best
cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you
any more!’ And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very
lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard
a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up
eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming
back to finish his story.




CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill

It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking
anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard
it muttering to itself ‘The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh
my fur and whiskers! She’ll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are
ferrets! Where CAN I have dropped them, I wonder?’ Alice guessed in a
moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves,
and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were
nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in
the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door,
had vanished completely.

Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and
called out to her in an angry tone, ‘Why, Mary Ann, what ARE you doing
out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan!
Quick, now!’ And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once
in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it
had made.

‘He took me for his housemaid,’ she said to herself as she ran. ‘How
surprised he’ll be when he finds out who I am! But I’d better take him
his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them.’ As she said this, she
came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass
plate with the name ‘W. RABBIT’ engraved upon it. She went in without
knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the
real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the
fan and gloves.

‘How queer it seems,’ Alice said to herself, ‘to be going messages for
a rabbit! I suppose Dinah’ll be sending me on messages next!’ And she
began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: ‘“Miss Alice! Come
here directly, and get ready for your walk!” “Coming in a minute,
nurse! But I’ve got to see that the mouse doesn’t get out.” Only I don’t
think,’ Alice went on, ‘that they’d let Dinah stop in the house if it
began ordering people about like that!’

By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table
in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs
of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves,
and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little
bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time
with the words ‘DRINK ME,’ but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it
to her lips. ‘I know SOMETHING interesting is sure to happen,’ she said
to herself, ‘whenever I eat or drink anything; so I’ll just see what
this bottle does. I do hope it’ll make me grow large again, for really
I’m quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!’

It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had
drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling,
and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put
down the bottle, saying to herself ‘That’s quite enough--I hope I shan’t
grow any more--As it is, I can’t get out at the door--I do wish I hadn’t
drunk quite so much!’

Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing,
and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there
was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with
one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head.
Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out
of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself ‘Now I
can do no more, whatever happens. What WILL become of me?’

Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect,
and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there
seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room
again, no wonder she felt unhappy.

‘It was much pleasanter at home,’ thought poor Alice, ‘when one wasn’t
always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and
rabbits. I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and
yet--it’s rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what
CAN have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that
kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!
There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I
grow up, I’ll write one--but I’m grown up now,’ she added in a sorrowful
tone; ‘at least there’s no room to grow up any more HERE.’

‘But then,’ thought Alice, ‘shall I NEVER get any older than I am
now? That’ll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but
then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn’t like THAT!’

‘Oh, you foolish Alice!’ she answered herself. ‘How can you learn
lessons in here? Why, there’s hardly room for YOU, and no room at all
for any lesson-books!’

And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making
quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard
a voice outside, and stopped to listen.

‘Mary Ann! Mary Ann!’ said the voice. ‘Fetch me my gloves this moment!’
Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was
the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the
house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large
as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it.

Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as
the door opened inwards, and Alice’s elbow was pressed hard against it,
that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself ‘Then I’ll
go round and get in at the window.’

‘THAT you won’t’ thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied
she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her
hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything,
but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass,
from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a
cucumber-frame, or something of the sort.

Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit’s--‘Pat! Pat! Where are you?’ And
then a voice she had never heard before, ‘Sure then I’m here! Digging
for apples, yer honour!’

‘Digging for apples, indeed!’ said the Rabbit angrily. ‘Here! Come and
help me out of THIS!’ (Sounds of more broken glass.)

‘Now tell me, Pat, what’s that in the window?’

‘Sure, it’s an arm, yer honour!’ (He pronounced it ‘arrum.’)

‘An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole
window!’

‘Sure, it does, yer honour: but it’s an arm for all that.’

‘Well, it’s got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!’

There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers
now and then; such as, ‘Sure, I don’t like it, yer honour, at all, at
all!’ ‘Do as I tell you, you coward!’ and at last she spread out her
hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were
TWO little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. ‘What a number of
cucumber-frames there must be!’ thought Alice. ‘I wonder what they’ll do
next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they COULD! I’m
sure I don’t want to stay in here any longer!’

She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a
rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices
all talking together: she made out the words: ‘Where’s the other
ladder?--Why, I hadn’t to bring but one; Bill’s got the other--Bill!
fetch it here, lad!--Here, put ‘em up at this corner--No, tie ‘em
together first--they don’t reach half high enough yet--Oh! they’ll
do well enough; don’t be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this
rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it’s coming
down! Heads below!’ (a loud crash)--‘Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I
fancy--Who’s to go down the chimney?--Nay, I shan’t! YOU do it!--That I
won’t, then!--Bill’s to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you’re to
go down the chimney!’

‘Oh! So Bill’s got to come down the chimney, has he?’ said Alice to
herself. ‘Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn’t be in
Bill’s place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but
I THINK I can kick a little!’

She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited
till she heard a little animal (she couldn’t guess of what sort it was)
scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then,
saying to herself ‘This is Bill,’ she gave one sharp kick, and waited to
see what would happen next.

The first thing she heard was a general chorus of ‘There goes Bill!’
then the Rabbit’s voice along--‘Catch him, you by the hedge!’ then
silence, and then another confusion of voices--‘Hold up his head--Brandy
now--Don’t choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell
us all about it!’

Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, [‘That’s Bill,’ thought
Alice,) ‘Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I’m better now--but I’m
a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me
like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!’

‘So you did, old fellow!’ said the others.

‘We must burn the house down!’ said the Rabbit’s voice; and Alice called
out as loud as she could, ‘If you do. I’ll set Dinah at you!’

There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself, ‘I
wonder what they WILL do next! If they had any sense, they’d take the
roof off.’ After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and
Alice heard the Rabbit say, ‘A barrowful will do, to begin with.’

‘A barrowful of WHAT?’ thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt,
for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the
window, and some of them hit her in the face. ‘I’ll put a stop to this,’
she said to herself, and shouted out, ‘You’d better not do that again!’
which produced another dead silence.

Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into
little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her
head. ‘If I eat one of these cakes,’ she thought, ‘it’s sure to make
SOME change in my size; and as it can’t possibly make me larger, it must
make me smaller, I suppose.’

So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she
began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through
the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little
animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill, was
in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it
something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she
appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself
safe in a thick wood.

‘The first thing I’ve got to do,’ said Alice to herself, as she wandered
about in the wood, ‘is to grow to my right size again; and the second
thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be
the best plan.’

It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply
arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea
how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among
the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a
great hurry.

An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and
feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. ‘Poor little thing!’
said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but
she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be
hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of
all her coaxing.

Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and
held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off
all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick,
and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle,
to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the
other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head
over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was
very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every
moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then
the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very
little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely
all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with
its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut.

This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she
set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and
till the puppy’s bark sounded quite faint in the distance.

‘And yet what a dear little puppy it was!’ said Alice, as she leant
against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the
leaves: ‘I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if--if I’d
only been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I’d nearly forgotten that
I’ve got to grow up again! Let me see--how IS it to be managed? I
suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great
question is, what?’

The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at
the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that
looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances.
There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as
herself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and
behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what
was on the top of it.

She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the
mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large caterpillar,
that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long
hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else.




CHAPTER V. Advice from a Caterpillar

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence:
at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed
her in a languid, sleepy voice.

‘Who are YOU?’ said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied,
rather shyly, ‘I--I hardly know, sir, just at present--at least I know
who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been
changed several times since then.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar sternly. ‘Explain
yourself!’

‘I can’t explain MYSELF, I’m afraid, sir’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not
myself, you see.’

‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely,
‘for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many
different sizes in a day is very confusing.’

‘It isn’t,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice; ‘but when you
have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then
after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little
queer, won’t you?’

‘Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,’ said Alice; ‘all I know
is, it would feel very queer to ME.’

‘You!’ said the Caterpillar contemptuously. ‘Who are YOU?’

Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation.
Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar’s making such VERY
short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, ‘I think,
you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.’

‘Why?’ said the Caterpillar.

Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any
good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant
state of mind, she turned away.

‘Come back!’ the Caterpillar called after her. ‘I’ve something important
to say!’

This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.

‘Keep your temper,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Is that all?’ said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she
could.

‘No,’ said the Caterpillar.

Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and
perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some
minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its
arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, ‘So you think
you’re changed, do you?’

‘I’m afraid I am, sir,’ said Alice; ‘I can’t remember things as I
used--and I don’t keep the same size for ten minutes together!’

‘Can’t remember WHAT things?’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Well, I’ve tried to say “HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE,” but it all came
different!’ Alice replied in a very melancholy voice.

‘Repeat, “YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,”’ said the Caterpillar.

Alice folded her hands, and began:--

   ‘You are old, Father William,’ the young man said,
    ‘And your hair has become very white;
   And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
    Do you think, at your age, it is right?’

   ‘In my youth,’ Father William replied to his son,
    ‘I feared it might injure the brain;
   But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
    Why, I do it again and again.’

   ‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘as I mentioned before,
    And have grown most uncommonly fat;
   Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
    Pray, what is the reason of that?’

   ‘In my youth,’ said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
    ‘I kept all my limbs very supple
   By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
    Allow me to sell you a couple?’

   ‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘and your jaws are too weak
    For anything tougher than suet;
   Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
    Pray how did you manage to do it?’

   ‘In my youth,’ said his father, ‘I took to the law,
    And argued each case with my wife;
   And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
    Has lasted the rest of my life.’

   ‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘one would hardly suppose
    That your eye was as steady as ever;
   Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
    What made you so awfully clever?’

   ‘I have answered three questions, and that is enough,’
    Said his father; ‘don’t give yourself airs!
   Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!’


‘That is not said right,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Not QUITE right, I’m afraid,’ said Alice, timidly; ‘some of the words
have got altered.’

‘It is wrong from beginning to end,’ said the Caterpillar decidedly, and
there was silence for some minutes.

The Caterpillar was the first to speak.

‘What size do you want to be?’ it asked.

‘Oh, I’m not particular as to size,’ Alice hastily replied; ‘only one
doesn’t like changing so often, you know.’

‘I DON’T know,’ said the Caterpillar.

Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life
before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.

‘Are you content now?’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you wouldn’t mind,’
said Alice: ‘three inches is such a wretched height to be.’

‘It is a very good height indeed!’ said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing
itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).

‘But I’m not used to it!’ pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And
she thought of herself, ‘I wish the creatures wouldn’t be so easily
offended!’

‘You’ll get used to it in time,’ said the Caterpillar; and it put the
hookah into its mouth and began smoking again.

This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In
a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth
and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the
mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went,
‘One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you
grow shorter.’

‘One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT?’ thought Alice to herself.

‘Of the mushroom,’ said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it
aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight.

Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying
to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly
round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she
stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit
of the edge with each hand.

‘And now which is which?’ she said to herself, and nibbled a little of
the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent
blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot!

She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt
that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she
set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed
so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her
mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the
lefthand bit.


  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

‘Come, my head’s free at last!’ said Alice in a tone of delight, which
changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders
were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was
an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a
sea of green leaves that lay far below her.

‘What CAN all that green stuff be?’ said Alice. ‘And where HAVE my
shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can’t see you?’
She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow,
except a little shaking among the distant green leaves.

As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she
tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her
neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had
just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going
to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops
of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made
her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and
was beating her violently with its wings.

‘Serpent!’ screamed the Pigeon.

‘I’m NOT a serpent!’ said Alice indignantly. ‘Let me alone!’

‘Serpent, I say again!’ repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone,
and added with a kind of sob, ‘I’ve tried every way, and nothing seems
to suit them!’

‘I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,’ said Alice.

‘I’ve tried the roots of trees, and I’ve tried banks, and I’ve tried
hedges,’ the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; ‘but those
serpents! There’s no pleasing them!’

Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in
saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished.

‘As if it wasn’t trouble enough hatching the eggs,’ said the Pigeon;
‘but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I
haven’t had a wink of sleep these three weeks!’

‘I’m very sorry you’ve been annoyed,’ said Alice, who was beginning to
see its meaning.

‘And just as I’d taken the highest tree in the wood,’ continued the
Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, ‘and just as I was thinking I
should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from
the sky! Ugh, Serpent!’

‘But I’m NOT a serpent, I tell you!’ said Alice. ‘I’m a--I’m a--’

‘Well! WHAT are you?’ said the Pigeon. ‘I can see you’re trying to
invent something!’

‘I--I’m a little girl,’ said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered
the number of changes she had gone through that day.

‘A likely story indeed!’ said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest
contempt. ‘I’ve seen a good many little girls in my time, but never ONE
with such a neck as that! No, no! You’re a serpent; and there’s no use
denying it. I suppose you’ll be telling me next that you never tasted an
egg!’

‘I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,’ said Alice, who was a very truthful
child; ‘but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you
know.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said the Pigeon; ‘but if they do, why then they’re
a kind of serpent, that’s all I can say.’

This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a
minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, ‘You’re
looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and what does it matter to me
whether you’re a little girl or a serpent?’

‘It matters a good deal to ME,’ said Alice hastily; ‘but I’m not looking
for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn’t want YOURS: I don’t
like them raw.’

‘Well, be off, then!’ said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled
down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as
she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and
every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she
remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and
she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the
other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had
succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height.

It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it
felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes,
and began talking to herself, as usual. ‘Come, there’s half my plan done
now! How puzzling all these changes are! I’m never sure what I’m going
to be, from one minute to another! However, I’ve got back to my right
size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden--how IS that
to be done, I wonder?’ As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open
place, with a little house in it about four feet high. ‘Whoever lives
there,’ thought Alice, ‘it’ll never do to come upon them THIS size: why,
I should frighten them out of their wits!’ So she began nibbling at the
righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she
had brought herself down to nine inches high.




CHAPTER VI. Pig and Pepper

For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what
to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the
wood--(she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery:
otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a
fish)--and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened
by another footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a
frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all
over their heads. She felt very curious to know what it was all about,
and crept a little way out of the wood to listen.

The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter,
nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other,
saying, in a solemn tone, ‘For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen
to play croquet.’ The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone,
only changing the order of the words a little, ‘From the Queen. An
invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.’

Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together.

Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the
wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the
Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the
door, staring stupidly up into the sky.

Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked.

‘There’s no sort of use in knocking,’ said the Footman, ‘and that for
two reasons. First, because I’m on the same side of the door as you
are; secondly, because they’re making such a noise inside, no one could
possibly hear you.’ And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise
going on within--a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then
a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces.

‘Please, then,’ said Alice, ‘how am I to get in?’

‘There might be some sense in your knocking,’ the Footman went on
without attending to her, ‘if we had the door between us. For instance,
if you were INSIDE, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.’
He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this
Alice thought decidedly uncivil. ‘But perhaps he can’t help it,’ she
said to herself; ‘his eyes are so VERY nearly at the top of his head.
But at any rate he might answer questions.--How am I to get in?’ she
repeated, aloud.

‘I shall sit here,’ the Footman remarked, ‘till tomorrow--’

At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came
skimming out, straight at the Footman’s head: it just grazed his nose,
and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him.

‘--or next day, maybe,’ the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly
as if nothing had happened.

‘How am I to get in?’ asked Alice again, in a louder tone.

‘ARE you to get in at all?’ said the Footman. ‘That’s the first
question, you know.’

It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. ‘It’s really
dreadful,’ she muttered to herself, ‘the way all the creatures argue.
It’s enough to drive one crazy!’

The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his
remark, with variations. ‘I shall sit here,’ he said, ‘on and off, for
days and days.’

‘But what am I to do?’ said Alice.

‘Anything you like,’ said the Footman, and began whistling.

‘Oh, there’s no use in talking to him,’ said Alice desperately: ‘he’s
perfectly idiotic!’ And she opened the door and went in.

The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from
one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in
the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring
a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup.

‘There’s certainly too much pepper in that soup!’ Alice said to herself,
as well as she could for sneezing.

There was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the Duchess
sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling
alternately without a moment’s pause. The only things in the kitchen
that did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting on
the hearth and grinning from ear to ear.

‘Please would you tell me,’ said Alice, a little timidly, for she was
not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first, ‘why
your cat grins like that?’

‘It’s a Cheshire cat,’ said the Duchess, ‘and that’s why. Pig!’

She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite
jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby,
and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:--

‘I didn’t know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I didn’t know
that cats COULD grin.’

‘They all can,’ said the Duchess; ‘and most of ‘em do.’

‘I don’t know of any that do,’ Alice said very politely, feeling quite
pleased to have got into a conversation.

‘You don’t know much,’ said the Duchess; ‘and that’s a fact.’

Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would
be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she
was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the
fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at
the Duchess and the baby--the fire-irons came first; then followed a
shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of
them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already,
that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not.

‘Oh, PLEASE mind what you’re doing!’ cried Alice, jumping up and down in
an agony of terror. ‘Oh, there goes his PRECIOUS nose’; as an unusually
large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off.

‘If everybody minded their own business,’ the Duchess said in a hoarse
growl, ‘the world would go round a deal faster than it does.’

‘Which would NOT be an advantage,’ said Alice, who felt very glad to get
an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. ‘Just think of
what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes
twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis--’

‘Talking of axes,’ said the Duchess, ‘chop off her head!’

Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take
the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to
be listening, so she went on again: ‘Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is
it twelve? I--’

‘Oh, don’t bother ME,’ said the Duchess; ‘I never could abide figures!’
And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of
lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of
every line:

   ‘Speak roughly to your little boy,
    And beat him when he sneezes:
   He only does it to annoy,
    Because he knows it teases.’

         CHORUS.

 (In which the cook and the baby joined):--

       ‘Wow! wow! wow!’

While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing
the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so,
that Alice could hardly hear the words:--

   ‘I speak severely to my boy,
    I beat him when he sneezes;
   For he can thoroughly enjoy
    The pepper when he pleases!’

         CHORUS.

       ‘Wow! wow! wow!’

‘Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!’ the Duchess said to Alice,
flinging the baby at her as she spoke. ‘I must go and get ready to play
croquet with the Queen,’ and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw
a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her.

Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped
little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, ‘just
like a star-fish,’ thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting
like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and
straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute
or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it.

As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to
twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right
ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried
it out into the open air. ‘IF I don’t take this child away with me,’
thought Alice, ‘they’re sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn’t it be
murder to leave it behind?’ She said the last words out loud, and the
little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time).
‘Don’t grunt,’ said Alice; ‘that’s not at all a proper way of expressing
yourself.’

The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to
see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had
a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its
eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not
like the look of the thing at all. ‘But perhaps it was only sobbing,’
she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any
tears.

No, there were no tears. ‘If you’re going to turn into a pig, my dear,’
said Alice, seriously, ‘I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Mind
now!’ The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible
to say which), and they went on for some while in silence.

Alice was just beginning to think to herself, ‘Now, what am I to do with
this creature when I get it home?’ when it grunted again, so violently,
that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could
be NO mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she
felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further.

So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see
it trot away quietly into the wood. ‘If it had grown up,’ she said
to herself, ‘it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes
rather a handsome pig, I think.’ And she began thinking over other
children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying
to herself, ‘if one only knew the right way to change them--’ when she
was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a
tree a few yards off.

The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she
thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great many teeth, so she
felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

‘Cheshire Puss,’ she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know
whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider.
‘Come, it’s pleased so far,’ thought Alice, and she went on. ‘Would you
tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’

‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.

‘I don’t much care where--’ said Alice.

‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.

‘--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,’ Alice added as an explanation.

‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long
enough.’

Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question.
‘What sort of people live about here?’

‘In THAT direction,’ the Cat said, waving its right paw round, ‘lives
a Hatter: and in THAT direction,’ waving the other paw, ‘lives a March
Hare. Visit either you like: they’re both mad.’

‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.

‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad.
You’re mad.’

‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.

‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’

Alice didn’t think that proved it at all; however, she went on ‘And how
do you know that you’re mad?’

‘To begin with,’ said the Cat, ‘a dog’s not mad. You grant that?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Alice.

‘Well, then,’ the Cat went on, ‘you see, a dog growls when it’s angry,
and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and
wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.’

‘I call it purring, not growling,’ said Alice.

‘Call it what you like,’ said the Cat. ‘Do you play croquet with the
Queen to-day?’

‘I should like it very much,’ said Alice, ‘but I haven’t been invited
yet.’

‘You’ll see me there,’ said the Cat, and vanished.

Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer
things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been,
it suddenly appeared again.

‘By-the-bye, what became of the baby?’ said the Cat. ‘I’d nearly
forgotten to ask.’

‘It turned into a pig,’ Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back
in a natural way.

‘I thought it would,’ said the Cat, and vanished again.

Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not
appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in
which the March Hare was said to live. ‘I’ve seen hatters before,’ she
said to herself; ‘the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and
perhaps as this is May it won’t be raving mad--at least not so mad as
it was in March.’ As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat
again, sitting on a branch of a tree.

‘Did you say pig, or fig?’ said the Cat.

‘I said pig,’ replied Alice; ‘and I wish you wouldn’t keep appearing and
vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.’

‘All right,’ said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly,
beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which
remained some time after the rest of it had gone.

‘Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,’ thought Alice; ‘but a grin
without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!’

She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house
of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the
chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It
was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had
nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to
about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly,
saying to herself ‘Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost
wish I’d gone to see the Hatter instead!’




CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party

There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the
March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting
between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a
cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. ‘Very
uncomfortable for the Dormouse,’ thought Alice; ‘only, as it’s asleep, I
suppose it doesn’t mind.’

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at
one corner of it: ‘No room! No room!’ they cried out when they saw Alice
coming. ‘There’s PLENTY of room!’ said Alice indignantly, and she sat
down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

‘Have some wine,’ the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.

Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea.
‘I don’t see any wine,’ she remarked.

‘There isn’t any,’ said the March Hare.

‘Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it,’ said Alice angrily.

‘It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited,’ said
the March Hare.

‘I didn’t know it was YOUR table,’ said Alice; ‘it’s laid for a great
many more than three.’

‘Your hair wants cutting,’ said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice
for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.

‘You should learn not to make personal remarks,’ Alice said with some
severity; ‘it’s very rude.’

The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he SAID
was, ‘Why is a raven like a writing-desk?’

‘Come, we shall have some fun now!’ thought Alice. ‘I’m glad they’ve
begun asking riddles.--I believe I can guess that,’ she added aloud.

‘Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?’ said the
March Hare.

‘Exactly so,’ said Alice.

‘Then you should say what you mean,’ the March Hare went on.

‘I do,’ Alice hastily replied; ‘at least--at least I mean what I
say--that’s the same thing, you know.’

‘Not the same thing a bit!’ said the Hatter. ‘You might just as well say
that “I see what I eat” is the same thing as “I eat what I see”!’

‘You might just as well say,’ added the March Hare, ‘that “I like what I
get” is the same thing as “I get what I like”!’

‘You might just as well say,’ added the Dormouse, who seemed to be
talking in his sleep, ‘that “I breathe when I sleep” is the same thing
as “I sleep when I breathe”!’

‘It IS the same thing with you,’ said the Hatter, and here the
conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice
thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks,
which wasn’t much.

The Hatter was the first to break the silence. ‘What day of the month
is it?’ he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his
pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then,
and holding it to his ear.

Alice considered a little, and then said ‘The fourth.’

‘Two days wrong!’ sighed the Hatter. ‘I told you butter wouldn’t suit
the works!’ he added looking angrily at the March Hare.

‘It was the BEST butter,’ the March Hare meekly replied.

‘Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,’ the Hatter grumbled:
‘you shouldn’t have put it in with the bread-knife.’

The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped
it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of
nothing better to say than his first remark, ‘It was the BEST butter,
you know.’

Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. ‘What a
funny watch!’ she remarked. ‘It tells the day of the month, and doesn’t
tell what o’clock it is!’

‘Why should it?’ muttered the Hatter. ‘Does YOUR watch tell you what
year it is?’

‘Of course not,’ Alice replied very readily: ‘but that’s because it
stays the same year for such a long time together.’

‘Which is just the case with MINE,’ said the Hatter.

Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter’s remark seemed to have no
sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. ‘I don’t quite
understand you,’ she said, as politely as she could.

‘The Dormouse is asleep again,’ said the Hatter, and he poured a little
hot tea upon its nose.

The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its
eyes, ‘Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.’

‘Have you guessed the riddle yet?’ the Hatter said, turning to Alice
again.

‘No, I give it up,’ Alice replied: ‘what’s the answer?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ said the Hatter.

‘Nor I,’ said the March Hare.

Alice sighed wearily. ‘I think you might do something better with the
time,’ she said, ‘than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.’

‘If you knew Time as well as I do,’ said the Hatter, ‘you wouldn’t talk
about wasting IT. It’s HIM.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Alice.

‘Of course you don’t!’ the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously.
‘I dare say you never even spoke to Time!’

‘Perhaps not,’ Alice cautiously replied: ‘but I know I have to beat time
when I learn music.’

‘Ah! that accounts for it,’ said the Hatter. ‘He won’t stand beating.
Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he’d do almost anything
you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o’clock in
the morning, just time to begin lessons: you’d only have to whisper a
hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one,
time for dinner!’

[‘I only wish it was,’ the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.)

‘That would be grand, certainly,’ said Alice thoughtfully: ‘but then--I
shouldn’t be hungry for it, you know.’

‘Not at first, perhaps,’ said the Hatter: ‘but you could keep it to
half-past one as long as you liked.’

‘Is that the way YOU manage?’ Alice asked.

The Hatter shook his head mournfully. ‘Not I!’ he replied. ‘We
quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--’ (pointing
with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) ‘--it was at the great concert
given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing

     “Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
     How I wonder what you’re at!”

You know the song, perhaps?’

‘I’ve heard something like it,’ said Alice.

‘It goes on, you know,’ the Hatter continued, ‘in this way:--

     “Up above the world you fly,
     Like a tea-tray in the sky.
         Twinkle, twinkle--“’

Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep ‘Twinkle,
twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--’ and went on so long that they had to pinch
it to make it stop.

‘Well, I’d hardly finished the first verse,’ said the Hatter, ‘when the
Queen jumped up and bawled out, “He’s murdering the time! Off with his
head!”’

‘How dreadfully savage!’ exclaimed Alice.

‘And ever since that,’ the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, ‘he won’t
do a thing I ask! It’s always six o’clock now.’

A bright idea came into Alice’s head. ‘Is that the reason so many
tea-things are put out here?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said the Hatter with a sigh: ‘it’s always tea-time,
and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles.’

‘Then you keep moving round, I suppose?’ said Alice.

‘Exactly so,’ said the Hatter: ‘as the things get used up.’

‘But what happens when you come to the beginning again?’ Alice ventured
to ask.

‘Suppose we change the subject,’ the March Hare interrupted, yawning.
‘I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know one,’ said Alice, rather alarmed at the
proposal.

‘Then the Dormouse shall!’ they both cried. ‘Wake up, Dormouse!’ And
they pinched it on both sides at once.

The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ he said in a
hoarse, feeble voice: ‘I heard every word you fellows were saying.’

‘Tell us a story!’ said the March Hare.

‘Yes, please do!’ pleaded Alice.

‘And be quick about it,’ added the Hatter, ‘or you’ll be asleep again
before it’s done.’

‘Once upon a time there were three little sisters,’ the Dormouse began
in a great hurry; ‘and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and
they lived at the bottom of a well--’

‘What did they live on?’ said Alice, who always took a great interest in
questions of eating and drinking.

‘They lived on treacle,’ said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or
two.

‘They couldn’t have done that, you know,’ Alice gently remarked; ‘they’d
have been ill.’

‘So they were,’ said the Dormouse; ‘VERY ill.’

Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of
living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: ‘But
why did they live at the bottom of a well?’

‘Take some more tea,’ the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.

‘I’ve had nothing yet,’ Alice replied in an offended tone, ‘so I can’t
take more.’

‘You mean you can’t take LESS,’ said the Hatter: ‘it’s very easy to take
MORE than nothing.’

‘Nobody asked YOUR opinion,’ said Alice.

‘Who’s making personal remarks now?’ the Hatter asked triumphantly.

Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself
to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and
repeated her question. ‘Why did they live at the bottom of a well?’

The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then
said, ‘It was a treacle-well.’

‘There’s no such thing!’ Alice was beginning very angrily, but the
Hatter and the March Hare went ‘Sh! sh!’ and the Dormouse sulkily
remarked, ‘If you can’t be civil, you’d better finish the story for
yourself.’

‘No, please go on!’ Alice said very humbly; ‘I won’t interrupt again. I
dare say there may be ONE.’

‘One, indeed!’ said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to
go on. ‘And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw,
you know--’

‘What did they draw?’ said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.

‘Treacle,’ said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.

‘I want a clean cup,’ interrupted the Hatter: ‘let’s all move one place
on.’

He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare
moved into the Dormouse’s place, and Alice rather unwillingly took
the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any
advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than
before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.

Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very
cautiously: ‘But I don’t understand. Where did they draw the treacle
from?’

‘You can draw water out of a water-well,’ said the Hatter; ‘so I should
think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?’

‘But they were IN the well,’ Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to
notice this last remark.

‘Of course they were’, said the Dormouse; ‘--well in.’

This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for
some time without interrupting it.

‘They were learning to draw,’ the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing
its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; ‘and they drew all manner of
things--everything that begins with an M--’

‘Why with an M?’ said Alice.

‘Why not?’ said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into
a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with
a little shriek, and went on: ‘--that begins with an M, such as
mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say
things are “much of a muchness”--did you ever see such a thing as a
drawing of a muchness?’

‘Really, now you ask me,’ said Alice, very much confused, ‘I don’t
think--’

‘Then you shouldn’t talk,’ said the Hatter.

This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in
great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and
neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she
looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her:
the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into
the teapot.

‘At any rate I’ll never go THERE again!’ said Alice as she picked her
way through the wood. ‘It’s the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all
my life!’

Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door
leading right into it. ‘That’s very curious!’ she thought. ‘But
everything’s curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.’ And in
she went.

Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little
glass table. ‘Now, I’ll manage better this time,’ she said to herself,
and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that
led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she
had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high:
then she walked down the little passage: and THEN--she found herself at
last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool
fountains.




CHAPTER VIII. The Queen’s Croquet-Ground

A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses
growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily
painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went
nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of
them say, ‘Look out now, Five! Don’t go splashing paint over me like
that!’

‘I couldn’t help it,’ said Five, in a sulky tone; ‘Seven jogged my
elbow.’

On which Seven looked up and said, ‘That’s right, Five! Always lay the
blame on others!’

‘YOU’D better not talk!’ said Five. ‘I heard the Queen say only
yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!’

‘What for?’ said the one who had spoken first.

‘That’s none of YOUR business, Two!’ said Seven.

‘Yes, it IS his business!’ said Five, ‘and I’ll tell him--it was for
bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.’

Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun ‘Well, of all the unjust
things--’ when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching
them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and
all of them bowed low.

‘Would you tell me,’ said Alice, a little timidly, ‘why you are painting
those roses?’

Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low
voice, ‘Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a
RED rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen
was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know.
So you see, Miss, we’re doing our best, afore she comes, to--’ At this
moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called
out ‘The Queen! The Queen!’ and the three gardeners instantly threw
themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps,
and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen.

First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like
the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the
corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with
diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came
the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came
jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented
with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among
them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried
nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without
noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King’s
crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand
procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.

Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face
like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard
of such a rule at processions; ‘and besides, what would be the use of
a procession,’ thought she, ‘if people had all to lie down upon their
faces, so that they couldn’t see it?’ So she stood still where she was,
and waited.

When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked
at her, and the Queen said severely ‘Who is this?’ She said it to the
Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.

‘Idiot!’ said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to
Alice, she went on, ‘What’s your name, child?’

‘My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,’ said Alice very politely;
but she added, to herself, ‘Why, they’re only a pack of cards, after
all. I needn’t be afraid of them!’

‘And who are THESE?’ said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who
were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as they were lying on their
faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the
pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or
courtiers, or three of her own children.

‘How should I know?’ said Alice, surprised at her own courage. ‘It’s no
business of MINE.’

The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a
moment like a wild beast, screamed ‘Off with her head! Off--’

‘Nonsense!’ said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was
silent.

The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said ‘Consider, my
dear: she is only a child!’

The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave ‘Turn them
over!’

The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.

‘Get up!’ said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three
gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen,
the royal children, and everybody else.

‘Leave off that!’ screamed the Queen. ‘You make me giddy.’ And then,
turning to the rose-tree, she went on, ‘What HAVE you been doing here?’

‘May it please your Majesty,’ said Two, in a very humble tone, going
down on one knee as he spoke, ‘we were trying--’

‘I see!’ said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses.
‘Off with their heads!’ and the procession moved on, three of the
soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran
to Alice for protection.

‘You shan’t be beheaded!’ said Alice, and she put them into a large
flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a
minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the
others.

‘Are their heads off?’ shouted the Queen.

‘Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!’ the soldiers shouted
in reply.

‘That’s right!’ shouted the Queen. ‘Can you play croquet?’

The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was
evidently meant for her.

‘Yes!’ shouted Alice.

‘Come on, then!’ roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession,
wondering very much what would happen next.

‘It’s--it’s a very fine day!’ said a timid voice at her side. She was
walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face.

‘Very,’ said Alice: ‘--where’s the Duchess?’

‘Hush! Hush!’ said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked
anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon
tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered ‘She’s under
sentence of execution.’

‘What for?’ said Alice.

‘Did you say “What a pity!”?’ the Rabbit asked.

‘No, I didn’t,’ said Alice: ‘I don’t think it’s at all a pity. I said
“What for?”’

‘She boxed the Queen’s ears--’ the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little
scream of laughter. ‘Oh, hush!’ the Rabbit whispered in a frightened
tone. ‘The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the
Queen said--’

‘Get to your places!’ shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and
people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each
other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game
began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in
her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs,
the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves
up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.

The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo:
she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under
her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got
its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a
blow with its head, it WOULD twist itself round and look up in her face,
with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out
laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin
again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled
itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was
generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the
hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up
and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the
conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.

The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling
all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short
time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and
shouting ‘Off with his head!’ or ‘Off with her head!’ about once in a
minute.

Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any
dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute,
‘and then,’ thought she, ‘what would become of me? They’re dreadfully
fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there’s any one
left alive!’

She was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering whether she
could get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious appearance
in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after watching it
a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said to herself
‘It’s the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk to.’

‘How are you getting on?’ said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth
enough for it to speak with.

Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. ‘It’s no use
speaking to it,’ she thought, ‘till its ears have come, or at least one
of them.’ In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put
down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad
she had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there was
enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared.

‘I don’t think they play at all fairly,’ Alice began, in rather a
complaining tone, ‘and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can’t hear
oneself speak--and they don’t seem to have any rules in particular;
at least, if there are, nobody attends to them--and you’ve no idea how
confusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there’s the
arch I’ve got to go through next walking about at the other end of the
ground--and I should have croqueted the Queen’s hedgehog just now, only
it ran away when it saw mine coming!’

‘How do you like the Queen?’ said the Cat in a low voice.

‘Not at all,’ said Alice: ‘she’s so extremely--’ Just then she noticed
that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on,
‘--likely to win, that it’s hardly worth while finishing the game.’

The Queen smiled and passed on.

‘Who ARE you talking to?’ said the King, going up to Alice, and looking
at the Cat’s head with great curiosity.

‘It’s a friend of mine--a Cheshire Cat,’ said Alice: ‘allow me to
introduce it.’

‘I don’t like the look of it at all,’ said the King: ‘however, it may
kiss my hand if it likes.’

‘I’d rather not,’ the Cat remarked.

‘Don’t be impertinent,’ said the King, ‘and don’t look at me like that!’
He got behind Alice as he spoke.

‘A cat may look at a king,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve read that in some book,
but I don’t remember where.’

‘Well, it must be removed,’ said the King very decidedly, and he called
the Queen, who was passing at the moment, ‘My dear! I wish you would
have this cat removed!’

The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small.
‘Off with his head!’ she said, without even looking round.

‘I’ll fetch the executioner myself,’ said the King eagerly, and he
hurried off.

Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going
on, as she heard the Queen’s voice in the distance, screaming with
passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be
executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look
of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew
whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog.

The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed
to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the
other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the
other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless
sort of way to fly up into a tree.

By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight
was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: ‘but it doesn’t
matter much,’ thought Alice, ‘as all the arches are gone from this side
of the ground.’ So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not
escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her
friend.

When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a
large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between
the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once,
while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable.

The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle
the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they
all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly
what they said.

The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless
there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a
thing before, and he wasn’t going to begin at HIS time of life.

The King’s argument was, that anything that had a head could be
beheaded, and that you weren’t to talk nonsense.

The Queen’s argument was, that if something wasn’t done about it in less
than no time she’d have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last
remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.)

Alice could think of nothing else to say but ‘It belongs to the Duchess:
you’d better ask HER about it.’

‘She’s in prison,’ the Queen said to the executioner: ‘fetch her here.’
And the executioner went off like an arrow.

 The Cat’s head began fading away the moment he was gone, and,
by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely
disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down
looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.




CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle’s Story

‘You can’t think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!’
said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice’s, and
they walked off together.

Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought
to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so
savage when they met in the kitchen.

‘When I’M a Duchess,’ she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone
though), ‘I won’t have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very
well without--Maybe it’s always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,’
she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of
rule, ‘and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes
them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children
sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn’t be so
stingy about it, you know--’

She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little
startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. ‘You’re thinking
about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can’t
tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in
a bit.’

‘Perhaps it hasn’t one,’ Alice ventured to remark.

‘Tut, tut, child!’ said the Duchess. ‘Everything’s got a moral, if only
you can find it.’ And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice’s side as
she spoke.

Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the
Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the
right height to rest her chin upon Alice’s shoulder, and it was an
uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she
bore it as well as she could.

‘The game’s going on rather better now,’ she said, by way of keeping up
the conversation a little.

‘’Tis so,’ said the Duchess: ‘and the moral of that is--“Oh, ‘tis love,
‘tis love, that makes the world go round!”’

‘Somebody said,’ Alice whispered, ‘that it’s done by everybody minding
their own business!’

‘Ah, well! It means much the same thing,’ said the Duchess, digging her
sharp little chin into Alice’s shoulder as she added, ‘and the moral
of THAT is--“Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of
themselves.”’

‘How fond she is of finding morals in things!’ Alice thought to herself.

‘I dare say you’re wondering why I don’t put my arm round your waist,’
the Duchess said after a pause: ‘the reason is, that I’m doubtful about
the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?’

‘HE might bite,’ Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to
have the experiment tried.

‘Very true,’ said the Duchess: ‘flamingoes and mustard both bite. And
the moral of that is--“Birds of a feather flock together.”’

‘Only mustard isn’t a bird,’ Alice remarked.

‘Right, as usual,’ said the Duchess: ‘what a clear way you have of
putting things!’

‘It’s a mineral, I THINK,’ said Alice.

‘Of course it is,’ said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to
everything that Alice said; ‘there’s a large mustard-mine near here. And
the moral of that is--“The more there is of mine, the less there is of
yours.”’

‘Oh, I know!’ exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark,
‘it’s a vegetable. It doesn’t look like one, but it is.’

‘I quite agree with you,’ said the Duchess; ‘and the moral of that
is--“Be what you would seem to be”--or if you’d like it put more
simply--“Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might
appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise
than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.”’

‘I think I should understand that better,’ Alice said very politely, ‘if
I had it written down: but I can’t quite follow it as you say it.’

‘That’s nothing to what I could say if I chose,’ the Duchess replied, in
a pleased tone.

‘Pray don’t trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,’ said
Alice.

‘Oh, don’t talk about trouble!’ said the Duchess. ‘I make you a present
of everything I’ve said as yet.’

‘A cheap sort of present!’ thought Alice. ‘I’m glad they don’t give
birthday presents like that!’ But she did not venture to say it out
loud.

‘Thinking again?’ the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp
little chin.

‘I’ve a right to think,’ said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to
feel a little worried.

‘Just about as much right,’ said the Duchess, ‘as pigs have to fly; and
the m--’

But here, to Alice’s great surprise, the Duchess’s voice died away, even
in the middle of her favourite word ‘moral,’ and the arm that was linked
into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen
in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.

‘A fine day, your Majesty!’ the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.

‘Now, I give you fair warning,’ shouted the Queen, stamping on the
ground as she spoke; ‘either you or your head must be off, and that in
about half no time! Take your choice!’

The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment.

‘Let’s go on with the game,’ the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was
too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the
croquet-ground.

The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen’s absence, and were
resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried
back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment’s delay would
cost them their lives.

All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with
the other players, and shouting ‘Off with his head!’ or ‘Off with her
head!’ Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers,
who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by
the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the
players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and
under sentence of execution.

Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, ‘Have
you seen the Mock Turtle yet?’

‘No,’ said Alice. ‘I don’t even know what a Mock Turtle is.’

‘It’s the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,’ said the Queen.

‘I never saw one, or heard of one,’ said Alice.

‘Come on, then,’ said the Queen, ‘and he shall tell you his history,’

As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice,
to the company generally, ‘You are all pardoned.’ ‘Come, THAT’S a good
thing!’ she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the
number of executions the Queen had ordered.

They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun.
(IF you don’t know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) ‘Up, lazy
thing!’ said the Queen, ‘and take this young lady to see the Mock
Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some
executions I have ordered’; and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with
the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on
the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go
after that savage Queen: so she waited.

The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till
she was out of sight: then it chuckled. ‘What fun!’ said the Gryphon,
half to itself, half to Alice.

‘What IS the fun?’ said Alice.

‘Why, SHE,’ said the Gryphon. ‘It’s all her fancy, that: they never
executes nobody, you know. Come on!’

‘Everybody says “come on!” here,’ thought Alice, as she went slowly
after it: ‘I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!’

They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance,
sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came
nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She
pitied him deeply. ‘What is his sorrow?’ she asked the Gryphon, and the
Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, ‘It’s all his
fancy, that: he hasn’t got no sorrow, you know. Come on!’

So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes
full of tears, but said nothing.

‘This here young lady,’ said the Gryphon, ‘she wants for to know your
history, she do.’

‘I’ll tell it her,’ said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: ‘sit
down, both of you, and don’t speak a word till I’ve finished.’

So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to
herself, ‘I don’t see how he can EVEN finish, if he doesn’t begin.’ But
she waited patiently.

‘Once,’ said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, ‘I was a real
Turtle.’

These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an
occasional exclamation of ‘Hjckrrh!’ from the Gryphon, and the constant
heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and
saying, ‘Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,’ but she could
not help thinking there MUST be more to come, so she sat still and said
nothing.

‘When we were little,’ the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly,
though still sobbing a little now and then, ‘we went to school in the
sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--’

‘Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn’t one?’ Alice asked.

‘We called him Tortoise because he taught us,’ said the Mock Turtle
angrily: ‘really you are very dull!’

‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,’
added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor
Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said
to the Mock Turtle, ‘Drive on, old fellow! Don’t be all day about it!’
and he went on in these words:

‘Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn’t believe it--’

‘I never said I didn’t!’ interrupted Alice.

‘You did,’ said the Mock Turtle.

‘Hold your tongue!’ added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again.
The Mock Turtle went on.

‘We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--’

‘I’VE been to a day-school, too,’ said Alice; ‘you needn’t be so proud
as all that.’

‘With extras?’ asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously.

‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘we learned French and music.’

‘And washing?’ said the Mock Turtle.

‘Certainly not!’ said Alice indignantly.

‘Ah! then yours wasn’t a really good school,’ said the Mock Turtle in
a tone of great relief. ‘Now at OURS they had at the end of the bill,
“French, music, AND WASHING--extra.”’

‘You couldn’t have wanted it much,’ said Alice; ‘living at the bottom of
the sea.’

‘I couldn’t afford to learn it.’ said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. ‘I
only took the regular course.’

‘What was that?’ inquired Alice.

‘Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,’ the Mock Turtle
replied; ‘and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition,
Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.’

‘I never heard of “Uglification,”’ Alice ventured to say. ‘What is it?’

The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. ‘What! Never heard of
uglifying!’ it exclaimed. ‘You know what to beautify is, I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice doubtfully: ‘it means--to--make--anything--prettier.’

‘Well, then,’ the Gryphon went on, ‘if you don’t know what to uglify is,
you ARE a simpleton.’

Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she
turned to the Mock Turtle, and said ‘What else had you to learn?’

‘Well, there was Mystery,’ the Mock Turtle replied, counting off
the subjects on his flappers, ‘--Mystery, ancient and modern, with
Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel,
that used to come once a week: HE taught us Drawling, Stretching, and
Fainting in Coils.’

‘What was THAT like?’ said Alice.

‘Well, I can’t show it you myself,’ the Mock Turtle said: ‘I’m too
stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.’

‘Hadn’t time,’ said the Gryphon: ‘I went to the Classics master, though.
He was an old crab, HE was.’

‘I never went to him,’ the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: ‘he taught
Laughing and Grief, they used to say.’

‘So he did, so he did,’ said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both
creatures hid their faces in their paws.

‘And how many hours a day did you do lessons?’ said Alice, in a hurry to
change the subject.

‘Ten hours the first day,’ said the Mock Turtle: ‘nine the next, and so
on.’

‘What a curious plan!’ exclaimed Alice.

‘That’s the reason they’re called lessons,’ the Gryphon remarked:
‘because they lessen from day to day.’

This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little
before she made her next remark. ‘Then the eleventh day must have been a
holiday?’

‘Of course it was,’ said the Mock Turtle.

‘And how did you manage on the twelfth?’ Alice went on eagerly.

‘That’s enough about lessons,’ the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided
tone: ‘tell her something about the games now.’




CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across
his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or
two sobs choked his voice. ‘Same as if he had a bone in his throat,’
said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in
the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears
running down his cheeks, he went on again:--

‘You may not have lived much under the sea--’ [‘I haven’t,’ said
Alice)--‘and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--’
(Alice began to say ‘I once tasted--’ but checked herself hastily, and
said ‘No, never’) ‘--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a
Lobster Quadrille is!’

‘No, indeed,’ said Alice. ‘What sort of a dance is it?’

‘Why,’ said the Gryphon, ‘you first form into a line along the
sea-shore--’

‘Two lines!’ cried the Mock Turtle. ‘Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on;
then, when you’ve cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--’

‘THAT generally takes some time,’ interrupted the Gryphon.

‘--you advance twice--’

‘Each with a lobster as a partner!’ cried the Gryphon.

‘Of course,’ the Mock Turtle said: ‘advance twice, set to partners--’

‘--change lobsters, and retire in same order,’ continued the Gryphon.

‘Then, you know,’ the Mock Turtle went on, ‘you throw the--’

‘The lobsters!’ shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air.

‘--as far out to sea as you can--’

‘Swim after them!’ screamed the Gryphon.

‘Turn a somersault in the sea!’ cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly
about.

‘Change lobsters again!’ yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.

‘Back to land again, and that’s all the first figure,’ said the Mock
Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been
jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly
and quietly, and looked at Alice.

‘It must be a very pretty dance,’ said Alice timidly.

‘Would you like to see a little of it?’ said the Mock Turtle.

‘Very much indeed,’ said Alice.

‘Come, let’s try the first figure!’ said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon.
‘We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?’

‘Oh, YOU sing,’ said the Gryphon. ‘I’ve forgotten the words.’

So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and
then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their
forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly
and sadly:--

 ‘“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail.
 “There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.

 See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
 They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance?

 Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
 Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

 “You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
 When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!”
  But the snail replied “Too far, too far!” and gave a look askance--
 Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.

 Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
 Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

 ‘“What matters it how far we go?” his scaly friend replied.
 “There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
 The further off from England the nearer is to France--
 Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.

 Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?
 Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?”’

‘Thank you, it’s a very interesting dance to watch,’ said Alice, feeling
very glad that it was over at last: ‘and I do so like that curious song
about the whiting!’

‘Oh, as to the whiting,’ said the Mock Turtle, ‘they--you’ve seen them,
of course?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘I’ve often seen them at dinn--’ she checked herself
hastily.

‘I don’t know where Dinn may be,’ said the Mock Turtle, ‘but if you’ve
seen them so often, of course you know what they’re like.’

‘I believe so,’ Alice replied thoughtfully. ‘They have their tails in
their mouths--and they’re all over crumbs.’

‘You’re wrong about the crumbs,’ said the Mock Turtle: ‘crumbs would all
wash off in the sea. But they HAVE their tails in their mouths; and the
reason is--’ here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--‘Tell her
about the reason and all that,’ he said to the Gryphon.

‘The reason is,’ said the Gryphon, ‘that they WOULD go with the lobsters
to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long
way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn’t get
them out again. That’s all.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alice, ‘it’s very interesting. I never knew so much
about a whiting before.’

‘I can tell you more than that, if you like,’ said the Gryphon. ‘Do you
know why it’s called a whiting?’

‘I never thought about it,’ said Alice. ‘Why?’

‘IT DOES THE BOOTS AND SHOES.’ the Gryphon replied very solemnly.

Alice was thoroughly puzzled. ‘Does the boots and shoes!’ she repeated
in a wondering tone.

‘Why, what are YOUR shoes done with?’ said the Gryphon. ‘I mean, what
makes them so shiny?’

Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her
answer. ‘They’re done with blacking, I believe.’

‘Boots and shoes under the sea,’ the Gryphon went on in a deep voice,
‘are done with a whiting. Now you know.’

‘And what are they made of?’ Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.

‘Soles and eels, of course,’ the Gryphon replied rather impatiently:
‘any shrimp could have told you that.’

‘If I’d been the whiting,’ said Alice, whose thoughts were still running
on the song, ‘I’d have said to the porpoise, “Keep back, please: we
don’t want YOU with us!”’

‘They were obliged to have him with them,’ the Mock Turtle said: ‘no
wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.’

‘Wouldn’t it really?’ said Alice in a tone of great surprise.

‘Of course not,’ said the Mock Turtle: ‘why, if a fish came to ME, and
told me he was going a journey, I should say “With what porpoise?”’

‘Don’t you mean “purpose”?’ said Alice.

‘I mean what I say,’ the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And
the Gryphon added ‘Come, let’s hear some of YOUR adventures.’

‘I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning,’ said
Alice a little timidly: ‘but it’s no use going back to yesterday,
because I was a different person then.’

‘Explain all that,’ said the Mock Turtle.

‘No, no! The adventures first,’ said the Gryphon in an impatient tone:
‘explanations take such a dreadful time.’

So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first
saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first,
the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened
their eyes and mouths so VERY wide, but she gained courage as she went
on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about
her repeating ‘YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,’ to the Caterpillar, and the
words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath,
and said ‘That’s very curious.’

‘It’s all about as curious as it can be,’ said the Gryphon.

‘It all came different!’ the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. ‘I
should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to
begin.’ He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of
authority over Alice.

‘Stand up and repeat “‘TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD,”’ said the
Gryphon.

‘How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!’
thought Alice; ‘I might as well be at school at once.’ However, she
got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster
Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came
very queer indeed:--

  ‘’Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,
  “You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.”
   As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
  Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.’

       [later editions continued as follows
  When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
  And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark,
  But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
  His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.]

‘That’s different from what I used to say when I was a child,’ said the
Gryphon.

‘Well, I never heard it before,’ said the Mock Turtle; ‘but it sounds
uncommon nonsense.’

Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands,
wondering if anything would EVER happen in a natural way again.

‘I should like to have it explained,’ said the Mock Turtle.

‘She can’t explain it,’ said the Gryphon hastily. ‘Go on with the next
verse.’

‘But about his toes?’ the Mock Turtle persisted. ‘How COULD he turn them
out with his nose, you know?’

‘It’s the first position in dancing.’ Alice said; but was dreadfully
puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject.

‘Go on with the next verse,’ the Gryphon repeated impatiently: ‘it
begins “I passed by his garden.”’

Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come
wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:--

  ‘I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
  How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--’

    [later editions continued as follows
  The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
  While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
  When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
  Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
  While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
  And concluded the banquet--]

‘What IS the use of repeating all that stuff,’ the Mock Turtle
interrupted, ‘if you don’t explain it as you go on? It’s by far the most
confusing thing I ever heard!’

‘Yes, I think you’d better leave off,’ said the Gryphon: and Alice was
only too glad to do so.

‘Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?’ the Gryphon went
on. ‘Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?’

‘Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,’ Alice
replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone,
‘Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her “Turtle Soup,” will you, old
fellow?’

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked
with sobs, to sing this:--

   ‘Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
   Waiting in a hot tureen!
   Who for such dainties would not stoop?
   Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
   Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
   Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

   ‘Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
   Game, or any other dish?
   Who would not give all else for two
   Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
   Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
   Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!’

‘Chorus again!’ cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun
to repeat it, when a cry of ‘The trial’s beginning!’ was heard in the
distance.

‘Come on!’ cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried
off, without waiting for the end of the song.

‘What trial is it?’ Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only
answered ‘Come on!’ and ran the faster, while more and more faintly
came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:--

   ‘Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beautiful Soup!’




CHAPTER XI. Who Stole the Tarts?

The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they
arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little
birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was
standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard
him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand,
and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court
was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good,
that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--‘I wish they’d get the
trial done,’ she thought, ‘and hand round the refreshments!’ But there
seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about
her, to pass away the time.

Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read
about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew
the name of nearly everything there. ‘That’s the judge,’ she said to
herself, ‘because of his great wig.’

The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the
wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did
not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming.

‘And that’s the jury-box,’ thought Alice, ‘and those twelve creatures,’
(she was obliged to say ‘creatures,’ you see, because some of them were
animals, and some were birds,) ‘I suppose they are the jurors.’ She said
this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of
it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her
age knew the meaning of it at all. However, ‘jury-men’ would have done
just as well.

The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. ‘What are they
doing?’ Alice whispered to the Gryphon. ‘They can’t have anything to put
down yet, before the trial’s begun.’

‘They’re putting down their names,’ the Gryphon whispered in reply, ‘for
fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.’

‘Stupid things!’ Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped
hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, ‘Silence in the court!’ and the
King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who
was talking.

Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders,
that all the jurors were writing down ‘stupid things!’ on their slates,
and she could even make out that one of them didn’t know how to spell
‘stupid,’ and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. ‘A nice
muddle their slates’ll be in before the trial’s over!’ thought Alice.

One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice
could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and
very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly
that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out
at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was
obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was
of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate.

‘Herald, read the accusation!’ said the King.

On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then
unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:--

   ‘The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
      All on a summer day:
    The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
      And took them quite away!’

‘Consider your verdict,’ the King said to the jury.

‘Not yet, not yet!’ the Rabbit hastily interrupted. ‘There’s a great
deal to come before that!’

‘Call the first witness,’ said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three
blasts on the trumpet, and called out, ‘First witness!’

The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one
hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. ‘I beg pardon, your
Majesty,’ he began, ‘for bringing these in: but I hadn’t quite finished
my tea when I was sent for.’

‘You ought to have finished,’ said the King. ‘When did you begin?’

The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the
court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. ‘Fourteenth of March, I think it
was,’ he said.

‘Fifteenth,’ said the March Hare.

‘Sixteenth,’ added the Dormouse.

‘Write that down,’ the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly
wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and
reduced the answer to shillings and pence.

‘Take off your hat,’ the King said to the Hatter.

‘It isn’t mine,’ said the Hatter.

‘Stolen!’ the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a
memorandum of the fact.

‘I keep them to sell,’ the Hatter added as an explanation; ‘I’ve none of
my own. I’m a hatter.’

Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter,
who turned pale and fidgeted.

‘Give your evidence,’ said the King; ‘and don’t be nervous, or I’ll have
you executed on the spot.’

This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting
from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in
his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the
bread-and-butter.

Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled
her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to
grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave
the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as
long as there was room for her.

‘I wish you wouldn’t squeeze so.’ said the Dormouse, who was sitting
next to her. ‘I can hardly breathe.’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Alice very meekly: ‘I’m growing.’

‘You’ve no right to grow here,’ said the Dormouse.

‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ said Alice more boldly: ‘you know you’re growing
too.’

‘Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,’ said the Dormouse: ‘not in that
ridiculous fashion.’ And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the
other side of the court.

All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and,
just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers
of the court, ‘Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!’ on
which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off.

‘Give your evidence,’ the King repeated angrily, ‘or I’ll have you
executed, whether you’re nervous or not.’

‘I’m a poor man, your Majesty,’ the Hatter began, in a trembling voice,
‘--and I hadn’t begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what with the
bread-and-butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the tea--’

‘The twinkling of the what?’ said the King.

‘It began with the tea,’ the Hatter replied.

‘Of course twinkling begins with a T!’ said the King sharply. ‘Do you
take me for a dunce? Go on!’

‘I’m a poor man,’ the Hatter went on, ‘and most things twinkled after
that--only the March Hare said--’

‘I didn’t!’ the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.

‘You did!’ said the Hatter.

‘I deny it!’ said the March Hare.

‘He denies it,’ said the King: ‘leave out that part.’

‘Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said--’ the Hatter went on, looking
anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied
nothing, being fast asleep.

‘After that,’ continued the Hatter, ‘I cut some more bread-and-butter--’

‘But what did the Dormouse say?’ one of the jury asked.

‘That I can’t remember,’ said the Hatter.

‘You MUST remember,’ remarked the King, ‘or I’ll have you executed.’

The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went
down on one knee. ‘I’m a poor man, your Majesty,’ he began.

‘You’re a very poor speaker,’ said the King.

Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by
the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just
explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied
up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig,
head first, and then sat upon it.)

‘I’m glad I’ve seen that done,’ thought Alice. ‘I’ve so often read
in the newspapers, at the end of trials, “There was some attempts
at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the
court,” and I never understood what it meant till now.’

‘If that’s all you know about it, you may stand down,’ continued the
King.

‘I can’t go no lower,’ said the Hatter: ‘I’m on the floor, as it is.’

‘Then you may SIT down,’ the King replied.

Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed.

‘Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!’ thought Alice. ‘Now we shall get
on better.’

‘I’d rather finish my tea,’ said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the
Queen, who was reading the list of singers.

‘You may go,’ said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court,
without even waiting to put his shoes on.

‘--and just take his head off outside,’ the Queen added to one of the
officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get
to the door.

‘Call the next witness!’ said the King.

The next witness was the Duchess’s cook. She carried the pepper-box in
her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the
court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once.

‘Give your evidence,’ said the King.

‘Shan’t,’ said the cook.

The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice,
‘Your Majesty must cross-examine THIS witness.’

‘Well, if I must, I must,’ the King said, with a melancholy air, and,
after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were
nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, ‘What are tarts made of?’

‘Pepper, mostly,’ said the cook.

‘Treacle,’ said a sleepy voice behind her.

‘Collar that Dormouse,’ the Queen shrieked out. ‘Behead that Dormouse!
Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his
whiskers!’

For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse
turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had
disappeared.

‘Never mind!’ said the King, with an air of great relief. ‘Call the next
witness.’ And he added in an undertone to the Queen, ‘Really, my dear,
YOU must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead
ache!’

Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very
curious to see what the next witness would be like, ‘--for they haven’t
got much evidence YET,’ she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when
the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the
name ‘Alice!’




CHAPTER XII. Alice’s Evidence


‘Here!’ cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how
large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such
a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt,
upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there
they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish
she had accidentally upset the week before.

‘Oh, I BEG your pardon!’ she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and
began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of
the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea
that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or
they would die.

‘The trial cannot proceed,’ said the King in a very grave voice, ‘until
all the jurymen are back in their proper places--ALL,’ he repeated with
great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do.

Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put
the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its
tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got
it out again, and put it right; ‘not that it signifies much,’ she said
to herself; ‘I should think it would be QUITE as much use in the trial
one way up as the other.’

As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being
upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to
them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the
accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do
anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the
court.

‘What do you know about this business?’ the King said to Alice.

‘Nothing,’ said Alice.

‘Nothing WHATEVER?’ persisted the King.

‘Nothing whatever,’ said Alice.

‘That’s very important,’ the King said, turning to the jury. They were
just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit
interrupted: ‘UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,’ he said in a
very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

‘UNimportant, of course, I meant,’ the King hastily said, and went on
to himself in an undertone,

‘important--unimportant--unimportant--important--’ as if he were trying
which word sounded best.

Some of the jury wrote it down ‘important,’ and some ‘unimportant.’
Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates;
‘but it doesn’t matter a bit,’ she thought to herself.

At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in
his note-book, cackled out ‘Silence!’ and read out from his book, ‘Rule
Forty-two. ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE HIGH TO LEAVE THE COURT.’

Everybody looked at Alice.

‘I’M not a mile high,’ said Alice.

‘You are,’ said the King.

‘Nearly two miles high,’ added the Queen.

‘Well, I shan’t go, at any rate,’ said Alice: ‘besides, that’s not a
regular rule: you invented it just now.’

‘It’s the oldest rule in the book,’ said the King.

‘Then it ought to be Number One,’ said Alice.

The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. ‘Consider your
verdict,’ he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

‘There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,’ said the White
Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; ‘this paper has just been picked
up.’

‘What’s in it?’ said the Queen.

‘I haven’t opened it yet,’ said the White Rabbit, ‘but it seems to be a
letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody.’

‘It must have been that,’ said the King, ‘unless it was written to
nobody, which isn’t usual, you know.’

‘Who is it directed to?’ said one of the jurymen.

‘It isn’t directed at all,’ said the White Rabbit; ‘in fact, there’s
nothing written on the OUTSIDE.’ He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and
added ‘It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of verses.’

‘Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?’ asked another of the jurymen.

‘No, they’re not,’ said the White Rabbit, ‘and that’s the queerest thing
about it.’ (The jury all looked puzzled.)

‘He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,’ said the King. (The jury
all brightened up again.)

‘Please your Majesty,’ said the Knave, ‘I didn’t write it, and they
can’t prove I did: there’s no name signed at the end.’

‘If you didn’t sign it,’ said the King, ‘that only makes the matter
worse. You MUST have meant some mischief, or else you’d have signed your
name like an honest man.’

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really
clever thing the King had said that day.

‘That PROVES his guilt,’ said the Queen.

‘It proves nothing of the sort!’ said Alice. ‘Why, you don’t even know
what they’re about!’

‘Read them,’ said the King.

The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. ‘Where shall I begin, please
your Majesty?’ he asked.

‘Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you
come to the end: then stop.’

These were the verses the White Rabbit read:--

   ‘They told me you had been to her,
    And mentioned me to him:
   She gave me a good character,
    But said I could not swim.

   He sent them word I had not gone
    (We know it to be true):
   If she should push the matter on,
    What would become of you?

   I gave her one, they gave him two,
    You gave us three or more;
   They all returned from him to you,
    Though they were mine before.

   If I or she should chance to be
    Involved in this affair,
   He trusts to you to set them free,
    Exactly as we were.

   My notion was that you had been
    (Before she had this fit)
   An obstacle that came between
    Him, and ourselves, and it.

   Don’t let him know she liked them best,
    For this must ever be
   A secret, kept from all the rest,
    Between yourself and me.’

‘That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,’ said the
King, rubbing his hands; ‘so now let the jury--’

‘If any one of them can explain it,’ said Alice, (she had grown so large
in the last few minutes that she wasn’t a bit afraid of interrupting
him,) ‘I’ll give him sixpence. _I_ don’t believe there’s an atom of
meaning in it.’

The jury all wrote down on their slates, ‘SHE doesn’t believe there’s an
atom of meaning in it,’ but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

‘If there’s no meaning in it,’ said the King, ‘that saves a world of
trouble, you know, as we needn’t try to find any. And yet I don’t know,’
he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them
with one eye; ‘I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. “--SAID
I COULD NOT SWIM--” you can’t swim, can you?’ he added, turning to the
Knave.

The Knave shook his head sadly. ‘Do I look like it?’ he said. (Which he
certainly did NOT, being made entirely of cardboard.)

‘All right, so far,’ said the King, and he went on muttering over
the verses to himself: ‘“WE KNOW IT TO BE TRUE--” that’s the jury, of
course--“I GAVE HER ONE, THEY GAVE HIM TWO--” why, that must be what he
did with the tarts, you know--’

‘But, it goes on “THEY ALL RETURNED FROM HIM TO YOU,”’ said Alice.

‘Why, there they are!’ said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts
on the table. ‘Nothing can be clearer than THAT. Then again--“BEFORE SHE
HAD THIS FIT--” you never had fits, my dear, I think?’ he said to the
Queen.

‘Never!’ said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard
as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his
slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily
began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as
it lasted.)

‘Then the words don’t FIT you,’ said the King, looking round the court
with a smile. There was a dead silence.

‘It’s a pun!’ the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed,
‘Let the jury consider their verdict,’ the King said, for about the
twentieth time that day.

‘No, no!’ said the Queen. ‘Sentence first--verdict afterwards.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Alice loudly. ‘The idea of having the
sentence first!’

‘Hold your tongue!’ said the Queen, turning purple.

‘I won’t!’ said Alice.

‘Off with her head!’ the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody
moved.

‘Who cares for you?’ said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this
time.) ‘You’re nothing but a pack of cards!’

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon
her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and
tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her
head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead
leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

‘Wake up, Alice dear!’ said her sister; ‘Why, what a long sleep you’ve
had!’

‘Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!’ said Alice, and she told her
sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures
of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had
finished, her sister kissed her, and said, ‘It WAS a curious dream,
dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.’ So
Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might,
what a wonderful dream it had been.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her
hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her
wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and
this was her dream:--

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny
hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking
up into hers--she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that
queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that
WOULD always get into her eyes--and still as she listened, or seemed to
listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures
of her little sister’s dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by--the
frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool--she
could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends
shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen
ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution--once more the pig-baby
was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed
around it--once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the
Lizard’s slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs,
filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock
Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in
Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all
would change to dull reality--the grass would be only rustling in the
wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds--the rattling
teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen’s shrill
cries to the voice of the shepherd boy--and the sneeze of the baby, the
shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she
knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard--while the lowing
of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s
heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers
would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would
keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her
childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and
make THEIR eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even
with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with
all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys,
remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Peter Pan, by James M. Barrie

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Title: Peter Pan
       Peter Pan and Wendy

Author: James M. Barrie

Posting Date: June 25, 2008 [EBook #16]
Release Date: July, 1991
Last Updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PETER PAN ***










PETER PAN

[PETER AND WENDY]

By J. M. Barrie [James Matthew Barrie]

A Millennium Fulcrum Edition (c)1991 by Duncan Research




Contents:

Chapter 1 PETER BREAKS THROUGH

Chapter 2 THE SHADOW

Chapter 3 COME AWAY, COME AWAY!

Chapter 4 THE FLIGHT

Chapter 5 THE ISLAND COME TRUE

Chapter 6 THE LITTLE HOUSE

Chapter 7 THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND

Chapter 8 THE MERMAID'S LAGOON

Chapter 9 THE NEVER BIRD

Chapter 10 THE HAPPY HOME

Chapter 11 WENDY'S STORY

Chapter 12 THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF

Chapter 13 DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?

Chapter 14 THE PIRATE SHIP

Chapter 15 “HOOK OR ME THIS TIME”

Chapter 16 THE RETURN HOME

Chapter 17 WHEN WENDY GREW UP




Chapter 1 PETER BREAKS THROUGH

All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow
up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old
she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with
it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for
Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, “Oh, why can't you
remain like this for ever!” This was all that passed between them on
the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always
know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.

Of course they lived at 14 [their house number on their street], and
until Wendy came her mother was the chief one. She was a lovely lady,
with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic
mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the
puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and
her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get,
though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.

The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been
boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her,
and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who
took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her,
except the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew about the box, and
in time he gave up trying for the kiss. Wendy thought Napoleon could
have got it, but I can picture him trying, and then going off in a
passion, slamming the door.

Mr. Darling used to boast to Wendy that her mother not only loved him
but respected him. He was one of those deep ones who know about stocks
and shares. Of course no one really knows, but he quite seemed to know,
and he often said stocks were up and shares were down in a way that
would have made any woman respect him.

Mrs. Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books
perfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a
Brussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped
out, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without faces.
She drew them when she should have been totting up. They were Mrs.
Darling's guesses.

Wendy came first, then John, then Michael.

For a week or two after Wendy came it was doubtful whether they would
be able to keep her, as she was another mouth to feed. Mr. Darling was
frightfully proud of her, but he was very honourable, and he sat on the
edge of Mrs. Darling's bed, holding her hand and calculating expenses,
while she looked at him imploringly. She wanted to risk it, come what
might, but that was not his way; his way was with a pencil and a piece
of paper, and if she confused him with suggestions he had to begin at
the beginning again.

“Now don't interrupt,” he would beg of her.

“I have one pound seventeen here, and two and six at the office; I can
cut off my coffee at the office, say ten shillings, making two nine
and six, with your eighteen and three makes three nine seven, with five
naught naught in my cheque-book makes eight nine seven--who is that
moving?--eight nine seven, dot and carry seven--don't speak, my own--and
the pound you lent to that man who came to the door--quiet, child--dot
and carry child--there, you've done it!--did I say nine nine seven? yes,
I said nine nine seven; the question is, can we try it for a year on
nine nine seven?”

“Of course we can, George,” she cried. But she was prejudiced in Wendy's
favour, and he was really the grander character of the two.

“Remember mumps,” he warned her almost threateningly, and off he went
again. “Mumps one pound, that is what I have put down, but I daresay
it will be more like thirty shillings--don't speak--measles one five,
German measles half a guinea, makes two fifteen six--don't waggle your
finger--whooping-cough, say fifteen shillings”--and so on it went, and
it added up differently each time; but at last Wendy just got through,
with mumps reduced to twelve six, and the two kinds of measles treated
as one.

There was the same excitement over John, and Michael had even a narrower
squeak; but both were kept, and soon, you might have seen the three of
them going in a row to Miss Fulsom's Kindergarten school, accompanied by
their nurse.

Mrs. Darling loved to have everything just so, and Mr. Darling had a
passion for being exactly like his neighbours; so, of course, they had
a nurse. As they were poor, owing to the amount of milk the children
drank, this nurse was a prim Newfoundland dog, called Nana, who had
belonged to no one in particular until the Darlings engaged her. She had
always thought children important, however, and the Darlings had become
acquainted with her in Kensington Gardens, where she spent most of her
spare time peeping into perambulators, and was much hated by careless
nursemaids, whom she followed to their homes and complained of to their
mistresses. She proved to be quite a treasure of a nurse. How thorough
she was at bath-time, and up at any moment of the night if one of her
charges made the slightest cry. Of course her kennel was in the nursery.
She had a genius for knowing when a cough is a thing to have no patience
with and when it needs stocking around your throat. She believed to her
last day in old-fashioned remedies like rhubarb leaf, and made sounds of
contempt over all this new-fangled talk about germs, and so on. It was a
lesson in propriety to see her escorting the children to school, walking
sedately by their side when they were well behaved, and butting them
back into line if they strayed. On John's footer [in England soccer
was called football, “footer” for short] days she never once forgot his
sweater, and she usually carried an umbrella in her mouth in case of
rain. There is a room in the basement of Miss Fulsom's school where the
nurses wait. They sat on forms, while Nana lay on the floor, but that
was the only difference. They affected to ignore her as of an inferior
social status to themselves, and she despised their light talk. She
resented visits to the nursery from Mrs. Darling's friends, but if they
did come she first whipped off Michael's pinafore and put him into the
one with blue braiding, and smoothed out Wendy and made a dash at John's
hair.

No nursery could possibly have been conducted more correctly, and
Mr. Darling knew it, yet he sometimes wondered uneasily whether the
neighbours talked.

He had his position in the city to consider.

Nana also troubled him in another way. He had sometimes a feeling that
she did not admire him. “I know she admires you tremendously, George,”
 Mrs. Darling would assure him, and then she would sign to the children
to be specially nice to father. Lovely dances followed, in which the
only other servant, Liza, was sometimes allowed to join. Such a midget
she looked in her long skirt and maid's cap, though she had sworn, when
engaged, that she would never see ten again. The gaiety of those romps!
And gayest of all was Mrs. Darling, who would pirouette so wildly that
all you could see of her was the kiss, and then if you had dashed at her
you might have got it. There never was a simpler happier family until
the coming of Peter Pan.

Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her children's
minds. It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children
are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next
morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have
wandered during the day. If you could keep awake (but of course you
can't) you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it
very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying up drawers. You
would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some of
your contents, wondering where on earth you had picked this thing up,
making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as
if it were as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight.
When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with
which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom
of your mind and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your
prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on.

I don't know whether you have ever seen a map of a person's mind.
Doctors sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and your own map can
become intensely interesting, but catch them trying to draw a map of a
child's mind, which is not only confused, but keeps going round all
the time. There are zigzag lines on it, just like your temperature on a
card, and these are probably roads in the island, for the Neverland is
always more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of colour here
and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the offing, and
savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves
through which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a
hut fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose.
It would be an easy map if that were all, but there is also first day
at school, religion, fathers, the round pond, needle-work, murders,
hangings, verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding day, getting
into braces, say ninety-nine, three-pence for pulling out your tooth
yourself, and so on, and either these are part of the island or they are
another map showing through, and it is all rather confusing, especially
as nothing will stand still.

Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal. John's, for instance, had a
lagoon with flamingoes flying over it at which John was shooting, while
Michael, who was very small, had a flamingo with lagoons flying over
it. John lived in a boat turned upside down on the sands, Michael in
a wigwam, Wendy in a house of leaves deftly sewn together. John had no
friends, Michael had friends at night, Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by
its parents, but on the whole the Neverlands have a family resemblance,
and if they stood still in a row you could say of them that they have
each other's nose, and so forth. On these magic shores children at play
are for ever beaching their coracles [simple boat]. We too have been
there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no
more.

Of all delectable islands the Neverland is the snuggest and most
compact, not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances between
one adventure and another, but nicely crammed. When you play at it by
day with the chairs and table-cloth, it is not in the least alarming,
but in the two minutes before you go to sleep it becomes very real. That
is why there are night-lights.

Occasionally in her travels through her children's minds Mrs. Darling
found things she could not understand, and of these quite the most
perplexing was the word Peter. She knew of no Peter, and yet he was
here and there in John and Michael's minds, while Wendy's began to be
scrawled all over with him. The name stood out in bolder letters than
any of the other words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed she felt that it had
an oddly cocky appearance.

“Yes, he is rather cocky,” Wendy admitted with regret. Her mother had
been questioning her.

“But who is he, my pet?”

“He is Peter Pan, you know, mother.”

At first Mrs. Darling did not know, but after thinking back into her
childhood she just remembered a Peter Pan who was said to live with the
fairies. There were odd stories about him, as that when children died he
went part of the way with them, so that they should not be frightened.
She had believed in him at the time, but now that she was married and
full of sense she quite doubted whether there was any such person.

“Besides,” she said to Wendy, “he would be grown up by this time.”

“Oh no, he isn't grown up,” Wendy assured her confidently, “and he is
just my size.” She meant that he was her size in both mind and body; she
didn't know how she knew, she just knew it.

Mrs. Darling consulted Mr. Darling, but he smiled pooh-pooh. “Mark my
words,” he said, “it is some nonsense Nana has been putting into their
heads; just the sort of idea a dog would have. Leave it alone, and it
will blow over.”

But it would not blow over and soon the troublesome boy gave Mrs.
Darling quite a shock.

Children have the strangest adventures without being troubled by them.
For instance, they may remember to mention, a week after the event
happened, that when they were in the wood they had met their dead
father and had a game with him. It was in this casual way that Wendy one
morning made a disquieting revelation. Some leaves of a tree had been
found on the nursery floor, which certainly were not there when the
children went to bed, and Mrs. Darling was puzzling over them when Wendy
said with a tolerant smile:

“I do believe it is that Peter again!”

“Whatever do you mean, Wendy?”

“It is so naughty of him not to wipe his feet,” Wendy said, sighing. She
was a tidy child.

She explained in quite a matter-of-fact way that she thought Peter
sometimes came to the nursery in the night and sat on the foot of her
bed and played on his pipes to her. Unfortunately she never woke, so she
didn't know how she knew, she just knew.

“What nonsense you talk, precious. No one can get into the house without
knocking.”

“I think he comes in by the window,” she said.

“My love, it is three floors up.”

“Were not the leaves at the foot of the window, mother?”

It was quite true; the leaves had been found very near the window.

Mrs. Darling did not know what to think, for it all seemed so natural to
Wendy that you could not dismiss it by saying she had been dreaming.

“My child,” the mother cried, “why did you not tell me of this before?”

“I forgot,” said Wendy lightly. She was in a hurry to get her breakfast.

Oh, surely she must have been dreaming.

But, on the other hand, there were the leaves. Mrs. Darling examined
them very carefully; they were skeleton leaves, but she was sure they
did not come from any tree that grew in England. She crawled about the
floor, peering at it with a candle for marks of a strange foot. She
rattled the poker up the chimney and tapped the walls. She let down a
tape from the window to the pavement, and it was a sheer drop of thirty
feet, without so much as a spout to climb up by.

Certainly Wendy had been dreaming.

But Wendy had not been dreaming, as the very next night showed, the
night on which the extraordinary adventures of these children may be
said to have begun.

On the night we speak of all the children were once more in bed. It
happened to be Nana's evening off, and Mrs. Darling had bathed them and
sung to them till one by one they had let go her hand and slid away into
the land of sleep.

All were looking so safe and cosy that she smiled at her fears now and
sat down tranquilly by the fire to sew.

It was something for Michael, who on his birthday was getting into
shirts. The fire was warm, however, and the nursery dimly lit by three
night-lights, and presently the sewing lay on Mrs. Darling's lap. Then
her head nodded, oh, so gracefully. She was asleep. Look at the four of
them, Wendy and Michael over there, John here, and Mrs. Darling by the
fire. There should have been a fourth night-light.

While she slept she had a dream. She dreamt that the Neverland had come
too near and that a strange boy had broken through from it. He did not
alarm her, for she thought she had seen him before in the faces of many
women who have no children. Perhaps he is to be found in the faces of
some mothers also. But in her dream he had rent the film that obscures
the Neverland, and she saw Wendy and John and Michael peeping through
the gap.

The dream by itself would have been a trifle, but while she was dreaming
the window of the nursery blew open, and a boy did drop on the floor.
He was accompanied by a strange light, no bigger than your fist, which
darted about the room like a living thing and I think it must have been
this light that wakened Mrs. Darling.

She started up with a cry, and saw the boy, and somehow she knew at once
that he was Peter Pan. If you or I or Wendy had been there we should
have seen that he was very like Mrs. Darling's kiss. He was a lovely
boy, clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees but
the most entrancing thing about him was that he had all his first teeth.
When he saw she was a grown-up, he gnashed the little pearls at her.




Chapter 2 THE SHADOW

Mrs. Darling screamed, and, as if in answer to a bell, the door opened,
and Nana entered, returned from her evening out. She growled and sprang
at the boy, who leapt lightly through the window. Again Mrs. Darling
screamed, this time in distress for him, for she thought he was killed,
and she ran down into the street to look for his little body, but it
was not there; and she looked up, and in the black night she could see
nothing but what she thought was a shooting star.

She returned to the nursery, and found Nana with something in her mouth,
which proved to be the boy's shadow. As he leapt at the window Nana had
closed it quickly, too late to catch him, but his shadow had not had
time to get out; slam went the window and snapped it off.

You may be sure Mrs. Darling examined the shadow carefully, but it was
quite the ordinary kind.

Nana had no doubt of what was the best thing to do with this shadow. She
hung it out at the window, meaning “He is sure to come back for it; let
us put it where he can get it easily without disturbing the children.”

But unfortunately Mrs. Darling could not leave it hanging out at the
window, it looked so like the washing and lowered the whole tone of the
house. She thought of showing it to Mr. Darling, but he was totting up
winter great-coats for John and Michael, with a wet towel around his
head to keep his brain clear, and it seemed a shame to trouble him;
besides, she knew exactly what he would say: “It all comes of having a
dog for a nurse.”

She decided to roll the shadow up and put it away carefully in a drawer,
until a fitting opportunity came for telling her husband. Ah me!

The opportunity came a week later, on that never-to-be-forgotten Friday.
Of course it was a Friday.

“I ought to have been specially careful on a Friday,” she used to say
afterwards to her husband, while perhaps Nana was on the other side of
her, holding her hand.

“No, no,” Mr. Darling always said, “I am responsible for it all. I,
George Darling, did it. MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA.” He had had a classical
education.

They sat thus night after night recalling that fatal Friday, till every
detail of it was stamped on their brains and came through on the other
side like the faces on a bad coinage.

“If only I had not accepted that invitation to dine at 27,” Mrs. Darling
said.

“If only I had not poured my medicine into Nana's bowl,” said Mr.
Darling.

“If only I had pretended to like the medicine,” was what Nana's wet eyes
said.

“My liking for parties, George.”

“My fatal gift of humour, dearest.”

“My touchiness about trifles, dear master and mistress.”

Then one or more of them would break down altogether; Nana at the
thought, “It's true, it's true, they ought not to have had a dog for
a nurse.” Many a time it was Mr. Darling who put the handkerchief to
Nana's eyes.

“That fiend!” Mr. Darling would cry, and Nana's bark was the echo of
it, but Mrs. Darling never upbraided Peter; there was something in the
right-hand corner of her mouth that wanted her not to call Peter names.

They would sit there in the empty nursery, recalling fondly every
smallest detail of that dreadful evening. It had begun so uneventfully,
so precisely like a hundred other evenings, with Nana putting on the
water for Michael's bath and carrying him to it on her back.

“I won't go to bed,” he had shouted, like one who still believed that he
had the last word on the subject, “I won't, I won't. Nana, it isn't six
o'clock yet. Oh dear, oh dear, I shan't love you any more, Nana. I tell
you I won't be bathed, I won't, I won't!”

Then Mrs. Darling had come in, wearing her white evening-gown. She had
dressed early because Wendy so loved to see her in her evening-gown,
with the necklace George had given her. She was wearing Wendy's bracelet
on her arm; she had asked for the loan of it. Wendy loved to lend her
bracelet to her mother.

She had found her two older children playing at being herself and father
on the occasion of Wendy's birth, and John was saying:

“I am happy to inform you, Mrs. Darling, that you are now a mother,”
 in just such a tone as Mr. Darling himself may have used on the real
occasion.

Wendy had danced with joy, just as the real Mrs. Darling must have done.

Then John was born, with the extra pomp that he conceived due to the
birth of a male, and Michael came from his bath to ask to be born also,
but John said brutally that they did not want any more.

Michael had nearly cried. “Nobody wants me,” he said, and of course the
lady in the evening-dress could not stand that.

“I do,” she said, “I so want a third child.”

“Boy or girl?” asked Michael, not too hopefully.

“Boy.”

Then he had leapt into her arms. Such a little thing for Mr. and Mrs.
Darling and Nana to recall now, but not so little if that was to be
Michael's last night in the nursery.

They go on with their recollections.

“It was then that I rushed in like a tornado, wasn't it?” Mr. Darling
would say, scorning himself; and indeed he had been like a tornado.

Perhaps there was some excuse for him. He, too, had been dressing for
the party, and all had gone well with him until he came to his tie. It
is an astounding thing to have to tell, but this man, though he knew
about stocks and shares, had no real mastery of his tie. Sometimes the
thing yielded to him without a contest, but there were occasions when it
would have been better for the house if he had swallowed his pride and
used a made-up tie.

This was such an occasion. He came rushing into the nursery with the
crumpled little brute of a tie in his hand.

“Why, what is the matter, father dear?”

“Matter!” he yelled; he really yelled. “This tie, it will not tie.” He
became dangerously sarcastic. “Not round my neck! Round the bed-post!
Oh yes, twenty times have I made it up round the bed-post, but round my
neck, no! Oh dear no! begs to be excused!”

He thought Mrs. Darling was not sufficiently impressed, and he went on
sternly, “I warn you of this, mother, that unless this tie is round my
neck we don't go out to dinner to-night, and if I don't go out to dinner
to-night, I never go to the office again, and if I don't go to the
office again, you and I starve, and our children will be flung into the
streets.”

Even then Mrs. Darling was placid. “Let me try, dear,” she said, and
indeed that was what he had come to ask her to do, and with her nice
cool hands she tied his tie for him, while the children stood around to
see their fate decided. Some men would have resented her being able to
do it so easily, but Mr. Darling had far too fine a nature for that; he
thanked her carelessly, at once forgot his rage, and in another moment
was dancing round the room with Michael on his back.

“How wildly we romped!” says Mrs. Darling now, recalling it.

“Our last romp!” Mr. Darling groaned.

“O George, do you remember Michael suddenly said to me, 'How did you get
to know me, mother?'”

“I remember!”

“They were rather sweet, don't you think, George?”

“And they were ours, ours! and now they are gone.”

The romp had ended with the appearance of Nana, and most unluckily Mr.
Darling collided against her, covering his trousers with hairs. They
were not only new trousers, but they were the first he had ever had
with braid on them, and he had had to bite his lip to prevent the tears
coming. Of course Mrs. Darling brushed him, but he began to talk again
about its being a mistake to have a dog for a nurse.

“George, Nana is a treasure.”

“No doubt, but I have an uneasy feeling at times that she looks upon the
children as puppies.”

“Oh no, dear one, I feel sure she knows they have souls.”

“I wonder,” Mr. Darling said thoughtfully, “I wonder.” It was an
opportunity, his wife felt, for telling him about the boy. At first he
pooh-poohed the story, but he became thoughtful when she showed him the
shadow.

“It is nobody I know,” he said, examining it carefully, “but it does
look a scoundrel.”

“We were still discussing it, you remember,” says Mr. Darling, “when
Nana came in with Michael's medicine. You will never carry the bottle in
your mouth again, Nana, and it is all my fault.”

Strong man though he was, there is no doubt that he had behaved rather
foolishly over the medicine. If he had a weakness, it was for thinking
that all his life he had taken medicine boldly, and so now, when Michael
dodged the spoon in Nana's mouth, he had said reprovingly, “Be a man,
Michael.”

“Won't; won't!” Michael cried naughtily. Mrs. Darling left the room to
get a chocolate for him, and Mr. Darling thought this showed want of
firmness.

“Mother, don't pamper him,” he called after her. “Michael, when I was
your age I took medicine without a murmur. I said, 'Thank you, kind
parents, for giving me bottles to make me well.'”

He really thought this was true, and Wendy, who was now in her
night-gown, believed it also, and she said, to encourage Michael, “That
medicine you sometimes take, father, is much nastier, isn't it?”

“Ever so much nastier,” Mr. Darling said bravely, “and I would take it
now as an example to you, Michael, if I hadn't lost the bottle.”

He had not exactly lost it; he had climbed in the dead of night to the
top of the wardrobe and hidden it there. What he did not know was that
the faithful Liza had found it, and put it back on his wash-stand.

“I know where it is, father,” Wendy cried, always glad to be of service.
“I'll bring it,” and she was off before he could stop her. Immediately
his spirits sank in the strangest way.

“John,” he said, shuddering, “it's most beastly stuff. It's that nasty,
sticky, sweet kind.”

“It will soon be over, father,” John said cheerily, and then in rushed
Wendy with the medicine in a glass.

“I have been as quick as I could,” she panted.

“You have been wonderfully quick,” her father retorted, with a
vindictive politeness that was quite thrown away upon her. “Michael
first,” he said doggedly.

“Father first,” said Michael, who was of a suspicious nature.

“I shall be sick, you know,” Mr. Darling said threateningly.

“Come on, father,” said John.

“Hold your tongue, John,” his father rapped out.

Wendy was quite puzzled. “I thought you took it quite easily, father.”

“That is not the point,” he retorted. “The point is, that there is
more in my glass than in Michael's spoon.” His proud heart was nearly
bursting. “And it isn't fair: I would say it though it were with my last
breath; it isn't fair.”

“Father, I am waiting,” said Michael coldly.

“It's all very well to say you are waiting; so am I waiting.”

“Father's a cowardly custard.”

“So are you a cowardly custard.”

“I'm not frightened.”

“Neither am I frightened.”

“Well, then, take it.”

“Well, then, you take it.”

Wendy had a splendid idea. “Why not both take it at the same time?”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Darling. “Are you ready, Michael?”

Wendy gave the words, one, two, three, and Michael took his medicine,
but Mr. Darling slipped his behind his back.

There was a yell of rage from Michael, and “O father!” Wendy exclaimed.

“What do you mean by 'O father'?” Mr. Darling demanded. “Stop that row,
Michael. I meant to take mine, but I--I missed it.”

It was dreadful the way all the three were looking at him, just as if
they did not admire him. “Look here, all of you,” he said entreatingly,
as soon as Nana had gone into the bathroom. “I have just thought of a
splendid joke. I shall pour my medicine into Nana's bowl, and she will
drink it, thinking it is milk!”

It was the colour of milk; but the children did not have their father's
sense of humour, and they looked at him reproachfully as he poured the
medicine into Nana's bowl. “What fun!” he said doubtfully, and they did
not dare expose him when Mrs. Darling and Nana returned.

“Nana, good dog,” he said, patting her, “I have put a little milk into
your bowl, Nana.”

Nana wagged her tail, ran to the medicine, and began lapping it. Then
she gave Mr. Darling such a look, not an angry look: she showed him the
great red tear that makes us so sorry for noble dogs, and crept into her
kennel.

Mr. Darling was frightfully ashamed of himself, but he would not give
in. In a horrid silence Mrs. Darling smelt the bowl. “O George,” she
said, “it's your medicine!”

“It was only a joke,” he roared, while she comforted her boys, and Wendy
hugged Nana. “Much good,” he said bitterly, “my wearing myself to the
bone trying to be funny in this house.”

And still Wendy hugged Nana. “That's right,” he shouted. “Coddle her!
Nobody coddles me. Oh dear no! I am only the breadwinner, why should I
be coddled--why, why, why!”

“George,” Mrs. Darling entreated him, “not so loud; the servants
will hear you.” Somehow they had got into the way of calling Liza the
servants.

“Let them!” he answered recklessly. “Bring in the whole world. But I
refuse to allow that dog to lord it in my nursery for an hour longer.”

The children wept, and Nana ran to him beseechingly, but he waved her
back. He felt he was a strong man again. “In vain, in vain,” he cried;
“the proper place for you is the yard, and there you go to be tied up
this instant.”

“George, George,” Mrs. Darling whispered, “remember what I told you
about that boy.”

Alas, he would not listen. He was determined to show who was master in
that house, and when commands would not draw Nana from the kennel, he
lured her out of it with honeyed words, and seizing her roughly, dragged
her from the nursery. He was ashamed of himself, and yet he did it.
It was all owing to his too affectionate nature, which craved for
admiration. When he had tied her up in the back-yard, the wretched
father went and sat in the passage, with his knuckles to his eyes.

In the meantime Mrs. Darling had put the children to bed in unwonted
silence and lit their night-lights. They could hear Nana barking, and
John whimpered, “It is because he is chaining her up in the yard,” but
Wendy was wiser.

“That is not Nana's unhappy bark,” she said, little guessing what was
about to happen; “that is her bark when she smells danger.”

Danger!

“Are you sure, Wendy?”

“Oh, yes.”

Mrs. Darling quivered and went to the window. It was securely fastened.
She looked out, and the night was peppered with stars. They were
crowding round the house, as if curious to see what was to take place
there, but she did not notice this, nor that one or two of the smaller
ones winked at her. Yet a nameless fear clutched at her heart and made
her cry, “Oh, how I wish that I wasn't going to a party to-night!”

Even Michael, already half asleep, knew that she was perturbed, and he
asked, “Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?”

“Nothing, precious,” she said; “they are the eyes a mother leaves behind
her to guard her children.”

She went from bed to bed singing enchantments over them, and little
Michael flung his arms round her. “Mother,” he cried, “I'm glad of you.”
 They were the last words she was to hear from him for a long time.

No. 27 was only a few yards distant, but there had been a slight fall of
snow, and Father and Mother Darling picked their way over it deftly not
to soil their shoes. They were already the only persons in the street,
and all the stars were watching them. Stars are beautiful, but they may
not take an active part in anything, they must just look on for ever. It
is a punishment put on them for something they did so long ago that no
star now knows what it was. So the older ones have become glassy-eyed
and seldom speak (winking is the star language), but the little
ones still wonder. They are not really friendly to Peter, who had a
mischievous way of stealing up behind them and trying to blow them out;
but they are so fond of fun that they were on his side to-night, and
anxious to get the grown-ups out of the way. So as soon as the door
of 27 closed on Mr. and Mrs. Darling there was a commotion in the
firmament, and the smallest of all the stars in the Milky Way screamed
out:

“Now, Peter!”




Chapter 3 COME AWAY, COME AWAY!

For a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Darling left the house the night-lights
by the beds of the three children continued to burn clearly. They were
awfully nice little night-lights, and one cannot help wishing that they
could have kept awake to see Peter; but Wendy's light blinked and gave
such a yawn that the other two yawned also, and before they could close
their mouths all the three went out.

There was another light in the room now, a thousand times brighter than
the night-lights, and in the time we have taken to say this, it had been
in all the drawers in the nursery, looking for Peter's shadow, rummaged
the wardrobe and turned every pocket inside out. It was not really a
light; it made this light by flashing about so quickly, but when it came
to rest for a second you saw it was a fairy, no longer than your hand,
but still growing. It was a girl called Tinker Bell exquisitely gowned
in a skeleton leaf, cut low and square, through which her figure could
be seen to the best advantage. She was slightly inclined to EMBONPOINT.
[plump hourglass figure]

A moment after the fairy's entrance the window was blown open by the
breathing of the little stars, and Peter dropped in. He had carried
Tinker Bell part of the way, and his hand was still messy with the fairy
dust.

“Tinker Bell,” he called softly, after making sure that the children
were asleep, “Tink, where are you?” She was in a jug for the moment, and
liking it extremely; she had never been in a jug before.

“Oh, do come out of that jug, and tell me, do you know where they put my
shadow?”

The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered him. It is the fairy
language. You ordinary children can never hear it, but if you were to
hear it you would know that you had heard it once before.

Tink said that the shadow was in the big box. She meant the chest of
drawers, and Peter jumped at the drawers, scattering their contents to
the floor with both hands, as kings toss ha'pence to the crowd. In a
moment he had recovered his shadow, and in his delight he forgot that he
had shut Tinker Bell up in the drawer.

If he thought at all, but I don't believe he ever thought, it was that
he and his shadow, when brought near each other, would join like drops
of water, and when they did not he was appalled. He tried to stick it
on with soap from the bathroom, but that also failed. A shudder passed
through Peter, and he sat on the floor and cried.

His sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. She was not alarmed to see
a stranger crying on the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly
interested.

“Boy,” she said courteously, “why are you crying?”

Peter could be exceeding polite also, having learned the grand manner at
fairy ceremonies, and he rose and bowed to her beautifully. She was much
pleased, and bowed beautifully to him from the bed.

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” she replied with some satisfaction. “What
is your name?”

“Peter Pan.”

She was already sure that he must be Peter, but it did seem a
comparatively short name.

“Is that all?”

“Yes,” he said rather sharply. He felt for the first time that it was a
shortish name.

“I'm so sorry,” said Wendy Moira Angela.

“It doesn't matter,” Peter gulped.

She asked where he lived.

“Second to the right,” said Peter, “and then straight on till morning.”

“What a funny address!”

Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt that perhaps it was a
funny address.

“No, it isn't,” he said.

“I mean,” Wendy said nicely, remembering that she was hostess, “is that
what they put on the letters?”

He wished she had not mentioned letters.

“Don't get any letters,” he said contemptuously.

“But your mother gets letters?”

“Don't have a mother,” he said. Not only had he no mother, but he had
not the slightest desire to have one. He thought them very over-rated
persons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a
tragedy.

“O Peter, no wonder you were crying,” she said, and got out of bed and
ran to him.

“I wasn't crying about mothers,” he said rather indignantly. “I was
crying because I can't get my shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn't
crying.”

“It has come off?”

“Yes.”

Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was
frightfully sorry for Peter. “How awful!” she said, but she could not
help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with
soap. How exactly like a boy!

Fortunately she knew at once what to do. “It must be sewn on,” she said,
just a little patronisingly.

“What's sewn?” he asked.

“You're dreadfully ignorant.”

“No, I'm not.”

But she was exulting in his ignorance. “I shall sew it on for you, my
little man,” she said, though he was tall as herself, and she got out
her housewife [sewing bag], and sewed the shadow on to Peter's foot.

“I daresay it will hurt a little,” she warned him.

“Oh, I shan't cry,” said Peter, who was already of the opinion that he
had never cried in his life. And he clenched his teeth and did not
cry, and soon his shadow was behaving properly, though still a little
creased.

“Perhaps I should have ironed it,” Wendy said thoughtfully, but Peter,
boylike, was indifferent to appearances, and he was now jumping about in
the wildest glee. Alas, he had already forgotten that he owed his bliss
to Wendy. He thought he had attached the shadow himself. “How clever I
am!” he crowed rapturously, “oh, the cleverness of me!”

It is humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Peter was
one of his most fascinating qualities. To put it with brutal frankness,
there never was a cockier boy.

But for the moment Wendy was shocked. “You conceit [braggart],” she
exclaimed, with frightful sarcasm; “of course I did nothing!”

“You did a little,” Peter said carelessly, and continued to dance.

“A little!” she replied with hauteur [pride]; “if I am no use I can at
least withdraw,” and she sprang in the most dignified way into bed and
covered her face with the blankets.

To induce her to look up he pretended to be going away, and when this
failed he sat on the end of the bed and tapped her gently with his foot.
“Wendy,” he said, “don't withdraw. I can't help crowing, Wendy, when
I'm pleased with myself.” Still she would not look up, though she was
listening eagerly. “Wendy,” he continued, in a voice that no woman has
ever yet been able to resist, “Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty
boys.”

Now Wendy was every inch a woman, though there were not very many
inches, and she peeped out of the bed-clothes.

“Do you really think so, Peter?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I think it's perfectly sweet of you,” she declared, “and I'll get up
again,” and she sat with him on the side of the bed. She also said
she would give him a kiss if he liked, but Peter did not know what she
meant, and he held out his hand expectantly.

“Surely you know what a kiss is?” she asked, aghast.

“I shall know when you give it to me,” he replied stiffly, and not to
hurt his feeling she gave him a thimble.

“Now,” said he, “shall I give you a kiss?” and she replied with a slight
primness, “If you please.” She made herself rather cheap by inclining
her face toward him, but he merely dropped an acorn button into her
hand, so she slowly returned her face to where it had been before, and
said nicely that she would wear his kiss on the chain around her neck.
It was lucky that she did put it on that chain, for it was afterwards to
save her life.

When people in our set are introduced, it is customary for them to
ask each other's age, and so Wendy, who always liked to do the correct
thing, asked Peter how old he was. It was not really a happy question to
ask him; it was like an examination paper that asks grammar, when what
you want to be asked is Kings of England.

“I don't know,” he replied uneasily, “but I am quite young.” He really
knew nothing about it, he had merely suspicions, but he said at a
venture, “Wendy, I ran away the day I was born.”

Wendy was quite surprised, but interested; and she indicated in the
charming drawing-room manner, by a touch on her night-gown, that he
could sit nearer her.

“It was because I heard father and mother,” he explained in a low
voice, “talking about what I was to be when I became a man.” He was
extraordinarily agitated now. “I don't want ever to be a man,” he said
with passion. “I want always to be a little boy and to have fun. So
I ran away to Kensington Gardens and lived a long long time among the
fairies.”

She gave him a look of the most intense admiration, and he thought it
was because he had run away, but it was really because he knew fairies.
Wendy had lived such a home life that to know fairies struck her as
quite delightful. She poured out questions about them, to his surprise,
for they were rather a nuisance to him, getting in his way and so on,
and indeed he sometimes had to give them a hiding [spanking]. Still, he
liked them on the whole, and he told her about the beginning of fairies.

“You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the first time, its
laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about,
and that was the beginning of fairies.”

Tedious talk this, but being a stay-at-home she liked it.

“And so,” he went on good-naturedly, “there ought to be one fairy for
every boy and girl.”

“Ought to be? Isn't there?”

“No. You see children know such a lot now, they soon don't believe in
fairies, and every time a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies,'
there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead.”

Really, he thought they had now talked enough about fairies, and it
struck him that Tinker Bell was keeping very quiet. “I can't think where
she has gone to,” he said, rising, and he called Tink by name. Wendy's
heart went flutter with a sudden thrill.

“Peter,” she cried, clutching him, “you don't mean to tell me that there
is a fairy in this room!”

“She was here just now,” he said a little impatiently. “You don't hear
her, do you?” and they both listened.

“The only sound I hear,” said Wendy, “is like a tinkle of bells.”

“Well, that's Tink, that's the fairy language. I think I hear her too.”

The sound came from the chest of drawers, and Peter made a merry face.
No one could ever look quite so merry as Peter, and the loveliest of
gurgles was his laugh. He had his first laugh still.

“Wendy,” he whispered gleefully, “I do believe I shut her up in the
drawer!”

He let poor Tink out of the drawer, and she flew about the nursery
screaming with fury. “You shouldn't say such things,” Peter retorted.
“Of course I'm very sorry, but how could I know you were in the drawer?”

Wendy was not listening to him. “O Peter,” she cried, “if she would only
stand still and let me see her!”

“They hardly ever stand still,” he said, but for one moment Wendy saw
the romantic figure come to rest on the cuckoo clock. “O the lovely!”
 she cried, though Tink's face was still distorted with passion.

“Tink,” said Peter amiably, “this lady says she wishes you were her
fairy.”

Tinker Bell answered insolently.

“What does she say, Peter?”

He had to translate. “She is not very polite. She says you are a great
[huge] ugly girl, and that she is my fairy.”

He tried to argue with Tink. “You know you can't be my fairy, Tink,
because I am an gentleman and you are a lady.”

To this Tink replied in these words, “You silly ass,” and disappeared
into the bathroom. “She is quite a common fairy,” Peter explained
apologetically, “she is called Tinker Bell because she mends the pots
and kettles [tinker = tin worker].” [Similar to “cinder” plus “elle” to
get Cinderella]

They were together in the armchair by this time, and Wendy plied him
with more questions.

“If you don't live in Kensington Gardens now--”

“Sometimes I do still.”

“But where do you live mostly now?”

“With the lost boys.”

“Who are they?”

“They are the children who fall out of their perambulators when the
nurse is looking the other way. If they are not claimed in seven
days they are sent far away to the Neverland to defray expenses. I'm
captain.”

“What fun it must be!”

“Yes,” said cunning Peter, “but we are rather lonely. You see we have no
female companionship.”

“Are none of the others girls?”

“Oh, no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their
prams.”

This flattered Wendy immensely. “I think,” she said, “it is perfectly
lovely the way you talk about girls; John there just despises us.”

For reply Peter rose and kicked John out of bed, blankets and all; one
kick. This seemed to Wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and she
told him with spirit that he was not captain in her house. However,
John continued to sleep so placidly on the floor that she allowed him
to remain there. “And I know you meant to be kind,” she said, relenting,
“so you may give me a kiss.”

For the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses. “I thought
you would want it back,” he said a little bitterly, and offered to
return her the thimble.

“Oh dear,” said the nice Wendy, “I don't mean a kiss, I mean a thimble.”

“What's that?”

“It's like this.” She kissed him.

“Funny!” said Peter gravely. “Now shall I give you a thimble?”

“If you wish to,” said Wendy, keeping her head erect this time.

Peter thimbled her, and almost immediately she screeched. “What is it,
Wendy?”

“It was exactly as if someone were pulling my hair.”

“That must have been Tink. I never knew her so naughty before.”

And indeed Tink was darting about again, using offensive language.

“She says she will do that to you, Wendy, every time I give you a
thimble.”

“But why?”

“Why, Tink?”

Again Tink replied, “You silly ass.” Peter could not understand why,
but Wendy understood, and she was just slightly disappointed when he
admitted that he came to the nursery window not to see her but to listen
to stories.

“You see, I don't know any stories. None of the lost boys knows any
stories.”

“How perfectly awful,” Wendy said.

“Do you know,” Peter asked “why swallows build in the eaves of houses?
It is to listen to the stories. O Wendy, your mother was telling you
such a lovely story.”

“Which story was it?”

“About the prince who couldn't find the lady who wore the glass
slipper.”

“Peter,” said Wendy excitedly, “that was Cinderella, and he found her,
and they lived happily ever after.”

Peter was so glad that he rose from the floor, where they had been
sitting, and hurried to the window.

“Where are you going?” she cried with misgiving.

“To tell the other boys.”

“Don't go Peter,” she entreated, “I know such lots of stories.”

Those were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was she
who first tempted him.

He came back, and there was a greedy look in his eyes now which ought to
have alarmed her, but did not.

“Oh, the stories I could tell to the boys!” she cried, and then Peter
gripped her and began to draw her toward the window.

“Let me go!” she ordered him.

“Wendy, do come with me and tell the other boys.”

Of course she was very pleased to be asked, but she said, “Oh dear, I
can't. Think of mummy! Besides, I can't fly.”

“I'll teach you.”

“Oh, how lovely to fly.”

“I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and then away we go.”

“Oo!” she exclaimed rapturously.

“Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be
flying about with me saying funny things to the stars.”

“Oo!”

“And, Wendy, there are mermaids.”

“Mermaids! With tails?”

“Such long tails.”

“Oh,” cried Wendy, “to see a mermaid!”

He had become frightfully cunning. “Wendy,” he said, “how we should all
respect you.”

She was wriggling her body in distress. It was quite as if she were
trying to remain on the nursery floor.

But he had no pity for her.

“Wendy,” he said, the sly one, “you could tuck us in at night.”

“Oo!”

“None of us has ever been tucked in at night.”

“Oo,” and her arms went out to him.

“And you could darn our clothes, and make pockets for us. None of us has
any pockets.”

How could she resist. “Of course it's awfully fascinating!” she cried.
“Peter, would you teach John and Michael to fly too?”

“If you like,” he said indifferently, and she ran to John and Michael
and shook them. “Wake up,” she cried, “Peter Pan has come and he is to
teach us to fly.”

John rubbed his eyes. “Then I shall get up,” he said. Of course he was
on the floor already. “Hallo,” he said, “I am up!”

Michael was up by this time also, looking as sharp as a knife with six
blades and a saw, but Peter suddenly signed silence. Their faces assumed
the awful craftiness of children listening for sounds from the grown-up
world. All was as still as salt. Then everything was right. No, stop!
Everything was wrong. Nana, who had been barking distressfully all the
evening, was quiet now. It was her silence they had heard.

“Out with the light! Hide! Quick!” cried John, taking command for the
only time throughout the whole adventure. And thus when Liza entered,
holding Nana, the nursery seemed quite its old self, very dark, and
you would have sworn you heard its three wicked inmates breathing
angelically as they slept. They were really doing it artfully from
behind the window curtains.

Liza was in a bad temper, for she was mixing the Christmas puddings in
the kitchen, and had been drawn from them, with a raisin still on her
cheek, by Nana's absurd suspicions. She thought the best way of getting
a little quiet was to take Nana to the nursery for a moment, but in
custody of course.

“There, you suspicious brute,” she said, not sorry that Nana was in
disgrace. “They are perfectly safe, aren't they? Every one of the little
angels sound asleep in bed. Listen to their gentle breathing.”

Here Michael, encouraged by his success, breathed so loudly that they
were nearly detected. Nana knew that kind of breathing, and she tried to
drag herself out of Liza's clutches.

But Liza was dense. “No more of it, Nana,” she said sternly, pulling
her out of the room. “I warn you if you bark again I shall go straight
for master and missus and bring them home from the party, and then, oh,
won't master whip you, just.”

She tied the unhappy dog up again, but do you think Nana ceased to bark?
Bring master and missus home from the party! Why, that was just what she
wanted. Do you think she cared whether she was whipped so long as her
charges were safe? Unfortunately Liza returned to her puddings, and
Nana, seeing that no help would come from her, strained and strained at
the chain until at last she broke it. In another moment she had burst
into the dining-room of 27 and flung up her paws to heaven, her most
expressive way of making a communication. Mr. and Mrs. Darling knew at
once that something terrible was happening in their nursery, and without
a good-bye to their hostess they rushed into the street.

But it was now ten minutes since three scoundrels had been breathing
behind the curtains, and Peter Pan can do a great deal in ten minutes.

We now return to the nursery.

“It's all right,” John announced, emerging from his hiding-place. “I
say, Peter, can you really fly?”

Instead of troubling to answer him Peter flew around the room, taking
the mantelpiece on the way.

“How topping!” said John and Michael.

“How sweet!” cried Wendy.

“Yes, I'm sweet, oh, I am sweet!” said Peter, forgetting his manners
again.

It looked delightfully easy, and they tried it first from the floor and
then from the beds, but they always went down instead of up.

“I say, how do you do it?” asked John, rubbing his knee. He was quite a
practical boy.

“You just think lovely wonderful thoughts,” Peter explained, “and they
lift you up in the air.”

He showed them again.

“You're so nippy at it,” John said, “couldn't you do it very slowly
once?”

Peter did it both slowly and quickly. “I've got it now, Wendy!” cried
John, but soon he found he had not. Not one of them could fly an inch,
though even Michael was in words of two syllables, and Peter did not
know A from Z.

Of course Peter had been trifling with them, for no one can fly unless
the fairy dust has been blown on him. Fortunately, as we have mentioned,
one of his hands was messy with it, and he blew some on each of them,
with the most superb results.

“Now just wiggle your shoulders this way,” he said, “and let go.”

They were all on their beds, and gallant Michael let go first. He did
not quite mean to let go, but he did it, and immediately he was borne
across the room.

“I flewed!” he screamed while still in mid-air.

John let go and met Wendy near the bathroom.

“Oh, lovely!”

“Oh, ripping!”

“Look at me!”

“Look at me!”

“Look at me!”

They were not nearly so elegant as Peter, they could not help kicking a
little, but their heads were bobbing against the ceiling, and there is
almost nothing so delicious as that. Peter gave Wendy a hand at first,
but had to desist, Tink was so indignant.

Up and down they went, and round and round. Heavenly was Wendy's word.

“I say,” cried John, “why shouldn't we all go out?”

Of course it was to this that Peter had been luring them.

Michael was ready: he wanted to see how long it took him to do a billion
miles. But Wendy hesitated.

“Mermaids!” said Peter again.

“Oo!”

“And there are pirates.”

“Pirates,” cried John, seizing his Sunday hat, “let us go at once.”

It was just at this moment that Mr. and Mrs. Darling hurried with Nana
out of 27. They ran into the middle of the street to look up at the
nursery window; and, yes, it was still shut, but the room was ablaze
with light, and most heart-gripping sight of all, they could see in
shadow on the curtain three little figures in night attire circling
round and round, not on the floor but in the air.

Not three figures, four!

In a tremble they opened the street door. Mr. Darling would have rushed
upstairs, but Mrs. Darling signed him to go softly. She even tried to
make her heart go softly.

Will they reach the nursery in time? If so, how delightful for them, and
we shall all breathe a sigh of relief, but there will be no story. On
the other hand, if they are not in time, I solemnly promise that it will
all come right in the end.

They would have reached the nursery in time had it not been that the
little stars were watching them. Once again the stars blew the window
open, and that smallest star of all called out:

“Cave, Peter!”

Then Peter knew that there was not a moment to lose. “Come,” he cried
imperiously, and soared out at once into the night, followed by John and
Michael and Wendy.

Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Nana rushed into the nursery too late. The
birds were flown.




Chapter 4 THE FLIGHT

“Second to the right, and straight on till morning.”

That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to the Neverland; but even
birds, carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not
have sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, just said
anything that came into his head.

At first his companions trusted him implicitly, and so great were the
delights of flying that they wasted time circling round church spires or
any other tall objects on the way that took their fancy.

John and Michael raced, Michael getting a start.

They recalled with contempt that not so long ago they had thought
themselves fine fellows for being able to fly round a room.

Not long ago. But how long ago? They were flying over the sea before
this thought began to disturb Wendy seriously. John thought it was their
second sea and their third night.

Sometimes it was dark and sometimes light, and now they were very cold
and again too warm. Did they really feel hungry at times, or were they
merely pretending, because Peter had such a jolly new way of feeding
them? His way was to pursue birds who had food in their mouths suitable
for humans and snatch it from them; then the birds would follow and
snatch it back; and they would all go chasing each other gaily for
miles, parting at last with mutual expressions of good-will. But Wendy
noticed with gentle concern that Peter did not seem to know that this
was rather an odd way of getting your bread and butter, nor even that
there are other ways.

Certainly they did not pretend to be sleepy, they were sleepy; and that
was a danger, for the moment they popped off, down they fell. The awful
thing was that Peter thought this funny.

“There he goes again!” he would cry gleefully, as Michael suddenly
dropped like a stone.

“Save him, save him!” cried Wendy, looking with horror at the cruel
sea far below. Eventually Peter would dive through the air, and catch
Michael just before he could strike the sea, and it was lovely the way
he did it; but he always waited till the last moment, and you felt it
was his cleverness that interested him and not the saving of human life.
Also he was fond of variety, and the sport that engrossed him one moment
would suddenly cease to engage him, so there was always the possibility
that the next time you fell he would let you go.

He could sleep in the air without falling, by merely lying on his back
and floating, but this was, partly at least, because he was so light
that if you got behind him and blew he went faster.

“Do be more polite to him,” Wendy whispered to John, when they were
playing “Follow my Leader.”

“Then tell him to stop showing off,” said John.

When playing Follow my Leader, Peter would fly close to the water and
touch each shark's tail in passing, just as in the street you may run
your finger along an iron railing. They could not follow him in this
with much success, so perhaps it was rather like showing off, especially
as he kept looking behind to see how many tails they missed.

“You must be nice to him,” Wendy impressed on her brothers. “What could
we do if he were to leave us!”

“We could go back,” Michael said.

“How could we ever find our way back without him?”

“Well, then, we could go on,” said John.

“That is the awful thing, John. We should have to go on, for we don't
know how to stop.”

This was true, Peter had forgotten to show them how to stop.

John said that if the worst came to the worst, all they had to do was to
go straight on, for the world was round, and so in time they must come
back to their own window.

“And who is to get food for us, John?”

“I nipped a bit out of that eagle's mouth pretty neatly, Wendy.”

“After the twentieth try,” Wendy reminded him. “And even though we
became good at picking up food, see how we bump against clouds and things
if he is not near to give us a hand.”

Indeed they were constantly bumping. They could now fly strongly, though
they still kicked far too much; but if they saw a cloud in front of
them, the more they tried to avoid it, the more certainly did they bump
into it. If Nana had been with them, she would have had a bandage round
Michael's forehead by this time.

Peter was not with them for the moment, and they felt rather lonely up
there by themselves. He could go so much faster than they that he would
suddenly shoot out of sight, to have some adventure in which they had no
share. He would come down laughing over something fearfully funny he had
been saying to a star, but he had already forgotten what it was, or he
would come up with mermaid scales still sticking to him, and yet not be
able to say for certain what had been happening. It was really rather
irritating to children who had never seen a mermaid.

“And if he forgets them so quickly,” Wendy argued, “how can we expect
that he will go on remembering us?”

Indeed, sometimes when he returned he did not remember them, at least
not well. Wendy was sure of it. She saw recognition come into his eyes
as he was about to pass them the time of day and go on; once even she
had to call him by name.

“I'm Wendy,” she said agitatedly.

He was very sorry. “I say, Wendy,” he whispered to her, “always if you
see me forgetting you, just keep on saying 'I'm Wendy,' and then I'll
remember.”

Of course this was rather unsatisfactory. However, to make amends he
showed them how to lie out flat on a strong wind that was going their
way, and this was such a pleasant change that they tried it several
times and found that they could sleep thus with security. Indeed they
would have slept longer, but Peter tired quickly of sleeping, and soon
he would cry in his captain voice, “We get off here.” So with occasional
tiffs, but on the whole rollicking, they drew near the Neverland; for
after many moons they did reach it, and, what is more, they had been
going pretty straight all the time, not perhaps so much owing to the
guidance of Peter or Tink as because the island was looking for them. It
is only thus that any one may sight those magic shores.

“There it is,” said Peter calmly.

“Where, where?”

“Where all the arrows are pointing.”

Indeed a million golden arrows were pointing it out to the children, all
directed by their friend the sun, who wanted them to be sure of their
way before leaving them for the night.

Wendy and John and Michael stood on tip-toe in the air to get their
first sight of the island. Strange to say, they all recognized it at
once, and until fear fell upon them they hailed it, not as something
long dreamt of and seen at last, but as a familiar friend to whom they
were returning home for the holidays.

“John, there's the lagoon.”

“Wendy, look at the turtles burying their eggs in the sand.”

“I say, John, I see your flamingo with the broken leg!”

“Look, Michael, there's your cave!”

“John, what's that in the brushwood?”

“It's a wolf with her whelps. Wendy, I do believe that's your little
whelp!”

“There's my boat, John, with her sides stove in!”

“No, it isn't. Why, we burned your boat.”

“That's her, at any rate. I say, John, I see the smoke of the redskin
camp!”

“Where? Show me, and I'll tell you by the way smoke curls whether they
are on the war-path.”

“There, just across the Mysterious River.”

“I see now. Yes, they are on the war-path right enough.”

Peter was a little annoyed with them for knowing so much, but if he
wanted to lord it over them his triumph was at hand, for have I not told
you that anon fear fell upon them?

It came as the arrows went, leaving the island in gloom.

In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little
dark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it
and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of
prey was quite different now, and above all, you lost the certainty that
you would win. You were quite glad that the night-lights were on. You
even liked Nana to say that this was just the mantelpiece over here, and
that the Neverland was all make-believe.

Of course the Neverland had been make-believe in those days, but it
was real now, and there were no night-lights, and it was getting darker
every moment, and where was Nana?

They had been flying apart, but they huddled close to Peter now. His
careless manner had gone at last, his eyes were sparkling, and a tingle
went through them every time they touched his body. They were now over
the fearsome island, flying so low that sometimes a tree grazed their
feet. Nothing horrid was visible in the air, yet their progress had
become slow and laboured, exactly as if they were pushing their way
through hostile forces. Sometimes they hung in the air until Peter had
beaten on it with his fists.

“They don't want us to land,” he explained.

“Who are they?” Wendy whispered, shuddering.

But he could not or would not say. Tinker Bell had been asleep on his
shoulder, but now he wakened her and sent her on in front.

Sometimes he poised himself in the air, listening intently, with his
hand to his ear, and again he would stare down with eyes so bright that
they seemed to bore two holes to earth. Having done these things, he
went on again.

His courage was almost appalling. “Would you like an adventure now,” he
said casually to John, “or would you like to have your tea first?”

Wendy said “tea first” quickly, and Michael pressed her hand in
gratitude, but the braver John hesitated.

“What kind of adventure?” he asked cautiously.

“There's a pirate asleep in the pampas just beneath us,” Peter told him.
“If you like, we'll go down and kill him.”

“I don't see him,” John said after a long pause.

“I do.”

“Suppose,” John said, a little huskily, “he were to wake up.”

Peter spoke indignantly. “You don't think I would kill him while he was
sleeping! I would wake him first, and then kill him. That's the way I
always do.”

“I say! Do you kill many?”

“Tons.”

John said “How ripping,” but decided to have tea first. He asked if
there were many pirates on the island just now, and Peter said he had
never known so many.

“Who is captain now?”

“Hook,” answered Peter, and his face became very stern as he said that
hated word.

“Jas. Hook?”

“Ay.”

Then indeed Michael began to cry, and even John could speak in gulps
only, for they knew Hook's reputation.

“He was Blackbeard's bo'sun,” John whispered huskily. “He is the worst
of them all. He is the only man of whom Barbecue was afraid.”

“That's him,” said Peter.

“What is he like? Is he big?”

“He is not so big as he was.”

“How do you mean?”

“I cut off a bit of him.”

“You!”

“Yes, me,” said Peter sharply.

“I wasn't meaning to be disrespectful.”

“Oh, all right.”

“But, I say, what bit?”

“His right hand.”

“Then he can't fight now?”

“Oh, can't he just!”

“Left-hander?”

“He has an iron hook instead of a right hand, and he claws with it.”

“Claws!”

“I say, John,” said Peter.

“Yes.”

“Say, 'Ay, ay, sir.'”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“There is one thing,” Peter continued, “that every boy who serves under
me has to promise, and so must you.”

John paled.

“It is this, if we meet Hook in open fight, you must leave him to me.”

“I promise,” John said loyally.

For the moment they were feeling less eerie, because Tink was flying
with them, and in her light they could distinguish each other.
Unfortunately she could not fly so slowly as they, and so she had to go
round and round them in a circle in which they moved as in a halo. Wendy
quite liked it, until Peter pointed out the drawbacks.

“She tells me,” he said, “that the pirates sighted us before the
darkness came, and got Long Tom out.”

“The big gun?”

“Yes. And of course they must see her light, and if they guess we are
near it they are sure to let fly.”

“Wendy!”

“John!”

“Michael!”

“Tell her to go away at once, Peter,” the three cried simultaneously,
but he refused.

“She thinks we have lost the way,” he replied stiffly, “and she is
rather frightened. You don't think I would send her away all by herself
when she is frightened!”

For a moment the circle of light was broken, and something gave Peter a
loving little pinch.

“Then tell her,” Wendy begged, “to put out her light.”

“She can't put it out. That is about the only thing fairies can't do. It
just goes out of itself when she falls asleep, same as the stars.”

“Then tell her to sleep at once,” John almost ordered.

“She can't sleep except when she's sleepy. It is the only other thing
fairies can't do.”

“Seems to me,” growled John, “these are the only two things worth
doing.”

Here he got a pinch, but not a loving one.

“If only one of us had a pocket,” Peter said, “we could carry her in
it.” However, they had set off in such a hurry that there was not a
pocket between the four of them.

He had a happy idea. John's hat!

Tink agreed to travel by hat if it was carried in the hand. John carried
it, though she had hoped to be carried by Peter. Presently Wendy took
the hat, because John said it struck against his knee as he flew; and
this, as we shall see, led to mischief, for Tinker Bell hated to be
under an obligation to Wendy.

In the black topper the light was completely hidden, and they flew on in
silence. It was the stillest silence they had ever known, broken once by
a distant lapping, which Peter explained was the wild beasts drinking at
the ford, and again by a rasping sound that might have been the branches
of trees rubbing together, but he said it was the redskins sharpening
their knives.

Even these noises ceased. To Michael the loneliness was dreadful. “If
only something would make a sound!” he cried.

As if in answer to his request, the air was rent by the most tremendous
crash he had ever heard. The pirates had fired Long Tom at them.

The roar of it echoed through the mountains, and the echoes seemed to
cry savagely, “Where are they, where are they, where are they?”

Thus sharply did the terrified three learn the difference between an
island of make-believe and the same island come true.

When at last the heavens were steady again, John and Michael
found themselves alone in the darkness. John was treading the air
mechanically, and Michael without knowing how to float was floating.

“Are you shot?” John whispered tremulously.

“I haven't tried [myself out] yet,” Michael whispered back.

We know now that no one had been hit. Peter, however, had been carried
by the wind of the shot far out to sea, while Wendy was blown upwards
with no companion but Tinker Bell.

It would have been well for Wendy if at that moment she had dropped the
hat.

I don't know whether the idea came suddenly to Tink, or whether she had
planned it on the way, but she at once popped out of the hat and began
to lure Wendy to her destruction.

Tink was not all bad; or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the
other hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be one thing or
the other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one
feeling only at a time. They are, however, allowed to change, only it
must be a complete change. At present she was full of jealousy of Wendy.
What she said in her lovely tinkle Wendy could not of course understand,
and I believe some of it was bad words, but it sounded kind, and she
flew back and forward, plainly meaning “Follow me, and all will be
well.”

What else could poor Wendy do? She called to Peter and John and Michael,
and got only mocking echoes in reply. She did not yet know that Tink
hated her with the fierce hatred of a very woman. And so, bewildered,
and now staggering in her flight, she followed Tink to her doom.




Chapter 5 THE ISLAND COME TRUE

Feeling that Peter was on his way back, the Neverland had again woke
into life. We ought to use the pluperfect and say wakened, but woke is
better and was always used by Peter.

In his absence things are usually quiet on the island. The fairies take
an hour longer in the morning, the beasts attend to their young, the
redskins feed heavily for six days and nights, and when pirates and
lost boys meet they merely bite their thumbs at each other. But with the
coming of Peter, who hates lethargy, they are under way again: if you
put your ear to the ground now, you would hear the whole island seething
with life.

On this evening the chief forces of the island were disposed as follows.
The lost boys were out looking for Peter, the pirates were out looking
for the lost boys, the redskins were out looking for the pirates, and
the beasts were out looking for the redskins. They were going round and
round the island, but they did not meet because all were going at the
same rate.

All wanted blood except the boys, who liked it as a rule, but to-night
were out to greet their captain. The boys on the island vary, of course,
in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and when they seem
to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out; but
at this time there were six of them, counting the twins as two. Let us
pretend to lie here among the sugar-cane and watch them as they steal by
in single file, each with his hand on his dagger.

They are forbidden by Peter to look in the least like him, and they wear
the skins of the bears slain by themselves, in which they are so round
and furry that when they fall they roll. They have therefore become very
sure-footed.

The first to pass is Tootles, not the least brave but the most
unfortunate of all that gallant band. He had been in fewer adventures
than any of them, because the big things constantly happened just when
he had stepped round the corner; all would be quiet, he would take the
opportunity of going off to gather a few sticks for firewood, and
then when he returned the others would be sweeping up the blood. This
ill-luck had given a gentle melancholy to his countenance, but instead
of souring his nature had sweetened it, so that he was quite the
humblest of the boys. Poor kind Tootles, there is danger in the air for
you to-night. Take care lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if
accepted, will plunge you in deepest woe. Tootles, the fairy Tink, who
is bent on mischief this night is looking for a tool [for doing her
mischief], and she thinks you are the most easily tricked of the boys.
'Ware Tinker Bell.

Would that he could hear us, but we are not really on the island, and he
passes by, biting his knuckles.

Next comes Nibs, the gay and debonair, followed by Slightly, who cuts
whistles out of the trees and dances ecstatically to his own tunes.
Slightly is the most conceited of the boys. He thinks he remembers the
days before he was lost, with their manners and customs, and this has
given his nose an offensive tilt. Curly is fourth; he is a pickle, [a
person who gets in pickles-predicaments] and so often has he had to
deliver up his person when Peter said sternly, “Stand forth the one who
did this thing,” that now at the command he stands forth automatically
whether he has done it or not. Last come the Twins, who cannot be
described because we should be sure to be describing the wrong one.
Peter never quite knew what twins were, and his band were not allowed
to know anything he did not know, so these two were always vague about
themselves, and did their best to give satisfaction by keeping close
together in an apologetic sort of way.

The boys vanish in the gloom, and after a pause, but not a long pause,
for things go briskly on the island, come the pirates on their track. We
hear them before they are seen, and it is always the same dreadful song:

     “Avast belay, yo ho, heave to,
     A-pirating we go,
     And if we're parted by a shot
     We're sure to meet below!”

A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on Execution dock.
Here, a little in advance, ever and again with his head to the
ground listening, his great arms bare, pieces of eight in his ears as
ornaments, is the handsome Italian Cecco, who cut his name in letters
of blood on the back of the governor of the prison at Gao. That gigantic
black behind him has had many names since he dropped the one with
which dusky mothers still terrify their children on the banks of the
Guadjo-mo. Here is Bill Jukes, every inch of him tattooed, the same Bill
Jukes who got six dozen on the WALRUS from Flint before he would drop
the bag of moidores [Portuguese gold pieces]; and Cookson, said to
be Black Murphy's brother (but this was never proved), and Gentleman
Starkey, once an usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways
of killing; and Skylights (Morgan's Skylights); and the Irish bo'sun
Smee, an oddly genial man who stabbed, so to speak, without offence,
and was the only Non-conformist in Hook's crew; and Noodler, whose
hands were fixed on backwards; and Robt. Mullins and Alf Mason and many
another ruffian long known and feared on the Spanish Main.

In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting,
reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is
said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in
a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right
hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them
to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed
them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous [dead
looking] and blackavized [dark faced], and his hair was dressed in long
curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a
singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes
were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy,
save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots
appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the
grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with
an air, and I have been told that he was a RACONTEUR [storyteller] of
repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite,
which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his
diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his
demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of
indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was
the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour.
In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles
II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he
bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth
he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two
cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his iron
claw.

Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook's method. Skylights will do. As
they pass, Skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his lace
collar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one screech,
then the body is kicked aside, and the pirates pass on. He has not even
taken the cigars from his mouth.

Such is the terrible man against whom Peter Pan is pitted. Which will
win?

On the trail of the pirates, stealing noiselessly down the war-path,
which is not visible to inexperienced eyes, come the redskins, every one
of them with his eyes peeled. They carry tomahawks and knives, and their
naked bodies gleam with paint and oil. Strung around them are scalps, of
boys as well as of pirates, for these are the Piccaninny tribe, and not
to be confused with the softer-hearted Delawares or the Hurons. In
the van, on all fours, is Great Big Little Panther, a brave of so many
scalps that in his present position they somewhat impede his progress.
Bringing up the rear, the place of greatest danger, comes Tiger Lily,
proudly erect, a princess in her own right. She is the most beautiful
of dusky Dianas [Diana = goddess of the woods] and the belle of the
Piccaninnies, coquettish [flirting], cold and amorous [loving] by turns;
there is not a brave who would not have the wayward thing to wife, but
she staves off the altar with a hatchet. Observe how they pass over
fallen twigs without making the slightest noise. The only sound to be
heard is their somewhat heavy breathing. The fact is that they are all a
little fat just now after the heavy gorging, but in time they will work
this off. For the moment, however, it constitutes their chief danger.

The redskins disappear as they have come like shadows, and soon their
place is taken by the beasts, a great and motley procession: lions,
tigers, bears, and the innumerable smaller savage things that flee
from them, for every kind of beast, and, more particularly, all the
man-eaters, live cheek by jowl on the favoured island. Their tongues are
hanging out, they are hungry to-night.

When they have passed, comes the last figure of all, a gigantic
crocodile. We shall see for whom she is looking presently.

The crocodile passes, but soon the boys appear again, for the procession
must continue indefinitely until one of the parties stops or changes its
pace. Then quickly they will be on top of each other.

All are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but none suspects that the
danger may be creeping up from behind. This shows how real the island
was.

The first to fall out of the moving circle was the boys. They flung
themselves down on the sward [turf], close to their underground home.

“I do wish Peter would come back,” every one of them said nervously,
though in height and still more in breadth they were all larger than
their captain.

“I am the only one who is not afraid of the pirates,” Slightly said, in
the tone that prevented his being a general favourite; but perhaps some
distant sound disturbed him, for he added hastily, “but I wish he
would come back, and tell us whether he has heard anything more about
Cinderella.”

They talked of Cinderella, and Tootles was confident that his mother
must have been very like her.

It was only in Peter's absence that they could speak of mothers, the
subject being forbidden by him as silly.

“All I remember about my mother,” Nibs told them, “is that she often
said to my father, 'Oh, how I wish I had a cheque-book of my own!' I
don't know what a cheque-book is, but I should just love to give my
mother one.”

While they talked they heard a distant sound. You or I, not being wild
things of the woods, would have heard nothing, but they heard it, and it
was the grim song:

     “Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life,
     The flag o' skull and bones,
     A merry hour, a hempen rope,
     And hey for Davy Jones.”

At once the lost boys--but where are they? They are no longer there.
Rabbits could not have disappeared more quickly.

I will tell you where they are. With the exception of Nibs, who has
darted away to reconnoitre [look around], they are already in their home
under the ground, a very delightful residence of which we shall see
a good deal presently. But how have they reached it? for there is no
entrance to be seen, not so much as a large stone, which if rolled away,
would disclose the mouth of a cave. Look closely, however, and you may
note that there are here seven large trees, each with a hole in its
hollow trunk as large as a boy. These are the seven entrances to the
home under the ground, for which Hook has been searching in vain these
many moons. Will he find it tonight?

As the pirates advanced, the quick eye of Starkey sighted Nibs
disappearing through the wood, and at once his pistol flashed out. But
an iron claw gripped his shoulder.

“Captain, let go!” he cried, writhing.

Now for the first time we hear the voice of Hook. It was a black voice.
“Put back that pistol first,” it said threateningly.

“It was one of those boys you hate. I could have shot him dead.”

“Ay, and the sound would have brought Tiger Lily's redskins upon us. Do
you want to lose your scalp?”

“Shall I after him, Captain,” asked pathetic Smee, “and tickle him
with Johnny Corkscrew?” Smee had pleasant names for everything, and his
cutlass was Johnny Corkscrew, because he wiggled it in the wound. One
could mention many lovable traits in Smee. For instance, after killing,
it was his spectacles he wiped instead of his weapon.

“Johnny's a silent fellow,” he reminded Hook.

“Not now, Smee,” Hook said darkly. “He is only one, and I want to
mischief all the seven. Scatter and look for them.”

The pirates disappeared among the trees, and in a moment their Captain
and Smee were alone. Hook heaved a heavy sigh, and I know not why it
was, perhaps it was because of the soft beauty of the evening, but there
came over him a desire to confide to his faithful bo'sun the story of
his life. He spoke long and earnestly, but what it was all about Smee,
who was rather stupid, did not know in the least.

Anon [later] he caught the word Peter.

“Most of all,” Hook was saying passionately, “I want their captain,
Peter Pan. 'Twas he cut off my arm.” He brandished the hook
threateningly. “I've waited long to shake his hand with this. Oh, I'll
tear him!”

“And yet,” said Smee, “I have often heard you say that hook was worth a
score of hands, for combing the hair and other homely uses.”

“Ay,” the captain answered, “if I was a mother I would pray to have my
children born with this instead of that,” and he cast a look of pride
upon his iron hand and one of scorn upon the other. Then again he
frowned.

“Peter flung my arm,” he said, wincing, “to a crocodile that happened to
be passing by.”

“I have often,” said Smee, “noticed your strange dread of crocodiles.”

“Not of crocodiles,” Hook corrected him, “but of that one crocodile.” He
lowered his voice. “It liked my arm so much, Smee, that it has followed
me ever since, from sea to sea and from land to land, licking its lips
for the rest of me.”

“In a way,” said Smee, “it's sort of a compliment.”

“I want no such compliments,” Hook barked petulantly. “I want Peter Pan,
who first gave the brute its taste for me.”

He sat down on a large mushroom, and now there was a quiver in his
voice. “Smee,” he said huskily, “that crocodile would have had me before
this, but by a lucky chance it swallowed a clock which goes tick tick
inside it, and so before it can reach me I hear the tick and bolt.” He
laughed, but in a hollow way.

“Some day,” said Smee, “the clock will run down, and then he'll get
you.”

Hook wetted his dry lips. “Ay,” he said, “that's the fear that haunts
me.”

Since sitting down he had felt curiously warm. “Smee,” he said, “this
seat is hot.” He jumped up. “Odds bobs, hammer and tongs I'm burning.”

They examined the mushroom, which was of a size and solidity unknown
on the mainland; they tried to pull it up, and it came away at once in
their hands, for it had no root. Stranger still, smoke began at once
to ascend. The pirates looked at each other. “A chimney!” they both
exclaimed.

They had indeed discovered the chimney of the home under the ground. It
was the custom of the boys to stop it with a mushroom when enemies were
in the neighbourhood.

Not only smoke came out of it. There came also children's voices, for
so safe did the boys feel in their hiding-place that they were gaily
chattering. The pirates listened grimly, and then replaced the mushroom.
They looked around them and noted the holes in the seven trees.

“Did you hear them say Peter Pan's from home?” Smee whispered, fidgeting
with Johnny Corkscrew.

Hook nodded. He stood for a long time lost in thought, and at last a
curdling smile lit up his swarthy face. Smee had been waiting for it.
“Unrip your plan, captain,” he cried eagerly.

“To return to the ship,” Hook replied slowly through his teeth, “and
cook a large rich cake of a jolly thickness with green sugar on it.
There can be but one room below, for there is but one chimney. The silly
moles had not the sense to see that they did not need a door apiece.
That shows they have no mother. We will leave the cake on the shore
of the Mermaids' Lagoon. These boys are always swimming about there,
playing with the mermaids. They will find the cake and they will gobble
it up, because, having no mother, they don't know how dangerous 'tis to
eat rich damp cake.” He burst into laughter, not hollow laughter now,
but honest laughter. “Aha, they will die.”

Smee had listened with growing admiration.

“It's the wickedest, prettiest policy ever I heard of!” he cried, and in
their exultation they danced and sang:

     “Avast, belay, when I appear,
     By fear they're overtook;
     Nought's left upon your bones when you
     Have shaken claws with Hook.”

They began the verse, but they never finished it, for another sound
broke in and stilled them. There was at first such a tiny sound that a
leaf might have fallen on it and smothered it, but as it came nearer it
was more distinct.

Tick tick tick tick!

Hook stood shuddering, one foot in the air.

“The crocodile!” he gasped, and bounded away, followed by his bo'sun.

It was indeed the crocodile. It had passed the redskins, who were now on
the trail of the other pirates. It oozed on after Hook.

Once more the boys emerged into the open; but the dangers of the night
were not yet over, for presently Nibs rushed breathless into their
midst, pursued by a pack of wolves. The tongues of the pursuers were
hanging out; the baying of them was horrible.

“Save me, save me!” cried Nibs, falling on the ground.

“But what can we do, what can we do?”

It was a high compliment to Peter that at that dire moment their
thoughts turned to him.

“What would Peter do?” they cried simultaneously.

Almost in the same breath they cried, “Peter would look at them through
his legs.”

And then, “Let us do what Peter would do.”

It is quite the most successful way of defying wolves, and as one boy
they bent and looked through their legs. The next moment is the long
one, but victory came quickly, for as the boys advanced upon them in the
terrible attitude, the wolves dropped their tails and fled.

Now Nibs rose from the ground, and the others thought that his staring
eyes still saw the wolves. But it was not wolves he saw.

“I have seen a wonderfuller thing,” he cried, as they gathered round him
eagerly. “A great white bird. It is flying this way.”

“What kind of a bird, do you think?”

“I don't know,” Nibs said, awestruck, “but it looks so weary, and as it
flies it moans, 'Poor Wendy.'”

“Poor Wendy?”

“I remember,” said Slightly instantly, “there are birds called Wendies.”

“See, it comes!” cried Curly, pointing to Wendy in the heavens.

Wendy was now almost overhead, and they could hear her plaintive cry.
But more distinct came the shrill voice of Tinker Bell. The jealous
fairy had now cast off all disguise of friendship, and was darting
at her victim from every direction, pinching savagely each time she
touched.

“Hullo, Tink,” cried the wondering boys.

Tink's reply rang out: “Peter wants you to shoot the Wendy.”

It was not in their nature to question when Peter ordered. “Let us do
what Peter wishes!” cried the simple boys. “Quick, bows and arrows!”

All but Tootles popped down their trees. He had a bow and arrow with
him, and Tink noted it, and rubbed her little hands.

“Quick, Tootles, quick,” she screamed. “Peter will be so pleased.”

Tootles excitedly fitted the arrow to his bow. “Out of the way, Tink,”
 he shouted, and then he fired, and Wendy fluttered to the ground with an
arrow in her breast.




Chapter 6 THE LITTLE HOUSE

Foolish Tootles was standing like a conqueror over Wendy's body when the
other boys sprang, armed, from their trees.

“You are too late,” he cried proudly, “I have shot the Wendy. Peter will
be so pleased with me.”

Overhead Tinker Bell shouted “Silly ass!” and darted into hiding. The
others did not hear her. They had crowded round Wendy, and as they
looked a terrible silence fell upon the wood. If Wendy's heart had been
beating they would all have heard it.

Slightly was the first to speak. “This is no bird,” he said in a scared
voice. “I think this must be a lady.”

“A lady?” said Tootles, and fell a-trembling.

“And we have killed her,” Nibs said hoarsely.

They all whipped off their caps.

“Now I see,” Curly said: “Peter was bringing her to us.” He threw
himself sorrowfully on the ground.

“A lady to take care of us at last,” said one of the twins, “and you
have killed her!”

They were sorry for him, but sorrier for themselves, and when he took a
step nearer them they turned from him.

Tootles' face was very white, but there was a dignity about him now that
had never been there before.

“I did it,” he said, reflecting. “When ladies used to come to me in
dreams, I said, 'Pretty mother, pretty mother.' But when at last she
really came, I shot her.”

He moved slowly away.

“Don't go,” they called in pity.

“I must,” he answered, shaking; “I am so afraid of Peter.”

It was at this tragic moment that they heard a sound which made the
heart of every one of them rise to his mouth. They heard Peter crow.

“Peter!” they cried, for it was always thus that he signalled his
return.

“Hide her,” they whispered, and gathered hastily around Wendy. But
Tootles stood aloof.

Again came that ringing crow, and Peter dropped in front of them.
“Greetings, boys,” he cried, and mechanically they saluted, and then
again was silence.

He frowned.

“I am back,” he said hotly, “why do you not cheer?”

They opened their mouths, but the cheers would not come. He overlooked
it in his haste to tell the glorious tidings.

“Great news, boys,” he cried, “I have brought at last a mother for you
all.”

Still no sound, except a little thud from Tootles as he dropped on his
knees.

“Have you not seen her?” asked Peter, becoming troubled. “She flew this
way.”

“Ah me!” one voice said, and another said, “Oh, mournful day.”

Tootles rose. “Peter,” he said quietly, “I will show her to you,” and
when the others would still have hidden her he said, “Back, twins, let
Peter see.”

So they all stood back, and let him see, and after he had looked for a
little time he did not know what to do next.

“She is dead,” he said uncomfortably. “Perhaps she is frightened at
being dead.”

He thought of hopping off in a comic sort of way till he was out of
sight of her, and then never going near the spot any more. They would
all have been glad to follow if he had done this.

But there was the arrow. He took it from her heart and faced his band.

“Whose arrow?” he demanded sternly.

“Mine, Peter,” said Tootles on his knees.

“Oh, dastard hand,” Peter said, and he raised the arrow to use it as a
dagger.

Tootles did not flinch. He bared his breast. “Strike, Peter,” he said
firmly, “strike true.”

Twice did Peter raise the arrow, and twice did his hand fall. “I cannot
strike,” he said with awe, “there is something stays my hand.”

All looked at him in wonder, save Nibs, who fortunately looked at Wendy.

“It is she,” he cried, “the Wendy lady, see, her arm!”

Wonderful to relate [tell], Wendy had raised her arm. Nibs bent over
her and listened reverently. “I think she said, 'Poor Tootles,'” he
whispered.

“She lives,” Peter said briefly.

Slightly cried instantly, “The Wendy lady lives.”

Then Peter knelt beside her and found his button. You remember she had
put it on a chain that she wore round her neck.

“See,” he said, “the arrow struck against this. It is the kiss I gave
her. It has saved her life.”

“I remember kisses,” Slightly interposed quickly, “let me see it. Ay,
that's a kiss.”

Peter did not hear him. He was begging Wendy to get better quickly, so
that he could show her the mermaids. Of course she could not answer yet,
being still in a frightful faint; but from overhead came a wailing note.

“Listen to Tink,” said Curly, “she is crying because the Wendy lives.”

Then they had to tell Peter of Tink's crime, and almost never had they
seen him look so stern.

“Listen, Tinker Bell,” he cried, “I am your friend no more. Begone from
me for ever.”

She flew on to his shoulder and pleaded, but he brushed her off. Not
until Wendy again raised her arm did he relent sufficiently to say,
“Well, not for ever, but for a whole week.”

Do you think Tinker Bell was grateful to Wendy for raising her arm? Oh
dear no, never wanted to pinch her so much. Fairies indeed are strange,
and Peter, who understood them best, often cuffed [slapped] them.

But what to do with Wendy in her present delicate state of health?

“Let us carry her down into the house,” Curly suggested.

“Ay,” said Slightly, “that is what one does with ladies.”

“No, no,” Peter said, “you must not touch her. It would not be
sufficiently respectful.”

“That,” said Slightly, “is what I was thinking.”

“But if she lies there,” Tootles said, “she will die.”

“Ay, she will die,” Slightly admitted, “but there is no way out.”

“Yes, there is,” cried Peter. “Let us build a little house round her.”

They were all delighted. “Quick,” he ordered them, “bring me each of you
the best of what we have. Gut our house. Be sharp.”

In a moment they were as busy as tailors the night before a wedding.
They skurried this way and that, down for bedding, up for firewood, and
while they were at it, who should appear but John and Michael. As they
dragged along the ground they fell asleep standing, stopped, woke up,
moved another step and slept again.

“John, John,” Michael would cry, “wake up! Where is Nana, John, and
mother?”

And then John would rub his eyes and mutter, “It is true, we did fly.”

You may be sure they were very relieved to find Peter.

“Hullo, Peter,” they said.

“Hullo,” replied Peter amicably, though he had quite forgotten them.
He was very busy at the moment measuring Wendy with his feet to see
how large a house she would need. Of course he meant to leave room for
chairs and a table. John and Michael watched him.

“Is Wendy asleep?” they asked.

“Yes.”

“John,” Michael proposed, “let us wake her and get her to make supper
for us,” but as he said it some of the other boys rushed on carrying
branches for the building of the house. “Look at them!” he cried.

“Curly,” said Peter in his most captainy voice, “see that these boys
help in the building of the house.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Build a house?” exclaimed John.

“For the Wendy,” said Curly.

“For Wendy?” John said, aghast. “Why, she is only a girl!”

“That,” explained Curly, “is why we are her servants.”

“You? Wendy's servants!”

“Yes,” said Peter, “and you also. Away with them.”

The astounded brothers were dragged away to hack and hew and carry.
“Chairs and a fender [fireplace] first,” Peter ordered. “Then we shall
build a house round them.”

“Ay,” said Slightly, “that is how a house is built; it all comes back to
me.”

Peter thought of everything. “Slightly,” he cried, “fetch a doctor.”

“Ay, ay,” said Slightly at once, and disappeared, scratching his head.
But he knew Peter must be obeyed, and he returned in a moment, wearing
John's hat and looking solemn.

“Please, sir,” said Peter, going to him, “are you a doctor?”

The difference between him and the other boys at such a time was that
they knew it was make-believe, while to him make-believe and true were
exactly the same thing. This sometimes troubled them, as when they had
to make-believe that they had had their dinners.

If they broke down in their make-believe he rapped them on the knuckles.

“Yes, my little man,” Slightly anxiously replied, who had chapped
knuckles.

“Please, sir,” Peter explained, “a lady lies very ill.”

She was lying at their feet, but Slightly had the sense not to see her.

“Tut, tut, tut,” he said, “where does she lie?”

“In yonder glade.”

“I will put a glass thing in her mouth,” said Slightly, and he
made-believe to do it, while Peter waited. It was an anxious moment when
the glass thing was withdrawn.

“How is she?” inquired Peter.

“Tut, tut, tut,” said Slightly, “this has cured her.”

“I am glad!” Peter cried.

“I will call again in the evening,” Slightly said; “give her beef tea
out of a cup with a spout to it;” but after he had returned the hat
to John he blew big breaths, which was his habit on escaping from a
difficulty.

In the meantime the wood had been alive with the sound of axes; almost
everything needed for a cosy dwelling already lay at Wendy's feet.

“If only we knew,” said one, “the kind of house she likes best.”

“Peter,” shouted another, “she is moving in her sleep.”

“Her mouth opens,” cried a third, looking respectfully into it. “Oh,
lovely!”

“Perhaps she is going to sing in her sleep,” said Peter. “Wendy, sing
the kind of house you would like to have.”

Immediately, without opening her eyes, Wendy began to sing:

     “I wish I had a pretty house,
     The littlest ever seen,
     With funny little red walls
     And roof of mossy green.”

They gurgled with joy at this, for by the greatest good luck the
branches they had brought were sticky with red sap, and all the ground
was carpeted with moss. As they rattled up the little house they broke
into song themselves:

     “We've built the little walls and roof
     And made a lovely door,
     So tell us, mother Wendy,
     What are you wanting more?”

To this she answered greedily:

     “Oh, really next I think I'll have
     Gay windows all about,
     With roses peeping in, you know,
     And babies peeping out.”

With a blow of their fists they made windows, and large yellow leaves
were the blinds. But roses--?

“Roses,” cried Peter sternly.

Quickly they made-believe to grow the loveliest roses up the walls.

Babies?

To prevent Peter ordering babies they hurried into song again:

     “We've made the roses peeping out,
     The babes are at the door,
     We cannot make ourselves, you know,
     'cos we've been made before.”

Peter, seeing this to be a good idea, at once pretended that it was his
own. The house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very cosy
within, though, of course, they could no longer see her. Peter strode
up and down, ordering finishing touches. Nothing escaped his eagle eyes.
Just when it seemed absolutely finished:

“There's no knocker on the door,” he said.

They were very ashamed, but Tootles gave the sole of his shoe, and it
made an excellent knocker.

Absolutely finished now, they thought.

Not of bit of it. “There's no chimney,” Peter said; “we must have a
chimney.”

“It certainly does need a chimney,” said John importantly. This gave
Peter an idea. He snatched the hat off John's head, knocked out the
bottom [top], and put the hat on the roof. The little house was so
pleased to have such a capital chimney that, as if to say thank you,
smoke immediately began to come out of the hat.

Now really and truly it was finished. Nothing remained to do but to
knock.

“All look your best,” Peter warned them; “first impressions are awfully
important.”

He was glad no one asked him what first impressions are; they were all
too busy looking their best.

He knocked politely, and now the wood was as still as the children, not
a sound to be heard except from Tinker Bell, who was watching from a
branch and openly sneering.

What the boys were wondering was, would any one answer the knock? If a
lady, what would she be like?

The door opened and a lady came out. It was Wendy. They all whipped off
their hats.

She looked properly surprised, and this was just how they had hoped she
would look.

“Where am I?” she said.

Of course Slightly was the first to get his word in. “Wendy lady,” he
said rapidly, “for you we built this house.”

“Oh, say you're pleased,” cried Nibs.

“Lovely, darling house,” Wendy said, and they were the very words they
had hoped she would say.

“And we are your children,” cried the twins.

Then all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried, “O Wendy
lady, be our mother.”

“Ought I?” Wendy said, all shining. “Of course it's frightfully
fascinating, but you see I am only a little girl. I have no real
experience.”

“That doesn't matter,” said Peter, as if he were the only person present
who knew all about it, though he was really the one who knew least.
“What we need is just a nice motherly person.”

“Oh dear!” Wendy said, “you see, I feel that is exactly what I am.”

“It is, it is,” they all cried; “we saw it at once.”

“Very well,” she said, “I will do my best. Come inside at once, you
naughty children; I am sure your feet are damp. And before I put you to
bed I have just time to finish the story of Cinderella.”

In they went; I don't know how there was room for them, but you can
squeeze very tight in the Neverland. And that was the first of the many
joyous evenings they had with Wendy. By and by she tucked them up in the
great bed in the home under the trees, but she herself slept that night
in the little house, and Peter kept watch outside with drawn sword, for
the pirates could be heard carousing far away and the wolves were on the
prowl. The little house looked so cosy and safe in the darkness, with
a bright light showing through its blinds, and the chimney smoking
beautifully, and Peter standing on guard. After a time he fell asleep,
and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on their way home from
an orgy. Any of the other boys obstructing the fairy path at night they
would have mischiefed, but they just tweaked Peter's nose and passed on.




Chapter 7 THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND

One of the first things Peter did next day was to measure Wendy and John
and Michael for hollow trees. Hook, you remember, had sneered at the
boys for thinking they needed a tree apiece, but this was ignorance, for
unless your tree fitted you it was difficult to go up and down, and no
two of the boys were quite the same size. Once you fitted, you drew in
[let out] your breath at the top, and down you went at exactly the
right speed, while to ascend you drew in and let out alternately, and so
wriggled up. Of course, when you have mastered the action you are able
to do these things without thinking of them, and nothing can be more
graceful.

But you simply must fit, and Peter measures you for your tree as
carefully as for a suit of clothes: the only difference being that the
clothes are made to fit you, while you have to be made to fit the tree.
Usually it is done quite easily, as by your wearing too many garments
or too few, but if you are bumpy in awkward places or the only available
tree is an odd shape, Peter does some things to you, and after that you
fit. Once you fit, great care must be taken to go on fitting, and this,
as Wendy was to discover to her delight, keeps a whole family in perfect
condition.

Wendy and Michael fitted their trees at the first try, but John had to
be altered a little.

After a few days' practice they could go up and down as gaily as buckets
in a well. And how ardently they grew to love their home under the
ground; especially Wendy. It consisted of one large room, as all houses
should do, with a floor in which you could dig [for worms] if you wanted
to go fishing, and in this floor grew stout mushrooms of a charming
colour, which were used as stools. A Never tree tried hard to grow in
the centre of the room, but every morning they sawed the trunk through,
level with the floor. By tea-time it was always about two feet high, and
then they put a door on top of it, the whole thus becoming a table;
as soon as they cleared away, they sawed off the trunk again, and thus
there was more room to play. There was an enormous fireplace which was
in almost any part of the room where you cared to light it, and across
this Wendy stretched strings, made of fibre, from which she suspended
her washing. The bed was tilted against the wall by day, and let down at
6:30, when it filled nearly half the room; and all the boys slept in it,
except Michael, lying like sardines in a tin. There was a strict rule
against turning round until one gave the signal, when all turned at
once. Michael should have used it also, but Wendy would have [desired]
a baby, and he was the littlest, and you know what women are, and the
short and long of it is that he was hung up in a basket.

It was rough and simple, and not unlike what baby bears would have made
of an underground house in the same circumstances. But there was one
recess in the wall, no larger than a bird-cage, which was the private
apartment of Tinker Bell. It could be shut off from the rest of
the house by a tiny curtain, which Tink, who was most fastidious
[particular], always kept drawn when dressing or undressing. No woman,
however large, could have had a more exquisite boudoir [dressing room]
and bed-chamber combined. The couch, as she always called it, was
a genuine Queen Mab, with club legs; and she varied the bedspreads
according to what fruit-blossom was in season. Her mirror was a
Puss-in-Boots, of which there are now only three, unchipped, known to
fairy dealers; the washstand was Pie-crust and reversible, the chest
of drawers an authentic Charming the Sixth, and the carpet and rugs the
best (the early) period of Margery and Robin. There was a chandelier
from Tiddlywinks for the look of the thing, but of course she lit the
residence herself. Tink was very contemptuous of the rest of the house,
as indeed was perhaps inevitable, and her chamber, though beautiful,
looked rather conceited, having the appearance of a nose permanently
turned up.

I suppose it was all especially entrancing to Wendy, because those
rampagious boys of hers gave her so much to do. Really there were whole
weeks when, except perhaps with a stocking in the evening, she was never
above ground. The cooking, I can tell you, kept her nose to the pot, and
even if there was nothing in it, even if there was no pot, she had to
keep watching that it came aboil just the same. You never exactly
knew whether there would be a real meal or just a make-believe, it all
depended upon Peter's whim: he could eat, really eat, if it was part of
a game, but he could not stodge [cram down the food] just to feel
stodgy [stuffed with food], which is what most children like better than
anything else; the next best thing being to talk about it. Make-believe
was so real to him that during a meal of it you could see him getting
rounder. Of course it was trying, but you simply had to follow his lead,
and if you could prove to him that you were getting loose for your tree
he let you stodge.

Wendy's favourite time for sewing and darning was after they had all
gone to bed. Then, as she expressed it, she had a breathing time for
herself; and she occupied it in making new things for them, and putting
double pieces on the knees, for they were all most frightfully hard on
their knees.

When she sat down to a basketful of their stockings, every heel with a
hole in it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim, “Oh dear, I am sure
I sometimes think spinsters are to be envied!”

Her face beamed when she exclaimed this.

You remember about her pet wolf. Well, it very soon discovered that she
had come to the island and it found her out, and they just ran into each
other's arms. After that it followed her about everywhere.

As time wore on did she think much about the beloved parents she had
left behind her? This is a difficult question, because it is quite
impossible to say how time does wear on in the Neverland, where it is
calculated by moons and suns, and there are ever so many more of them
than on the mainland. But I am afraid that Wendy did not really worry
about her father and mother; she was absolutely confident that they
would always keep the window open for her to fly back by, and this gave
her complete ease of mind. What did disturb her at times was that John
remembered his parents vaguely only, as people he had once known, while
Michael was quite willing to believe that she was really his mother.
These things scared her a little, and nobly anxious to do her duty, she
tried to fix the old life in their minds by setting them examination
papers on it, as like as possible to the ones she used to do at school.
The other boys thought this awfully interesting, and insisted on
joining, and they made slates for themselves, and sat round the table,
writing and thinking hard about the questions she had written on another
slate and passed round. They were the most ordinary questions--“What
was the colour of Mother's eyes? Which was taller, Father or Mother? Was
Mother blonde or brunette? Answer all three questions if possible.”
 “(A) Write an essay of not less than 40 words on How I spent my last
Holidays, or The Characters of Father and Mother compared. Only one of
these to be attempted.” Or “(1) Describe Mother's laugh; (2) Describe
Father's laugh; (3) Describe Mother's Party Dress; (4) Describe the
Kennel and its Inmate.”

They were just everyday questions like these, and when you could not
answer them you were told to make a cross; and it was really dreadful
what a number of crosses even John made. Of course the only boy who
replied to every question was Slightly, and no one could have been more
hopeful of coming out first, but his answers were perfectly ridiculous,
and he really came out last: a melancholy thing.

Peter did not compete. For one thing he despised all mothers except
Wendy, and for another he was the only boy on the island who could
neither write nor spell; not the smallest word. He was above all that
sort of thing.

By the way, the questions were all written in the past tense. What
was the colour of Mother's eyes, and so on. Wendy, you see, had been
forgetting, too.

Adventures, of course, as we shall see, were of daily occurrence; but
about this time Peter invented, with Wendy's help, a new game that
fascinated him enormously, until he suddenly had no more interest in it,
which, as you have been told, was what always happened with his games.
It consisted in pretending not to have adventures, in doing the sort of
thing John and Michael had been doing all their lives, sitting on stools
flinging balls in the air, pushing each other, going out for walks and
coming back without having killed so much as a grizzly. To see Peter
doing nothing on a stool was a great sight; he could not help looking
solemn at such times, to sit still seemed to him such a comic thing to
do. He boasted that he had gone walking for the good of his health. For
several suns these were the most novel of all adventures to him; and
John and Michael had to pretend to be delighted also; otherwise he would
have treated them severely.

He often went out alone, and when he came back you were never absolutely
certain whether he had had an adventure or not. He might have forgotten
it so completely that he said nothing about it; and then when you went
out you found the body; and, on the other hand, he might say a great
deal about it, and yet you could not find the body. Sometimes he came
home with his head bandaged, and then Wendy cooed over him and bathed
it in lukewarm water, while he told a dazzling tale. But she was never
quite sure, you know. There were, however, many adventures which she
knew to be true because she was in them herself, and there were still
more that were at least partly true, for the other boys were in them and
said they were wholly true. To describe them all would require a book as
large as an English-Latin, Latin-English Dictionary, and the most we can
do is to give one as a specimen of an average hour on the island. The
difficulty is which one to choose. Should we take the brush with the
redskins at Slightly Gulch? It was a sanguinary affair, and
especially interesting as showing one of Peter's peculiarities, which
was that in the middle of a fight he would suddenly change sides. At the
Gulch, when victory was still in the balance, sometimes leaning this way
and sometimes that, he called out, “I'm redskin to-day; what are you,
Tootles?” And Tootles answered, “Redskin; what are you, Nibs?” and
Nibs said, “Redskin; what are you Twin?” and so on; and they were all
redskins; and of course this would have ended the fight had not the real
redskins fascinated by Peter's methods, agreed to be lost boys for that
once, and so at it they all went again, more fiercely than ever.

The extraordinary upshot of this adventure was--but we have not decided
yet that this is the adventure we are to narrate. Perhaps a better one
would be the night attack by the redskins on the house under the ground,
when several of them stuck in the hollow trees and had to be pulled out
like corks. Or we might tell how Peter saved Tiger Lily's life in the
Mermaids' Lagoon, and so made her his ally.

Or we could tell of that cake the pirates cooked so that the boys might
eat it and perish; and how they placed it in one cunning spot after
another; but always Wendy snatched it from the hands of her children, so
that in time it lost its succulence, and became as hard as a stone, and
was used as a missile, and Hook fell over it in the dark.

Or suppose we tell of the birds that were Peter's friends, particularly
of the Never bird that built in a tree overhanging the lagoon, and how
the nest fell into the water, and still the bird sat on her eggs, and
Peter gave orders that she was not to be disturbed. That is a pretty
story, and the end shows how grateful a bird can be; but if we tell
it we must also tell the whole adventure of the lagoon, which would
of course be telling two adventures rather than just one. A shorter
adventure, and quite as exciting, was Tinker Bell's attempt, with the
help of some street fairies, to have the sleeping Wendy conveyed on a
great floating leaf to the mainland. Fortunately the leaf gave way and
Wendy woke, thinking it was bath-time, and swam back. Or again, we might
choose Peter's defiance of the lions, when he drew a circle round him
on the ground with an arrow and dared them to cross it; and though he
waited for hours, with the other boys and Wendy looking on breathlessly
from trees, not one of them dared to accept his challenge.

Which of these adventures shall we choose? The best way will be to toss
for it.

I have tossed, and the lagoon has won. This almost makes one wish that
the gulch or the cake or Tink's leaf had won. Of course I could do it
again, and make it best out of three; however, perhaps fairest to stick
to the lagoon.




Chapter 8 THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON

If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a
shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then
if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the
colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire.
But just before they go on fire you see the lagoon. This is the nearest
you ever get to it on the mainland, just one heavenly moment; if there
could be two moments you might see the surf and hear the mermaids
singing.

The children often spent long summer days on this lagoon, swimming or
floating most of the time, playing the mermaid games in the water,
and so forth. You must not think from this that the mermaids were on
friendly terms with them: on the contrary, it was among Wendy's lasting
regrets that all the time she was on the island she never had a civil
word from one of them. When she stole softly to the edge of the lagoon
she might see them by the score, especially on Marooners' Rock, where
they loved to bask, combing out their hair in a lazy way that quite
irritated her; or she might even swim, on tiptoe as it were, to within
a yard of them, but then they saw her and dived, probably splashing her
with their tails, not by accident, but intentionally.

They treated all the boys in the same way, except of course Peter, who
chatted with them on Marooners' Rock by the hour, and sat on their tails
when they got cheeky. He gave Wendy one of their combs.

The most haunting time at which to see them is at the turn of the moon,
when they utter strange wailing cries; but the lagoon is dangerous for
mortals then, and until the evening of which we have now to tell, Wendy
had never seen the lagoon by moonlight, less from fear, for of course
Peter would have accompanied her, than because she had strict rules
about every one being in bed by seven. She was often at the lagoon,
however, on sunny days after rain, when the mermaids come up in
extraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles. The bubbles of many
colours made in rainbow water they treat as balls, hitting them gaily
from one to another with their tails, and trying to keep them in the
rainbow till they burst. The goals are at each end of the rainbow, and
the keepers only are allowed to use their hands. Sometimes a dozen of
these games will be going on in the lagoon at a time, and it is quite a
pretty sight.

But the moment the children tried to join in they had to play by
themselves, for the mermaids immediately disappeared. Nevertheless we
have proof that they secretly watched the interlopers, and were not
above taking an idea from them; for John introduced a new way of hitting
the bubble, with the head instead of the hand, and the mermaids adopted
it. This is the one mark that John has left on the Neverland.

It must also have been rather pretty to see the children resting on a
rock for half an hour after their mid-day meal. Wendy insisted on
their doing this, and it had to be a real rest even though the meal was
make-believe. So they lay there in the sun, and their bodies glistened
in it, while she sat beside them and looked important.

It was one such day, and they were all on Marooners' Rock. The rock was
not much larger than their great bed, but of course they all knew how
not to take up much room, and they were dozing, or at least lying with
their eyes shut, and pinching occasionally when they thought Wendy was
not looking. She was very busy, stitching.

While she stitched a change came to the lagoon. Little shivers ran over
it, and the sun went away and shadows stole across the water, turning
it cold. Wendy could no longer see to thread her needle, and when she
looked up, the lagoon that had always hitherto been such a laughing
place seemed formidable and unfriendly.

It was not, she knew, that night had come, but something as dark as
night had come. No, worse than that. It had not come, but it had sent
that shiver through the sea to say that it was coming. What was it?

There crowded upon her all the stories she had been told of Marooners'
Rock, so called because evil captains put sailors on it and leave
them there to drown. They drown when the tide rises, for then it is
submerged.

Of course she should have roused the children at once; not merely
because of the unknown that was stalking toward them, but because it was
no longer good for them to sleep on a rock grown chilly. But she was
a young mother and she did not know this; she thought you simply must
stick to your rule about half an hour after the mid-day meal. So, though
fear was upon her, and she longed to hear male voices, she would not
waken them. Even when she heard the sound of muffled oars, though her
heart was in her mouth, she did not waken them. She stood over them to
let them have their sleep out. Was it not brave of Wendy?

It was well for those boys then that there was one among them who could
sniff danger even in his sleep. Peter sprang erect, as wide awake at
once as a dog, and with one warning cry he roused the others.

He stood motionless, one hand to his ear.

“Pirates!” he cried. The others came closer to him. A strange smile was
playing about his face, and Wendy saw it and shuddered. While that smile
was on his face no one dared address him; all they could do was to stand
ready to obey. The order came sharp and incisive.

“Dive!”

There was a gleam of legs, and instantly the lagoon seemed deserted.
Marooners' Rock stood alone in the forbidding waters as if it were
itself marooned.

The boat drew nearer. It was the pirate dinghy, with three figures in
her, Smee and Starkey, and the third a captive, no other than Tiger
Lily. Her hands and ankles were tied, and she knew what was to be her
fate. She was to be left on the rock to perish, an end to one of her
race more terrible than death by fire or torture, for is it not written
in the book of the tribe that there is no path through water to the
happy hunting-ground? Yet her face was impassive; she was the daughter
of a chief, she must die as a chief's daughter, it is enough.

They had caught her boarding the pirate ship with a knife in her mouth.
No watch was kept on the ship, it being Hook's boast that the wind of
his name guarded the ship for a mile around. Now her fate would help to
guard it also. One more wail would go the round in that wind by night.

In the gloom that they brought with them the two pirates did not see the
rock till they crashed into it.

“Luff, you lubber,” cried an Irish voice that was Smee's; “here's the
rock. Now, then, what we have to do is to hoist the redskin on to it and
leave her here to drown.”

It was the work of one brutal moment to land the beautiful girl on the
rock; she was too proud to offer a vain resistance.

Quite near the rock, but out of sight, two heads were bobbing up and
down, Peter's and Wendy's. Wendy was crying, for it was the first
tragedy she had seen. Peter had seen many tragedies, but he had
forgotten them all. He was less sorry than Wendy for Tiger Lily: it was
two against one that angered him, and he meant to save her. An easy way
would have been to wait until the pirates had gone, but he was never one
to choose the easy way.

There was almost nothing he could not do, and he now imitated the voice
of Hook.

“Ahoy there, you lubbers!” he called. It was a marvellous imitation.

“The captain!” said the pirates, staring at each other in surprise.

“He must be swimming out to us,” Starkey said, when they had looked for
him in vain.

“We are putting the redskin on the rock,” Smee called out.

“Set her free,” came the astonishing answer.

“Free!”

“Yes, cut her bonds and let her go.”

“But, captain--”

“At once, d'ye hear,” cried Peter, “or I'll plunge my hook in you.”

“This is queer!” Smee gasped.

“Better do what the captain orders,” said Starkey nervously.

“Ay, ay,” Smee said, and he cut Tiger Lily's cords. At once like an eel
she slid between Starkey's legs into the water.

Of course Wendy was very elated over Peter's cleverness; but she knew
that he would be elated also and very likely crow and thus betray
himself, so at once her hand went out to cover his mouth. But it was
stayed even in the act, for “Boat ahoy!” rang over the lagoon in Hook's
voice, and this time it was not Peter who had spoken.

Peter may have been about to crow, but his face puckered in a whistle of
surprise instead.

“Boat ahoy!” again came the voice.

Now Wendy understood. The real Hook was also in the water.

He was swimming to the boat, and as his men showed a light to guide him
he had soon reached them. In the light of the lantern Wendy saw his hook
grip the boat's side; she saw his evil swarthy face as he rose dripping
from the water, and, quaking, she would have liked to swim away, but
Peter would not budge. He was tingling with life and also top-heavy with
conceit. “Am I not a wonder, oh, I am a wonder!” he whispered to her,
and though she thought so also, she was really glad for the sake of his
reputation that no one heard him except herself.

He signed to her to listen.

The two pirates were very curious to know what had brought their captain
to them, but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of profound
melancholy.

“Captain, is all well?” they asked timidly, but he answered with a
hollow moan.

“He sighs,” said Smee.

“He sighs again,” said Starkey.

“And yet a third time he sighs,” said Smee.

Then at last he spoke passionately.

“The game's up,” he cried, “those boys have found a mother.”

Affrighted though she was, Wendy swelled with pride.

“O evil day!” cried Starkey.

“What's a mother?” asked the ignorant Smee.

Wendy was so shocked that she exclaimed. “He doesn't know!” and always
after this she felt that if you could have a pet pirate Smee would be
her one.

Peter pulled her beneath the water, for Hook had started up, crying,
“What was that?”

“I heard nothing,” said Starkey, raising the lantern over the waters,
and as the pirates looked they saw a strange sight. It was the nest I
have told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the Never bird was sitting
on it.

“See,” said Hook in answer to Smee's question, “that is a mother. What
a lesson! The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the mother
desert her eggs? No.”

There was a break in his voice, as if for a moment he recalled innocent
days when--but he brushed away this weakness with his hook.

Smee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was borne past, but
the more suspicious Starkey said, “If she is a mother, perhaps she is
hanging about here to help Peter.”

Hook winced. “Ay,” he said, “that is the fear that haunts me.”

He was roused from this dejection by Smee's eager voice.

“Captain,” said Smee, “could we not kidnap these boys' mother and make
her our mother?”

“It is a princely scheme,” cried Hook, and at once it took practical
shape in his great brain. “We will seize the children and carry them to
the boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and Wendy shall be our
mother.”

Again Wendy forgot herself.

“Never!” she cried, and bobbed.

“What was that?”

But they could see nothing. They thought it must have been a leaf in the
wind. “Do you agree, my bullies?” asked Hook.

“There is my hand on it,” they both said.

“And there is my hook. Swear.”

They all swore. By this time they were on the rock, and suddenly Hook
remembered Tiger Lily.

“Where is the redskin?” he demanded abruptly.

He had a playful humour at moments, and they thought this was one of the
moments.

“That is all right, captain,” Smee answered complacently; “we let her
go.”

“Let her go!” cried Hook.

“'Twas your own orders,” the bo'sun faltered.

“You called over the water to us to let her go,” said Starkey.

“Brimstone and gall,” thundered Hook, “what cozening [cheating] is
going on here!” His face had gone black with rage, but he saw that they
believed their words, and he was startled. “Lads,” he said, shaking a
little, “I gave no such order.”

“It is passing queer,” Smee said, and they all fidgeted uncomfortably.
Hook raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it.

“Spirit that haunts this dark lagoon to-night,” he cried, “dost hear
me?”

Of course Peter should have kept quiet, but of course he did not. He
immediately answered in Hook's voice:

“Odds, bobs, hammer and tongs, I hear you.”

In that supreme moment Hook did not blanch, even at the gills, but Smee
and Starkey clung to each other in terror.

“Who are you, stranger? Speak!” Hook demanded.

“I am James Hook,” replied the voice, “captain of the JOLLY ROGER.”

“You are not; you are not,” Hook cried hoarsely.

“Brimstone and gall,” the voice retorted, “say that again, and I'll cast
anchor in you.”

Hook tried a more ingratiating manner. “If you are Hook,” he said almost
humbly, “come tell me, who am I?”

“A codfish,” replied the voice, “only a codfish.”

“A codfish!” Hook echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till then,
that his proud spirit broke. He saw his men draw back from him.

“Have we been captained all this time by a codfish!” they muttered. “It
is lowering to our pride.”

They were his dogs snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had
become, he scarcely heeded them. Against such fearful evidence it was
not their belief in him that he needed, it was his own. He felt his ego
slipping from him. “Don't desert me, bully,” he whispered hoarsely to
it.

In his dark nature there was a touch of the feminine, as in all the
great pirates, and it sometimes gave him intuitions. Suddenly he tried
the guessing game.

“Hook,” he called, “have you another voice?”

Now Peter could never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his own
voice, “I have.”

“And another name?”

“Ay, ay.”

“Vegetable?” asked Hook.

“No.”

“Mineral?”

“No.”

“Animal?”

“Yes.”

“Man?”

“No!” This answer rang out scornfully.

“Boy?”

“Yes.”

“Ordinary boy?”

“No!”

“Wonderful boy?”

To Wendy's pain the answer that rang out this time was “Yes.”

“Are you in England?”

“No.”

“Are you here?”

“Yes.”

Hook was completely puzzled. “You ask him some questions,” he said to
the others, wiping his damp brow.

Smee reflected. “I can't think of a thing,” he said regretfully.

“Can't guess, can't guess!” crowed Peter. “Do you give it up?”

Of course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the
miscreants [villains] saw their chance.

“Yes, yes,” they answered eagerly.

“Well, then,” he cried, “I am Peter Pan.”

Pan!

In a moment Hook was himself again, and Smee and Starkey were his
faithful henchmen.

“Now we have him,” Hook shouted. “Into the water, Smee. Starkey, mind
the boat. Take him dead or alive!”

He leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of Peter.

“Are you ready, boys?”

“Ay, ay,” from various parts of the lagoon.

“Then lam into the pirates.”

The fight was short and sharp. First to draw blood was John, who
gallantly climbed into the boat and held Starkey. There was fierce
struggle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate's grasp. He
wriggled overboard and John leapt after him. The dinghy drifted away.

Here and there a head bobbed up in the water, and there was a flash
of steel followed by a cry or a whoop. In the confusion some struck at
their own side. The corkscrew of Smee got Tootles in the fourth rib, but
he was himself pinked [nicked] in turn by Curly. Farther from the rock
Starkey was pressing Slightly and the twins hard.

Where all this time was Peter? He was seeking bigger game.

The others were all brave boys, and they must not be blamed for backing
from the pirate captain. His iron claw made a circle of dead water round
him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes.

But there was one who did not fear him: there was one prepared to enter
that circle.

Strangely, it was not in the water that they met. Hook rose to the rock
to breathe, and at the same moment Peter scaled it on the opposite
side. The rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl rather than
climb. Neither knew that the other was coming. Each feeling for a grip
met the other's arm: in surprise they raised their heads; their faces
were almost touching; so they met.

Some of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they fell to
[began combat] they had a sinking [feeling in the stomach]. Had it been
so with Peter at that moment I would admit it. After all, he was the
only man that the Sea-Cook had feared. But Peter had no sinking, he had
one feeling only, gladness; and he gnashed his pretty teeth with joy.
Quick as thought he snatched a knife from Hook's belt and was about to
drive it home, when he saw that he was higher up the rock than his foe.
It would not have been fighting fair. He gave the pirate a hand to help
him up.

It was then that Hook bit him.

Not the pain of this but its unfairness was what dazed Peter. It made
him quite helpless. He could only stare, horrified. Every child is
affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he thinks he
has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness. After
you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but will never
afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever gets over the first
unfairness; no one except Peter. He often met it, but he always forgot
it. I suppose that was the real difference between him and all the rest.

So when he met it now it was like the first time; and he could just
stare, helpless. Twice the iron hand clawed him.

A few moments afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water striking
wildly for the ship; no elation on the pestilent face now, only white
fear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On ordinary
occasions the boys would have swum alongside cheering; but now they were
uneasy, for they had lost both Peter and Wendy, and were scouring the
lagoon for them, calling them by name. They found the dinghy and went
home in it, shouting “Peter, Wendy” as they went, but no answer came
save mocking laughter from the mermaids. “They must be swimming back or
flying,” the boys concluded. They were not very anxious, because they
had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boylike, because they would be
late for bed; and it was all mother Wendy's fault!

When their voices died away there came cold silence over the lagoon, and
then a feeble cry.

“Help, help!”

Two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted
and lay on the boy's arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the
rock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted he saw that
the water was rising. He knew that they would soon be drowned, but he
could do no more.

As they lay side by side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began
pulling her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him,
woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back. But he had to
tell her the truth.

“We are on the rock, Wendy,” he said, “but it is growing smaller. Soon
the water will be over it.”

She did not understand even now.

“We must go,” she said, almost brightly.

“Yes,” he answered faintly.

“Shall we swim or fly, Peter?”

He had to tell her.

“Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy, without
my help?”

She had to admit that she was too tired.

He moaned.

“What is it?” she asked, anxious about him at once.

“I can't help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim.”

“Do you mean we shall both be drowned?”

“Look how the water is rising.”

They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They thought
they would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed against
Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if saying timidly, “Can I
be of any use?”

It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days before. It
had torn itself out of his hand and floated away.

“Michael's kite,” Peter said without interest, but next moment he had
seized the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.

“It lifted Michael off the ground,” he cried; “why should it not carry
you?”

“Both of us!”

“It can't lift two; Michael and Curly tried.”

“Let us draw lots,” Wendy said bravely.

“And you a lady; never.” Already he had tied the tail round her. She
clung to him; she refused to go without him; but with a “Good-bye,
Wendy,” he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was borne
out of his sight. Peter was alone on the lagoon.

The rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of
light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a
sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the
mermaids calling to the moon.

Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A
tremour ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on
the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them, and
Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the rock
again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was
saying, “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”




Chapter 9 THE NEVER BIRD

The last sound Peter heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids
retiring one by one to their bedchambers under the sea. He was too far
away to hear their doors shut; but every door in the coral caves where
they live rings a tiny bell when it opens or closes (as in all the
nicest houses on the mainland), and he heard the bells.

Steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to
pass the time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only
thing on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of floating paper,
perhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long it would take to
drift ashore.

Presently he noticed as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out upon
the lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide,
and sometimes winning; and when it won, Peter, always sympathetic to
the weaker side, could not help clapping; it was such a gallant piece of
paper.

It was not really a piece of paper; it was the Never bird, making
desperate efforts to reach Peter on the nest. By working her wings, in a
way she had learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able to
some extent to guide her strange craft, but by the time Peter recognised
her she was very exhausted. She had come to save him, to give him her
nest, though there were eggs in it. I rather wonder at the bird, for
though he had been nice to her, he had also sometimes tormented her. I
can suppose only that, like Mrs. Darling and the rest of them, she was
melted because he had all his first teeth.

She called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to her
what she was doing there; but of course neither of them understood
the other's language. In fanciful stories people can talk to the birds
freely, and I wish for the moment I could pretend that this were such a
story, and say that Peter replied intelligently to the Never bird; but
truth is best, and I want to tell you only what really happened. Well,
not only could they not understand each other, but they forgot their
manners.

“I--want--you--to--get--into--the--nest,” the bird called, speaking as
slowly and distinctly as possible, “and--then--you--can--drift--ashore,
but--I--am--too--tired--to--bring--it--any--nearer--so--you--must--try
to--swim--to--it.”

“What are you quacking about?” Peter answered. “Why don't you let the
nest drift as usual?”

“I--want--you--” the bird said, and repeated it all over.

Then Peter tried slow and distinct.

“What--are--you--quacking--about?” and so on.

The Never bird became irritated; they have very short tempers.

“You dunderheaded little jay!” she screamed, “Why don't you do as I tell
you?”

Peter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted
hotly:

“So are you!”

Then rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark:

“Shut up!”

“Shut up!”

Nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by
one last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock. Then up
she flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear.

Then at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks
to the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive his thanks,
however, that she hung there in the sky; it was not even to watch him
get into the nest; it was to see what he did with her eggs.

There were two large white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and reflected.
The bird covered her face with her wings, so as not to see the last of
them; but she could not help peeping between the feathers.

I forget whether I have told you that there was a stave on the rock,
driven into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of buried
treasure. The children had discovered the glittering hoard, and when in
a mischievous mood used to fling showers of moidores, diamonds, pearls
and pieces of eight to the gulls, who pounced upon them for food, and
then flew away, raging at the scurvy trick that had been played upon
them. The stave was still there, and on it Starkey had hung his hat, a
deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim. Peter put the eggs into
this hat and set it on the lagoon. It floated beautifully.

The Never bird saw at once what he was up to, and screamed her
admiration of him; and, alas, Peter crowed his agreement with her. Then
he got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and hung up his
shirt for a sail. At the same moment the bird fluttered down upon the
hat and once more sat snugly on her eggs. She drifted in one direction,
and he was borne off in another, both cheering.

Of course when Peter landed he beached his barque [small ship, actually
the Never Bird's nest in this particular case in point] in a place where
the bird would easily find it; but the hat was such a great success that
she abandoned the nest. It drifted about till it went to pieces, and
often Starkey came to the shore of the lagoon, and with many bitter
feelings watched the bird sitting on his hat. As we shall not see her
again, it may be worth mentioning here that all Never birds now build
in that shape of nest, with a broad brim on which the youngsters take an
airing.

Great were the rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the ground
almost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and thither by
the kite. Every boy had adventures to tell; but perhaps the biggest
adventure of all was that they were several hours late for bed. This so
inflated them that they did various dodgy things to get staying up still
longer, such as demanding bandages; but Wendy, though glorying in having
them all home again safe and sound, was scandalised by the lateness of
the hour, and cried, “To bed, to bed,” in a voice that had to be obeyed.
Next day, however, she was awfully tender, and gave out bandages to
every one, and they played till bed-time at limping about and carrying
their arms in slings.




Chapter 10 THE HAPPY HOME

One important result of the brush [with the pirates] on the lagoon was
that it made the redskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily from
a dreadful fate, and now there was nothing she and her braves would not
do for him. All night they sat above, keeping watch over the home under
the ground and awaiting the big attack by the pirates which obviously
could not be much longer delayed. Even by day they hung about, smoking
the pipe of peace, and looking almost as if they wanted tit-bits to eat.

They called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves [lying
down] before him; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was not
really good for him.

“The great white father,” he would say to them in a very lordly manner,
as they grovelled at his feet, “is glad to see the Piccaninny warriors
protecting his wigwam from the pirates.”

“Me Tiger Lily,” that lovely creature would reply. “Peter Pan save me,
me his velly nice friend. Me no let pirates hurt him.”

She was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it his
due, and he would answer condescendingly, “It is good. Peter Pan has
spoken.”

Always when he said, “Peter Pan has spoken,” it meant that they must now
shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were by
no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon as just
ordinary braves. They said “How-do?” to them, and things like that; and
what annoyed the boys was that Peter seemed to think this all right.

Secretly Wendy sympathised with them a little, but she was far too loyal
a housewife to listen to any complaints against father. “Father knows
best,” she always said, whatever her private opinion must be. Her
private opinion was that the redskins should not call her a squaw.

We have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as the
Night of Nights, because of its adventures and their upshot. The day, as
if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful, and now the
redskins in their blankets were at their posts above, while, below, the
children were having their evening meal; all except Peter, who had gone
out to get the time. The way you got the time on the island was to find
the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock struck.

The meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around the
board, guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their chatter and
recriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was positively deafening.
To be sure, she did not mind noise, but she simply would not have them
grabbing things, and then excusing themselves by saying that Tootles had
pushed their elbow. There was a fixed rule that they must never hit back
at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to Wendy by raising
the right arm politely and saying, “I complain of so-and-so;” but what
usually happened was that they forgot to do this or did it too much.

“Silence,” cried Wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them
that they were not all to speak at once. “Is your mug empty, Slightly
darling?”

“Not quite empty, mummy,” Slightly said, after looking into an imaginary
mug.

“He hasn't even begun to drink his milk,” Nibs interposed.

This was telling, and Slightly seized his chance.

“I complain of Nibs,” he cried promptly.

John, however, had held up his hand first.

“Well, John?”

“May I sit in Peter's chair, as he is not here?”

“Sit in father's chair, John!” Wendy was scandalised. “Certainly not.”

“He is not really our father,” John answered. “He didn't even know how a
father does till I showed him.”

This was grumbling. “We complain of John,” cried the twins.

Tootles held up his hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed he
was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him.

“I don't suppose,” Tootles said diffidently [bashfully or timidly],
“that I could be father.”

“No, Tootles.”

Once Tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of
going on.

“As I can't be father,” he said heavily, “I don't suppose, Michael, you
would let me be baby?”

“No, I won't,” Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.

“As I can't be baby,” Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier and
heavier, “do you think I could be a twin?”

“No, indeed,” replied the twins; “it's awfully difficult to be a twin.”

“As I can't be anything important,” said Tootles, “would any of you like
to see me do a trick?”

“No,” they all replied.

Then at last he stopped. “I hadn't really any hope,” he said.

The hateful telling broke out again.

“Slightly is coughing on the table.”

“The twins began with cheese-cakes.”

“Curly is taking both butter and honey.”

“Nibs is speaking with his mouth full.”

“I complain of the twins.”

“I complain of Curly.”

“I complain of Nibs.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” cried Wendy, “I'm sure I sometimes think that
spinsters are to be envied.”

She told them to clear away, and sat down to her work-basket, a heavy
load of stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.

“Wendy,” remonstrated [scolded] Michael, “I'm too big for a cradle.”

“I must have somebody in a cradle,” she said almost tartly, “and you
are the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a
house.”

While she sewed they played around her; such a group of happy faces
and dancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become a very
familiar scene, this, in the home under the ground, but we are looking
on it for the last time.

There was a step above, and Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to
recognize it.

“Children, I hear your father's step. He likes you to meet him at the
door.”

Above, the redskins crouched before Peter.

“Watch well, braves. I have spoken.”

And then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from his
tree. As so often before, but never again.

He had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for Wendy.

“Peter, you just spoil them, you know,” Wendy simpered [exaggerated a
smile].

“Ah, old lady,” said Peter, hanging up his gun.

“It was me told him mothers are called old lady,” Michael whispered to
Curly.

“I complain of Michael,” said Curly instantly.

The first twin came to Peter. “Father, we want to dance.”

“Dance away, my little man,” said Peter, who was in high good humour.

“But we want you to dance.”

Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be
scandalised.

“Me! My old bones would rattle!”

“And mummy too.”

“What,” cried Wendy, “the mother of such an armful, dance!”

“But on a Saturday night,” Slightly insinuated.

It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for
they had long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do
anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they did
it.

“Of course it is Saturday night, Peter,” Wendy said, relenting.

“People of our figure, Wendy!”

“But it is only among our own progeny [children].”

“True, true.”

So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties
first.

“Ah, old lady,” Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire
and looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, “there is nothing
more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day's toil is over
than to rest by the fire with the little ones near by.”

“It is sweet, Peter, isn't it?” Wendy said, frightfully gratified.
“Peter, I think Curly has your nose.”

“Michael takes after you.”

She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Dear Peter,” she said, “with such a large family, of course, I have now
passed my best, but you don't want to [ex]change me, do you?”

“No, Wendy.”

Certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably,
blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.

“Peter, what is it?”

“I was just thinking,” he said, a little scared. “It is only
make-believe, isn't it, that I am their father?”

“Oh yes,” Wendy said primly [formally and properly].

“You see,” he continued apologetically, “it would make me seem so old to
be their real father.”

“But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine.”

“But not really, Wendy?” he asked anxiously.

“Not if you don't wish it,” she replied; and she distinctly heard his
sigh of relief. “Peter,” she asked, trying to speak firmly, “what are
your exact feelings to [about] me?”

“Those of a devoted son, Wendy.”

“I thought so,” she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end
of the room.

“You are so queer,” he said, frankly puzzled, “and Tiger Lily is just
the same. There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is
not my mother.”

“No, indeed, it is not,” Wendy replied with frightful emphasis. Now we
know why she was prejudiced against the redskins.

“Then what is it?”

“It isn't for a lady to tell.”

“Oh, very well,” Peter said, a little nettled. “Perhaps Tinker Bell will
tell me.”

“Oh yes, Tinker Bell will tell you,” Wendy retorted scornfully. “She is
an abandoned little creature.”

Here Tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out something
impudent.

“She says she glories in being abandoned,” Peter interpreted.

He had a sudden idea. “Perhaps Tink wants to be my mother?”

“You silly ass!” cried Tinker Bell in a passion.

She had said it so often that Wendy needed no translation.

“I almost agree with her,” Wendy snapped. Fancy Wendy snapping! But she
had been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before the
night was out. If she had known she would not have snapped.

None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance
gave them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on the
island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it. They
sang and danced in their night-gowns. Such a deliciously creepy song
it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own shadows,
little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them, from whom
they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was the dance, and
how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it! It was a pillow
fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the pillows
insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may never
meet again. The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy's
good-night story! Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but
the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the others
but himself, and he said gloomily:

“Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the end.”

And then at last they all got into bed for Wendy's story, the story they
loved best, the story Peter hated. Usually when she began to tell this
story he left the room or put his hands over his ears; and possibly if
he had done either of those things this time they might all still be on
the island. But to-night he remained on his stool; and we shall see what
happened.




Chapter 11 WENDY'S STORY

“Listen, then,” said Wendy, settling down to her story, with Michael at
her feet and seven boys in the bed. “There was once a gentleman--”

“I had rather he had been a lady,” Curly said.

“I wish he had been a white rat,” said Nibs.

“Quiet,” their mother admonished [cautioned] them. “There was a lady
also, and--”

“Oh, mummy,” cried the first twin, “you mean that there is a lady also,
don't you? She is not dead, is she?”

“Oh, no.”

“I am awfully glad she isn't dead,” said Tootles. “Are you glad, John?”

“Of course I am.”

“Are you glad, Nibs?”

“Rather.”

“Are you glad, Twins?”

“We are glad.”

“Oh dear,” sighed Wendy.

“Little less noise there,” Peter called out, determined that she should
have fair play, however beastly a story it might be in his opinion.

“The gentleman's name,” Wendy continued, “was Mr. Darling, and her name
was Mrs. Darling.”

“I knew them,” John said, to annoy the others.

“I think I knew them,” said Michael rather doubtfully.

“They were married, you know,” explained Wendy, “and what do you think
they had?”

“White rats,” cried Nibs, inspired.

“No.”

“It's awfully puzzling,” said Tootles, who knew the story by heart.

“Quiet, Tootles. They had three descendants.”

“What is descendants?”

“Well, you are one, Twin.”

“Did you hear that, John? I am a descendant.”

“Descendants are only children,” said John.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” sighed Wendy. “Now these three children had a
faithful nurse called Nana; but Mr. Darling was angry with her and
chained her up in the yard, and so all the children flew away.”

“It's an awfully good story,” said Nibs.

“They flew away,” Wendy continued, “to the Neverland, where the lost
children are.”

“I just thought they did,” Curly broke in excitedly. “I don't know how
it is, but I just thought they did!”

“O Wendy,” cried Tootles, “was one of the lost children called Tootles?”

“Yes, he was.”

“I am in a story. Hurrah, I am in a story, Nibs.”

“Hush. Now I want you to consider the feelings of the unhappy parents
with all their children flown away.”

“Oo!” they all moaned, though they were not really considering the
feelings of the unhappy parents one jot.

“Think of the empty beds!”

“Oo!”

“It's awfully sad,” the first twin said cheerfully.

“I don't see how it can have a happy ending,” said the second twin. “Do
you, Nibs?”

“I'm frightfully anxious.”

“If you knew how great is a mother's love,” Wendy told them
triumphantly, “you would have no fear.” She had now come to the part
that Peter hated.

“I do like a mother's love,” said Tootles, hitting Nibs with a pillow.
“Do you like a mother's love, Nibs?”

“I do just,” said Nibs, hitting back.

“You see,” Wendy said complacently, “our heroine knew that the mother
would always leave the window open for her children to fly back by; so
they stayed away for years and had a lovely time.”

“Did they ever go back?”

“Let us now,” said Wendy, bracing herself up for her finest effort,
“take a peep into the future;” and they all gave themselves the twist
that makes peeps into the future easier. “Years have rolled by, and who
is this elegant lady of uncertain age alighting at London Station?”

“O Wendy, who is she?” cried Nibs, every bit as excited as if he didn't
know.

“Can it be--yes--no--it is--the fair Wendy!”

“Oh!”

“And who are the two noble portly figures accompanying her, now grown to
man's estate? Can they be John and Michael? They are!”

“Oh!”

“'See, dear brothers,' says Wendy pointing upwards, 'there is the window
still standing open. Ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime faith in a
mother's love.' So up they flew to their mummy and daddy, and pen cannot
describe the happy scene, over which we draw a veil.”

That was the story, and they were as pleased with it as the fair
narrator herself. Everything just as it should be, you see. Off we skip
like the most heartless things in the world, which is what children are,
but so attractive; and we have an entirely selfish time, and then when
we have need of special attention we nobly return for it, confident that
we shall be rewarded instead of smacked.

So great indeed was their faith in a mother's love that they felt they
could afford to be callous for a bit longer.

But there was one there who knew better, and when Wendy finished he
uttered a hollow groan.

“What is it, Peter?” she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill. She
felt him solicitously, lower down than his chest. “Where is it, Peter?”

“It isn't that kind of pain,” Peter replied darkly.

“Then what kind is it?”

“Wendy, you are wrong about mothers.”

They all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation;
and with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto concealed.

“Long ago,” he said, “I thought like you that my mother would always
keep the window open for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and
moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had
forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my
bed.”

I am not sure that this was true, but Peter thought it was true; and it
scared them.

“Are you sure mothers are like that?”

“Yes.”

So this was the truth about mothers. The toads!

Still it is best to be careful; and no one knows so quickly as a child
when he should give in. “Wendy, let us [let's] go home,” cried John and
Michael together.

“Yes,” she said, clutching them.

“Not to-night?” asked the lost boys bewildered. They knew in what they
called their hearts that one can get on quite well without a mother, and
that it is only the mothers who think you can't.

“At once,” Wendy replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had come
to her: “Perhaps mother is in half mourning by this time.”

This dread made her forgetful of what must be Peter's feelings, and
she said to him rather sharply, “Peter, will you make the necessary
arrangements?”

“If you wish it,” he replied, as coolly as if she had asked him to pass
the nuts.

Not so much as a sorry-to-lose-you between them! If she did not mind the
parting, he was going to show her, was Peter, that neither did he.

But of course he cared very much; and he was so full of wrath against
grown-ups, who, as usual, were spoiling everything, that as soon as he
got inside his tree he breathed intentionally quick short breaths at the
rate of about five to a second. He did this because there is a saying in
the Neverland that, every time you breathe, a grown-up dies; and Peter
was killing them off vindictively as fast as possible.

Then having given the necessary instructions to the redskins he returned
to the home, where an unworthy scene had been enacted in his absence.
Panic-stricken at the thought of losing Wendy the lost boys had advanced
upon her threateningly.

“It will be worse than before she came,” they cried.

“We shan't let her go.”

“Let's keep her prisoner.”

“Ay, chain her up.”

In her extremity an instinct told her to which of them to turn.

“Tootles,” she cried, “I appeal to you.”

Was it not strange? She appealed to Tootles, quite the silliest one.

Grandly, however, did Tootles respond. For that one moment he dropped
his silliness and spoke with dignity.

“I am just Tootles,” he said, “and nobody minds me. But the first who
does not behave to Wendy like an English gentleman I will blood him
severely.”

He drew back his hanger; and for that instant his sun was at noon. The
others held back uneasily. Then Peter returned, and they saw at once
that they would get no support from him. He would keep no girl in the
Neverland against her will.

“Wendy,” he said, striding up and down, “I have asked the redskins to
guide you through the wood, as flying tires you so.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

“Then,” he continued, in the short sharp voice of one accustomed to be
obeyed, “Tinker Bell will take you across the sea. Wake her, Nibs.”

Nibs had to knock twice before he got an answer, though Tink had really
been sitting up in bed listening for some time.

“Who are you? How dare you? Go away,” she cried.

“You are to get up, Tink,” Nibs called, “and take Wendy on a journey.”

Of course Tink had been delighted to hear that Wendy was going; but
she was jolly well determined not to be her courier, and she said so in
still more offensive language. Then she pretended to be asleep again.

“She says she won't!” Nibs exclaimed, aghast at such insubordination,
whereupon Peter went sternly toward the young lady's chamber.

“Tink,” he rapped out, “if you don't get up and dress at once I will
open the curtains, and then we shall all see you in your negligee
[nightgown].”

This made her leap to the floor. “Who said I wasn't getting up?” she
cried.

In the meantime the boys were gazing very forlornly at Wendy, now
equipped with John and Michael for the journey. By this time they were
dejected, not merely because they were about to lose her, but also
because they felt that she was going off to something nice to which they
had not been invited. Novelty was beckoning to them as usual.

Crediting them with a nobler feeling Wendy melted.

“Dear ones,” she said, “if you will all come with me I feel almost sure
I can get my father and mother to adopt you.”

The invitation was meant specially for Peter, but each of the boys was
thinking exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy.

“But won't they think us rather a handful?” Nibs asked in the middle of
his jump.

“Oh no,” said Wendy, rapidly thinking it out, “it will only mean having
a few beds in the drawing-room; they can be hidden behind the screens on
first Thursdays.”

“Peter, can we go?” they all cried imploringly. They took it for granted
that if they went he would go also, but really they scarcely cared. Thus
children are ever ready, when novelty knocks, to desert their dearest
ones.

“All right,” Peter replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they
rushed to get their things.

“And now, Peter,” Wendy said, thinking she had put everything right,
“I am going to give you your medicine before you go.” She loved to give
them medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too much. Of course it was only
water, but it was out of a bottle, and she always shook the bottle and
counted the drops, which gave it a certain medicinal quality. On this
occasion, however, she did not give Peter his draught [portion], for
just as she had prepared it, she saw a look on his face that made her
heart sink.

“Get your things, Peter,” she cried, shaking.

“No,” he answered, pretending indifference, “I am not going with you,
Wendy.”

“Yes, Peter.”

“No.”

To show that her departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up and
down the room, playing gaily on his heartless pipes. She had to run
about after him, though it was rather undignified.

“To find your mother,” she coaxed.

Now, if Peter had ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed her. He
could do very well without one. He had thought them out, and remembered
only their bad points.

“No, no,” he told Wendy decisively; “perhaps she would say I was old,
and I just want always to be a little boy and to have fun.”

“But, Peter--”

“No.”

And so the others had to be told.

“Peter isn't coming.”

Peter not coming! They gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their
backs, and on each stick a bundle. Their first thought was that if Peter
was not going he had probably changed his mind about letting them go.

But he was far too proud for that. “If you find your mothers,” he said
darkly, “I hope you will like them.”

The awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression, and most
of them began to look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said, were
they not noodles to want to go?

“Now then,” cried Peter, “no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye, Wendy;” and
he held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must really go now, for
he had something important to do.

She had to take his hand, and there was no indication that he would
prefer a thimble.

“You will remember about changing your flannels, Peter?” she said,
lingering over him. She was always so particular about their flannels.

“Yes.”

“And you will take your medicine?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to be everything, and an awkward pause followed. Peter,
however, was not the kind that breaks down before other people. “Are you
ready, Tinker Bell?” he called out.

“Ay, ay.”

“Then lead the way.”

Tink darted up the nearest tree; but no one followed her, for it was
at this moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the
redskins. Above, where all had been so still, the air was rent with
shrieks and the clash of steel. Below, there was dead silence. Mouths
opened and remained open. Wendy fell on her knees, but her arms were
extended toward Peter. All arms were extended to him, as if suddenly
blown in his direction; they were beseeching him mutely not to desert
them. As for Peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought he had
slain Barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye.




Chapter 12 THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF

The pirate attack had been a complete surprise: a sure proof that the
unscrupulous Hook had conducted it improperly, for to surprise redskins
fairly is beyond the wit of the white man.

By all the unwritten laws of savage warfare it is always the redskin who
attacks, and with the wiliness of his race he does it just before the
dawn, at which time he knows the courage of the whites to be at its
lowest ebb. The white men have in the meantime made a rude stockade on
the summit of yonder undulating ground, at the foot of which a stream
runs, for it is destruction to be too far from water. There they await
the onslaught, the inexperienced ones clutching their revolvers and
treading on twigs, but the old hands sleeping tranquilly until just
before the dawn. Through the long black night the savage scouts wriggle,
snake-like, among the grass without stirring a blade. The brushwood
closes behind them, as silently as sand into which a mole has dived.
Not a sound is to be heard, save when they give vent to a wonderful
imitation of the lonely call of the coyote. The cry is answered by other
braves; and some of them do it even better than the coyotes, who are not
very good at it. So the chill hours wear on, and the long suspense is
horribly trying to the paleface who has to live through it for the first
time; but to the trained hand those ghastly calls and still ghastlier
silences are but an intimation of how the night is marching.

That this was the usual procedure was so well known to Hook that in
disregarding it he cannot be excused on the plea of ignorance.

The Piccaninnies, on their part, trusted implicitly to his honour, and
their whole action of the night stands out in marked contrast to his.
They left nothing undone that was consistent with the reputation of
their tribe. With that alertness of the senses which is at once the
marvel and despair of civilised peoples, they knew that the pirates were
on the island from the moment one of them trod on a dry stick; and in
an incredibly short space of time the coyote cries began. Every foot of
ground between the spot where Hook had landed his forces and the
home under the trees was stealthily examined by braves wearing their
mocassins with the heels in front. They found only one hillock with a
stream at its base, so that Hook had no choice; here he must establish
himself and wait for just before the dawn. Everything being thus mapped
out with almost diabolical cunning, the main body of the redskins folded
their blankets around them, and in the phlegmatic manner that is to
them, the pearl of manhood squatted above the children's home, awaiting
the cold moment when they should deal pale death.

Here dreaming, though wide-awake, of the exquisite tortures to which
they were to put him at break of day, those confiding savages were found
by the treacherous Hook. From the accounts afterwards supplied by such
of the scouts as escaped the carnage, he does not seem even to have
paused at the rising ground, though it is certain that in that grey
light he must have seen it: no thought of waiting to be attacked appears
from first to last to have visited his subtle mind; he would not even
hold off till the night was nearly spent; on he pounded with no policy
but to fall to [get into combat]. What could the bewildered scouts do,
masters as they were of every war-like artifice save this one, but trot
helplessly after him, exposing themselves fatally to view, while they
gave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry.

Around the brave Tiger Lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors, and
they suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them. Fell
from their eyes then the film through which they had looked at
victory. No more would they torture at the stake. For them the happy
hunting-grounds was now. They knew it; but as their father's sons they
acquitted themselves. Even then they had time to gather in a phalanx
[dense formation] that would have been hard to break had they risen
quickly, but this they were forbidden to do by the traditions of their
race. It is written that the noble savage must never express surprise in
the presence of the white. Thus terrible as the sudden appearance of the
pirates must have been to them, they remained stationary for a moment,
not a muscle moving; as if the foe had come by invitation. Then, indeed,
the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their weapons, and the air
was torn with the war-cry; but it was now too late.

It is no part of ours to describe what was a massacre rather than a
fight. Thus perished many of the flower of the Piccaninny tribe. Not all
unavenged did they die, for with Lean Wolf fell Alf Mason, to disturb
the Spanish Main no more, and among others who bit the dust were Geo.
Scourie, Chas. Turley, and the Alsatian Foggerty. Turley fell to the
tomahawk of the terrible Panther, who ultimately cut a way through the
pirates with Tiger Lily and a small remnant of the tribe.

To what extent Hook is to blame for his tactics on this occasion is for
the historian to decide. Had he waited on the rising ground till the
proper hour he and his men would probably have been butchered; and in
judging him it is only fair to take this into account. What he should
perhaps have done was to acquaint his opponents that he proposed to
follow a new method. On the other hand, this, as destroying the element
of surprise, would have made his strategy of no avail, so that the whole
question is beset with difficulties. One cannot at least withhold a
reluctant admiration for the wit that had conceived so bold a scheme,
and the fell [deadly] genius with which it was carried out.

What were his own feelings about himself at that triumphant moment?
Fain [gladly] would his dogs have known, as breathing heavily and wiping
their cutlasses, they gathered at a discreet distance from his hook, and
squinted through their ferret eyes at this extraordinary man. Elation
must have been in his heart, but his face did not reflect it: ever a
dark and solitary enigma, he stood aloof from his followers in spirit as
in substance.

The night's work was not yet over, for it was not the redskins he had
come out to destroy; they were but the bees to be smoked, so that he
should get at the honey. It was Pan he wanted, Pan and Wendy and their
band, but chiefly Pan.

Peter was such a small boy that one tends to wonder at the man's hatred
of him. True he had flung Hook's arm to the crocodile, but even this
and the increased insecurity of life to which it led, owing to
the crocodile's pertinacity [persistance], hardly account for a
vindictiveness so relentless and malignant. The truth is that there was
a something about Peter which goaded the pirate captain to frenzy. It
was not his courage, it was not his engaging appearance, it was not--.
There is no beating about the bush, for we know quite well what it was,
and have got to tell. It was Peter's cockiness.

This had got on Hook's nerves; it made his iron claw twitch, and at
night it disturbed him like an insect. While Peter lived, the tortured
man felt that he was a lion in a cage into which a sparrow had come.

The question now was how to get down the trees, or how to get his dogs
down? He ran his greedy eyes over them, searching for the thinnest
ones. They wriggled uncomfortably, for they knew he would not scruple
[hesitate] to ram them down with poles.

In the meantime, what of the boys? We have seen them at the first clang
of the weapons, turned as it were into stone figures, open-mouthed,
all appealing with outstretched arms to Peter; and we return to them as
their mouths close, and their arms fall to their sides. The pandemonium
above has ceased almost as suddenly as it arose, passed like a fierce
gust of wind; but they know that in the passing it has determined their
fate.

Which side had won?

The pirates, listening avidly at the mouths of the trees, heard the
question put by every boy, and alas, they also heard Peter's answer.

“If the redskins have won,” he said, “they will beat the tom-tom; it is
always their sign of victory.”

Now Smee had found the tom-tom, and was at that moment sitting on it.
“You will never hear the tom-tom again,” he muttered, but inaudibly of
course, for strict silence had been enjoined [urged]. To his amazement
Hook signed him to beat the tom-tom, and slowly there came to Smee an
understanding of the dreadful wickedness of the order. Never, probably,
had this simple man admired Hook so much.

Twice Smee beat upon the instrument, and then stopped to listen
gleefully.

“The tom-tom,” the miscreants heard Peter cry; “an Indian victory!”

The doomed children answered with a cheer that was music to the black
hearts above, and almost immediately they repeated their good-byes
to Peter. This puzzled the pirates, but all their other feelings were
swallowed by a base delight that the enemy were about to come up the
trees. They smirked at each other and rubbed their hands. Rapidly and
silently Hook gave his orders: one man to each tree, and the others to
arrange themselves in a line two yards apart.




Chapter 13 DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES?

The more quickly this horror is disposed of the better. The first to
emerge from his tree was Curly. He rose out of it into the arms of
Cecco, who flung him to Smee, who flung him to Starkey, who flung him to
Bill Jukes, who flung him to Noodler, and so he was tossed from one to
another till he fell at the feet of the black pirate. All the boys were
plucked from their trees in this ruthless manner; and several of them
were in the air at a time, like bales of goods flung from hand to hand.

A different treatment was accorded to Wendy, who came last. With
ironical politeness Hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her his
arm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged. He
did it with such an air, he was so frightfully DISTINGUE [imposingly
distinguished], that she was too fascinated to cry out. She was only a
little girl.

Perhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a moment Hook entranced her,
and we tell on her only because her slip led to strange results. Had she
haughtily unhanded him (and we should have loved to write it of her),
she would have been hurled through the air like the others, and then
Hook would probably not have been present at the tying of the children;
and had he not been at the tying he would not have discovered Slightly's
secret, and without the secret he could not presently have made his foul
attempt on Peter's life.

They were tied to prevent their flying away, doubled up with their knees
close to their ears; and for the trussing of them the black pirate had
cut a rope into nine equal pieces. All went well until Slightly's turn
came, when he was found to be like those irritating parcels that use up
all the string in going round and leave no tags [ends] with which to
tie a knot. The pirates kicked him in their rage, just as you kick the
parcel (though in fairness you should kick the string); and strange
to say it was Hook who told them to belay their violence. His lip was
curled with malicious triumph. While his dogs were merely sweating
because every time they tried to pack the unhappy lad tight in one
part he bulged out in another, Hook's master mind had gone far beneath
Slightly's surface, probing not for effects but for causes; and his
exultation showed that he had found them. Slightly, white to the gills,
knew that Hook had surprised [discovered] his secret, which was this,
that no boy so blown out could use a tree wherein an average man need
stick. Poor Slightly, most wretched of all the children now, for he
was in a panic about Peter, bitterly regretted what he had done. Madly
addicted to the drinking of water when he was hot, he had swelled in
consequence to his present girth, and instead of reducing himself to fit
his tree he had, unknown to the others, whittled his tree to make it fit
him.

Sufficient of this Hook guessed to persuade him that Peter at last lay
at his mercy, but no word of the dark design that now formed in the
subterranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he merely signed
that the captives were to be conveyed to the ship, and that he would be
alone.

How to convey them? Hunched up in their ropes they might indeed be
rolled down hill like barrels, but most of the way lay through a morass.
Again Hook's genius surmounted difficulties. He indicated that the
little house must be used as a conveyance. The children were flung into
it, four stout pirates raised it on their shoulders, the others fell in
behind, and singing the hateful pirate chorus the strange procession
set off through the wood. I don't know whether any of the children were
crying; if so, the singing drowned the sound; but as the little house
disappeared in the forest, a brave though tiny jet of smoke issued from
its chimney as if defying Hook.

Hook saw it, and it did Peter a bad service. It dried up any trickle of
pity for him that may have remained in the pirate's infuriated breast.

The first thing he did on finding himself alone in the fast falling
night was to tiptoe to Slightly's tree, and make sure that it provided
him with a passage. Then for long he remained brooding; his hat of ill
omen on the sward, so that any gentle breeze which had arisen might play
refreshingly through his hair. Dark as were his thoughts his blue eyes
were as soft as the periwinkle. Intently he listened for any sound from
the nether world, but all was as silent below as above; the house under
the ground seemed to be but one more empty tenement in the void. Was
that boy asleep, or did he stand waiting at the foot of Slightly's tree,
with his dagger in his hand?

There was no way of knowing, save by going down. Hook let his cloak slip
softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood stood
on them, he stepped into the tree. He was a brave man, but for a moment
he had to stop there and wipe his brow, which was dripping like a
candle. Then, silently, he let himself go into the unknown.

He arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still again,
biting at his breath, which had almost left him. As his eyes became
accustomed to the dim light various objects in the home under the trees
took shape; but the only one on which his greedy gaze rested, long
sought for and found at last, was the great bed. On the bed lay Peter
fast asleep.

Unaware of the tragedy being enacted above, Peter had continued, for
a little time after the children left, to play gaily on his pipes: no
doubt rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself that he did not care.
Then he decided not to take his medicine, so as to grieve Wendy. Then he
lay down on the bed outside the coverlet, to vex her still more; for she
had always tucked them inside it, because you never know that you may
not grow chilly at the turn of the night. Then he nearly cried; but
it struck him how indignant she would be if he laughed instead; so he
laughed a haughty laugh and fell asleep in the middle of it.

Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful
than the dreams of other boys. For hours he could not be separated from
these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them. They had to do, I
think, with the riddle of his existence. At such times it had been
Wendy's custom to take him out of bed and sit with him on her lap,
soothing him in dear ways of her own invention, and when he grew calmer
to put him back to bed before he quite woke up, so that he should
not know of the indignity to which she had subjected him. But on this
occasion he had fallen at once into a dreamless sleep. One arm dropped
over the edge of the bed, one leg was arched, and the unfinished part of
his laugh was stranded on his mouth, which was open, showing the little
pearls.

Thus defenceless Hook found him. He stood silent at the foot of the tree
looking across the chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of compassion
disturb his sombre breast? The man was not wholly evil; he loved flowers
(I have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no mean performer on
the harpsichord); and, let it be frankly admitted, the idyllic nature of
the scene stirred him profoundly. Mastered by his better self he would
have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one thing.

What stayed him was Peter's impertinent appearance as he slept. The
open mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a
personification of cockiness as, taken together, will never again, one
may hope, be presented to eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness. They
steeled Hook's heart. If his rage had broken him into a hundred pieces
every one of them would have disregarded the incident, and leapt at the
sleeper.

Though a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed, Hook stood in
darkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he discovered
an obstacle, the door of Slightly's tree. It did not entirely fill the
aperture, and he had been looking over it. Feeling for the catch,
he found to his fury that it was low down, beyond his reach. To his
disordered brain it seemed then that the irritating quality in Peter's
face and figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and flung
himself against it. Was his enemy to escape him after all?

But what was that? The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter's
medicine standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it was
straightaway, and immediately knew that the sleeper was in his power.

Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried about his person a
dreadful drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that
had come into his possession. These he had boiled down into a yellow
liquid quite unknown to science, which was probably the most virulent
poison in existence.

Five drops of this he now added to Peter's cup. His hand shook, but it
was in exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided glancing
at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve him; merely to avoid
spilling. Then one long gloating look he cast upon his victim, and
turning, wormed his way with difficulty up the tree. As he emerged
at the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole.
Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around him,
holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the night,
of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to himself,
stole away through the trees.

Peter slept on. The light guttered [burned to edges] and went out,
leaving the tenement in darkness; but still he slept. It must have been
not less than ten o'clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in
his bed, wakened by he knew not what. It was a soft cautious tapping on
the door of his tree.

Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt for
his dagger till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.

“Who is that?”

For long there was no answer: then again the knock.

“Who are you?”

No answer.

He was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In two strides he reached
the door. Unlike Slightly's door, it filled the aperture [opening], so
that he could not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him.

“I won't open unless you speak,” Peter cried.

Then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.

“Let me in, Peter.”

It was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. She flew in excitedly, her
face flushed and her dress stained with mud.

“What is it?”

“Oh, you could never guess!” she cried, and offered him three guesses.
“Out with it!” he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long as
the ribbons that conjurers [magicians] pull from their mouths, she told
of the capture of Wendy and the boys.

Peter's heart bobbed up and down as he listened. Wendy bound, and on the
pirate ship; she who loved everything to be just so!

“I'll rescue her!” he cried, leaping at his weapons. As he leapt he
thought of something he could do to please her. He could take his
medicine.

His hand closed on the fatal draught.

“No!” shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard Hook mutter about his deed as
he sped through the forest.

“Why not?”

“It is poisoned.”

“Poisoned? Who could have poisoned it?”

“Hook.”

“Don't be silly. How could Hook have got down here?”

Alas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for even she did not know the
dark secret of Slightly's tree. Nevertheless Hook's words had left no
room for doubt. The cup was poisoned.

“Besides,” said Peter, quite believing himself, “I never fell asleep.”

He raised the cup. No time for words now; time for deeds; and with one
of her lightning movements Tink got between his lips and the draught,
and drained it to the dregs.

“Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine?”

But she did not answer. Already she was reeling in the air.

“What is the matter with you?” cried Peter, suddenly afraid.

“It was poisoned, Peter,” she told him softly; “and now I am going to be
dead.”

“O Tink, did you drink it to save me?”

“Yes.”

“But why, Tink?”

Her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on his
shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear “You
silly ass,” and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the bed.

His head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt
near her in distress. Every moment her light was growing fainter; and
he knew that if it went out she would be no more. She liked his tears so
much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it.

Her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said.
Then he made it out. She was saying that she thought she could get well
again if children believed in fairies.

Peter flung out his arms. There were no children there, and it was night
time; but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the Neverland, and
who were therefore nearer to him than you think: boys and girls in their
nighties, and naked papooses in their baskets hung from trees.

“Do you believe?” he cried.

Tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate.

She fancied she heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she
wasn't sure.

“What do you think?” she asked Peter.

“If you believe,” he shouted to them, “clap your hands; don't let Tink
die.”

Many clapped.

Some didn't.

A few beasts hissed.

The clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to
their nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already Tink was
saved. First her voice grew strong, then she popped out of bed, then
she was flashing through the room more merry and impudent than ever. She
never thought of thanking those who believed, but she would have liked to
get at the ones who had hissed.

“And now to rescue Wendy!”

The moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when Peter rose from his tree,
begirt [belted] with weapons and wearing little else, to set out upon
his perilous quest. It was not such a night as he would have chosen.
He had hoped to fly, keeping not far from the ground so that nothing
unwonted should escape his eyes; but in that fitful light to have
flown low would have meant trailing his shadow through the trees, thus
disturbing birds and acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir.

He regretted now that he had given the birds of the island such strange
names that they are very wild and difficult of approach.

There was no other course but to press forward in redskin fashion, at
which happily he was an adept [expert]. But in what direction, for he
could not be sure that the children had been taken to the ship? A
light fall of snow had obliterated all footmarks; and a deathly silence
pervaded the island, as if for a space Nature stood still in horror of
the recent carnage. He had taught the children something of the forest
lore that he had himself learned from Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell,
and knew that in their dire hour they were not likely to forget it.
Slightly, if he had an opportunity, would blaze [cut a mark in] the
trees, for instance, Curly would drop seeds, and Wendy would leave her
handkerchief at some important place. The morning was needed to search
for such guidance, and he could not wait. The upper world had called
him, but would give no help.

The crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound, not
a movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the next
tree, or stalking him from behind.

He swore this terrible oath: “Hook or me this time.”

Now he crawled forward like a snake, and again erect, he darted across
a space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his
dagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy.




Chapter 14 THE PIRATE SHIP

One green light squinting over Kidd's Creek, which is near the mouth of
the pirate river, marked where the brig, the JOLLY ROGER, lay, low in
the water; a rakish-looking [speedy-looking] craft foul to the hull,
every beam in her detestable, like ground strewn with mangled feathers.
She was the cannibal of the seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye,
for she floated immune in the horror of her name.

She was wrapped in the blanket of night, through which no sound from her
could have reached the shore. There was little sound, and none agreeable
save the whir of the ship's sewing machine at which Smee sat, ever
industrious and obliging, the essence of the commonplace, pathetic Smee.
I know not why he was so infinitely pathetic, unless it were because
he was so pathetically unaware of it; but even strong men had to turn
hastily from looking at him, and more than once on summer evenings he
had touched the fount of Hook's tears and made it flow. Of this, as of
almost everything else, Smee was quite unconscious.

A few of the pirates leant over the bulwarks, drinking in the miasma
[putrid mist] of the night; others sprawled by barrels over games of
dice and cards; and the exhausted four who had carried the little house
lay prone on the deck, where even in their sleep they rolled skillfully
to this side or that out of Hook's reach, lest he should claw them
mechanically in passing.

Hook trod the deck in thought. O man unfathomable. It was his hour of
triumph. Peter had been removed for ever from his path, and all the
other boys were in the brig, about to walk the plank. It was his
grimmest deed since the days when he had brought Barbecue to heel; and
knowing as we do how vain a tabernacle is man, could we be surprised
had he now paced the deck unsteadily, bellied out by the winds of his
success?

But there was no elation in his gait, which kept pace with the action of
his sombre mind. Hook was profoundly dejected.

He was often thus when communing with himself on board ship in the
quietude of the night. It was because he was so terribly alone. This
inscrutable man never felt more alone than when surrounded by his dogs.
They were socially inferior to him.

Hook was not his true name. To reveal who he really was would even at
this date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read between the
lines must already have guessed, he had been at a famous public school;
and its traditions still clung to him like garments, with which indeed
they are largely concerned. Thus it was offensive to him even now to
board a ship in the same dress in which he grappled [attacked] her, and
he still adhered in his walk to the school's distinguished slouch. But
above all he retained the passion for good form.

Good form! However much he may have degenerated, he still knew that this
is all that really matters.

From far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and through
them came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when one
cannot sleep. “Have you been good form to-day?” was their eternal
question.

“Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine,” he cried.

“Is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?” the tap-tap
from his school replied.

“I am the only man whom Barbecue feared,” he urged, “and Flint feared
Barbecue.”

“Barbecue, Flint--what house?” came the cutting retort.

Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about
good form?

His vitals were tortured by this problem. It was a claw within him
sharper than the iron one; and as it tore him, the perspiration dripped
down his tallow [waxy] countenance and streaked his doublet. Ofttimes he
drew his sleeve across his face, but there was no damming that trickle.

Ah, envy not Hook.

There came to him a presentiment of his early dissolution [death]. It
was as if Peter's terrible oath had boarded the ship. Hook felt a gloomy
desire to make his dying speech, lest presently there should be no time
for it.

“Better for Hook,” he cried, “if he had had less ambition!” It was in
his darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third person.

“No little children to love me!”

Strange that he should think of this, which had never troubled him
before; perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind. For long he
muttered to himself, staring at Smee, who was hemming placidly, under
the conviction that all children feared him.

Feared him! Feared Smee! There was not a child on board the brig that
night who did not already love him. He had said horrid things to them
and hit them with the palm of his hand, because he could not hit with
his fist, but they had only clung to him the more. Michael had tried on
his spectacles.

To tell poor Smee that they thought him lovable! Hook itched to do it,
but it seemed too brutal. Instead, he revolved this mystery in his
mind: why do they find Smee lovable? He pursued the problem like the
sleuth-hound that he was. If Smee was lovable, what was it that made him
so? A terrible answer suddenly presented itself--“Good form?”

Had the bo'sun good form without knowing it, which is the best form of
all?

He remembered that you have to prove you don't know you have it before
you are eligible for Pop [an elite social club at Eton].

With a cry of rage he raised his iron hand over Smee's head; but he did
not tear. What arrested him was this reflection:

“To claw a man because he is good form, what would that be?”

“Bad form!”

The unhappy Hook was as impotent [powerless] as he was damp, and he fell
forward like a cut flower.

His dogs thinking him out of the way for a time, discipline instantly
relaxed; and they broke into a bacchanalian [drunken] dance, which
brought him to his feet at once, all traces of human weakness gone, as
if a bucket of water had passed over him.

“Quiet, you scugs,” he cried, “or I'll cast anchor in you;” and at once
the din was hushed. “Are all the children chained, so that they cannot
fly away?”

“Ay, ay.”

“Then hoist them up.”

The wretched prisoners were dragged from the hold, all except Wendy,
and ranged in line in front of him. For a time he seemed unconscious
of their presence. He lolled at his ease, humming, not unmelodiously,
snatches of a rude song, and fingering a pack of cards. Ever and anon
the light from his cigar gave a touch of colour to his face.

“Now then, bullies,” he said briskly, “six of you walk the plank
to-night, but I have room for two cabin boys. Which of you is it to be?”

“Don't irritate him unnecessarily,” had been Wendy's instructions in
the hold; so Tootles stepped forward politely. Tootles hated the idea
of signing under such a man, but an instinct told him that it would
be prudent to lay the responsibility on an absent person; and though a
somewhat silly boy, he knew that mothers alone are always willing to be
the buffer. All children know this about mothers, and despise them for
it, but make constant use of it.

So Tootles explained prudently, “You see, sir, I don't think my mother
would like me to be a pirate. Would your mother like you to be a pirate,
Slightly?”

He winked at Slightly, who said mournfully, “I don't think so,” as if
he wished things had been otherwise. “Would your mother like you to be a
pirate, Twin?”

“I don't think so,” said the first twin, as clever as the others. “Nibs,
would--”

“Stow this gab,” roared Hook, and the spokesmen were dragged back. “You,
boy,” he said, addressing John, “you look as if you had a little pluck
in you. Didst never want to be a pirate, my hearty?”

Now John had sometimes experienced this hankering at maths. prep.; and
he was struck by Hook's picking him out.

“I once thought of calling myself Red-handed Jack,” he said diffidently.

“And a good name too. We'll call you that here, bully, if you join.”

“What do you think, Michael?” asked John.

“What would you call me if I join?” Michael demanded.

“Blackbeard Joe.”

Michael was naturally impressed. “What do you think, John?” He wanted
John to decide, and John wanted him to decide.

“Shall we still be respectful subjects of the King?” John inquired.

Through Hook's teeth came the answer: “You would have to swear, 'Down
with the King.'”

Perhaps John had not behaved very well so far, but he shone out now.

“Then I refuse,” he cried, banging the barrel in front of Hook.

“And I refuse,” cried Michael.

“Rule Britannia!” squeaked Curly.

The infuriated pirates buffeted them in the mouth; and Hook roared out,
“That seals your doom. Bring up their mother. Get the plank ready.”

They were only boys, and they went white as they saw Jukes and Cecco
preparing the fatal plank. But they tried to look brave when Wendy was
brought up.

No words of mine can tell you how Wendy despised those pirates. To the
boys there was at least some glamour in the pirate calling; but all that
she saw was that the ship had not been tidied for years. There was not
a porthole on the grimy glass of which you might not have written with
your finger “Dirty pig”; and she had already written it on several. But
as the boys gathered round her she had no thought, of course, save for
them.

“So, my beauty,” said Hook, as if he spoke in syrup, “you are to see
your children walk the plank.”

Fine gentlemen though he was, the intensity of his communings had soiled
his ruff, and suddenly he knew that she was gazing at it. With a hasty
gesture he tried to hide it, but he was too late.

“Are they to die?” asked Wendy, with a look of such frightful contempt
that he nearly fainted.

“They are,” he snarled. “Silence all,” he called gloatingly, “for a
mother's last words to her children.”

At this moment Wendy was grand. “These are my last words, dear boys,”
 she said firmly. “I feel that I have a message to you from your real
mothers, and it is this: 'We hope our sons will die like English
gentlemen.'”

Even the pirates were awed, and Tootles cried out hysterically, “I am
going to do what my mother hopes. What are you to do, Nibs?”

“What my mother hopes. What are you to do, Twin?”

“What my mother hopes. John, what are--”

But Hook had found his voice again.

“Tie her up!” he shouted.

It was Smee who tied her to the mast. “See here, honey,” he whispered,
“I'll save you if you promise to be my mother.”

But not even for Smee would she make such a promise. “I would almost
rather have no children at all,” she said disdainfully [scornfully].

It is sad to know that not a boy was looking at her as Smee tied her to
the mast; the eyes of all were on the plank: that last little walk they
were about to take. They were no longer able to hope that they would
walk it manfully, for the capacity to think had gone from them; they
could stare and shiver only.

Hook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and took a step toward Wendy.
His intention was to turn her face so that she should see the boys
walking the plank one by one. But he never reached her, he never heard
the cry of anguish he hoped to wring from her. He heard something else
instead.

It was the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile.

They all heard it--pirates, boys, Wendy; and immediately every head was
blown in one direction; not to the water whence the sound proceeded, but
toward Hook. All knew that what was about to happen concerned him alone,
and that from being actors they were suddenly become spectators.

Very frightful was it to see the change that came over him. It was as if
he had been clipped at every joint. He fell in a little heap.

The sound came steadily nearer; and in advance of it came this ghastly
thought, “The crocodile is about to board the ship!”

Even the iron claw hung inactive; as if knowing that it was no intrinsic
part of what the attacking force wanted. Left so fearfully alone, any
other man would have lain with his eyes shut where he fell: but the
gigantic brain of Hook was still working, and under its guidance he
crawled on the knees along the deck as far from the sound as he could
go. The pirates respectfully cleared a passage for him, and it was only
when he brought up against the bulwarks that he spoke.

“Hide me!” he cried hoarsely.

They gathered round him, all eyes averted from the thing that was coming
aboard. They had no thought of fighting it. It was Fate.

Only when Hook was hidden from them did curiosity loosen the limbs of
the boys so that they could rush to the ship's side to see the crocodile
climbing it. Then they got the strangest surprise of the Night of
Nights; for it was no crocodile that was coming to their aid. It was
Peter.

He signed to them not to give vent to any cry of admiration that might
rouse suspicion. Then he went on ticking.




Chapter 15 “HOOK OR ME THIS TIME”

Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our
noticing for a time that they have happened. Thus, to take an instance,
we suddenly discover that we have been deaf in one ear for we don't know
how long, but, say, half an hour. Now such an experience had come that
night to Peter. When last we saw him he was stealing across the island
with one finger to his lips and his dagger at the ready. He had seen the
crocodile pass by without noticing anything peculiar about it, but by
and by he remembered that it had not been ticking. At first he thought
this eerie, but soon concluded rightly that the clock had run down.

Without giving a thought to what might be the feelings of a
fellow-creature thus abruptly deprived of its closest companion, Peter
began to consider how he could turn the catastrophe to his own use;
and he decided to tick, so that wild beasts should believe he was the
crocodile and let him pass unmolested. He ticked superbly, but with one
unforeseen result. The crocodile was among those who heard the sound,
and it followed him, though whether with the purpose of regaining what
it had lost, or merely as a friend under the belief that it was again
ticking itself, will never be certainly known, for, like slaves to a
fixed idea, it was a stupid beast.

Peter reached the shore without mishap, and went straight on, his legs
encountering the water as if quite unaware that they had entered a new
element. Thus many animals pass from land to water, but no other human
of whom I know. As he swam he had but one thought: “Hook or me this
time.” He had ticked so long that he now went on ticking without knowing
that he was doing it. Had he known he would have stopped, for to board
the brig by help of the tick, though an ingenious idea, had not occurred
to him.

On the contrary, he thought he had scaled her side as noiseless as a
mouse; and he was amazed to see the pirates cowering from him, with Hook
in their midst as abject as if he had heard the crocodile.

The crocodile! No sooner did Peter remember it than he heard the
ticking. At first he thought the sound did come from the crocodile,
and he looked behind him swiftly. Then he realised that he was doing it
himself, and in a flash he understood the situation. “How clever of me!”
 he thought at once, and signed to the boys not to burst into applause.

It was at this moment that Ed Teynte the quartermaster emerged from the
forecastle and came along the deck. Now, reader, time what happened by
your watch. Peter struck true and deep. John clapped his hands on the
ill-fated pirate's mouth to stifle the dying groan. He fell forward.
Four boys caught him to prevent the thud. Peter gave the signal, and the
carrion was cast overboard. There was a splash, and then silence. How
long has it taken?

“One!” (Slightly had begun to count.)

None too soon, Peter, every inch of him on tiptoe, vanished into the
cabin; for more than one pirate was screwing up his courage to look
round. They could hear each other's distressed breathing now, which
showed them that the more terrible sound had passed.

“It's gone, captain,” Smee said, wiping off his spectacles. “All's still
again.”

Slowly Hook let his head emerge from his ruff, and listened so intently
that he could have caught the echo of the tick. There was not a sound,
and he drew himself up firmly to his full height.

“Then here's to Johnny Plank!” he cried brazenly, hating the boys more
than ever because they had seen him unbend. He broke into the villainous
ditty:

     “Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank,
     You walks along it so,
     Till it goes down and you goes down
     To Davy Jones below!”

To terrorize the prisoners the more, though with a certain loss of
dignity, he danced along an imaginary plank, grimacing at them as he
sang; and when he finished he cried, “Do you want a touch of the cat [o'
nine tails] before you walk the plank?”

At that they fell on their knees. “No, no!” they cried so piteously that
every pirate smiled.

“Fetch the cat, Jukes,” said Hook; “it's in the cabin.”

The cabin! Peter was in the cabin! The children gazed at each other.

“Ay, ay,” said Jukes blithely, and he strode into the cabin. They
followed him with their eyes; they scarce knew that Hook had resumed his
song, his dogs joining in with him:

     “Yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat,
     Its tails are nine, you know,
     And when they're writ upon your back--”

What was the last line will never be known, for of a sudden the song was
stayed by a dreadful screech from the cabin. It wailed through the ship,
and died away. Then was heard a crowing sound which was well understood
by the boys, but to the pirates was almost more eerie than the screech.

“What was that?” cried Hook.

“Two,” said Slightly solemnly.

The Italian Cecco hesitated for a moment and then swung into the cabin.
He tottered out, haggard.

“What's the matter with Bill Jukes, you dog?” hissed Hook, towering over
him.

“The matter wi' him is he's dead, stabbed,” replied Cecco in a hollow
voice.

“Bill Jukes dead!” cried the startled pirates.

“The cabin's as black as a pit,” Cecco said, almost gibbering, “but
there is something terrible in there: the thing you heard crowing.”

The exultation of the boys, the lowering looks of the pirates, both were
seen by Hook.

“Cecco,” he said in his most steely voice, “go back and fetch me out
that doodle-doo.”

Cecco, bravest of the brave, cowered before his captain, crying “No,
no”; but Hook was purring to his claw.

“Did you say you would go, Cecco?” he said musingly.

Cecco went, first flinging his arms despairingly. There was no more
singing, all listened now; and again came a death-screech and again a
crow.

No one spoke except Slightly. “Three,” he said.

Hook rallied his dogs with a gesture. “'S'death and odds fish,” he
thundered, “who is to bring me that doodle-doo?”

“Wait till Cecco comes out,” growled Starkey, and the others took up the
cry.

“I think I heard you volunteer, Starkey,” said Hook, purring again.

“No, by thunder!” Starkey cried.

“My hook thinks you did,” said Hook, crossing to him. “I wonder if it
would not be advisable, Starkey, to humour the hook?”

“I'll swing before I go in there,” replied Starkey doggedly, and again
he had the support of the crew.

“Is this mutiny?” asked Hook more pleasantly than ever. “Starkey's
ringleader!”

“Captain, mercy!” Starkey whimpered, all of a tremble now.

“Shake hands, Starkey,” said Hook, proffering his claw.

Starkey looked round for help, but all deserted him. As he backed up
Hook advanced, and now the red spark was in his eye. With a despairing
scream the pirate leapt upon Long Tom and precipitated himself into the
sea.

“Four,” said Slightly.

“And now,” Hook said courteously, “did any other gentlemen say mutiny?”
 Seizing a lantern and raising his claw with a menacing gesture, “I'll
bring out that doodle-doo myself,” he said, and sped into the cabin.

“Five.” How Slightly longed to say it. He wetted his lips to be ready,
but Hook came staggering out, without his lantern.

“Something blew out the light,” he said a little unsteadily.

“Something!” echoed Mullins.

“What of Cecco?” demanded Noodler.

“He's as dead as Jukes,” said Hook shortly.

His reluctance to return to the cabin impressed them all unfavourably,
and the mutinous sounds again broke forth. All pirates are
superstitious, and Cookson cried, “They do say the surest sign a ship's
accurst is when there's one on board more than can be accounted for.”

“I've heard,” muttered Mullins, “he always boards the pirate craft last.
Had he a tail, captain?”

“They say,” said another, looking viciously at Hook, “that when he comes
it's in the likeness of the wickedest man aboard.”

“Had he a hook, captain?” asked Cookson insolently; and one after
another took up the cry, “The ship's doomed!” At this the children could
not resist raising a cheer. Hook had well-nigh forgotten his prisoners,
but as he swung round on them now his face lit up again.

“Lads,” he cried to his crew, “now here's a notion. Open the cabin door
and drive them in. Let them fight the doodle-doo for their lives. If
they kill him, we're so much the better; if he kills them, we're none
the worse.”

For the last time his dogs admired Hook, and devotedly they did his
bidding. The boys, pretending to struggle, were pushed into the cabin
and the door was closed on them.

“Now, listen!” cried Hook, and all listened. But not one dared to face
the door. Yes, one, Wendy, who all this time had been bound to the mast.
It was for neither a scream nor a crow that she was watching, it was for
the reappearance of Peter.

She had not long to wait. In the cabin he had found the thing for which
he had gone in search: the key that would free the children of their
manacles, and now they all stole forth, armed with such weapons as they
could find. First signing them to hide, Peter cut Wendy's bonds,
and then nothing could have been easier than for them all to fly off
together; but one thing barred the way, an oath, “Hook or me this time.”
 So when he had freed Wendy, he whispered for her to conceal herself with
the others, and himself took her place by the mast, her cloak around him
so that he should pass for her. Then he took a great breath and crowed.

To the pirates it was a voice crying that all the boys lay slain in the
cabin; and they were panic-stricken. Hook tried to hearten them; but
like the dogs he had made them they showed him their fangs, and he knew
that if he took his eyes off them now they would leap at him.

“Lads,” he said, ready to cajole or strike as need be, but never
quailing for an instant, “I've thought it out. There's a Jonah aboard.”

“Ay,” they snarled, “a man wi' a hook.”

“No, lads, no, it's the girl. Never was luck on a pirate ship wi' a
woman on board. We'll right the ship when she's gone.”

Some of them remembered that this had been a saying of Flint's. “It's
worth trying,” they said doubtfully.

“Fling the girl overboard,” cried Hook; and they made a rush at the
figure in the cloak.

“There's none can save you now, missy,” Mullins hissed jeeringly.

“There's one,” replied the figure.

“Who's that?”

“Peter Pan the avenger!” came the terrible answer; and as he spoke Peter
flung off his cloak. Then they all knew who 'twas that had been undoing
them in the cabin, and twice Hook essayed to speak and twice he failed.
In that frightful moment I think his fierce heart broke.

At last he cried, “Cleave him to the brisket!” but without conviction.

“Down, boys, and at them!” Peter's voice rang out; and in another moment
the clash of arms was resounding through the ship. Had the pirates kept
together it is certain that they would have won; but the onset came
when they were still unstrung, and they ran hither and thither, striking
wildly, each thinking himself the last survivor of the crew. Man to man
they were the stronger; but they fought on the defensive only, which
enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose their quarry. Some of the
miscreants leapt into the sea; others hid in dark recesses, where they
were found by Slightly, who did not fight, but ran about with a lantern
which he flashed in their faces, so that they were half blinded and
fell as an easy prey to the reeking swords of the other boys. There was
little sound to be heard but the clang of weapons, an occasional
screech or splash, and Slightly monotonously counting--five--six--seven
eight--nine--ten--eleven.

I think all were gone when a group of savage boys surrounded Hook, who
seemed to have a charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that circle
of fire. They had done for his dogs, but this man alone seemed to be a
match for them all. Again and again they closed upon him, and again and
again he hewed a clear space. He had lifted up one boy with his hook,
and was using him as a buckler [shield], when another, who had just
passed his sword through Mullins, sprang into the fray.

“Put up your swords, boys,” cried the newcomer, “this man is mine.”

Thus suddenly Hook found himself face to face with Peter. The others
drew back and formed a ring around them.

For long the two enemies looked at one another, Hook shuddering
slightly, and Peter with the strange smile upon his face.

“So, Pan,” said Hook at last, “this is all your doing.”

“Ay, James Hook,” came the stern answer, “it is all my doing.”

“Proud and insolent youth,” said Hook, “prepare to meet thy doom.”

“Dark and sinister man,” Peter answered, “have at thee.”

Without more words they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage
to either blade. Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with dazzling
rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a feint with a lunge that got
past his foe's defence, but his shorter reach stood him in ill stead,
and he could not drive the steel home. Hook, scarcely his inferior in
brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in wrist play, forced him back by
the weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a favourite
thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio; but to his astonishment
he found this thrust turned aside again and again. Then he sought to
close and give the quietus with his iron hook, which all this time had
been pawing the air; but Peter doubled under it and, lunging fiercely,
pierced him in the ribs. At the sight of his own blood, whose peculiar
colour, you remember, was offensive to him, the sword fell from Hook's
hand, and he was at Peter's mercy.

“Now!” cried all the boys, but with a magnificent gesture Peter invited
his opponent to pick up his sword. Hook did so instantly, but with a
tragic feeling that Peter was showing good form.

Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker
suspicions assailed him now.

“Pan, who and what art thou?” he cried huskily.

“I'm youth, I'm joy,” Peter answered at a venture, “I'm a little bird
that has broken out of the egg.”

This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that
Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very
pinnacle of good form.

“To't again,” he cried despairingly.

He fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible sword
would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but Peter
fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out of the
danger zone. And again and again he darted in and pricked.

Hook was fighting now without hope. That passionate breast no longer
asked for life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter show bad form
before it was cold forever.

Abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.

“In two minutes,” he cried, “the ship will be blown to pieces.”

Now, now, he thought, true form will show.

But Peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands,
and calmly flung it overboard.

What sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he was,
we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was
true to the traditions of his race. The other boys were flying around
him now, flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the deck striking up
at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching
in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up [to the headmaster]
for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes
were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was right, and his
socks were right.

James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.

For we have come to his last moment.

Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger
poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He
did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely
stopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a little mark
of respect from us at the end.

He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he
stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through
the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It made Peter
kick instead of stab.

At last Hook had got the boon for which he craved.

“Bad form,” he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.

Thus perished James Hook.

“Seventeen,” Slightly sang out; but he was not quite correct in his
figures. Fifteen paid the penalty for their crimes that night; but two
reached the shore: Starkey to be captured by the redskins, who made him
nurse for all their papooses, a melancholy come-down for a pirate; and
Smee, who henceforth wandered about the world in his spectacles, making
a precarious living by saying he was the only man that Jas. Hook had
feared.

Wendy, of course, had stood by taking no part in the fight, though
watching Peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she
became prominent again. She praised them equally, and shuddered
delightfully when Michael showed her the place where he had killed one;
and then she took them into Hook's cabin and pointed to his watch which
was hanging on a nail. It said “half-past one!”

The lateness of the hour was almost the biggest thing of all. She got
them to bed in the pirates' bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure; all
but Peter, who strutted up and down on the deck, until at last he fell
asleep by the side of Long Tom. He had one of his dreams that night, and
cried in his sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tightly.




Chapter 16 THE RETURN HOME

By three bells that morning they were all stirring their stumps [legs];
for there was a big sea running; and Tootles, the bo'sun, was among
them, with a rope's end in his hand and chewing tobacco. They all donned
pirate clothes cut off at the knee, shaved smartly, and tumbled up, with
the true nautical roll and hitching their trousers.

It need not be said who was the captain. Nibs and John were first and
second mate. There was a woman aboard. The rest were tars [sailors]
before the mast, and lived in the fo'c'sle. Peter had already lashed
himself to the wheel; but he piped all hands and delivered a short
address to them; said he hoped they would do their duty like gallant
hearties, but that he knew they were the scum of Rio and the Gold Coast,
and if they snapped at him he would tear them. The bluff strident words
struck the note sailors understood, and they cheered him lustily. Then
a few sharp orders were given, and they turned the ship round, and nosed
her for the mainland.

Captain Pan calculated, after consulting the ship's chart, that if this
weather lasted they should strike the Azores about the 21st of June,
after which it would save time to fly.

Some of them wanted it to be an honest ship and others were in favour
of keeping it a pirate; but the captain treated them as dogs, and they
dared not express their wishes to him even in a round robin [one person
after another, as they had to Cpt. Hook]. Instant obedience was the only
safe thing. Slightly got a dozen for looking perplexed when told to take
soundings. The general feeling was that Peter was honest just now to
lull Wendy's suspicions, but that there might be a change when the new
suit was ready, which, against her will, she was making for him out of
some of Hook's wickedest garments. It was afterwards whispered among
them that on the first night he wore this suit he sat long in the cabin
with Hook's cigar-holder in his mouth and one hand clenched, all but for
the forefinger, which he bent and held threateningly aloft like a hook.

Instead of watching the ship, however, we must now return to that
desolate home from which three of our characters had taken heartless
flight so long ago. It seems a shame to have neglected No. 14 all this
time; and yet we may be sure that Mrs. Darling does not blame us. If we
had returned sooner to look with sorrowful sympathy at her, she would
probably have cried, “Don't be silly; what do I matter? Do go back and
keep an eye on the children.” So long as mothers are like this their
children will take advantage of them; and they may lay to [bet on] that.

Even now we venture into that familiar nursery only because its lawful
occupants are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on in advance
of them to see that their beds are properly aired and that Mr. and Mrs.
Darling do not go out for the evening. We are no more than servants. Why
on earth should their beds be properly aired, seeing that they left them
in such a thankless hurry? Would it not serve them jolly well right if
they came back and found that their parents were spending the week-end
in the country? It would be the moral lesson they have been in need
of ever since we met them; but if we contrived things in this way Mrs.
Darling would never forgive us.

One thing I should like to do immensely, and that is to tell her, in the
way authors have, that the children are coming back, that indeed they
will be here on Thursday week. This would spoil so completely the
surprise to which Wendy and John and Michael are looking forward. They
have been planning it out on the ship: mother's rapture, father's shout
of joy, Nana's leap through the air to embrace them first, when what
they ought to be prepared for is a good hiding. How delicious to spoil
it all by breaking the news in advance; so that when they enter grandly
Mrs. Darling may not even offer Wendy her mouth, and Mr. Darling may
exclaim pettishly, “Dash it all, here are those boys again.” However,
we should get no thanks even for this. We are beginning to know Mrs.
Darling by this time, and may be sure that she would upbraid us for
depriving the children of their little pleasure.

“But, my dear madam, it is ten days till Thursday week; so that by
telling you what's what, we can save you ten days of unhappiness.”

“Yes, but at what a cost! By depriving the children of ten minutes of
delight.”

“Oh, if you look at it in that way!”

“What other way is there in which to look at it?”

You see, the woman had no proper spirit. I had meant to say
extraordinarily nice things about her; but I despise her, and not one of
them will I say now. She does not really need to be told to have things
ready, for they are ready. All the beds are aired, and she never leaves
the house, and observe, the window is open. For all the use we are to
her, we might well go back to the ship. However, as we are here we may
as well stay and look on. That is all we are, lookers-on. Nobody really
wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of
them will hurt.

The only change to be seen in the night-nursery is that between nine
and six the kennel is no longer there. When the children flew away, Mr.
Darling felt in his bones that all the blame was his for having chained
Nana up, and that from first to last she had been wiser than he. Of
course, as we have seen, he was quite a simple man; indeed he might have
passed for a boy again if he had been able to take his baldness off;
but he had also a noble sense of justice and a lion's courage to do what
seemed right to him; and having thought the matter out with anxious care
after the flight of the children, he went down on all fours and crawled
into the kennel. To all Mrs. Darling's dear invitations to him to come
out he replied sadly but firmly:

“No, my own one, this is the place for me.”

In the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he would never leave
the kennel until his children came back. Of course this was a pity; but
whatever Mr. Darling did he had to do in excess, otherwise he soon gave
up doing it. And there never was a more humble man than the once proud
George Darling, as he sat in the kennel of an evening talking with his
wife of their children and all their pretty ways.

Very touching was his deference to Nana. He would not let her come into
the kennel, but on all other matters he followed her wishes implicitly.

Every morning the kennel was carried with Mr. Darling in it to a cab,
which conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in the same way
at six. Something of the strength of character of the man will be seen
if we remember how sensitive he was to the opinion of neighbours: this
man whose every movement now attracted surprised attention. Inwardly he
must have suffered torture; but he preserved a calm exterior even when
the young criticised his little home, and he always lifted his hat
courteously to any lady who looked inside.

It may have been Quixotic, but it was magnificent. Soon the inward
meaning of it leaked out, and the great heart of the public was touched.
Crowds followed the cab, cheering it lustily; charming girls scaled it
to get his autograph; interviews appeared in the better class of papers,
and society invited him to dinner and added, “Do come in the kennel.”

On that eventful Thursday week, Mrs. Darling was in the night-nursery
awaiting George's return home; a very sad-eyed woman. Now that we look
at her closely and remember the gaiety of her in the old days, all gone
now just because she has lost her babes, I find I won't be able to say
nasty things about her after all. If she was too fond of her rubbishy
children, she couldn't help it. Look at her in her chair, where she has
fallen asleep. The corner of her mouth, where one looks first, is almost
withered up. Her hand moves restlessly on her breast as if she had a
pain there. Some like Peter best, and some like Wendy best, but I like
her best. Suppose, to make her happy, we whisper to her in her sleep
that the brats are coming back. They are really within two miles of the
window now, and flying strong, but all we need whisper is that they are
on the way. Let's.

It is a pity we did it, for she has started up, calling their names; and
there is no one in the room but Nana.

“O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come back.”

Nana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was put her paw gently on her
mistress's lap; and they were sitting together thus when the kennel was
brought back. As Mr. Darling puts his head out to kiss his wife, we see
that his face is more worn than of yore, but has a softer expression.

He gave his hat to Liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no
imagination, and was quite incapable of understanding the motives of
such a man. Outside, the crowd who had accompanied the cab home were
still cheering, and he was naturally not unmoved.

“Listen to them,” he said; “it is very gratifying.”

“Lots of little boys,” sneered Liza.

“There were several adults to-day,” he assured her with a faint flush;
but when she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for her.
Social success had not spoilt him; it had made him sweeter. For some
time he sat with his head out of the kennel, talking with Mrs. Darling
of this success, and pressing her hand reassuringly when she said she
hoped his head would not be turned by it.

“But if I had been a weak man,” he said. “Good heavens, if I had been a
weak man!”

“And, George,” she said timidly, “you are as full of remorse as ever,
aren't you?”

“Full of remorse as ever, dearest! See my punishment: living in a
kennel.”

“But it is punishment, isn't it, George? You are sure you are not
enjoying it?”

“My love!”

You may be sure she begged his pardon; and then, feeling drowsy, he
curled round in the kennel.

“Won't you play me to sleep,” he asked, “on the nursery piano?” and as
she was crossing to the day-nursery he added thoughtlessly, “And shut
that window. I feel a draught.”

“O George, never ask me to do that. The window must always be left open
for them, always, always.”

Now it was his turn to beg her pardon; and she went into the day-nursery
and played, and soon he was asleep; and while he slept, Wendy and John
and Michael flew into the room.

Oh no. We have written it so, because that was the charming arrangement
planned by them before we left the ship; but something must have
happened since then, for it is not they who have flown in, it is Peter
and Tinker Bell.

Peter's first words tell all.

“Quick Tink,” he whispered, “close the window; bar it! That's right. Now
you and I must get away by the door; and when Wendy comes she will think
her mother has barred her out; and she will have to go back with me.”

Now I understand what had hitherto puzzled me, why when Peter had
exterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and leave Tink
to escort the children to the mainland. This trick had been in his head
all the time.

Instead of feeling that he was behaving badly he danced with glee; then
he peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing. He whispered to
Tink, “It's Wendy's mother! She is a pretty lady, but not so pretty as
my mother. Her mouth is full of thimbles, but not so full as my mother's
was.”

Of course he knew nothing whatever about his mother; but he sometimes
bragged about her.

He did not know the tune, which was “Home, Sweet Home,” but he knew it
was saying, “Come back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy”; and he cried exultantly,
“You will never see Wendy again, lady, for the window is barred!”

He peeped in again to see why the music had stopped, and now he saw
that Mrs. Darling had laid her head on the box, and that two tears were
sitting on her eyes.

“She wants me to unbar the window,” thought Peter, “but I won't, not I!”

He peeped again, and the tears were still there, or another two had
taken their place.

“She's awfully fond of Wendy,” he said to himself. He was angry with her
now for not seeing why she could not have Wendy.

The reason was so simple: “I'm fond of her too. We can't both have her,
lady.”

But the lady would not make the best of it, and he was unhappy. He
ceased to look at her, but even then she would not let go of him. He
skipped about and made funny faces, but when he stopped it was just as
if she were inside him, knocking.

“Oh, all right,” he said at last, and gulped. Then he unbarred the
window. “Come on, Tink,” he cried, with a frightful sneer at the laws of
nature; “we don't want any silly mothers;” and he flew away.

Thus Wendy and John and Michael found the window open for them after
all, which of course was more than they deserved. They alighted on the
floor, quite unashamed of themselves, and the youngest one had already
forgotten his home.

“John,” he said, looking around him doubtfully, “I think I have been
here before.”

“Of course you have, you silly. There is your old bed.”

“So it is,” Michael said, but not with much conviction.

“I say,” cried John, “the kennel!” and he dashed across to look into it.

“Perhaps Nana is inside it,” Wendy said.

But John whistled. “Hullo,” he said, “there's a man inside it.”

“It's father!” exclaimed Wendy.

“Let me see father,” Michael begged eagerly, and he took a good look.
“He is not so big as the pirate I killed,” he said with such frank
disappointment that I am glad Mr. Darling was asleep; it would have been
sad if those had been the first words he heard his little Michael say.

Wendy and John had been taken aback somewhat at finding their father in
the kennel.

“Surely,” said John, like one who had lost faith in his memory, “he used
not to sleep in the kennel?”

“John,” Wendy said falteringly, “perhaps we don't remember the old life
as well as we thought we did.”

A chill fell upon them; and serve them right.

“It is very careless of mother,” said that young scoundrel John, “not to
be here when we come back.”

It was then that Mrs. Darling began playing again.

“It's mother!” cried Wendy, peeping.

“So it is!” said John.

“Then are you not really our mother, Wendy?” asked Michael, who was
surely sleepy.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Wendy, with her first real twinge of remorse [for
having gone], “it was quite time we came back.”

“Let us creep in,” John suggested, “and put our hands over her eyes.”

But Wendy, who saw that they must break the joyous news more gently, had
a better plan.

“Let us all slip into our beds, and be there when she comes in, just as
if we had never been away.”

And so when Mrs. Darling went back to the night-nursery to see if her
husband was asleep, all the beds were occupied. The children waited
for her cry of joy, but it did not come. She saw them, but she did not
believe they were there. You see, she saw them in their beds so often in
her dreams that she thought this was just the dream hanging around her
still.

She sat down in the chair by the fire, where in the old days she had
nursed them.

They could not understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all the three
of them.

“Mother!” Wendy cried.

“That's Wendy,” she said, but still she was sure it was the dream.

“Mother!”

“That's John,” she said.

“Mother!” cried Michael. He knew her now.

“That's Michael,” she said, and she stretched out her arms for the three
little selfish children they would never envelop again. Yes, they did,
they went round Wendy and John and Michael, who had slipped out of bed
and run to her.

“George, George!” she cried when she could speak; and Mr. Darling woke
to share her bliss, and Nana came rushing in. There could not have been
a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who
was staring in at the window. He had had ecstasies innumerable that
other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at
the one joy from which he must be for ever barred.




Chapter 17 WHEN WENDY GREW UP

I hope you want to know what became of the other boys. They were waiting
below to give Wendy time to explain about them; and when they had
counted five hundred they went up. They went up by the stair, because
they thought this would make a better impression. They stood in a row
in front of Mrs. Darling, with their hats off, and wishing they were not
wearing their pirate clothes. They said nothing, but their eyes asked
her to have them. They ought to have looked at Mr. Darling also, but
they forgot about him.

Of course Mrs. Darling said at once that she would have them; but Mr.
Darling was curiously depressed, and they saw that he considered six a
rather large number.

“I must say,” he said to Wendy, “that you don't do things by halves,” a
grudging remark which the twins thought was pointed at them.

The first twin was the proud one, and he asked, flushing, “Do you think
we should be too much of a handful, sir? Because, if so, we can go
away.”

“Father!” Wendy cried, shocked; but still the cloud was on him. He knew
he was behaving unworthily, but he could not help it.

“We could lie doubled up,” said Nibs.

“I always cut their hair myself,” said Wendy.

“George!” Mrs. Darling exclaimed, pained to see her dear one showing
himself in such an unfavourable light.

Then he burst into tears, and the truth came out. He was as glad to
have them as she was, he said, but he thought they should have asked his
consent as well as hers, instead of treating him as a cypher [zero] in
his own house.

“I don't think he is a cypher,” Tootles cried instantly. “Do you think
he is a cypher, Curly?”

“No, I don't. Do you think he is a cypher, Slightly?”

“Rather not. Twin, what do you think?”

It turned out that not one of them thought him a cypher; and he was
absurdly gratified, and said he would find space for them all in the
drawing-room if they fitted in.

“We'll fit in, sir,” they assured him.

“Then follow the leader,” he cried gaily. “Mind you, I am not sure that
we have a drawing-room, but we pretend we have, and it's all the same.
Hoop la!”

He went off dancing through the house, and they all cried “Hoop la!” and
danced after him, searching for the drawing-room; and I forget whether
they found it, but at any rate they found corners, and they all fitted
in.

As for Peter, he saw Wendy once again before he flew away. He did not
exactly come to the window, but he brushed against it in passing so that
she could open it if she liked and call to him. That is what she did.

“Hullo, Wendy, good-bye,” he said.

“Oh dear, are you going away?”

“Yes.”

“You don't feel, Peter,” she said falteringly, “that you would like to
say anything to my parents about a very sweet subject?”

“No.”

“About me, Peter?”

“No.”

Mrs. Darling came to the window, for at present she was keeping a sharp
eye on Wendy. She told Peter that she had adopted all the other boys,
and would like to adopt him also.

“Would you send me to school?” he inquired craftily.

“Yes.”

“And then to an office?”

“I suppose so.”

“Soon I would be a man?”

“Very soon.”

“I don't want to go to school and learn solemn things,” he told her
passionately. “I don't want to be a man. O Wendy's mother, if I was to
wake up and feel there was a beard!”

“Peter,” said Wendy the comforter, “I should love you in a beard;” and
Mrs. Darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.

“Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man.”

“But where are you going to live?”

“With Tink in the house we built for Wendy. The fairies are to put it
high up among the tree tops where they sleep at nights.”

“How lovely,” cried Wendy so longingly that Mrs. Darling tightened her
grip.

“I thought all the fairies were dead,” Mrs. Darling said.

“There are always a lot of young ones,” explained Wendy, who was now
quite an authority, “because you see when a new baby laughs for the
first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies there
are always new fairies. They live in nests on the tops of trees; and the
mauve ones are boys and the white ones are girls, and the blue ones are
just little sillies who are not sure what they are.”

“I shall have such fun,” said Peter, with eye on Wendy.

“It will be rather lonely in the evening,” she said, “sitting by the
fire.”

“I shall have Tink.”

“Tink can't go a twentieth part of the way round,” she reminded him a
little tartly.

“Sneaky tell-tale!” Tink called out from somewhere round the corner.

“It doesn't matter,” Peter said.

“O Peter, you know it matters.”

“Well, then, come with me to the little house.”

“May I, mummy?”

“Certainly not. I have got you home again, and I mean to keep you.”

“But he does so need a mother.”

“So do you, my love.”

“Oh, all right,” Peter said, as if he had asked her from politeness
merely; but Mrs. Darling saw his mouth twitch, and she made this
handsome offer: to let Wendy go to him for a week every year to do
his spring cleaning. Wendy would have preferred a more permanent
arrangement; and it seemed to her that spring would be long in coming;
but this promise sent Peter away quite gay again. He had no sense of
time, and was so full of adventures that all I have told you about him
is only a halfpenny-worth of them. I suppose it was because Wendy knew
this that her last words to him were these rather plaintive ones:

“You won't forget me, Peter, will you, before spring cleaning time
comes?”

Of course Peter promised; and then he flew away. He took Mrs. Darling's
kiss with him. The kiss that had been for no one else, Peter took quite
easily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied.

Of course all the boys went to school; and most of them got into Class
III, but Slightly was put first into Class IV and then into Class V.
Class I is the top class. Before they had attended school a week they
saw what goats they had been not to remain on the island; but it was too
late now, and soon they settled down to being as ordinary as you or me
or Jenkins minor [the younger Jenkins]. It is sad to have to say that
the power to fly gradually left them. At first Nana tied their feet to
the bed-posts so that they should not fly away in the night; and one of
their diversions by day was to pretend to fall off buses [the English
double-deckers]; but by and by they ceased to tug at their bonds in bed,
and found that they hurt themselves when they let go of the bus. In time
they could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called
it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed.

Michael believed longer than the other boys, though they jeered at him;
so he was with Wendy when Peter came for her at the end of the first
year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she had woven from leaves
and berries in the Neverland, and her one fear was that he might notice
how short it had become; but he never noticed, he had so much to say
about himself.

She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but
new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.

“Who is Captain Hook?” he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch
enemy.

“Don't you remember,” she asked, amazed, “how you killed him and saved
all our lives?”

“I forget them after I kill them,” he replied carelessly.

When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see
her he said, “Who is Tinker Bell?”

“O Peter,” she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not
remember.

“There are such a lot of them,” he said. “I expect she is no more.”

I expect he was right, for fairies don't live long, but they are so
little that a short time seems a good while to them.

Wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday
to Peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was
exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning in
the little house on the tree tops.

Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because the
old one simply would not meet; but he never came.

“Perhaps he is ill,” Michael said.

“You know he is never ill.”

Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, “Perhaps there
is no such person, Wendy!” and then Wendy would have cried if Michael
had not been crying.

Peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he never
knew he had missed a year.

That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer
she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was
untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years
came and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again
Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little
dust in the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown up. You
need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow
up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other
girls.

All the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely
worth while saying anything more about them. You may see the twins and
Nibs and Curly any day going to an office, each carrying a little bag
and an umbrella. Michael is an engine-driver [train engineer]. Slightly
married a lady of title, and so he became a lord. You see that judge in
a wig coming out at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The bearded
man who doesn't know any story to tell his children was once John.

Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange to think
that Peter did not alight in the church and forbid the banns [formal
announcement of a marriage].

Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a daughter. This ought not to be
written in ink but in a golden splash.

She was called Jane, and always had an odd inquiring look, as if from
the moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask questions. When
she was old enough to ask them they were mostly about Peter Pan. She
loved to hear of Peter, and Wendy told her all she could remember in the
very nursery from which the famous flight had taken place. It was
Jane's nursery now, for her father had bought it at the three per cents
[mortgage rate] from Wendy's father, who was no longer fond of stairs.
Mrs. Darling was now dead and forgotten.

There were only two beds in the nursery now, Jane's and her nurse's; and
there was no kennel, for Nana also had passed away. She died of old age,
and at the end she had been rather difficult to get on with; being very
firmly convinced that no one knew how to look after children except
herself.

Once a week Jane's nurse had her evening off; and then it was Wendy's
part to put Jane to bed. That was the time for stories. It was Jane's
invention to raise the sheet over her mother's head and her own, thus
making a tent, and in the awful darkness to whisper:

“What do we see now?”

“I don't think I see anything to-night,” says Wendy, with a feeling that
if Nana were here she would object to further conversation.

“Yes, you do,” says Jane, “you see when you were a little girl.”

“That is a long time ago, sweetheart,” says Wendy. “Ah me, how time
flies!”

“Does it fly,” asks the artful child, “the way you flew when you were a
little girl?”

“The way I flew? Do you know, Jane, I sometimes wonder whether I ever
did really fly.”

“Yes, you did.”

“The dear old days when I could fly!”

“Why can't you fly now, mother?”

“Because I am grown up, dearest. When people grow up they forget the
way.”

“Why do they forget the way?”

“Because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless. It is only
the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly.”

“What is gay and innocent and heartless? I do wish I were gay and
innocent and heartless.”

Or perhaps Wendy admits she does see something.

“I do believe,” she says, “that it is this nursery.”

“I do believe it is,” says Jane. “Go on.”

They are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when Peter
flew in looking for his shadow.

“The foolish fellow,” says Wendy, “tried to stick it on with soap, and
when he could not he cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on for
him.”

“You have missed a bit,” interrupts Jane, who now knows the story better
than her mother. “When you saw him sitting on the floor crying, what did
you say?”

“I sat up in bed and I said, 'Boy, why are you crying?'”

“Yes, that was it,” says Jane, with a big breath.

“And then he flew us all away to the Neverland and the fairies and the
pirates and the redskins and the mermaids' lagoon, and the home under
the ground, and the little house.”

“Yes! which did you like best of all?”

“I think I liked the home under the ground best of all.”

“Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter ever said to you?”

“The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Just always be waiting for me,
and then some night you will hear me crowing.'”

“Yes.”

“But, alas, he forgot all about me,” Wendy said it with a smile. She was
as grown up as that.

“What did his crow sound like?” Jane asked one evening.

“It was like this,” Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter's crow.

“No, it wasn't,” Jane said gravely, “it was like this;” and she did it
ever so much better than her mother.

Wendy was a little startled. “My darling, how can you know?”

“I often hear it when I am sleeping,” Jane said.

“Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the only
one who heard it awake.”

“Lucky you,” said Jane.

And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and
the story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her
bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the fire, so as to
see to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and while she
sat darning she heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and
Peter dropped in on the floor.

He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had
all his first teeth.

He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not
daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.

“Hullo, Wendy,” he said, not noticing any difference, for he was
thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might
have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.

“Hullo, Peter,” she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as
possible. Something inside her was crying “Woman, Woman, let go of me.”

“Hullo, where is John?” he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.

“John is not here now,” she gasped.

“Is Michael asleep?” he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.

“Yes,” she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as
well as to Peter.

“That is not Michael,” she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on
her.

Peter looked. “Hullo, is it a new one?”

“Yes.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.

“Peter,” she said, faltering, “are you expecting me to fly away with
you?”

“Of course; that is why I have come.” He added a little sternly, “Have
you forgotten that this is spring cleaning time?”

She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring cleaning
times pass.

“I can't come,” she said apologetically, “I have forgotten how to fly.”

“I'll soon teach you again.”

“O Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me.”

She had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him. “What is it?” he
cried, shrinking.

“I will turn up the light,” she said, “and then you can see for
yourself.”

For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid.
“Don't turn up the light,” he cried.

She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a
little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it
all, but they were wet-eyed smiles.

Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and
when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew
back sharply.

“What is it?” he cried again.

She had to tell him.

“I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long
ago.”

“You promised not to!”

“I couldn't help it. I am a married woman, Peter.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.”

“No, she's not.”

But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child
with his dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on
the floor instead and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to comfort him,
though she could have done it so easily once. She was only a woman now,
and she ran out of the room to try to think.

Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke Jane. She sat up in bed,
and was interested at once.

“Boy,” she said, “why are you crying?”

Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.

“Hullo,” he said.

“Hullo,” said Jane.

“My name is Peter Pan,” he told her.

“Yes, I know.”

“I came back for my mother,” he explained, “to take her to the
Neverland.”

“Yes, I know,” Jane said, “I have been waiting for you.”

When Wendy returned diffidently she found Peter sitting on the bed-post
crowing gloriously, while Jane in her nighty was flying round the room
in solemn ecstasy.

“She is my mother,” Peter explained; and Jane descended and stood by his
side, with the look in her face that he liked to see on ladies when they
gazed at him.

“He does so need a mother,” Jane said.

“Yes, I know,” Wendy admitted rather forlornly; “no one knows it so well
as I.”

“Good-bye,” said Peter to Wendy; and he rose in the air, and the
shameless Jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving
about.

Wendy rushed to the window.

“No, no,” she cried.

“It is just for spring cleaning time,” Jane said, “he wants me always to
do his spring cleaning.”

“If only I could go with you,” Wendy sighed.

“You see you can't fly,” said Jane.

Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse
of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky
until they were as small as stars.

                              GREENDALE, VA., AUGUST --, 19--.

MY DARLING MOTHER:

Words cannot express the joy and gratitude all of us feel that father is
really getting well. I shall never forget the miserable time last spring
when Dr. Wright came into the library where Helen and Nan and Lucy and I
were sitting and told us of his very serious condition. I had felt he
was in a very bad way but did not realize it was quite so dreadful. I am
sure you did not, either. And when Dr. Wright said that you must take
him on a long sea voyage and we understood that we were to be left
behind, the bottom seemed to drop out of the universe.

And now, dear mother, I have a confession to make: You took for granted
we were going to the springs when we wrote we were to spend the summer
in the mountains, and we thought with all the worry you had about
father, perhaps it was best to let you go on thinking it. Of course you
did not dream of the necessity of our doing anything to make money as
father had never told you much about his finances. Well, mother dear,
there was about $80 in the bank in father's private account. Fortunately
for the business, which Mr. Lane and Dick have carried on to the best of
their ability, there was some more in another account, but we have
managed without touching that. I hope I am not going to shock you
now, but you shall have to know it--we have rented our lovely home,
furnished, for six months with privilege of a year, and we have sold the
car, dismissed the servants--all but Susan and Oscar, who are up here
at Greendale with us. This is what might shock you: We are running a
week-end boarding camp here in the mountains and the really shocking
part of it is--we are making money!

It was a scheme that popped into Helen's head and it seemed such an
excellent one that we fell to it, and with dear Cousin Lizzie Somerville
chaperoning us and Lewis Somerville protecting us, we have opened our
camp and actually would have to turn away boarders except that the boys
are always willing to sleep out-of-doors and that makes room for others
not so inclined.

We see Dr. Wright quite often. He comes up for the Sunday in his car
whenever he can spare the time. He has been kindness itself and has
helped us over many rough places. There have been times when we have
been downhearted and depressed over you and father, and then it has been
his office to step in and reassure us that father was really getting
better. He and Bobby are sworn friends and there is nothing Bobby will
not do for him--even keep himself clean.

We are well. Indeed, the mountain air has done wonders for all of us.
Helen is working harder than any of us, but is the picture of health in
spite of it. Nan is more robust than she has ever been in her life.
I think the tendency she has always had to bronchitis has entirely
disappeared. Dr. Wright says it is sleeping out-of-doors that has fixed
her. Lucy has grown two inches, I do believe. She has been very sweet
and helpful and as happy as the day is long with her chum Lil Tate here
for the whole summer. Mrs. Tate brought her up for a week-end and the
child has been with us now for over two months. We have two boys of
fifteen who are here for the summer, too, Frank Maury and Skeeter
Halsey. They are a great comfort to me as I feel sure Lucy and Lil will
be taken care of by these nice boys.

Of course, the original idea of our camp was to have only week-end
boarders, but we find it very nice to have some steadies besides as
that means a certain fixed amount of money, but I am not going to let
you worry your pretty head about money. We have a perennial guest,
also--none other than pretty, silly Tillie Wingo. She came to the
opening week-end and proved herself to be such a drawing card for the
male sex that we decided it would be good business to ask her to visit
us indefinitely. It was Nan's idea. You know Tillie well enough to
understand that she is always thoroughly good-natured and kind without
being helpful in any way. All she has to do is look pretty and chatter
and giggle. Of course she must dance, and she does that divinely. She is
a kind of social entertainer, and the number of youths who swarm to
Week-End Camp because of her would astonish you. She is certainly worth
her keep. Here I am touching on finances again when I did not mean to at
all.

We are so happy at the thought of having you and father with us for the
rest of the summer. Dr. Wright thinks the life here will be almost as
good for father as that on shipboard, provided the week-enders do not
make too much racket for him. If they do, we are to have a tent pitched
for him out of ear-shot. Poor Cousin Lizzie Somerville is very happy
over your coming because it will release her. Her duties as chaperone
have not been very strenuous, but the life up here has been so different
from anything she has ever had before that it has been hard on her, I
know, harder than she has ever divulged, I am sure. Now she can go to
her beloved springs and play as many games of cards as she chooses.

Dr. Wright says it would be better for you not to go to Richmond at all
before coming here, as father might want to go to work again, and it is
very important for him to be kept from it for many months yet. He is to
meet you in New York and bring you straight to Greendale. I can go down
to Richmond with you after we get father settled here, and we can get
what clothes you want for the mountains. We have everything in the way
of clothes stored at Cousin Lizzie Somerville's.

It is very lovely here at Greendale, and I do hope you and father will
like it as much as we have. Dr. Wright will tell you more about it when
he meets you in New York on Wednesday. I am sending this letter by him
as it seems safer than to trust to Uncle Sam.

We only hope the life up here will not be too rough for you. We will do
all we can to smooth it for you; but a camp is a camp, you know, dear
mother. Our best love to father.

                                      Your loving daughter,
                                                        DOUGLAS.




CHAPTER II

THE RETURN


"Oh, Douglas, I'm all of a tremble!" declared Helen Carter, as she
knotted her jaunty scarlet tie and settled her gray felt hat at exactly
the proper angle. "To think that they are really coming back!"

"I can hardly believe it. The time has gone quickly and still it seems
somehow as though we had been living in this camp for ages. I am afraid
it will go hard with the poor little mother."

"Cousin Lizzie stood it and she is years and years older than mother,"
and Helen looked critically at her dainty nose and rubbed a little
powder on it.

"Yes, I know, but Cousin Lizzie is made of sterner stuff than poor
little mumsy. I think that mother is the kind of woman that men would
fight to protect but when all is told that Cousin Lizzie is the kind
who would go out and help fight if need be. I can fancy her loading
rifles and handing them to the men----"

"So can I," laughed Helen, "and saying as she loaded: 'To everything
there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time
to kill and a time to heal.'"

"I am ashamed of myself--but somehow I am glad Cousin Lizzie did not
think it was her duty to defer her going until mother and father got
here. She has been splendid and too good to us for anything, but it is a
kind of relief for her to be out of the cabin and away before they
come," said Douglas as she completed her rapid dressing by pulling an
old khaki hat down over her rather refractory, if very lovely Titian
hair.

"I know just what you mean. I hoped all the time she would realize that
the morning train was much the better one for her to get off on, and
then she could reach the springs in time for an afternoon game. It was a
feeling I had that she might be too critical of poor little mumsy. You
see we don't know just how camp life is going to appeal to mumsy," said
Helen.

"Exactly! It may take her a while to get used to it," and Douglas let a
little sigh escape her. "I wish they could have arrived on any other day
than Friday. Our week-ends in August have been so full. I fancy many of
the week-enders will want to stay on for holidays, too."

"If it is only not too much for father. Dr. Wright thinks it won't be.
He says noise in the open air is so different from housed noises for
nervous persons."

A honk from the faithful old mountain goat, a name they had given the
ancient Ford that Bill Tinsley had contributed to the camp's use, warned
them it was time to start for the station. One more dab of powder on
Helen's nose completed her toilet and calling to Nan and Lucy to pile
in, they started their ever perilous descent of the mountain to
Greendale.

Bobby, who had been captured by a determined Susan and washed and
dressed in honor of his returning parents, was occupying the seat of
state in Josh's cart, clean but indignant at the outrage committed.

"'Tain't no sense in washin'. I mos' wisht I'd been born a pig. If I
had, I betcher I'd a been a pet pig an' some fool woman would er wanted
to curl my tail and tie a bow 'round my neck."

Such pessimism was too much for Josh, who shook with laughter as the
slab-sided mule, Josephus, limped cheerfully down the mountain road.

To think that mother and father were really coming! The Carter girls
lined themselves along the little station awaiting the train bearing the
beloved passengers. What a healthy-looking quartette they were after a
whole summer in the open. Douglas' fair skin was reddened from exposure
and her hair showed the lack of care that her mother had always exacted.
Douglas attached very little importance to her appearance, and was
constantly being put to rights by the more correct Helen. Even now, as
they waited for the train, Helen was regretting that she had permitted
her older sister to wear the very disgraceful-looking khaki hat.

"Khaki color is certainly unbecoming to blondes," she thought. "I do
want Douglas to look her best for mother. Father will think all of us
are beautiful, anyhow, no matter what we wear," and Helen could not help
a feeling of satisfaction over her own very becoming cold-gravy costume
with the touch of scarlet at her throat. It had seen much service but
still had that unmistakable air of style that was characteristic of all
of Helen Carter's belongings.

Nan was quite robust-looking for Nan. She had inherited from her mother
that soft black hair and those dusky eyes and a complexion of wondrous
fairness that is seen sometimes in a rare type of Creole beauty. Mrs.
Carter's almost angelic beauty (her few enemies called it doll-like) was
repeated in her daughter in a somewhat more sturdy edition. Nan's mouth
was larger and her eyes not quite so enormous; her nose a bit broader
at the base and her chin squarer. Her attractive countenance showed a
mixture of poetic feeling and sturdy common sense with a plentiful
seasoning of humor and gave promise of her development into a very
enchanting woman. All Nan asked of life was plenty of books and time to
read them and a cloak of invisibility so that she would not be noticed.
She was gradually overcoming the shyness that had always made her
think that next to a cloak of invisibility the greatest boon her fairy
godmother could grant her would be seven-league boots, so that she could
get away from all embarrassing persons even if she could not hide from
them. The summer of camping had certainly taken from her the look of
fragility that had always been a source of uneasiness to her father but
which her beautiful mother had rather prided herself on as it was in her
eyes a mark of race and breeding.

Lucy Carter, the youngest of the four, was developing rapidly into a
very attractive girl. Her resemblance to Helen was growing more marked,
much to her pretended disgust, but to her secret delight. Already her
long legs had shot her saucy head up to within a level of Helen's,
which made the younger sister ecstatically confident of her equality
with the elder, whom in her heart of hearts she considered a paragon
of perfection but with whom she was usually on sparring terms.

Bobby, the idolized little brother, had changed more than any of the
Carters during that summer. He had lost forever the baby curves and had
taken on a lean, wiry spareness. His almost unearthly beauty was gone by
reason of a great gap in his face caused by the loss of his first teeth.
One permanent tooth had found its way through and, as is the way with
the first permanent tooth, seemed very enormous in contrast to the tiny
little pearls that had hitherto passed for teeth. His knees were scarred
and scratched as were his lean brown legs. Two sore toes were tied up
in dirty rags, having been ministered to by Aunt Mandy, the kind old
mountain woman who bore the proud distinction in Bobby's mind of being
the mother of Josh the boy and the owner of Josephus the mule.

"I hear the whistle!" exclaimed Lucy, prancing with excitement.

"So do I, but it is the saw mill over in the hollow," drawled Nan.

"Won't it be terrible if the train is late and all the week-enders get
here before mother and father?" wailed Helen.

"Awful!" exclaimed Douglas. "If we can only get them settled in the
cabin before the hullabaloo begins, maybe it won't seem so bad to them.
I just can't stand it if the camp is going to be too much for father."

"I'm most sure he will like it, but it's mother who will be the one to
kick," said Nan. Kicking was not a very elegant way to express what no
doubt would be the state of Mrs. Carter's mind over the rough camp life.

"She's a-comin' now!" shouted Bobby. "I kin hear her a-chuggin' up
grade! Listen! This is what she says: 'Catch a nigger! Catch a nigger!
I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'!'" and the scion of the Carter family
whistled shrilly through his sparse teeth, an accomplishment that had
but recently come to him by reason of his loss.

It was the train and on time, which would give the youthful proprietors
of the week-end boarding camp time to get their invalid father and
dainty mother safely stowed away in the cabin before the onrush of
harum-scarum guests should begin.

"Thank heaven!" was the pious ejaculation of the older girls.

Douglas and Helen felt all the qualms and responsibilities that had been
theirs on the opening of the camp at the beginning of the summer. It had
proved such a success that confidence had come to them, but now that
their parents were to join them, although they were very happy at the
thought of seeing them, they had grave doubts about the way in which
their mother would look upon their venture and about the ability of
their father to endure the noise and confusion.

Dr. Wright, who had gone to New York to meet the steamer, got off first,
laden with parcels. Then came Mrs. Carter, looking so young and pretty
that her daughters felt suddenly very mature. Mr. Carter followed his
wife. He also was laden with bandboxes and bundles, while the grinning
porter emerged with some difficulty from under a mass of suitcases,
steamer rugs and dress boxes. Lewis Somerville extricated him in time
for him to jump on the departing train as it made its laborious way up
the steep grade, still singing the song that Bobby had declared it sang:
"Catch a nigger! Catch a nigger! I'm a-comin'! I'm a-comin'!"

"My girls! My girls!" Mrs. Carter flew from one to the other like a
butterfly who cannot tell which flower to light on, but Robert Carter
dropped his parcels and enfolded all of them in a mighty embrace. How
lean and brown he was! On sight he seemed like his old self to Helen,
who was the first to find her way to his eager arms and the last to
leave their encircling shelter. A closer scrutiny of his face, however,
told her there was still something wrong. His snap and vim were gone.
Intelligence shone from his kind blue eyes and his countenance bespoke
contentment and happiness, but his old sparkle and alertness were
missing. The overworked nerves had lost their elasticity and a certain
power that had been a part of Robert Carter was gone forever. It was
the power of leading and directing, taking the initiative. There was
something very pathetic about it all, just as though a great general had
been reduced to the ranks and must ever after serve as a private. What
made it sadder was that he seemed content to follow. Someone else must
work out the problem of how to keep his expensive family in all the
luxuries they had demanded. It was no longer up to him! That was the way
his expression impressed Helen. She escaped from the others and ran
behind the little station.

"Father! Father!" she sobbed in an agony of love and misery. "He is not
well yet! He never will be!"

"Oh yes, he will," said a quiet, deep voice. It belonged to George
Wright, who had come around the other side of the waiting room after
helping Lewis Somerville deposit the luggage in Josh's cart. "He is much
better, better than I dared dream he would be. You see, he has had only
four months and I said all the time it would take a year of rest and
maybe more. What makes you think he is still so badly off?"

Dr. Wright had a ridiculous notion that he could explain to Helen much
better her father's condition if she would only put her head on his
shoulder and do her sobbing there, but he buried his hands firmly in his
pockets and made no intimation of his idea. He had constantly to take
himself to task for forgetting that Helen was little more than a child.
"You must wait, you fool!" he would reason with himself.

"But suppose someone else doesn't wait and she gets snapped up before
your eyes--what then?" But wait he felt he must, and in the meantime
Helen often felt that his sternness meant disapproval and wondered what
she had done to merit it--that is, what new thing. Of course she always
knew she had merited his disapproval by her behavior when he had given
the verdict that her father must go off on the voyage for health. And
now when he said: "What makes you think he is still so badly off?" he
sounded very stern and superior.

"He seems so--so--meek," she faltered.

"Well, who would not be meek with all those parcels?" he laughed. "Your
mother had only part of a day in New York, but she bought out the town.
I'm meek myself."

The conversation was interrupted by Lucy, who was always eager to find
out what Helen was doing so she could do it too. When she saw her
sister's tear-stained countenance she bitterly regretted her dry eyes
but cry she could not, especially as she did not see anything to cry
about.

Mrs. Carter, meanwhile, after flitting from daughter to daughter, had
cried out: "But Bobby! Where is my precious Bobby?"

"Here me!" said that youngster. "We uns ain't fur."

"Bobby! Bobby! I didn't know you! Where are your teeth? Why did you have
your hair cut so short? My baby, my baby!" and the poor little lady
enfolded a rather abashed boy in her arms.

"Baby your grandmother! I ain't nobody's baby. We uns is Dr. Wright's
shover cept'n when we uns is in the mountings and thin we uns is the
'spressman's sisterant."

"We uns? What do you mean, Bobby?" wailed the mother.

"I say we uns whenever we uns thinks to do it. That's the way
mountingyears talks."

"Robert! Robert, look at Bobby and listen to him!"

Mr. Carter did look at Bobby and the remembrance of his own boyhood came
back to him and he laughed as he seldom did now-a-days.

"Well, bless my soul, what a great big son I have got!" and he slapped
Bobby on the back. "I fancy you are too big to kiss, you rascal!"

"I ain't too big to kiss if you uns comes behind the station where
Josh'n Josephus can't see us," and Bobby led his willing parent behind
the station where Helen had gone to shed a bitter tear and where Dr.
Wright had discovered her and where Lucy had discovered them.

"Oh, shucks! They's too many folks here," he declared.

"Will all of you please step out of the way?" begged Mr. Carter. "Bobby
has an important thing to discuss with me and we should like the back of
the station to ourselves for a moment."

Left alone, the big man held his little son tight in his arms and in
spite of Bobby's boasted manhood he was very happy to be once more
hugged and kissed by his father.

Dr. Wright smiled into Helen's reddened eyes and said: "Bobby will do
more for your father than anyone else now. If he can be a boy again he
will get entirely well."

The many parcels were at last stowed away in the cart and Josh clucked
sadly to Josephus.

"I reckon Bobby's done left us all, now that his paw is come," he said
sadly to the sympathetic mule. But Bobby came running after him.

"Hi there! Wait, Josh! Father says he would sooner trust his bones to us
than that old Tin Lizzie. You'n him'n me can squzzle in on the front
seat."

"Sho' we kin!" declared the delighted Josh. He hadn't lost an old friend
after all, but gained a new one.

Mr. Carter proved even more agreeable to the little mountain boy than
his idol, Lewis Somerville. He had such wonderful things to tell of
ships and things and seemed to understand a boy so well. Mr. Somerville
was right strict with a fellow, expecting him to be clean all the time
and never forget, but somehow, Mr. Carter was a little easier.

"You are frightfully burned, Douglas," complained Mrs. Carter as they
finally got themselves stowed away in the faithful mountain goat. "I
can't see why you do not protect your skin. Your neck will take months
to recover from such a tanning."

"Well, I don't think that will make much difference," laughed Douglas.
"I fancy it will be many a day before I go décolleté."

"I don't see that. If you are not going to college, I see no reason why
you should not make your debut next winter."

Douglas looked at her mother in amazement. Could it be that even now she
did not understand? She said nothing, feeling that it would be wiser to
wait until she and her mother were alone. Never having economized in her
life, Mrs. Carter did not know the meaning of the word. The many parcels
that were borne from the train gave Douglas a faint feeling. Had her
mother been buying things in New York?

"I brought you a perfect love of a hat, darling," Mrs. Carter chattered
on, "but of course you shall have to bleach up a bit for it to be
becoming to you. I did not dream you were so burned or I should not have
selected such pale trimmings. I have a delightful plan! Since you are
to come out next winter, I think a fortnight at the White in late August
would be charming--give you that poise that debutantes so often lack. We
can leave the children with your father and go together----"

"But, mother----"

"Oh, we shan't go quite yet! I know you want to see your father for a
few days before you leave him even for a fortnight."

Douglas was speechless; Nan, who was crowded in by her, gave her a
sympathetic squeeze.

"It is lovely to be with my girls again," the little lady bubbled on.
"Of course your letter was a great surprise to me, Douglas. The idea of
my children making money!" and she gave a silvery laugh. "I am delighted
that you have, because now no doubt your coming out will be even more
delightful than I had anticipated. Of course those persons who are in
our house in Richmond will simply have to get out."

"But, mother----"

"Simply have to--how can a girl come out suitably unless she is in her
own home?"




CHAPTER III

THE PROBLEM


The cabin was looking very sweet and fresh after a thorough cleaning
from the willing hands of Susan, who was in a state of bliss because her
beloved mistress was returning. Gwen had found some belated Cherokee
roses and with a few sprays of honeysuckle added had glorified the plain
room.

"You think Miss Lizzie Somerville is el'gant! Well, you jes' oughter see
my missis. She is the mos' el'gantes' lady in the whole er Richmond. I
bet Mis' Carter ain't never in all her life done a han's turn. Gawd
knows what she gonter say 'bout these here young ladies er hern workin'
like they was in service," Susan remarked to the little English Gwen,
who had done many a hand's turn herself and still had an elegance all
her own, so evident that the colored servants recognized her as a "lady
bawn."

"I think it is very wonderful that the Carter girls should be able to
work so well when they have never been brought up to it," said Gwen as
she hung the last freshly laundered sash curtain.

"That's they paw in 'em," declared Susan. "He is the wuckinest gemman I
ever seed. 'Tain't nothin' he won't turn his han' ter. He don't never
set back and holler fer help when he wants the fire fixed er sech like.
No'm, he jes' jumps up an' waits on hisself. Sometimes he used ter git
Mis' Carter kinder put out 'cause he'd even do his own reaching at the
table. Miss Douglas is the spittin' image of him. None of the gals
favors her much 'cep Miss Nan. She looks like her but she ain't so
langrous like when they's work on hand. Miss Helen is the same kind er
spender as her maw. I believe my soul them two would ruther buy than
eat. Cook used ter say that Mis' Carter an' Miss Helen spent like we
done come to the millionennium. Great Gawd! Here they is an' I ain't got
on my clean apron. That's one thing that Mis' Carter'll certainly git
cross over--aprons."

She did not, however. Too pleased to see the faithful Susan, Mrs. Carter
overlooked the doubtful apron.

"What a charming room! Is this where I am to be? And you girls in the
tents beyond? And Bobby--where does Bobby sleep?"

"He is with Lewis Somerville and his friend, Bill Tinsley. I believe he
wrote you about Bill," said Helen, "--the young man who was shipped from
West Point when Lewis was."

"Oh yes, I remember! I am glad to see you have not let yourself run down
like Douglas, my dear. Your hair looks well kept and your complexion is
perfect."

Douglas, much perturbed over her mother's plans, had rushed off to be
alone for a moment to compose herself.

"But, mother, I don't burn like Douglas, and then Douglas' hair is so
lovely it doesn't make any difference what she does to it. Mine must be
well kept to pass muster. I hope you are not going to find it too rough
here for you, mumsy," and Helen put a protecting arm around the little
mother, who was more like a sister, and a younger one at that, than a
mother to these great girls.

"Oh, I think it is delightful for a while. Of course I have been on
shipboard so long that I really am longing for some society. Did you
hear me tell Douglas what my plan is for her and me? I should like to
include you, too, but perhaps it would be best for you to wait a year."

"No, I did not hear; you see the car is such a noisy one that one never
can hear. What is your plan?"

"I want to take Douglas to the White for several weeks preparatory to
her making her debut this winter."

"Debut!" gasped Helen. "White Sulphur!"

"Certainly, why not?"

"But, mother, we haven't money for clothes and things."

"Nonsense! Our credit is perfectly good. I fancy there is not a man in
Richmond who has paid his bills so regularly as Robert Carter, and now
that he is not able to work for a few months I feel sure there is not a
single tradesman with whom we have always dealt who would not be more
than pleased to have us on his books for any amount."

"I wanted to charge a lot of things I thought we needed, but Douglas
just wouldn't have it. She never does realize the importance of clothes.
I don't mean to criticize Douglas, she is wonderful, but she is careless
about clothes."

"Well, I shall put a stop to that, now that I am back with my children.
Your father is so much better I can give my time to other things now.
How exciting it will be to have a daughter in society! I never did want
Douglas to go to college. What made her give it up? She never did say
what her reason was. Letters are very unsatisfactory things when one is
on shipboard."

"It was money, of course," said Helen. "There was no money for
college."

"Oh, to be sure! I forgot that college takes cash. Well, I am heartily
glad she has given it up. I think college girls get too independent. I
am dying to show you my purchases in New York."

"I am dying to see them, too, but, mumsy, I shall have to leave you now
and run and do a million things. We have a great crowd of week-enders
coming up on the late train."

"Can't Susan attend to the things?"

"Oh, Susan does a lot, but I am the chief cook and Douglas is the brains
of the concern and looks after all the money and does the buying. Nan
attends to all the letter writing, and you would be astonished to see
how much she has to do because we have showers of mail about board. Lucy
sees to the setting of the tables, and all of us do everything that
turns up to be done. Even Bobby helps."

"How ridiculous! Well, take care of your hands, darling. I hate to see
a girl with roughened hands. There is simply no excuse for it."

Helen was dazed by her mother's attitude.

"She is just presenting a duck-back to trouble," thought the girl,
looking rather ruefully at her shapely hands which were showing the
inevitable signs of work.

She found Douglas sitting in a forlorn heap in their tent. Her
countenance was the picture of woe.

"Helen! Helen! What are we to do?"

"Well, it wouldn't be so bad to take a trip to the White, and you
certainly deserve a change. Poor mumsy, too, is bored to death with such
a long sea trip and she needs some society."

"But, honey, the money!"

"Oh, I don't see that we need worry so about that. Mother says that
there is not a tradesman in Richmond who would not be pleased to have
us on his books for any amount. I, for one, am longing for some new
clothes. I don't mind a bit working and cooking, but I do think I need
some new things--and as for you--why, Douglas, you are a perfect rag
bag."

Douglas looked at her sister in amazement. The lesson, then, was not
learned yet! She had thought that Helen understood about the necessity
of making no bills as the bills were what had helped to reduce their
father to this state of invalidism, but here she was falling into the
mother's way of thinking--willing to plunge into debt to any amount.

"But Dr. Wright----"

"Oh, always Dr. Wright!"

"But, Helen, you know you like Dr. Wright now and you must trust him."

"So I do. I like him better and trust him entirely and he himself told
me at the station that father was getting well fast. He said it would
take a little more time but that he would be perfectly well again--at
least that is what I gathered. I know father would be the last man in
the world to want his girls to go around looking like ash cats and you
know it would make him ill indeed to think that mother wanted to go to
White Sulphur for a while and could not go because of lack of money."

"Of course it would, but surely neither you nor mother would tell him
that she wanted to go if you know there is no money to pay for such a
trip."

"But there is money!" exclaimed Helen with some asperity. "You told me
yourself that the camp was paying well enough for us to begin to have
quite a bank account."

"Yes--but----"

"Well now, if we have some money you must think that I have helped to
earn it!"

"Why, Helen dear, you have done more than any of us. You are so
capable----"

"I don't say I have done more, no one could have worked harder than you
have--in fact, everybody has worked, but if I have done my share of the
work, then I am certainly entitled to my share of the money and I intend
to take my share and send mother to White Sulphur for a change. Of
course you will simply have to go with her as she has set her heart on
it."

"I will not," announced Douglas, her girlish face taking on stern
determination.

A shout from Bobby heralded the arrival of Josephus with the luggage.
The discussion ended for the time being as Douglas and Helen were both
needed to prepare for the inroad of week-enders that were to arrive in a
few minutes. Mr. Carter alighted from the cart, already looking better.
He was most enthusiastic over the camp and all of its arrangements.

"I am going to be your handy man," he said, putting his arm around
Douglas. "Are you well, honey? You look bothered."

"Oh yes, I am as well as can be," said Douglas, trying to smooth her
wrinkled brow. How she did want to talk all the troubles over with her
father, but he of all persons must not be bothered. The old habit of
going to him with every worry was so strong that it was difficult to
keep from doing it now, but she bit her lips and held it in.

"I'll tell Lewis," she thought. "He will at least sympathize."

What was she to do about her mother and Helen? They seemed to have no
more gumption about money than the birds. Even then parcels were being
carried into the cabin from the cart that must have meant much money
spent in New York. Where did mother get it? The rent from the house in
town had been sent to Mrs. Carter for running expenses on shipboard and
hotels at the many places where they had stopped, but that must have
gone for the trip. Could she have charged the purchases in New York?
Poor Douglas! She had felt that the problem of making her sisters see
the necessity of economizing had been a great one, but she realized that
it was nothing to what she must face now. She felt that all her former
arguments had been in vain since Helen was dropping into her mother's
habit of thought and upholding that charming butterfly-like person in
all her schemes of extravagance. Lucy was sure to follow Helen's lead
and begin to demand clothes, treats, trips and what-not. Nan, dear
sensible, unselfish Nan, would be the only one who would sympathize with
her older sister in regard to the necessity of continuing the strict
economy they had practiced since early in May, when Dr. Wright had
declared that the only thing that would save their father's reason was
an immediate change, a long rest and complete cessation of all business
worries.

Nan's tastes were simple, but she had a passion for color and beautiful
textiles and sometimes indulged that taste in adorning her dainty little
person. As a rule, however, she was quite satisfied to behold the color
in a Persian rug or the wings of a butterfly. Beauty was to the girl
the most important thing in life whether it was of line, color, sound
or idea. She was perfectly happy with a good book and a comfortable
place in which to curl up. Her fault was laziness, a certain physical
inertia which her indulgent mother always attributed to her delicate
constitution; but the summer in the mountains with the enforced activity
had proven that the delicate constitution was due to the inertia and not
the inertia to the delicate constitution. Up to that time in her life
there had been no especial reason for exerting herself, but Nan was very
unselfish and when she realized that her sisters were one and all
busying themselves, she threw off her lazy habits as she would an ugly
robe, and many tasks at Week-End Camp fell to her share.

Douglas, in this trouble that had arisen, felt that she could go to
Nan for comfort and advice. Nan's mind was as normally active as her
graceful little body was inactive and she had a faculty of seeing her
way through difficulties that the conscientious but more slowly thinking
Douglas much envied her.

"Nan, it's fifteen minutes before train time when the week-enders will
come piling in--I'm dying to have a talk with you."

"Well, don't die--just talk," drawled Nan, looking up from her book but
never stopping turning the crank of the mayonnaise mixer. This was a job
Nan loved, making mayonnaise. She had gotten it down to a fine art since
she could mix and read at the same time. She declared it was a plain
waste of time to use your hands without using your head and since
turning a mayonnaise mixer crank required no intelligence beyond that of
seeing that the funnel was filled with olive oil, she was able to
indulge in her passion for poetry while she was making the quarts of
mayonnaise that the young housekeepers dealt out so generously to their
week-enders.

"Listen to this!" and Nan turned the crank slowly while she read:

      "'Alas for all high hopes and all desires!
        Like leaves in yellow autumn-time they fall--
      Alas for prayers and psalms and love's pure fires--
        One silence and one darkness ends them all!'"

The crank stopped and all of the oil flowed through the funnel while Nan
softly turned the leaves of Marston's "Last Harvest."

"Yes, honey, it is beautiful, but you had better read a livelier form of
verse or your salad dressing will go back on you."

"Heavens, you are right! I've got 'Barrack Room Ballads' here ready in
case I get to dawdling," laughed Nan.

"I want to talk about something very important, Nan. Can you turn your
crank and listen?"

"Yes, indeed, but you'll have to talk fast or else I'll get to poking
again. You see, I have to keep time."

So Douglas rapidly repeated the conversations she had had with her
mother and later with Helen.

"What are we to do? Must I tell Dr. Wright? I am afraid to get them
started for fear father will be mixed up in it. He must not know mother
wants to go to White Sulphur--he would be sure to say let her go and
then he would try to work again before he is fit for it, and he would
certainly get back into the same state he was in last spring."

"Poor little mumsy! I was sure she would not understand," and once more
the mixer played a sad measure.

"I was afraid she wouldn't," sighed Douglas, "but I did think Helen had
been taught a lesson and realized the importance of our keeping within
our earnings and saving something, too, for winter."

"Helen--why, she is too young for the lesson she learned to stick. She
is nothing but a child."

"Is that so, grandmother?" laughed Douglas, amused in spite of her
trouble at Nan's ancient wisdom (Nan being some two years younger than
Helen).

"Why, Douglas, Helen has just been play-acting at being poor. She has no
idea of its being a permanency," and Nan filled the funnel again with
oil and began to turn her crank with vigor.

"But what are we to do? I am not going to White Sulphur and I am not
going to make my debut--that's sure. I have never disobeyed mother that
I can remember, but this time I shall have to. I don't know what I am to
say about the trip to the White. Helen is saying she has helped to earn
the money and she means to spend her share giving poor mumsy a little
fun after her tiresome long journey on the water. I wish we had never
told her we were able to put something in the bank last month. It was
precious little and Helen's share would not keep them at White Sulphur
more than two or three days. Helen thinks I am stingy and mother thinks
I am stubborn and ugly and sunburned--and there's the train with all the
week-enders----" and poor Douglas gave a little sob.

"And I have turned my wheel until this old mayonnaise is done--just look
how beautiful it is! And you, poor old Doug, must just leave it to me,
and I'll think up something to keep them here if I have to break out
with smallpox and get them quarantined on the mountain."

"Oh, Nan! Is there some way out of it without letting father know that
mother wants something and cannot have it for lack of money?"

"Sure there is! You go powder your nose and put on a blue linen blouse
and give a few licks to your pretty hair while I hand over the
mayonnaise to Gwen and see that Lucy has counted noses for the supper
tables. I've almost got a good reason already for mumsy's staying here
aside from the lack of tin, but I must get it off to her with great
finesse."

"I knew you would help!" and Douglas gave her little sister and the
mayonnaise bowl an impartial hug, and then hastened to make herself more
presentable, hoping to find favor in the eyes of her fastidious mother.




CHAPTER IV

ROBERT CARTER'S ASTONISHING GIRLS


August, the month for holidays, was bringing much business to the
proprietresses of Week-End Camp. Such a crowd came swarming up the
mountain now that Lucy, who had set the tables with the assistance of
her chum, Lil Tate, and the two sworn knights, Skeeter Halsey and Frank
Maury, and had carefully counted noses according to the calculations Nan
had made from the applications she had received, had to do it all over
to make room for the unexpected guests.

"Just kilt-plait the places," suggested Lil.

"If they keep on coming we'll have to accordeon-plait 'em," laughed
Lucy.

"Gee, I'm glad your eats don't land in your elbows!" from Skeeter.

"Me, too!" exclaimed Frank. "Miss Helen tipped me a wink that there's
Brunswick stew made out of the squirrels we got yesterday. And there is
sho' no elbow room at these tables."

"Look at 'em swarming up the mountain. Where do you reckon they'll
sleep?" asked Lil.

"Have to roost in the trees."

"I bet more than half of them didn't bring their blankets," hazarded
Lucy.

"Yes, that's the way they do, these town fellows," said Skeeter,
forgetting that he too had been a town fellow only a few weeks before
that time.

The summer in the mountains was doing wonders for these youngsters.
Sleeping in the open had broadened their chests. They were wiry and
tanned and every day brought some new delightful duty that was never
called a duty and so was looked upon by all of them as a great game.
Theirs was the task of foraging for the camp, and no small job was it to
find chickens and vegetables and fruit for the hungry hordes that sought
the Week-End Camp for holiday and recreation.

They had found their way to many a remote mountain cabin and engaged all
chickens hatched and unhatched. They had spread the good news among the
natives that blackberries, huckleberries, peaches, apples, pears and
plums were in demand at their camp. Eggs were always needed. Little
wild-eyed, tangled-haired children would come creeping from the bushes,
like so many timid rabbits, bringing their wares; sometimes a bucket of
dewberries or some wild plums; sometimes honey from the wild bees, dark
and strong and very sweet, "bumblebee honey," Skeeter called it. All was
grist that came to the mill of the week-enders. No matter how much was
provided, there was never anything to speak of left over.

"These hyar white folks is same as chickens," grumbled old Oscar.
"They's got no notion of quittin' s'long as they's any corn lef' on the
groun'."

"They sho' kin eat," agreed Susan, "but Miss Douglas an' Miss Helen done
said we mus' fill 'em up and that's what we is hyar fur."

The above is a conversation that, with variations, occurred during
almost every meal at the camp. Oscar and Susan, the faithful servants
the Carters had brought from Richmond, were proving more and more
efficient now that the first sting of the country was removed and camp
life had become a habit with them. They were creatures of habit and
imbued with the notion that what was good enough for white folks was
good enough for them. Their young mistresses were contented with the
life in the camp, so they were, too. Their young mistresses were not
above doing any work that came to hand, so they, too, must be willing to
do what fell to their lot. Susan forgot the vows she had so solemnly
sworn when she became a member of the housemaids' league, to do
housework and nothing else. She argued that a camp wasn't a house and
she could do what she chose. Oscar had, while in town, held himself
above any form of labor not conducive to the dignity of a butler serving
for many years in the best families. But if Mr. Lewis Somerville and
Mr. Bill Tinsley, both of them belonging to fust famblies, could skin
squirrels, why then, he, Oscar, must be a sport and skin them, too.

These week-ends in August were hard work for all concerned and now there
was talk of some of the guests staying over for much longer and spending
two weeks with them. That meant no cessation of fillin' 'em up. Previous
to this time, Monday had been a blessed day for all the camp, boarders
gone and time to take stock and rest, but now there was to be no let up
in the filling process.

Susan, for the time completely demoralized by the return of her beloved
mistress, had left her work to whomsoever it might concern and had
constituted herself lady's maid for Mrs. Carter. She unpacked boxes and
parcels, hovering over the pretty things purchased in New York; she
fetched and carried for that dainty lady, ignoring completely the steady
stream of week-enders climbing up the mountain or being carried up by
the faithful and sturdy mountain goat, with the silent Bill as
chauffeur.

Helen had reluctantly torn herself from the delectable boxes and parcels
and was busily engaged in concocting a wonderful potato salad, something
she always attended to herself. Gwen was making batter bread after
having put to rise pan after pan of rolls. Oscar had begun to fry the
apples, a dish ever in demand at camp. The Brunswick stew had been
safely deposited in the fireless cooker early in the day and all was
going well.

"There!" exclaimed Helen, putting the finishing touch to the last huge
bowl of salad and stepping back to admire her handiwork. "That
substantial salad unites beauty and utility."

"It sho' do, Miss Helen, it sho' do!" declared Oscar, adroitly turning
his apples just as they reached the proper stage of almost and not quite
being candied. "They's nothin' like tater salid fer contitutioning a
foumdation stone on which to build fillin' victuals. It's mo' satisfying
to my min' than the staft of life itself. All I is a-hopin' is that they
won't lick the platter befo' I gits to it."

"You are safe there, Oscar, as I made this extra dishful to be kept back
so you and Susan will be sure to get some."

"Susan, indeed!" sniffed her fellow-servant. "She ain't called on to
expect no favors at yo' han'. To be foun' by the wayside, a fallin' down
wantin' jes' at this crucible moment!"

"I think she is helping mother."

"Then I's got nothin' to say--but I 'low she helpin' yo' maw with one
han' an' Susan Jourdan with yudder."

Mr. Carter and Dr. Wright looked into the kitchen a moment. Dr. Wright
had been showing his patient over the camp, as all of the daughters were
occupied. Mr. Carter was delighted with the arrangements and amazed at
the scope of the undertaking. Could this be his Helen, the queen of the
kitchen, attending to the preparation of this great quantity of food? He
never remembered before seeing Helen do any more strenuous work than
play a corking good game of tennis, and here she was handling a frying
pan with the same skill with which she had formerly handled a racquet,
looking after the apples while Oscar cracked ice and carried up into the
pavilion the great pitchers of cold tea destined to quench the thirst of
the week-enders.

Helen was looking wholly lovely in her becoming bungalow apron, with her
flushed cheeks and hair a bit dishevelled from the hurry of getting
things done without the assistance of the capable Susan. Robert Carter
looked in amazement at the great bowls of potato salad and the pans of
rolls, being taken from the oven to make room for other pans.

"In heaven's name, what is all this food for?" he asked, laughing.

"Have you seen the week-enders swarming up the mountain?"

"Why yes, but they couldn't eat all this."

"Don't you fool yourself!" and Helen gave her dear father a fried apple
hug. She was very happy. The beloved parents were back with them. Dr.
Wright assured her that her father was improving. The camp had been her
very own idea and it was successful. They were making money and she was
going to take her share of the profits and give her mother a trip. She,
Helen Carter, only eighteen, could do all of this! She had no idea what
the profits amounted to, but Nan and Douglas had only the week before
congratulated themselves that they were putting more money in the bank
than they were drawing out. She cared nothing for money in the bank
except as a means of gratifying the ones she loved. The poor little
mumsy had been shut up on shipboard for months and surely she deserved
some recreation. She was astonished at Douglas for being so stingy. It
was plain stinginess that would make her think more of having some
paltry savings than of wanting to give to their charming, beautiful
little mother her heart's desire, so Helen thought.

Dr. Wright was smiling on her, too. He seemed to think she was a very
remarkable girl, at least that was what one might gather from his
expression as he stood by the kitchen and gazed in through the
screening at the bright-eyed, eager young cook.

"Where are the other girls?" asked Mr. Carter.

"Oh, they have a million things to do! We always divide up and spread
ourselves over the whole camp when the train gets in. Lucy has just
finished setting the tables, and that is some job, I can tell you, but
Lil Tate and Frank Skeeter always help. Nan has been making mayonnaise
enough to run us over Sunday, and now she has gone with Douglas to
receive the week-enders and show them their tents and cots. Douglas is
the great chief--she does all the buying and supervising, looks after
the comfort of the week-enders and sees that everything is kept clean
and sanitary. Nan writes all the letters, and believe me, that is no
little task. She also makes the mayonnaise and helps me here in the
kitchen when I need her, but Gwen is my right hand man. But what am I
thinking of? You haven't even met Gwen!"

The young English girl was looking shyly at the big man and thinking
what she would give to have her own father back again. Dr. Wright had
told Mr. Carter of Gwen and her romantic history, how Helen had found
the wallet in the scrub oak tree containing all of the dead Englishman's
papers, of old Abner Dean's perfidy in taking the land from Gwen when
the receipt had not been found, although the child was sure her father
had paid for the side of the mountain before he had built his cabin
there. Mr. Carter had been greatly interested in the recital and now
his kind friendliness brought a mist to the eyes of the girl.

"I am very glad to know you, my dear. Dr. Wright has told me of you and
now I hope to be numbered among your friends."

Gwen looked so happy and grateful that Helen had to give her father one
more fried apple hug before she pushed him out of the kitchen to make
room for the important ceremony of dishing up supper.

"Where did I ever get them, Doctor, these girls? Why, they are perfect
bricks! To think of my little Helen forgetting the polish on her
fingernails and actually cooking! I don't see where they came from."

It was rather wonderful and George Wright was somewhat at a loss himself
to account for them as he watched the dainty mother of the flock trip
lightly across the rough mountain path connecting the cabin with the
pavilion. Robert Carter himself had character enough to go around, but
when one considered that his character had been alloyed with hers to
make this family it was a wonder that they had that within them that
could throw off tradition and environment as they had done and undertake
this camp that was proving quite a stupendous thing for mere girls.

"Well, Dr. Wright," trilled Mrs. Carter, "isn't this a delightful
adventure for my girls to have amused themselves with? The girl of the
day is certainly an enterprising person. Of course a thing like this
must not be carried too far, as there is danger of their forgetting
their mission in life."

"And that mission is----?"

"Being ornaments of society, of course," laughed the little lady.

Mrs. Carter had long ago overcome the fear she had entertained for
the young physician. He had been so unfailingly kind to her and his
diagnosis of her husband's case had been so sure and his treatment so
exactly right that she could have nothing but liking and respect for
him. She even forgave him the long exile he had subjected her to on
that stupid ship. It had cured her Robert and she was willing to have
cut herself off from society for those months if by doing so she had
contributed to the well-being of her husband. She had been all
devotion and unselfishness in the first agony of his illness. The
habits of her lifetime had been seemingly torn up by the roots and
from being the spoiled and petted darling she had turned into the
efficient nurse. As his health returned, however, it had been quite
easy to slip back into her former place of being served instead of
serving. It was as much Robert Carter's nature to serve as it was
hers to be served. The habits had not been torn up by the roots, after
all, but only been trimmed back, and now they were sprouting out with
added vigor from their pruning.

Very lovely the little lady looked in her filmy lace dress. Her charming
face, framed by its cloud of blue-black hair, showed no trace of having
gone through the anxiety of a severe illness of one whom she loved
devotedly. Nothing worried her very long and she had the philosophy of
a young child, taking no thought of the yesterdays or of the morrows.
Dr. Wright looked on her in amazement. Her speaking of the camp as
an adventure chosen by the girls as something with which to amuse
themselves would have been laughable had it not been irritating to the
young man. And now, forsooth, their business in life was to become
ornaments of society!

"Humph!" was all he said, although he had to turn on his heel and walk
off to keep from asserting that their mission in life should be to
become useful members of society. He had a dread of appearing priggish,
however, and then this was Helen's mother and he wanted to do nothing to
mar in any way the friendship that had sprung up between that elusive
young person and himself.

"Where are all the children, Robert?" asked Mrs. Carter, wondering in
her well-bred mind why Dr. Wright should be so brusque.

"There aren't any children, Annette," sighed Mr. Carter, "but I
shouldn't sigh but be glad and happy. Why, they are perfect wonders!
Helen is in the kitchen, not eating bread and honey, but cooking and
bossing, and all the other girls are flying around taking care of the
boarders."

"Boarders! Oh, Robert, what a name to call them! I can't contemplate it.
Who are all those people I saw coming up the road?"

"They are the boarders."

"Not all that crowd! I thought they had only a select few."

"No, indeed, they take all that come and I can tell you they have made
the place very popular. I did not know they had it in them. I believe
it was a good thing I went off my hooks for a while, as it has brought
out character in my girls that I did not dream they had."

"It seems hardly ladylike for them to be so--so--successful at running
a boarding place. I wonder what people will say."

"Why they will say: 'Hurrah for the Carter Girls!' At least, that is
what the worth-while people will say."

"Well, if you think it all right, I know it must be," sighed the poor
little lady, "but somehow I think it would be much better for them to
have visited Cousin Elizabeth Somerville until we got back or had her
visit them in Richmond. I don't at all approve of their renting my
house. Douglas is so coarsened by this living out-of-doors. She has the
complexion that must be guarded very carefully or she will lose her
beauty very early. I think the summer before a girl makes her debut
should be spent taking care of her complexion."

Robert Carter laughed. He was always intensely amused by his wife's
outlook on life and society and looked upon it as one of her girlish
charms. Common sense had not been what made him fall in love with her
twenty years before, so the lack of it did not detract in any way from
his admiration of her in these latter years. She was what she had always
been: beautiful, graceful, sweet, charming; made to be loved, served and
spoiled.

"Where is Bobby? He, at least, cannot be busy with these awful
boarders."

"Bobby? Why, he is now engaged in helping Josh, the little mountain boy
who is serving as expressman for the girls, to curry Josephus, the mule.
These boarders are not awful, my dear. You will find many acquaintances
among them. Jeffry Tucker came with his two girls, the twins, and a
friend of theirs from Milton, Page Allison is her name. There are
several others whom you will be glad to see, I know. I think it would be
well for us to go up in the pavilion where they dine and then dance, and
you can receive them there as they arrive."

Mrs. Carter patted her creamy lace dress with a satisfied feeling that
she was looking her best. It was a new creation from a most exclusive
shop in New York--quite expensive, but then she had had absolutely no
new clothes for perfect ages and since the proprietor of the shop had
been most pleased to have her open an account with him, the price of the
gown was no concern of hers. It set off her pearly skin and dusky hair
to perfection. She was glad Jeffry Tucker was at the camp. He was a
general favorite in Richmond society and his being there meant at least
that her girls had not lessened themselves in the eyes of the elite.
Surely he would not bring his daughters to this ridiculous camp unless
he felt that it would do nothing toward lowering their position.

The pretty, puzzled lady took her place at one end of the great long
dining pavilion as the week-enders swarmed up the steps, attracted
hither by the odor of fried apples and hot rolls that was wafted o'er
the mountainside.




CHAPTER V

THE TUCKERS


There had been general rejoicing at Week-End Camp when Nan had announced
that Jeffry Tucker and his daughters were to come up for a short stay.
The Tuckers were great favorites and were always received with open
arms at any place where fun was on foot. Mr. Tucker had written for
accommodations for himself and daughters and their friend, Miss Allison.

No one would have been more astonished than Jeffry Tucker, the father
of the Heavenly Twins, at the kind of reputation he had with a society
woman of Mrs. Carter's standing. For her to think that his bringing
his daughters to the camp meant that he considered it to their social
advantage--at least not to their social detriment--would have convulsed
that gentleman. He thought no more of the social standing of his
daughters Virginia and Caroline (Dum and Dee) than he did of the fourth
dimension. He came to the camp and brought his daughters and Page
Allison just because he heard it was great fun. He had known Robert
Carter all his life and admired and liked him. His daughters had gone
to the kindergarten and dancing school with Douglas and Helen and when
rumor had it that these girls were actually making a living with
week-end boarders at a camp in Albemarle, why it was the most natural
thing in the world for the warm-hearted Jeffry Tucker immediately to
write for tent room for his little crowd.

I hope my readers are glad to see the Tuckers and Page Allison. The fact
of the business is that they are a lively lot and it is difficult to
keep them in the pages of their own books. They might have stayed safely
there had not the Carter girls started this venture in the mountains.
That was too much for them. Zebedee had promised Tweedles again and
again to take them camping, and since what they did Page must do too,
of course she was included in the promise. This is not their own camp
and not their own book but here they are in it!

"Douglas Carter, we think you are the smartest person that ever was!"
enthused Dum Tucker as Douglas showed them to their tent where three
other girls were to sleep, too. "Isn't this just too lovely?"

"I'm not smart, it's Helen who thought up this plan," insisted Douglas.
"We are so glad you have come and we do hope you will like it."

"Like it! We are wild about it," cried Dee, and Page Allison was equally
enthusiastic.

"Where is Helen?" demanded Dum.

"She is chief cook and can't make her appearance until she has put the
finishing touches to supper."

"Does she really cook, herself?" cried Dee. "How grand!"

"Sometimes she cooks herself," drawled Nan, coming into the tent to see
the Tuckers, who were great favorites with her, too, "sometimes when we
get out of provisions, which we are liable to do now as six persons have
come who had not written me for accommodations."

"Mother and father got here from a long trip this afternoon," explained
Douglas, "and we are so upset over seeing them that we are rather late.
Helen usually does all she has to do before the week-enders come."

"Let us help!" begged Dee. "Dum and I can do lots of stunts, and Page
here is a wonderful pie slinger."

"Well, we would hardly press Miss Allison into service when she has just
arrived," smiled Douglas.

"Please, please don't Miss Allison me! I'm just Page and my idea of
camping is cooking, so if I can help, let me," and Page, who had said
little up to that time, spoke with such genuine frankness that Douglas
and Nan felt somehow that a new friend had come into their circle.

"We'll call on all three of you if we need you," promised Douglas,
hastening off with Nan to see that other guests had found their tents
and had what they wanted in the way of water and towels.

"Isn't this great?" said Dee. "I'm so glad Zebedee thought of coming.
I think Douglas Carter looks healthy but awful bothered, somehow."

"I thought so, too. I'm afraid her father is not so well or something.
Think of Helen Carter's cooking!" wondered Dum.

"Why shouldn't she?" asked Page. "Is she so superior?"

"No, not that," tweedled the twins.

"Helen's fine but so--so--stylish. Mrs. Carter is charming but she is
one butterfly and we always rather expected Helen to be just like
her--more sense than her mother, but dressy," continued Dee.

"You will know what Mrs. Carter is, just as soon as you look at her
hands," declared Dum. "If the lilies of the field were blessed with
hands they would look exactly like Mrs. Carter's."

"Well, come let's find Zebedee. I smelt apples frying," and the three
friends made their way to the pavilion where Mrs. Carter was receiving
the week-enders with all the charm and ceremony she might have employed
at a daughter's debut party.

Her reception of the Tuckers was warm and friendly. It had been months
since she had seen anyone who moved in her own circle and now there were
many questions to ask of Richmond society. Jeffry Tucker, who could make
himself perfectly at home with any type, now laid himself out to be
pleasant to his hostess. He told her all the latest news of Franklin
street and recounted the gossip that had filtered back from White
Sulphur and Warm Springs. He turned himself into a society column and
announced engagements and rumors of engagements; who was at the beach
and who was at the mountains. He even made a stagger at the list of
debutantes for the ensuing winter.

"I mean that Douglas shall come out next winter, too," said the little
lady during the supper that followed. Nan, seeing that her mother was
having such a pleasant time with the genial Jeffry Tucker, arranged to
have the Tuckers placed at the table that had been set aside for their
mother and father. The Carter girls made it a rule to scatter themselves
through the crowd the better to look after the hungry and see that no
one's wants were unsatisfied.

"Ah, is that so? I had an idea she was destined for college. It seems
to me that Tweedles told me she had passed her Bryn Mawr exams."

"So she did, but I am glad to say she has given up all idea of that
foolishness. I am very anxious for her to make her debut."

Nan, who was making the rounds of the various tables to see that
everyone was served properly, overheard her mother's remark and glanced
shyly at Mr. Tucker. She caught his eye unwittingly but there was
something in the look that he gave her that made her know he understood
the whole situation and was in sympathy with Douglas, who was very
busy at the next table helping hungry week-enders to the rapidly
disappearing potato salad.

There was a rather pathetic droop to Douglas' young shoulders as though
the weight of the universe were getting a little too much for her. Mr.
Tucker looked from her to Robert Carter who seemed to be accepting
things as he found them with an astonishing calmness. He was certainly a
changed man. Remembering him as a person of great force and energy, who
always took the initiative when any work was to be done or question
decided, his old friend wondered at his almost flabby state. Here he
was calmly letting his silly wife, because silly she seemed to Jeffry
Tucker, although charming and even lovable, put aside his daughter's
desires for an education and force her into society. He could see it all
with half an eye and what he could not see for himself the speaking
countenance of the third Carter, Nan, was telling him as plainly as a
countenance could. He determined to talk with the girl as soon as supper
was over and see if he could help her in some way, how, he did not
know, but he felt that he might be of some use.

The supper was a very merry one in spite of the depression that had
seized poor Douglas. She tried not to let her gloom permeate those
around her. Helen was in a perfect gale and the Tucker Twins took their
cue from her and the ball of good-humored repartee was tossed back and
forth. Tillie Wingo was resplendent in a perfectly new dancing frock.
The beaux buzzed around her like bees around a honey pot. The silent
Bill Tinsley kept on saying nothing but his calf eyes were more eloquent
than any words. He had fallen head over heels in love with the frivolous
Tillie from the moment she offered to tip him on the memorable occasion
of her first visit to the camp. Lewis Somerville, usually with plenty to
say for himself, was almost as silent as his chum, Bill. It seemed as
though Douglas' low spirits had affected her cousin.

"What is it, Douglas?" he whispered, as he took the last plate of salad
from her weary hand. "You look all done up. Are you sick?"

"No, indeed! Nothing!"

"When the animals have finished feeding, I want to talk to you. Can you
give me a few minutes?"

"Why, of course, Lewis, as many as you want."

Douglas and Lewis had been friends from the moment they had met. That
had been some eighteen years before when Douglas had been crawling on
the floor, not yet trusting to her untried legs, and Lewis, just
promoted from skirts to breeches, had proudly paraded up and down in
front of his baby cousin. There never had been a problem in Douglas'
life that she had not discussed with her friend, but she felt a delicacy
in talking about this trouble that had arisen on her horizon because it
would mean a certain criticism of both her mother and sister.

"Walk after supper?" Bill whispered to Tillie. "Something to say."
Tillie nodded an assent.

Supper over, the tables and chairs were piled up in a twinkling and the
latest dance record put on the Victrola.

"Why, this is delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Carter, looking around for Mr.
Tucker to come claim her for the first dance, but she saw that gentleman
disappearing over the mountainside with Nan.

"Nan is entirely too young for such nonsense!" she exclaimed with some
asperity, but partners were forthcoming a-plenty so she was soon dancing
like any girl of eighteen, while her indulgent husband smoked his pipe
and looked contentedly on.

Susan and Oscar washed the dishes with more rattling than usual as Oscar
had much grumbling in store for the delinquent Susan.

"Wherefo' you done lef' yo' wuck to Miss Helen?"

"I's a-helpin' Mis' Carter. She kep' me a-openin' boxes an' hangin' up
things. I knowed Miss Helen wouldn't min'. She thinks her maw oughter
have what she wants. I done heard her tell Miss Douglas that she means
to see her maw has her desires fulfilled. Sounded mos' lak qua'llin'
the way the young missises was a-talkin'."

"Well, all I got to say is that Mis' Carter ain't called on to git any
mo' waitin' on than the young ladies. They's as blue-blooded as what she
is an' even mo' so as they is got all the blood she's got an' they paw's
beside. I bet she ain't goin' to tun a han' to fill any of these folks
up. There she is now a-dancin' 'round like a teetotaller a-helpin' the
boarders to shake down they victuals. I'll be boun' some of these here
Hungarians will be empty befo' bed time."




CHAPTER VI

POSTPRANDIAL CONVERSATIONS


It was a wonderful night. The sun had set in a glory of clouds while
Oscar was still endeavoring to fill 'em up. The moon was full and
"round as the shield of my fathers." It was very warm with not a breeze
stirring. Jeffry Tucker drew Nan down on the first fallen log they came
to out of reach of the noise from the pavilion.

"It is fine to be able to leave the city for a while," he said, drawing
in deep breaths of mountain air. "And now, Miss Nan Carter, I want you
to tell me what was the reason for the S. O. S. that you sent out to
me as plain as one pair of eyes can speak to another. I am a very old
friend of your father, have known him ever since I was a little boy at
school where I looked up to him and admired him as only a little boy
can a big one. I see he is in poor health, at least in a nervous state,
and I am wondering if there isn't something I can do. I don't want to
butt in--you understand that, don't you? But if I can help, I want to."

And then Nan Carter did just exactly what everybody always did: she took
Jeffry Tucker into her confidence and told him all of the troubles of
the family. He listened attentively.

"I see! The rent from the house in Richmond is the only income you can
depend upon just now, and your mother wants to live at home again and
have Miss Douglas make her debut in state. She has given up college for
lack of funds, but she is to make her debut instead--a much more
expensive pastime, I fancy. What does your father say?"

"Oh, that is the terrible part of it! We don't want anyone to appeal to
father--he is sure to say that mother must do just as she chooses. He
always has said that and he thinks that he is put on earth just to
gratify mother's every wish. Mr. Tucker, please don't think mother is
selfish--it isn't that--she is just inexperienced."

"Certainly not! Certainly not!" But that gentleman crossed his fingers
and quickly possessed himself of a bit of green leaf, which was the
Tucker twins' method, as children, when they made a remark with a mental
reservation, the remark for politeness and the mental reservation for
truth.

"You see, if father begins to think that mother wants things that it
will take more money to buy, he will go back to work, and Dr. Wright
says that nothing but a complete rest will cure him--rest and no
worries."

"Can't Dr. Wright have a plain talk with your mother and explain matters
to her?"

"Ye-e-s, but there is a kind of complication there, too. You see, Dr.
Wright had a horrid time at first trying to beat it into us that father
was in a bad way. Helen kicked against his diagnosis like I don't know
what, treated Dr. Wright mighty badly. He was fine about it and so
patient that by and by Helen came to her senses, and began to
appreciate all he had done for father, and she and Dr. Wright are real
good friends. Now Helen is siding with mother and thinks that whatever
mother wants to do she should do. She even wants Douglas to go to White
Sulphur with mother for several weeks, right now in our very busiest
season."

Mr. Tucker could not help laughing at the child by his side, so
seriously discussing the trials of her family and now talking about
their busiest season like some veteran hotel keeper.

"White Sulphur would mean an added expense, too," he suggested.

"Of course, and Helen says she will take her share of the summer's
earnings and send mother. Helen is very generous and very impulsive,
with no more idea of saving for winter than a grasshopper."

"This is what I take it you want me to do: make your mother change her
mind about going to White Sulphur and decide of her own accord that this
winter it would be a mistake to bring Miss Douglas out to make her bow
before Richmond society."

"Exactly! Oh, Mr. Tucker, if you only could without having father even
know that mother is not having everything she wants!"

"I'll do my best. I may have to take Dr. Wright into consultation before
I get through. Already a plan is surging in my brain."

"Let's fly back to the pavilion then and you start to work!"

Nan forgot to be shy in her eagerness to thank Mr. Tucker for his
interest in their affairs and her hurry to get him launched in the
undertaking of coercing her mother without that little lady's knowledge.
She wondered if she had spoken too plainly about Dr. Wright and Helen.
Nan was sentimental, as one of her poetic nature would be apt to be, and
the budding romance that she thought she could spy springing up between
Dr. Wright and her sister, far be it from her to blight. She felt sure
Dr. Wright would feel it to be his duty to protect his patient from
mental worry, but she was also sure that Helen would be quite impatient
if Dr. Wright ventured to criticize her mother. What a relief it was to
have unbosomed herself to this dear, kind Mr. Tucker, who understood her
so readily and still did not seem to think her poor little mother was
selfish or silly! (The crossing of fingers and holding something green
had escaped her notice.)

"I won't tell Douglas I have said anything to him," she promised
herself. "It would be difficult to explain that I caught his eye at the
supper table and he divined that I was in trouble. That is the truth,
though, no matter how silly it sounds."

She wondered what the plan was that had begun to surge but she
determined to leave it to Mr. Tucker. That gentleman, whatever his idea
of attack, did not immediately approach her mother but made his way to
the middle of the pavilion where he awaited his chance to break in on a
dance with Page Allison, his daughters' friend.

"She may be part of his plan! Who knows? At any rate, I believe he is
going to get us out of the trouble somehow."

As Douglas and Lewis left the pavilion they took the path straight up
the mountain. "Let's go this way and shake the crowd for a little
while," suggested Lewis.

"But we mustn't be long. Helen will have too much entertaining to do.
We can't get it out of our heads that we must treat these boarders as
though we were having a house-party."

"Well, I reckon that's the reason you have been so successful. I have
heard some of the fellows say that they never hear the chink of coin
here. It really seems like a house-party."

"I am so glad, but I am glad of the chink of coin, too."

"But, Douglas, I did not bring you out here to talk about boarders and
coin--I have got something else to say. Bill and I have just been
waiting until Cousin Robert and Cousin Annette got back because we
couldn't leave you without any protection----"

"Leave us! Oh, Lewis!"

"Do you mind really, Douglas?"

"Mind? Why, I can't tell you how much I mind!"

"We know we have no business staying here indefinitely and we feel we
must get to work. We are going to enlist for the Mexican border. We have
got over our grouch against Uncle Sam for firing us from West Point and
now that he needs us, we are determined to show him we are ready to
serve him in any capacity. You know we are right, don't you?"

"Ye-e-s, but----"

By that time Lewis had taken possession of Douglas' hands and with a
voice filled with emotion, he said:

"I can't bear to leave you, but now Cousin Robert is here he will make
it safe for you. I have tried to help some----"

"Oh, and you have! We couldn't have done a thing without you and Bill."

"I don't know about that. I believe there is no limit to what you Carter
girls can do--but, Douglas--honey--before I go to Mexico--I--I just
have to tell you how much I love you. I don't mean like a cousin--I'm
not such close kin to you after all--I mean I love you so much that the
thought of leaving you is agony. You knew all the time that it was no
cousin business, didn't you, Douglas?"

"Why, Lewis, I never thought of such a thing. You are almost like my
brother," and Douglas devoutly wished the moon would hurry up and get
behind a big black cloud that was coming over the mountain.

"Brother much! I'm not the least little bit like a brother. Bill's got
sisters and I don't believe he is bothering about leaving them one-tenth
as much as he is leaving Tillie Wingo. Why, honey, ever since I can
remember I have been meaning to get you to marry me when we both grew
up. Of course, I can't ask you to marry me now as I haven't a piece of
prospect and will have to enlist in the ranks and work up, but I mean to
work up fast and be so steady that I'll be a lieutenant before Carranza
and Villa can settle their difficulty. Won't you be engaged to me so
I'll have something to work for until I can see you again?"

"Engaged to you! Why, Lewis, I--I--how can I be when it is so sudden?
You never told me before that you cared for me the least little bit."

"Told you before! Ye Gods and little fishes! I've been telling you for
pretty near eighteen years."

"Well, I never heard you!"

"Why don't you say you don't give a hang for me and let me go?"

"But, Lewis, I give a whole lot of hangs for you and I don't want you to
go."

"Oh, I know the kind of hangs you give: just this brother and sister
business," and the young man dropped the girl's hands.

Douglas felt like crying, but Lewis was so absurd she had to laugh. What
time had she to think about getting engaged? She felt as though the
whole world rested on her young shoulders. Here was her mother wanting
her to make a debut, and Helen wanting to spend on a silly trip the
pitiful little money they had begun to save from their boarding camp.
And now Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley, the brawn and sinew of their
undertaking, suddenly deciding that they must enlist and hike out for
the Mexican border!

"We must go back to the pavilion," she said wearily. Her voice sounded
very tired and she stumbled a little as she turned to go down the path.

"Now, Douglas, I have distressed you," and Lewis was all thoughtfulness
and consideration. "I didn't mean to, honey--I just want you to say you
love me the way I love you."

"And I can't say it, because I never thought of your caring for me in
any different way. You are the best friend I have in the world."

"Well, that is something and I am going to keep on being it. Maybe when
I come back from Mexico you will think differently. You will write to
me, won't you?"

"Why, of course I will, Lewis! Haven't I always written to you?"

"Douglas, don't you think you could love me a little?"

"But, Lewis, I do love you a whole lot!"

"But I mean be engaged to me?"

"Lewis Somerville, would you want me to be engaged to you when you know
perfectly well that I have never thought of you except as the very best
friend I've got in the world, and if not as a brother, at least as a
cousin who has been almost like a brother? If I did engage myself to
you, you wouldn't have the least bit of respect for me and you know you
wouldn't; would you?"

But Lewis would not answer. He just drew her arm in his and silently led
her back to the pavilion. The big cloud had made its way in front of the
moon and he took advantage of the darkness to kiss her hand, but he was
very gentle and seemingly resigned to the brother business that he had
so scorned. His youthful countenance was very sad and stern, however, as
he turned and made his way to the tent that he shared with Bill and
Bobby.

Bill Tinsley and Tillie Wingo, too, were walking on the mountainside,
Bill as silent as the grave but in a broad grin while Tillie kept up her
accustomed chatter. It flowed from her rosy lips with no more effort
than water from a mountain spring.

"Do you know, Mr. Tinsley, that I have danced out five dresses this
summer? As for shoes! If Helen had not given me some of her slippers, I
would be barefooted this minute. I don't mind this rough dressing in the
day time, but I must say when evening comes I like to doll up. I believe
Mrs. Carter feels the same way. Isn't that a lovely dress she has on
this evening? There is no telling what it cost. If their mother can buy
such a frock as that, I think it is absurd for the girls to be working
so hard--and believe me, they are some workers. Now, I'm real practical
and know how to dress on very little and, if I do say it that shouldn't,
I bet there is not a girl in Richmond who makes a better appearance on
as little money as I spend, but I know what things cost--you can't fool
me--and I'm able to tell across the room that that filmy lace effect
that Mrs. Carter is sporting set her back a good seventy-five."

"Whew!" from Bill.

"Easy, seventy-five, I say, and maybe more! It would take a lot of
week-enders to pay for it and I bet she no more thinks about it than
she does about the air she breathes. Now she wants to bring Douglas
out and you know she wouldn't be willing to let her come out like a
poor girl--no sirree! Douglas would have to have all kinds of clothes
and all kinds of parties. She would have to come out in a blaze of
glory if her mother has a finger in it. Girls who come out that way
don't have such a lot on the ones who just quietly crawl out--like I
did, f'instance. I just quietly crawled--you could not call it
coming----"

Here Bill gave one of his great laughs, breaking his vow of silence. At
least it seemed as though he must have made such a vow as through all of
Tillie's chatter he had uttered not one word more than the "Whew" over
Mrs. Carter's extravagance. The picture of Tillie's quietly crawling
got the better of his risibles.

"You needn't laugh! I can assure you I came out in home-made clothes and
during the entire winter I had not one thing done for me to push me in
society--not a cup of tea was handed in my name. One lady did put my
card in some invitations she got out, trying to relaunch a daughter
who had been out for three seasons and gone in again, but she had an
inconvenient death in the family and had to recall the invitations; so
I got no good of it after all. Not that I cared--goodness no! I had all
the fun there was to have and I'm still having, although I'm not able to
keep in the swim, giving entertainments and what not. Of course, I was
not included in select luncheons and dinner dances and the like. Those
expensive blowouts are given with a view of returning all kinds of
obligations or of putting people in your debt so you are included in
theirs--but I got to all the big things and got there without the least
wire-pulling or working. Of course, I did get to some of the small
things because I was run in a lot as substitute when some girl dropped
out. I wasn't proud and did not mind in the least being second or third
choice. People who never entertain need not expect to be on the original
list. I just took a sensible view of the matter. I tell you, if a girl
wants to have a good time she's got no business with a chip on her
shoulder. Society is a give-and-take game and if you are poorish and
want to get without giving, you've got to be willing to do a lot in the
way of swallowing your pride. At least, I had no slights offered me
where the dancing men were concerned. I made every german and that is
something many a rich debutante can't say for herself."

Tillie paused for breath and then Bill opened his mouth to speak, but
the loquacious Tillie got in before he could begin and he had to wait.

"Now I believe Douglas would have lots of attention even if her mother
did nothing to help on, but Mrs. Carter would enjoy having a daughter in
society more than a daughter would enjoy being there, I believe, and
she would be entertaining and spending money from morning until night.
Of course, Lewis Somerville would be lots of help as he would stand
ready to take Douglas anywhere that she did not get a bid from some
other man----"

"But Lewis'll be gone," broke in Bill.

"Gone! Nonsense! Now that he is out of West Point I'll be bound he will
just dance attendance on Douglas. He is dead gone on her. That helps a
lot in a girl's first year: to have a devoted--that is, if he is not
silly jealous."

"He'll be gone."

"Gone where?"

"Mexican border!"

"But he is out of soldiering."

"Both of us enlisting!" Tillie was absolutely silenced for a moment and
Bill went on: "See here, Miss Wingo, Tillie! I'd be glad if you
would--if--I'm stuck on you for sure."

"Oh, come off! You know you think I'm the silliest ever."

"I think you are about the prettiest, jolliest ever. I wish you would
let me go off to Mexico engaged to you. It would make it lots easier to
work and I mean to work like a whole regiment and make good. Won't you,
Tillie?"

"Well, I don't care if I do. You are a fine dancer and I think a heap of
you, Bill. I'd rather keep it dark, though, if you don't mind, as it
queers a girl's game sometimes if she gets engaged."

"Lord, no! I don't mind just so I know it myself," and the happy Bill
enfolded his enamorata in his arms, although she carefully admonished
him not to crush her new dress.

"I never dreamed you were thinking about me seriously," she confessed as
she emerged from his embrace.

"Honest? Been dotty about you ever since you took me for a jitney driver
and tipped me a quarter. Got it yet."

"Look how dark it is! I believe we are going to have a storm. What a
great black cloud! Let's hurry, as I have no idea of getting my frock
wet."

Hurry they did and reached the pavilion just as great drops began to
fall. Bill was in a state of happy excitement over his engagement,
although it was something he must keep to himself. He felt like shouting
it on the housetops, but instead he gave one of his great laughs that
startled Mrs. Carter so she stopped dancing and hunted up Bobby.

"It sounded like bears and lions," she declared, "and I felt uneasy
about my baby."

She found that youngster fast asleep cuddled up in his father's arms,
the father looking very happy and peaceful. Robert Carter felt quite
like a little child himself with his great girls taking care of him.




CHAPTER VII

THE STORM


That storm was always known as "The Storm" by everyone who was at the
Week-End Camp on that night in August. Greendale had been singularly
free from severe storms that season and the Carters had had no
difficulty up to that time in keeping dry. They had had rain in plenty
but never great downpours and their mountain had escaped the lightning
that on several occasions had played havoc not many miles from them.

The day had been exceptionally warm but very clear. The full moon had
taken the place of the sun when night came on and so brilliant was the
glow from that heavenly orb, one could almost fancy heat was reflected
as well as light. The great black cloud that came rolling over the
mountain was as much an astonishment to the dancers in the pavilion as
it was to the moon herself. They refused to recognize the fact that a
storm was coming up and the moon also held her own for some time after
the downpour was upon them. She kept peeping out through rifts in the
clouds and once when the storm was at its fiercest she sailed clear of
all clouds for a few moments, and then it was that the rarest of all
beauties in Nature was beheld by the damp and huddled-up crowd of
week-enders: a lunar rainbow.

It stretched across the valley, a perfect arc with the colors as clearly
defined as a solar bow but infinitely more delicate than any rainbow
ever beheld before.

There was no such thing as keeping dry. When Lewis Somerville and Bill
Tinsley built the pavilion, they had kept exactly to the architect's
plans, drawn so carefully by Robert Carter's assistant, Mr. Lane. The
roof projected so far on every side that they had remarked at the time
that nothing short of horizontal rain could find its way under that
roof. Well, this rain was horizontal and it came in first one direction
and then another until every bit of floor space was flooded. The thunder
sounded like stage thunder made by rolling barrels of bricks down
inclined planes and helped out with the bass drum. Great clouds rested
on the mountain tops and a wind, that seemed demoniacal in the tricks it
played, bent over great forest trees as though they were saplings and
then let them snap back into place with a deafening crack.

"Save the Victrola," whispered Tillie to Bill. "I want to dance with you
once before you go off, and water will ruin it."

That was enough for the devoted Bill. He took off his coat and wrapped
it tenderly over the top of the Victrola, which was still playing a gay
dance tune as no one had had the presence of mind to stop it. Then he
made a dash for the kitchen just as a river of water was descending and
in a twinkling was back bearing in his arms a great tin tub. This he
placed over the top of the precious music-maker. He felt very tender
toward Tillie just then for although her new dress was being ruined,
still her first thought had been for the Victrola so she could dance
with him.

The storm having come up so suddenly found the crowd totally unprepared.
Tent flys had been left up and the windows and door of the cabin, where
Mrs. Carter was installed, were wide open for the four winds of heaven
to blow through. Sad havoc they played with the dainty finery that Mrs.
Carter and Susan had left spread out on the bed. The wonderful hat,
brought as a present for Douglas, was picked up the next morning half
way down the mountain; at least the ruin was supposed to be that hat but
it was never quite identified as it had lost all semblance to a hat.

Lewis, after hearing the ultimatum from Douglas, as I have said, made
his solitary way to his tent where he threw himself on his cot to fight
it out with his disappointed self. A dash of rain on his tent aroused
him and then a mighty gust of wind simply picked up the tent and wafted
it away like thistledown.

"Well, of all----" but Lewis never finished of all the what, but in a
twinkling he had rolled up the bed clothes belonging to himself and his
tent mates, and then rushing to the neighboring tents that were still
withstanding the raging hurricane he rolled up blankets found there and
piled cots on top of the bundles.

It was a real fight, strong man that he was, to make his way to the
pavilion. Trees were bending before the wind and he found the only way
to locomote was to crawl.

"Just suppose the pavilion doesn't hold!" was ringing in his mind; but
the young men "had builded better than they knew." It did hold although
the roof was straining at the rafters and Lewis and Bill feared every
moment it might rise up and float off as their tent had done.

Lewis came under cover wetter than he would have been had he been in
swimming, he declared. Swimming just soaks the water in but the rain
had beat it in and hammered it down. The wind was still driving the rain
in horizontal sheets and the pavilion was getting damper and damper. The
week-enders were a very forlorn looking crowd and no doubt the majority
of them were far from blessing the day that had brought them to the camp
in Albemarle. They ran from corner to corner trying to get out of the
searching flood.

"I know they are blaming it on us!" cried Nan to Mr. Tucker.

"Who is blaming it on you?" laughed Page Allison. "Why, honey, it may be
doing worse things in other places. We should be thankful we are on a
mountain top instead of in a valley." Then she drew Mr. Tucker aside and
whispered to him: "See here, Zebedee, don't you think it is up to us
somehow to relieve this situation? If we get giddy and act as though it
were a privilege to be wet to the skin, don't you think we might stir up
these people and make a lark of this storm instead of a calamity? You
remember you told me once that you and Miss Jinny Cox saved the day for
a picnic at Monticello when a deluge hit you there?"

Zebedee was the Tucker Twins' pet name for their father, and Page
Allison, their best friend, was also privileged to use the name for that
eternally youthful gentleman.

"I've been thinking we must do something, but the lightning is so severe
that somehow I think I must wait."

"You are like Mammy Susan who says: 'Whin the Almighty is a-doing his
wuck ain't the time fur a po' ole nigger ter be a-doin' hern.'"

"Exactly! But it is letting up a bit now, that is, the lightning is, but
the rain is even more terrific."

A great crash of thunder, coming simultaneously with a flash of
lightning that cracked like a whip, put a stop to conversation, and
Page, in spite of her bravery, for she was not the least afraid of
storms as a rule--clung to Mr. Tucker. Everybody was clinging to
everybody else and in the stress of the moment no one was choosy about
the person to cling to. Bill cursed his stars that Tillie was hanging on
to Skeeter, as pale as a little ghost, when she might just as well be
hanging on to him, while he, in turn, was supporting a strange person he
had never even met.

"That hit close to us!" exclaimed someone.

"I believe it hit me!" screamed a girl.

"Where are Susan and Oscar?" cried Douglas. "They will be scared to
death."

"When I went down in the kitchen after the tub for the Victrola, Oscar
was under the table and Susan was trying to get in the fireless cooker,
head first," volunteered Bill. "The kitchen is really the dryest place
on the mountain, I fancy."

"You forget the shower bath," suggested Helen. "Turn it on full force
and it would still be a thousand times dryer than any place here."

"I tell you what let's do!" spoke Dum Tucker with an inspiration that
all regretted had not come sooner. "Let's climb up and sit on the
rafters!"

Suiting the action to the word, she lightly ascended the trunk of the
huge tulip poplar tree that had been left in the center of the pavilion
as a support to the roof. The branches had been sawed off, leaving
enough projecting to serve as hat racks for the camp. These made an
admirable winding stair which an athletic girl like Dum Tucker made
nothing of climbing.

"Splendid!" and Dee Tucker followed her twin. In short order many of the
more venturesome members of the party were perched on the rafters where
they defied the rain to reach them. Even poor Mrs. Carter, her pretty
lace dress, if not absolutely ruined, at least with all of its first
freshness gone, was persuaded to come up, too, and there she sat
trembling and miserable.

"Come on up, Page!" shouted Dee to her chum.

"I'll be there soon," but Page had an idea that she meant first to
propose to Douglas.

Poor Douglas, this was a fitting ending to a day of worry and concern.
She felt like one

      "Whom unmerciful disaster
      Followed fast and followed faster."

Of course country folk are always made to feel in some intangible way
that they are responsible for the weather when the weather happens to be
bad and city folk are visiting them. Douglas thought she had enough not
to bear the weight of the storm, but somehow she felt that that, too,
was added to her burden.

"I know exactly what you are thinking," said Page, coming up and putting
her wet arm around Douglas' wet waist. "I have lived in the country all
my life and whenever we have a big storm at Bracken or unseasonable
weather of any sort, we are always held personally responsible for it by
a certain type of visitors. You think this is going to harm your camp
and keep people from coming, don't you?"

"Why, how did you know?"

"A little bird told me--a stormy petrel. Now I tell you what we must do:
we must whoop things up until all of these week-enders will think that
the storm was about the most interesting thing that ever happened at
Camp Carter and they will come again hoping for a repetition of the
experience."

"Oh, Page! How can we?" and Douglas smiled in spite of herself.

"Well, let's call a council and appoint a committee on ways and means."

Mr. Tucker was first on the list, then Helen and Dr. Wright, Bill
Tinsley and Lewis Somerville. Nan was so busy looking at the beauties of
Nature that she had to be called three times before she answered.

"Come on, Miss Nan!" begged Mr. Tucker. "Your wise little head is wanted
on this committee."

"Only look at that bank of clouds as the lightning strikes on the edge
of it! It looks like the portals of heaven."

"Yes, and it came mighty near being that same thing," muttered Mr.
Tucker.

The storm was really passing. Flashes of lightning and peals of thunder
grew farther and farther apart. The rain gave one big last dash and
stopped as suddenly as it had begun and then the moon asserted herself
once more.

Every member of the hastily called council had some suggestion to make
and every suggestion was eagerly taken by the committee on ways and
means, that committee being composed of the entire council.

Page said hot coffee for the entire camp must be made immediately and
she would do the making. Dr. Wright said a fire would be a pretty good
thing if it could be managed, and Bill Tinsley remembered some charcoal
braziers that Susan used for ironing and a box of charcoal in the corner
of the kitchen. Lewis went to gather up all the blankets in the camp and
those that were damp were draped along the rafters by the climbers. Soon
the brazier had a glow of coals that sent up heat to the rafters, and
Bill also put into use the great iron pot that had hung over the camp
fire just for picturesqueness. It had never had anything in it but
water, all the cooking being done on kerosene stoves and in a fireless
cooker. This made an excellent brazier and the coals were kept red hot
with the help of the automobile tire pump in lieu of bellows. Helen had
ambition for a welsh rarebit and started in with chafing dishes. This
called into requisition more workers and all of the camp was soon busy
cutting up cheese and toasting bread and crackers.

The Victrola was relieved of its tub and a ragtime record put on that
made all of the workers step lively, which did much toward starting
their circulation and warming them up generally. The Victrola ever after
that was called Diogenes, after a certain wise man who lived in a tub.

Everybody danced at his work and everybody was laughing and happy. The
moonlight was so dazzling in its brilliancy that it was difficult to
realize that not ten minutes before the biggest storm Greendale had ever
known had been making even the strong men tremble. Nan seemed to be the
only person who had not been afraid. Even those who had never before
minded a storm had been cowed by this one.

Page declared she had always liked storms before; even when a big gum
tree on the lawn at Bracken had been struck before her very eyes she had
not been afraid, but this time she was scared to death.

Dum said it seemed to be such a personal storm somehow and each flash
seemed to mean her. "I felt my naked soul was exposed to my Maker," she
said, as she gave her beloved father a hug. "I have got all kinds of
things to 'fess to you, Zebedee, things that I never thought made any
difference before," she whispered.

"Why, Dumdeedledums! What on earth?"

"Only this evening I smoked a cigarette, although I know you hate it--I
owe a little bill for soda water at Miller's, although I know you don't
want me to charge things--there are other things but I can't think of
them just now. Suppose--only suppose that I had winked out without
telling you or worse than that, suppose you had----" but Dum couldn't
finish for the big tears that rolled out of her eyes and which
Tucker-like she made no attempt to conceal. Zebedee lent her his
handkerchief and then had to wipe his own eyes, too.

"That is all right, honey, but don't do it any more. And now you turn in
and help these Carter girls and Page jolly up this crowd. Page is making
coffee and I am going with Somerville to right the tents and take stock
of the damage done by the storm."

When Page had first entered the kitchen she found the two negroes bent
over in abject woe. Oscar was praying while Susan moaned and groaned
with occasional ejaculations like a Greek chorus in a tragedy of
Euripides.

"Oh my Gawd, let the deep waters pass over me and let me come out whiter
than the snow and sweeter than the honey in the honey comb--let me be
putrified by fire and let the rollin' thunder's shock pass me by,
leavin' me stand steadfast, a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of
fire by night like unto a lily of the valley, a bright an' mawnin' star
that casts its beams on the jest an' the onjest----"

"Yes, my Gawd!" wailed the chorus. "An' the jest an' the onjest shall
lie down together like the lion an' the lamb in that great an' mighty
day an' who Gawd has united let no man pull acinder."

"Yes! Yes! In that day when the Rock of Ages shall smite the Shibboleth
and the Urum an' Thurum may be delivered not--remember thou thy servant
Oscar----"

"Yes! Yes, Lord! an' thy handy maiden Susan!"

Page entered and put a stop to the impassioned appeal by asking for the
coffee pot, while Bill Tinsley bore off the big brazier full of
charcoal.

"The storm is over, I think," said Page, with difficulty restraining her
smiles. "It was very terrible indeed."

"Turrible ain't no word for it; an' now you say the white folks wants to
eat agin? Lord love us if ev'thing don't make these here week-enders
emptier an' emptier. Feedin' of them is like pourin' water down a rat
hole."

"Well, you see, uncle, they all of them got so wet that it is wise to
give them something hot to drink, and then, too, we want them to forget
the terrible storm and think of the camp only with pleasure. You see
they might not come back again."

"Forget it! forget it! You can't lose these here folks. They'd ride all
the way from Richmond jes' to fill theyselves up, if for no other
reason. They is the empties' lot I ever come acrost."

Dee Tucker followed Page to the kitchen to see if she could be of any
assistance in making the coffee. She felt keenly sorry for the Carters
on account of this storm. Not being connected with them in any way,
the grumblers had not hesitated to criticize the whole thing in Dee's
presence when they got wet and scared. Dee had done all in her power to
soften their judgment, but there were several who did not hesitate to
blame the Carter girls because of their wetting. Nothing is so catching
as criticism and it spreads like wildfire with the genus boarder. She
told Page of her fears.

"We'll have to put a stop to it. You get Tillie Wingo and you and she
soft soap the men who are grouching, and then get Zebedee to go after
the females. He can make them believe they only dreamed it stormed."




CHAPTER VIII

THE DAMAGE DONE


Jeffry Tucker and his daughter Caroline, otherwise known as Dee, were
surely the most tactful human beings in the world. They could almost
always gain any goal by tact. They set out now to make the grouchy
week-enders dry up and cheer up, and in half an hour after the storm was
over they had attained their object. Page overheard Mr. Tucker pacifying
a very disconsolate maiden lady whose hair had come out of curl and
whose rosy cheeks had run off--not far, however--only to her jaws.

"This is a most outrageous way to treat boarders!" she exclaimed. "The
idea of having no proper shelter for them--charging an enormous price,
too! I certainly intend to leave tomorrow and I will stop some friends
of mine who were planning to come up next week. Isn't it strange how
these places are overrated? Anyhow, I'll not give it a good name but
will get out the first thing in the morning."

"Oh, don't do that," begged the wily Zebedee. "I had planned to get you
to take a walk with me tomorrow evening. The moon will be gorgeous and
there are some wonderful spots around here--romantic spots."

"Well, of course I wouldn't think of going if it clears up."

"It has already cleared up! Just look at the moon! I almost think we
might take a walk now, but it might be very muddy. Let's fox trot
instead."

"'Done, for a ducat!'" laughed Page to herself, as Mr. Tucker and the
much mollified week-ender danced off together. "I am afraid poor Zebedee
will have his whole holiday taken up showing the moon to wet hens."

What Mr. Tucker accomplished with the females, Tillie and Dee did
likewise to the males. Tillie exercised all her fascinations on some
hallroom boys, while Dee went in for some old bachelors who loved their
ease and comfort and did not at all relish the idea of wet sheets on
soggy cots.

"Here is some hot coffee!" she said, with a very winning smile. "Two
lumps, or one?"

"None for me, miss," from a terrible old grouch who had been
particularly loud in his praise of Nature before Nature had shown what
she really could do. "I don't expect to sleep a wink as it is. I am
perfectly sure the beds will be damp."

"But I am sure they will not be. Douglas is seeing about it now and she
says they have plenty of dry bed linen. You had better have some coffee
and I will dance with you until you get sleepy."

"Egad, that would be very pleasant! I am going back to the city tomorrow
and I could sleep on the train, perhaps."

"Oh, please don't go tomorrow. I thought you would be here over Sunday
and we might get up a little crowd and go sit on the rocks and read
aloud or something."

"Well, if it clears I may change my mind."

"It has already cleared! Goody! Goody! Now you will have to stay.
Wouldn't the old-fashioned waltz go well with that record Helen has just
put on? Do you know I adore the old-fashioned waltz?"

As the old-fashioned waltz was the only thing that staid bachelor could
dance, never having been able to master the new dances, this put him in
rare good humor. He swallowed his coffee hastily, pronouncing it
excellent, and in a twinkling he and Dee were dancing the dances of the
early eighties and one more week-ender was saved to the Carters to give
the camp a good name.

After a severe storm sometimes it is more of a wonder what the damage
isn't than what it is. It seems at the time that nothing will ever be
dry and straight again, and then in a very short while the world looks
normal once more.

Camp Carter recuperated in a miraculous manner. Only one tent had been
blown away and those that stood the test of wind had also stood the test
of rain. Some of the blankets were damp but most of them, thanks to
Lewis' foresight, had been protected. The drainage on the side of a
mountain is naturally perfect so there were no disconcerting puddles,
and the rocky paths were hardly muddy, so hard and driving had been the
downpour.

Lewis and Bill Tinsley went with Douglas and Nan to take stock of the
damage and to repair what they could. Their relief was great at the
state of affairs until they entered the cabin. The wind and rain had
gone straight through it. The pretty rag rugs were sopping wet and, as I
have said before, all the dainty finery spread out on the bed, was blown
hither and yon. Douglas looked at the havoc in dismay. Would her mother
want to buy more things to replace these that were ruined? She missed
the pretty hat intended for her own fair head and was in a measure
relieved that she would not have to wear it.

"Let's build a fire immediately," and Nan began to pile up paper and
chips in the open fireplace, the cabin boasting the one chimney in camp
where a fire was possible. "Now this will dry out the room before mother
comes in to go to bed."

"Yes, and we had better put a cot in here for Bobby, now that our tent
is blown off," suggested Lewis.

"But where will you and Bill sleep?" asked Douglas.

"Oh, we can curl up on the floor of the pavilion. Our cots are soaking.
I kept the blankets dry, though."

"But I am so afraid you won't be comfortable."

"Oh, that's all right! Get us in training for the border! Bill and I
have been living so soft I fancy a little roughing it will be good for
us."

Lewis sounded rather bitter and Douglas felt that she would give worlds
if she could tell him that she had decided she did care for him as he
wanted her to. Other girls pretended, why not she? But there was an
uprightness about Douglas Carter that would not let her be a party to
any form of deceit. She was sorry, very sorry, but she could not be
like Tillie Wingo and engage herself to anyone on a moment's notice.

"We are going to miss both of you ever and ever so much. Think what it
would be in a time like this without you to help! I can hardly
contemplate running the camp without you."

"Oh, that will be easy enough! Skeeter and Frank can do what we have
done. You won't miss us at all."

"I didn't mean just the work you do," faltered poor Douglas.

"Oh, well, the rest won't amount to much," declared Lewis, determined to
be difficult.

Bill listened to his chum in amazement. He was in such a seventh heaven
of bliss himself that he could not understand anyone's being anything
but happy. For his part he could not see why Lewis didn't settle matters
with his cousin before going to the border. It never entered his head
that anyone could refuse a Greek god of a fellow like Lewis Somerville.
If a belle like Tillie Wingo could put up with him, why, there was not
a girl living who would not jump at his friend.

Nan sniffed a romance in the air where she had not expected to find it.
She, like all her family, was so accustomed to the friendship between
her elder sister and Lewis that she had not thought of a more serious
relationship being the outcome. Lewis was certainly sounding cold and
formal and Douglas was looking distressed.

"I see how it is," she said to herself; "Lewis has proposed to Douglas
and Douglas has turned him down. He told her he was going to enlist and
proposed all in one breath and poor old Doug couldn't adjust herself
fast enough. She no doubt does love him but doesn't know it. Just wait
until he gets out of sight!"

The week-enders were finally all put to bed in dry sheets and warmed
blankets, after having drunk hot coffee and eaten a rarebit that was so
tender even the grouchiest of the grouchy could not get up indigestion
over it. The leaven of good-humor spread by the Tuckers and Page Allison
had begun to work and all were rising to the occasion and quite proud
of themselves over taking everything so philosophically.

The maiden lady who had threatened to leave on the morning train but had
been persuaded by Zebedee to stay over to take a moonlight walk with him
was now loud in her praise of camp life.

"I say the only way to get along is to take things as they come. I was
just telling Mr. Tucker that one can't expect the comforts of the
Jefferson Hotel up in camp, but then if one wants the comforts of the
Jefferson one had better go there and not come to the country. Now I
would give up any comforts for the beauties of nature!" and so on, and
so on!

Dee danced the old-fashioned waltz until she almost forgot how to do a
single modern step. The grouchy bachelor forgot to worry about the
possibility of damp sheets and babbled along about the dances of the
eighties, and promised to teach his young partner the racket and the
heel and toe polka if any of the records would fit those defunct
dances.

The sprightliness of that particular bachelor was catching, and the two
others, who had begun to inquire about time tables with a view to
beating a hasty retreat to the safety-firstness of the city, found
themselves cheering up, too; and warmed by the good hot coffee, they
began to dance with youthful ardor and actually grumbled when the crowd
broke up for needed repose.

"Aren't the Tuckers splendid?" said Douglas, when she and her sisters
were undressing.

"Indeed they are," agreed Helen, "and I like that little Allison girl a
lot, too. She waltzed in and helped with the eats as though she were one
of us."

"I think Mr. Tucker is kind of gone on her," drawled Nan.

"Nonsense! You are always thinking somebody is gone on somebody,"
laughed Helen.

"Well, somebody always is. He treats her just like he does the twins,
only different."

"How's that, like triplets?"

But Nan had gone to sleep before she could formulate her ideas about how
Mr. Tucker treated Page. She only devoutly hoped he would devise some
method by which he could persuade her mother to give up the idea of
going to White Sulphur and let Douglas alone about making her debut the
following winter.




CHAPTER IX

MR. MACHIAVELLI TUCKER


Nan wondered what Mr. Tucker had in mind to relieve the situation which
she had so ingenuously disclosed to him on that little walk in the
moonlight. The next morning she watched him closely and there was
something about the businesslike way in which he sought out Mrs. Carter,
when that lady appeared long after breakfast, that made her divine he
had something up his sleeve.

The charming lady was looking especially lovely in a white linen morning
dress. She said she had slept splendidly in spite of the fact that she
rather missed the rolling of the ship. Again she had kept Susan so busy
waiting on her that the labor of serving breakfast properly had fallen
on Helen. A tray of breakfast had to be arranged exactly as though they
were still in the city, and Susan made many trips from the cabin to the
kitchen.

Mrs. Carter was one of those persons who was always treated as more or
less of an invalid because of a certain delicate look she had, but her
girls could not remember her having had a real illness. She must not be
awakened in the morning and she must never be asked to go out in bad
weather. She must have the daintiest food; the warmest corner in winter
and the coolest in summer. She had never demanded these things, but they
had always been given her as though she had a kind of divine right to
them. Her husband had, from the moment he saw her, the belle of belles
at White Sulphur, felt that she was to be served as a little queen and
the children had slipped into their father's way.

No one would have been more astonished than Annette Carter had anyone
accused her of selfishness. Selfishness was something ugly and greedy
and no one could say that she was that. She never made demands on
anyone. In fact, she quite prided herself on not making demands.
Everyone was kind and thoughtful of her, but then was she not kind and
thoughtful of everyone? Had she not brought a present to every one of
her girls and a great box of expensive toys for Bobby? It was not her
fault that Bobby preferred currying that disgraceful-looking old mule
to playing with the fine things she had purchased for him at the most
exclusive toy shop in New York. Had she not even remembered every one
of the servants, not only Susan and Oscar but the ones who had been in
her service when she had left Richmond? The fact that she had charged
all of these gifts and that the money to pay for them was to be worked
for by her daughters had not for a moment entered her mind.

"And how is camp life treating you this morning?" asked Jeffry Tucker,
as he led the little lady to a particularly pleasant corner of the
pavilion that commanded a view of the beautiful apple orchards of that
county of Virginia famous for the Albemarle pippins. "Did you ever see
such a morning? I can hardly believe that only last night we were in the
throes of the fiercest storm I have ever seen."

"Oh, I am quite in love with camp life. It is not so rough as I expected
it to be when I arrived yesterday. I have a very comfortable bed and a
nice bright fire cheered me up wonderfully after I left the pavilion
last night. I must confess I was scared to death during the storm,
although I held on to myself wonderfully."

"Yes, wonderfully!" but Jeffry Tucker crossed his fingers and reached
out for a bit of green from the pine tree growing close to the post. He
could not but picture the little woman of the evening before hanging on
to her husband, intent on protecting her dress and shrieking at every
close flash of lightning or loud clap of thunder.

"I am so glad you are here because I am thinking of leaving my girls at
the camp for a while, and of course I could not think of doing it unless
you were here to chaperone them."

"Oh, I never thought of my presence being necessary as a chaperone! You
know I am thinking of taking Douglas to the White for a fortnight."

"Oh, I am sorry. Of course I could not leave my girls unless they are to
be chaperoned."

"But Robert will be here; he is enough chaperone surely."

"Yes, enough in our eyes but not the eyes of the world. You see, I think
one cannot be too careful about what Mrs. Grundy will say," and Jeffry
Tucker crossed his fingers again and reached for more green, "especially
when girls are about the age of mine and yours, too, about to be
launched in the world, as it were."

He was devoutly thankful that his girls could not hear him indulging in
this homily. If there ever lived a person who scorned Mrs. Grundy that
was this same Jeffry Tucker. He devoutly hoped that Mrs. Carter would
not hear that Page Allison was in the habit of being chaperoned by him,
if one could call it being chaperoned. He well knew that as a chaperone
Robert Carter had him beat a mile but he felt that a little subterfuge
was permissable in as strenuous a case as this.

"Why, Mr. Tucker, I did not dream you were such a stickler for the
proprieties!"

"Ahem--I am more so than I used to be. Having these girls almost grown
makes me feel I must be more careful than--my nature--er--er--dictates."

"Exactly! I respect you for it. I, too, think it very important,
especially if a girl is to make a debut as I mean that Douglas shall. I
am very sorry, though, that you could not leave Virginia and Caroline up
here in Robert's care. I am sure it will be all right for once. I have
quite set my heart on White Sulphur for a few weeks. I think it gives a
girl a certain poise to be introduced to society in an informal way
before she makes her debut."

"Well, I am sorry, too, sorrier than I can say. You see, I had planned
to come up again myself next Saturday and I thought I would bring with
me Hiram G. Parker. He would like this sort of thing and fit in nicely
with these young girls. You know how much he takes to the girls before
they are quite grown."

"Ye--es!" and Mrs. Carter was lost in a revery.

She well knew that the name of Hiram G. Parker was one that controlled
society. He was the Beau Brummel of Richmond and in some unaccountable
way had become the dictator of society, that is of the debutante
society. He passed the word about whether or not a girl was to be a
belle and his judgment was seldom gainsaid. Mrs. Carter was thinking
that no doubt the presence of Hiram G. Parker in their camp would be of
more benefit than a trip to White Sulphur. Her position in society was
of course assured beyond a doubt but that did not mean a successful
debut for one of her daughters, certainly not for one who was to be
persuaded if not forced to be a debutante. The business of coming out
must be taken quite seriously and the importance of it not belittled.
Poor Douglas was taking it seriously enough, but not in a way her
mother thought desirable for success.

"Do you know, Mr. Tucker, I have half a mind to give up the trip to
White Sulphur.--It is so pleasant here and so delightful to be with my
children again; and if your daughters and that sweet little friend of
theirs care to remain with us, I shall be more than pleased to chaperone
them."

"Oh, you are kind!" exclaimed the wily Zebedee. "I cannot thank you
enough. If you choose to make it so, Camp Carter will vie with White
Sulphur as a resort. I shall certainly bring Parker up next week."

Mr. Tucker grasped the first opportunity to inform the anxious Nan of
his successfully performed mission.

"Oh, how did you do it?"

"By just a little twist of the wrist. You shall have to put up with my
girls though for another week or so. Your mother has promised to
chaperone them until I fetch them away."

"Splendid! Do they want to stay?"

"They are dying to. I only hope they won't tear things wide open at
camp. They are terribly hoydenish at times."

"Mr. Tucker, tell me: did you really get mother to give up White Sulphur
just to chaperone the twins and Page?"

"You ask her! I think she thinks she did."

"I believe I'll call you Mr. Machiavelli Tucker."

"Don't flatter me so yet. Wait until I accomplish the seemingly
impossible of making your mother decide of her own accord that your
sister had better not come out yet."

"Can you do that, too?"

"I don't want to sound conceited but I believe I can. This is our
secret, so don't tell a soul that we have any hand in this matter. Just
let Douglas think it is fortune smiling on her."

"All right, but nothing can ever make me forget your kindness!" and Nan
held his hand with both of hers with no more trace of shyness than Hiram
G. Parker might have shown in dancing a german.

"What on earth have you done to make Nan so eternally grateful?"
demanded Dum Tucker, coming suddenly around a spur of rock on the
mountain path where her father had accosted Nan.

"I am going to leave you girls up here for some days longer. Isn't that
enough for her to be grateful over?"

"We--ll, I don't know--that sounds rather fishy."

"And besides, I am going to send her up a ouija board to pass the hours
away until I return. How about that?"

"Oh, now you are talking! That is something to be grateful about. We are
all of us dying to try it," but Dum could not see why Nan was blushing
so furiously and evidently trying to hold in the giggles, and she
plainly caught a wink passing between her dignified parent and the
demure Nan.

"He's up to something, but it wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to try
to find out if he doesn't want me to know," she said to herself.

The Tucker Twins had been motherless since they were tiny babies and
their ridiculously young father had had the rearing of them alone and
unaided. Many stepmothers had been picked out for these irrepressible
girls by well meaning friends and relatives, but Jeffry Tucker had
remained unmarried, much to the satisfaction of the said twins.

"He is much too young and inexperienced to marry," they would say when
the matter was broached by wily mammas who hoped to settle their
daughters. And so he did seem to be. Time had no power to age Jeffry
Tucker. He was in reality very young to be the father of these great
girls, as the romance of his life had occurred when he was only twenty,
still in college, and the little wife had died after only a year of
happiness.

In rearing his girls he had had only one rule to go by: they must
conduct themselves like gentlemen on all occasions. "I don't know what
ladylike rules are but I do know what is expected of a gentleman, and if
my girls come up to that standard I am sure they will pass muster," he
had declared. As a rule the twins did pass muster. They were perfectly
honorable and upright and the mischief they got into was never anything
to be ashamed of--only something to be gotten out of, never too serious
to tell their father all about.

The fact that they were to stay longer than the week-end was greeted
with joy by the Carters. Page had already made herself popular, too.
Douglas was soon informed by her mother that she had given up the trip
to the White, so some of the load was lifted from the poor girl's heart.
There was much more talk, however, of the proposed debut and Helen
upheld her mother in thinking that since Douglas was not going to
college she must come out.

"But, Helen, the money for a debut! And if we go into our house and turn
out the desirable tenants, where are we to get an income to exist on?"

"Oh, always money, money! It can be gotten, and mother says our credit
is as good as the U. S. mint. She has often heard father say so."

"Of course it was as good, but now that father is no longer able to earn
money it would not be quite square to presume on that credit when we
have no way of paying the bills." Douglas would go over and over the
same argument and Helen would still not be convinced.

"Are we to spend the rest of our lives digging and delving for gold and
then not use the money? How does our bank account stand now?"

"I don't know, but it is not so large that we could make a debut on it,"
smiled Douglas.

"But we could make a start and then earn some more."

"But why spend it on me when I don't want to go into society?"

"Why, for mother's sake, goose. She has set her heart on it and you know
we have always let her do whatever she wanted to. It would make father
miserable to think mother wanted something and could not have it."

"Yes, I know! He mustn't know she wants it and can't have it."

"But she must have it. She is planning all the time for your being a
great belle."

"Dr. Wright said that father----" but Helen flounced off, refusing to
hear what Dr. Wright said. She had overcome all of her antipathy for
that young physician and in fact liked him rather more than anyone of
her acquaintance of the male persuasion, but she still resented any
tendency on his part to dictate to her.

Mrs. Carter, having given up her trip to White Sulphur, felt that virtue
must be rewarded and so actually persuaded Douglas to protect her
complexion. She was not allowed to go in the sun at all and in the shade
she must wear a great hat tied under her chin, with a curtain of blue
veiling draped over it. Every night she must be anointed with some kind
of cucumber cream and her hair must be brushed with one hundred licks
every night and morning.

Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley made their sorrowful adieux. Everyone
missed them. They seemed as important to the camp as the great poplar
tree in the center of the pavilion was to that edifice. There was a
feeling that everything might topple over now that those two young men
were gone. It didn't, however. Skeeter Halsey and Frank Maury did what
they could to fill their places, but as they expressed it, they "sho'
did rattle 'round in 'em."

Mr. Carter, too, delighted to be of use and to find something he could
do without using his poor fagged brain too much, was busy at something
from morning until night. First the reservoir must be repaired after the
heavy rain had caved in part of the dam; then the roof of the cabin
needed a shingle here and there. A rustic bench must be put by the
spring which formed the reservoir, and then a table was added so that
afternoon tea might be served there on occasions. He was so busy and so
happy in being busy that it was delightful to see him. Bobby was his
companion at all times, even deserting the beloved Josh and Josephus to
be with his father. This was a new father, one who had time to play and
talk. Together they made wonderful little water wheels and put them in a
tiny mountain stream where they turned continuously to the delight of
Bobby. The successful architect of other days drew plans for bird houses
and he and his little son whittled them out of stray bits of lumber and
cigar boxes and placed them in the trees, no doubt filling a long felt
want for suburban villas in bird society.

The miracle was happening! The cure that Dr. Wright had predicted was
taking place. Robert Carter was on the high road to recovery.




CHAPTER X

MR. HIRAM G. PARKER


Susan had been kept very busy all week doing lady's maid work for her
mistress. Susan's usefulness in the kitchen was about over, the Carter
girls feared. There never seemed to be a moment that she was not wanted
to wait on Mrs. Carter. When she took the daintily arranged breakfast
tray to the cabin she was kept to fetch and carry and do a million
foolish little nothings that an idle woman can always find to occupy
other persons. Then the many new dresses must be pressed and white
skirts must be laundered. Mrs. Carter always had worn white in the
summer, and although washing was something of a problem at the camp, she
still must wear white. Not a speck must be on those snowy garments even
if it did take all of Susan's time to keep them in condition.

"There is no excuse for letting oneself go even if it is necessary to
live in a camp," she would assert. "I think it is very important to look
nice wherever one happens to be."

"It sho' is, Mis' Carter, an' you jes' call on me to washanirn all
the things you need. That's what I'm here fur," and Susan, who much
preferred the job of lady's maid to that of assistant cook, gathered up
an armful of rumpled skirts and blouses and carried them off to launder.
She adored her mistress and saw no reason at all why the girls need mind
doing extra work so that she could give all of her attention to the
whims of the mother.

"What's all that?" grumbled Oscar, who saw many reasons why Miss Helen
should not be doing Susan's work. "You ain't a-goin' to do no
washinanirnin' in this hyar kitchen today. You know puffectly well that
them thar week-enders is a-comin' pilin' in hyar this ebenin', all of
'em as empty as gourds."

"Well, these here langery is got to be did up, an' I is got to do 'em
up, an' as fur as I know thain't no place to do 'em up but in the
kitchen. It's jes' because of some of these here week-enders that they
is got to be landered. You is so ign'rant that you don't know that one
of these here week-enders what is a-comin' is what Mis' Carter call a
arbitrator of sassiety."

"Well, I may be ign'rant but I knows one thing, that ifn a nice little
gal named Miss Page Allison hadn't a come in an' helped Miss Helen an'
I, we wouldn't a got breakfast on the table. Miss Gwen warn't here this
mornin' cause that ole po' white mounting ooman what she calls Aunt
Mandy done took with cramps in the night an' Miss Gwen couldn't leave
her. This is a been the busiest week of the camp an' you--you ain't been
wuth standin' room in de bad place all week. You an' yo' mistress with
yo' langery an' yo' arbors of sassiety. I don't know who he is a-comin'
but whoever he is, he ain't no better'n our folks."

"He's Mr. Hiram G. Parker hisself!"

"What, that little ole Hi Parker? He ain't nuthin'. If he's done riz to
the top er sassiety it's caze he's the scum an' the scum jes natch'ly
gits on top. Who was his folks? Tell me that, who was they? You don't
know an' neither do lots er folks but I knows an' he knows. That's the
reason he's so partic'lar 'bout who he consorts with. He has to be! Yi!
Yi! He has to be! Arbor er sassiety much! Back po'ch er sassiety, mo'
lak!" and Oscar chuckled with delight at his wit.

"I betcher Mis' Carter better not hear you a-talkin' thataway."

"Well, she ain't a-goin' ter hear me--'cause I ain't a-goin' ter talk
thataway befo' her, but that ain't a-keepin' me from knowin' all about
little Hi Parker's fo-bars. Thain't much ter know 'cause he warn't
troubled with many. His grandpap had a waggin with a bell on it an' went
aroun' hollerin: 'Ragsoleioncopperanbrass! Ragsoleioncopperanbrass!' I
'member it mighty well 'cause my mammy uster say she goin' ter thow me
in the waggin an' sell me ter ole Parker if I didn't 'have myself."

"Well, howsomever it might a-been, tain't thataway now! Mis' Carter is
'cited over his a-comin'. She done made po' Miss Douglas sleep with some
kinder wax on her competence las' night to peel off the remains of the
sunburn an' she done made her promus not to wear that there cowboy suit
for supper. Mis' Carter says she thinks Miss Douglas oughter be dressed
in diafricanus interial."

"Humph! The missus is all right, but she better let these here young
ladies run this here camp like they been doin'. If they take to dressin'
up it'll mean all yo' time'll be spent pressin' an' fixin' an' I want
ter know who'll be a-doin' yo' work. Not me! By the time I get through
butlerin' these here week-enders, I ain't got the back ter washanwipe
all the dishes."

Susan quietly started the charcoal brazier and put her irons to heat.
She knew that the mistress' word was law and that although Oscar might
grumble until he was even blacker in the face than nature had made him,
he would go on washing dishes until he dropped in his tracks rather than
make a real disturbance.

Nan and Dum Tucker came to the kitchen after breakfast and helped him
while Susan washed and ironed the many white things that Mrs. Carter had
discarded as too soiled to appear before Mr. Hiram G. Parker.

"I'll wash and you wipe," suggested Nan.

"No, please let me wash," begged Dum, "I adore sloshing in suds."

"Well, they's lots er suds here ter slosh in," grinned Oscar, bringing a
great steaming dish pan, "an' if you is so enjoyful of suds, mebbe you
young ladies could spare me altogether an' let me pick them there
chickens 'gainst it's time ter fry 'em for supper."

"Yes, indeed! Go!" from Dum. "We can do them in no time, can't we, Nan?"

"We can do them, but not in no time," drawled Nan. "I can't think it is
right for people to use so many dishes. Wouldn't it be grand to be like
Aeneas and put your food on a little cake and then eat the cake?"

"Yes, but if you can't do that, I think the feeders should at least have
the grace to lick their plates. What on earth do you do with all the
scraps?" asked Dum as she vigorously scraped plates, a part of the work
that everyone hates.

"Fatten chickens for killin'," answered Oscar, sharpening a great knife
fit for the deed he had to do. "For land's sake, Miss Dum, don't arsk
none of the week-enders ter lick they plates. They don't leave nothin'
now for my chickens. The gals even eat the tater peelin's. They say it
gwine make they har curl, but they eat so much they don't leave no room
for they har ter curl."

Dum and Nan had become fast friends during that week at camp. The
several years' difference in their ages was as nothing. The feeling
for beauty which both of them had to a great degree was what drew them
together. Nan was so quiet and unostentatious in her unselfishness,
few at the camp realized how much she did. For instance: the person
who cooks a meal is usually praised by the hungry ones, but the person
who patiently scrapes and washes dishes is hardly thought of at all
by the satiated. On that Friday morning, Helen had, with the help of
Page, produced a wonderful breakfast; and when these two girls came to
that meal flushed but triumphant in the knowledge that their popovers
popped over and that their omelettes had risen to the occasion, the
breakfasters had given them three rousing cheers. No one thought of
who was going to wash up.

While Dum was sloshing in the suds and Nan was busily drying the dishes
that piled up to such great heights they looked like ramparts, Page and
Helen came in to try their hands at pies for Saturday's picnic. Page had
on one of Helen's bungalow aprons and seemed as much at home as though
she had been born and bred in camp. Page always had that quality of
making herself at home wherever she happened to drop. Dee used to say
she was just like a kitten and wasn't particular where she was, just so
it was pleasant and people were kind.

"What kind of pies shall it be?" asked Helen.

"Something not too squashy!" pleaded Dum. "Nan and I have found the most
adorable spot for a picnic: a fallen tree about half a mile around the
mountain--not a freshly fallen one but one that must have fallen ages
and ages ago as it has decided just to grow horizontally. Any old person
could climb up it, just walk up it in fact--such seats were never
imagined--the limbs all twisted into armchairs."

"Of course if we are going to eat up a tree we had better have mighty
solid pies," laughed Page. "How about fried turnovers like Mammy Susan
makes?"

"Grand!" from Dum. "Apple?"

"Yes, apple," laughed Helen, amused at Dum's enthusiasm, "also some
lemon pies, don't you think? I mean cheese cakes."

"Splendid and more and more splendid!"

The girls went to work, Page on the fried turnovers and Helen on the
cheese cakes. Such a merry time they were having, all busy and all
talking! Oscar sat outside picking chickens and of necessity Susan was
driven to the extreme corner of the kitchen with her heap of washing
and ironing.

"I think you are awfully clever, Helen, to learn to make pastry so
quickly. How did you do it?" said Page, deftly forming a turnover.

"I don't know--I just did it. It seems to me as though anyone can cook
who will follow a recipe. I had a few lessons at the Y. W. C. A. in the
spring and I learned a lot there. How did you learn?"

"Well, when I was a kiddie I had no one to play with but Mammy Susan, so
I used to stay in the kitchen and play cooking. I've been making thimble
biscuit and eggshell cake ever since I could walk."

"How do you make eggshell cake?"

"Just put the left-over scrapings of batter in the eggshells and bake
it. It cooks in a minute and then you peel off the shell. Scrumptious!"

Dee came running in with the mail, having been to the post office at
Greendale with Josh and Bobby and the faithful Josephus.

"A letter from Zebedee and he will be up for sure this evening! Ain't
that grand? But guess who is coming with him--old Hiram G. Parker! I
believe Zebedee must have lost his mind. I am really uneasy about him."

"Why, what is the matter with Mr. Parker?" asked Helen, who had been
much interested in what she had heard of that gentleman's charms and
graces.

"'No matter, no matter, only ideas!' as the idealist said when the
materialist saw him falling down stairs, bumping his head at every step,
and asked him what was the matter," laughed Dee. "Didn't you ever meet
Mr. Parker?"

"No, but I have always understood he was all kinds of lovely things."

"Oh, he'll do," put in Dum, "if you like wax works. He wears the
prettiest pants in town and has more neckties and socks than an ordinary
man could buy if he went shopping every day. He knows all the latest
jokes and when they give out, he starts in on the others. He makes jokes
of his own, too--not like Zebedee's--Zebedee always bubbles out in a
joke but Hiram G. leads up to his. First he gets one, a joke I mean, and
then he gets a crowd of listeners. Then he directs the conversation into
the proper channel and dams it up and when it is just right he launches
his joke."

"You certainly do mix your metaphors," laughed Page, crimping her
turnovers with a fork. "You start out with bubbling brooks and end up
with the launching of ships.

      "'She starts! she moves! she seems to feel
      The thrill of life along her keel.'"

"Well, Zebedee does bubble and Hiram G. Parker doesn't; neither does a
boat, so there. Oh, oh! Look at the goodies. How on earth do you make
such cute edges to your tarts? Just see them, girls!"

"I did mine with a broken fork but Mammy Susan says she knows an old
woman who always did hers with her false teeth." After the shout that
went up from this had subsided, Helen begged to know more of Mr.
Parker.

"Is he a great friend of your father?"

"Why no, that is the reason I can't divine why he is bringing him up
here. I believe Zebedee likes him well enough--at least I never heard
him say anything to the contrary. There is no harm in the dude that I
ever heard of. Of course he is the Lord High Muck-a-Muck with the buds.
He decides which ones are to ornament society and which ones to be
picked for funerals. He has already looked over Dum and me at a hop last
Thanksgiving at the Jefferson; Page, too. I believe he thinks we'll do,
at least he danced us around and wrote on our back with invisible chalk:
'Passed by the Censor of Society.' I believe he thinks a lot of Zebedee,
but then everyone does who has even a glimmering of sense," and Dee
reread her father's letter, a joint one for her and her sister, with a
postscript for Page.

"Well, all he says is that he is coming and going to bring the
immaculate Hi and we must behave," declared Dum, reading over Dee's
shoulder. "I don't know whether I am going to behave or not. That Mr.
Parker gets on my nerves. He's too clean, somehow. I'm mighty afraid I'm
going to roll him down the mountain."

"Mis' Carter is fixin' up a lot for the gent," said Susan, who had been
busily engaged with her wash tub while the girls were talking, "if it's
Mr. Hiram G. Parker you is a-speakin' of. She done say he is a very
high-up pusson. I do believe it was all on account of him that she done
made Miss Douglas look after her hide so keerful this week."

"Why, does mother know he is coming up?" asked Helen. "She never told
me. Nan, did you know he was coming?"

Nan hadn't known, but she had a great light break on her mind when she
heard that her mother knew he was to come: Mr. Tucker had certainly used
this visit of Mr. Parker's to persuade her mother to give up the trip to
White Sulphur.

"No! I never heard a word of it," Nan answered sedately but her eyes
were dancing and it was with difficulty that she restrained a giggle.

How could her mother be so easily influenced? She must consider Mr.
Parker very well worth while to stay at camp just to see him. That was
the reason for all of this extra washing and ironing Susan had on hand.
Nan loved her mother devotedly but she had begun to feel that perhaps
she was a very--well, to say the least--a very frivolous lady. Nan's
judgment was in a measure more mature than Helen's although Helen was
almost two years her senior. Where Helen loved, she loved without any
thought of the loved one's having any fault. She wondered now that her
mother should have known of Mr. Parker's coming without mentioning it,
but as for that little lady's dressing up to see this society man, why,
that was just as it should be. She had absolutely no inkling of her
mother's maneuvering to push Douglas toward a successful debut. Susan's
intimation that Douglas was to preserve her complexion for Mr. Parker's
benefit was simply nonsense. Susan was after all a very foolish colored
girl who had gotten things mixed. Douglas was to protect her delicate
blond skin for all society, not for any particular member of it.

The train arrived bearing many week-enders and among them Zebedee and
the precious Mr. Hiram G. Parker, looking his very fittest in a pearl
gray suit with mauve tie and socks and a Panama hat that had but
recently left the block. Zebedee could not help smiling at the fine
wardrobe trunk that his companion had brought and comparing it with his
own small grip with its changes of linen packed in the bottom and the
boxes of candy for Tweedles and Page squeezed on top.

"Thank Heaven, I don't have a reputation to keep up!" he said to
himself.

The wardrobe trunk was not very large, not much more bulky than a
suitcase but it had to be carried up the mountain by Josephus and its
owner seemed to be very solicitous that it should be stood on the proper
end.

"One's things get in an awful mess from these mountain roads. A
wardrobe trunk should be kept upright, otherwise even the most skillful
packing cannot insure one that trousers will not be mussed and coats
literally ruined."

Mr. Tucker felt like laughing outright but he had an ax to grind and
Hiram G. Parker was to turn the wheel, so he bridled his inclination. He
had asked the society man to be his guest for the week-end, intimating
that he had a favor to ask of him. Parker accepted, as he had an idea he
would, since the summer was none too full of invitations with almost no
one in town. His position in the bank held him in town and he must also
hold the position, since it was through it he was enabled to belong to
all the clubs and to have pressed suits for all occasions. He had no
idea what the favor was but he liked to keep in with these newspaper
chaps since it was through the newspapers, when all was told, that he
had attained his success, and through the society columns of those
dailies that he kept in the public eye. He liked Jeffry Tucker, too,
for himself. There was something so spontaneous about him. With all of
Hiram Parker's society veneer there was a human being somewhere down
under the varnish and a heart, not very big, but good of its kind.

On the train en route to Greendale Mr. Tucker had divulged what that
favor was. He led up to it adroitly so that when he finally reached it
Mr. Parker was hardly aware of the fact that he had arrived.

"Long list of debutantes this season, I hear," he started out with,
handing an excellent cigar to his guest.

"Yes, something appalling!" answered Mr. Parker, settling himself
comfortably in the smoker after having taken off his coat and produced
a pocket hanger to keep that garment in all the glory of a recent
pressing. "I see many hen parties in prospect. There won't be near
enough beaux to go round."

"So I hear, especially since the militia has been ordered to the border.
So many dancing men are in the Blues. I heard today that young Lane is
off. He is Robert Carter's assistant and since Carter has been out of
the running has been endeavoring to keep the business going. I fancy it
will be a blow to the Carters that he has had to go."

"Yes, too bad! Quite a dancing man! He will be missed in the germans."

Jeffry Tucker smiled as he had been thinking the Carters might miss the
assistance that Lane rendered their father, but since Mr. Parker's mind
ran more on germans than on business that was, after all, what he was
bringing him up to Greendale for.

"Lewis Somerville has enlisted, too."

"You don't say! I had an idea when he left West Point he would be quite
an addition to Richmond society."

"I think Mrs. Carter thought he would be of great assistance to her
eldest daughter," said Mr. Machiavelli Tucker.

"Oh, I hadn't heard that one of Robert Carter's daughters was to make
her debut. I haven't seen her name on the list. Is she a good looker?"

"Lovely and very sweet! I think it is a pity for her to come out and not
be a success, but her mother is determined that she shall enter the ring
this winter."

"Yes, it is a pity. This will be a bad year for buds. There are already
so many of them and such a dearth of beaux I have never beheld. I don't
care how good-looking a girl is, she is going to have a hard time having
a good time this year," and the expert sighed, thinking of the work
ahead of him in entertaining debutantes. He was not so young as he had
been and there were evenings when he rather longed to get into slippers
and dressing gown and let himself go, but a leader must be on the job
constantly or someone else would usurp his place. Many debutantes and a
few society men meant he must redouble his activities.

"I hope you will be nice to this girl, Hi. She is a splendid creature.
Since her father has been sick, she has taken the burden of the whole
family on her shoulders. All of the girls help and the second one,
Helen, is doing wonders, too--in fact, all of them are wonders."

"So----" thought the leader of germans, "we are coming to the favor.
Tucker wants me to help launch this girl. Well, I'll look her over
first. No pig in a poke for me!" He took another of the very good
cigars, not that he wanted it at that moment, but he might need it later
on.

"Now this is what I want you to do, this is how I want you to be good
to her." Hi Parker smiled a knowing smile. How many times had he been
approached in just this way? "I don't want you to ask her to dance a
german with you----"

Oh, what was the fellow driving at, anyhow?

"No, indeed! There is no man living that I would ask to do such a thing.
I feel it is a kind of insult to a girl to go around drumming up
partners for her."

Mr. Parker gasped.

"What I want you to do for me is to persuade Mrs. Carter that this is a
bad year to bring a girl out. You have already said you think it is, so
you would be perfectly honest in doing so. The Carters' finances are at
a low ebb and this fine girl, Douglas, is doing her best to economize
and have the family realize the importance of it, and now her mother is
determined that she shall stop everything and go into society."

Mr. Tucker, during the journey to Greendale, succeeded in convincing Mr.
Parker that it was an easy matter to persuade Mrs. Carter to give up the
project.

"I'll do what I can, but if you take the matter so much to heart why
don't you do it yourself, Tucker? I make it a rule not to butt in on
society's private affairs if I can possibly keep out of it."

"I ask you because I believe in getting an expert when a delicate
operation is needed. You are a social expert and this is a serious
matter."

The upshot was that Mr. Hiram G. Parker was flattered into making the
attempt and Mrs. Carter's opinion of that gentleman's social knowledge
was so great and her faith in him so deep-rooted that she abandoned her
idea of forcing Douglas out for that season. She gave it up with a sigh
of resignation. Anyhow, she was glad she had made Douglas bleach her
complexion before Mr. Parker was introduced to her. The girl was looking
lovely and the shyness she evinced on meeting that great man was just as
it should be. Too much assurance was out of place with a bud and this
introduction and impression would hold over until another year.




CHAPTER XI

THE BIRD


      "Softly a winged thing
        Floats across the sky,
      And earth from slumber waketh
        And looketh up on high,
      Sees it is only a bird--
        A great white bird--
      That floating thro' the darkness undisturbed
        Floats on, and on, and on."

Late sleeping in a tent is rather a difficult feat as the morning sun
seems to spy out the sleeper's eyes and there is no way to escape him.
Some of the campers tied black ribbons around their eyes and some even
used black stockings, but the first rays of the sun always found Nan
stirring. It was not that she was especially energetic, she was indeed
rather lazy, according to her more vigorous sisters, but the charm of
the early morning was so wonderful that she hated to miss it lying in
bed. It was also such a splendid time to be alone. The camp was a
bustling, noisy place when everyone was up, and early morning was about
the only time the girl had for that communing with herself which was
very precious to one of her poetic temperament.

She slept in a tent, not only with her sisters but with Lil Tate and
Tillie Wingo, now that the week-enders had swarmed in on them at such a
rate, stretching their sleeping accommodations to the utmost. Of course
it was great fun to sleep in a tent but there were times when Nan longed
for a room with four walls and a door that she could lock. The next best
thing to a door she could lock was the top of the mountain in the early
morning. Unless some enthusiastic nature-lover had got up a sunrise
party she was sure to have the top of the mountain to herself.

Mr. Tucker had divulged to her the night before that her mother had
abandoned the designs she had been entertaining for Douglas, and she in
turn had been able to pass on the good news to Douglas. Mrs. Carter had
not told her daughter herself but was evidently going to take her own
good time to do so. Their mother's being a bit cattish was not worrying
either Douglas or Nan. They were too happy over the abandonment of the
plan. Of course they could not help feeling that since the plan was
abandoned, it would have been sweet of their mother to let Douglas
know immediately since she was well aware of the fact that the idea
was far from pleasing to her daughter. And since it would have been
sweet of her to let her know the moment she had abandoned the plan, it
was on the other hand slightly cattish of her to conceal the fact. Of
course the girls did not call it cattish even in their own minds--just
thoughtlessness. Douglas had no idea of how the change had come about,
and Nan held her counsel. It was Mr. Tucker's and her secret.

As she crept out of the cot on that morning, before the sun was up, she
glanced at her elder sister and a feeling of intense satisfaction filled
her heart to see how peacefully Douglas was sleeping. Her beautiful
hair, in a great golden red rope, was trailing from the low cot along
the floor of the tent; her face that had looked so tired and anxious
lately had lost its worried expression--she looked so young--hardly any
older than Lucy, who lay in the next bed.

"Thank goodness, the poor dear is no longer worried," thought Nan
devoutly as she slipped on her clothes and crept noiselessly out of the
tent.

What a morning it was! The sun was not quite up and there was a silver
gray haze over everything. The neighboring mountains were lost, as were
the valleys. The air had a freshness and sweetness that is peculiar to
dawn. "'The innocent brightness of a new-born day is lovely yet,'"
quoted Nan. "If I can only get to the top of the mountain before the sun
is up!" She hurried along the path, stopping a moment at the spring to
drink a deep draft of water and to splash the clear water on her face
and hands. She held her face down in the water a moment and came up
shaking the drops off her black hair, which curled in innumerable little
rings from the wetting. She laughed aloud in glee. Life was surely worth
living, everything was so beautiful.

The sides of the mountain were thickly wooded but at the top there was a
smooth plateau with neither tree nor bush. One great rock right in the
middle of this clearing Nan used as a throne whereon she could view the
world--if not the world, at least a good part of Albemarle county and
even into Nelson on one hand and Orange on the other. Sometimes she
thought of this stone as an altar and of herself as a sun-worshipper.

On that morning she clambered up the rock just a moment before the sun
peeped through a crack in the mist. She stood with arms outstretched
facing the sun. The mists were rolling away and down in the valley
she could distinguish the apple orchards and now a fence, and now a
haystack. There a mountain cabin emerged from the veil and soon a spiral
of thin blue smoke could be spied rising from its chimney.

"I wonder what they are going to have for breakfast!" exclaimed the
wood nymph, and then she took herself to task for thinking of food
when everything was so poetical. Just as she was wondering what the
mountaineers who lived in that tiny cabin were going to cook on the fire
whose smoke she saw rising in that "thin blue reek" the sun came up. A
wonderful sight, but the sun has been rising for so many æons that we
have become accustomed to it. Something else happened at that moment,
something we are not quite accustomed to even yet: Far off over the
crest of a mountain Nan thought she saw an eagle. The first rays of the
sun glinted on the great white wings. For a moment it was lost to view
as it passed behind a cloud and then it appeared again flying rapidly.

"It is coming this way, a great white bird! I am almost afraid it might
pick me up in its huge talons and carry me off, carry me 'way up in the
air--I almost hope it will--it would be so glorious to fly!"

She stood up on her throne and stretched her arms out, crying an
invocation to the winged thing.

She heeded not the buzzing of the aeroplane as it approached. To her it
was a great white bird and she only awakened from her trance when the
machine had actually landed on her plateau.

The humming had stopped and it glided along the grass, kept closely
cropped by Josephus, as this was his grazing ground when he was not busy
pulling the cart. Nan stood as though petrified, a graceful little
figure in her camp-fire girls' dress. Her arms were still outstretched
as when she cried her invocation to the great white bird.

The machine came to a standstill quite close to her altar and a young
man in aviator's costume sprang from it. Taking off his helmet and
goggles, he made a low bow to Nan.

"Oh, mountain nymph, may a traveler land in your domain?"

"Welcome, stranger!"

"And may I ask what is this enchanted land?"

"This is Helicon--and you--who are you?"

"I am Bellerophon and yonder winged steed is Pegasus. Maid, will you fly
with me?"

He held out his hand and Nan, with no more thought of the proprieties
than a real mountain nymph would have had, let him help her into his
machine. He wrapped a great coat around her, remarking that even nymphs
might get cold, and seemingly with no more concern than Bill Tinsley
felt over starting the mountain goat, he touched some buttons and turned
some wheels and in a moment the aeroplane was gliding over the plateau
and then floating in the air, mounting slowly over the tree tops. Up, up
they went and then began making beautiful circles in the air. Nan
sighed.

"Are you scared?" and the aviator looked anxiously at his little
companion. He had not resumed his helmet and goggles and his eyes were
so kind and so merry that Nan felt as though she had known him all her
life.

"Scared! Of course not! I am just so happy."

"Have you ever flown before?"

"Not in reality--but it is just as I have dreamed it."

"You dream then a great deal?"

"Yes! 'In a dream all day I wander only half awake.' I am sure I must be
dreaming now."

"I, too! But then the best of life is the dreams, the greatest men are
the dreamers. If it had not been for a dreamer, we could not have had
this machine. Look! Isn't that wonderful?"

Nan was looking with all eyes at the panorama spread out below them. The
sun was up now in good earnest and the mountains had shaken off the mist
as sleepers newly aroused might throw off their coverlids. The orchards
in the valleys looked like cabbage beds and the great mansions that
adorn the hills and are the pride and boast of the county seemed no
larger than doll houses. From every chimney in the valley smoke was
arising. Nan was disgusted with herself that again the thought came to
her:

"What are all of these people going to have for breakfast?"

They dipped and floated and curvetted. Nan thought of Hawthorne's
description of Pegasus in the "Chimæra" and the very first opportunity
she had later on she got the book and reread the following passage:

"Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! Sleeping at night, as
he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the
day in the air, Pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth.
Whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the
sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged
to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among
our mists and vapors, and was seeking his way back again. It was very
pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud,
and be lost in it for a moment or two, and then break forth from the
other side."

Once they went through a low-hanging cloud. Nan felt the drops of water
on her face.

"Why, it is raining!" she cried.

"No, that was a cloud we dipped through," laughed her companion. "Are
you cold?"

"Cold? I don't know! I have no sensation but joy."

The young man smiled. There was something about Nan's drawl that made
persons want to smile anyhow.

"You forgot your hat and goggles," she said as she noticed his blue eyes
and the closely cropped brown hair that looked as though it had to be
very closely cropped to keep it from curling.

"That's so! Some day maybe I shall go back after them. Now shall we fly
to 'Frisco? How about High Olympus? Remember we are on Pegasus now and
he can take us wherever we want to go."

"Breakfast first," drawled Nan. "Come with me and I can feed you on
nectar and ambrosia."

"Oh what a wonderful wood nymph! She understands that mortal man cannot
feed on poetry alone."

They glided to the plateau and landed again by the great rock.

"This is a wonderful place to light," said the birdman. "And now, fair
mountain nymph, please tell me who you are when you are not a nymph--and
what you are doing on the top of a lonely mountain before the sun is
up."

"Nan Carter! And if you think this is a lonely mountain, you ought to
try to get by yourself for a few minutes on it. Before sunrise, on the
tip top point, is the only place where one can be alone a minute----"

"And then great creatures come swooping down out of the clouds and carry
you off. It was very kind of you to go with me."

"Kind of me! Oh, Mr. Bellerophon, I never can thank you enough for
taking me. I have never been so happy in all my life. It is perfect, all
but the noise-- I do wish it wouldn't click and buzz so. I know Pegasus
did not make such a fuss--only the swish of his wings could be heard and
sometimes, as the maiden said, the brisk and melodious neigh."

"Don't you want to know my name, too, Miss Nan Carter? I have a name I
use sometimes when I am not mounted on Pegasus."

"I don't want to know it at all, but perhaps my mother, who is
chaperoning the camp and who is rather particular, might think Mr.
Bellerophon sounded rather wily Greekish."

The young man laughed. Such a nice laugh it was that Nan could not help
thinking it sounded rather like a melodious neigh. He was possessed of
very even white teeth and a Greek profile, at least it started out to
be Greek but changed its mind when it got to the tip of his nose
which certainly turned up a bit. On the whole he was a very pleasant,
agreeable-looking young man, tall and broad-shouldered, clean-limbed and
athletic-looking. What Nan liked most about him were his eyes and his
hands.

"I hate to tell you my name, wood nymph. It sounds so commonplace after
what we have done this morning. I am afraid when you hear it you will
simply knock on one of these great oak trees and a door will open and
you will disappear from my eyes forever."

"Not before breakfast," drawled Nan. "But you must tell me your name
before breakfast because I shall have to introduce you to the others."

"What others? Not more wood nymphs!"

"More Carters--and week-enders!"

"You don't mean I have actually landed at Week-End Camp? Why, that is
what I have been looking for, but I had no idea of striking it the first
thing, right out of the blue, as it were. I heard about the camp at the
University, and want to come board there for a while."

"Well, I am the one to apply to," said Nan primly.

"Apply to a wood nymph for board! Absurd!"

"Not at all! Of course, I can't take you to board without knowing your
name and--er--number."

"Well, if you must, you must--Tom Smith is my name--as for my
number--there is only one of me."

"I mean by your number, where you live."

"Oh, I live in the air mostly. Sometimes I come down to have some
washing done and to vote--at least, I came down once to vote--that was
last June, but as no elections were going on just then and as my having
arrived at the age of twenty-one did not seem to make them hurry, I
went up in the air again. When I do vote, though, it will be out in
Louisville, Kentucky. That's where I have my washing done. You don't
say what you think of such a name as Tom Smith."

"It is not very--romantic, but it must have been a nice name to go to
school with."

"Great! There were so many of us that the lickings didn't go round."

The girl was leading the way down the mountain path and they came to the
spring where she had performed her ablutions earlier.

"This is the fountain of Pirene."

"Ah! I fancied we would come to it soon," and he stooped and drank his
fill, shaking the drops from his crisp curls as he got up.

"I love to drink that way," cried Nan. "I had a big deep drink as I went
up the mountain."

"Of course you drink that way! How else could a wood nymph drink? You
might make a cup of your little brown hand, but even that is almost too
modern. Ah, there is the camp! How jolly it looks! Are there any people
there? It looks so quiet."

"Any people there? Quiet! It is running over with people. They are all
asleep now, that is the reason it is so quiet. There will be noise
enough later."

As she spoke there were shouts from the shower bath where some of the
youths from the camp had assembled for a community shower, and as the
cold mountain water struck them they certainly made the welkin ring.

"There is father! Come, and I'll introduce you."

Mr. Carter was coming from the kitchen bearing a cup of coffee for his
wife, who stuck to the New Orleans habit of black coffee the first thing
in the morning, and Mr. Carter loved to be the one to take it to her
bedside.

"Father, this is Mr. Bel--Smith. He flew over here this morning," and
Nan suddenly remembered that she was not a wood nymph and that this
mountain in Albemarle was not Helicon. Also that it was not a very usual
thing for well-brought-up young ladies to go flying with strange young
men before breakfast, even if strange young men did almost have Greek
profiles. For the first time that morning Nan blushed. Her shyness
returned. She could hardly believe that it was she, Nan Carter, who had
been so bold. Her Bellerophon was plain Tom Smith and Pegasus was a very
modern flying machine lying up in Josephus's pasture, that pasture on
top of a prosaic mountain in Albemarle County and not Mount Helicon.
The fountain of Pirene was nothing but the spring that fed the
reservoir from which they got the water supply for the shower bath
where those boys were making such an unearthly racket. She was not a
wood nymph--there were no wood nymphs--but just a sentimental little
girl of sixteen who no doubt needed a good talking to and a reprimand
for being so very imprudent. What would her mother say to such an
escapade?

With all of Mrs. Carter's delicate spirituelle appearance there was
nothing poetical in her make-up. She would never understand this talk of
forgetting that one was not a wood nymph. There was more chance of the
father's sympathy. Nan took the bull by the horns and plunged into her
confession.

"Father, I have been up in Mr. Bel--Smith's flying machine. I don't know
what made me do it except I just--it was so early--I--I forgot it wasn't
a flying horse."

Mr. Carter looked at his little daughter with a smile of extreme
tenderness. He had taken flights on Pegasus himself in days gone by. He
seldom mounted him now--the burden of making a living had almost made
him forget that Pegasus was not a plough horse--not quite, however, and
now as his little girl stood in front of him, her hair all ruffled by
her flight, her cheeks flushed and in her great brown eyes the shadow of
her dream, he understood.

"It is still early in the morning, honey, for you--no doubt the
aeroplane is Pegasus. I envy you the experience. Everyone might not
see it as I do, however, so you and Mr. Belsmith and I had better keep
it to ourselves," and he shook the birdman's hand.

"Smith is my name--Tom Smith," and the young man smiled into the eyes of
the older man.

"I am very glad to see you, and just as soon as I take this coffee to
my wife, I will come and do the honors of the camp," and Robert Carter
hastened off, thinking what a boon it would be to be young again in
this day of flying machines.

Nan found her tent about as she had left it. The inmates were still
asleep. "How strange," she said to herself, "that I should have been to
the top of Helicon and taken flight with Bellerophon on Pegasus while
these girls have slept on not knowing a thing about it! I wonder where
their astral bodies have been! Douglas looks so happy, poor dear, I
fancy hers has been in heaven."

Aloud she cried: "Get up, girls! Wake up! It is awfully late--the camp
is stirring and there is a lot to do. I have found a new boarder! He
dropped from the clouds and is starved to death."




CHAPTER XII

PLEASE REMIT


Of course everyone was vastly interested in Mr. Tom Smith and his
aeroplane. That young man, however, exhibited a modest demeanor which
was very pleasant to members of his sex. He promised to take any and all
of the campers flying if his machine was in good order. He thought it
needed a little tinkering, however, as he had noticed a little clicking
sound above the usual clack and hum of the motor.

"How on earth did you happen to land here?" asked someone.

"Airman's instinct, I reckon. I was looking for the camp and had heard
there was a mountain with a smooth plateau around here somewhere. A
place to land is our biggest problem. The time will come when there
will be landing stations for flyers just as they have tea houses for
automobilists now. There is great danger of becoming entangled in trees
and telegraph wires. A place looks pretty good for lighting when you are
up in the clouds and then when you get down you find what seemed to be a
smooth, grassy plain is perhaps the top of a scrub oak forest."

After breakfast the whole camp of week-enders marched to the top of the
mountain to view the great bird, but the Carter girls had to stay behind
to prepare for the picnic. Many sandwiches must be made and the baskets
packed. Nan had her usual bowl of mayonnaise to stir. She looked very
demure in her great apron but her eyes were dancing with the remembrance
of her morning's escapade.

"You look very perky this morning, honey," said Douglas, as she packed a
basket of turnovers and cheese cakes with great care not to crush those
wonders of culinary art.

"You look tolerable perky yourself," retorted her sister. Just as the
sophomores and seniors of a college seem to fraternize, so it is often
the case with the first and third members of a family. Douglas and Nan
hit it off better with one another than they did with either Helen or
Lucy.

"I feel like flying!" declared Douglas. "I don't mean in an aeroplane
but just of my own accord. I am so happy that mother has given up that
terrible plan for me, given it up without father's knowing anything
about it. I wish I knew who had persuaded her or how it came about. She
is rather--well, not exactly cold with me--but not exactly chummy. She
has not told me yet, but if you say it is so, I know it is so. I went to
her room this morning so she could tell me if she wanted to, but she
didn't say a thing about it. She got a lot of letters from New York by
the early mail. I am mighty afraid they are bills."

"Pretty apt to be," sighed Nan. "I hope she won't give them to father."

"Oh, she mustn't do that. I shall have to ask her for them. I hate to do
it. She thinks I am so stern."

"Let me do it," said Nan magnanimously. "I wonder how much they amount
to."

"Oh, Nan! Would you mind asking for them?"

"Well, I am not crazy about it, but I'll do it," and do it she did.

She found her mother in a dainty negligee writing notes at a little desk
her devoted husband had fashioned from a packing box.

"Ah, Nan, how sweet of you to come to me! I see so little of my girls
now, they are so occupied with outside interests. Here, child, just run
these ribbons in my underwear. It really takes a great deal of time to
keep one's clothes in order. Susan should do such things for me, but she
is constantly being called off to do other things, at least she says she
is. What, I can't for the life of me see."

Nan dutifully began to do her mother's bidding, but when she saw the
drawer full of things she was supposed to decorate with ribbons she had
to call a halt.

"I am very sorry, mumsy, but I am helping Douglas pack the lunch
baskets. This is a day for a picnic, you know."

"No, I didn't know. Who is going?"

"Everyone, we hope, as that gives Oscar and Susan a chance to get a
thorough cleaning done, with no dinner to cook."

"Oh, how absurdly practical you girls have become! I just hate it in
you. What business has a girl of your age to know about who does
thorough cleaning and when it is done?" Nan restrained a giggle. She had
come to a full realization of what a very frivolous person her little
mother was and while it made her sad in a way it also touched her sense
of humor irresistibly.

"I am deeply disappointed in the fact that Douglas is not to come out
next winter. Mr. Parker advises me strongly against trying to launch
her. He says there are so many debutantes already and that he is engaged
up to every dance and that all of the dancing men are in the same fix.
Of course if I should go against his advice Douglas would fall as flat
as possible. She has no desire to come out as it is and no doubt would
do nothing to further her cause. I do not feel equal to the task of
bringing her out and of putting spirit into her at the same time. She
has been so lifeless and listless lately."

Nan smiled, thinking of how she had left Douglas actually dancing as she
packed the goodies and smiling all over her happy face.

"What a lot of letters you have, mumsy! You are almost as busy as I am
with letters. It takes me hours every day answering applications for
board."

"Oh, yes, I have many notes to answer--friends, welcoming me back to
Virginia. This pile over here is nothing but bills--things bought in
New York, on my way home. I think it is most impertinent of these
tradespeople to send them so promptly. They were so eager for me to
open accounts, and now they write to me as though I were a pickpocket.
'Please Remit' at the bottom of every bill, and one man actually accuses
me of being slow in payment. He says he understood I was to send money
as soon as I reached Virginia. I have no money myself. I shall just have
to hand them over to your father----"

"Oh, mother, please don't do that!"

"Why not? How else am I to get them paid?"

"But, mother, the doctor said no money matters must be brought to father
for at least a year and maybe not then. It was bills that made him ill,
and bills would be so bad for him now."

"Bills, indeed! It was overwork! I did my best to make him relax and not
work so hard, but he would not listen to me. Many a time I tried to make
him stop and go to the opera with me or to receptions, but it was always
work, work, work!--day and night. I'm sure no one can accuse me of
selfishness in the matter--I did my best."

"Yes, dear, I know you did," said Nan solemnly and gently, as though she
were soothing a little child who had dropped a bowl of goldfish or done
something equally disastrous and equally irreparable. "I tell you what
you do, though, honey, you give me the bills. You see, I write all the
letters for the camp and I will attend to them."

Mrs. Carter handed over the offensive pile of envelopes with an air of
washing her hands of the matter.

"There is one thing, mumsy: if I were you, I'd withdraw my patronage
from such persons. I'd never favor tradespeople like these with another
order."

"Never!" exclaimed the mother. "'Please Remit,' indeed! I never imagined
such impertinence."

Nan bore off the sheaf of bills. They were not quite so large as they
had feared. Mrs. Carter had unwittingly managed very well since she had
accidentally struck August sales in New York and the things she had
bought really were bargains.

"We will pay them immediately, Nan," said Douglas. "I am so thankful
that father did not see them. It would be so hard on him that I am sure
much of the good that has come to him from the long rest would be done
away with."

"Do they make you blue, these bills?"

"No, indeed! Nothing will make me blue now that mother has given up
making me be a debutante. I can go on working and make more money to
take the place of this we shall have to take out of the bank to pay for
these things mother bought. But just suppose she had carried her point
and forced me into society. I could have earned no money and would have
had such a lot spent on me. Why can't she see, Nan?"

"She is color blind, I think, unless it is couleur de rose. We must be
patient with her, Douglas."

"All right, grandma!" And if Mrs. Carter could have heard the peal of
laughter from Douglas, she would not have thought her lifeless and
listless. "You are such a dear little wise old lady, Nan!"




CHAPTER XIII

TEAKETTLE


The fallen tree where Nan and Dum Tucker had chosen to have the picnic
proved to be most attractive. It was a great oak that had attained its
growth before it had been felled in some wind storm, and now it lay like
some bed-ridden old giant who refuses to die. Part of the roots held to
the soil while part stood up like great toes, poking their way through
the blanket of ferns and moss that were doing their best to cover them.
This tree not only clung to its old branches but had actually the
hardihood to send out new shoots. These branches were not growing as the
limbs of an oak usually grow, with a slightly downward tendency from the
main trunk, but shot straight to the sky, upright and vigorous.

"It is just like some old man who has to stay in bed but still is open
to convictions of all kinds, who reads and takes in new ideas and is
willing to try new things and think new thoughts," suggested Page
Allison.

"Yes, that strong green branch struggling to the light there might be
equal suffrage," teased Mr. Tucker.

"Yes, and that one that has outstripped all the others is higher
education of women," declared Douglas.

"These little ferns and wild flowers that are trying to cover up his
ugly old toes are modern verse. He even reads the poetry of the day and
does not just lie back on stuffy old pillows and insist that poetry died
with Alfred Tennyson," whispered Nan, who did not like much to speak out
loud in meetin'. Tom Smith heard her, however, and smiled his approval
of her imagery.

"Well, I only hope while we are picnicking on his bed he won't decide to
turn over and go to sleep. It would certainly play sad havoc with cheese
cakes," laughed Helen.

Much to the satisfaction of the Carter girls, all the week-enders did
decide to come on the picnic, also their mother. They knew very well
that had that lady made up her mind to remain in camp, Susan's time
would have been taken up waiting on her and the thorough cleaning
that the pavilion and kitchen were crying out for would never be
accomplished.

Mr. Hiram G. Parker, in faultless morning costume, had proffered himself
as squire of dames and was assisting that dainty little lady on the
rough journey to the fallen tree. She, too, had attired herself with
thoughtful care in sheer white linen lawn with a large picture hat of
finest straw and a ruffled lace parasol. The girls were in strong
contrast to their chaperone, since one and all, even Tillie Wingo, were
dressed in khaki skirts and leggins. The only variation in costume was
that some wore middies and some sport shirts.

First a fire must be built and a big one at that, as it takes many
hot coals to roast potatoes. Lucy and Lil Tate, with their faithful
followers, Skeeter and Frank, had gone on a little ahead, and when
the rest of the crowd reached the spot the fire was already burning
merrily. In a short time it was ready to drop the potatoes in, Irish
potatoes and great yams that looked big enough for the bed-ridden giant
himself to make a meal of. Then the roasting ears of corn must be
opened, the silk removed and the ears wrapped carefully in the shucks
again and placed in just exactly the right part of the fire to cook but
not to burn.

There was some kind of work for all of those inclined to usefulness, and
any who were not so inclined could wander around admiring the scenery or
climb up in the tree to secure the choice seats. There were seats for
all and to spare in the gnarled old limbs of the giant oak. Mrs. Carter
was enthroned in a leafy armchair while Hiram G. perched beside her.
Evidently he was prepared to be waited on and not to wait. Bobby climbed
to the tiptop of one of the great branches where he looked like a
"little cherub that sits up aloft."

"I'm a-gonter let down a string and pull my eats up here," he declared.

"Oh, Bobby!" shuddered his mother. "Don't say such words!"

"What I done now?" cried that young hopeful, peeping down through the
leafy screen, with an elfish, toothless grin.

"Don't say eats! Say luncheon!"

"Yes, I won't! If I say luncheon, they'll send me up 'bout 'nough to put
in my eye. I've a great mind to say victuals like Oscar and then they'll
send me up something sho'. Hi, Helen! Put my victuals in a bucket and
tie it to this string!" he cried, dangling a string before Helen's eyes
as she stooped under the tree, unpacking the basket containing the paper
plates and Japanese napkins.

"I won't put anything in the bucket unless you mind mother," said Helen
severely, but her eye was twinkling at Bobby's philological distinction.

"Well, then, Helen dear, be so kind as to put my luncheon in that there
little bucket what you see turned up over yonder by the fire. But,
Helen," in a stage whisper, "please don't put it in like a luncheon but
like it was jes' victuals. Luncheons ain't never 'nough for workin'
mens." So all in good time Helen packed a hefty lunch in the bucket for
her darling and he drew it up to his castle in the tree and feasted
right royally.

When everyone was too hungry to stand it another moment the potatoes
were done, all burnt on the outside and delicious and mealy within.
There never were such sandwiches as Helen's; and the corn, roasted in
the shucks, was better than corn ever had been before. The cheese cakes
and fried turnovers proved very good for tree eating and not too
squashy. Boxes of candy appeared like magic from the pockets of
masculine week-enders. Mr. Tucker produced three, one for each of his
girls.

"Oh, Zebedee!" exclaimed Dum. "I am so relieved. I thought you were
getting hippy. It was candy all the time."

When every vestige of food was devoured and all the paper plates and
papers carefully burned, as Nan said, to keep from desecrating Nature,
someone proposed that they should play games.

"Let's play teakettle!" exclaimed Skeeter, so teakettle it was. Some of
the company had to be enlightened as to the game and perhaps some of my
readers may have to be also. This is the way: whoever is "It" or "Old
Man" must go out of ear shot and then the company selects a word. The
"Old Man" then returns and asks a question to each one in turn. The
answer must contain the chosen word, but in place of the word,
"teakettle" must be inserted.

"You go out, Zebedee, you are so spry," suggested the irreverent Dum.

"No, that's not fair! We must count out," declared Dee, determined that
her parent must be bossed only by her own sweet self.

"I bid to count!" from Lucy. "'Eny, meny, miny mo, cracker, feny, finy,
fo, ommer noocher, popper toocher, rick, bick, ban, do, as, I, went, up
the, apple, tree, all, the, apples, fell, on, me, bake a, pudding, bake,
a, pie, did, you, ever, tell, a, lie, yes, you, did, you, know, you,
did, you, broke, your, mammy's, tea, pot, lid, did, she, mind?'" She
stopped at Lil Tate, who was equal to the occasion.

"No!" cried Lil; and Lucy took up her counting out in the sing-song we
hear from children engaged in that delightful occupation of finding out
who is to be "It." No matter where one lives--east, west, north or
south--it is the same except for slight variations in the sense of the
incantation.

"N, o, spells, the, word, no, and, you, are, really--It!" An accusing
finger was pointed at Nan, who perforce must crawl from her comfortable
perch and go around the side of the mountain while the assembled company
chose a word.

After much whispering, Mr. Tucker hit on a word that appealed to all of
them, and Nan was whistled for to return.

"Helen, what do you enjoy most in camp life?"

"Teakettles!" was the prompt response.

"Skeeter, did you and Frank get any squirrels yesterday?"

"No, not one! We told them if they would let us shoot them that they
could come with us on the picnic--but they said: no teakettles for
them!" Indignant cries from Skeeter's chums ensued.

"You came mighty near giving us away, you nut!"

Nan thought a moment.

"Is it pies? Helen certainly enjoys pies, and if the squirrels had come
on the picnic it would have been in a pie."

"No; guess again! Guess again!"

"Mother, are you comfortable up there?"

"Yes, my dear; I had no idea one could have an armchair at a teakettle."

"'Picnic!' 'Picnic!' I know that is the word. Mumsy gave it away. You
have to go out, mumsy."

"Picnic" was the word and everyone thought Nan very clever to guess it
so quickly. Mrs. Carter was loath to leave her leafy bower, so Mr.
Parker gallantly offered to take her place and be "It."

A word was quickly chosen for Mr. Parker although they feared it would
be too easy. That gentleman was really enjoying himself very much.
Climbing trees was not much in his line, but he congratulated himself
that while his suit no doubt looked perfectly new, it was in reality
three years old and was only his eighteenth best. The lapels were a
little smaller than the prevailing mode and the coat cut away a bit more
than the latest fashion. He could not wear it much longer, anyhow, and
in the meantime he was having a very pleasant time. The girls were a
ripping lot and he would no doubt have the pleasure of bringing them out
in years to come. He might even stretch a point and ask some of them to
dance the german with him before they made their debuts. That little
Allison girl from the country was a charmer and as for the Tucker
twins--the only trouble about them was he could not decide which one
would take the better in society. Helen Carter was sure to win in
whatever class she entered. Douglas Carter had deceived him somewhat.
The evening before, while looking very pretty she had lacked animation.
He had been quite serious in his advice to Mrs. Carter not to bring her
out that year. With the scarcity of beaux only a girl who was all
animation had any show of having a good time in her debutante year. Now
today this girl had thrown off her listlessness and was as full of life
as anyone. She was really beautiful. If a complexion could show up as
well as hers did in the sunlight what would it not do in artificial
light? And her hair! Hair like that could stand the test of dancing all
night, and Mr. Hiram G. Parker had found out from long experience that
not much hair could stand the test.

"Always coming out of curl and getting limp!" he muttered, but just then
they whistled for him and he returned to the tree.

"Ahem! Miss Douglas, are you expecting to miss the boys who have gone to
the border with the Blues?"

"Yes, indeed!" blushed Douglas; "but if I were a teakettle it would be
even worse."

"Is it a mother? Of course it would be worse if you were a mother! Ah,
maybe you have been promising to be a sister to one of them."

Douglas blushed so furiously that she almost fell off her precarious
perch.

"'Mother' isn't the word--neither is 'sister'!" shouted the crowd.
"Guess again!"

"Miss Dum Tucker, are you going to remain long in camp?"

"I am afraid I shall have to leave on Monday, but if the teakettle
fancier is no longer here, I don't believe I should care to remain."

"Teakettle fancier! Sounds like spinsters. I can't see what it is. Miss
Dee, what are these teakettles like?"

"There are as many styles of teakettles as there are teakettles, tall
and narrow, short and squat, with snouts of all shapes."

"Heavens! Still no light on the subject! Tucker, what is your opinion of
the war? Will it last much longer?"

"I hope not, although I hear it is an excellent way to dispose of last
year's teakettles. They are using so many of them in the Red Cross
service."

"Oh, come now! I must do better than this. Mrs. Carter, have you any of
these teakettles about you?"

"No, Mr. Parker, I haven't a single teakettle--ye-et," rather sadly.

"Mr. Smith!" That young aviator, not expecting to be called on, almost
fell out of the tree, which would have been an ignominious proceeding
for one accustomed to the dizzy heights of the clouds. "Do you come
across any of this stuff, whatever it is that these crazy folks call
teakettles?"

"Yes, I do occasionally. Even here in this camp there is a lot of the
stuff that teakettles are made of--the raw material, I might say, but if
I should, no doubt future teakettles would climb up the tree and mob
me."

"'Debutantes!' 'Debutantes!' That is the word! Stupid of me not to guess
it sooner. Thank you, Miss Dum, for the compliment you just paid me, or
did you mean your father? Because I understand that he is somewhat fond
of young girls himself."

"I meant you in the game--but Zebedee in reality," declared Dum, who had
no more idea of coquetting than a real teakettle.

"Mr. Smith is 'It'!" shouted Lucy. "We are going to get a hard one for
him."

Skeeter wanted to take "flying machine" but that was too easy. Many
suggestions were made but Nan finally hit on a word that they were sure
he could never guess.

"The trouble is it is hardly fair to take a word that is so obscure,"
objected Mr. Carter, who had been quietly enjoying the fun as much as
any of the party.

"Well, it is a compliment to give him a hard one," declared Mr. Tucker.
"It means we have some reliance on his wit."

Tom Smith was proving himself a very agreeable companion and old and
young were feeling him to be an acquisition to the camp.

"You youngsters up there in the top of the tree, come down and be
questioned!" cried the "Old Man." "You, Bobby, what are you doing up
there?"

"I'm a-playin' I'm one er them there teakettles," said that ready-witted
infant. Everyone shouted for joy at his answer.

"And you, Frank Maury! Do you want to take a trip with me some day?"

"Sure! I'd ruther be a birdman than--a--teakettle," said Frank lamely.

"Did you ever see one of these teakettles, Skeeter?"

"Naw, and nobody else."

"But you didn't use the word, Skeeter," admonished Lil.

"Then you use it for him," suggested the questioner. "I take it then if
he never saw a teakettle and no one else has ever seen one, that it is
some kind of mythological creature. Am I right?" he appealed, following
up the advantage Skeeter had given him.

"Yes, a teakettle is a mythological being," said Lil primly.

"Skeeter can give more things away without using the word than most
folks can using it," declared Lucy cruelly.

"Miss Nan, did I ever see a teakettle that you know of?"

"I have an idea you thought you saw a teakettle once," drawled Nan.

"'Wood nymph!'" exclaimed Tom Smith.

Everyone thought he was very clever to have guessed a very difficult and
obscure word in five questions.

"Nan's turn again! That isn't fair when Skeeter really and truly was the
one who got him going. You've got to go, Skeeter," and Frank and Lil and
Lucy pounced on their chum and dragged him from the tree.

"Yes, I haven't! I'd never guess c-a-t. Get somebody else."

"I'll go," Mr. Tucker volunteered magnanimously.

"Let him; he's dying to!" exclaimed the twins in one breath.

"Well, don't tweedle!" commanded their father. He always called it
tweedling when his twins spoke the same thing at the same time.

A word was hard to hit on because as his daughters said Mr. Tucker had
what men call feminine intuition.

"You can't keep a thing from him," Dum said.

"And sometimes he sees something before it happens," declared Dee.

"Oh, spooks!" laughed Page.

"'Spooks' would be a good word," suggested someone, but Mrs. Carter had
a word which was finally determined on. Zebedee was whistled for and
came quickly to the front.

"Mr. Smith, tell me, while flying through the air would you like to have
one of these teakettles with you? I mean would it be the kind of thing
you could carry with you? Would it be of any value on the journey?"

"We--el, I can't say that a teakettle would be of any great practical
value on a flight, but it would certainly be great to have one. I
believe I'd rather have one than anything I can think of. In fact, I
mean to take one with me some day."

Mr. Tucker looked into the glowing countenance of the young birdman. He
saw there youth, character, romance.

"A 'teakettle' is a 'sweetheart,'" he said simply.

"Talking about spooks--what do you know about that?" cried one of the
crowd.

"Well, what did I tell you? Didn't I say you couldn't keep anything from
Zebedee?" said triumphant Dee.

"I betcher I ain't a-gonter take no sweetheart with me when I gits me a
arryplane," shouted Bobby from his vantage ground. "I'm a-gonter take
Josh and Josephus, ander--ander--father."

The picnic in the tree had been a decided success. It was one more
perfect day for the week-enders to report as worth while to the possible
future boarders. Even Mr. Parker was enthusiastic, although he was not
as a rule much of an outdoor man. He was conscious of the fact that he
shone in a drawing room, and under the "great eye of Heaven" did not
amount to quite so much as he did under electric lights with pink
shades.




CHAPTER XIV

THE FORAGERS


"Miss Douglas, them week-enders done cl'ared the coop. Thain't nary
chicken lef' standin' on a laig. Looks like these here Hungarians don't
think no mo' of 'vourin' a chicken than a turkey does of gobblin' up a
grasshopper."

"All of them gone, Oscar?"

"Yas'm! Thain't hide or har of them lef'. If I hadn't er wrung they
necks myself, I would er thought somethin's been a-ketchin' 'em; but
land's sakes, the way these week-enders do eat chicken is a caution!"

"All right, I'll get our young people to start out today and find some
more for us. A big crowd will be up on Friday."

"Yes, I'll be bound they will, and all of them empty. I should think the
railroad cyars would chawge mo' ter haul the folks back from this here
camp than what they do to git 'em here. They sho' goes back a-weighing
mo' than what they do whin they comes a-creepin' up the mountain actin'
like they ain't never seed a squar' meal in they lives."

Oscar's grumbling on the subject of the amount of food consumed by the
boarders was a never failing source of amusement to the Carter girls.
They were never so pleased as when the boarders were hungry and enjoyed
the food. No doubt Oscar was pleased, too, but he was ever outwardly
critical of the capacity of the week-enders.

Lucy and Lil, Skeeter and Frank were delighted to be commissioned to go
hunting for food. Many were the adventures they had while out on these
foraging parties and many the tales they had to tell of the inhabitants
of the mountain cabins. There were several rules they must obey and
besides those they had perfect liberty to do as they felt like. The
first rule was that they must wear thick boots and leggins on these
tramps. The snake bite Helen had got early in the summer had been a
lesson learned in time and now all the campers were made to comply with
the rule of leggins whenever they went on hikes. The second rule was
that they must be home before dark and must report to Douglas or Helen
as soon as they got home. The third was that they must tell all their
adventures to one of the older girls. If they obeyed these three rules
they were sure to get into no trouble.

"Fix us up a big lunch, please, Helen. We are going 'way far off.
There's a man on the far side of Old Baldy that Josh says has great big
frying-sizers," declared Lil.

"Well, be sure you are back before dark," admonished Helen, in her
grownupest tone, according to Lucy.

"All right, Miss Grandma, but I don't see why I have to get in before
dark if you don't. You know you and Doctor Wright came in long after
supper one night--said you got lost, but you can tell that to the
marines," said Lucy pertly.

"Just for that, I've a great mind to put red pepper in your sandwiches,"
said Helen, blushing in spite of herself.

"Well, I suppose if we get lost, we won't have to get in before dark,
either," teased Lucy.

"Yes, but don't you get lost. Douglas and I are always a bit uneasy
until you are back, as it is," pleaded Helen. "You know mother would
have a fit if you were out late."

"Oh, don't listen to her, Miss Helen. We'll take care of the girls and
bring 'em back safe. Frank and I couldn't get lost on these mountains if
we tried," and Skeeter drew himself up to his full height, which was
great for a boy of fifteen and seemed even greater because of his
extreme leanness.

"Can't we take our guns, Miss Helen?" pleaded Frank.

There was another rule that the boys must not take the guns if the girls
were along. Guns are safe enough if there are no bystanders.

"Oh, Frank, ask Douglas! I am afraid to be the one to let you do it."

"Can I tell her you say yes if she does?"

"Yes, I reckon so! But if she does say yes, please be awfully careful."

"Sure we will! I tell you, Miss Helen, if anything happens to these
girls, Skeeter and I'd never show our faces in camp again."

"I know you will look after them," said Helen. These boys were great
favorites with Helen, and they admired her so extravagantly that
sometimes Lil and Lucy, their sworn chums, were a bit jealous. "I've
made your kind of sandwiches, Frank, sardines. And I've stuffed some
eggs with minced ham the way you like them, Skeeter."

"Bully!" exclaimed both knights.

"And I s'pose what Lil and I like or don't like didn't enter your head,"
pouted Lucy.

"Why, Lucy, you know you like sardine sandwiches better than anything,
you said so yourself," admonished Lil.

"Helen didn't know it."

"If you don't like what I put up, you can do it yourself next time,"
snapped Helen.

      "''Tis dog's delight
      To bark and bite,'"

sang Douglas, coming into the kitchen to spy out the nakedness of the
land preparatory to sending her order for provisions to the wholesale
grocer in Richmond. "What are you girls scrapping about?"

"Helen said----"

"Lucy's always----"

"Yes, I haven't a doubt of it," laughed the elder sister, who was ever
the peacemaker. "I haven't a doubt that Helen did say it, but she was
just joking, and I know Lucy is always trying to help and is a dear
girl. Now you children trot along and bring back all the chickens you
can carry. Have you got your bags?" Gunnysacks were always taken to
bring home the provender. "And money to pay for the chickens? If you
see any eggs, buy them, and more roasting ears, but don't try to carry
everything you see. Have the mountaineers bring them to camp. Good-bye!
Be sure to come back before dark."

"Ask her about the guns," whispered Frank to Lil.

"Douglas, can the boys take their guns? Helen says she says yes if you
say yes. They won't carry 'em loaded."

"We--ll, I believe we can trust you; but do be careful, boys."

With a whoop the boys flew to their tent for the guns. The sizable
lunch was dumped in the bottom of a gunnysack and slung over Skeeter's
shoulder, and the cavalcade started, after many admonitions from Douglas
and Helen to be careful of their guns and to come back before dark.

"Ain't they the scared cats, though?" laughed Lucy.

"Yes; what on earth could happen to us?" said Lil.

"Nothing, I reckon, with Skeeter and me here to protect you--eh,
Skeeter?"

"I just guess we could hold a whole litter of bears at bay with these
guns. I almost wish we would run into some kind of trouble just so Frank
and I could show your big sisters we are responsible parties."

"Maybe we will," and Lil danced in glee at the possible chance of
getting into trouble so their devoted swains could extricate them.
"Maybe we will meet a drunken mountaineer--or maybe it will be a whole
lot of drunken mountaineers, a camp of moonshiners--maybe they will
capture Lucy and me and carry us to their mountain fastness and there
hold us for ransom."

"Huh! And what do you think Skeeter and I'll be doing while they are
carrying you off?" sniffed Frank. "Standing still, I reckon, and weeping
down our gun barrels!"

"Well, s'pose they are all of them armed to the teeth, a company of
stalwart brigands," suggested Lil, who, by the way, was something of a
movie fan, "and they come swooping down on us, the leader bearing a
lasso in his brawny hand."

"Yes," put in Lucy, "and he will swirl it around and will catch both of
you in the same coil and then will tie you to a tree there to await his
pleasure. I think there had better be two leaders, though, Lil. So you
can have one and I can have one. I bid for the biggest."

"Bid for him! If you girls don't beat all! I do believe you would like
to be attacked by outlaws," and Skeeter looked his disgust at the
eternal feminine.

"Of course we'd like it if it came out all right; that is, if the
leaders fell in love with us and reformed and turned out to be gentlemen
who took to moonshining and highwaying because they had been cheated out
of their inheritances by fat-faced uncles in Prince Albert coats," and
Lil looked very saucy as she switched on ahead of the others down the
narrow trail.

"And where would we come in?" asked Frank whimsically. "We would have to
stay tied to the tree while you and Lucy acted about a thousand feet of
reels. I tell you what I mean to do. I mean to train a squirrel to come
gnaw me free. What you say to that, Skeeter?"

"Squirrel much! I'm going to be so quick with my gun that the bold
brigands will wish they had stayed with Uncle Albert. As for lassoing--I
am some pumpkins myself with the rope. Look at this!" and twirling the
gunnysack around with the lunch serving as ballast, Skeeter caught his
chum neatly around the neck.

"Oh, oh! You'll mash the sandwiches!" wailed the others.

"Let's sit down and eat 'em up now," suggested Skeeter. "I am tired of
being made the beast of burden. I believe in distribution of labor."

"Why, Skeeter, we haven't walked a mile yet, and it can't be more than
ten o'clock."

"Well, then, my tumtum must be fast. I shall have to regulate it. It
tells me it is almost twelve." No one had a watch so there was no way to
prove the time except by the shadows, and Skeeter declared that the
shadows on the mountain perforce must slant even at twelve.

"Let's eat part of the lunch," suggested Lucy. "That will keep poor
Skeeter from starving and lighten the load some, too. There is no
telling what time it is, but if we are hungry I can't see that it makes
much difference what time it is. I'm starved myself almost."

"Me, too," chorused the others.

They ate only half, prudently putting the rest back in the gunnysack for
future reference.

"Gee, I feel some better," sighed Skeeter, whose appetite was ever a
marvel to his friends since it never seemed to have the slightest effect
on his extreme leanness. Oscar always said: "That there young Marster
Skeeter eats so much it makes him po' to carry it."

"Do you boys know exactly where we are going?" asked Lil. They had
walked a long distance since the distribution of burdens and now had
come to a place where the trail went directly down the mountainside.

"Of course we do! Josh said that when we got to a place where the path
suddenly went down we were almost over the cabin where Jude Hanford
lives. Didn't he, Frank?"

"He sure did!"

"But there was a place back further where a path forked off. I saw it,
didn't you, Lucy?"

"Yes, but I thought it was maybe just a washed place."

"This is right, I'm sure," said Skeeter confidently, so the young
people clambered down the mountainside following Skeeter's lead. The
path went almost exactly perpendicularly down the mountain for fifty
yards and then, as is the way with mountain paths, it changed its mind
and started up the mountain again.

"This is a terribly silly path," declared the self-constituted guide,
"but I reckon it will start down again soon. Josh said that Jude Hanford
lives almost at the foot of the mountain."

"Let's keep a-going; there's no use in turning back," said Frank. "This
path is obliged to lead somewhere."

"Maybe it leads to the brigand's cave," shivered Lil.

"Which way is home?" asked Lucy.

"That way!"

"Over there!"

"Due north from here!"

But as the three of her companions all pointed in different directions,
Lucy laughed at them and chose an entirely different point of the
compass as her idea of where Camp Carter was situated. They had been
walking for hours and as far as they could tell had not got off of their
own mountain. No one seemed to be the least worried about being lost, so
Lucy calmed her fears, which were not very great. How could they get
lost? All they had to do was retrace their steps if they did not find
Jude Hanford's cabin, where the frying-sized chickens and the roasting
ears were supposed to thrive.

"Let's eat again," suggested the ever empty Skeeter.

They had come to a wonderful mountain stream, one they had never seen
before in their rambles. It came dashing down the incline singing a gay
song until it found a temporary resting place in a deep hole which
seemed to be hollowed out of the living rock.

"What a place to swim!" they exclaimed in a breath.

"I bet it's cold, though, cold as flugians." Lil trailed her fingers
through the icy water and a little fish rose to the surface and gave a
nibble. "Look! Look! Isn't he sweet?"

"Let's fish," suggested Lucy.

"Fish with what? Guns?" asked Skeeter scornfully.

"No, fishing lines with minnows for bait," and Lucy found a pin in her
middy blouse and with a narrow pink ribbon drawn mysteriously from
somewhere tied to the pin, which she bent into a fine hook, she got
ready for the gentle art. A sardine from a sandwich made excellent bait,
at least the speckled beauties in that pool thought so as they rose to
it greedily.

"E--e-ee!" squealed Lucy, flopping an eight-inch trout out on the bank.
"I caught a fish! I caught a fish!"

"Oh, gimme a pin, please," begged the boys, so Lucy and Lil had to find
fish hooks for their cavaliers and more strings and in a short while all
of them were eagerly fishing.

"I never saw such tame fish in all my life," said Frank. "They are just
begging to be caught. It seems not very sporty to hook them in,
somehow."

"I didn't know there were any trout in these streams. Doctor Wright
says there used to be but the natives have about exterminated them. Gee,
there's a beaut!" and Skeeter flopped a mate to Lucy's catch out on the
grass.

"Let's stop fishing and fry these," he suggested, "I'm awfully hungry."

"Hungry! Oh, Skeeter! I'm right uneasy about you," teased Lil.

"Well, I never did think sandwiches were very filling. Somehow they
don't stick to your ribs. Come on, Frank, we can get a fire in no time."

"How can we fry anything without lard and a pan?"

"Oh, we won't fry, we'll broil."

"We, indeed!" sniffed Lucy. "You know mighty well, you boys, that when
cooking time comes, Lil and I'll have to do it. I know how to cook fish
without a pan--learned in Camp-Fire Girls. Just run a green switch
through the gills and lay it across on two pronged sticks stuck up on
each side of the fire. You go on and make the fire while Lil and I try
to catch some more fish. I wonder what Doctor Wright will say when we
tell him we caught game fish with a bent pin tied on lingerie ribbon. He
brought up all kinds of rods and reels and flies and whipped the streams
for miles around and never caught anything but Helen's veil."

The trout seemed to have become sophisticated when two of their number
had been caught and refused to be hooked any more with bent pins and
lingerie ribbon, although it was pink and very attractive. The fire went
out and Lucy and Lil had to try a hand at it before it could be
persuaded to burn.

"It looks to me like fire-making must be woman's work because they
certainly can do it better than us men," said Skeeter solemnly, and the
others laughed at him until Lil slipped into the water. Only one foot
got wet, however, so there was no harm done.

The fire finally burned and the two little fish, after being scaled and
cleaned, were strung across on a green wand. Of course the fire had not
been allowed to get to the proper state of red embers so the fish were
well smoked before they began to cook.

"Umm! They smell fine!" cried the famished Skeeter.

"They smell mighty like burnt fish to me," said Frank.

They tasted very like burnt fish, too, when they were finally taken from
their wand and the young folks drew up for the feast. They lacked salt
and were burnt at the tail and raw at the head, but Skeeter picked the
bones and pronounced them prime.

"I believe it's getting mighty late and we have not found Jude Hanford's
cabin yet. You stop stuffing now, Skeeter, and let's get along," said
Frank, gathering up the gunnysacks and guns.

"Do you think we had better cross this stream?"

"Sure, if we go back, it will just take us home. We won't dare show our
faces at camp unless we have at least the promise of some chickens and
roasting ears. I hope to carry back some in the gunnysacks."

"Of course we must go on," chorused the girls. "We are not one bit tired
and if we go on we are sure to come to Jude's cabin."

Go on they did, how far there was no telling. The path went down, down,
down, but led only to another spring. The boys shot some squirrels and
the girls found a vine laden with fox grapes.

"Let's get all we can carry so we can make some jelly. Helen was wishing
only the other day she had some. They make the best jelly going," said
Lucy, and so they pulled all they could reach and decided the ones that
hung too high would be sour.

"Do you know I believe it's most supper time--I'm getting powerful
empty," declared the insatiable Skeeter.

"Supper time! Nonsense! I betcher 'tain't three o'clock," and Frank
peered knowingly at the sun. "That mountain over yonder is so high,
that's the reason the sun is getting behind it. I betcher anything on
top of the mountain it is as light as midday."

"I do wish we could find Jude's cabin. This has been the longest walk
we ever have taken," sighed Lil. "Not that I am the least bit tired."
Lil was not quite so robust as Lucy, but wild horses would not drag from
her the admission that she could not keep up with her chum.

"Let's sit down a minute and rest," suggested Frank, "and kinder get our
bearings. I'm not sure but perhaps it would be less loony if we start
right off for home."

The sun had set for them and it was growing quite gloomy down in the
valley where the path had finally led them. Of course they well knew
that it was shining brightly on those who were so fortunate as to be on
the heights, but the thing is they were in the depths.

"All right, let's go home," agreed Skeeter. "We will strike them at
supper, I feel sure."

They retraced their steps, stopping occasionally to argue about the
trail. There seemed to be a great many more bypaths going up the
mountain than they had noticed going down.

"This is right. I know, because here is the fox grape vine we stripped
on the way down," cried Lucy, when there was more doubt than usual
about whether or not they were on the right road.

"Well, more have grown mighty fast," declared Skeeter. "Look, this is
still full."

"But we couldn't reach the high ones and decided like Brer Fox that they
were sour."

"Brer Fox, indeed! That wasn't Brer Fox but the one in Aesop," laughed
Lil.

"Well, he acted just like Brer Fox would have acted, anyhow, and I bet
Aesop got him from Uncle Remus. But see, Lil! This isn't the same vine.
We never could have skipped all these grapes. Only look what beauts!"

"We might just as well pick 'em," said Skeeter, suiting the action to
the word. "They might come in handy later on for eats if we can't find
our way home."

"Not find our way home!" scoffed Frank. "Why, home is just over the
mountain. All we have to do is keep straight up and go down on the other
side. These paths have mixed us up but the mountain is the same old
cove. He can't mix us up."




CHAPTER XV

BABES IN THE WOOD


The pull up that mountain was about the hardest one any of those young
people had ever had. As a rule Lil and Lucy required no help from the
boys, as they prided themselves upon being quite as active as any
members of the opposite sex, but now they were glad of the assistance
the boys shyly offered.

"Just catch on to my belt, Lil; I can pull you up and carry the grapes
and my gun, too," insisted Frank, while Skeeter made Lucy take hold of
his gun so he could help her.

"We are most to the top now," they encouraged the girls. Their way lay
over rocks and through brambles, as they had given up trying to keep to
a trail since the trails seemed to lead nowhere. They argued if they
could get to the top they could see where they were.

The top was reached, but, strange to say, it wasn't a top, after all,
but just an excrescence on the side of the mountain, a kind of a hump.
It led down sharply into a dimple covered with beautiful green grass,
and then towering up on the other side of this dimple was more and more
mountain.

"Well, ain't this the limit? I didn't know there was a place like this
on our mountain!" exclaimed Frank.

"Th'ain't! This is no more our mountain than I'm Josephus," said
Skeeter.

"Do you think we are lost?" asked Lil.

"Well, we are certainly not found," and Skeeter's young countenance took
on a very grim expression.

"Somebody please kick me, and then I'll feel better," groaned Frank.

"Why kick you? You didn't lose us; we lost ourselves," said Lucy.

"You just say that to keep me from feeling bad. I said all the time we
were on our own mountain and I was certainly the one to suggest our
climbing up to the top. I don't see how or when we managed to get in
this mix-up."

"You see, we were down at the foot of the mountain and we must have
spilled over on another one without knowing it. They so kinder run
together at the bottom," soothed Lucy.

Lil was so worn out after the climb that she could do no more than sink
to the ground; but she smiled bravely at poor self-accusing Frank as she
gasped out:

"What a grand, romantic spot to play 'Babes in the Wood'! I bid to be a
babe and let you boys be the robins."

"In my opinion it is nobody's fault that we have got lost, but lost we
are. Of course Frank and I ought to have had more sense, but we didn't
have it, and I reckon what we ain't got ain't our fault.--But if it
wasn't our fault for losing you girls, it is sure up to us to get you
home again and now we had better set to it somehow."

Skeeter deposited his gunnysack of squirrels beside the one of grapes
and threw himself down beside Lil on the green, green grass of the
unexpected dimple.

"Well, Lil and I are not blaming you. If we haven't got as much sense as
you boys, I dare one of you to say so. We could have told we were
getting lost just as much as either one of you, and it is no more your
business to get us home than it is our business to get you home, is it,
Lil?"

"I--I--reckon not," faltered Lil; "but I've got to rest a while before I
can get myself or anybody else home." Poor Lil! She was about all in but
she kept up a brave smile.

"There must be water here or this grass would not be so pizen green in
August," said Skeeter. "Let's go find the spring first, Frank." The boys
wanted to get off together to discuss ways and means and hold a council
of war.

"Say, Skeeter, what are we going to do?" asked Frank, as they made for a
pile of rocks down in the middle of the dimple, where it seemed likely a
spring might be hidden.

"Darnifiknow!"

"Do you know it's 'most night? I thought when we got to the top there
would be lots of light, but all the time we were coming up the sun was
going down, and blamed if it hasn't set now."

"Yes, and no moon until 'most morning. What will Miss Douglas and Miss
Helen say to us?"

"I'm not worrying about what they will say, but what will they think? I
am afraid Lil can't take another step tonight. She is game as game, but
she is just about flopped."

"We might make a basket of our hands and carry her thataway," suggested
Skeeter.

"Yes, we might! Lil is not so big but she is no dollbaby, and I don't
believe we could pack her a mile if our lives depended on it."

"Well, what will we do? Can you think of anything?"

"Well, I think that one of us must stay with the girls and the other one
go snooping around to try to find somebody, a house, or something. You
stay with them and I'll go. I bid to!"

"All--right!"

But Skeeter did think, considering he was at least two months older than
Frank and at least three inches taller, that he should be the one to go
the front. The rôle of home guard did not appeal to him much, but when a
fellow says "he bids to," that settles it.

The spring was found down low between the rocks--such a clear, clean
spring that even the greatest germ fearer would not hesitate to drink of
its waters.

"Look, there's a little path leading from the other side! It must go
somewhere!" cried Frank.

"Yes, it must go somewhere just as all the trails we have followed today
must--but where? Don't tell me about paths! They are frauds, delusions
and snares. I reckon there won't be any supper for us tonight, so I
might just as well fill up on water," and Skeeter stooped and drank
until his chum became alarmed. Skeeter's capacity was surely miraculous.

"Let's not tell the girls we might not be able to get back before night.
It might get them upset," cautioned Frank.

They reckoned without their host, however, in this matter. When the boys
returned to the forlorn damsels bearing a can of water for their
refreshment, the can having been discovered by the spring, they found
them not forlorn at all. They had spunked up each other and now were
almost lively. Lil was tired and pale and Lucy had a rather bedraggled
look, but they called out cheerily:

"What ho, brave knights!"

"Listen! Don't you hear a strange sound, kind of like music without a
tune?" said Lucy.

There was a sound, certainly. It might be the wind in the pines and it
might be a giant fly buzzing in a flower that had closed its doors for
the night.

"It is coming closer," cried Lil. "Maybe it is the bold brigands who are
to bear us off to captivity in their mountain fastnesses. I tell you, if
they want me they will have to bear me. I can't hobble."

Just then there came through the scrub growth on the opposite side
of the green dimple where our young people had made their temporary
abiding place, a strange figure. It was a tall, lean young man dressed
in a coat of many colors, a shirt that seemed to be made of patches, no
two patches of the same color and none of them matching the original
color of the shirt, which was of a vivid blue. His trousers were of
bright pink calico, the kind you see on the shelves of country stores
and that is usually spoken of as "candy pink." His head was bare; his
hair long and yellow. A large tin bucket was hung on his arm while he
diligently played a jew's-harp.

The effect of this strange figure was so weird as it appeared through
the gathering twilight that the girls could hardly hold in the screams
that were in their throats. They controlled them, however, so that they
only came out as faint giggles.

The music of the jew's-harp can be very eyrie in broad daylight when
made by an ordinary human being; but just at dusk in a mountain fastness
when four young persons have decided they are lost and may have to spend
the night in the woods, this music, coming from such a strange, motley
figure, seemed positively grewsome.

"Speak to it!" gasped Lucy.

      "'Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!
      Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned,
      Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
      Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,
      Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,
      That I will speak to thee,'"

spouted Skeeter.

The youth stood still in his path but went on with his weird near-tune.
Skeeter approached him and the others followed, although poor Lil found
herself limping painfully.

"Please, we are lost!"

"Oh, no, not lost, for I have found you uns. We uns is always findin'."
His voice had an indescribable softness and gentleness and his blue eyes
a far-away look as though he lived in some other world. "Only t'other
day we uns 'most found a great bird floating in the sky, but it flew
away. We uns thought at first it was lost but it wasn't. If it had a
been lost, we uns would have found it. A great big bird, bigger'n a
bald-headed eagle, bigger'n a buzzard."

"Now that you have found us, what are you going to do with us?" asked
Lil.

"Oh, what we uns finds, we uns hides ag'in. Thar's a hole in the
mounting whar we uns puts things."

"Uhhh--a brigand, sure enough!" whispered Lucy.

"But you wouldn't put us there, because we are alive. You have a home
somewhere near here, haven't you?" asked Frank. But the half-witted
fellow shook his head sadly.

"We uns ain't got no mo' home since they came and found my maw--they
came and found her and hid her in the ground. We uns must have lost her
and never can find her--but there are lots of other things to find," and
his blue eyes that had looked all clouded at the sad thought of never
finding his mother, now began to sparkle. "Only this evening we uns
found the prettiest light in the sky--it's gone now--gone--before we
uns could hide it in the hole, but we uns will find another."

"Where do you live?"

Skeeter asked it gently.

"Oh, we uns lives with the spring-keeper."

"The spring-keeper! Who is he?"

"Oh, we uns found him when they took my maw! He is a little daffy--that
is what folks say, but we uns can't see but he is as smart as them what
laughs at him."

The young people were quite aghast at the news that the person with whom
this strange being lived was considered daffy. The boys had their doubts
about the advantage of asking shelter in a house where two crazy people
lived, but perhaps the spring-keeper was not crazy, after all. This
young man certainly seemed harmless enough, and perhaps he could show
them the way to Greendale.

"Does the spring-keeper live far from here?" asked Lil.

"Oh, no, just round the mounting. We uns will show you uns the way."

He filled his bucket at the crystal spring and then led the way along
the narrow path.

"Who taught you to play the jew's-harp?" asked Lucy.

"Nobody! We uns just makes the music we uns finds in the trees. We uns
can make the tune the bee tree makes, too. We uns can do so many things.
We uns made these pants and every day we uns sews a pretty new color on
this shirt. The spring-keeper fetches pretty cloth from the store and
sometimes we uns sews quilts. Look, thar's the place whar the
spring-keeper lives when he ain't a-tendin' to his business."

"What is his business?" asked Frank.

"We uns done told you he's a spring-keeper. Be you uns daffy, too?"

That made them all laugh, and then the guide laughed too, delightedly.

"Now we uns is found some happiness!" he exclaimed. "The spring-keeper
says that is all that's worth finding. He says he has found it but he
never laughs like that. He just smiles but never makes no music when
he's happy. But neither does the sunshine."

The cabin which they were approaching was different in a way from the
usual one found in the mountains. It was made of logs and had the
outline of the ordinary abode of the mountaineer, but a long porch went
along two sides and this porch was screened. Screening is something
almost unheard-of with the natives, although the flies abound in the
mountains as well as in the valleys. A little clearing around the cabin
was one great tangle of flowers: golden glow, love-in-the-mist, four
o'clocks, bachelor's buttons, zenias, asters, hollyhocks, sunflowers,
poppies, cornflowers, scarlet sage, roses and honeysuckles. Some greedy
bees were still buzzing around the roses, although the sun was down and
it was high time all laborers were knocking off for the night. There was
a light in the cabin which sent a very cheering message to the foot-sore
travelers--also an odor of cooking that appealed very strongly to all of
them but sent Skeeter off into an ecstasy of anticipation.

The guide put down his bucket of water and placing his jew's-harp to his
lips gave a kind of buzzing call. Immediately an old man came out of the
door.

"Is that you, Tom Tit?" It was such a kind, sweet voice that the four
were made sure they were right in coming to his abode.

"Yes, Spring-keeper, and we uns found something."

"I'll be bound you have! What is it this time? Another aeroplane or a
rainbow?"

"No, it is four laughs, look!"

The old man did look, and when he saw the wanderers, he hastened out to
make them welcome. Never was there a more charming manner than his. No
wonder the half-witted youth thought of the sunshine in connection with
his smile.

He was tall and stalwart, with a long gray beard that could only be
equalled by Santa Claus himself. His hair was silver white and his
cheeks as rosy as a girl would like to have hers. His eyes were gray and
so kind and twinkling that all fear of his being crazy was immediately
dispelled from the minds of our young people.

"They thought they were lost but they were wrong--we uns found 'em."

"Good work, Tom Tit! And now what are we to do with them?" he asked,
although he did not wait to find out what his poor companion had in his
befuddled mind but ushered them to the porch, where he made the girls
comfortable in steamer chairs and let the boys find seats for
themselves.

Their story was soon told and much was their amazement to learn that
they were more than ten miles from Greendale.

"You must have been walking all day in the wrong direction. No wonder
this poor little girl is limping. Now the first thing for us to do is to
have something to eat."

"Ahem!" from Skeeter.

The spring-keeper smiled.

"Ah, methinks thou hast a lean and hungry look."

"Hungry's not the word. Starving Belgium is nothing to me. I feel as
though I had had nothing to eat since yesterday."

"Oh, Skeeter! Think of all that lunch!" exclaimed Lil, lolling back
luxuriously in the steamer chair with grass cloth cushions tucked in
around her. "Why, Mr.--Mr.--Spring-keeper, he has done nothing but eat
all day!"

"We think it is very hard on you for all of us to come piling in on you
this way," said Lucy.

"Hard on us! Why, Tom Tit and I are so happy we hardly know what to do
to show it," said the old man kindly. "But you must excuse me while I go
prepare some food for you."

"But you must let us help!" from the girls, although Lil was rather
perfunctory in her offers of assistance. She felt as though nothing
short of dynamite could get her out of that chair.

"No, indeed! Tom Tit and I are famous cooks and we can get something
ready in short order."

"Please, sir," said Frank, who had been very quiet while the others were
telling their host of their adventures, "I--I--must not stop one moment
to eat or anything else. I want you to tell me how to find my way back
to Greendale so I can tell the people at the camp that Lucy and Lil are
all right. They were put in our charge, and I must let them know."

"Of course, I am going, too," put in Skeeter, "but I thought I might eat
first."

Everyone had to laugh at poor Skeeter's rueful countenance. The
spring-keeper smiled broadly, but he patted Frank on the back.

"Have you a telephone at camp?"

"Yes, we had to put one in."

"Well, then, we'll just 'phone them even before we begin to cook our
feast."

"'Phone! Have you a telephone here?" exclaimed Lucy.

"Yes, my dear young lady. I love the wildwood, but I have to know what's
going on in the world. A man who does not take the good the gods provide
him in the way of modern inventions is a fool. I may be a fool, but I'm
not that kind of a fool."

"Lucy, you had better do the 'phoning so they'll know you girls are
safe, first thing," suggested Frank.

"Yes, and it had better be done immediately," said their host. "Central
in the mountains goes to roost very early, and you might not get
connection. I'll call up Greendale and make them give me the camp."

Connection was got without much trouble and Lucy took the receiver.

"Hello! Is that Camp Carter? Well, this is me."

"Lucy! Is it you?" in Helen's distracted tones from the other end.

"Yes, it's me, and all of us are all right, but we are going to spend
the night out."

"Out where?"

"About ten miles from Greendale!"

"You mean outdoors?"

"Oh, no; with a spring-keeper!"

"A what? Oh, Lucy, are you crazy? We are so uneasy about all of you, we
are nearly wild! It's dark as can be and we are trying to keep it from
mother and father that you have not come home. Tell me where you are.
Speak distinctly and loudly and stop giggling." Of course the usual
giggles had rendered Lucy unable to speak.

"Here, Skeeter, come and tell her!" she gasped.

"Hello, Miss Helen! I'm Skeeter. The girls are all right. Yes, Frank and
I are, too. We got lost somehow and never did find Jude Hanford's, but
we found a kind gentleman who lives 'way over on another mountain and he
is going to feed us right now."

"Who is the gentleman?"

"Mr. Spring-keeper is his name."

"You can't get home somehow tonight?"

"No'm! Lil is mighty tired and will have to rest up some. We'll be home
tomorrow. You mustn't worry about the girls--they're all right and the
gentleman is bully. We'll tell you all about it when we see you. Say,
Miss Helen, the lunch was out of sight."

"You bet it was when once Skeeter got his hooks into it," muttered
Frank. "The supper will be, too, in no time."

"Well, good-bye, Skeeter! We are still trusting you and Frank to take
care of our girls and bring them back safely. I knew all the time you
were doing your best, although I was uneasy about all of you. I was
afraid you had shot each other or snakes had bitten you or something."

"Not on your life! We shot some squirrels and got you some fox grapes,
though. Good-bye! Good-bye!"

"I tell you, Miss Helen is a peach," he added to Frank, after he hung up
the receiver. "She is still trusting us."




CHAPTER XVI

TOM TIT


"I'm dying to know who he is and what he is," whispered Lil to Lucy, as
they tidied themselves up a bit in the neat little room to which the
gray-bearded host had shown them.

"So'm I! Did you ever see such a cute little room? It looks like a
stateroom on the steamboat. Do you reckon we will sleep in here?"

It was a tiny little room with one great window. Two bunks were built in
the wall opposite the window, one over the other. A little mirror hung
over a shelf whereon the girls found a white celluloid comb and brush,
spotlessly clean--indeed, the whole room was so clean that one doubted
its ever having been occupied. The floor was scrubbed until Lucy said
it reminded her of a well-kept kitchen table. A rag rug was the only
decoration the room boasted and that was a beautiful thing of brilliant
hue. The walls were whitewashed, also the doors, of which there were
two, one opening into the main room and the other one, the girls
fancied, into a cupboard.

"Ain't it grand we got lost?" from Lil, as she made a vain endeavor to
see her sunburned nose in the mirror that was hung so high she was sure
Mr. Spring-keeper had never had a female visitor before, or if he had,
it had been a giantess.

"Hurry up! Your nose is all right.--Maybe we can help him some, and I'm
just dying to hear the story of his life. Do you reckon he will tell us
all about himself and poor Tom Tit without our pumping him? I believe he
is a king or something."

Whether the old gentleman were a king or not, he could certainly cook
a supper to a king's taste. Skeeter's nostrils were quivering with
anticipatory enjoyment as the lost ones took their seats around the
massive table in the comfortable living room.

"It looks like a room I saw at the movies last spring," Frank had said
to Skeeter, as they waited for the girls to finish dolling up. "That
one had a stone fireplace and furniture that looked just like this,
great big tables and chairs that must have been made out of solid oak
or walnut or something. The hero had fashioned them himself with a
jack-knife, I believe. The mantelpiece was high just like this one,
but there were skins spread on the floor instead of these rag rugs."

"It is a bully room, and, gee, what a good smell of eats."

The supper was a simple one, consisting of corn pone and buttermilk,
bacon and scrambled eggs.

"I am giving you exactly what Tom Tit and I were to have. I only tripled
the quantity," said their host, as they drew up the chairs to the great
table.

"Then we aren't so very much trouble?" asked Lil.

"Trouble! Why, my dear young lady, Tom Tit and I would not live on this
thoroughfare if we did not love visitors."

"Thoroughfare!" gasped Lucy. Maybe the old gentleman was daffy.

"Why, certainly! You don't know how many things happen in the mountains.
Someone is always turning up. Eh, Tom Tit?"

"Yes, indeed! We uns finds something every day. One time it was a baby
fox and one time it was a man in ugly striped pants."

"He means our convict. It was a poor fellow who had escaped from a road
gang and took refuge in the mountains and Tom Tit found him almost
starved to death. We fed him up until he could go back to work."

"You didn't give him up!" asked Frank, his eyes flashing.

"Oh, no; he gave himself up. I got him to tell me just exactly why he
was put in the penitentiary, and since his crime surely warranted some
punishment, I made him understand that the best thing for him to do was
go back to his road making and expiate his crime. That was much better
than being hounded for the rest of his time. What do you think about
it?"

"Y-e-s, you are right, but I'm glad you didn't give him up."

"Tom Tit and I go see him every now and then. Tom Tit feels sorry for
him because his trousers are so ugly. He likes to work and wouldn't mind
road-building a bit."

"When we uns digs, we uns finds so many things, but we uns couldn't wear
such ugly pants. Sometime we uns is a-goin' to make the poor sick man
some pretty pink ones like these," and he stood up to show his bright
pink trousers. They were strangely fashioned, looking rather like
Turkish trousers.

"Was the man sick?" asked Lucy, devoutly praying that a fit of the
giggles would not choke her.

"You see, Tom Tit and I think that when persons are what the world and
the law calls bad, they are really sick. Sometimes they are too sick to
be cured, but not often. It is the fault of the doctors and the system
and not theirs when they are not cured."

"Do you live here all the time?" asked Lil. She was dying of curiosity
about the strange pair who were so ill assorted and still so intimate.

"Tom Tit does, but I have to go away for a time every fall and winter
and Tom Tit keeps house for me while I am gone. He is a famous
housekeeper."

"Do you get lonesome all by yourself?" asked Lucy.

"We uns ain't never alone. There's the baby fox and the cow and the
chickens, and every day we uns tries to find something and then we uns
has to write it down for the spring-keeper 'ginst he comes home. Every
day we uns has to go to the post office for the letter, too, and that
takes time. The days in winter are so short."

"Oh, do you get a letter every day? How jolly! My mother doesn't write
to me but once a week," said Lil, "--although of course she 'phones me
in the meantime and sends me candy and things."

"We uns never does git letters from maw," and poor Tom Tit's eyes
clouded sadly. "Ever since the men came and found her and hid her in
that hole she ain't writ a line to poor Tom Tit."

"But you write to her every time you write to me, don't you, Tom Tit?"
and the old gentleman put a calming and kindly hand on the shoulder of
the trembling youth. It seemed that at every mention of mothers the
thought of his own mother came back to him and the agony he went through
with at the time of her death seized hold of him. The young people
learned later from their host, while Tom Tit was washing the supper
dishes, all about the poor boy's history.

"Tom Tit's mother was a very fine woman of an intelligence and character
that was remarkable even in these mountains where intelligence and
character are the rule rather than the exception. She had no education,
but the things she could accomplish without education were enough to
make the ones who have been educated blush to think how little they do
with it. She had evolved a philosophy of her own of such goodness and
serenity that to know her and talk with her was a privilege. She seemed
to me to be like these mountains, where she was born and where she
died. She had had trouble enough to break the spirit of any ordinary
mortal, but she said her spirit was eternal and could not be broken.

"Her husband was a very desperate character. Convicted of illicit
distilling, he was sentenced to serve a term in the penitentiary, but he
managed to escape and for one whole year he evaded the sheriff, hiding
in the mountains. Of course his wife had to go through the agony of this
long search. She told me she had never slept more than an hour at a time
while her husband was in hiding. That was the one thing she was bitter
over--that long hounding of her husband. She used to say if the
government had spent the money and energy in educating the mountaineers
that they had in hunting for them, there would have been no cause for
hunting for them. Moonshining is to them a perfectly reasonable and
lawful industry, and nothing but education can make them see it
differently. His hiding place was finally ferreted out and he was
surrounded and captured, but not before he had managed to shoot five
men, killing two of them and being fatally wounded himself.

"That was many years ago when Tom Tit was a little chap of three.
Melissa, the mother, was wrapped up in the child. His intelligence then
was keen and his love of Nature and beautiful things was so pronounced
from the beginning that if this cloud had not come over his intellect he
would surely have been a great artist of some kind, whether poet,
painter or musician, I can't say."

"Perhaps all of them, like Leonardo da Vinci!" exclaimed Lil, who always
did know things.

The old gentleman smiled at her appreciatively.

"What is an artist but a person who finds things, just like my poor Tom
Tit, and then is able to tell to the world what he has found?"

"When he writes to you, does he tell you things in poetical language?"
asked Lucy, her gray eyes very teary as she listened to the story of the
mountain youth.

"My dear, his writing is not ordinary writing. He can neither read nor
write as you think of it. His letters to me are written in another way.
He tells me what he has found each day with some kind of rude drawing or
with some device of his own."

"Please show us some of them!" begged all four of the guests.

"I am going to let you guess what he meant." He took from his desk in
the corner a packet of large envelopes. "I leave with my friend enough
addressed and stamped envelopes to run him until I return, and all he
has to do is put in his letter and seal it and drop it in the box at
Bear Hollow, our post office. Sometimes he draws me a picture and
sometimes he just sends me something he has found. What do you think
he intended to convey by this?"

On a sheet of paper were drawn many stars of various kinds and sizes,
and down in the corner was what was certainly meant for an axe.

"Clear night and going coon hunting, I think," said Skeeter solemnly.

"No!" cried Lucy and Lil in a breath. "Those are meant for snow flakes!
It has begun to snow!"

"Right you are! Good girls, go up head! And how about the axe, since it
is not meant to signify coon hunting?"

"It is going to be cold," suggested the practical Frank, "and he must go
to work and lay in wood before the snow gets deep."

"Fine! I am glad to see there are others who can interpret my poor Tom
Tit's letters. Now this is the one I received the next day."

It was evidently meant for a deep snow. The roof of a house and a few
bare branches were shown but from the chimney a column of smoke ascended
and in that smoke was plainly drawn a grin: a mouth with teeth.

"Snowed under!" cried Skeeter.

"But he got his wood cut and is now sitting by the fire quite happy,
even grinning," declared Lucy.

"Right again! Now comes a piece of holly and a pressed violet. That
means that he finds a little belated violet in our flower beds in spite
of the fact that the holly is king at this season. Sometimes he has so
much to tell me that he must make many pictures. Here he found a sunset
and it was so beautiful that he had to paint it with his colored
crayons. This is where he fed the birds during the deep snow. He has a
trough where he puts grain and seeds and crumbs for his winged friends.
This is a picture of the trough and see the flocks of birds he has tried
to draw to show how many are fed in his trough. This means a stranger
has come in on him!" It was a picture of a hat and staff and down one
side of the page were many drops of water, at least that was what the
interested audience thought they were. At the top was an eye.

"Oh, I know!" exclaimed Lil. "If a hat and staff mean a stranger, those
drops of water must mean rain."

"The eye looks like a Mormon sign," suggested Skeeter.

"I bet it means this," said Lil, studying the page intently. "It means
the stranger is old, or he would not have a staff, and it means he is
unhappy. Those drops are tear drops. See how sad the eye looks!"

"'Oh, a Daniel come to judgment!' Young lady, you are right. That was a
tired, sick traveler that our Tom Tit found and brought in and looked
after for two weeks last winter. He was trying to cross the mountains
and got lost and Tom Tit picked him up, almost starved and frozen. In
this one, he shows the sick guest is still with him and in bed. He
cannot draw faces well and hates to make anything too grotesque, so he
usually has a sign or symbol for persons. The staff and hat in bed mean
the guest is there. These little saddle-bags and hat mean he had to send
for the doctor. Look at the medicine the poor staff and hat must take
from the cruel saddle-bags! His own symbol is usually a jew's-harp,
although sometimes he makes himself a kind of butterfly----"

"Just like Whistler!" cried Lil.

"Yes, and in his way he is as great an artist as Whistler," said the
old man sadly. "If he had only had his chance! Well, well! Maybe he
is happier as he is. I never saw a happier person, as a rule, than my
poor boy. Tom Tit could never have written letters that would have
been put in a book and called 'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies,' as
that other great artist did. He makes friends with every living thing,
and inanimate objects are friendly to him, too, I sometimes think. If
his wits had been spared him, the world would have called him and the
peace of the mountains would no longer have been his."

The old man fingered the packet of letters tenderly while the young
guests sat thoughtfully by. They could hear the cheerful Tom Tit in
the kitchen washing dishes and whistling a strange crooning melody.

"Here it is spring and he has found the first hepatica. See, he sends me
a pressed one! And this is my love letter. What do you make of it?"

It was six little stamped envelopes, all with wings, and in the corner
was a jew's-harp unmistakably dancing a jig.

"I know! I know!" cried Lucy.

"So do I!" from Lil.

"I can't see any kind of sense in it!" pondered Frank.

"Nor I," grumbled Skeeter. "You girls just make up answers."

"I'm going to whisper my answer to Mr. Spring-keeper," suggested Lil.

The old man smiled as Lil whispered her answer.

"Good! Splendid! And now what do you think?" turning to Lucy.

"I think that he has only six envelopes left, and that means you will be
back in six days. He is so happy he is dancing and he is so busy the
days are just flying away."

"Well, if you girls aren't clever! No wonder they say women are the most
appreciative sex although men are the creative. A few men create while
all women appreciate. And now, my dear young people, this is so pleasant
for me that I am afraid of being selfish, so I am going to insist on
your going to bed. You have had a hard day and must be tired."

"We have had a wonderful day with a wonderful en----" said Lil, a yawn
hitting her midway so she could not get out the "ding."

"But I hate to go to bed until you tell us something about yourself,"
blurted out Skeeter.

The story of the half-witted young mountaineer was very interesting, no
doubt, but Skeeter wanted to know why this highly educated gentleman was
spending so much time in the mountains, cooking for himself and taking
care of lost sheep.

"Oh, my story is such an ordinary one I can tell it while I light a
candle for these young ladies," laughed their host, not at all angry
at Skeeter's curiosity, although Lil and Lucy were half dead of
embarrassment when Skeeter came out so flat-footed with the question
which was almost bubbling over on their lips, but which they felt they
must not put.

"I am a successful manufacturer---- I have made enough money selling
clothes pins and ironing boards and butter tubs to stop. In fact, I
stopped many years ago and now I do nothing but enjoy myself in my own
way."

"And that way is----?"

"Trying to help a little. In the winter I live in New York and teach the
boys' clubs on the East Side, and in the summer I am spring-keeper in
the mountains."

"But isn't your name Mr. Spring-keeper?" asked Lil.

"No, my dear, spring-keeping is my occupation. My name is Walter McRae.
Here is your candle, and pleasant dreams."

"Won't you tell us some more about yourself?" asked Lucy as she took the
candle from him.

"Another time! Anything so dry as my story will keep."




CHAPTER XVII

THE SPRING-KEEPER


"Isn't this grand?" were the last words both of our girls uttered
as they rolled into the bunks that had been made up with fresh,
lavender-scented linen. The brigands had captured them certainly and
their adventure was complete. The boys were sleeping on the porch in
hammocks. Mr. McRae always slept on the porch unless weather drove him
in, and Tom Tit had a little room that he loved, where he kept his
treasures, all those he did not put in the hole in the mountain.

Dawn found the babes in the wood much refreshed. The boys were up and
out early, helping Tom Tit milk the cow and chop wood. Mr. McRae had
started the cooking of breakfast when Lucy and Lil appeared.

"We are so ashamed to be late but we almost slept our heads off," they
apologized. "Now let us help!"

"All right, set the table and skim the milk and get the butter out of
the dairy." The dairy was a cave dug in the side of the mountain where
all their food was kept cool in summer and warm in winter. "We shall
breakfast on the porch."

The girls made all haste and set the table with great care.

"Let's get him to tell us all about himself this morning," whispered
Lucy. "I'm dying to hear about him. Isn't he romantic?"

"I'm crazy about him. Don't you reckon he'll go to the camp with us? Nan
would be wild over him."

"Yes, but he's ours. We certainly found him."

"You sound like Tom Tit," laughed Lil.

"I hope the people at the camp won't laugh at poor Tom Tit," said Lucy.
"If we could only get there a little ahead and prepare them for his pink
pants."

She need not have worried, as the wise Mr. McRae knew how to manage Tom
Tit so that he discarded his pink pants when he was to go among
strangers.

"Now, Tom Tit, we must hurry with all of our duties so we can make an
early start to walk home with our guests; and we must put on our
corduroys for such a long tramp, as the brambles might tear your lovely
new trousers."

So poor Tom Tit did the outside chores with the help of the boys, while
the girls assisted Mr. McRae in the house.

Having breakfasted a little after dawn, by seven o'clock they were ready
for their ten mile tramp back to the camp. The boys shouldered their
guns and the sacks of fox grapes and squirrels. Mr. McRae took with him
a small spade while Tom Tit carried a hoe.

"I can't help thinking both of them are a bit loony," Skeeter whispered
to Lucy. "Why on earth do they want to carry garden tools on a ten mile
tramp?"

"Loony yourself! I reckon they want to dig something."

The old gentleman, as though divining Skeeter's thoughts, remarked:

"Tom Tit and I have a little duty to attend to today, so we are taking
our implements. There are several springs I have not been able to visit
this summer and I am going to combine duty with pleasure and look after
them today."

"Look after springs! What for?" from Skeeter.

"I thought I told you that I am a spring-keeper. Perhaps you don't know
what a spring-keeper is."

"N--o! Not exactly!" said Skeeter.

"Well, every country child knows that in every spring there is or should
be a spring-keeper to keep the water clear. It is a kind of crawfish.
It may be a superstition that he really does purify water. At any rate,
it is a pleasing idea that he can. Whether he can or not, I know I can
help a great deal by digging out of the springs the old dead roots and
vegetable matter that decays there, so my self-appointed job is to keep
the springs of Albemarle county in condition. I am sure I have saved
many families from typhoid in the last years. That is something.

"I was born in the mountains, born in a cabin that stands just where the
one I live in now stands, in fact the chimney is the same one that has
always been there, but the house is new. When I was a mere lad, about
twelve years old, there was a terrible epidemic of typhoid fever in the
mountains. My whole family was wiped out by it, my father, mother and
two sisters dying of it. I just did escape with my life and was nursed
back to health by Tom Tit's granny, as good a woman as ever lived.
Afterwards, having no home ties, I drifted to the city where I was
successful financially. We of the mountains had not known in the old
days what caused typhoid, but afterwards, when I learned it was the
water we drank, I determined to come back to my county whenever I could
and make some endeavor to better the conditions. Would God that I might
have been sooner! My poor boy had an attack of the dread disease just
the year before I got my affairs in condition to leave New York, and
that is what caused his brain trouble."

Tom Tit was ahead of the party, gazing up into the air as his old friend
spoke. He had a rapt expression on his face that made him for the moment
look like Guido Reni's Christ.

"Sometimes," continued the old man, "in typhoid, the temperature is so
high that certain brain tissue seems to be burned out. I am afraid that
is what has happened to my boy."

"All of us have been inoculated against typhoid," said Lucy. "Dr. Wright
insisted on it--every member of the family. Helen kicked like a steer
but she had to do it, too."

"Well named, well named, that young doctor! I try to get the friends in
the mountains to submit to it, too, but it is a difficult matter. I keep
the virus on hand all the time, a fresh supply. If I can't persuade them
to let me give them the treatment, I can at least keep their springs
clean for them. Sometimes they even object to that," he laughed, "but
they can't help it, as I do it without their leave. They say I take all
the taste out of the water."

Their way lay around the mountain instead of over it, the course they
had taken the day before, and much to the amazement of the young people,
they went to the left instead of to the right.

"But Greendale is that way!" declared Frank, pointing to the east.

"Greendale is really due north of us, but I thought you wanted to go by
Jude Hanford's cabin to do your errand. We could go either way to the
camp from here, but if we go east, we will miss Jude."

"Well, if that doesn't beat all!" exclaimed Frank.

Mr. McRae laughed. "What would you have done last night if Tom Tit had
not found you and brought you home?"

"I was going to lie right down and let the robins cover me up," said
Lil.

"I was going to climb the highest tree and look out and see if I could
spy a light, like the cock in the 'Musicians of Bremen,'" said Lucy.

"I was going to follow the path from the spring," said Frank. "I felt
sure from the cleanliness of the spring that we were near some house."

"And I was going to build a fire and skin the squirrels and have
supper," declared Skeeter. "I was just about famished and I knew that
food was what Lil and Lucy needed to put heart in them."

"Yes, it wouldn't!" laughed Lil. "Much good burnt squirrel without any
salt would do a bruised heel. That was all that was the matter with me."

That ten miles back to the camp seemed much shorter than it had the day
before, and in fact it was, as they made no digressions on the homeward
trip.

"We must really have walked twenty miles yesterday. Just think how many
times we doubled on our tracks," said Frank when they finally came to a
familiar spot.

They found Jude Hanford's yard running over with frying-sized chickens
and on his door step a water bucket full of eggs all ready to take to
the store. Of course he was pleased to sell them without having to take
off the commission for the middleman. He joined their procession, with
his eggs and three dozen chickens distributed among the bearers.




CHAPTER XVIII

MORE FINDS


"Look!" exclaimed Lucy as they neared the camp. "Mr. Smith is flying
this morning. I wonder who is with him. He hasn't taken me yet but he
promised to today. Please don't tell mother. She would be terribly
alarmed at the prospect."

"Oh, there's my bird!" and Tom Tit dropped his hoe and the basket of
chickens he was carrying and clasped his hands in an ecstasy of delight.
"See, see, how it floats! I have found it again! I have found it again!"

"Tom Tit, would you like to fly with that great bird?" asked Lucy
gently.

"Fly? Oh, I always dream I can fly! Can I really fly?"

"Yes, Tom Tit, if you want to I will give you my place. The birdman
promised to take me today and I will get him to take you instead."

Tom Tit looked wonderingly and trustingly at Lucy. Mr. McRae smiled his
approval.

"It will be an experience my boy will remember all his life."

"Spending the night at your home will be one we will remember always,
too. It beat flying," and all of the wanderers agreed with her.

Mr. Tom Smith was perfectly willing to take Tom Tit on a flight if he
promised to sit still, which of course he did. The aeroplane was a great
astonishment to him and the fact that the birdman could leave the bird
and talk and walk filled him with awe.

"We uns ain't never seen buzzards and eagles git out'n their wings, but
then we uns ain't never been so clost to the big ones, the ones that
sails way up in the clouds."

When they landed after a rather longer flight than Tom Smith usually
took the would-be flyers, Tom Tit's expression was that of one who has
glimpsed the infinite. He said not a word for a moment after he found
himself once more on terra firma, and then he turned to his old friend
and whispered:

"Oh, Spring-keeper, I have found so many things that I'll never be sad
again."

The Carters, of course, gave Mr. McRae a warm welcome. They could not do
enough to express their gratitude for his kindness and hospitality to
their young people. Mrs. Carter was graciousness itself to the old man,
but looked rather askance at the queer figure of his companion. I wonder
what she would have thought had she seen his pink calico trousers and
his patched shirt that he considered so beautiful. Bobby, however, was
drawn to him immediately and treated him just as though he had been
another little boy who had come to see him. He took his new friend to
see all of his bird houses and water wheels, and Tom Tit followed him
about with adoration in his eyes.

"We uns kin talk like you uns when we uns remembers," said Bobby.

"We uns would like to talk like Spring-keeper but always forgits,"
sighed Tom Tit. "Spring-keeper used to talk just like we uns when he
was little but he's got larnin' now."

"We uns don't never want no larnin'," declared Bobby. "'Tain't no use.
Josh wants to git larnin', too, but when he does he ain't goin' to be my
bes' frien' no mo'. I'm a-goin' to be you bes' frien' then; I mean, we
uns is."

"What's a bes' frien'? We uns ain't never found one."

"Oh, a bes' frien' is somebody you likes to be with all the time."

"Oh, then Spring-keeper is a bes' frien'."

"But he is an old man. A bes' frien' must be young."

"Then we uns'll have to take the baby fox. Will that do?"

"Oh, yes, that'll do if'n they ain't no boys around."

"We uns will keep the baby fox for one of them things until Josh gits
larnin' and then you kin be it," and Tom Tit laughed for joy.

"Is you uns ever flew?" Tom Tit asked Bobby.

"No--my mother is so skittish like, she ain't never let me. She's 'bout
one of the scaredest ladies they is."

"We uns' maw is done flew away herself and she didn't mind when we uns
went a bit. We uns useter think that when the men found maw they took
her and hid her in a hole in the ground. Spring-keeper done tole me
lots of times that she wasn't in the ground but had flew up to heaven,
but we uns ain't never seed no one fly, so we uns just thought he was
a foolin'. And you see," he whispered, "Spring-keeper is kinder daffy
sometimes, so the folks say, and we uns has to humor him. But now--but
now--we uns done flewed away up in the air. If we uns kin fly, why maw
kin do it, too. She ain't in a hole in the ground no mo'. We uns
almost saw her flyin' way up over the mountain tops."

"I'm--I mean we uns is a-goin' to come to see you. My father is goin' to
take me there some day. Kin you play on the Victrola?"

"No--we uns ain't never seed one. What is it?"

"Why, it makes music."

"Oh, we uns kin play the jew's-harp."

"Gee! I wish I could--I mean we uns wishes we uns could. If you show me
how to play the jew's-harp, I'll show you how to play the Victrola. Come
on, I'll show you first while th'ain't nobody in the pavilion. You see,
my sisters is some bossy an' they's always sayin' I scratch the records
an' won't never let me play it by myself, but they is about the bossiest
ever. I ain't a-goin' to hurt the old records."

Tom Tit looked at the Victrola with wondering eyes while Bobby wound it
up. He had seen a small organ once and the postmistress at Bear Hollow
had a piano, but this musical instrument was strange indeed.

"I'm a-gonter leave the record on that Helen's been a-playin'. I don't
know what it is. I can't read good yet but I reckon it's something
pretty."

It was Zimbalist playing the "Humoresque." Fancy the effect of such
a wonderful combination of sounds breaking for the first time on the
sensitive ears of this mountain youth. He had heard music in the wind
and music in the water; the birds had sung to him and the beasts had
talked to him; but what was this? He stood like one enchanted, his hands
clasped and his lips parted. At one point in the music when the great
artist was evidently putting his whole soul in it, Tom Tit began to sob.
Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Why, what's the matter? Don't you like it? I'll put a ragtime piece
on," cried Bobby, abruptly stopping the machine with a scraping sound
that certainly proved he was a great scratcher of records.

"Oh, now it's lost! It's lost! We uns thought we uns had found something
beautiful. Where has it gone?"

"Did you like it then? What made you bawl?"

"We uns has to cry when we uns finds something beautiful sometimes. We
uns cries a little when the sun sets but it is tears of happiness. Can
you uns play that again?"

"Sure!" and Bobby started up the "Humoresque" again and this time Tom
Tit dried his eyes and stood with a smile on his face.

"Oh, Spring-keeper!" he cried when Mr. McRae came hunting him, "we uns
has found something more beautiful than sunsets and flowers--prettier
than birds--prettier than pink--prettier than blue or yellow. It shines
like dew and tastes like honey--Oh, Spring-keeper, listen!"

"Yes, my boy, it is beautiful. And now I think you have found enough
things for today and we must go home."

"Go home and leave this!" and Tom Tit embraced the Victrola. "We uns
can't leave it."

"Listen, my boy! I will get one for you. I don't know why I never
thought of it before. Within a week you shall have one all your own and
play it as much as you choose."

Of course Bobby had to be instructed in the rudiments of jew's-harp
playing first, according to agreement, and then with many expressions
of mutual regard our young people parted from the spring-keeper and
Tom Tit.




CHAPTER XIX

A DISCUSSION


August was over and our girls were not sorry. The camp had been like an
ant hill all during that month of holidays. Not that it had been a month
of holidays for the Carters, far from it. There had been times when they
did not see how they could accomplish the work they had undertaken. They
were two hands short almost all of the month which made the work fall
very heavily on the ones who were left. Gwen was taken up with Aunt
Mandy, the kind old mountain woman who had been so good to the little
English orphan. Now that Aunt Mandy was ill, Gwen felt it her duty to be
with her day and night. Susan was so busy waiting on Mrs. Carter that
she never had time for her regular duties in the kitchen.

Lewis and Bill were terribly missed. They had done so many things for
the campers, had been so strong and willing and untiring in their
service that the girls felt the place could hardly be run without them.
Skeeter and Frank did all they could but they were but slips of lads
after all and there were many things where a man's strength was
necessary.

Mr. Carter was glad to help when he was called on, but he did not seem
to see the things that were to be done without having them pointed out.
When there was much of a crowd he rather shrank from the noise and the
girls felt they must not let him be made nervous by the confusion. Of
course there was much confusion when twenty and more boarders would
arrive at once, have to be hauled up the mountain and assigned tent
room and then as Oscar would say, "have to be filled up." The girls
would do much giggling and screaming; the young men would laugh a
great deal louder than their jokes warranted, and the boys seemed to
think that camp was a place especially designed for practical jokes.

It was a common thing to hear shrieks from the tents when the crowd
was finally made to retire by the chaperone, and then the cry, "Ouch!
Chestnut burrs in my bed!" Once it was a lemon meringue pie, brought all
the way from Richmond by an inveterate joker who felt that a certain
youth was too full of himself and needed taking down a peg! Now there is
nothing much better than a lemon meringue pie taken internally, but of
all the squashy abominations to find in one's bed and to have applied
externally, a lemon meringue pie is the worst.

It was as a censor of practical jokes that Douglas and Helen missed the
young soldiers most. They had been wont to stand just so much and no
more from the wild Indians who came to Camp Carter for the week-end, and
now that there was no one to reach forth a restraining hand, there was
no limit to the pranks that were played.

Mrs. Carter felt that the job of chaperone for such a crowd was
certainly no sinecure. She complained quite bitterly of her duties.
After all, they consisted of having the new-comers introduced to her
and of presiding at supper and of staying in the pavilion until bed
time. Miss Elizabeth Somerville had made nothing of it, and one
memorable night when there was too much racket going on from the tents
the boys occupied, she had arisen from her bed in the cabin and, wrapped
in a dressing gown and armed with an umbrella, had marched to the seat
of war and very effectively quelled the riot by laying about her with
said umbrella.

The girls looked back on her reign, regretting that it was over. It was
lovely to have their mother with them again but she was quite different
from the mother they had known in Richmond in the luxurious days. That
mother had always been gentle while this one had a little sharp note to
her voice that was strange to them. It was most noticeable when she had
expressed some desire that was not immediately gratified.

"I am quite tired of chicken," she said to Douglas one day. "I wish you
would order some sweetbreads for me. I need building up. This rough
life is very hard on me and nothing but my being very unselfish and
devoted makes me put up with it."

"Yes, mother! I am sorry, but my order for this week is in the mail and
I could not change it now, but I will send a special order for some
Texas sweetbreads to Charlottesville. I have no doubt I can get them
there."

Either the order or the sweetbreads went astray. Mrs. Carter refused to
eat any dinner in consequence and sulked a whole day.

"If she only doesn't complain to father we can stand it," Douglas
confided to Nan. "What are we going to do, Nan? I am so afraid she will
make father feel he must go back to work, and then all the good of the
rest will be done away with. She treats me, somehow, as though it were
all my fault."

"Oh no, honey, you mustn't feel that way. Poor little mumsy is just
spoiled to death and does not know how to adapt herself to this change
of fortune."

"You see, Nan, now that Mr. Lane has had to go to Texas with the
militia the business is at a standstill. He was trying to fill the
orders they had on their books without father's help."

"Yes, Mr. Tucker said that father's business was a one man affair and
when that one man, father, was out of the running there was nothing to
do about it. Thank goodness, father is not worrying about things
himself."

"I know we should be thankful, but somehow his not worrying makes it
just so much more dreadful. I feel that he is even more different than
mother. It is an awful problem--what to do."

"What's a problem?" asked Helen, coming suddenly into the tent where her
sisters were engaged in the above conversation.

"Oh, just--just--nothing much!" faltered Douglas.

"Now that's a nice way to treat a partner. You and Nan are always
getting off and whispering together and not letting me in on it. What's
worrying you?"

"The situation!"

"Political or climatic?"

"Carteratic!" drawled Nan. "We were talking about mother and father."

"What about them? Is father worse?" Helen was ever on the alert when her
father's well-being was in question.

"No, he is better in some ways, but unless he is kept free from worry he
will never be well," said Douglas solemnly.

She had not broached the subject of money with Helen since the question
of White Sulphur had been discussed by them, feeling that Helen would
not or could not understand.

"Who's going to worry him? Not I!"

"Of course not you. Just the lack of money is going to worry him, and he
is going to feel the lack of it if mother wants things and can't have
them."

"Why don't you let her have them?"

"How can I? I haven't the wherewithal any more than you."

"I thought we were making money."

"So we are, but not any great amount. I think it is wonderful that we
have been able to support ourselves and put anything in the bank. I had
to draw out almost all of our earnings to pay for the things mother
bought in New York, not that I wasn't glad to do it, but that means we
have not so much to go on for the winter."

"Oh, for goodness' sake don't be worrying about the winter now! Mother
says our credit is so good we need not worry a bit."

Douglas and Nan looked at each other sadly. Douglas turned away with a
"what's the use" expression. Helen looked a little defiant as she saw
her sister's distress.

"See here, Helen!" and this time Nan did not drawl. Helen realized her
little sister was going to say something she must listen to. "You have
got a whole lot of sense but you have got a whole lot to learn. I know
you are going to laugh at me for saying you have got to learn a lot that
I, who am two years younger than you, already know. You have got to
learn that our poor little mumsy's judgment is not worth that," and Nan
snapped her finger.

"Nan! You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Well, I am ashamed of myself, but I am telling the truth. I don't see
the use in pretending any more about it. I love her just as much, but
anyone with half an eye can see it. I think what we must do is to face
it and then tactfully manage her."

Douglas and Helen could not help laughing at Nan.

"You see," she continued, "it is up to us to support the family somehow
and make mumsy comfortable and keep her from telling father that she
hasn't got all she wants. Of course she can't have all she wants, but
she can be warm and fed at least."

"But, Nan, it isn't up to you to support the family," said Douglas. "You
must go back to school, you and Lucy."

"Well, it is up to me to spend just as little money as possible and to
earn some if I can. I am not going to be a burden on you and Helen. You
needn't think it."

"We'll have the one hundred from the rent of the house and then Helen
and I shall have to find jobs. What, I don't know."

"Well, I, for one, can't find a job until I get some new clothes,"
declared Helen. "I haven't a thing that is not hopelessly out of style."

"Can't your last winter's suit be done over? Mine can."

"Now, Douglas, what's the use in going around looking like a frump? I
think we should all of us get some new clothes and then waltz in and get
good jobs on the strength of them. If I were employing girls I should
certainly choose the ones who look the best."

Douglas shook her head sadly. Helen was Helen and there was no making
her over. She would have to learn her lesson herself and there was no
teaching her.

"Dr. Wright says we must keep father out of the city this winter but we
need not be in the dead country. We can get a little house on the edge
of town so Nan and Lucy can go in to school. I think we can get along on
the rent from the house if you and I can make something besides."

When the question of where they were to live for the winter was broached
to Mrs. Carter, she was taken quite ill and had to stay in bed a whole
day.

"No one considers me at all," she whimpered to Nan, who had brought her
a tray with some tea and toast for her luncheon. "Just because you and
Douglas like the country you think it is all right. I am sure I shall
die in some nasty little frame cottage in the suburbs. It is ridiculous
that we cannot turn those wretched people out of my house and let me go
back and live in it again."

"But, mumsy," soothed Nan, "we are going to make you very comfortable
and we will find a pretty house and maybe it will be brick."

"But to dump me down in the suburbs when I have had to be away from
society for all these months as it is! I am sure if I could talk it over
with your father he would agree with me--but you girls even coerce me in
what I shall and shall not say to my own husband. I do not intend to
submit to it any longer."

"Oh, mother, please--please don't tell father. Dr. Wright says----"

"Don't tell me what Dr. Wright says! I am bored to death with what he
says. I know he has been kind but I can't see that our affairs must be
indefinitely directed by him. I will sleep a little now if you will let
me be quiet."




CHAPTER XX

DR. WRIGHT TO THE RESCUE


Nan went sadly off. What should she do? Dr. Wright was expected at the
camp that afternoon and she determined to speak to him and ask him once
more to interfere in the Carters' affairs. Even if the young physician
did bore her mother, it was necessary now for him to step in. If only
she would not carry out her threat of speaking to her husband!

Dr. Wright treated the matter quite seriously when Nan told him of the
mix-up.

"Certainly your father must not be worried. It is quite necessary that
he shall be kept out of the city for many months yet and no one must
talk money to him. Can't your mother see this?"

"She doesn't seem to."

"But Helen understands, surely!"

"I--I--think Helen thinks father is so much better that we can--we
can--kind of begin to spend again," faltered Nan, whose heart misgave
her, fearing she might be saying something to obstruct the course of
true love which her romantic little soul told her was going on between
Helen and Dr. Wright. At least she could not help seeing that he was
casting sheep's eyes at Helen, and that while Helen was not casting
them back at him she was certainly not averse to his attentions.

"Begin to spend again! Ye gods and little fishes! Why, if bills begin to
be showered in again on Robert Carter I will not answer for his reason.
He is immensely improved, but it is only because he has had no worries.
Where is your mother?" His face looked quite stern and his kind blue
eyes were not kind at all but flashed scornfully.

"She is in bed."

"Is she ill?"

"Well, not exactly--she--she--is kind of depressed."

"Depressed! Depressed over what?"

"Oh, Dr. Wright, I hate to be telling you these things! It looks as
though I did not love my mother to be talking about her, but indeed I
do. Douglas and I are so miserable about it, but we--we--somehow we
feel that we are a great deal older than mumsy. We know it is hard on
her--all of this----"

"All of what?"

"This living such a rough life--and having to give up society and our
pretty house and everything."

"Of course it is hard, but then aren't all of you giving up things,
too?"

"But we don't mind--at least we don't mind much. It is harder on Helen
and mother because--because they--they are kind of different. And they
don't understand money."

"And do you understand it?" laughed the young doctor.

"Well, Douglas and I understand it better. We know that when you spend
a dollar you haven't got a dollar, but Helen and mother seem to think
if you haven't got it you can charge it. I think they are suffering
with a kind of disease--chargitis."

George Wright was looking quite solemn as he made his way to the cabin
where Mrs. Carter had taken to her bed. He was not relishing the idea of
having to speak to the wife of his patient, but speak he must. He knew
very well that Nan would never have come to him if matters had not
reached a crisis. How would Helen take his interference? He could not
fool himself into the belief that what Helen said and thought made no
difference to him. It made all the difference in the world. But duty was
duty and since he was ministering to a mind diseased, he must guard that
mind from all things that were harmful to it, just as much as a doctor
who is treating an open wound must see that it is kept aseptic. If
Robert Carter's wife was contemplating upsetting the good that had been
done her husband, why, it was his duty as that husband's physician to
warn her of the result.

Mrs. Carter was looking very lovely and pathetic, acting the invalid.
An extremely dainty and costly negligee accentuated her beauty. Her
cabin room, while certainly not elegant, was perfectly comfortable and
kept in spotless condition by the devoted Susan. There were no evidences
of rough living in her surroundings and the hand which she extended
feebly to welcome the physician could not have been smoother or whiter
had it belonged to pampered royalty.

"Ah, Dr. Wright, it is kind of you to come in to see me." She smiled a
wan smile.

"I am sorry you are ill. What is troubling you?" He felt her pulse, and
finding it quite regular, he smiled, but did not let her see his
amusement.

"I think it is my heart. I can make no exertion without great effort."

"Any appetite?"

"Oh, very little--I never eat much, and I am so tired of chicken! Fried
chicken, broiled chicken, stewed chicken!"

"Yes, spring chicken is a great hardship, no doubt," he said rather
grimly.

"I like broiled chicken very much in the spring, but I never did care
very much for chicken in the summer. People seem to have chicken so much
in the summer. I never could see why."

"It might be because it is cheaper when they are plentiful," he
suggested, finding it difficult to keep the scorn he felt for this
foolish little butterfly out of his voice.

"Perhaps it is, I never thought of that."

Helen came in just then, bringing a bouquet of garden flowers that Mr.
McRae had sent to the ladies of the camp.

"I might as well tackle them together," he thought, taking a long
breath.

"Ahem--are your plans for the winter made yet?" he asked Mrs. Carter.

"Why, the girls--at least Douglas and Nan, have some ridiculous scheme
about taking a cottage in the suburbs and letting those people keep my
house. I don't see why I need call it my house, however, as I seem to
have no say-so in the matter," she answered complainingly. "Helen and I
both think it would be much more sensible to go into our own house and
be comfortable. Douglas is very unreasonable and headstrong. The paltry
sum that these tenants pay is the only argument she has against our
occupying the house ourselves."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Carter, but as your husband's physician, I may perhaps
be able to point out the relation of the steady, if small, income from
the house and his very serious condition."

"I--I thought he was almost well."

"No, madam, much better but not almost well! Do you think that if he
were almost well he would sit passively down and let his daughters
decide for him as he is doing now? Has he not always been a man of
action, one to take the initiative? Look at him now, not even asking
what the plans are when you leave the camp, which you will have to
do in the course of a few weeks. Can't you see that he is still in a
very nervous state and the least little worry might upset his reason?
No troubles must be taken to him. He must not be consulted about
arrangements any more than Bobby would be. His tired brain is beginning
to recover and a few more months may make him almost himself again,
but," and Dr. Wright looked so stern and uncompromising that Helen and
her mother felt that the accusing angel had them on the last day, the
day of judgment, "if he is worried by all kinds of foolish little
things, there will be nothing for him but a sanitarium. I am hoping
that he will be spared this, and it rests entirely with his family
whether he is spared it or not."

"Oh, Doctor, I shall try!" and poor little Mrs. Carter looked very like
Bobby and not much older. "I have been very remiss. I did not know."

"Another thing," and the accusing angel went on in a stern voice. He had
heard all of this before from this little butterfly woman and he felt
that he must impress upon her even more the importance of guarding her
husband from all financial worries. "If when he's well he finds bills to
be paid and obligations to be met, he will drop right back into the
condition in which I found him last May when I was called to the case.
You remember," and he turned to Helen, "his troubled talk about lamb
chops and silk stockings, do you not?"

Helen dropped the gay bouquet and covered her face with her hands. Great
sobs shook her frame. Remember! Could she ever forget it? And yet she
had been behaving as though she had forgotten it, only that morning
insisting she must have a new suit before she could get a job. What was
Dr. Wright thinking of her? He had spoken so sternly and looked so
scornful.

His scorn was all turned to concern now. He had not meant to distress
Helen so much, only to impress upon her the importance of not letting
financial worries reach her father. He looked at the poor stricken
little woman who seemed to have shrivelled up into a wizened little
child who had just been punished. Had he been too severe in his
harangue? Well, nothing short of severity would reach the selfish heart
of Mrs. Carter. But Helen--Helen was not selfish, only thoughtless and
young. He had not meant to grieve her like this.

"I'm sorry," was all he could say.

"It seems awful that we should be so blind that you should have to say
such things to us," said Helen, trying to control her voice.

"I know I am a worthless woman," said the poor little mother
plaintively. "Nobody ever expected me to be anything else and I have
never been anything else. I don't understand finance--I don't understand
life. Please call Douglas and Nan here, Helen. I want to speak to them."

"Let me do it," said the young doctor eagerly. He felt that running away
from the scene of disaster would be about the most graceful thing he
could do just then.

"I believe I should like you to be here if you don't mind."

Nan and Douglas were quickly summoned, indeed they were near the cabin,
eagerly waiting to hear the outcome of the interview that they well knew
Dr. Wright was having with their mother.

"My daughters," began the little lady solemnly, "I have just come to the
realization of my worthlessness. I want all of you to know that I do
realize it, and with Dr. Wright as witness I want to resign in a way
as--as--as a guardian to you. Your judgment is better than mine and
after this I am going to trust to it rather than to my own. I know
nothing about money, nothing about economy. Douglas, you will have to be
head of the family until your poor father can take up his burdens again.
Whatever you think best to do, I will do. Treat me about as you treat
Bobby and Lucy--no, not Lucy--even Lucy's judgment is better than mine."

Douglas was on her knees by the bedside, holding her mother in her arms.

"Oh, mumsy! Mumsy! Don't talk that way about yourself. It 'most kills
me."

Nan buried her face in her hands. She was sure she felt worse than any
of them because she had given voice to exactly the same truth concerning
her mother in her conversation with Douglas and Helen.

Dr. Wright would have been glad if he had never been born, but since he
had been he would have welcomed with joy an earthquake if it had only
come at that moment and swallowed him up. Would Helen ever forgive him?
He had no idea he was having such an effect on Mrs. Carter. She had
seemed to him heartless and selfish and stubborn. She was in reality
nothing but a child. She was no more responsible than Bobby himself.

Mrs. Carter, childlike, was in a way enjoying herself very much. Had she
not been punished and now were not all the grownups sorry for her and
petting her? She had announced her policy for ever after and now nothing
more was ever to be expected of her. Life was not to be so hard after
all. Her Robert was still in a way ill, but he would get well finally,
and now Douglas would take hold and think for her. Her girls would look
after her and take care of her. She regretted not having a debutante
daughter, as she well knew that society was one thing she could do, but
since that was to be denied her, she would be the last person in the
world to make herself disagreeable over her disappointment. A saccharine
policy was to be hers on and after this date. Unselfishness and
sweetness were to be synonymous with her name.

All of the daughters kissed her tenderly and Dr. Wright bent over her
fair hand with knightly contrition.

How pleasant life was!

A tray, more daintily arranged than usual, was brought in at supper
time, and under a covered dish there reposed the coveted sweetbreads.




CHAPTER XXI

LETTERS


Miss Nan Carter from Mr. Thomas Smith


BY WIRELESS FROM THE CLOUDS,

                                              SEPTEMBER .., 19..

MY DEAR WOOD NYMPH:

I have made many flights and many landings but no landing has been so
delightful as the one I made on Helicon and no flight so beautiful as
when a certain little wood nymph deigned to accompany me.

I think very often of the few happy days I spent at Week-End Camp and of
the hospitable Carters. The picnic on the fallen tree was the very best
picnic I ever attended and the game of teakettle the best game I ever
played.

Some day, and not so many years hence I hope it will be, I intend to
make a flight and take my teakettle with me. Guess what that word is!

                                                     BELLEROPHON.


Miss Douglas Carter from Mr. Lewis Somerville


                           BROWNSVILLE, TEXAS, SEPTEMBER .., 19..

MY DEAR DOUGLAS:

Your letter telling of the doings of the camp made Bill and me mighty
blue. We think maybe we should not have left you when we did, but we
felt we were getting too soft hanging round you girls all the time, and
then, too, we wanted to let Uncle Sam know that we were willing to do
any kind of old work that came up to do. If he wanted to ship us from
West Point, all well and good--that was his own affair, but we feel that
since he has given us three years' education we must pay him back
somehow, and enlisting is about the only way we can do it. At first we
thought perhaps it had better be with the volunteers, and then we
thought maybe the regulars could do better service, so regulars it is.
It does seem funny to be in the ranks when we had always expected to be
officers, but that is all right--we are not grouching. No doubt it is
good for us. At least we can get the outlook of the private, and if
because of bravery or luck we ever rise from the ranks, we can better
understand the men under us.

It is awfully hot down here but just when it is so hot that you feel you
must turn over on the other side to keep from burning and to brown
evenly, why a wind comes up they call "a norther" and you sizzle like a
red hot poker stuck into cold water. A norther is about the coldest and
most penetrating thing I have ever struck. We never seem to catch cold,
however. The norther blows all the germs off of one, I fancy.

Bill is fine. Already he is known by his guffaw. He let out a laugh the
other day that made General Funston jump, and I can tell you that is
going some. Not many people can lay claim to the distinction of having
made that great man jump. I think they ought to send Bill out to hunt
Villa. If that bandit is hiding in the mountains, I bet Bill could laugh
loud enough to make him peep out to see what's up. He's mighty soft on
Tillie Wingo and carries her tin-type around his neck.

I want to tell you, dear Douglas, that I think you were just exactly
right to turn me down the way you did. I am ashamed of myself to have
asked you to think of me when I realize how far I am from success. I may
be a private for the rest of my life and what could I offer a girl like
you? I know it wasn't that that kept you from being engaged to me, but
it would have been very ridiculous for me to have bound you by a promise
when I may be old and gray-headed before I even get a sergeant's
stripes.

Please write to me when you find time and tell me what the plans are for
the winter. I wish I could help you some, but about all I am good for is
to keep the Mexicans from getting into Texas and maybe finding their way
up to Virginia, where you are. I feel about as big as a grain of sand
on a Texan prairie. My love to all the Carters.

                            Your very affectionate cousin,
                                               LEWIS SOMERVILLE.


Miss Helen Carter from Dr. George Wright


                               RICHMOND, VA., SEPTEMBER .., 19..

MY DEAR MISS HELEN:

The thought of having wounded you is very bitter to me. I did not mean
to be unkind either to you or your mother. I know you must wish you had
never seen me. I seem to have spent my time since I first met you making
myself unpleasant. If you can forgive me, please write and say so. I
hope your mother is better and that her appetite has returned. If I can
be of any service to you at any time and in any way, you must call on
me.

                                              Very sincerely,
                                                  GEORGE WRIGHT.


Miss Lucy Carter from Frank Maury


                               RICHMOND, VA., SEPTEMBER .., 19..

DEAR LUCY:

Not much on writing but here goes. Skeeter and I took Lil to the movies
last night and we wished for you some. Movies don't touch the tramps in
the mountains but they are better than nothing. When are you going to
leave those diggings and come back to the good old burg? Skeeter ate
three cream puffs and two ice cream cones after the show and washed them
down with a couple of chocolate milk shakes. Mrs. Halsey says she may
have to go to boarding to fill her hopeful up. I pity the boardinghouse
keeper. The worst thing about Skeeter is that he never shows his keep.
After all those weeks in the mountains and all those good eats he is as
skinny as ever. Do you ever see Mr. Spring-keeper and Tom Tit? I sent
Tom Tit a rag time record for his new Victrola. It is a peach and I bet
it will set him to dancing to beat a jew's-harp. Lil, who is mighty
missish, says Tom Tit has too good taste to like such common music but I
just know he will like it. Skeeter sends his regards. He and I are both
to have military training at the high school so you will see us in
skimpy blue gray uniforms when you come back to Richmond. Skeeter looks
powerful skinny in his. I don't know what I look like in mine.

                                              Yours truly,
                                                    FRANK MAURY.


The silence of September settled down upon Camp Carter. The mountains
had never been more glorious nor a period of rest and recreation more
welcome. Noise, numbers, confusion--all were conspicuously absent. To
look back was gratifying and to feel an inward sense of "well done!" was
satisfying.

The summer was over for the Carter girls but their work was by no means
finished. Unforeseen obstacles were no doubt to be met and overcome;
many problems were to puzzle them and hard lessons were to be learned.
But at the same time happy days were to be in store for them, their
lives, like all of ours, a mixture of sunshine and shadow, work and
play. They looked toward the future with eager hope. In "The Carter
Girls' Mysterious Neighbors" we will hear how they came in touch with
some of the wide-reaching events of the world war.CHAPTER I

ON FARLETON FELL

     “I got up the mountain edge, and from the top saw the world
     stretcht out, cornlands and forest, the river winding among
     meadow-flats, and right off, like a hem of the sky, the moving
     sea.”--MAURICE HEWLETT: _Pan and the Young Shepherd_.


Travelling from Scotland by the London and North-Western Railway, as the
train roars down the long incline which leads from Shap to the coastal
plain of Lancashire, the eye catches, on the left-hand side, a strange
grey hill of bare rock rising abruptly, the last outpost of the
mountains. It is so different in appearance from the Westmorland fells
which have just been traversed, that one looks at it with curiosity, and
desires an opportunity of a nearer acquaintance. During the preceding
half-hour we have been passing through country of the type that is
familiar in the Lake District and in Wales--picturesque ridgy hills with
rocky or grassy slopes, and fields and trees occupying the lower
grounds. But over much of the surface of this grey hill there appear to
be scarcely any plants. A dense scrub of Hazel and other small trees
clings to its screes in patches, but the continuous mantle of vegetation
is lacking.

The train speeds on through fertile ground with ripening crops and woods
standing dense and green, and now on the right, where the low land
merges with the sea, we view salt-marshes, which display yet another
type of plant growth. Here trees and shrubs are absent, and the
low-growing grey and green plants look fleshy and stunted.

In the last thirty miles, indeed, since the train left the summit of
Shap, we have seen a number of very different types of vegetation, which
appear associated with different types of landscape--the moory uplands,
the naked limestone, the deep woods, the desolate salt-marsh. Let us in
imagination climb the steep scarp of Farleton Fell, the grey hill of our
opening sentence, and consider at leisure some aspects of this teeming
plant world and its relations to the Earth on which it grows.

Clambering through a wilderness of stony screes we emerge at length on a
bare grey tableland on which, in contrast to the rich country below,
vegetation is strangely sparse, and bare rock is everywhere in evidence.
If we let the eye sweep round the horizon, we note a similar contrast
displayed on broader lines. On the one hand is the mountain-land, with
its carpet of grass and heather extending to the very summits; on the
other hand the broad expanses of bare sand and mud fringing Morecambe
Bay, apparently devoid of any vegetation. And it occurs to us that,
before we ponder over the variety and distribution of plant life on this
world, we are faced at once with a more profound problem. On this breezy
summit, with our minds expanded and stimulated by the sunlight and the
breeze, and the broad and beautiful panorama spread around, we must for
a moment try to take a wider outlook than

    Him that vexed his brains, and theories built
    Of gossamer upon the brittle winds,
    Perplexed exceedingly why plants were found
    Upon the mountain-tops, but wondering not
    Why plants were found at all, more wondrous still!

I trust the paraphrase may be pardoned. Why, indeed, should there be
plants at all? This great globe, with its whole land surface covered,
save at the Poles and in desert regions, with green plants in ten
thousand forms, is indeed something to be wondered at. One fascinating
question that arises is this: How far is our “lukewarm bullet” unique in
its possession of a green plant mantle? Have we any evidence for the
supposition that plants exist on the Moon, or on any planets of the
solar system other than the Earth?

Vegetation as we know it on our world requires certain physical and
chemical conditions for its existence. For instance, a temperature
which, at least during the growing season, is well above the
freezing-point of water is requisite; yet the temperature must remain a
long way below the boiling-point of water; neither could plants as we
know them exist in the absence of an atmosphere containing oxygen,
carbon dioxide, and water vapour, and incidentally, by its capacity for
retaining heat, warding off violent extremes of temperature which
otherwise would be a daily and nightly occurrence. What evidence is
there as to the condition in these respects of those heavenly bodies
which are sufficiently near to allow us to know something of them? To
take first our own Moon. Astronomers are agreed that on the Moon there
is neither air nor water; it is a dead mass of solid material, scorched
by the Sun by day, held in the grip of appalling frost by night. The
Moon was no doubt at some remote period of the Earth’s history cast off
from that body, and it carried off with it a portion of the Earth’s
atmosphere, or of the materials which later formed the Earth’s
atmosphere. But the attraction of the Moon is so small that it was
unable to retain these gases on its surface; they diffused into space,
much of them returning probably to the Earth, leaving the Moon without
any covering of nitrogen or oxygen or hydrogen or water vapour, and thus
condemning it to permanent sterility.

As regards Mercury, the planet nearest the Sun, conditions appear
equally unfavourable. Mercury has ceased to revolve round the Sun, and
continually presents one side towards that luminary. On the opposite
side an extraordinarily low temperature prevails, low enough to solidify
and bind permanently most of the gases of any possible atmosphere;
while, on the other side, the very high temperature, due to perpetual
and intense sunshine, has assisted the diffusion into space of the more
volatile gases, such as hydrogen, which might have remained unfrozen.

The question of life on Mars, which in many respects suggests conditions
resembling those prevailing on our own globe, has long occupied the
attention of men of science, among whom strong advocates of a Martian
flora and fauna have not been wanting. If we may accept one of the most
recent summaries[1] of the pros and cons of this question, the
conditions are not hopeful. Although an atmosphere exists, it appears to
be extremely thin; water vapour seems to be present in only very limited
quantity; the temperature is very low, and, except in the warmer
portions of the planet during the summer season, would be insufficient
to support life. The evidence suggests a frigid climate, with
dust-storms whirling over vast deserts and salt seas frozen solid, while
near the Poles land and sea alike are buried under snow. Summer produces
a slight thawing, but even then the cold, salt-saturated soil would
appear to be very unfavourable for plant growth. Arrhenius suggests that
the presence of a low vegetation such as snow Algæ near the Poles in
summer is as much as could be hoped for under the conditions prevailing
on Mars.

Of the planets whose distance from the Sun is small enough to allow heat
and light to reach them in quantity sufficient to permit of vegetation
such as we know it, there remains Venus, and here at last we meet with
conditions suitable for life. Venus possesses an atmosphere densely
charged with water vapour, and maintaining a high temperature all the
year round. The conditions prevailing there recall, in fact, those
believed to have existed on the Earth during the Carboniferous Period,
when our great deposits of coal, composed of the remains of tropical
plants, were laid down in marshes and steaming lagoons; but on Venus the
conditions are still more extreme--the temperature higher, and the
moisture much greater, than those of Carboniferous times. If it is
allowable to assume that the prevalence of physical and chemical
conditions similar to those which in bygone ages supported an abundant
vegetation on our globe, would produce plant life on another world,
then we may imagine a luxuriant vegetation on Venus. Whether such an
assumption is reasonable is a very interesting and highly speculative
question, which the present writer is not competent to discuss. But if
one is inclined to indulge in speculation, it may fairly be asked, Why
should one limit the possibilities of life to the strict range of
conditions under which it is manifested on our Earth? May not the
inhabitants of the Sun, ensconced ninety million miles away in a
comfortable temperature of 6,500° Centigrade, have long since proved to
their own complete satisfaction the impossibility of the existence of
life under the appalling conditions of climate prevailing on the Earth?
Who can say? There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed
of in our philosophy. A quotation from one of the foremost of modern men
of science helps us to put such flights of thought in their proper
perspective. “One can hardly emerge from such thoughts,” writes
Soddy,[2] in pointing out the remarkable adaptation of the human eye to
the peculiarities of the Sun’s light, so as to make the best of that
wave-length of which there is most, “without an intuition that, in spite
of all, the universal Life Principle, which makes the world a teeming
hive, may not be at the sport of every physical condition, may not be
entirely confined to a temperature between freezing and boiling points,
to an oxygen atmosphere, to the most favourably situated planet of a sun
at the right degree of incandescence, as we are almost forced by our
experience of life to conclude. Possibly the Great Organizer can
operate, under conditions where we could not for an instant survive, to
produce beings we should not, without a special education, recognize as
being alive like ourselves.”

It is generally conceded that life on our globe began in the water, and
thence spread to the land. Very significant in this regard is the fact
that all but the highest plants require the presence of external water
for the act of fertilization, as the male cell _swims_ through water to
the ovum. Only the most recently evolved groups have shaken off this
ancestral trait; and as regards the whole economy of plants the water
relation remains, throughout the entire vegetable kingdom, the most
obvious and universally important of the different relations existing
between plants and their environment. How vegetable life originated,
from what inorganic forms it was evolved, is a secret which science has
not yet discovered; but since those dim first beginnings it has never
been absent from the Earth, so far as we know, and has increased and
multiplied, and passed through a thousand changes to higher and higher
forms, till it has attained to the beautiful and bountiful and varied
plant world which we know, covering with a green mantle most of the land
surface of the globe and filling the shallower lakes and seas; while in
its minuter forms it swarms in the soils and waters of the Earth, and
its germs pervade the atmosphere.

It is not everywhere even on our hospitable, habitable globe that
conditions are suitable for plant growth. The reader will remember that
the flat summit of Farleton Fell, where in fancy we still stand, was
devoid to a great extent of vegetation; and that the sea-sands and
mud-flats out to the westward presented a surface from which plants
appeared to be absent. This question of _deserts_--that is, of areas of
the Earth’s surface where the prevailing mantle of vegetation is
wanting--is an interesting one, and may fittingly detain us for a few
minutes. Deserts are produced by the failure of one or more of the
conditions which are necessary for plant life. The factors in question
may be briefly defined as _temperature_, _light_, _water_, _atmosphere_,
and _mineral salts_. The majority of the higher plants have developed a
complicated root-system for the purpose of collecting water (containing
salts) from the soil, and of anchoring the organism firmly in its chosen
abode, so a _soil_ is also usually essential. Here on Farleton Fell soil
is missing over much of the surface, which is occupied by naked
limestone rock. The absence of soil is due to the fact that the
material--carbonate of lime--of which the rock is composed is soluble in
water, unlike, for instance, the materials of which slate or sandstone
rocks are composed; the rains slowly dissolve it, and it passes in
solution down through crevices in the strata, leaving behind only a
small insoluble residue. This residue, where not also washed away,
collects in every little hollow, and lowly plants such as Algæ and
Mosses soon discover it and colonize it. Their decayed remains add
nutritive material to the little pocket, and help to retain water, and
thus prepare the way by degrees for higher forms of life; till at length
the crevices become filled with a luxuriant vegetation which, as we
shall see later, is of a rather peculiar type. It should be noted that
even the bare rock is not so inhospitable as completely to exclude plant
life. If we examine it with a lens we shall see that it is colonized by
minute Lichens, many of which have the power of dissolving the
limestone, producing tiny burrows in which they live securely.

[Illustration: FIG. 1.--A BURROWING LICHEN (VERRUCARIA CALCISEDA),
LIVING IN LIMESTONE.

_a_, Natural size; _b_, greatly enlarged; _c_, section, greatly
enlarged.]

On the sands and mud-flats a semi-desert exists, due in great measure to
the shifting nature of the material and the difficulty which plants find
in securing an anchorage in it. But in the upper parts, near high-water
mark, a few land plants--notably the Glasswort (_Salicornia europæa_,
Fig. 2), a fleshy little annual--colonize the dreary flats with tiny
forests of dark green branches, and lower down many small Seaweeds
flourish. Some of these, ramifying through the surface layers, help to
bind together the shifting sand, and by entangling in their branches
fresh particles, and by continued growth, tend to raise and consolidate
the surface, to render it suitable for the immigration of land plants
such as the Glasswort, and thus eventually to reclaim it from the sea.

[Illustration: FIG. 2.--GLASSWORT (SALICORNIA EUROPÆA).

_a_, Plant, 2/3; _b_, male flower; _c_, female flower, both enlarged.]

It is in the depths of the ocean, however, that the greatest deserts of
our globe are to be found. The luxuriant Seaweed gardens that decorate
the shallower waters of the sea, especially where a rocky bottom
provides secure foothold, dwindle rapidly as the depth increases, owing
to the diminution of light, and when the coastal fringe is left they
cease. In the inky darkness of the ocean depths, amid absolute stillness
and a temperature little above freezing, plant life of any sort is
unknown. Only the flinty skeletons of diatoms and other minute forms of
vegetable life which inhabit the surface layers, raining slowly down
throughout the ages, tell that plant life exists in the sea at all.

On land, the larger deserts are found in the coldest and in the hottest
regions. Around the North and South Poles lie great areas where the
perennial lowness of temperature and the consequent almost continuous
covering of snow and ice render plant life impossible. But just as the
Eskimo live under conditions which would be wellnigh prohibitive to
inhabitants of more temperate regions, so many of the higher as well as
the lower plants creep northward far beyond the Arctic Circle, where,
awakening from a nine months’ winter sleep, they break from the still
half-frozen ground to brighten the brief summer with their leaves and
flowers and fruit. The flora of Greenland, for instance, which we
generally think of as an ice-bound and inhospitable land, numbers some
400 species of Seed Plants. These live mostly on the cliffs and steep
ground that fringe the coast, where they are clear of the great
icefields which bury the interior of the country, and in many places
descend as broad glaciers into the sea. But the life of these high
northern plants is slow and difficult, as is evidenced by their paucity
and their stunted stature. Later on we shall have to consider how they
adapt themselves to the adverse conditions under which they exist
(Chapter VIII.); and we shall find their life problems are reproduced in
many respects by those of the interesting alpine plants which may be
found nestling in the rock crevices of the higher mountains of our own
country.

But the more familiar deserts of the world, those to which the mind
turns when we use the term, are mainly due, not to absence of light as
in the ocean depths, nor to want of heat as in the polar regions, but to
failure of the water-supply. A vast desert region of this kind stretches
across Northern Africa from west to east, and onward through Arabia,
Southern Persia, and Baluchistan. Another, almost continuous with it,
extends from the Caspian Sea across great plains into Central Asia, and
on over vast mountain areas into Western China. Other similar deserts,
familiar to us in word and picture, are situated in the south-western
United States, Mexico, and South Africa. In all these tracts, with their
diverse characters and diverse sparse floras, the scarcity of rain is
the primary cause of their peculiar features. The dryness prevents a
protecting covering of vegetation, and allows heat and cold--both
sharply accentuated by the scarcity of the moderating influence of water
in either soil or air--to pursue their work of disintegrating the
surface, reducing the rocks to sand and dust, which the winds sweep
hither and thither. In such circumstances plants exist under

[Illustration: FIG. 3.--MESEMBRYANTHEMUM BOLUSII (LEFT), AND M. LESLIEI
(RIGHT), BOTH 2/3.]

very difficult conditions; yet there are few areas in which the eye will
not note some strange vegetable form. In Fig. 3 are illustrated some of
the remarkable Mesembryanthemums found in the South African deserts.
Here the extremely fleshy leaves, arranged in opposite pairs, produce a
sub-globular plant form, a mere mass of watery tissue, which in colour
as well as shape appears to mimic the pebbles among which it grows. The
frontispiece shows some other types of desert plants. Another difficulty
which desert plants have to contend with is this: continual evaporation
from off the land of water charged with mineral salts--in some regions
in bygone times, in others still following each brief rainy season--has
left the soil highly impregnated with substances, of which common salt
is one of the most abundant, which, except in very weak solutions, are
deleterious to plant life, since water containing them is absorbed with
difficulty by the roots. These old lake-bottoms and one-time
swamps--such as the alkali deserts of Utah--harbour only a limited
number of species specially adapted to their arduous conditions of life.
The same difficulty, it may be noted, produces the peculiar and
specialized flora of the salt-marshes which fringe the broad bay on
which we look down from Farleton Fell. Here there is indeed a
superabundance of water, but it is so charged with salt that if even the
most vigorous species of the fields or woodlands are transplanted into
it they will soon be dead; only plants long inured can grow there.
Still, the conditions are not so adverse but that a continuous mat of
vegetation extends, growing patchy and dying out only where the surface
slopes below high-water mark. There we enter a new domain, where another
race of plants, so long inured to salt water that they now cannot exist
without it, holds possession.

Thus from absolute deserts, such as the floor of the deep sea or the
regions surrounding the Poles, we pass to semi-deserts where plants are
dotted thinly over the surface, and thence by degrees to closed
vegetation of various types, where the plants elbow each other over the
whole surface as they do in the grasslands spread around Farleton Fell,
in the woods which adjoin them, and on the brown hillsides out to the
north. But before we pass to the consideration of the conditions where
favourable environment results in a closed vegetation, we may suggest
for consideration the following point of view: that for any plant, or
group of plants with similar requirements, much of the world is a
desert--that is, a place where conditions are such that it cannot live.
For each plant there exists, owing to long usage and slow adaptation to
given surroundings, limiting conditions of life: where these conditions
are exceeded, the desert supervenes. Thus, the salt-marsh is a desert to
almost every plant of the mild open soil of hill or valley, just as the
hills and valleys are deserts to most of the inhabitants of the
salt-marsh. The alkaline soil of the rock crevices of Farleton Fell is
fatal to some of the most abundant plants of the acid peaty soil of the
hills, such as Ling (_Calluna vulgaris_) and Bilberry (_Vaccinium
Myrtillus_). For another cause--the diminution of light--the deep woods
are a desert for many plants of the sunny pastures, and _vice versa_.
Plants vary very much as to their degree of adaptability to different
soils and different climatic conditions. Some are highly specialized.
Our salt-marsh flora, for instance, is, as regards most of its species,
confined to its peculiar habitat. If on a map of Europe we coloured in
its distribution we should find it formed a ribbon round the coast,
except for a few dots where the plants have discovered inland salt
springs or salt lakes, and have found their way to them. Most plants are
more adaptable than these, and occupy a variety of habitats. The little
Tormentil (_Potentilla silvestris_), for instance, flourishes equally on
hot banks by the sea, in woods, and on mountain-tops. The more
accommodating a plant is as regards habitat, the wider its distribution
tends to be, both locally and in a broader sense. But wide range does
not follow of necessity from adaptability to a variety of conditions:
the problem of plant distribution is not so simple as that. One species
may be spread right round the world, yet be always found in a special
habitat; take the case, for instance, of the Yellow Bird’s-nest
(_Monotropa Hypopitys_), a strange colourless, leafless plant, highly
specialized, feeding, through the intermediary of a minute fungus which
infests its roots (see p. 183), on the decaying leaves of deciduous
woods in cold temperate regions, and yet found across Europe, Asia, and
North America; while many other species, at home under very varied
conditions of soil and moisture, have nevertheless a quite restricted
geographical range.

Although our own country, favoured by conditions thoroughly suitable to
plant life--a sufficiently high temperature and an abundance of moisture
and light--is characterized by a continuous plant mantle--or _closed
vegetation_, as the botanists say--nevertheless what has been said of
desert and semi-desert conditions applies to many limited areas in the
British Isles, where the vegetation takes on the peculiar characters of
true desert plants. Low water-content and great exposure produce such
conditions on shingle beaches and sand dunes; and, as we shall see
later, the vegetation of sea-rocks, salt-marshes, and peat-bogs is in
many respects analogous to desert vegetation.

Except near the Poles, wherever the precipitation of moisture rises
above an amount which varies according to other conditions prevailing, a
closed vegetation occupies the ground when the agricultural and other
operations of man do not hold it in check. But as much of this
favourable region is utilized by the human race for the production of
plants used for food or for industry, it often happens, as in our own
country, that the natural plant communities are to a great extent
destroyed, and can be studied only on land left undisturbed because
unsuitable for cultivation--on heaths and moors, in swamps and lakes, on
sea-sands, chalk downs, and so on; and even in most of these places
intensive grazing of domesticated animals and other causes connected
with human activities alter and control plant life to a greater or less
extent, rendering it necessary for us to walk warily in our study of it.

Although the world offers many different aspects of closed vegetation,
they may all in a broad sense be reduced to two general types--namely,
grasslands and woodlands, the former the result of a lighter, the latter
of a heavier, rainfall: grasses and their associates requiring for their
life-processes a much less amount of water than a tree vegetation. The
British Isles lie within a broad belt that sweeps east and west across
Europe, characterized by a prevalence of south-west winds laden with
moisture, and yielding a tolerably heavy rainfall distributed throughout
the year. South of this belt--south of the Alps, roughly--the rainfall
occurs chiefly in winter, and dry summers produce the well-known
“Mediterranean climate” with which is associated the scrubby
small-leaved vegetation, capable of withstanding heat and drought, which
is characteristic of Spain, Italy, Greece, and Northern Africa.
Northward, the forest-belt extends into Scandinavia, dwindling into a
tundra vegetation of lowly shrubs and herbs as we approach high
latitudes with a sub-arctic climate. Forest, then, is the original and
natural type of vegetation of the British Islands, and without doubt the
greater part of the country was occupied by woodland within the human
period. But forest country is not well suited to human habitation or
colonization. The early arts of peace--pastoral and agricultural--called
for open ground. To operations of war, also, forests are unfavourable.
So it came about that by the use of fire and axe the forests passed away
before the march of man, until now we can study only fragments of the
original all-prevailing woodland. But it is important to note that
certain portions of the British Isles were never, in recent ages, under
woodland, and that these mostly preserve still much of their ancient
facies. Thus, increase of exposure--a lower temperature and higher
wind-velocity--appointed a limit on the hills beyond which trees could
not and cannot grow. Wind was and is also responsible for a dwindling of
tree growth along the exposed western coastlines. Again, the shallow,
porous soil of the chalk downs, very dry in summer, probably never
supported woodland, but has pastured sheep since the earliest shepherds
fought wolves in Sussex. The scanty soil of Farleton Fell probably never
harboured plants larger than the herbs and low shrubs which it now
supports; and no doubt the salt-marshes looked the same five thousand
years ago as they do to-day, though their positions have changed with
each slight alteration in the relative level of land and sea.

To sum up, then, the greater portion of the surface of our country
consists of former woodland now reclaimed for the purposes of
agriculture, the general aspect of its vegetation altered beyond
recognition, though from the fragments left we can still reconstruct
with tolerable accuracy its ancient condition, and the flora of which it
was composed. In the remaining parts, though drainage, grazing, and
other human operations have wrought great changes, the face of the
country still wears to a large extent its ancient appearance, and the
flora is still in the main that which flourished before human activities
began to put their impress upon it.

How are we to set about studying this varied vegetation which, in a
thousand forms, covers hill and valley? There are several avenues of
approach; any one of them, if explored fully, would take us far beyond
the limits of the present volume; we shall have to be content with
slight venturings along several of them, so as to acquire, in a brief
space, as wide a view as we can of the phenomena which our flora
displays, and of the problems which it presents.

If we view the vegetation as a whole, we may be tempted to enquire first
as to its origin and history. We know that plants have existed on the
earth for millions of years, but that the plants of past ages were
different from those of the present, just as those of the present will
ultimately give place to other forms as yet undreamed of: that the
vegetation on which we feast our eyes is, in fact, but the momentary
expression of a never-ceasing process of life and change. This is the
point of view of the geologist, to whom

    The hills are shadows, and they flow
      From form to form, and nothing stands;
      They melt like mist, the solid lands,
    Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

Pursuing this line of enquiry, we may endeavour to trace the descent
through the ages of our present plants from bygone types; and coming at
length to the still remote time--as measured by human standards--when
the plants which now grow appeared on the Earth’s surface, we may try,
from a study of their present distribution and of the distribution of
their remains in regions where they are no longer found living, to
determine their area of origin, and to trace the date and course of the
migrations by which they reached our country. In the case of the British
Isles, geological considerations play a leading part in such
investigations, these islands being but outlying hummocks of a great
continental area, at times joined to the main land-mass by a slight
upward movement of the Earth’s crust, and anon cut off from it by a
movement of depression. In this connection also we may be led to
investigate the means by which plants spread, and especially their
capacity for crossing barriers of the various kinds indicated in our
brief study of deserts in the previous pages--the serious barriers
offered by water-channels, or others equally difficult to negotiate
produced by areas of uncongenial soil, by mountain ranges, or by
forests. This will involve especially a study of seeds and the
interesting phenomena of seed-dispersal.

Again, the most popular branch of botanical study in England is
_Floristic Botany_, which traces the distribution within our area of the
various species composing its flora; and with it is necessarily
associated a study of the plants themselves so far as the characters are
concerned, by which they may be distinguished from each other. This last
is the province of _Descriptive Botany_. The study of local
distribution, if conducted intelligently, will greatly assist in
solving problems relating to the migrations and routes by which the
existing flora reached its habitats.

Once more, we have already from Farleton Fell observed that plants do
not grow higgledy-piggledy over the country, but are arranged in more or
less definite societies depending on similarity of climate, soil, and
other external conditions. Studied from this point of view, the flora
resolves itself into a series of communities, each requiring a certain
set of conditions for its continued welfare. The study of these
inter-relations between plants and their environment, and of the types
of vegetation resulting from the grouping together of plants requiring
similar conditions, is the province of _Ecological Botany_.

Again, the _morphologist_ deals with the forms of the organs of plants,
and the changes which these undergo in different plants, while the
_anatomist_ investigates their minuter structure.

_Physiological Botany_ deals with the life processes of plants, and the
way in which they feed and grow and move. It has a very important
bearing on the distribution and grouping of plants, since this is
largely governed by their food-supply and by the need of surroundings
which allow them to carry on their life processes with success.

It will be seen that there are many lines of enquiry open to the student
of botany. In the following pages no more can be attempted than the
preliminary study of some of the more familiar phenomena of plant life
as it presents itself to the holiday-maker on the hills and woods and
shores of our own land.




CHAPTER II

PLANT ASSOCIATIONS

     “It is perhaps also proper to take into account the situation in
     which each plant naturally grows or does not grow. For this is an
     important distinction, and specially characteristic of plants,
     because they are united to the ground and not free from it like
     animals.”--THEOPHRASTUS: _Enquiry into Plants_, I. iv.


Before setting about discussing the various types of vegetation which
our own country presents, it will be well to have a general idea of the
extent to which the main types are developed, and of the amount to which
agriculture has interfered with the native flora. We have seen that the
natural vegetation of the greater part of the British Isles is woodland:
yet so profoundly has human industry altered the face of the country
that woodland, natural or planted, occupies only about one-twentieth of
the surface of England, rather less of Scotland and Wales, and about
one-seventieth of Ireland. Much of the former woodland is now
represented by “arable land,” which covers over one-third of England,
and about half that proportion of the other parts of the British Isles.
Permanent grassland, partly natural, partly replacing ancient woodland,
bulks large in England and Wales, occupying about two-fifths of the
whole country; in Scotland and Ireland the proportion is much less, but
in those countries a large area is under moor, heath, or natural grass,
over which wander great herds of sheep and cattle. A. G. Tansley[3] thus
contrasts (in percentages) the area of cultivated land (on which natural
vegetation has been to all intents destroyed), with the area on which
natural or semi-natural conditions still prevail:

                             England.  Wales.  Scotland.  Ireland.

Cultivated land                75        59       25      ? 20-30
Land under natural or
   semi-natural vegetation    15-20      40      70-75    ? 70-80

It will be seen how little of the original vegetation of England is left
to us for purposes of study--less than one-fifth, almost the whole of
which has been influenced to some degree by human operations; while in
Scotland and Ireland a much larger area is more or less in its primitive
condition. The Scottish mountain-sides and Irish moorlands still to a
great extent retain a natural flora, save that the greater number of
grazing animals which they now support, as compared with the times when
wolves and other enemies roamed unchecked, leaves its impress upon the
vegetation.

Viewing the plant world as a whole, its primary divisions, from the
point of view of ecology, are governed by the factor of rainfall. It is
true that the plants of the Tropics differ profoundly from those of the
Temperate regions, and those again from the plants of the Arctic. But
this is a difference in the _species_ and families which constitute the
vegetation, rather than a difference in the _types of vegetation_ or
plant formations which occur. A certain area in Siberia may not have one
species in common with a certain area in India, but in both we may find
the three great vegetation types of forest, grassland, and desert. A
rainfall gradient, on the other hand, will cause a progressive change in
vegetation type, as may be seen in crossing North America from east to
west, where the forests of the New England States give way as
precipitation diminishes to the prairies of the middle States, and these
again to the deserts which stretch far over the west. It is only in the
extreme north that temperature, apart from precipitation, becomes the
dominant influence in determining the presence or absence of vegetation,
or its character.

Within any one climatic region--say within the British Islands--the
_soil_ in which the plants grow is the controlling factor in determining
the character of the plant population. And while a classification by
_plant form_--such as woodland, grassland--is often convenient, when we
come to analyze the various plant associations which colonize the
ground, it will be found that similarity of form-type does not
necessarily imply affinity as regards either physiological conditions or
floristic constituents. Thus, a Beech wood on the Chalk has really no
affinity with an Oak wood on the Coal-measures, save that they are both
woods: they shelter plant groups of quite different composition, one a
constituent association of the Limestone Formation, and the other of the
Formation of Clays and Loams, according to modern English
classification. Similarly, the Hazel copse which covers the screes of
Farleton Fell has no close relation to the Hazel copses along the
Westmorland becks, although the dominant plant--the Hazel--is the same
in both cases: soil is the controlling factor, and the one is related
to the limestone vegetation of the hill above, the other to the
vegetation of the loams and peaty soils of the adjoining mountain-side.
In the British Isles the leading plant formations are those of clays and
loams, of sands and sandstones, of siliceous soils, of calcareous soils,
of peat, of marsh, of lakes and rivers, of salt-marsh, sand dune, and
shingle beach; also, governed by the climatic factor, alpine vegetation
stands somewhat apart. While the vegetation of some of these, such as
salt-marsh or peat, usually presents a uniform aspect, others, such as
the clays, sands, and limy soils, display each a characteristic type of
woodland and of grassland, as well as other variants, dependent on the
composition, depth, and wetness of the soil, the degree of exposure, and
so on: these form the _associations_ which together constitute the
formation. Each association, if the plants composing it be examined,
will be found to consist of an assemblage of species, large and small,
brought together by their superior fitness for the particular conditions
which prevail. There are mostly in each association one or more dominant
species--such as the trees of an Oak wood, or the Heather of a
moor--which by their abundance or vigorous growth control the
association. The shelter which they give may protect some of the members
of the community: the shade which they cast may keep out other plants
which otherwise would invade the ground. The association will include
some species specially adapted to the particular conditions which
prevail, and perhaps not found elsewhere in the area; these are the
indicator plants of the association, which give it its special
character, and which will help us to identify the association should we
encounter it again; there will be others--dependent species--which are
attracted by the shade, or shelter, or other advantages which the growth
of the dominant plants affords: and there will be others,
again--probably many--of wide distribution, which are merely as much at
home here as elsewhere. But all grow here because they are better fitted
for the particular conditions prevailing than are the other plants of
the surrounding area. On Farleton Fell, for instance, among the most
abundant species which fill the crevices of the limestone plateau are
two ferns--the Limestone Polypody (_Polypodium Robertianum_) and the
Rigid Buckler Fern (_Lastrea rigida_). Though there is rocky ground of
many kinds in the Lake District, these two plants are never found save
on similar outcrops of the Carboniferous Limestone, and they are clearly
specially fitted for life in the hollows of this rock. But the same rock
crevices also harbour many species which are found equally on the soils
derived from the slate rocks or sandstones. To take another instance:
many of our most familiar spring flowers are woodland plants--the
Primrose (_Primula acaulis_), Wood Anemone (_A. nemorosa_), Wild
Hyacinth (_Endymion nonscriptum_). These rejoice in the humus soil which
is formed from the dead leaves of preceding years; they flower before
the trees are in full leaf, thus securing plenty of light and air for
their period of growth; and they are accustomed to have their stems and
roots protected from summer heat by the leafy canopy overhead.
Transplanted into an adjoining sunny pasture they will soon die out.
They are characteristic members of the woodland association of one or
more formations. But with them we shall find other species, such as the
Wild Strawberry (_Fragaria vesca_), which are equally at home on dry
sunny banks or even on sand dunes.

If we ask _why_ the plants group themselves into the associations which
we may study any day in the country, in many cases the answer is not
obvious. It is clear that while many species accommodate themselves
easily to different soils or different degrees of light or of moisture,
others have small powers of accommodation, and are in consequence
restricted in their range. By long usage many plants have acquired
special characters enabling them to live under special conditions--some
examples will be discussed a little later--and in some such cases it is
easy to correlate the peculiar characters of the plant with those of the
habitat. But in many other cases the relation is not obvious. For
instance, we cannot tell, by examining a plant, whether it is partial to
a limy or to a non-limy soil; yet many plants are poisoned by lime,
while others, though generally capable of growing in a soil devoid of
lime (if planted in a garden), are nevertheless absent from the
non-calcareous areas adjoining their limestone habitat; in other words,
they can hold their own on limestone, but are unable to do so elsewhere.
The two ferns already mentioned (_Polypodium Robertianum_ and _Lastrea
rigida_) are cases of the latter kind; while some of the most familiar
of our hillside plants, such as Foxglove (_Digitalis purpurea_) and
Broom (_Sarothamnus scoparius_), are instances of the former.

If, however, we consider some of the formations or associations which
are the result of extreme conditions of environment, we get more light
on the relations between the plants and the factors which control the
vegetation. Take the case of the plants inhabiting desert regions such
as were discussed in Chapter I. Here the outstanding feature is scarcity
of water, and the plants display various remarkable adaptations which
fit them for a thirsty life. There are three ways to meet scarcity of
water--facilities for gathering it, arrangements for storing it, and
economy in using it; and arrangements for all three are familiar
features of desert plants. To effect the first, the root-system is
extended, and is often enormously developed in proportion to the aerial
parts. This adaptation may be studied in the flora of dry places in our
own country, such as shingle beaches and sand dunes, which are
characteristic semi-deserts. Take such plants as the Sea Holly
(_Eryngium maritimum_), the Sea Convolvulus (_C. Soldanella_), or the
Sea Sedge (_Carex arenaria_), and compare the extent of the root-system
or underground stems with that of the aboveground portions. Fig. 4
represents the Wild Carrot (_Daucus Carota_) as found growing under
extreme exposure on the west coast of Ireland. To meet the conditions
the tall branched stem has been entirely dispensed with, and the
terminal umbel is seated on the ground in the middle of a ring of
leaves. In this way the plant prepares to resist both drought and wind.
Water storage is often developed in different parts of xerophytes
(drought-resisting plants)--in roots, or stems, or leaves, which become
much enlarged, and at the same time covered with a

[Illustration: FIG. 4.--WILD CARROT (DAUCUS CAROTA), GROWING UNDER GREAT
EXPOSURE. 1/2.]

highly impervious skin, so that they act as veritable cisterns. In
plants like the Cacti water storage in the stems is carried very far
indeed; while in such genera as the Stonecrops (_Sedum_) the leaves are
often so swollen and charged with water that they lose up to 98 per
cent. of their weight if they are dried. Prevention of excessive loss of
water by transpiration is effected in plants of dry places mainly by
reduction in the size of the leaf and by protection of its surface. Leaf
reduction is very marked in many dry countries. If we compare the flora
of the Mediterranean region (a dry area) with that of Middle Europe or
of England, we shall be struck with the prevalence in the former of
small-leaved twiggy plants--Lavender (_Lavandula_) and Rosemary
(_Rosmarinus officinalis_) will serve as examples. Often leaf-reduction
is carried much farther, and we need not go beyond our own commons to
find a good example, for in the Gorse (_Ulex_) flat leaves are entirely
absent and the branches are shortened and converted into prickles, thus
largely reducing the surface exposed to the sun and wind. The seedling
Gorse has little trifoliate leaves, which remind us of its affinity to
the Trefoils and Brooms, but they are discarded almost at once, to fit
the plant better for life in the dry, breezy localities which it
favours. Reverting to the Mediterranean flora, a characteristic of its
plants is the prevalence of a grey hue in their stems and leaves, such
as we see in the Pinks and Achilleas of our rock gardens. This is due to
a coat of wax, as in the Pinks (_Dianthus_), or a felt of hairs, as in
the Achilleas, designed to check excessive transpiration. The coatings
of hairs are often of great beauty and complexity, and form an almost
impenetrable covering to the leaf surface, protecting the upper side
from the fierce rays of the sun, and on the underside sheltering the
stomata, or minute openings through which the plant exhales the surplus
water drawn up from the roots and inhales carbon dioxide. Another very
beautiful device for protecting the underside of the leaf, and one which
may be studied in many of our commonest plants, consists of the
inrolling of the edges, often combined with a wrinkling or ridging of
the underside, so that the stomata are set in deep hollows,
communicating with

[Illustration: FIG. 5.--SECTION ACROSS INROLLED LEAF OF CROWBERRY
(EMPETRUM NIGRUM), MUCH ENLARGED.]

the open air only through narrow openings. The leaves of some of our
common grasses show these characteristics to great advantage. And again
the stomata are often sunk in little pits, by which device they obtain
further protection. If we now examine the plants composing the sand-dune
or shingle-beach associations in the light of these facts, we shall find
them full of interest. The plants are well equipped to meet the adverse
conditions of a very porous soil, drying winds, and scorching sun. Note
the grey felt of hairs which protects the leaves of the Horned Poppy
(_Glaucium flavum_), the tough, waxy skin which covers the Sea Holly
(_Eryngium maritimum_), the extensive underground stem-systems of the
fleshy-leaved Sea Convolvulus (_C. Soldanella_) and Sea Purslane
(_Honkenya peploides_). Even the annual plants display similar
characters. In the great desert regions the annuals are often quite
normal in structure: that is because they appear during the brief rainy
season, and pass away before the fierce heat of summer sets in. But on
our shingle beaches the annuals grow throughout the summer, and need
protection against drought: so the Sea Rocket (_Cakile maritima_), the
Sea Whin (_Salsola kali_), and others are very fleshy plants; their
leaves are small, with an impervious skin, their root-systems are better
developed than in most annuals. The grasses and sedges of these places,
such as the Bent (_Ammophila arenaria_), Sea Wheatgrass (_Triticum
junceum_), Sea Sedge (_Carex arenaria_) have underground stems which
burrow widely through the sand, with an extensive root-system, and tufts
of inrolled leaves beautifully protected against over-transpiration and
well worth microscopical examination.

If we turn from the shingle beach to the salt-marsh, where water is very
abundant, we shall be struck by the peculiar fact that its vegetation
displays characters quite similar to those we have just been studying.
How can we reconcile this with the theory that the peculiar characters
of the shingle-beach plants are correlated with lack of moisture? The
explanation is to be found in the fact that plants have difficulty in
absorbing water if it is highly charged with mineral substances in
solution. In the salt-marsh the heavy muddy soil is impregnated with
common salt (chloride of sodium): the plants absorb it with difficulty;
and in consequence they are faced with the same main problem which
confronts the Sea Holly and Sea Whin, and they meet it in the same way.
Indeed, the salt-marsh plants appear to be more highly specialized, for
very few intruders from outside can venture in, while on the beach we
may meet with many plants which belong to other formations growing
successfully, at least for a time. The salt-marsh flora is very
exclusive, and contains but few species which we encounter in other
situations. Some of them are also found on dry sea-rocks--the Sea Pink
(_Statice Armeria_), Scurvy-grass (_Cochlearia officinalis_), Sea Aster
(_A. Tripolium_), and so on; showing that soaking soil is in no way
essential to their growth. (The first two reappear among alpine plants
on some of our higher mountains, pointing again to an analogy of
conditions not altogether understood.) But the salt-marsh formation as a
whole is perhaps the most distinctive as regards its composition of any
of the plant-groups of our country. It is dominated by such species as
the grey leathery-leaved _Obione portulacoides_, the small-leaved,
thick-stemmed Sea Pink, the Sea Wormwood (_Artemisia maritima_), which
is all covered with a silky coat; the pools are fringed with _Scirpus
Tabernæmontani_, a dwarf greyish copy of the Common Bulrush of our
lakes, and filled with the narrow-leaved _Ruppia_ and _Zannichellia_;
and in the muddiest places are little forests of Glasswort, leafless,
very fleshy, the flowers reduced to mere essentials and buried in the
fleshy stems (Fig. 2, p. 18).

Again, it is easy to trace the relationship existing between plant form
and soil conditions in the bogland flora; and these relations,
unexpectedly enough, turn out to be analogous to those obtaining in the
case of the salt-marsh. The sodden peat, sour and badly aerated, and
poor in mineral salts, is poor also in the bacteria which feed upon and
destroy dead vegetable matter, with the consequence that acid humus
compounds collect in the half-decayed vegetable mass; water charged with
these substances is as unsuitable for plants as is the water of the
salt-marsh. In spite of the wetness of the peat, water is in this case
also a desideratum; and the moorland plants, like those of the sea
fringe, possess special adaptations for economizing it. This usually
takes prominently the form of a reduction of leaf-surface. The dominant
plants, such as the Ling (_Calluna vulgaris_) and Purple Heather (_Erica
cinerea_), have minute leaves with reflexed edges and special structure
to protect the stomata. The grasses and sedges which abound have similar
characteristics; the whole vegetation tends to be small-leaved and
long-rooted. A few of the plants, such as the Eyebright (_Euphrasia_),
eke out the scanty food-supply by a semi-parisitism, robbing their
neighbours of portions of their hardly-won sustenance; one or two
others, such as the Bladderwort (_Utricularia_), which floats in the
bog-pools, and the Sundew (_Drosera_), which fringes their edges, entrap
insects and digest their juices, helping out their scanty rations with
an animal diet. On the moors the peculiar soil conditions determine
definitely the type of vegetation, which, over large areas, is as
uniform and monotonous as that of the salt-marsh.

We see, then, that the peculiar character of several of the most marked
of native plant formations--those of shingle, of salt-marsh, and of
moor--are due primarily to scarcity of water. They are drought
formations, produced either by physical drought, as in the case of
shingle, which fails to retain water, or by physiological drought, as in
the salt-marsh or bog, where, though water is present in abundance, it
is not in a condition in which plants can readily make use of it.

Let us now go to the opposite extreme, and consider the plant formation
which characterizes lowland lakes and rivers, where water suitable for
plant use is

[Illustration: FIG. 6.--DIAGRAM ILLUSTRATING SUCCESSION OF VEGETATION IN
LAKES.

_a_, Marsh zone; _b_, reed zone; _c_, zone of floating vegetation; _d_,
zone of submerged vegetation.]

superabundant. In such places we are faced with a vegetation exhibiting
a great number of species and a marked variety of form, and by no means
so easy to correlate with its environment as those which we have been
considering. In a wide sense, the nature of the vegetation is largely
dependent on the degree of aeration of the water and the amount of
dissolved mineral salts which it contains, an increase of either (within
limits) resulting in a richer flora. But in any one area it is clear
that depth of water is the controlling factor: the plants are arranged
in zones, one succeeding another as the bottom shelves. Two main zones
are conspicuous: (1) A zone of tall reed-like plants near the margins,
which farther out is succeeded by (2) a zone of lax floating plants
which either have leaves resting on the surface or grow entirely
submerged. Above the former a belt of marsh plants links the reed zone
with the vegetation of the soils of normal moisture; below the latter,
should the water increase in depth, we reach an aquatic desert region,
where the reduction of light renders plant growth difficult, and
eventually inhibits it. Let us consider the conditions prevailing in the
reed zone. Here the plants are essentially aerial, and though they have
their feet in water, the stems and leaves rise far above it. Water-level
is variable in lakes and rivers; the plants are usually tall, so that
even in case of flood the leaves and flowers will not be drowned. Wave
action on lake-shores is somewhat violent, and in flooded rivers a
strong current may sweep through the vegetation; we see the advantage of
the slender elastic stems and narrow leaves that characterize the
plants: compare Reed (_Phragmites_), Reed-mace (_Typha_), Flag (_Iris_),
Bur-reed (_Spargarium_), Bulrush (_Scirpus_); and these characters also
fit them for the windy nature of their habitat. The denuding effect of
wave or current action is countered by the network of creeping stems and
abundant roots which the plants possess, forming a tough felt which
floats, and by its growth and decay helps materially to form fresh land.
Another effect of the creeping and branching stem-systems is the
production of extensive and dense groves of many of the species.

When we pass beyond the reed zone, a completely different type of
vegetation prevails. Here the plants are essentially aquatic. They make
no effort to raise their stems and leaves above the water surface; but
almost all of them raise their flowers into the air, though the seed is
often ripened below the surface by a downward curving of the stem. These
plants, surrounded by water, use their roots chiefly as anchors, and
absorb through their stems and leaves the water from which they obtain
the necessary mineral salts. As regards the supply of oxygen and carbon
dioxide which the air supplies to them, those with floating leaves
absorb it from the atmosphere, while those whose leaves are submerged
have to subsist on the small quantity of these gases which is dissolved
in the water--no wonder that such plants are rare in stagnant waters
where aeration is poor. To assist respiration and transpiration,
abundant and often comparatively gigantic air-spaces are provided in
roots or stems or leaves, giving them a cellular appearance, and making
them singularly light and spongy in texture. The leaf system of those
plants which possess floating leaves--such as Water Lily (_Castalia_ and
_Nymphæa_) or Common Pondweed (_Potamogeton natans_), are well worth
study. They are tough, to withstand battering by waves; the stomata are
situated, not on the lower side of the leaf, as in land plants, but on
the upper side, where they are in contact with the atmosphere; and the
upper surface is waxy or oily, so that it is not wetted and the stomata
are not blocked. Changes of water-level are met by means of long
flexible stems, rising not vertically from the root, but at an angle, so
that the leaves can rise with a rise of water-level. But not all the
plants are anchored to the bottom. Some, which favour especially ditches
and quiet waters, float freely with roots hanging down in the water--the
Frog-bit (_Hydrocharis_) and Duckweeds (_Lemna_) are familiar examples.
In the Duckweeds true leaves are absent, but the tiny stems are
flattened and green and serve the same purpose, the minute flowers being
borne on their edges. A few plants, such as the smallest of the
Duckweeds (_Wolffia arrhiza_) and the Bladderworts (_Utricularia_), have
gone farther still, and have dispensed with roots altogether. In
_Wolffia_, indeed, the degeneracy of structure which results from the
simplification of life problems in plants which live thus floating
freely in water, is carried to its extreme limit. Leafless, rootless,
and almost flowerless, it maintains itself by the budding of its tiny
green fronds, a life-history as primitive as that of the lowly Algæ
among which it lives. In the Bladderworts, the long flaccid stems,
clothed with much-divided leaves converted in part into ingenious
insect-traps (see p. 188), hang limply in the water, sending up boldly
into the air their flowering shoots with yellow Snapdragon-like
blossoms. In most of such free-floating plants, compact buds are formed
at the tips of the shoots in autumn, and while the rest of the stem dies
away these sink to the bottom and remain there safe from frost and storm
until the spring, when they rise to the surface and produce a new crop
of plants.

We have now glanced at the most distinctive of the plant formations
which we meet with in our own country, and find that they accompany
extreme conditions relating to water and soil: it remains to return to
the consideration of the vegetation which develops under conditions of a
more normal character--on ordinary soils, in fact, which are neither
very wet nor very dry. Such conditions are precisely those which are
required for agricultural purposes; and over the wide areas where they
prevail, we find, as pointed out already, mere fragments of the native
associations remaining in an undisturbed condition. This renders their
study more difficult, and the difficulty is heightened by the fact that
while the physical conditions show no contrasts so marked as those which
we have been considering, the formations which can be distinguished are
several, and each contains several associations--often a woodland, a
scrub, and a grassland type. Thus, the formation which occupies
calcareous soils exhibits characteristic woodlands--woods of Ash
(_Fraxinus excelsior_), for instance, and on the downs peculiar woods or
scrub of Box (_Buxus sempervirens_), Juniper (_Juniperus communis_), Yew
(_Taxus baccata_), or Hazel, as on Farleton Fell. It also bears some
very marked types of grassland, as on the chalk downs; and the limestone
pavement of Farleton Fell is a special variant of this. Similarly, clays
and loams, sands, and siliceous soils possess similar characteristic
types of vegetation. But the consideration of these would occupy more
space and lead us into more technical detail than the scope of this book
warrants. For an account of these associations, written by botanists who
have made a special study of them, the reader is referred to Tansley’s
“Types of British Vegetation.”




CHAPTER III

PLANT MIGRATION


All organisms, animal as well as vegetable, are at some period of their
existence provided with an opportunity of migration. In the animal
world, most land creatures have legs or wings, which allow them to roam
about freely--a freedom which is of special importance as enabling them
to obtain nourishment and to avoid disadvantageous conditions. Aquatic
animals are likewise to a great extent possessed of powers of
locomotion, but such powers are not so essential to them as to
terrestrial creatures, since the water itself is full of small
organisms, both animal and vegetable, on which they can feed; hence a
large variety of water creatures are content to remain during much of
their lives fixed to one spot, extracting from the water as it passes by
both the supply of organic food and the inorganic substances, such as
oxygen or carbonate of lime, which they require for their life
processes. These sedentary creatures, of which barnacles, sea-anemones,
and zoophytes will serve as examples, once attached, do not move from
the spot where they have settled down; but it is important to note that
not only are their eggs or young mostly liberated into the water, and by
it transported to new homes, but in their juvenile stages they often
swim vigorously, and thus achieve a wide dispersal. In the plant world,
the higher forms, with very few exceptions, spend their lives attached
to one spot, like sea-anemones, deriving their food-supply from the air
and from the soil; but they similarly are given the opportunity, after
birth, of migrating. In our familiar wild flowers, for instance, the
young plant, at an early stage of its existence, while it is still
minute, becomes covered with a coat often of very resistant qualities,
and is then cast loose by the parent in the form of _seed_, mostly in
great numbers, to achieve what travels it can before it takes root and
settles down, like its parent before it, to a humdrum existence. In the
Cryptogams, or so-called Flowerless Plants, this temporary compression
of the organism into very narrow limits suitable for easy dispersal
takes place at a different period in the life cycle, but for mechanical
purposes the results are similar. Minute bodies, or _spores_ (much
smaller than the seeds of the Seed Plants), are cast loose by the parent
often in vast numbers, and eventually settle down and reproduce the
species. In many of the lower aquatic plants these spores are provided
with means of locomotion in the form of a tail-like appendage, which by
its movement propels the germs through the water, giving them the same
advantage which is possessed by the young of many of the sedentary
animals.

The opportunity for migration thus offered to sedentary plants once at
least in each cycle is of very great importance. A plant, living on one
spot and drawing, from that portion of the soil which its roots can
reach, certain mineral salts essential for its continued growth, tends
to exhaust the available supply of these materials, and the succeeding
generation needs to reach fresh ground if it in turn is to attain
healthy development. And it is undoubtedly of advantage to plants, if
they are to continue to exist on the Earth, to be able to jump barriers
and to colonize fresh suitable habitats which may arise in the course of
natural changes, which sooner or later may render old habitats
untenable. Thus the very existence of plants upon the Earth depends on
the adequacy of seed-dispersal. This being so, the imaginative mind,
viewing the marvellous and infinitely varied contrivances of Nature,
will possibly be struck more by the want of special provision for
dispersal shown by the majority of the higher plants--their helplessness
in this respect--than by the beautiful devices exhibited by the few. In
the first place, seeds are inert, devoid of any power of
locomotion--though in some instances the last act of the parent is to
discharge them with an explosive action into the air. They are dependent
on the movements of external media--air, or water, or wandering
animals--for transportation of any magnitude, and while many possess
very beautiful devices for enabling them to take advantage of
opportunities in this regard, the majority are devoid of any special
structures. They are as inert as pebbles or grains of sand: but they
possess two attributes which form important assets--namely, numbers and
vitality. The amount of seed produced annually is hundreds, or more
usually thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands, for each parent.
What matter if myriads perish? If one in so many thousands takes root
and grows, the species will not diminish in numbers. Vitality also
largely affects the problem. The seed can endure extremes of heat and
cold which would be fatal to the parent; it can be drowned, or scorched,
or dashed about, or in many cases eaten by animals without injury; it
can lie buried in the soil for a long period of years, yet if turned up
again and placed within reach of the requisite amount of air and heat,
will spring up vigorously.

As a matter of fact, investigation soon shows that absence of special
devices for dispersal provides no measure of the breadth of a plant’s
distribution, nor is profuse seed-production necessarily related to
abundance of offspring. Many factors come into play, and conclusions of
this obvious kind will generally only lead us astray. But that does not
render the study of each one of the factors less interesting.

This matter of seed-dispersal is of prime importance in our study of
familiar British plantscapes, for our vegetation is the expression of
the past and present efficiency of its particular rôle in the
ever-changing drama of Nature. We shall do well to spend a little time
in considering it.

First of all, as to the nature of the seeds with which we have to deal.
These are, as already pointed out, young plants, already a long way
advanced from the egg stage, neatly tucked up and enclosed, in most
cases along with a supply of food material, in a tight, strong skin,
which is mostly of a particularly impervious character, protecting the
young plant from injury by bruising, from attacks of small animal
enemies, from extremes of heat and cold, of moisture and dryness. The
young plant, too, is in a peculiarly resistant physiological condition.
For instance, its breathing--or absorption of oxygen--is exceedingly
slow, and it is not suffocated by burial, sometimes even for years, in
the soil. And while the mature plant is killed instantly by immersion in
boiling water or by exposure to a very low temperature, some seeds, if
boiled for a quarter of an hour, are quite uninjured, while others,
subjected experimentally to even the temperature of liquid hydrogen
(-260° C., or 436 degrees of frost on our more familiar Fahrenheit
scale), remain unaffected. Many seeds are liberated from the parent
plant enclosed by or attached to appendages of various sorts (when they
are called by the botanist _fruits_) which sometimes greatly aid
dispersal, as in the Dandelion (_Taraxacum_), and sometimes appear to
hinder it; in any case, while the young plant itself is usually quite
small, it may, when surrounded by its food-supply and enclosed in its
wrappings, be a bulky object--as is seen in the Cocoanut or Horse
Chestnut. In the British flora, to which we may confine our attention, a
crab-apple (containing a number of seeds), a hazelnut, and an acorn
(each containing a single seed), are the largest _units of dispersal_
with which we have to deal. But these are quite exceptional in size, and
the average seed (using that term in its original sense of the natural
unit of dispersal) in the British flora does not exceed the size of a
pin’s head. This remarkable reduction of size alone aids dispersal
greatly.

The migrations of plants are effected mainly during the seed stage,
these tiny, tightly packed portmanteaux being much better fitted for
travel than the bulky and fragile organisms to which they give rise. But
before we consider the adventures of seeds it must be pointed out that a
considerable, if slow, migration of plants takes place by mere
vegetative growth. The stems of many species are not erect, but
prostrate; creeping upon or below the ground, they may in time cause a
plant to spread far beyond its place of origin. A whole field, or for
that matter a whole hillside, of Bracken (_Pteris Aquilina_) may quite
possibly have originated from a single wind-borne spore. Among Sedges
and Grasses this mode of growth is common--as we know to our cost in the
case of the Couch-grass (_Triticum repens_)--and it is found in varying
form in many kinds of plants, as in the suckers of trees, the offsets of
bulbs, the runners of the Strawberry (_Fragaria_); it is especially
characteristic of marsh and water plants. Its effect is to produce large
colonies, such as the great beds of Reeds (_Phragmites_) or Reed-mace
(_Typha_) which fringe our lakes, the groves of Bent (_Ammophila_) on
sand dunes, and the beds of Anemones (_A. nemorosa_) or Broad-leaved
Garlic (_Allium ursinum_) of our spring woods. In all these cases the
whole colony may be the result of the continued growth of a single
individual. It should be noted, however, that such migration is possible
only so far as favourable soil conditions extend. A slight barrier--a
streamlet, a patch of ground too wet or too dry, will arrest further
progress, and the plant must fall back on seed-dispersal in order to
conquer further territory.

A vegetative device which, so far as its method and value in dispersal
are concerned, approaches those of seeds, is found in the bulbils with
which some plants are furnished. These are small buds--congested
shoots--borne on stems, or on leaves as in the Lady’s Smock (_Cardamine
pratensis_), or among the

[Illustration: FIG. 7.--CORAL ROOT (DENTARIA BULBIFERA).

_a_, Upper half of shoot, 1/2; _b_, creeping stem, 1/2; _c_, bulbil,
2/1.]

flowers as in many Leeks (_Allium spp._). These usually fall from the
parent when mature, and being comparatively small and possessed of
considerable vitality, they may achieve a considerable dispersal before
they send out roots and fasten themselves to the soil. An example is
figured (Fig. 7). In this plant (_Dentaria bulbifera_, the Coral Root, a
rather rare native of England) the bulbils resemble not the smooth
flower-stems of which they are axillary branches, but the curiously
knobby underground stems from which the leaves and flowering shoots
arise.

Since seeds themselves possess, as already stated, no power of
locomotion, they have to rely on external agents for their dispersal.
These may in general be summed up as (1) Action of the parent plant, (2)
water, (3) wind, (4) animals.

1. _Action of the Parent._--The Ivy-leaved Toad-flax, or
Mother-of-Thousands (_Linaria Cymbalaria_), is a pretty little plant,
native in central and southern Europe, naturalized and common on old
walls in this country. Its Snapdragon-shaped purple flowers are borne on
short stalks which curve towards the light, placing the blossoms in a
conspicuous position, where they may be the more readily visited by
insects, and thus pollinated. But when flowering is over, and the little
round fruit is ripening, the stalk twists so that the fruit is turned
towards the wall and finally pushed into any convenient crevice: when
the capsule opens, the seeds, instead of dropping to the base of the
wall where on germination the young plants would be smothered among
stronger growths, find themselves lodged in niches in which the young
plants may develop successfully. Many water plants have flowers which
rise into the air, following on which the flower-stem curves and the
seed is ripened below the surface, free from the dangers of weather, of
feeding water birds, and so on.

A very common type is that in which the seed-vessel opens at the top
when the seed is mature. Gusts of wind, or passing animals, bending the
stem, cause the latter to spring back, casting the seeds out. When the
seed-vessel opens widely, as in the Columbine (_Aquilegia_), the seeds
may be cast to some small distance. The efficacy of the arrangement is
not so obvious when, as in the Poppies (_Papaver_) or Bell-flowers
(_Campanula_), the openings are small (Fig. 8), but it is clear that
these plants do not suffer from lack of dispersal, in view of their
abundance and wide range.

[Illustration: FIG. 8.--FRUIT OF GIANT BELL-FLOWER (CAMPANULA
LATIFOLIA). 3/4.]

But the assistance which the parent plant gives is often of a more
active and even dramatic character, though in these cases it is usually
effected not by a movement of living tissue as in the last case, but by
mechanical changes taking place in tissues already dead or dying. If we
stand by a bank of Gorse (_Ulex_) on a warm day we may become aware of a
snapping sound, and may possibly feel on our faces the impact of small
bodies. These are gorse seeds in process of being distributed by the
parent. In this shrub the fragrant flowers are succeeded by short tough,
hairy pods, formed of two valves joined together by their edges. (In
reality the pod is a modified leaf folded down the middle, the two edges
thus brought together being joined--see p. 129.) When the seed is ripe
the pod dries, and owing to unequal shrinkage of the valves stresses are
set up which at last tear the pod suddenly asunder along its edges,
flinging the seeds violently out into new ground, where they will have a
better chance of life than if merely dropped into the middle of the
parent bush. A similar arrangement is found in the Vetches and many
other Leguminosæ. In the Cranesbills (_Geranium_) a very ingenious
catapult device may be examined. The fruit is of peculiar structure. We
might make a rough model of it by taking five single-sticks and tying
them to a broom-handle--firmly at the points, less securely
elsewhere--and slipping a tennis-ball into each basketwork handguard
before turning its open side in against the broom-stick, so that the
ball cannot fall out. Imagine now that unequal drying on the part of the
sticks tends to make each bend into a semicircular form, which is
hindered by the fastenings at either end. The stress will eventually
tear the weak fastenings at the base: the lower end will fly up, bearing
with it the ball (representing the seed), which will be projected

[Illustration: FIG. 9.--FRUIT OF GERANIUM.

_a_, Mature; _b_, ditto, with pouches raised ready to discharge nuts;
_c_, in act of discharging.]

out through the open side. In the Cranesbills the jerk is so violent
that seeds may be flung to a distance of twenty feet. One of the most
efficient of all devices of this kind is found in the Sand-box Tree
(_Hura crepitans_), a native of South America. By sudden rupture and
twisting of the carpels of the woody sub-globular fruit, the large seeds
of this plant are thrown to a distance of thirty yards, the explosion
being accompanied by a report like that of a pistol-shot. In the common
Dog Violet (_Viola Riviniana_) (Fig. 10) the fruit is a three-valved
capsule, which on ripening divides; each valve assumes a horizontal
position and its edges contract till it is shaped like an open boat, the
seeds lying in a row down the middle. The sides as they dry close in
tighter and tighter on the seeds, which are in turn pinched out, and
fly off with a little snap to a distance of many feet. It is an
interesting experience to watch these tricks of Nature--much more
interesting than merely to read about them. If plants of Vetch, Gorse,
Dog Violet, Storksbill, Wood Sorrel, Touch-me-not (to name a few),
bearing unripe fruit, be brought home and placed in water in a
sitting-room, the click of the bursting fruits will be distinctly
audible, and by spreading a white sheet the efficiency of the devices
may be tested.

[Illustration: FIG. 10.--FRUIT OF VIOLA. 3/4.

_a_, Mature capsule; _b_, capsule open ready to discharge seeds; _c_,
capsule after seeds are discharged.]

A very interesting case, in which the seed is actually buried in the
soil by movements of its appendages (portions of the parent plant which
remain attached to it), may be watched in the case of the Storksbills
(_Erodium_), Several species of which are British plants of frequent
occurrence. Here the young fruit much resembles that of its allies the
Cranesbills. The long rod-like axis at the lower end of which the seed
is enclosed contracts unequally in drying, so that the upper half
assumes a position at right angles to that of the

[Illustration: FIG. 11.--FRUIT OF STORKSBILL (ERODIUM). 2/3.

_a_, Mature, twisting beginning; _b_, separate fruit, fully twisted.]

lower half, which when dry is much twisted, like a rope (Fig. 11). The
covering of the seed itself is furnished with stiff short hairs pointing
upwards. The whole structure when mature is cast off by the parent. The
curiously twisted appendage is hygroscopic, and readily responds to
wetness by untwisting and to dryness by twisting. Should it be thus
caused to untwist when the upper end is free from obstruction the latter
will revolve slowly like the hand of a clock. But should it meet with an
obstacle in the course of its revolutions, such as a blade of grass, the
motion is transferred to the lower end, which revolves like an auger,
and, lengthening as it untwists, forces the seed into the ground. Should
dryness supervene, the backward-pointing hairs on the seed-envelope
prevent its being drawn out again when retwisting and consequent
shortening take place. These _Erodium_ fruits are among the most
interesting in the British flora, and are well worth experimenting with.

2. _Water._--Water, which forms the most frequent and the most serious
barrier to plant migration, under certain circumstances is a very
efficient agent of dispersal. At the same time, its powers in the latter
direction are strictly circumscribed. As regards fresh water, seeds
which float may be wafted across lakes. Rivers are more effectual, as
seeds may be transported long distances in their currents and thrown up
finally on their banks or over flooded areas. When we consider the sea,
we realize that there is here a possibility of almost unlimited
dispersal provided that the seeds are not injured by salt water, and
that they can remain afloat. It is on the latter point that the whole
efficacy of water dispersal turns. This was long ago recognized, and
investigations have been made by many naturalists to determine the
buoyancy of seeds of all kinds. The results show that, taking the seeds
of the plants of any country as a whole, not more than about 10 per
cent. are capable of floating for more than a short period, while most
of them sink at once in either fresh or salt water. So one’s vision of
seeds transported in myriads over hundreds of miles of sea is rudely
dispelled; and the fact that many seeds can survive prolonged immersion
in sea-water uninjured is of little account. The 10 per cent. of our own
flora which produce buoyant seeds are mainly riverside and seaside
plants; and no doubt their dispersal is to a great extent due to streams
and tidal currents. But the majority of the hundreds of thousands of
seeds which a river transports annually find their last resting-place in
quiet backwaters or on the floor of the sea.

It is different, however, with the flora which fringes beaches in the
Tropics. Here many of the plants possess large fruits of great buoyancy,
which are still afloat and alive after months of tossing on the waves,
and if cast up germinate readily. These bold wanderers are a familiar
feature of Tropic plant life, and their successful voyaging accounts for
the uniformity of the beach flora on innumerable islands. Even our own
inhospitable shores sometimes receive these waifs of warmer seas,
brought from the West Indies by the Gulf Stream and the prevailing
south-west winds. Of these the most frequent are the large bean-like
seeds of _Entada scandens_, a Leguminous plant, which are originally
enclosed in gigantic pods several feet in length, and the more globular
seeds of the Bonduc (_Guilandina bonducella_), another species of the
same order. But the most famous of all floating fruits is the Double
Cocoanut, or Coco-de-mer, a huge nut weighing 40 or 50 lb. and
containing several seeds a foot and a half long. It is the product of a
Palm (_Lodoicea Sechellarum_); cast up on the shores of India, it was
known centuries before its place of origin in the Seychelles was
discovered, and fantastic legends grew up regarding it.

3. _Wind._--Everything that we know about the wind suggests that it is a
potent agent of seed-dispersal, far excelling, for instance, that of
flowing water. “All the rivers flow into the sea,” that cemetery of
seeds, and their courses are at best mere spider-lines on a map. But the
wind, blowing where it listeth, is everywhere, always ready to snatch up
in its arms any seed of sufficient lightness, and to bear it away from
the parent; in fancy we can see tiny seeds borne by gales across
mountains and oceans. But we have to leave imagination out of account,
and examine prosaically the mechanical laws according to which such
transport is of necessity conducted. Any body liberated in still air
will fall vertically with a velocity which increases according to
well-known laws until the increasing resistance of the air to its
passage equals the effect due to gravity; it thenceforward continues to
fall at a uniform velocity, that velocity depending upon the nature of
the falling body. In all seeds which are sufficiently light to be at all
suitable for wind dispersal, the resistance of the air almost at once
counteracts acceleration due to gravity, so that the rate of fall may be
taken as uniform from the beginning. If the seed on liberation is
carried along by the wind, it will acquire almost immediately the
horizontal velocity of the air-current, but it will at the same time
move downward through the air with the same velocity as if the air was
still--just as a body dropped in a railway carriage will fall at the
same rate whether the train is moving or standing still. If we measure
the speed of fall of a seed in still air, then we can easily deduce the
distance to which it will be carried by a horizontal air-current of
given velocity if liberated at any given height above the ground. Thus,
if a seed liberated 100 feet from the ground falls that distance in half
a minute, and the wind is blowing at the rate of, say, 1,000 feet in
half a minute (or nearly 23 miles per hour, a good breeze), the seed
will be carried 1,000 feet before it reaches the ground. Its course will
be represented by the diagonal AD of the accompanying figure, where AB
represents the distance which the seed falls in the given time, and AC
the distance according to the same scale travelled by the wind in the
same period.

[Illustration: FIG. 12.]

But most seeds sufficiently light to be capable of extended flights are
liberated only a few feet from the ground; they are dependent on upward
eddies to raise them if they are to achieve more than a very short
migration. That such eddies, both upward and downward, occur on a windy
day we all know from experience; and it is they that make or mar the
fortune of most wind-borne seeds. Only some local or accidental excess
of upward over downward eddies will assist a seed on its journey; and as
every upward eddy must be compensated somewhere by a downward eddy, the
longer the journey is, the more such eddies tend to neutralize each
other. Over the sea--that most formidable barrier to plant
migration--eddies do not prevail as they do over rough ground, so that,
unless by a series of lucky eddies a seed is whirled up to a
considerable elevation before it leaves the shore, the chances of its
successful passage across a stretch of water are remote. Discussing the
possibility of seeds of Portuguese plants reaching the Azores, lying
800 miles to the westward, H. B. Guppy[4] shows, from observations on
the rate of fall of seeds made by several workers, that with a 50 miles
per hour horizontal wind the light-plumed seed of the Common Groundsel
(_Senecio vulgaris_), for instance, would require to be liberated at a
height of 9 miles above the ground if it is to reach the islands: or to
express it differently, if liberated at ground-level, the seed would
need to be raised 9 miles by upward eddies during its journey, even if
corresponding downward eddies were absent--which they certainly never
are. It is clear that if even light seeds are to achieve anything more
than short journeys, they must depend on exceptional disturbances of the
air, such as whirlwinds and tornadoes.

It is now time to examine the devices by which many seeds achieve a more
or less wide dispersal by means of the wind. Seeds possessing these
adaptations may be divided into three classes: (i.) Powder seeds, (ii.)
winged seeds, (iii.) plumed seeds.

By powder seeds are meant seeds of very small dimensions. Reduction in
size, if carried far enough, greatly facilitates dispersal by wind. This
is because the resistance offered by the air is relatively greater for a
smaller body than for a larger one, so that rate of fall decreases as
the size of the falling body diminishes--we all know how even a heavy
material, if reduced to powder, will fall more slowly than when forming
a single mass. Most of the spores of the “Flowerless Plants”--Ferns,
Mosses, Fungi, etc.--are exceedingly minute, and have as a result a very
slow rate of fall, and a consequent power of long-distance dispersal by
wind. For instance, the microscopic spore of the puff-ball _Lycoperdon_
falls so slowly that, if we take again Guppy’s Azores example, it could
traverse the 800 miles in a 50 miles an hour gale if it commenced its
flight only 86 feet above the ground. Such spores are, in fact, so
buoyant that they form a normal constituent of the air--as we know, for
instance, by the rapidity with which they will discover and germinate
upon a piece of cheese, forming bluemould--and with little doubt they
are capable of reaching under favourable circumstances the most distant
of oceanic islands. But in the Flowering Plants with which we are mainly
concerned reduction in size is not carried far enough to confer any
great amount of buoyancy. The minute seeds of the Poppies (_Papaver_),
for instance, fall about 10 feet in a second. Applying again Guppy’s
Azorean case, we find that though these would cover the distance in
sixteen hours, they would fall in that time about 100 miles, unless
raised during the journey to that extent by the excess of upward eddies
as compared with downward ones--a quite impracticable proposition. In
the Orchids alone do we find among the powder-seeded Flowering Plants a
really effective buoyancy; this is due to the fact that great reduction
in size is accompanied by very loosely disposed tissue enclosing the
seed in a kind of net, and by the resistance to the air thus offered,
greatly reducing the rate of fall. The seed of the Marsh Helleborine
(_Epipactis longifolia_) falls only about 1/15 as fast as that of the
Poppies, and would thus, under the same conditions, be carried fifteen
times as far.

To pass on. Some seeds, many of them of considerable size as compared
with those which we have just considered, have coverings which are
furnished with a membranous wing (Fig. 13, _d_), sometimes extending all
round the seed, as in the Elm (_Ulmus_), more often placed at one side,
as in the Sycamore (_Acer_). The effect of such wings is to reduce the
rate of fall, imparting to the seed an irregular zigzag motion, as in
the former case, or a spinning motion as in the latter. A Sycamore seed
with the wing removed will fall four or five times as fast as with the
wing present. But while a well-developed wing forms a more efficient
dispersal device than mere reduction in size as found in Seed Plants,
the rate of fall of wing seeds as a whole shows that these appendages do
not fit them for anything but short voyages.

We may then pass on to consider the plumed seeds, which possess by far
the most efficient as well as the most beautiful devices for aiding
dispersal found among wind-borne seeds. These plumed seeds belong to
many different groups of plants, and the tufts of delicate hairs which
give them their buoyancy arise in different ways. Among the _Compositæ_,
the Order which furnishes the most familiar of our plumed seeds, the
plume is formed by modification of the upper part of the calyx, which in
so many common plants is small, green, and leaf-like; the lower part of
the calyx in the _Compositæ_ is tough, persistent, and close-fitting,
forming an additional protection for the seed. The plume springs either
from the top of the seed, as in the Thistle, or is borne on a slender
stalk, as in the Dandelion. It consists of a ring or radiating mass of
hairs of beautiful delicacy, often bearing short

[Illustration: FIG. 13.--WING-SEEDS AND PLUME-SEEDS.

     _a_, Mountain Willowherb (_Epilobium montanum_), 2/1; _b_,
     Dandelion (_Taraxacum officinale_), 2/1; _c_, Mountain Avens
     (_Dryas octopetala_), 1/1; _d_, Scotch Fir (_Pinus sylvestris_),
     2/1; _e_, Reed-mace (_Typha latifolia_), 2/1.]

branches; these hairs are tightly packed together when the fruit is
young or during damp weather, but on a dry day when it is ripe they
spread out, and the seed, breaking away from its attachment, is floated
off by the wind. In many species the plume or _pappus_ is only lightly
attached to the seed, so that if on a voyage an obstacle is encountered
the seed drops off, while the now useless parachute drifts away. But
though the plume seeds of the _Compositæ_ are the largest and most
beautiful among our common plants, they are not the most efficient for
dispersal. The fluffy seeds of the Willowherbs (_Epilobium_) and of the
Willows (_Salix_), for instance, fall at a slower rate than those of
almost any _Compositæ_, while by far the most buoyant seed in the
British flora is that of the Reed-mace (_Typha_). In this case the seed
itself is minute, and is situated on a very slender stalk, from near the
base of which springs a tuft of delicate hairs. This seed takes
thirty-four seconds to fall twelve feet. Using once more the Azorean
example, it could cross the 800 miles of sea if it had an initial
elevation of 3-1/3 miles, or was raised to that amount during the
sixteen hours occupied by its passage.

Summing up, then, we find that the plume seeds are the most efficient of
all seeds for extended flights by the agency of the wind. If the
efficiency of the seeds of the Reed-mace, the most buoyant among British
plants, be taken as 100, the efficiency of the Willowherbs is between 60
and 70, of Willows 45 to 70, the best of the Thistles 35 to 40,
Dandelion 25. Even the best of the winged seeds are much less efficient,
Elm and Scotch Fir being about 20, Sycamore and Ash 9 or 10. Of powder
seeds, the efficiency of several Orchids tested ranges from 35 to 65,
and Broomrapes (_Orobanche_) from 20 to 25. Most of the powder seeds are
far below these, the efficiency of seeds of _Papaver dubium_, for
example, being only 4·5 on the same scale. This last figure is
representative of the many small-seeded plants in the British
flora such as are found among the _Crucifercæ_, _Caryophyllaceæ_,
_Scrophulariaceæ_, etc. The relative efficiency of such comparatively
large seeds as those of many of our Leguminous plants would be about 1
on the same scale.

4. _Dispersal by Animals._--The coverings of many seeds are provided
with hooks or barbs, and others with stiff hairs, which render them
liable to become entangled in the hair or fur of passing animals.
Examples will occur at once to the reader, as this character occurs in
the case of many familiar plants, such as Burdock (_Arctium_),
Enchanter’s Nightshade (_Circæa_), Avens (_Geum_), and so on. Without
doubt these hooked fruits often secure a wide local dispersal by the aid
of cattle, sheep, rabbits, and so on: the state of one’s trousers or
stockings after walking the autumn woods is often very suggestive in
this regard. Again, herbivorous quadrupeds eat seeds in quantities, many
of which are capable of germination after passing through the animal’s
body. But while the dispersal obtained by such means may often aid in
spreading a species over a tract of land, it does not generally aid in
the crossing of barriers, such as mountains or sea, on account of the
limitations to the movements of such animals. To arrive at a true
estimate of the importance of the animal kingdom in regard to plant
migration, we have to study the movements, habits, and food of birds, to
whose wanderings neither mountains nor seas set a barrier. Seeds are
carried about by birds in two ways--by becoming attached to their
feathers or feet, or by being eaten and subsequently ejected. The first
case belongs to the class of phenomena which we have just been
considering, save that the smooth plumage of birds, and their frequent
preening of their feathers, tends to keep their coats free from
extraneous material. But at least in wet weather minute seeds must often
cling to feathers and to feet, and mud which may contain seeds may
easily be present on a bird’s toes during flight. More important is the
question of _endozoic_ dispersal--where seeds are transported in the
alimentary canal of birds. Some families, like the Finches and Tits,
which eat great numbers of seeds, are inimical instead of helpful to
dispersal, because the seeds which they devour are crushed and
afterwards digested. But in many cases the seeds are swallowed whole,
and are usually in no way injured by their passage through a bird’s
body. Frequently, indeed, the seeds have not to run the gauntlet of the
digestive juices of the alimentary canal, being disgorged from the
stomach along with other hard material prior to digestion. Birds which
live on berries or other juicy fruits are the most important in
seed-dispersal. As Barrows says: “The seed-eaters are not the
seed-planters; on the contrary, the insectivorous birds more often sow
seeds than the true seed-eaters.” “Seeds which _simply contain_
nourishment are eaten and destroyed, while seeds which _are contained in
nourishment_ are eaten and survive.”[5] It is for this reason that, if
we look under a tree on which Blackbirds or Thrushes perch, we shall
often find young plants of Bramble (_Rubus_), Ivy (_Hedera_), Holly
(_Ilex_), or Yew (_Taxus_). There can be no doubt that birds eat and
subsequently eject vast numbers of seeds still capable of germination;
many observations and calculations might be quoted. But when we come to
apply the facts to the problem of long-distance dispersal, or the
passage across serious barriers, we find that important limiting factors
must be taken into account. The digestion of birds is remarkably rapid,
food being ejected from a half to three hours after being eaten, so that
a bird eating seeds and at once flying off in a straight line at, say,
50 miles per hour could not convey seeds more than 150 miles. Secondly,
many observations show that on migration birds generally travel with
empty stomachs and clean plumage and feet. It is clear, therefore, that,
as in the case of wind dispersal, we must look to exceptional
circumstances, not normal conditions, to provide opportunities for long
journeys on the part of seeds. But for the transfer of seeds from France
to England, for instance, or from England to Ireland, it is clear that
birds furnish a far more efficient medium than wind or water. In one
important particular, dispersal by animals has a great advantage over
dispersal by wind--that it is practically independent of the weight of
the seeds. Thus, the heaviest of British seeds, the acorn, is carried
about by Rooks, just as the hazelnut is scattered by Squirrels, or a
head of Burdock fruits by a passing sheep.

Having thus arrived at some idea of the high efficiency for dispersal of
many kinds of seeds, it is with some little surprise that we observe--as
we may on any country walk--that the plants which arise from these are
in general no more abundant or more widely distributed than others which
possess seeds devoid of any apparent advantages in this respect--seeds
which cannot fly nor float, nor cling to a passing creature, and which
are not eaten to any extent by birds so far as observation goes. The
truth is, we have to remember, as emphasized in a previous chapter, that
the world is already densely populated by plants, all of which survive
by reason of their being specially fitted for their several habitats.
They have fought in the great struggle for existence, and have
established their right to the places which they occupy; they will not
readily give way to any newcomer whose seeds happen to be imported into
their strongholds. Of course exceptions can be quoted, where plants
accidentally or intentionally introduced by man into new areas have not
only maintained a foothold, but have spread remarkably. Note the case of
the Sweetbrier (_Rosa eglanteria_) in New Zealand, of the Mexican
_Bryophyllum calycinum_ in many Tropical countries, of the American
Monkey-flower (_Mimulus Langsdorfii_) in our own islands; but these are
admittedly exceptional. It is nearer the truth to say that the troubles
of an immigrant only begin where dispersal ends; and that the chance of
seeds carrying out a successful migration is much greater than the
chances of their giving rise to a new colony when that migration is
successfully accomplished. Every head of the Reed-mace liberates about a
quarter of a million seeds of marvellous lightness; yet the Reed-mace
does not increase in the country, nor is it a particularly abundant
plant even in its chosen habitats. The Foxgloves (_Digitalis purpurea_)
in a wood shed, each plant, say a hundred thousand seeds; yet on an
average only one of these attains maturity, otherwise the species would
become more abundant in the area. This enormous destruction of seed is
largely due to competition. The reception which a plant receives in its
new home is the thing that matters, and that may usually be summed up in
the phrase “House full.”

Nevertheless, the present flora of Great Britain is in the long run the
result of migration from surrounding areas; so that ease of dispersal
has undoubtedly played its part in the building up of our vegetation.

Conditions under which rapid dispersal has obviously an advantage occur
when by some exceptional circumstances the natural vegetation is
destroyed within an area, as by a flood or landslide. Such conditions
are produced artificially each season over much of our own country by
the operations of agriculture. Their results will be considered in a
subsequent chapter.




CHAPTER IV

SOME INTER-RELATIONS OF PLANTS AND ANIMALS


The most important and fundamental difference between the animal and
plant worlds is this: plants possess the power of manufacturing their
food out of the inorganic materials of which it is composed, while
animals cannot do this. Give an ordinary plant access to water with a
pinch of mineral salts in it, to the air, and to sunlight, and by the
agency of chlorophyll--the green colouring-matter of the leaves--the
miracle will be accomplished, and dead materials transformed into living
substance. Animals, on the other hand, are dependent for their
food-supply on organic material--that is, on either plant or animal
substances; and since they cannot live by taking in each other’s
washing--in other words, by eating each other--it follows that the
animal world is dependent on the plant world for its continued
existence. A porpoise may live on herrings, herrings on small fry, fry
in turn on minuter organisms, and so on down the scale; but their
ultimate source of food is the tiny Algæ which swarm in the water--the
_Plankton_ in Hensen’s original sense--which, alone in this chain, can
build up their bodies out of the sea and air. That these minute plants
can sustain the enormous drain upon them due to their use as a
food-supply by myriads of larger organisms is due to their vast numbers
and rapid increase. Sea-water favourable for plankton life may contain
several millions of individuals in every litre (about 1-3/4 pints);
while as a fair estimate for the seas which surround our own islands “at
least one” organism for every drop has been suggested.[6]

In the great abysses of the ocean, where vegetable life is absent, the
strange creatures which live there in utter darkness prey upon others,
and they again on others which belong to lesser depths, the ultimate
source of life being again the minute surface organisms which,
possessing chlorophyll, can make organic out of inorganic substances by
the energy obtained from sunlight. Thus only is life made possible in

                          the green hells of the sea
    Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be.

On the land, the dependence of animals on plants is in large measure
direct, as the supply of vegetable food is abundant and widespread. The
largest land animals are all vegetable feeders; so are the majority of
our own native mammals, and in a great measure our birds; while most of
the creatures upon which the flesh-eating animals prey are themselves
vegetable feeders. The distribution of land animals over the globe is
thus dependent in large measure on the distribution of plants. On
account of the profusion and variety of plant life, and the fact that
most vegetable feeders can thrive on various sorts of plants, few
animals are restricted in their range by the presence or absence of any
particular species or genus, but complete dependence of this sort is by
no means unknown. The larvæ of some Butterflies, for instance, eat the
leaves of one plant only; the Peacock (_Vanessa io_) and the Small
Tortoiseshell (_V. urticæ_) are cases in point. The caterpillars of both
these species feed exclusively on the Common Nettle (_Urtica dioica_).
Should the efforts of farmers and gardeners succeed in exterminating
this unwelcome plant, these two butterflies would disappear from the
Earth. Sometimes absolute mutual dependence is found on both the animal
and vegetable sides. The American _Yucca filamentosa_, often grown in
our gardens, depends solely on the little moth _Pronuba yuccasella_ for
its pollination, just as the insect is absolutely dependent on the plant
(see p. 80), and other species of Yucca have each its particular
dependent moth, which feeds on no other plant, and whose flowers are
pollinated by no other.

Apart from such special cases, the general dependence of animals upon
plants is obvious, and is by no means confined to food-supply. Animals
of all grades, from human beings to Caddis Worms, construct houses of
vegetable materials; trees are the chosen home of large sections of our
fauna, and the herbs of the field are the world for millions of tiny
beings.

    There’s never a leaf or a blade too mean
      To be some happy creature’s palace.

Turning to the other side of the picture, no such general dependence of
the plant world upon the animal world is found, but the inter-relations
of the two are many and varied, and in the absence of animals of one
kind or another whole groups of plants would become extinct. The cases
where plants derive their food-supply wholly from animals are indeed
rare, save near the bottom of the vegetable scale, and most of such
parasites are minute; one of the most noticeable in our own country is
the fungus _Cordyceps militaris_, which may be found growing on the dead
bodies of larvæ or pupæ which it has killed--a little scarlet,
club-shaped plant, about an inch in height. But some of the most highly
organized plants obtain _portions_ of their food-supply from animal
sources. Mention has already been made of the Sundews (_Drosera_),
Butterworts (_Pinguicula_), and Bladderworts (_Utricularia_), which
capture live insects, etc., by means of sensitive organs (as in the
first two cases) or ingenious traps (as in the last), and subsequently
digest them, and they will be dealt with later on (p. 186). Then there
is the Venus’ Fly-trap (_Dionæa_) and the well-known Pitcher Plants
(_Nepenthes_), which actively, as in the former case, or passively, as
in the latter, catch insects and digest them, by means of leaves
modified in very extraordinary ways. In all these instances the
advantage lies entirely on the side of the plant, just as in the case of
most of the plant-eating animals the advantage is wholly with the
animal. But in a large number of instances--many of them of a most
interesting nature--the inter-relations are such as to benefit both the
actors, each obtaining from the other what is useful to it. One of the
most conspicuous and widespread relationships of this kind is that
prevailing between flowers and insects, the insect receiving food in the
form of nectar, and at the same time carrying pollen from flower to
flower, without which transfer no fertile seed would be formed. To this
interchange of favours we shall return later (p. 81); meanwhile, it
will be well to consider a few of the cases in which the relationship
between plant and animal is continuous and more intimate, the two living
in very close relations to each other: to such cases the term
_symbiosis_ or “living together” is applied by naturalists. The
relations existing between certain trees and some species of ant are of
high interest, and illustrate well this phase of life. The Candelabra
Tree (_Cecropia peltata_) of the South American forests is liable to
attack by leaf-cutting ants (_Œcodoma_), which climb trees and bite off
thousands of leaves; these they cut up on the ground and carry to their
nests, where they form a basis for the growth of certain small fungi
which are a favourite food of the ants (compare the cultivation of
mushrooms as practised by gardeners). The Candelabra Tree protects
itself from these ravages by forming an alliance with another kind of
ant (_Azteca_). Along the hollow stems are little pits through which the
ants easily bore, and reach the convenient houses within, where they
live and bring up their young. At the base of the leaf-stalks, where the
greatest danger lies from the leaf-cutting ants, little tufts of hairs
are situated, among which are small white masses of nutritious material
much liked by the ants, and collected by them and stored within their
houses. So that these desirable trees are swarming with Aztec ants,
fierce little creatures--“it is one of the most bellicose ants that I
know, and its sting is most irritating,” writes Kerner--which congregate
especially at the leaf-stalks, the point of attack of the leaf-cutters.
The advantages of these arrangements to both the trees and the Aztec
ants are obvious.

A very remarkable instance of a different kind is supplied by the
relations existing between the American species of _Yucca_ and the small
white-winged moths of the genus _Pronuba_. The following succinct
account is given by Professor G. H. Carpenter:[7] “The female of these
moths has not only the palps of the first maxillæ developed, but the
region of the maxillæ (palpiger) whence they spring produced into a pair
of long, flexible, hairy processes. By means of these she collects from
the anthers pollen, which she deliberately carries to the stigma to
ensure fertilization. With her piercing ovipositor--a most abnormal
development among moths--she bores through the tissue of the pistil, and
by means of the flexible egg-tube, protrusible beyond the ovipositor,
lays her eggs close to the ovules of the _Yucca_. The caterpillar when
hatched feeds on the growing seed of the plant, which would never
develop were it not for the action of the _Pronuba_ moth. This action is
most wonderful, in that the moth herself gets no benefit from it. Her
food canal is degenerate, and her jaws, useless for sucking, are devoted
altogether to the gathering of the pollen; she does not feed in the
perfect state. Doubtless her ancestors did so, and were first attracted
to the _Yucca_ in search of honey, though the act of pollination is now
performed only for the sake of the offspring.”

Among certain lower animals and plants symbiotic connection is often
most intimate. For instance, in the body-wall of certain Sea Anemones
and Holothurians there are small green cells which were long believed
to be part of the animal, and which puzzled naturalists because they
contained chlorophyll, that remarkable green substance characteristic of
plants, which gives to them the power of forming food out of its raw
inorganic materials. These cells are now known to be minute seaweeds
(Algæ), which spend their lives in the animal tissues to the benefit of
both organisms. The plant, by virtue of its chlorophyll, absorbs carbon
dioxide, decomposes it, and gives out oxygen, which is eagerly seized on
by the animal. The animal in its turn liberates carbon dioxide, which is
required by the plant. Similar relations exist between Algæ and some of
the lowly Radiolarians and Foraminifera; in these cases, the animals
being very minute, the plant partner plays a more conspicuous rôle. It
is noteworthy that these Algæ are quite capable of living and
multiplying separately, free from the body of the animals, and the
animals also are capable of pursuing an independent existence.

Let us turn now to the relations existing between flowers and insects,
which form one of the most picturesque and romantic features of field
life, and of which the materials for study and observation are ever at
our own doors. What is a flower? A flower is a group of modified leaves
set apart for the business of sexual reproduction. The essential parts
or _sporophylls_ are of two kinds, which may be borne on the same flower
or on separate flowers on one plant, or on separate plants. These are
the _stamens_, bearing _pollen grains_ (or _microspores_), from which
_male cells_ arise; and _carpels_, which contain _ovules_, each
enclosing an _embryo sac_ or _megaspore_, in which is an _ovum_ or
_female cell_.

Each stamen consists usually of a slender stalk, the _filament_, bearing
an oblong head, the _anther_, which contains four chambers, or pollen
sacs, filled with pollen grains; these, when mature, escape into the air
by the rupturing of the walls of the chambers.

Each carpel contains in its lower part an ovary, while its upper part
presents to the air a surface charged with nutrient substance, the
_stigma_, which is often raised on a slender stalk, the _style_.

To secure the production of seed, the first necessary step is
_pollination_, or the transfer of pollen from the stamen to the stigma.
When this is effected--the means will be considered immediately--and a
pollen grain alights on the surface of the stigma, which is usually
sticky or hairy to aid its retention there, the pollen grain commences
growth, and sends out a slender tube (the _pollen tube_), which pursues
its way through the substance of the stigma, down the style, into the
ovary, and from its tip a male cell passes out and fuses with the ovum.
In most flowers the pollen tube is not called on to make any great
effort of growth, the distance between stigma and ovary being very
small; but occasionally, as in Crocus and Lily, this may amount to half
a foot. The result of this act of fertilization is that the ovum and
ovule grow, the former forming eventually the _embryo_, or young plant,
the latter the _seed_ in which the embryo is enclosed. In order that
fertile seed may be produced it is often necessary, and usually
desirable, that the pollen which reaches the stigma should not belong to
the same flower, but to a different flower of the same species;
_cross-pollination_ being the rule among seed plants, _self-pollination_
the exception. To secure the former, and to avoid the latter, many
highly interesting devices are found, materially affecting the structure
and development of flowers.

The _essential_ parts of a flower, then, consist of stamens and carpels.
Flowers consisting of no other parts but either or both of these are not
common, but we may compare, for example, the rarely produced flowers of
the Duckweeds (_Lemna_), in which a tiny group of two stamens and a
carpel represents one flower, or, according to some views, a group of
three flowers. More commonly the flower is much more composite,
consisting mostly of four sets of organs, arranged in whorls or rings,
or more rarely in close spirals. In the centre is a group of carpels;
outside them--in other words, slightly lower on the stem--a ring, or two
rings, of stamens, few or many; then a ring of _petals_, forming the
_corolla_, usually coloured, leaf-like, and conspicuous; and outside of
them a ring of _sepals_, forming the _calyx_, generally green and
leaf-like. The main function of the calyx is protective; it encloses the
essential organs and guards them till they are mature, when the flower
opens and stamen and stigma play their parts. The calyx is usually
tough, and often covered with hairs, or with a sticky substance, to keep
the flower safe and ward off the attacks of insects or other small
devourers. If we turn to the corolla we find a singular variety of size,
form, and colour. To account for this, it is necessary to consider the
means by which pollen is distributed. There are two chief ways in which
pollen is conveyed from flower to flower--by means of the wind, and by
means of flying insects. If we examine wind-pollinated flowers, such as
Hazel (_Corylus_), Scotch Fir (_Pinus_), or Reed-mace (_Typha_), we
note the small size of the flowers and the great abundance of pollen.
Compare these with insect-fertilized flowers, such as Buttercup
(_Ranunculus_), Flax (_Linum_), Snapdragon (_Antirrhinum_), or one of
the Orchids. In these the flowers are much larger owing to the increased
size of the petals, which are of brilliant colour and of various shape.
Pollen is mostly much reduced in quantity, since insects flying direct
from flower to flower afford a far more economical mode of distribution
than is offered by the wind. The pollen grains, moreover, are sticky and
covered with tiny spines or knobs, to render them more liable to adhere
to the body or head of an insect; the pollen grains of wind-fertilized
flowers being, on the other hand, smooth, dry, and dust-like. Again,
these insect-pollinated flowers usually possess little glands which
secrete nectar, the sugary syrup which by digestion in a bee’s body
becomes honey. Here, then, is the inter-relation established: the insect
helps the plant by carrying its pollen from flower to flower, and in its
turn is helped by the provision of delicious food. And what about the
showy petals, and the fragrance that so often marks these entomophilous
flowers? They are advertisements, designed to catch the attention of the
necessary insects as they fly about. Not only does the corolla by its
bright colour attract insects, but markings of various shapes and tints
upon the petals are generally held to be honey-guides--sign-posts
directing the insects to the nectar and to the pollen. These are
especially conspicuous in many of the irregular flowers to which
reference will be made shortly, in which the insects are encouraged to
approach the flowers in a particular way. An example

[Illustration: FIG. 14.--FLOWER OF ERODIUM PETRÆUM. 2/1.]

of such markings, as seen in the genus Erodium, is shown in Fig. 14. It
is interesting to note the various ways in which flowers render
themselves conspicuous in order to attract insects. In the majority of
Seed Plants, such as the Buttercup, Pea, Rose, Foxglove, it is the
corolla, formed either of separate petals, as in the first three, or of
petals fused together, as in the last, which by its bright colour or
colours renders the flower noticeable. In other species the calyx takes
on the function of advertisement, the corolla being in comparison
insignificant--we may study examples of this in the Anemones,
Hellebores, and Marsh Marigold (_Caltha palustris_). It is worth
examining this last, to see how its coloured _sepals_ resemble and
fulfil the same function as the _petals_ of its cousins the Buttercups.
Or, again, sepals and petals may combine in showiness, both sets being
brightly coloured in one or more tints--compare the Columbine
(_Aquilegia_), Larkspur (_Delphinium_), Milkwort (_Polygala_), and the
marvellous flowers of Orchids. In the great group of the Monocotyledons,
indeed, to which

[Illustration: FIG. 15.--UMBEL OF ASTRANTIA CARNIOLICA, SHOWING
PETAL-LIKE RING OF COLOURED LEAVES (BRACTS). 1/1.]

the Orchids belong, sepals and petals usually combine in form and colour
to form one corolla-like envelope (then called a _perianth_). In many
other plant groups--for instance, the _Dipsacaceæ_ (such as the
Scabious), _Umbelliferæ_, and _Compositæ_--conspicuousness is obtained
by a grouping together of a large number of small flowers. In the Cow
Parsnep (_Heracleum Sphondylium_) the outer petal of the marginal
flowers of the large umbel is much enlarged, which enhances this effect.
In _Astrantia_, an interesting genus of _Umbelliferæ_, the bracts take
on the appearance of a ring of large petals, and surround the group of
small flowers (Fig. 15). The same thing may be noticed in the outer
blossoms of the close flower-head of the Field Scabious (_Knautia
arvensis_). In many _Compositæ_ the process is carried still farther; in
the Common Daisy (_Bellis perennis_) the outer flowers have each a long
strap-shaped expansion of the corolla, which is of a different colour
(white) from that of the corollas of the inner flowers, which are
yellow. In the Dandelion (_Taraxacum officinale_) all the flowers have a
yellow strap-shaped corolla. In the Guelder Rose (_Viburnum Opulus_) the
outer flowers are entirely devoted to advertisement, consisting each of
a big white corolla, while only the small inner flowers possess stamens
and pistil and are capable of producing the brilliant scarlet berries.
In a cultivated form of this, commonly called the Snowball Tree, the
advertisement flowers only are present, forming a globe of white
blossom, and no fruit is produced in consequence. The Dwarf Cornel
(_Cornus suecica_), a little Dogwood growing on many Scottish moors,
bears what looks like a white flower with a purple centre. On
examination it is seen that the four white petal-like structures are
really foliage-leaves, which have taken on the duty of advertising the
group of small purple blossoms which they enclose (Fig. 16). A similar
and very gorgeous effect is produced in several Spurges often seen in
greenhouses, such as _Euphorbia fulgens_, _E. splendens_, and _E.
punicea_; in these the upper foliage-leaves are large and coloured
brilliant scarlet, the flowers which accompany them being quite small.
These aggregations of flowers with their flaunting flags are in general
an invitation to all comers; the nectar in the blossoms lies open to
every hungry insect, and pollination is effected in a rather promiscuous
and messy way; not only flying insects--bees, butterflies, beetles, and
flies of many sorts--but also ants and other creatures which creep up
the stems from the ground, assemble for the feast, and incidentally
transfer from flower to flower pollen which may adhere to their bodies.

[Illustration: FIG. 16.--DWARF CORNEL (CORNUS SUECICA), 2/3, AND SINGLE
FLOWER ENLARGED.]

In a large number of flowers such general feasting is discountenanced,
insect traffic is regulated, the visits of insects of little or no
service to the plants is discouraged, and special arrangements are made
to attract and minister to the needs of those insects whose visits are
of most benefit. Except where flowers are borne in clusters, creeping
creatures like ants are of no service; for in the course of the journey
“by land” from one flower to another, there is a strong probability of
any pollen which the insect may be carrying being rubbed off before the
next blossom is reached; small flying insects are likewise frequently
useless. In many plants the visits of such pedestrians and small fry is
very distinctly discouraged. Of different devices which serve this end,
the most conspicuous and effective include barriers to the passage of
stem-climbers, and devices in the flower preventive of the visits of
unwelcome guests. We may take a few instances from among British plants,
which the reader may with a little diligence find and study for himself.
Several members of the Pink family (_Caryophyllaceæ_) produce a sticky
secretion which is a very effectual bar to the passage of small walking
animals. In the English Catchfly (_Silene anglica_), Night-flowering
Catchfly (_S. noctiflora_) and the Nottingham Catchfly (_S. nutans_),
hairs are present all over the leaves and stems, from the tips of which
a gummy substance exudes, which is a fatal trap for small insects.
Kerner, in his interesting book, “Flowers and their Unbidden Guests,”
states that on the sticky stems of the last, in the Tyrol, he identified
the remains of sixty different kinds of insects--ants, ichneumons,
beetles, bugs, flies, and so on. The Red German Campion (_Lychnis
Viscaria_) has an extremely sticky ring below each joint of the stem and
inflorescence, which is most fatal to any creature which attempts to
climb to the flowers. Other instances, such as the Petunia or Moss Rose,
will occur to the reader. Another familiar kind of barrier is the
presence on the calyx or involucre of a palisade of stiff hairs or
prickles, such as may be studied in the Thistles; in some plants a
downward-pointing ring of stiff hairs at each joint serves the same
purpose. In the Japanese Wineberry (_Rubus phœnicolasius_), often grown
in gardens, the calyx, like the stem, is densely clothed with bright red
slender spines (Fig. 17). It opens to allow the inconspicuous petals to
expand, and then closes again and resumes its protective rôle till the
scarlet fruit approaches maturity.

[Illustration: FIG. 17.--JAPANESE WINEBERRY (RUBUS PHŒNICOLASIUS).

Leaf and panicle, 2/3; flower after pollination; ripe fruit, both
slightly enlarged.]

But it is in the flower itself that we find the most ingenious
arrangements to encourage useful and discourage useless visitors, to
assist the former to pollinate the flower, and while offering nectar to
the welcome guest to deny it to the unwelcome. The first stage in this
specialization is that the flower, instead of having its axis vertical,
and facing the sky, is turned on its side by the curving of its stalk,
and looks out horizontally. The effect of this is to cause a flying
insect on approaching the flower to alight in a particular
position--namely, on the lowest petal. Following on the adoption of this
attitude the next stage in development is seen in the parts of the
flower beginning to alter their shape and position relative to each
other and often also their colour. Thus, beginning with a quite regular
flower, we can arrange a series showing more and more asymmetry. The
tendency is generally for the lowest petal to become enlarged and often
conspicuously marked, providing a broad, convenient platform on which
insects may alight, while the remainder form walls and roof, protecting
the important parts within and by their shape, which is often narrowed
and tubular behind, barring access to all but chosen visitors. To find a
full series illustrating these transformations we do not need to go to
plants widely separated in their affinities. In the Buttercup order
(_Ranunculaceæ_) alone every gradation may be found. The flowers of the
Buttercups themselves are upright and quite regular. In the Larkspur
(_Delphinium_) the flower is turned on its side, and a puzzling
combination of coloured sepals and petals--five bright blue unequal
sepals and a single large purplish petal of peculiar shape with a long
hollow spur behind--produces a quite irregular blossom. The process is
carried farther again in the Monkshood (_Aconitum_), in whose well-known
blue flower the sepals and petals combine to produce a strikingly
irregular blossom, with the upper sepal arching over into a great hood
protecting the rest of the flower. In such irregular flowers the
essential parts--the pollen-producing and pollen-receiving portions, or
stamens and stigma--also alter their position and form, and are so
placed that an insect, visiting the flower to obtain nectar (which is
generally stored at the back, well out of the way), must of necessity
receive pollen on its body, and probably deposit pollen on the stigma.
To describe the variety and ingenuity of these devices as found in
different flowers might well occupy several chapters, and only one or
two examples can be quoted here; familiar wild flowers are chosen, and
the reader should examine them for himself to understand their
structure. In the well-known Pea type, one great petal arches over the
flower; two narrow ones stand one on either side; the remaining two
stand on edge below, with their margins in contact, enclosing the
stamens and pistil. An insect visiting the flower alights naturally on
the _keel_ or pair of lower petals. Pressed down by its weight, these
open, often with a sudden movement like bursting, and dust the insect
with pollen. Compare also the flowers of the Snapdragons (_Antirrhinum_)
and Toadflaxes (_Linaria_), in which the upper and lower lips of the
corolla meet like a closed mouth, which can be forced open only by a
strong insect like a bee, and is safe from predatory visits of smaller
fry (Fig. 18). In the Sages (_Salvia_) the corolla is tubular at the
base; there is a large lobed lip on which visiting insects alight, and a
hooded roof above arching over the stamens and pistil, which are placed
close against it, overhanging the entrance to the corolla-tube, at the
base of which the nectar is stored. The stamens, only two of which are
developed, have each a hinge near the top, the part above the hinge
being like a curved rod supported near its middle. These two curved rods
stand normally in a vertical position, so that their lower ends partly
block the entrance to the tube; the pollen is borne at their upper ends.
Should a bee insert its head down the tube in search of nectar, it
pushes the lower ends of the hinged rods upwards, with the result that
their upper ends swing downward against the bee’s back, dusting it with
pollen just at that part of its body which, if the bee should visit a
rather older flower, would come in contact with the stigma, the slender
stalk of which (the _style_) increases in length during the period of
flowering, and is in consequence the more liable to be encountered.

[Illustration: FIG. 18.--FLOWER AND FRUIT OF LINARIA PURPUREA. 2/1.]

Only one more instance can be referred to, which can be tested by the
reader any summer day wherever any of our native Orchids grow. In
these, the most highly specialized of all plant groups as regards
pollination by insects, the general arrangement of the flower is often
somewhat similar in a general sense to the last case; but here the
sepals and petals which between them form the platform, tube, sides, and
roof of the flower, are all separate and often differently and
elaborately coloured. The essential organs are greatly modified and
hardly recognizable at first. There is only one stamen, producing two
clusters of pollen, which are embedded in the roof of the flower. Each
possesses a slender stalk which terminates in a little sticky disc which
projects from the general surface. The pollen grains are held together
in a mass by fine threads, and the whole with its stalk--the
_pollinium_--resembles a lemonade bottle in shape. The stigma is also
embedded, forming a sticky surface in the roof of the flower behind the
stamen. When an insect inserts its head into the flower, its forehead
comes in contact with the sticky ends of the pollinia, which adhere, so
that on leaving the flower the insect flies away with the pollen
sticking to its forehead like two little horns. And now a remarkable
thing happens. The stalks of the pollinia, drying rapidly in the air,
contract unequally, and become curved, so that the pollinia bend forward
into a horizontal position. When the insect visits another flower and
thrusts in its head, the pollen consequently comes in contact with the
sticky stigmatic surface farther down the tube, and cross-pollination is
effected.

In the cases of many of these highly specialized flowers, one is no less
struck with the perfection of the arrangements made for preventing
self-pollination, than those adapted to securing cross-pollination. But
in a few, on the contrary, self-pollination is specially arranged for.

It must be pointed out that the insects which pollinate these
specialized flowers have in many cases acquired modifications in their
structure corresponding to the modifications in the flowers which they
frequent. In the more specialized forms, indeed, plant and animal have
become entirely dependent on each other; the plants would become extinct
in the absence of the special insects through whose agency they are able
by pollination to produce fertile seed; and the insects would likewise
die out if the flowers to whose nectar and pollen they look for food
were not available.

As regards the kinds of insects which visit flowers for food, these are
very numerous and belong to almost every section of that large class. In
many, such as Neuroptera, Orthoptera, Hemiptera, Coleoptera, there is
very little special adaptation for their flower-feeding habits, and
these insects visit flowers, such as the _Umbelliferæ_, in which the
nectar and pollen are freely exposed, and lie open to all. Many of the
Diptera, or Flies, are in the same case; but in some families, such as
the _Bombyliidæ_, high specialization for securing food from flowers is
found: the creatures are provided with elongated probosces for sucking
nectar even when it is deeply hidden, and no other food is used by the
insects in their adult stage. But it is among the long-tongued Bees and
the Lepidoptera (Butterflies and Moths) that the highest degree of
adaptation in this direction is found; and the modifications are
associated with those flowers which have become most highly specialized
for insect pollination, and most completely dependent on it. In the Bees
the legs have become much modified for the gathering of pollen, and the
mouth is a long flexible sucking-tube which when not in use is carried
rolled up in a spiral. The pollen, on which food alone the young bees
are fed, is gathered and stored among rows of hairs on the legs, and in
the more highly specialized forms it is wetted with honey so as to form
a compact mass, easily carried and easily removed when the nest is
reached. The balls of pollen thus formed are sometimes nearly the size
of the body of the bee, and may contain one to two hundred thousand
grains of pollen. The formation of the mouth is beautiful and
complicated, adapted to the rapid sucking up of nectar even if deeply
placed in the flower. The nectar is stored in the body of the bee, and
subsequently transferred to the waxen honey-cells in the hive. In the
Butterflies and Moths the mouth parts are also modified for sucking, and
as these insects do not build nests or take care of their offspring as
Bees do the mouth is formed solely for the purpose of securing the
nectar which is their only food. The proboscis varies greatly in length
in different groups, according to the kind of flower which they visit.
In the Owl Moths (_Noctuidæ_) it is sometimes only eight millimetres
(1/3 inch) long; in many of the Butterflies it is about half an inch. In
the Hawk-moths it attains a remarkable development, necessitated no
doubt by the habit of these insects of not alighting on or entering a
flower, but hovering in front of it as a Humming Bird does, and sucking
up the nectar while thus poised. The proboscis of the Convolvulus
Hawk-moth measures 65 to 80 millimetres (2-1/2 to 3-1/4 inches), and
some of the Tropical allies of this moth have probosces twice or even
three times that length. These species feed on the nectar of flowers
with tubular corolla of corresponding dimensions. Most of the Hawk-moths
feed only at dusk, and as the time is short they take advantage of their
powers of rapid flight to visit (and incidentally to pollinate) a very
large number of flowers in a short period. Moreover, in common with most
of the more specialized flower-feeding insects, they do not visit the
flowers of different species indiscriminately, but dash to blossom after
blossom of whatever single species they have selected. Hermann Müller
records watching Humming-bird Hawk-moths (_Macroglossa stellatarum_) at
work at the summit of the Albula Pass; one visited 106 flowers of _Viola
calcarata_ in under 4 minutes; another 194 blossoms of the same plant in
6-3/4 minutes.

The day-flying Butterflies display none of this restless energy. The
sunshine is pleasant and the day long. They wander aimlessly in their
beauty from flower to flower, sun themselves on the warm ground, or
“whirl through the air with the first good comrade that by chance
appears.” They are the flowers of the air, and our country rambles are
made more joyous by their careless companionship.




CHAPTER V

PLANT STRUCTURES


In the course of the preceding chapters a number of the more striking
modifications displayed by the different organs of plants have been
described briefly. Reference has been made to the increased length or
thickness of the roots in plants of dry places, and the weakness or
absence of root-system of many water plants. Corresponding variation in
stems has been noted. The remarkable leaves of desert and water plants
and of some carnivorous species have been mentioned. The profound
alteration in flowers which have adapted themselves to pollination by
insects has been sketched; as also the great variety in the shapes of
fruits and seeds, correlated to the methods by which they are dispersed.
It may be well to consider the question of plant structures on a broader
and more systematic basis, and, as before, to connect them where
possible with the external factors which have caused their modification
and to which they are the plant’s response. These factors are physical,
or chemical, or biological, and affect the plant mainly through the
agency of the soil, the atmosphere, or living organisms.

“The living plant is a synthetic machine.” Under proper working
conditions of heat, moisture, and light it builds up its body by
absorption of inorganic material, liquid and gaseous, through its roots
and leaves. For the present purpose we may take our typical plant as
consisting of subterranean roots and aerial leaves on the one hand, and
aerial flowers on the other--the roots and leaves concerned especially
with carrying on the life of the individual, the flowers with
perpetuating the race. In addition, an aerial stem is usually present,
on which the leaves and flowers are displayed, and through which the
food materials pass dissolved in water. Of these parts, the lower ones
(the roots, and sometimes the stems) are immersed in the soil, while the
upper ones (the leaves and the flowers--which are groups of modified
leaves--and usually the stems) are immersed in the atmosphere. All the
parts have acquired their form and fulfil their functions under control
of the particular medium which surrounds them: it becomes necessary to
preface any discussion of their characters and uses by a brief survey of
the characters of these envelopes.

While the atmosphere is familiar to us as the medium in which we
ourselves live and move and have our being, and while its chemical and
physical properties are known in outline to every schoolchild, it is
different with the soil; not only because, unlike the atmosphere, soil
varies much in composition and character, but also because the soil is
in fact a very complex product, offering many difficult problems to the
investigator; it is only of late years that the scientific study of the
soil has been placed on a sound basis; our knowledge of it is still far
from complete.

Whence does soil arise? How is it that the surface of the land is
usually covered with a layer of fertile material? The answer is to be
found, in the first place, in the decay of rocks under the influence of
natural agents. Heat and frost, rain and drought, by slow degrees break
up the surface of the hard material of which the solid crust of the
Earth is built up. The débris thus formed is washed into streams by
rain, or scattered by wind. A stream flowing into the sea, and charged
with the débris of the land, deposits the coarser material near its
mouth, while the finer particles are carried farther. In dry regions
wind plays a similar part. And so, while the materials which composed
the surface layer of the cooling primitive Earth may have been tolerably
uniform in composition, the débris derived from them has ever tended to
get sorted out, as, for instance, into sand and mud at river mouths, or
sand and dust in dry regions. In the course of ages the sorted
materials, buried beneath subsequent deposits, have been formed through
heat and pressure into rocks, which, when at length again brought to the
surface by earth movement and exposed to the agents of disintegration,
have been resolved once more into sands, clays, and so on. In the long
history of the Earth this sorting process has been repeated till now
large tracts of rocks and of soils are composed mainly of sand or mainly
of clay. The prevalence of these two kinds of material arises from the
abundance in the primitive crust of the substances of which they are
composed. Silica (oxide of silicon), the material of which ordinary
sand, as well as quartz, flint, etc., is composed, is of extreme
hardness and insolubility, and its small crystals and fragments,
disintegrated from the rocks, remain almost indestructible as grains of
sand. Clays, on the other hand, are derived from silicates (compounds
of silicon and oxygen with various metals such as aluminium, calcium,
magnesium, potassium, sodium, or iron). These substances mostly
disintegrate more completely into very small particles, which when wet
cohere into a sticky mass and form clays. Along with the humus matter
they include all the _colloids_ of the soil. These latter bodies consist
of the extremely minute--indeed, ultra-microscopic--particles, having in
consequence of their small size a great total surface in proportion to
their mass. In virtue of this, they function as the chief absorbents of
the soil, holding water in enormous quantities, and abstracting and
retaining till used by the plants the bases of the various substances
applied as manures. Another constituent of the primitive crust was lime
(oxide of calcium). Unlike the preceding substances, lime is readily
soluble in acid water, and so is washed out of the rocks and carried in
solution to the sea. Marine animals of many kinds--such as Molluscs,
Corals, Foraminifera--extract the lime from the sea water and use it in
large quantities to build up their shells or skeletons. This material
slowly accumulates at the bottom of the ocean as generation after
generation of animals passes away, becomes at length consolidated by
heat and pressure, and through earth movements may eventually appear
above the sea to form land, in the form of limestone or chalk. Exposed
to the weather, it is once more slowly disintegrated; the lime passes
off again in solution, the impurities being left behind; a limy soil
results.

On a great plain, devoid of hills or rivers, composed of different
rocks, and subjected to the agents of disintegration, we can conceive
that over each kind of rock a soil would be formed corresponding closely
to the materials of which that rock is composed. In sections formed by
quarrying, by the cutting action of rapid streams, and so on, we may
often see this. Below is the solid rock. Its upper layers tend to be
loose and rotten owing to the action of percolating water, etc. They
merge into a layer of stony débris, where the harder portions still
retain their rock character, while the softer are disintegrating into
clay or sand. Above this the rock is wholly disintegrated into a soil,
the upper layers of which, mixed with plant débris, and consequently of
darker colour, are full of the roots of living plants descending from
the sward which covers the surface of the ground. In practice, however,
such close conformity of soil to underlying rock is not always found.

Various distributing agents are ever at work--wind, water in an especial
degree, and on sloping ground the action of gravity. In northern
countries, besides, the ice of the Glacial Period has in its passage
caught up all the loose surface material, added immensely to its volume
by grinding down the rocks, and flung the products broadcast over the
country, so that old sea bottoms may be strewn over coastal lands, sands
and gravels over clayey rocks, and limy soils over areas where no
limestone exists. The soil over much of the British Isles is formed from
the surface-layer of these glacial deposits, which--tough, intractable,
sterile--underlie the soil often to a great depth, where they rest on
rock. In southern England the covering of glacial deposits is absent,
since the ice-cap did not extend beyond the Thames valley; beds much
older than the Ice Age, often of a gravelly or clayey nature, occupy the
ground, and from these the present soils are derived.

There is another constituent of soils of primary importance for
vegetable life, which results from the decay of the generations of
plants which have gone before. When plants die, their bodies are
decomposed by the agency of bacteria. Some of the constituents pass off
as gas or water, but there remains an amount of solid matter (humus)
which mixes with the soil and is of the utmost importance for plant
growth. Nitrogen, which forms the greater part of the atmosphere, cannot
in the gaseous state be absorbed by plants, although they spend their
lives surrounded by it. It is a necessary substance in the plant’s
economy, and through the action of soil bacteria, which change the
nitrogenous matter in humus into soluble nitrates, plants are able to
utilize this store.

The ordinary soils of our fields may be defined as a mixture of sand,
clay, and humus. A soil which is too rich, or too poor, in any one of
the three will support plant life with difficulty.

The roots of plants require also a due amount of both water and air if
they are to fulfil their functions adequately. An examination of the
minute structure of the soil shows that it consists of angular particles
of very various size--the larger ones classed as sand and consisting
largely of silica; the smaller, which decrease in size beyond the limits
of microscopic vision, mainly of clay (silicates) and humus. A film of
water clings round each particle, and between the particles the chinks
are filled with air. For healthy plant growth a nice balance between
these constituents is required. Should sand be in excess, the soil is
impoverished, since silica contains no nutriment, and it is rendered too
dry, as on account of the relatively small surface of the sand grains in
proportion to their mass it retains but little water. Should there be
too little sand, percolation of air and water is hampered; the soil
tends to become water-logged and badly aerated, and turns sour. Should
humus be absent, the nitrogen-producing bacteria cease their activities
and the soil is sterile, as may be tested by digging up some _subsoil_,
or soil from the deeper levels to which roots or other organic matter
have never penetrated. An excess of humus, on the other hand, results in
the accumulation of acid products inimical to bacterial growth: in
consequence decay is arrested, and a mass of plant débris forms, highly
charged (for humus is very spongy) with acid water and badly aerated,
which is unsuitable for vegetable growth: we may study an extreme case
of such conditions in our peat bogs. Should water be in excess in soils,
air is forced out in proportion, and the roots cannot breathe. Too much
air means a corresponding diminution of water, and the plants suffer
from drought.

“The soil is not merely a reservoir for the mineral nutrients of plants,
but is the seat of complex physical, chemical, and biological actions
which directly and indirectly influence soil fertility. These actions
are intimately associated with the organic matter of the soil and its
bacterial inhabitants. Mineralogy and inorganic chemistry, though
helpful, are no longer capable of solving soil problems. Biochemistry
and bacteriology, with their modern conceptions of colloids, absorption
phenomena, enzymes, oxidizing, reducing, and catalytic actions, etc.,
are now rapidly extending our knowledge of the soil as a medium for
plant growth.”[8]

Such, then, is the nature of the soil in which plants grow, and from
which, by means of innumerable elongated cells (the root-hairs)
proceeding from near the tips of the roots, food materials dissolved in
water are absorbed; these food materials being produced partly by
solution of mineral constituents contained in the soil, partly by the
action of bacteria in breaking up organic matter. Soil suitable for
plant growth may be looked on as consisting of a mineral framework,
carrying in its meshes water (about three-tenths of its volume) and air
(about one-tenth of its volume); mixed with the mineral particles is
humus of varying amount; and supported largely by the humus is a vast
population of organisms, both animal and vegetable, from earthworms to
bacteria, whose activities are often essential, generally beneficial,
and occasionally prejudicial to plant growth.

The root of a young plant grows downward into the soil under the
influence of gravity. Its tip, which has to force its way through the
rough material of sand and clay, is beautifully protected by a special
_root-cap_, which covers the growing point as with a cushion. The
surface of the root-cap is slimy, to aid it in slipping forward, and its
cells, which are being worn away constantly, are replaced by the growth
of the interior. Should an obstacle such as a pebble be encountered, a
root will bend round it and then return to its former direction. Branch
roots are given off on all sides at an angle to the main stem, these
also tending in a mysterious way, if their course is disturbed by an
obstacle, to resume their former direction of growth; the branches again
divide, till at length a complicated root-mass is formed, sometimes of
great extent, and capable of extracting water from a large volume of
soil. Save for continued growth, the roots show little change in
comparison with those exhibited by the aerial parts of plants; safely
immersed in the soil, they heed not day or night, storm or calm, but
steadily pursue their main function of supplying liquid food material to
the green parts overhead.

In many instances roots do not accomplish their work single-handed, but
only in co-operation with certain lowly organisms; and these cases are
so interesting and of so much economic importance that reference should
be made to them. The little swellings or tubercles upon the roots of
Leguminous plants, such as Clover, are familiar to most of us. These are
caused by the stimulation due to colonies of bacteria (_Bacillus
radicicola_), which live in the root-tissues as internal parasites.
These bacteria feed on the sap and cell-contents of their host, but they
supplement this food-supply by absorbing nitrogen direct from the
atmosphere, which the host cannot do, though it can and does use the
nitrogenous compounds which the bacteria manufacture. It is a case of
symbiosis (see p. 79), each organism supplying food useful to the other;
but the significance of the phenomenon is that through this agency
nitrogen becomes added to the soil as the plants decay, and increases
its fertility; and thus the cultivation of a crop of, say, Lucerne
becomes a matter of great economic importance in farming operations,
and the presence of Clover in pasture is a source of increasing wealth.

Again, in the roots of most of our forest trees, both hardwoods and
conifers, and of many other plants such as the _Ericaceæ_ and
_Orchidaceæ_, the root-hairs are replaced by minute fungi known as
_mycorhiza_, whose branches take on the function of absorption, while
the roots in turn absorb the material which the fungus collects. The
fungus obtains from the roots a direct and convenient supply of
carbohydrates; the host obtains from the fungus a ready supply of salts
and of nitrogenous compounds. In the case of the forest trees and some
other plants, the fungus forms a close felt _around_ the roots; but in
the Heaths, etc., it penetrates the roots, living in the cells and in
some instances, as in the Ling (_Calluna vulgaris_), permeating the
whole plant, even to the seed-coat, so that seed and fungus are sown
together. Since the higher partner of the symbiosis cannot mature
without the lower, this is an obvious advantage to the former, as the
two develop together from the commencement of growth. Where the fungus
is not present in the seed, the seedling has to rely on its presence in
the soil. And so, if we wish to raise any of our common terrestrial
Orchids from seed, we try to ensure the presence of the fungus by using
soil in which the species has been growing already.

The state of mutual dependence existing between seed plants and
mycorhizic fungi sometimes ends in the higher organism ceasing to
manufacture its food by means of green leaves, and depending wholly on
the lower for its sustenance. This is the condition to which some of our
Orchids have come, such as the Bird’s-nest (_Neottia Nidus-avis_),
which does not produce leaves or chlorophyll, but sends up from its
fungus-infested roots merely a scaly brown stem topped with brown
blossoms, matching curiously the dead leaves among which it grows (Fig.
31, p. 182).

In contrast to these the case of certain other Orchids may be quoted,
which have also lost their leaves, but in a very different manner. In
their case the roots, creeping over the bark of trees on which the
plants perch as epiphytes, have become green and flattened, like the
fronds of some of our native Liverworts; they have assumed the functions
of leaves: in them the process of photosynthesis is carried on; and the
leaves themselves, thus supplanted, have by degrees disappeared.

Like many other parts of plants, roots are often used for the storage of
reserve supplies of food or of water. For this purpose they become much
thickened, and this thickening is the most conspicuous change which
roots usually undergo. Note the fat roots of many plants which grow in
dry or arid places, such as the Sea Holly, Dandelion, and many desert
plants and alpines. The thickening is often accompanied by increase in
length, as the roots range far in search of water. Another point to
notice is that though normally roots differ considerably from their
associated stems in general appearance, and also in their minute
structure, as in the arrangement of the vascular strands, the two are
related. Stem structures are often produced at various points on roots;
the suckers sent up by many kinds of trees offer an example. Conversely,
roots are readily produced even from the upper portions of many
stems--else how could we grow cuttings? Where roots are succulent--that
is, when they have a reserve of food stored in them--cuttings of them
will conversely produce stems. A classical instance of such
interchangeability of function is the young willow which Lindley bent
down and buried the top till it rooted; the original roots were then dug
up and raised into the air, when they produced leafy branches, and the
tree grew upside down henceforth. Underground stems, also, of which
there is a great variety, take on many of the characters of roots, and
from an examination of a small piece of one it is often difficult to
tell whether we are dealing with a root or a stem. The point at which
root joins stem is, in fact, in many instances, so far as function is
concerned, fixed only so long as the level of the surface remains fixed:
we can often alter it by “earthing up” or by stripping away the soil. In
Tropical forests, where the air is moist, hot, and still, roots--or
branches which serve only as roots--descend through the air from heights
almost equalling those to which stems ascend; while, on the other hand,
in hot, poorly aerated swamps, roots send up from the mud into the air
stem-like structures (pneumatophores) through which they may breathe, as
in the case of the Swamp Cypress (_Taxodium distichum_) of Florida. The
primary differences between the two, in fact, do not prevent the one
from taking on the general characters of the other, and from functioning
as the other, when the environment changes.

The STEMS of plants may be looked on from two points of view--as a
framework devoted to the display of the leaves and flowers, and as
pipe-lines connected with the nutrition of the plant, conveying raw
materials from the roots to the leaves, and manufactured products from
the leaves to all growing parts. It is the former relation which has
mainly determined the forms of stems. Even a very slender stem can
convey a vast amount of water and food to a plant which is transpiring
or growing actively, as we can test roughly by weighing a pot shrub as
it begins to come into leaf, and again a week later, or comparing the
growth of a pea with the size of its stem at the base. The surprising
variation in length, thickness, form, position, and branching of stems
is the plant’s response to external conditions--such as exposure, the
competition of neighbouring plants, and so on--which resolve themselves
ultimately into questions of wind-pressure, of temperature, of moisture,
and in particular of light. The first duty of most stems is to spread
out the leaves so that they may receive a maximum share of sunlight, and
the complicated systems of branches with which we are so well acquainted
are devoted to this object, the leaves themselves helping materially by
the positions which they assume. This familiar and typical kind of stem,
upright and column-like, beautifully constructed to bear the weight of
leaves and branches, and to resist wind-pressure, alone furnishes a
delightful study; but it can be dealt with only very briefly, as also
some of the modifications which it undergoes under special
circumstances.

To plants which have not taken to a terrestrial existence, and which
still inhabit their ancestral home in the water, the stem problem is
comparatively simple. A flexible shaft capable of withstanding wave and
current action suffices so far as mechanical considerations go; such
shafts--as we may observe by watching the Oar-weed (_Laminaria_) on an
exposed coast--are effective under very arduous conditions. Those Seed
Plants which, evolved on land, have later returned to the water, such as
the Pondweeds (_Potamogeton_), have often redeveloped a stem of a
similar kind--a flexible shaft possessing a sufficient tensile strength.
The specific gravity of such plants does not exceed that of the medium
in which they are immersed, and the stem has not to support the weight
of leaves and branches. It is, therefore, not surprising to find that
the longest, though by no means the bulkiest, of all plants, are found
in the sea. Some of the Oar-weeds (_Macrocystis_) of the southern and
western oceans attain lengths which have been estimated at 500 to 1,000
feet; but these gigantic Seaweeds are nevertheless slender plants,
suspended lightly in the water. But after the colonization of the land
by the aquatic flora numerous serious problems had to be encountered and
solved before plants in an aerial environment could rise boldly into the
air. Extremes of temperature unknown in the water had to be faced. Along
with a greatly increased loss of water owing to the presence of air and
direct sunlight, the area over which water might be absorbed became
largely reduced, the roots alone being now available. The whole weight
of branches and leaves and fruit had to be borne by the stem, not only
in calm but in storm. No wonder that to meet these conditions, or to
avoid such extremes as were avoidable, aerial stems often display great
complexity and diversity of structure and form. From the mechanical
standpoint the tall stem is especially interesting on account of the

[Illustration: FIG. 19.--ARRANGEMENT OF STRENGTHENING MATERIAL IN ROOT
(_a_) AND IN STEM (_b_) (DIAGRAMMATIC).]

beautiful structural adaptations by which it meets the various stresses
to which it is subjected. The problem before the plant is to combine a
minimum quantity of material with a maximum of strength and rigidity.
Strands of toughened fibre, so disposed as to meet the stresses most
advantageously, are characteristic of such stems. In the case of many
tall annuals, such as the larger _Umbelliferæ_, the principle of the
hollow column is largely employed; in proportion to the strength
obtained, this is far more economical than a solid column: and economy
is particularly necessary in such annual stems, where the time available
for construction is short. Transverse partitions at intervals provide
stiffening of the whole; and as the efficiency of the toughened
longitudinal strands increases with their distance from the centre, the
stems are often ribbed, the strands occupying the ribs, with softer
substance between. This form of construction may be contrasted with that
obtaining in the roots. In the latter the greatest mechanical stress is
in the form of a longitudinal pull caused by swaying of the stem under
wind-pressure. To meet this the vascular strands are arranged, not
marginally, but in a central bundle, where they can best meet stresses
of the kind. In most trees the stems are solid; here economy of material
is less urgent, as a long period of years is available for their
building up; the great amount of cell-space thus made available for
food-storage is a valuable asset to the plant, as is evident from a
consideration of the vast amount of fresh tissue produced in a brief
period by a deciduous tree when it bursts into leaf. As this material,
stored in the stems and roots, has to be sent up to the twigs dissolved
in water, and as during the whole period of growth vast amounts of water
are transpired, an elaborate and complete pipe-system is intercalated
with the reinforced-concrete structure of the tree trunk. Pumped up by
the roots, and sucked up by the leaves, water and food pass rapidly from
the ground to the topmost twig of the loftiest tree.

To explain the massiveness of a tree trunk we have to remember that,
while the cross-section of any structure varies as the square of its
linear dimension, the volume varies as the cube of the same. If we
double the dimensions of a tree, we increase its weight eight times, but
the strength of the trunk is increased only four times. If a tree 100
feet high is supported on a stem 6 feet in diameter, a tree 200 feet
high of the same proportions would need a stem not 12 feet, but over 17
feet in diameter, to be supported equally efficiently. This proportion
increases rapidly: a similar tree 300 feet high would need a stem 30
feet in diameter; a tree 1,000 feet high would require a stem 180 feet
in diameter, or 32,400 square feet in cross-section. We see, then, why a
limit of tree growth is rapidly reached, at about 300 feet, and why the
trees which grow to that height have trunks which are one of the wonders
of the world, exceeding 30 feet in diameter, or about 100 feet in
circumference.

Climbing stems represent efforts on the part of plants to economize
material by utilizing the rigidity of neighbouring plants, and by
reaching to the light on their shoulders. Here, as in aquatics, the
_rope_ type of stem is in evidence; it resembles a garden hose, offering
great flexibility and conducting capacity, but without rigidity to
support its own weight, much less that of the leaves and flowers which
it bears. To secure support, the stem itself (or branches of it), the
leaves, or the stipules (leafy projections on either side of the
junction of leaf and stem), are used. Sometimes support is obtained by
twining (compare Convolvulus, Grape-Vine, Vetch), sometimes by adherent
discs (Virginia Creeper), or aerial roots (Ivy), often by mere
scrambling, often aided by reflexed hooks on leaf and stem (Bramble,
Cleavers). The mechanism by which twining is accomplished is of great
interest. It is an effect of unequal growth of the different sides of
the stem. If the unequal growth were confined to one side, the stem
would eventually form a coil, or series of circles. But the region of
greatest growth keeps shifting round the stem, with the result that the
tip of the shoot describes a circle or ellipse, like the hand of a clock
pointing successively in all directions. The stimulus is due, as in the
case of the erect growth of ordinary stems (which usually display
similar movements in a less degree) to gravity. Sometimes the movement,
or _nutation_, is in the same direction as that of the hands of a clock
(_e.g._, in the Hop); more frequently it is in the opposite direction,
as of a clock-hand moving backwards. The result of this movement is that
if the shoot encounters, say, an upright stem, it will lap round it in a
spiral manner, and unless the said stem be quite smooth and unbranched,
the twining shoot will be eventually supported by it. How effective the
twining habit is as regards economy of building material may be seen
from comparing the weight of the stem of a Hop with that of some tall
herbaceous plant of the same altitude, and bearing an equal weight of
leaves and flowers. The tendril-climbers are still more efficient, for
they avoid the increased length of stem which arises from a twining
habit. They grow straight up towards the light. Both the top of the
growing shoot and the spreading tendrils which arise from it are
continuously revolving in search of a support. When a tendril encounters
one (such as a twig), the contact produces a stimulus which results in
the tendril taking several close turns round the support. Nor does the
action stop there, for usually the lower unattached portion of the
tendril contracts into a spiral, drawing the stem closer to the support,
and woody growth ensues, by which the tendril becomes exceedingly tough,
often stronger than the stem itself.

One other point concerning climbers may be noted. Did they exhibit in a
marked degree that bending towards the light which is characteristic of
most plants, they would often defeat their own object, as they would
grow _away from_ possible supports. But they grow boldly up into an
overhanging canopy, apparently confident of their power to ascend into
the light and air which exist above. In the root-climbers, such as the
Ivy, this bending away from the light is very marked; the stem presses
closely to the bark or stone on which it creeps, probing every cranny,
and the numerous rootlets by which it is attached are developed only on
the dark side. But when the plant is old enough to flower, then branches
devoid of roots grow out _towards_ the light, so that the blossoms may
be borne in the open, where they may be seen and visited by the numerous
insects which, in their search for nectar, pollinate them.

In contrast to the extreme development in length found in the stems of
climbing plants the extreme reduction of stem found in many plants of
dry places may be referred to. The Crocus, for instance, has an
abbreviated upright stem of which each year’s growth is distended for
the storage of food: one year’s growth dies away as the next enlarges,
so that the well-known bulb-like _corm_ is produced. Compare the
“roots”--really the stem--of Montbretia, in which the annual growths
remain, the result being a knobby structure like a string of onions. In
bulbs reduction in length is carried still farther, the stem forming a
broad cone from the surface of which spring a number of modified leaves,
forming fleshy scales swollen with food material; these surround and
protect the bud, which when it grows produces green leaves and a
terminal flower-shoot; growth is continued by axillary scale-leaved
shoots situated among the scale leaves, which in due course themselves
produce green leaves and flowers. These compact food-charged stems take
up their position well below the ground, out of reach of intense heat or
drought, and during the favourable season send up rapidly into the air
their leaves and flowers, after which they remain dormant till the
following year.

It has been seen that unless a plant is a parasite or saprophyte, using
as food ready-made organic material, it is necessary that it should
possess a sufficient expanse of green (_i.e._, chlorophyll-bearing)
tissue for the purpose of assimilation. This is the essential function
of the leaves; but before leaving the study of stems it should be
pointed out that they usually assist, and sometimes entirely replace,
the leaves as organs of food-manufacture. We have seen how in dry
places--whether physically dry, from direct scarcity of water, or
physiologically dry, owing to reduced activity on the part of the plant
due to unfavourable conditions, such as obtain in cold regions, or on
poisoned ground like salt-marshes or bogs--leaf surface tends to be
reduced, to avoid excessive loss of water. In such plants as the Cacti,
and the Euphorbias which so closely mimic the cactus form, this
reduction is carried to its limit. Leaves are absent, and the stems,
greatly swollen so as to store water, take up the process of
assimilation, and perform it satisfactorily. In more rapid-growing
plants, a sufficient area for assimilation may be obtained by abundant
branching, as in the Gorse, in which leaves are present only in the
seedling stage. In the Brooms (_Genista_) the leaf-development is often
weak, but the stems sometimes make up for this by bearing green
flattened wings. In the Spanish Broom (_G. sagittalis_), a straggling
shrub inhabiting dry places in south-west Europe, the few ovate hairy
leaves, produced in spring, soon fall; but the slender branches bear
several (two to four) broad green wings, which act as

[Illustration: FIG. 20.--GENISTA SAGITTALIS. 1/2.]

leaves, and persist for a couple of years, when they pass away, leaving
slender, round, brown stems. In our native Broom (_Sarothamnus
scoparius_) a similar modification may be observed, though of less
degree. Sometimes stem-structures assume a very leaf-like form, as in
the Butcher’s Broom (_Ruscus aculeatus_), where the ultimate branches
are ovate and quite flat, and might be taken for true leaves but for the
fact that they bear on their surface flowers, and subsequently berries.
The leaves themselves are in this plant reduced to minute scales, and
from their axils these flattened branches spring. In fact, where leaf
reduction takes place, the process of assimilation is often shared in
varying degree by the leaves, the stipules, and the stems. Among our
native plants, as, for instance, in the Leguminosæ and Rosaceæ, the
reader may find for himself many interesting examples for examination.

But the large majority of the Seed Plants bear well-developed leaves, to
which the process of assimilation is practically confined.

LEAVES vary surprisingly in size, shape, and arrangement, features which
are closely related to the characters of the stems which bear them, the
object being the most advantageous display of the chlorophyll in
relation to the light-supply. In general they naturally take the form of
a broad thin blade, protected as may be necessary against extremes of
weather, and guarded against the obvious danger of being dried up by a
thin waterproof covering or cuticle outside the epidermal layer of
cells. In leaves we find the same beauty of mechanical construction as
is seen in stems. The problem is again that of securing maximum
efficiency with minimum expenditure of material. To give as great a
surface as possible, the leaves are as broad and thin as is consistent
with safety, the question of damage by wind being an important
controlling factor. The veins, or vascular bundles, act efficiently as
strengtheners of the thin surface; to prevent tearing at the leaf-edges
the veins are often looped along the margin; while in indented leaves
the extremities of the indentations are strengthened with special
tissue. When one surface of the leaf faces the sky, as in most cases it
does, this surface is strengthened against the weather, and the stomata
are arranged mostly on the lower surface. Where occasionally the leaves
hang normally in a vertical position, as do the mature leaves of the Gum
Trees (_Eucalyptus_), both sides are protected, and the stomata are
borne on the two faces equally. In the Water Lily, again, whose leaves
float, the upper face, which alone is exposed to the air, bears the
stomata, which are present in unusual numbers--nearly 300,000 to the
square inch; the leaf surface is toughened to resist rain and wind, and
waxy to prevent water from lying on it and so interfering with
transpiration. The presence or absence of a leaf-stalk, again, is often
clearly related to the light question. In the Water Lilies the continued
lengthening of the elongated petiole causes the older leaves to float
clear outside of the younger ones. In many biennial herbs, where food is
stored up during the first season in preparation for the flowering
effort in the second, a similar arrangement prevails--note the
leaf-rosettes displayed by Spear Thistle (_Carduus lanceolatus_) and
Herb Robert (_Geranium Robertianum_), as also especially in winter by
perennials like the Dandelion (_Taraxacum officinale_) and Ribwort
(_Plantago lanceolata_). Where stems spread horizontally, as the lower
branches of trees, the leaves are arranged more or less in one

[Illustration: FIG. 21.--AZARA MICROPHYLLA. 1/2.]

plane, in such a manner that overlapping is reduced to a minimum (Fig.
21). This is well seen in horizontal branches of the Elm and other
familiar trees. In the plant chosen for illustration (_Azara
microphylla_, a Chilian shrub), an interesting arrangement obtains. One
of the pair of stipules which subtends each leaf is itself leaf-like,
and stands at an angle, so that a mosaic is formed of true leaves (the
larger ones) and stipules (the smaller alternating ones). On all stems
the leaves are arranged not at haphazard, but according to definite
rules. Sometimes they

[Illustration: FIG. 22.--LEAF OF WEINMANNIA TRICHOSPERMA. 1/1.]

are grouped in circles (_whorls_) at certain points of the stem, as in
the Bedstraws; often in opposite pairs, arranged criss-cross, as in the
Sycamore; most frequently in a series of spirals. The result in all
cases is the same--it allows of as great an interval as possible between
any leaf and the one immediately below or above it, and gives to all an
equal share of light. The indenting of leaves, as in the Sycamore, or
their division into separate segments, as in the Ash and Horse Chestnut,
is of undoubted advantage as allowing light to pass through to lower
layers of leaves; it also materially diminishes the danger arising from
excessive wind-pressure. In the former case there is often a wide space
between the divisions of the leaf; but where this is not required, the
parts of the leaf fit closely together, to secure a maximum of surface.
A particularly pretty example is seen in the Chilian shrub _Weinmannia
trichosperma_ (Fig. 22). Here, to avoid the loss of the area between the
leaflets, the mid rib steps in, developing triangular wings which fill
the spaces. It might be objected that the plant might have saved itself
much trouble by producing, while it was about it, a simple undivided
leaf covering the whole area. It is difficult to answer such
suggestions. Probably the present form of the leaf best meets the
conditions of wind, rain, and light under which it lives. Possibly its
present form is bound up with its ancestral history. “It must be
acknowledged,” says D. H. Scott, “that nothing is more difficult than to
find out why one plant equips itself for the struggle with one device
and another attains the same end in quite a different way.”

During cold and tempestuous weather the presence of leaves may be a
danger to the plant rather than a help; and where seasonal variations
are such that strongly contrasted periods of favourable and unfavourable
weather occur, such as the summer and winter of our own climate, many
plants have adopted the device of shedding all their leaves: this is
especially characteristic of the largest plants (the trees), which would
naturally suffer most from unfavourable weather. The fall of the leaf is
accomplished by means of the formation of a transverse layer of corky
tissue across the base of the leaf-stalk, combined with a weakening of
the layer of cells immediately above. Prior to the perfecting of these
arrangements for dropping the leaf, all the useful materials in it are
withdrawn down the stem, so that only an empty skeleton is shed; the
scar that remains is not an open wound, but is well protected by the
corky layer before mentioned.

Stipules and bracts need not delay us in this sketchy survey of plant
organs. They are leaves, generally of rather small size, placed, the
former one on either side of the point where a leaf-stalk emerges from
the stem, the latter singly below a flower; they are present in some
plants, absent from others. They function in the same way as ordinary
leaves, and in the earlier stages of growth are of use protectively.
Occasionally the stipules exceed or even replace the leaves, as in the
native _Lathyrus Aphaca_, where the leaf is reduced to a tendril, and
the pairs of broad “leaves” are really the stipules. The bracts, in
their turn, sometimes take on the “advertisement” function of the
petals, as we have already seen (p. 87) in the case of certain
Euphorbias.

The leaves of water plants offer several points of interest. Where they
are entirely submerged, and, protected against the drying influence of
wind and sun, they are of filmy texture. Broad blades are seldom met
with, the leaves being usually either finely dissected or strap-shaped.
The floating leaf, on the contrary, as already described in the Water
Lily, is strongly built up, to withstand wave action and rain; it is
usually broad and entire, which simplifies the

[Illustration: FIG. 23.--SPRING SUCCESSION OF LEAVES OF MATURE PLANT OF
ARROW-HEAD (SAGITTARIA SAGITTIFOLIA). 1/3.]

problem of avoiding submergence; and the stomata are confined to the
upper side, which alone is in contact with the atmosphere. Those water
plants which raise their leaves into the air, on the other hand, have
leaves of a variety of shapes, which in most respects approach those of
land plants. An interesting progression of leaves illustrating all
three stages may be watched in spring in the Arrow-head (_Sagittaria
sagittifolia_). The first leaves produced are entirely submerged, and
conform to the usual ribbon shape and delicate texture. Those which
follow float on the surface. In them the lower part is contracted into a
flaccid winged petiole, the upper part being expanded into an oblong
floating blade with a waxy surface to keep the leaf dry on the upper
side. These in turn give way to the characteristic aerial arrow-shaped
leaves of summer, which approach in character the leaves of land plants,
and are borne on stout, stiff petioles capable of resisting wind and
wave.

Coming now to FLOWERS, it is possible here to refer only to a few
macroscopic or “naked-eye” characters and modifications; the full study
of the flower and its essential functions being a matter for the
laboratory and the high-power microscope, as very minute structures are
involved. As briefly described in Chapter IV., flowers are groups of
modified leaves arranged mostly very close together at the ends of
branches, the tip of the shoot being often expanded into a _receptacle_
(very well seen in the Compositæ--_e.g._, Dandelion) for the
accommodation of the crowded floral leaves. Just as the foliage leaves
have become modified to carry on to the best advantage the process of
assimilation, so the different series of floral leaves are specially
adapted to their several functions. The sepals, which compose the
_calyx_, having usually a protective rôle, in most cases enclose the
young flower with a tough envelope; they usually retain their primitive
green colour, and take part in the process of assimilation. They may
drop off as the flower opens (_e.g._, Poppy), or wither as the petals
wither, or remain fresh until the fruit is ripe. Sometimes, as in many
Ranunculaceæ (compare _Anemone_, _Caltha_, _Helleborus_), they take on
the advertising rôle usually assigned to the petals, being large and
coloured, while the petals themselves are minute. In the Monocotyledons
they usually join with the petals in adorning the flower. The next
whorl, lying inside (that is, above) the sepals, is formed of petals,
constituting the _corolla_. The connection of colour and form of petals
with the visits of insects, and their relative insignificance in
wind-pollinated flowers, has already been referred to (p. 81). The
marvellous variety of colour and form observable in the corolla has for
its main object the attracting of insects to the flower. The petals have
departed much farther from the ordinary leaf-form than the sepals. They
assume brilliant hues of every tint, the pigment being due either to
colouring matter dissolved in the cell-sap (pinks and blues) or to small
coloured solid bodies (_chromoplasts_) contained in the cells (reds and
yellows). Chlorophyll being absent, the coloured petals do not assist
assimilation: they are purely advertisements, though incidentally they
often fulfil a useful protective rôle for the important organs which
they surround. In this latter connection their sensitiveness to changes
of light and temperature, which causes them to close in dark or cold
weather, is a very familiar phenomenon; as is also the excellent
protection which they provide in flowers such as those of the _Labiatæ_,
where, fused together into a tube, they form a kind of cave in which the
stamens and pistil nestle securely.

[Illustration: FIG. 24.--FRUIT OF CORIARIA JAPONICA. 1/1.]

An exceptional use of petals, where indeed they are used for the
purposes of advertisement, but to secure the dispersal not of the
pollen, but of the seeds, is illustrated in Fig. 24. In the genus
_Coriaria_ the staminate and pistillate organs are borne on separate
flowers. The flowers of both kinds are small and inconspicuous. But in
the “female” flowers the petals persist after flowering, and, becoming
fleshy and comparatively large, enclose the seed in a pulpy berry-like
envelope, which no doubt serves the same purpose as a true berry in
securing seed-dispersal by being devoured by birds. In _C. terminalis_,
which comes from the Himalayas, the “ripe” corolla is bright orange; in
_C. japonica_, from Japan, it is at first coral-red, and when mature
velvet-black.

The _stamens_, which form the next ring (sometimes a double ring or a
close spiral), are much less leaf-like than the sepals or petals, yet
there can be no doubt that they are descended from leaf-shaped organs;
this is especially clear from the study of certain primitive fossil
types, in which the corresponding organs which bear the pollen are
actually leaf-like. In most of the present-day Seed Plants the stamens
conform to a uniform type--a slender stalk (_filament_) bearing a head
(_anther_) containing four chambers, in which are produced _pollen
grains_, which escape when the flower is mature by the splitting of the
enclosing walls. The ways in which the pollen is then conveyed to the
pistil of other flowers have been referred to briefly on a previous page
(p. 82). The stamens in many flowers are few, and their number usually
bears a relation to the number of the other floral parts; in other
flowers, for instance Rose and St. John’s wort (_Hypericum_), they are
of large and indefinite number. The peculiar arrangement of the pollen
in Orchids has been already noted (p. 94).

The final ring of modified leaves in our typical flower constitutes the
_pistil_, formed of one or many _carpels_, the essential structure of
which has been touched on already (p. 82). In the present place it is
desired only to point out some of the leading modifications which the
pistil undergoes, so that its structure as seen by the naked eye may be
understood. In the simpler forms of carpel, the affinity to leaves is
still evident, though in forms of pistil made up of a number of carpels
this may be very difficult to trace. With the Pea, for instance, we may
begin, as presenting a very simple example. Take an oblong leaf like
that of a Laurel, and fold it down the mid rib till the two edges are in
contact. There is our pea-pod complete. The young seeds, or _ovules_,
are borne in a row along the mid rib, a very usual arrangement. Examine
next the young fruit of a Columbine (_Aquilegia_). Here there is a group
of five separate erect carpels, but each is essentially like a pea-pod
in structure. Compare the fruit of a Saxifrage. This clearly consists of
two carpels which are grown together save at the tips, where the two
styles stand out like little horns. From this we may go on to other
pistils in which several carpels are completely fused together. Next,
the compact body thus formed may be sunk down in the expanded top of the
stem (the receptacle). Or the other parts of the flower--sepals, petals,
stamens--may in their lower part be fused with the walls of the pistil,
and may thus appear to spring from the top of it. In such cases the
structure of the flower may easily be wrongly interpreted, and reference
to a work on systematic botany is necessary if pitfalls are to be
avoided. It is indeed to be noted that in flowers, as in other parts of
plants, complicated structure or multiplication of parts is not
necessarily an indication of advanced evolution; on the contrary, it is
often indicative of a primitive condition. Just as in machinery or in
organized human effort simplification often accompanies improvement, so
it is with plant structures. Many of the more primitive types of
flowers, such as Buttercups or Water Lilies, have a multitude of petals
or stamens or carpels, while in many of the most specialized, such as
Composites or Campanulas, the number of parts is much reduced. The
primitive wind-pollinated flowers produce large quantities of pollen;
in those which have adopted the improved method of utilizing insects,
the amount of pollen is much less; in the highly specialized Orchids, a
most successful group, the pollen is reduced to two small bundles.

Once the act of pollination is effected, the duty of the petals and
stamens is finished, and they generally fade. The sepals often remain,
as in the Rose. By the growth of the pollen tube from the stigma into
the ovary, fertilization is effected, and mature seed is produced. The
fruit--that is, the seed and its coverings or appendages--offers the
most varied forms of any of the plant organs--compare Hazel, Strawberry,
Pea, Apple, Cranesbill, Dandelion; the variety is endless. Many of these
forms are connected with the means by which seed-dispersal is effected:
this subject has been touched on in Chapter III. But in numerous
instances we can no more assign a reason for their beautiful or
fantastic forms than we can account for the infinite variety of shape
assumed by leaves and flowers.

Summing up, then, what has been sketched in this chapter, we must think
of our plant as a very complicated and wonderful machine, of which the
terrestrial Seed Plant is the highest expression. Water is the basis on
which its activities are founded--the currency in which all business is
transacted. The amount of water contained in a growing plant is seldom
realized. Even solid timber, when growing, is half wood, half water. A
fresh lettuce loses 95 per cent. of its weight if the water is driven
off by drying. Living in an aerial medium which tends to deprive it of
moisture continually, and which furnishes water to the soil only
intermittently in the form of rain, and often in sparing quantity, the
plant envelops itself from end to end of its exposed portions in a
waterproof cuticle; the only openings in its surface layer are the
spongy tips of the root hairs on the one hand, and in the stomata on the
other. These minutest of openings--so small that the number on a square
inch of leaf surface often far exceeds a hundred thousand--might prove
danger-points were they not most jealously watched over. But each is
provided with a pair of guard-cells ready to close the opening at any
moment; and where drought threatens, the whole of the stomata are found
in concealed positions. An ample pipe-system extends from root, through
stem, to leaf, but it does not communicate directly with the openings at
either end. All material, whether liquid or gaseous, absorbed or given
out, has to run the gauntlet of the living cells, which are jealous
watchmen, and allow only selected substances to pass through them. The
crude building materials and food materials are assembled in the leaves,
where in cells spread out to the light the chlorophyll is massed. Under
the microscope, the chlorophyll is seen to be located in minute granules
embedded in the semifluid contents of the cells. Well may we gaze in
wonder at these tiny green specks. Each is so small that although a
couple of hundred of them are often present in each cell, they occupy
but a very small proportion of its volume. The cells themselves are of
microscopic size. The chlorophyll itself occupies only quite a small
portion of the corpuscle in which it is immersed; yet on its activity as
spread in this infinitesimal quantity through the leaves the whole
organic world, animal as well as vegetable, depends.[9] Utilizing the
energy which comes through space from the sun, it builds up organic
compounds; from the energy thus stored comes all the varied life and
vital movement which fill our world--the opening of flowers, the hum of
insects, the march of armies, and our own restless thought; while its
work in the distant past, laid by in coal and oil, warms our houses and
drives our trains, factories, and steamships.

The work of the living chlorophyll accomplished, the food materials
produced by its agency are sent by the pipe-system to all parts of the
plant, for present use, or to be stored in root, stem, or leaf for
future requirements.

Nor is our plant the passive, motionless thing that it may appear to be
in comparison with animals and their larger movements. Active motion,
local and general, though usually of relatively small amount,
accompanies all plant-growth. Throughout root, stem, leaf, and flower
transference of material is going forward vigorously. The root hairs and
stomata are working at high pressure; the chlorophyll never ceases its
activities while daylight lasts. Externally, the growing branches,
leaves, and flowers also display incessant movement, sweeping the air in
small circles, or in the case of climbing plants in curves of
considerable amplitude. Alterations of illumination or of temperature
produce other movement--bendings towards or away from light, the
drooping of leaves and closing of flowers at nightfall, and so on.

All these phenomena of growth and movement culminate in the production
of flowers, and in the remarkable developments by which, through the
agency of pollen and ovule, a new generation is produced.




CHAPTER VI

PLANTS AND MAN


The appearance of man upon the Earth is an event of very recent
occurrence, not only in terrestrial history, but in the history of
organic life in the world. In the life-story which began somewhere in
far pre-Cambrian times, the record of the whole of human activities
occupies but the last paragraph of the last chapter. For millions of
years--ever since the larger animals first abandoned the aquatic haunts
of their ancestors and took to a terrestrial life--creatures great and
small, of myriad kinds, including huge reptiles and amphibians, and
later on a crowd of birds and mammals, have fed on land plants, without
effecting any profound changes in the appearance of the mantle of
vegetation which covered so much of the Earth’s surface. It has been
left for the human race, in the course of the few thousand years that
have elapsed since it emerged from an existence comparable to that of
the beasts and birds, and learned the arts of peace and war, to effect
such sweeping changes in terrestrial vegetation over wide areas, that
its influence in this respect requires a separate chapter for its
consideration.

The changes referred to are largely--though by no means wholly--due to
the requirements of the art of husbandry; and to the history of
agriculture we may look for information as to the time and place and
nature of man’s conquest of the surface of the globe. At the period of
the earliest human civilizations, such as those of Egypt and
Mesopotamia, the domestication of plants and animals had already reached
an advanced stage. Its origin lies far behind the historic period. We
can picture in imagination the time when in all inhabited parts of the
globe man wandered with no fixed abode, seeking food when he was hungry,
and making no provision for the morrow. Residence in a spot which
afforded a valued supply of food, such as an abundance of buckwheat or
millet or dates or bread-fruit, might lead to a desire to encourage the
growth of such useful plants by protecting them and their offspring;
following on which might arise the practice of assisting their growth,
and thus eventually of cultivating them. Selection of the most
productive strains would gradually follow, and barter would cause the
spread of useful plants over wider and wider areas. We can picture
development from such rude beginnings into the regular cultivation of
the soil and the enclosing of the cultivated areas for their protection.
It is clear that such practices would not readily arise among nomadic
tribes, nor among those inhabiting forest regions where the ground was
densely covered by trees. An abundance of animal food would produce a
race of hunters rather than of tillers of the soil; and as for forest
regions, they are unsuitable for human development; forest races have
never been pioneers of civilization. Before agriculture--indeed, before
civilization in any form--could make much progress, a settled life was
necessary, free from migrations in search of food or for the avoidance
of enemies. Hence the earliest civilizations tended to arise in areas
which were protected by natural ramparts from the irruption of rival
tribes. Egypt had the desert on three sides, and the sea--an impassable
barrier to early peoples--on the fourth. The valleys of the Euphrates
and Tigris presented similar features. In both areas rich alluvial soil
offered a full reward to attempts at agriculture, and the alternation of
summer and winter encouraged the making of provision for the
non-productive period by the taking advantage of the period of growth:
conditions not present under the “endless summer skies” of Tropical
lands, where an easy and perennial food-supply tended against the
development of industry.

The basin of the Mediterranean--the cradle of the earlier Western
civilizations from the time of Egypt down to Rome--was, then, also the
cradle of European agriculture. These lands, with their wet winters and
dry summers, the latter inimical to the development of tree growth, lent
themselves to cultivation more readily than the great forest-belt which
lay to the northward, sweeping across Europe from Britain to the Urals.
Although there is clear evidence that grain was cultivated in Europe as
far back as the Neolithic Period (say 7,000 to 5,000 B.C.), it seems
established that when Roman agriculture stood at its perfection the
peoples to the north were still mainly nomads, dependent for their
food-supply on their flocks or on the chase. In Britain, Cæsar found
corn grown in Southern England, but the centre and north were largely
forest land tenanted by tribes living on flesh and milk, and clothed in
skins. The vigorous colonization of the Romans may well have been
accountable for the introduction into Britain of many of the farm plants
still grown there. The wars of the next fifteen hundred years on the one
hand, and the spread of agriculture on the other, caused the steady
destruction of the forests, till at length England and Central Europe
began to assume their present appearance. The draining of marshes and
fens, the enclosing of land, went on steadily, and to a slight extent is
going on still; within recent years, the European War has resulted in
the disappearance of many of the remaining woods, and in the breaking up
of fresh land.

From the point of view of the botanist, agriculture consists of the
destruction of the plant associations which for some thousands of years
have occupied the ground, and their replacement by other plants which
are useful to man. The natural plant associations being the result of
the survival of the fittest through a long period of time, while the
farmer’s crops represent plants which do not grow naturally on the
ground, nor often indeed in the country (while they are frequently
artificial forms unable to reproduce themselves), it follows that the
latter cannot compete with the former, and can be maintained only by the
most careful protection. The native plants are always striving to
reoccupy their legitimate territory, and the farmer is incessantly
engaged in trying to keep them out. Agriculture, indeed, has been
defined as “a controversy with weeds.” Incidentally, the suppression of
the natural flora allows many weaker plants an opportunity of which they
are not slow to take advantage. These may be natives, but are often
annuals which have followed the spread of farming operations, or which
are directly--though unintentionally--introduced by man as impurities in
the seed which he sows.

Let us look a little more closely into the question of profit and loss
in our flora resulting from agriculture. In the first place, whether the
ground is tilled or grazed, the woodland which primitively occupied so
much of it disappears. The plough and the scythe are fatal to all
seedling trees. Little less fatal is the browsing of cattle and sheep,
and even in rough pasture only thorny plants like Whitethorn and Gorse
may be found battling successfully for a lodgment. Where woodland is
used for pasturage, the delicate shade plants--Anemones, Wild Hyacinths,
Primroses--soon die out. No young trees appear on the grazed surface,
though hundreds of thousands of seeds may be shed annually over the
ground. In the course of time the present trees will die, and only grass
remain. How different is it where cattle are excluded and the scythe
unused! Among the grass young trees spring up everywhere, and in the
woods a dense undergrowth of saplings sheltering a varied shade flora
makes its appearance; regeneration of the natural woodland proceeds
apace.

Natural grasslands, if undisturbed, possess a flora which has been built
up during a long period of time, and which, like all purely natural
plant associations, represents a delicate balance between its many
constituents, which often include rare and shy species. If such land be
once broken up, its flora will probably never again resume its former
composition even if allowed to regenerate during a long series of
years, for the alteration in the old substratum caused by its being
turned over and mixed introduces new edaphic (_i.e._, soil) conditions
which will not entirely pass away. As regards grazing, likewise, when
land is pastured up to or near its full capacity, as is generally the
case on enclosed areas, the weaker and often more interesting members of
the flora tend to disappear. In primitive times all grasslands had, of
course, their natural grazing inhabitants--in our islands deer of more
than one species, sheep, and smaller creatures such as rabbits and
geese--and so a total exclusion of grazing animals now would no more
tend to reproduce exactly the flora of pre-husbandry days than does the
excess of herbivores; but the present heavy stocking of the land is to
be deplored by the botanist, even as it is rejoiced in by the economist.
The more vigorous plants, and especially those which propagate
themselves largely by vegetative means, survive, or even increase owing
to the augmented food supplied by the manure which the animals provide;
but many species fail to ripen seed, being either eaten or trampled; the
rarer Orchids, strange ferns like the Adder’s Tongue (_Ophioglossum
vulgatum_), and Moonwort (_Botrychium Lunaria_), and the other choicer
denizens of the grasslands, tend to disappear.

Drainage is an obvious cause of loss to our flora. Whole lakes and areas
of swamp, with their peculiar and to a great extent natural flora, have
disappeared from parts of the country. Some of the most interesting
marsh plants of the British flora--such as the two fine Ragweeds,
_Senecio palustris_ and _S. paludosus_, and the Marsh Sow-thistle
(_Sonchus palustris_)--have on this account almost vanished from our
islands, like the Bittern and Great Bustard which are their companions.

Some lakes, again, have been ruined for the botanist by being used as
reservoirs. The considerable changes of level which this involves is a
thing to which plants are not adapted, and only a few can withstand it,
such as the Water Bistort (_Polygonum amphibium_) and the Shore-weed
(_Littorella uniflora_), which are equally at home on land or in water,
being able to change rapidly their structure and mode of life to suit
change of environment. As compared with a lakelet with a natural outlet,
a dam with a sluice has always a much reduced and usually quite
uninteresting flora.

The proximity of a large town, especially if it is a centre of
manufacture, is a notorious factor in the reduction of the native flora:
not only by the thoughtless and wanton destruction carried out by its
inhabitants, but more subtly by the deposition of soot, and by the
poisoning of the air by sulphurous and acid fumes. The higher
Cryptogams, such as Mosses and Hepatics, are particularly susceptible in
this respect, and vanish along with the more delicate Seed Plants.
Mining centres are specially destructive of plant life, since, in
addition to other drawbacks, the soil is often buried under masses of
excavated material containing poisonous substances. If there is a
purgatory for plants, it is surely found in such areas.

Other examples of the multitudinous ways in which human activities
disturb and destroy native plant life will occur to the reader--the
burning of moors in order to improve them as pasturage; in recent years
the tarring of roads, which kills the pleasant wayside herbage and
poisons the streams into which the road drainage is carried; and so on.
The indictment is an overwhelming one, and, as said in the first
chapter, the flora is now everywhere so altered that we can gain some
idea of its original aspect only by a study of isolated fragments and
much-adulterated samples.

But if the debit side of the account, as presented by the lover of
nature, is heavy, it must not be forgotten that there are many items to
man’s credit. Though our country’s vegetation has lost in scientific
interest, it has gained vastly in both economic and æsthetic value by
the introduction of useful and ornamental plants from all the Temperate
regions of the world; and besides, a large number of species have
followed in man’s footsteps, and, taking advantage of the disturbance of
the native flora caused by his operations, endeavour with more or less
success to establish a footing in the country. Before we trespass on the
domains of arboriculture, horticulture, or agriculture, under which
heads the cultivation of useful or ornamental plants divides itself,
some consideration is required of those plants which, quasi-wild, are
usually included in accounts of the vegetation under the head of aliens,
denizens, colonists, and so forth. These constitute a quite considerable
proportion of the total number of species found in any area which has
felt the influence of man. For instance, in the county of Dublin, which,
owing to its diversified surface--sea-cliff, sands, moorland, woodland,
and cultivation--and its favourable climate--the warmest and driest in
the country--possesses the largest flora of any similar area (354 square
miles) in Ireland, the list of about 760 “wild” plants includes some
170, or over one-fifth of the whole, whose presence is attributable,
directly or indirectly, to human activities. We may compare these
figures with those drawn from a study of the flora of Kent, which faces
across the Channel towards France just as county Dublin faces across the
Irish Sea towards England; both are areas of early settlement and both
lie in the main stream of traffic. In Kent we have to deal with a larger
area (1,570 square miles), and a larger flora (1,160 species). We find
that, of these 1,160 species, 146, or about one-eighth, are set down as
owing their presence to man.[10] And so it is in all the more populous
and highly tilled parts of our islands.

This question of alien plants, their past history and present standing,
is one of the most puzzling with which the student of our flora has to
deal. In the first place, most of them have been in the country for a
long time, and the record of their introduction is lost. Next, while
many of them are confined to ground disturbed by man, and thus clearly
exist under man’s protection--however unwillingly that protection may be
afforded--others have mixed with the indigenous flora, won a place in
the closed native vegetation, and might be ranked as true natives were
it not that a study of their general distribution raises doubts as to
the possibility of their having arrived in our islands unaided--doubts
which their known occurrence in gardens tends to confirm. Take the case
of the Yellow Monkey-flower (_Mimulus Langsdorfii_). This has quite
established itself in our native flora, in some places ascending
mountain streams far into the hills, in others mingling with the rank
flora of muddy estuaries. It _looks_ as aboriginal as any of the plants
among which it grows: but the facts that the genus to which it belongs
is American (with a few species in Australia and New Zealand), that it
itself is found native in the western States and not in the eastern, and
that it has been long cultivated in gardens, furnish convincing proof
that it is really an alien. But it is seldom that the evidence is so
satisfactory as in this case. More usually the range of the doubtful
members of the flora is continuous, extending from regions where they
are truly native to others where they are undoubtedly exotic. For
instance, many annual plants of the Mediterranean region have followed
the spread of agriculture across the former forest areas of Central and
Western Europe into our own islands. Plants native in France have been
transported into England, and English natives into Ireland; east Irish
plants have spread westward--sixty years ago, save for a single record
of _P. hybridum_, _Papaver dubium_ was the only Poppy known west of the
Shannon; now all four British species occur, several of them in many
places. The flora of Europe, as pointed out already, diminishes in
variety as we pass westward into the outlying areas. Those species whose
aboriginal distribution stopped short of the western limit of the land
had no doubt a fluctuating western or northern or southern boundary to
their range, dependent on temporary conditions. Thus, a hard winter
might kill back a plant already at the limit of its natural range, or a
warm summer, by ripening abundance of its seed, might result in its
slight advance. The general effect of human operations has been to
lessen competition and increase suitable habitats by the destruction of
the native vegetation which occupied them, and this has resulted in a
general advance of a large number of species. What renders the study of
this advance so difficult is the fact that on all disturbed land the
truly native plants which have been ousted are striving side by side
with the immigrants to regain their former territories; and it is now
often very difficult to disentangle them: to separate the sheep from the
goats. If only we could have had a Watson’s “Topographical Botany”
written five thousand years ago, before our restless race began to mess
up the vegetation!

However, as has been said, what we have lost on one side we have gained
on another. On every side bright immigrants meet the eye. Our old
buildings and quarries often blaze with the Red Valerian (_Kentranthus
ruber_) and Wallflower (_Cheiranthus Cheiri_); in fields Poppies of
various kinds, Corn Cockle (_Lychnis Githago_), and Corn Blue-bottle
(_Centaurea Cyanus_) add a glory to the rich green or gold of the
cereals; dry banks and gravelly places are decorated with species of
Melilot (_Melilotus_), Chamomile (_Anthemis_), Knapweed (_Centaurea_),
and many others. The flora of harbours and docksides is often as
cosmopolitan as the sailors of the ships by whose agency it came there;
and the unfamiliar weeds--the gipsies and tramps of the plant
world--which we encounter on roadsides, rubbish-heaps, and railway
stations lend an additional interest to our botanical rambles.

Turning now to the plants which are used by man, it may be pointed out
in the first place that the human race obtains much more, whether of
profit or of pleasure, from the vegetable than from the animal kingdom.
Flesh, whether derived from mammals, birds, or fishes; wool, silk,
leather, oils, and so on, bulk much less than the grains, vegetables,
fruits, timber, fibres, fodder plants, and other vegetable products
which we use in our daily life. On the æsthetic side, again, while the
beauty of birds and insects is a source of frequent delight, flowers
play a part in daily life that the more delicate and sensitive animals
can never do. Again, in the number of different species used, whether
for profit or pleasure, the plant world takes precedence. This is
especially the case as regards our farms and pleasure grounds, plants
lending themselves much more readily to domestication than animals do.
And so a suburban house may have a hundred or a thousand different
plants in kitchen garden and flower plot, orchard, and shrubbery, while
its animal dependents consist of a horse, a couple of dogs, a cat, some
fowl, and a canary. So again a Botanic Garden may easily possess as many
thousands of different species as a Zoological Garden contains hundreds.

This army of plants which human beings collect about themselves may be
grouped under two categories--useful and ornamental. On a previous page
(p. 136) a suggestion has been made as to how the cultivation of useful
plants may have arisen. As now practised, this industry is the largest
in the world, and with the growth of means of transport has ceased to be
only or even mainly of local importance: we use every day wheat from
Australia, rice from China, tea from India, cotton from the United
States, timber from Norway. In some cases, as in the last, these
materials are harvested as they occur in the wild state, but in the
majority of instances the plants are not merely conserved, but
cultivated; cultivation has led to selection of the best varieties; and
continued selection has resulted in the production of forms often very
different in appearance from the wild plants from which they originated.
We cannot _create_ new forms; but by taking advantage of the innate
tendency to vary which all plants display--some to a much greater degree
than others--and by raising, generation after generation, the seeds of
those individuals in which a certain abnormal feature is best displayed,
we can produce an artificial race in which the selected character may be
developed to an extraordinary degree. But we have not by this means
produced a new species. Seedlings of such plants will tend to “throw
back” towards the original form; we can preserve or improve the special
characters only by continued selection; if allowed to grow and seed
unchecked, most of such plants will revert to the natural type in a few
generations. Often this reversion is so rapid that seeds are useless for
cultural purposes, and it is only by cuttings or graftings--that is, by
growing parts of the original possessor of the required characters--that
constancy can be maintained; this is what is usually done in the case of
fruit-trees, Roses, Pansies, and so on.

Equally efficient in the hands of the cultivator has been another method
of producing new forms--namely, hybridization. If the pollen of a plant
be transferred to the stigma of a related species, offspring is often
produced; and the product is a batch of plants intermediate in
characters between the two parents, and generally uniform in appearance.
Should these be crossed again, a heterogeneous offspring is the result,
displaying a variety of characters inherited from one or other original
parent. The crossing of varieties, native or cultivated, has the same
result. Hybrids occur in nature, but not very frequently. Insects
visiting flowers are well known to confine their attention to a great
extent to one species at a time, so as agents of hybridization they are
not efficient. Again, many hybrids do not produce fertile seed, so that
if they arise by natural means they are not perpetuated. In the garden,
hybridizing has been resorted to largely; but its practice is not so
ancient as the method of producing improved breeds by selection.

The cultivation of specially selected forms is certainly of remote
origin, and probably goes back to the earliest days of agriculture: of
early date, too, is the introduction into regions where they do not
occur naturally of plants desirable for their use or beauty. The records
of the cultivation of the Vine, for instance, go back for five or six
thousand years in Egypt. Two thousand years ago Pliny writes that
ninety-one principal forms could be reckoned in his day, though “the
varieties are very nearly as numberless as the districts in which they
grow.” Theophrastus, three hundred years earlier, discourses learnedly
of the different kinds of cultivated Figs, etc., and their superiority
over the wild kinds. These and other authors make frequent mention of
plants introduced into Greece or Italy from the East for their
usefulness or their pleasing qualities. Nowadays, the number of species
cultivated, the innumerable forms of these which are grown, and the wide
distribution which these forms have attained, have resulted in the
cultivated flora of a country like England being, so far as the higher
plants are concerned, much larger than the native flora, even when all
the plants which are grown under glass are left out of consideration.

In the case of plants of economic importance, the usual aim of selection
has been increase of size or productiveness of the parts which are
useful. In some instances selection has taken several directions inside
the limits of a single species, as in the forms of Cabbage, which are
all the offspring of _Brassica oleracea_ (Fig. 25), a seaside plant of
Western and Southern Europe, and are mostly creations of comparatively
recent date. The Cauliflower has been produced by increasing the size of
the inflorescence; White Cabbage by promoting leaf production; Brussels
Sprouts by encouraging the development of axillary shoots; while a form
with a tall and woody stem is made into walking sticks. More often we
find a species developed along a single line. For instance, the tendency
to store food materials in a fleshy taproot has been developed in the
case of Turnip, Beet, Carrot; the fleshy scale-leaves which form bulbs
have been exploited in the case of the Onion; increased stem-growth is
promoted in Asparagus; increased leaf-growth in Spinach and Lettuce;
while by the development of seeds and fruits of many kinds artificial
selection has supplied us with the foods on which the human race mainly
subsists. The most important of all these last are, of course, the
different grains, which are the seeds of grasses of various
genera--_Triticum_ (Wheat), _Hordeum_ (Barley), _Secale_ (Rye), _Avena_
(Oat), _Panicum_ (Millet), _Oryza_ (Rice),

[Illustration: FIG. 25.--WILD CABBAGE (BRASSICA OLERACEA). 2/3.]

_Zea_ (Maize). The value of these to the human race is incalculable, and
some of them have been in cultivation for at least five thousand years.
In some of them, indeed, the native form is now unknown, the improved
varieties alone having been preserved by the care of man. The Wheats are
a case in point. While a wild grass growing in Palestine has been quite
recently identified as the probable source of the Hard Wheats, the
native parent of the Soft Wheats is unknown. That productiveness has in
all cases been much increased by long selection there can be no doubt;
it may be pointed out that several species of _Triticum_, _Hordeum_, and
_Avena_, allies of the Wheat, Barley, and Oat, are included in the
native British flora, but they are useless as producers of grain.

Nowhere is the effect on plants of selection and cultivation seen better
than in our native fruit-trees. We have only to compare the size,
flavour, and almost endless variety of apples and pears with the fruit
of the wild stock of these two species--the Crab (_Pyrus Malus_) and
Wild Pear (_Pyrus communis_) of our hedgerows--to realize how much has
been accomplished. In garden flowers, also, we see most striking results
of continuous selection. By taking advantage of the tendency of stamens
and carpels to change occasionally into petals, and of petals to
increase in number, “double flowers” have been effected. When “doubling”
is complete--that is, when the conversion into petals is thorough--no
seed can of course be produced, and the plants must be propagated by
cuttings. Different other slight natural variations, exaggerated by
selection and cultivation, have been the source of innumerable
“varieties” in our gardens.

Sometimes the natural variation is by no means slight, but of a striking
character which the efforts of gardeners have not succeeded in
developing further. Take, for instance, the case of fastigiate trees,
such as the Lombardy Poplar (_Populus nigra_, var. _italica_) or the
Irish Yew (_Taxus baccata_, var. _fastigiata_). These are freaks or
sports, the character being that _all_ the branches, not only the
leader, tend to assume a vertical position. The Irish Yew originated as
a wild “female” (pistillate) seedling found on the hills of Co.
Fermanagh about 1780 and never rediscovered. It appears to be a juvenile
form, preserving throughout life its seedling characters--a kind of
Peter Pan among plants. Of the Lombardy Poplar the origin is not known,
but it was no doubt similar. Seedlings of the Irish Yew revert to the
ordinary type, and all the Irish Yews in cultivation are pieces of the
original plant grown as cuttings. Poplars, like the Yew, bear the “male”
(staminate) and “female” (pistillate) flowers on different trees, and
the original Lombardy Poplar having been a “male” it also can be
propagated only by cuttings--probably seedlings would in any case revert
to the usual form.

The reverse of this abnormal erect habit is seen in weeping trees, where
the branches for unexplained reasons seek to grow downward. In nature
this results in a creeping habit. If planted on a height the branches
will deliberately grow downwards towards the ground. Cultivators graft
such forms on the top of a tall stem of a normal specimen, with the
result that we see in the Weeping Ash and similar gardeners’
productions.

Another large group of casual abnormalities is concerned with the colour
of leaves. The Purple Beech is a case in point. It was not produced by
selection, but arose naturally, no doubt as a chance seedling. In this
instance the character is usually passed on to the offspring, most
seedlings having similar purple leaves, though some individuals are
green. The peculiar colour is due in this case to a pigment in the
epidermis of the leaf; the green chlorophyll is duly present, though its
colour is masked by the purple leaf-skin. To a different category belong
the “gold” and “silver” variegations which are so much exploited in
shrubberies and borders and greenhouses. These spots or stripes or
tintings of pale colour on the leaves are due to the lack of chlorophyll
in the chromatophores (chlorophyll corpuscles); sometimes to an absence
of the chromatophores themselves; and this omission appears to be caused
by an enfeebled condition of the plant. Variegated plants are weaker
than normal ones, and hence do not tend to survive in nature. But
gardeners have protected and propagated a large number of them. When the
variegation arises, as it often does, on a branch of an otherwise normal
plant, it usually is not reproducible from seed, and must be perpetuated
by cuttings. But where it happens with seedlings, it is often more or
less fixed, and may be reproduced generation after generation, as in the
Golden Elder, Golder Feather, and the marginal-variegated form of Winter
Cress (_Barbarea vulgaris_).

Flower colour is not so fixed as leaf colour, for obvious reasons, the
green colour of leaves being due to chlorophyll, which is an absolutely
necessary ingredient of the leaf if plant food is to be manufactured;
whereas flower colour is merely for advertisement, and any pigment can
be made to serve. In nature most flowers vary in tint, and some in a
marked degree--take the little native Milkwort (_Polygala_), which may
be blue or purple or white. Flowers offer great opportunities,
therefore, to the gardener, and by selecting on the one hand and
hybridizing on the other every known tint has been reproduced in some
blossom. Adding to this the variability in size and shape of petals, and
the tendency to “doubling,” the flower in the hands of skilful
cultivators has been altered almost beyond recognition. Take the Roses,
for example, with their infinite variety of form and colour. The bulk of
them are derived from a dozen wild species, possessing comparatively
small single flowers, white, yellow, or red--_Rosa centifolia_,
_damascena_, _gallica_ (the source of the older Roses), _indica_,
_moschata_, _odorata_, _rugosa_, _Wichuræiana_, with our native
_arvensis_ and _spinosissima_. By selecting for colour, shape, and
“doubleness,” both from the species themselves and from the offspring
produced by hybridizing one of these with another, what a wealth of
beauty has been developed! More than any other flowers, the Roses are
the crown and glory of the gardener’s art. Well has the Rose been called
the Queen of Flowers; but it owes its royal prerogative to man. Nature
provided blossoms--elegant, but of no special promise--and a tendency to
vary, of priceless value; human skill and industry have done the rest.




CHAPTER VII

PAST AND PRESENT


The dependence of animals upon plants for the food by means of which
they continue to inhabit the earth, which was pointed out on a previous
page (75), shows that the plant world is older than the animal world;
but the immense age of both can be appreciated only by a study of
stratigraphical geology. The tens of thousands of feet of sedimentary
rocks, laid down in slow succession on the floors of ancient seas and
lakes, and still reposing layer upon layer, and no less the great gaps
in the series produced when, raised into the air, deposition ceased, and
thousands of feet of rock were slowly worn away and washed down again
into the sea by the action of frost and wind and water, point to periods
incalculably remote as measured by the standards which we apply to human
history. A few thousands of years measures the span which separates us
from the Neolithic Period; but to the geologist a million years is but a
convenient unit for expressing, so far as any expression by our
time-standards is possible, the huge periods with which he has to deal.
And even when we get back as far as the oldest fossils will take us, we
are still a long way from having reached the epoch when life on the
earth originated. As we work backward and study the fossils of older
and older rocks, the multitudinous assembly of plants and animals which
fill the world to-day are replaced by other and more primitive forms,
many groups approaching each other and merging in common ancestral
types. But still, the very oldest fossil-bearing strata contain the
remains of organisms already far up the ladder of evolution. The Lamp
Shells (Brachiopods), Pteropods, Trilobites, and Worms of the ancient
Cambrian rocks have clearly a long ancestral history. Plants are not so
abundantly preserved in the rocks as the skeletons and shells of
animals, on account of their softer nature; but in the oldest known
plants it is again clear that we are dealing with forms by no means
primordial. It is the more interesting, then, to note that many very
lowly forms of life have come down to us from times immensely remote,
and are still present on the earth in abundance, swarming in every sea
and in every pond, or nestling in damp crevices of the land; while
higher types of immense antiquity still mingle with the crowd of recent
Seed Plants, some of them forming noble forest trees. Of especial
interest, taking into account the wide distinction which exists between
the higher animals on the one hand and the higher plants on the other,
is it to find that there are still in existence organisms which are so
much on the border-line between these two great groups of living things
that they can be referred to one or other only with hesitation, clearly
indicating that animal and vegetable life sprang from a common source.
Take the group known as Mycetozoa or Myxomycetes. These names alone show
the divergent views which men of science have held regarding them,
_Myxomycetes_ signifying “slime-_fungi_,” while _Mycetozoa_ means
“fungus-_animals_.” These remarkable organisms, of which over 180
species are found in the British Isles, begin life as tiny wind-borne
spores. Under suitable conditions of moisture and heat, the spore
swells, its wall cracks, and the contents--a tiny globule of
protoplasm--creep out, develop a little tail or _flagellum_, which by
lashing about propels the pear-shaped _swarm-cell_ through the drop of
water in which it began life. The organism feeds by catching bacteria
and other minute particles of organic matter, which are conveyed into
the interior of the little mass of protoplasm and digested. The
swarm-cells increase in number by division, and ultimately unite in
pairs to form a _plasmodium_, which may, by union with other plasmodia,
eventually attain a quite large size. In this naked protoplasmic mass a
very remarkable rhythmic movement is set up, the granular protoplasm of
the interior streaming rapidly along certain channels for about 1-1/2
minutes, when the motion is reversed and it streams in the opposite
direction. The whole mass now creeps about in moist places, usually in
the form of a network of branching veins, feeding as it goes, usually on
dead vegetable matter. When fully developed the plasmodium creeps out
into some more open spot and transforms itself into masses of spores
enclosed in spore-cases, which vary much in different genera as regards
size, shape, and colour, and are often borne on delicate stalks. When
ripe, the spore-cases, or _sporangia_, open, and the spores are
liberated into the air to be dispersed by wind and eventually to begin
growth on their own

[Illustration: FIG. 26.--A MYXOMYCETE (COMATRICHA TYPHOIDES) IN FRUIT.

_a_, Natural size; _b_, enlarged.]

account. This story partakes about equally of incidents characteristic
of the life-history of the lower animals and of the lower plants. The
fruiting stage and the wind dispersal of the spores recall the
arrangements familiar in the Fungi, and are not matched in any section
of the animal kingdom; while the creeping plasmodium, devouring food as
it goes, is entirely suggestive of animal life, and is not paralleled
anywhere in the vegetable kingdom. There is no reason to look on the
Mycetozoa as a group of animals which have taken on certain plant-like
characters, any more than as a group of plants which have evolved
certain animal characteristics: we appear to see in them a very ancient
group which has come down to us from a time when plants and animals, as
we know them, had not yet become differentiated.

Among plants, as distinguished generally from animals by the production
and abundant use of chlorophyll and of cellulose, we have still existing
on the Earth a range of forms extending from almost the most primitive
organism that we can imagine up to the splendid Seed Plant, specialized
in a hundred ways. Every pool, every soil, swarms with bacteria, the
lowliest form of life--organisms exceedingly minute, exceedingly simple,
and capable of existing under highly diverse conditions both physical
and chemical. Thence we can trace an irregular ascending scale through
the Fungi, the Algæ, Mosses, Horsetails, Ferns, and Club-mosses, to the
Conifers, and on to the highest of the Seed Plants, which exceed in
their beauty of structure and complicated life anything that has gone
before them. In fact, as Theophrastus says, your plant is a thing
various and manifold. And this existing vegetation with its thousand
forms is but the present manifestation of the vital activity which has
populated the earth during tens of millions of years. The oldest rocks
which have been preserved to us in such a condition as to yield remains
of plants and animals in a recognizable form are those known as
Cambrian, the deposition of which occurred at a period which geologists
have variously calculated as from, say, 20 to 100 or more millions of
years ago. Yet even at that immensely remote period, life, both
vegetable and animal, was already abundant and diverse, as well as
highly organized. As Darwin long ago pointed out, the geological record
does not go back nearly far enough to allow us any insight into the
evolution of the earlier forms of life. Below the Cambrian rocks, as
represented in these islands and in Europe generally, with their
well-developed fauna, are tens of thousands of feet of strata which
once, no doubt, were sediments at the bottom of the sea, and later on
hardened into slates and sandstones in which were embedded remains of
more primitive organisms; but these rocks have been so altered during
the immense period of their existence by heat and pressure and the other
vicissitudes to which the restless crust of the earth is subject that
they now present a mass of granite-like material in which all trace of
organic life has been destroyed. In America the rocks of corresponding
age are better preserved, and have yielded a limited fauna displaying an
already advanced stage of evolution. To account for the strange paucity
of animal remains it has been suggested that the creatures of these
earliest times were soft-bodied, so that after death they left no trace
behind. It may be noted that the pre-Cambrian rocks contain beds of
limestone and of carbon (in the form of graphite); such beds, in later
rocks, are composed of organic materials, the limestones being formed of
the skeletons of minute marine creatures, particularly Foraminifera, and
the carbon deposits of the remains of plants.

In Cambrian times, then, abundant life springs forth into our vision
from the rocks, already, like Minerva, fully armed. The soft plant
structures are not well preserved in the older fossiliferous rocks, and
hence the fragmentary story of plant life, as we trace it backwards,
becomes very obscure, while many types of animals still boldly occupy
the stage. At the earliest period from which plant remains are well
preserved and plentiful, in the Devonian rocks, many of the great plant
groups are fully developed, the vegetation displaying an abundance and
luxuriance comparable to that of the present day. Seaweeds (Algæ),
Horsetails (Equisetales), Ferns (Filicales), Club-mosses (Lycopodiales),
fill the waters or clothe the land, and Seed Plants are already abundant
in the form of the fern-like Pteridosperms, long since extinct. Both as
regards adaptation to environment and internal structure a very high
degree of specialization has already been obtained. “If a botanist,”
writes D. H. Scott, “were set to examine, without prejudice, the
structure of those Devonian plants which have come down to us in a fit
state for such investigation, it would probably never occur to him that
they were any simpler than plants of the present day; he would find them
different in many ways, but about on the same general level of
organization.”

In the succeeding Carboniferous Period conditions appear to have been
peculiarly suitable for vegetable life, as well as for its preservation
in a fossil condition. In the warm, moist climate of those times, many
of the races of plants above mentioned attained an imposing size,
luxuriance, abundance, and variety; and their remains, fortunately well
preserved owing to conditions favourable to slow decomposition, not only
furnish a rich heritage for the botanist, but supply the coal, on the
energy derived from which our whole modern civilization is built up.

Before the end of the Palæozoic Period the Conifers had appeared,
descended possibly from the extinct _Cordaiteæ_. With the advent of the
Secondary or Mesozoic epoch the group of the Cycads, to which our
modern Screw-pines belong, rose to great importance, descended probably
from the Pteridosperms, and long continued to be a dominant feature of
terrestrial vegetation. And then at last in the Lower Cretaceous rocks
the Angiosperms, or “Flowering Plants” _par excellence_, both
Dicotyledons and Monocotyledons, put in an appearance. It seems probable
that they were evolved from Cycads, such as the _Bennettiteæ_, recent
researches on magnificent fossil material discovered in America showing
striking analogies between certain Cycadaceous flowers and those of such
plants as Magnolias, Water Lilies, and Buttercups. Once established, the
Angiosperms rose to primary importance in an extraordinarily short
time--very possibly owing to the “invention” of insect pollination,
which may have arisen at that period. In Upper Cretaceous times the two
great groups into which the Angiosperms still fall, the Dicotyledons and
Monocotyledons, fairly dominated the flora of the world, as they do at
present. Already many types familiar at the present day had appeared,
and the woods were filled with Birches, Beeches, Oaks, Planes, Maples,
Hollies, Ivies, as they are nowadays.

The record of the rocks during these long periods of time contains not
only the story of the rise of the great divisions of the vegetable
world, but also of the decline of most of them. A few, like the
Pteridosperms and the Sphenophylls, died out completely long ago; but
most of the great groups of early days, such as Cycads, Ferns,
Horsetails, and Club-mosses, still survive, though shorn of much of
their glory.

[Illustration: FIG. 27.--LEAF OF MAIDENHAIR TREE (GINKGO BILOBA). 2/3.]

Races which once formed vast and lofty forests are now represented by a
few lowly herbs; and it is difficult to recognize in the tiny
_Selaginella_ of our moors the representative of the gigantic
Club-mosses of Carboniferous days. But certain plants still living
retain to a great extent the features of their ancestors of the ancient
rocks. One of the most interesting of these is the Maidenhair Tree
(_Ginkgo biloba_), well known as a sacred tree in the East, and
apparently preserved to us through the last few thousand years owing to
this custom, as it does not seem to exist now in a wild state. The
genus _Ginkgo_ runs back to the beginning of the Mesozoic Period, and
its near relatives go back much farther still to the Devonian; the group
to which it belongs, _Ginkgoaceæ_ (probably descended from the
_Cordaiteæ_), attains its maximum in the Jurassic, the “Age of
Reptiles,” and the existing species or its near relatives saw the Earth
teeming with fantastic Saurians, including huge brutes, longer than the
greatest whale, which browsed on trees or devoured creatures scarcely
less terrible than themselves, while others of different form, occupied
the sea, and others again of nightmare appearance dashed bat-like
through the air. This solitary representative of a great and ancient
race is of quite peculiar interest in that it is the highest plant in
which is preserved the primitive feature of fertilization by the medium
of water, the male cell being endowed with the power of motion, and
reaching the egg-cell by means of swimming.

Throughout the Tertiary or Cainozoic Period the dominance of the
Angiosperms became more pronounced, and already in the Eocene a flora
flourished much resembling in a general way that which now occupies the
Earth. Long periods succeeded the Eocene, of which the record is poor so
far as plant remains are concerned, at least as regards these countries,
but no further great botanical revolutions took place. Through the
Miocene Period, with its luxuriant evergreen, subtropical vegetation, we
are led to the Pliocene. During this period the climate once again
cooled down, and towards the end of it, under conditions very like those
prevailing in England at present, many of our familiar species of wild
flowers and trees at length made their appearance--Marsh Marigold
(_Caltha palustris_), Sloe (_Prunus spinosa_), Blackberry (_Rubus
fruticosus_), Hawthorn (_Cratægus Oxyacantha_), Cow Parsnep (_Heracleum
Sphondylium_), Bogbean (_Menyanthes trifoliata_), Gypsywort (_Lycopus
europæus_), Sheep’s Sorrel (_Rumex Acetosella_), Birch (_Betula alba_),
Hazel (_Corylus Avellana_), Oak (_Quercus Robur_), Yew (_Taxus
baccata_), Bur-reed (_Sparganium erectum_), Cotton-grass (_Eriophorum
polystachion_), Royal Fern (_Osmunda regalis_). The remains of these
occur in the “Cromer Forest-bed,” a series of estuarine deposits--laid
down perhaps by the ancient Rhine--which underlies the boulder-clay
cliffs of the Norfolk coast, and forms almost the only plant-bearing
beds of Pliocene Age found in the present land area which we call
Britain.

And now, just as a point is reached when at length we think we shall see
our present British flora emerging fully from the obscurity of the ages,
a dramatic interruption occurs, which confuses the record and brings us
into difficulties of many sorts, giving rise to controversies which are
still far from being settled. The climate becomes suddenly colder, and
Europe is plunged into the rigours of the Ice Age. Ice Ages there had
been before in the long history of the world. Rocks of late Permian or
early Carboniferous times bear ample witness to the existence of great
ice sheets extending over wide areas in several continents where
temperate or warm conditions now prevail: and puzzling deposits of later
age--Cretaceous, Eocene, Miocene--have been interpreted by some
geologists as the relics of subsequent Glacial Periods. But these are
only distant echoes as compared with the Quaternary Ice Age, from the
effects of which our country and its fauna and flora are still in
process of recovery. At the close of the Pliocene Period, then, snow
began to extend on the higher grounds, and glaciers to fill the mountain
valleys; these conditions were intensified until all Northern Europe,
including the British Isles as far south as the Thames valley, lay under
a mantle of ice. The plants which occupied the ground were forced
southward as the ice advanced, or exterminated by the increasing cold.
After long fluctuations of climate, the extent of which appears still in
doubt, the ice at length slowly passed away, leaving the surface of our
country greatly altered. The ancient soils which had been in process of
accumulation since last the land rose above sea-level were swept away,
the surface was strewn with materials formed by the grinding down of the
hills or the pushing up of sea-bottom material, valleys were choked,
rivers diverted, lakes formed by dams of glacial detritus, or by the
scooping action of the ice; the whole surface of the country was
remodelled on new lines. Into this new land the plants remigrated, and
we now view on our hills and plains the results of this repopulation.
The difficulties of which I have spoken arise especially in connection
with the manner of this recolonization. On a continental area one can
conceive of a gradual retirement of the flora before the advance of the
ice, and its subsequent remigration northward into its old haunts as the
ice retired. But on an insular area like Great Britain no such line of
retreat was open. The ice-free area of Southern England and possibly
Southern Ireland does not appear adequate to harbour the crowd of
refugees throughout the cold period. There is good evidence that the
time of maximum glaciation was also one of elevation of the land, and
possibly this persisted for a while after the passing away of the ice.
If this were so, some relief from the congestion might have been
afforded to the refugees during the cold period, and an opportunity
might have existed when the ice passed away for recolonization across a
land surface from the east, since a comparatively small elevation would
connect the British Islands with the Continent. But that such an
elevation continued for long after the passing of the ice is by no means
certain. On the whole, the evidence of general glaciation of our islands
as interpreted by geologists almost postulates the extinction within our
area of the whole existing flora and fauna, and consequently its
reconstruction by immigration when a temperate climate returned. But
there is a body of evidence to be drawn from the present and past
distribution of the existing plants and animals which is of great
importance in this connection. Is this biological testimony in favour of
the theory of the immigration of our flora and fauna during the
relatively short period which has elapsed since the passing of the ice?
To this question different observers have given very different answers.
In order to form an idea of the nature of the problem--it is possible
here to deal only with the case of the plants--we need to study briefly
the composition of the present flora, from the point of view of its
origin.

In the first place, it must be recalled that the British Isles are
situated on a broad shelf which extends into the Atlantic on the western
edge of Europe. In comparison with the depth of the adjoining ocean,
this shelf is but little below sea-level, and a slight elevation of the
land--much smaller than those which have occurred over and over again in
recent geological times--would join our islands to Germany, Holland,
Belgium, and France. The British Isles are geographically and
biologically by no means a separate area, and they have derived their
population, both plant and animal, by immigration at various periods of
time from the great land area to the eastward. Our present flora proves
the truth of this as a general assertion; a study of its constituents
shows that it is essentially a reduced continental European flora. As we
step from France across to England we lose a number of plants familiar
on the French side. As we step again from England into Ireland a further
number of plants disappears; and these losses are no doubt due either to
an unsuitability of climate on the insular areas, especially the absence
of a hot summer, or to the inability of the plants to cross the barriers
of sea which have now existed for some time. If the whole of the flora
fitted in with this idea of mere reduction of the Continental flora by
elimination, the problem would be much simplified. But there are other
elements in it which do not harmonize with this conception of simply a
general western migration, and which give rise to very interesting
problems.

Let us first consider the main mass of our flora, which is closely akin
to that of the adjoining parts of the Continent. When we say that it
represents a reduced Continental flora we do not imply that it is
therefore uniform in its composition throughout the British Isles. We
know, on the contrary, by everyday observation, that it varies much in
its constituents. The principal general change is noticed if one travels
from the south of England to the north of Scotland. Great Britain
extends in this direction for 700 miles--far enough to allow climate to
have a marked effect as between its extremities. The flora of Hampshire
is very different from that of Caithness or the Orkneys. But both
represent in the main the vegetation of that part of the Continent which
lies in the same latitude, the Hampshire flora being akin to that of
Northern France, the Caithness flora to that of Southern Scandinavia.
The likeness is in each case heightened by the fact that the rocks of
the respective areas correspond, producing similar soils, which tend to
support similar floras. The soft Secondary and Tertiary deposits of
Southern England are repeated in the Paris basin and surrounding area,
while the ancient gneisses of Scotland are akin to those of Norway. To
quote a few instances of this north and south difference coupled with
east and west similarity: the Small-flowered Crowfoot (_Ranunculus
parviflorus_), White Bryony (_Bryonia dioica_), Water Violet (_Hottonia
palustris_), Yellow-wort (_Blackstonia perfoliata_), and Black Bryony
(_Tamus communis_), all widely spread throughout England and Wales, die
out in or about the Lake District, and are absent from Scotland; the
Scale Fern (_Ceterach officinarum_) gets farther north--about half-way
up Scotland--before it disappears; other plants again, widespread in the
south, die out before the Mersey-Humber line, or even the Severn-Thames
line, is crossed. On the Continent, the plants enumerated are mainly
southern in their range. All occur widely in Central and Southern
Europe, but from Scandinavia most are absent, and the rest are rare. On
the other hand, some characteristic Scottish species cease as we come
southward--the little _Primula scotica_, for instance, is confined to
the northern extremity of Scotland; the Chickweed Wintergreen
(_Trientalis europæa_) ranges only as far south as Yorkshire; and the
beautiful Globe Flower (_Trollius europæus_), so characteristic of
northern pastures, creeps southward as far as the Severn. The first of
these is on the Continent confined to Scandinavia; the others, though
found in France, etc., are characteristic of the hilly regions there,
and are much more abundant farther northward.

Next to this north-and-south change, due to climate, we may notice an
east-and-west change, due partly to climate, but more perhaps to
elimination, for in passing from France to Ireland we have to cross two
barriers of sea. The climatic change is not unlike that experienced in
going from south to north. We leave a dry climate (rainfall under 25
inches at year) for one of increasing wetness, a warm for a cool summer,
a colder for a milder winter.

The chief difference between the extreme west of the British Isles and
the extreme north lies in the warmer winter of the former, frost being
almost unknown in the milder spots. But the general similarity of
northern and western conditions as opposed to eastern and southern leads
to a fusing of the northern and western plant groups, so that on a map
designed to show the distribution of our species analyzed according to
their general range in Europe, the grouping of plants in the British
Isles will be found to be roughly north-western as opposed to
south-eastern. The further change due to elimination of species has been
already referred to. Most plants no doubt have spread in our islands as
far as prevailing climatic and soil conditions allow, but in other cases
the sea-barriers seem to have put a period to their natural advance.
Considering the wide range of conditions of climate and soil under
which, for instance, the Hairy Crowfoot (_Ranunculus sardous_), the
Common Rock-rose (_Helianthemum Chamæcistus_), the Needle Furze
(_Genista anglica_), and the Small Marsh Valerian (_Valeriana dioica_),
occur in England, Wales, and Scotland, it is difficult to impute their
absence from Ireland to climate.

Thirdly, we find (as we have already seen in the first chapter) varying
conditions of soil intruding themselves and producing such local changes
in the grouping of the plants as may quite obscure the broader
differences just dealt with. Were our islands a plain formed of uniform
materials, the gradual changes from south to north or east to west might
be traced step by step. But their surface is most diversified; their
rocks contain an epitome of the whole geology of Europe; the soils are
consequently various: from the point of view of the plant world the area
is an archipelago: for some plants a desert with occasional oases, for
others an oasis enclosing occasional deserts. Certain species are
confined to the Chalk--for instance, the Box (_Buxus sempervirens_) and
the Stinking Hellebore (_Helleborus fœtidus_)--while to others a limy
soil is a barrier comparable to that formed by the English Channel. It
will be seen, then, that when we speak of the flora in general being a
reduced Continental one, many considerations, geographical, climatic,
and edaphic, must be duly taken into consideration if we are to
understand the composition and distribution of our vegetation.

But making all allowance for these various disturbing influences, there
are found in our flora certain plant groups which will not fit in with
this general conception of immigration from the east. Let us take a few
examples. In fir woods in Dorset, until some forty years ago (when it
was exterminated), grew a slender little plant allied to the Lilies, too
little known to have a popular English name, and called by botanists
_Simethis planifolia_ or _S. bicolor_, the latter name having reference
to the fact that the flower is purple on the outside, white on the
inside. This plant is unknown elsewhere in Great Britain, and was at
first set down by H. C. Watson, the leading British plant geographer, as
an alien or denizen, not a true native; but the fact that it grows over
a considerable area of very wild ground in Kerry (its only Irish
station), far from possible sources of introduction, and undoubtedly
native, indicates a strong probability of the plant’s having been
indigenous in Dorset also. It is not present on the adjoining parts of
the Continent, but turns up again in the Pyrenean region, some 500 miles
to the southward, and may be traced thence into Italy and North Africa.
Did this instance of an apparent migration from the south stand alone,
it might not excite much attention, and we should probably be inclined
to attribute the plant’s peculiar and discontinuous distribution to the
extinction, perhaps by human agency, of intermediate stations. But it
stands by no means alone. In Cornwall two

[Illustration: FIG. 28.--GREAT BUTTERWORT (_PINGUICULA GRANDIFLORA_).

[_To face p. 173._]

pretty Heaths (_Erica vagans_ and _E. ciliaris_) are found, the latter
spreading to Dorset. They occur in no other stations in the British
Islands, and elsewhere only in the Pyrenean region. North Devon is the
only home in Great Britain for the handsome Irish Spurge (_Euphorbia
hiberna_), which in Ireland is distributed along the west and south
coasts, being very abundant in Kerry. Outside the British Isles it also
is confined to the Pyrenean area. Crossing into Ireland, we find along
the south and west coasts no less than seven plants unknown in Great
Britain, and elsewhere found only or mainly in the Pyrenees. Of these,
three Heaths (_Erica mediterranea_, _E. Mackayi_, _Dabœcia polifolia_)
are confined to Connemara and the Pyrenees; two Saxifrages, the London
Pride (_S. umbrosa_) and the Kidney-leaved (_S. Geum_), with their Irish
headquarters in Kerry, are likewise confined to the Pyrenean region. The
beautiful Large-flowered Butterwort (_Pinguicula grandiflora_, Fig. 28),
abundant in parts of Kerry and Cork, grows in South-west Europe and the
Alps; while the Strawberry-tree (_Arbutus Unedo_, Fig. 29), so pleasing
and unique a feature of the Killarney woods, ranges all along the
Mediterranean. A little Orchid, _Neotinea intacta_, found on limy soils
in Galway and the adjoining counties, and a Grass (_Schlerochloa
festuciformis_) which occurs on sheltered shores on both the east and
west sides of Ireland, are likewise confined elsewhere to the
Mediterranean region. So it will be seen that along the south-western
and western borders of the British Isles there is scattered a
well-marked group of plants belonging to the Pyrenean and Mediterranean
floras, whose English or Irish stations are quite discontinuous with
their nearest Continental habitats. Here clearly is something which
calls for explanation; but before discussing the question attention may
be drawn to a still more remarkable plant group of our western coasts,
which mingles with the southern group referred to.

In damp meadows all round Lough Neagh, in the North of Ireland, grows an
Orchid, _Spiranthes Romanzoffiana_ (Fig. 30), whose greenish-white
flowers possess a delicious fragrance resembling that of its ally, _S.
spiralis_, the Autumnal Lady’s Tresses. _S. Romanzoffiana_ occurs also
in Co. Cork, but we may search in vain for it throughout the rest of
Europe. It is an American plant, widely spread throughout Canada and the
northern States, and found on the Asiatic as well as the Alaskan side of
Behring Sea. Again, in pools along the western Irish coast from Cork to
Donegal, and also in the Hebrides, grows the Pipewort (_Eriocaulon
articulatum_), a little aquatic with a tuft of grassy leaves from which
a slender stem rises above the water, bearing a button-like head of
small grey flowers. This plant also is absent from all the rest of
Europe and from Asia, but widely spread in northern North America. The
little Blue-eyed Grass of Canada (_Sisyrinchium angustifolium_), again,
grows abundantly in many areas in the West of Ireland, where it would
seem to be undoubtedly native, and is otherwise confined to North
America. One or two other plants, of the same foreign distribution, have
in Europe a less restricted range; they need not be mentioned
individually, for enough has been said to show that along the western
coasts of the British Isles

[Illustration: FIG. 29.--STRAWBERRY-TREE (_ARBUTUS UNEDO_) AT THE LAKES
OF KILLARNEY.]

[Illustration: FIG. 30.--_SPIRANTHES ROMANZOFFIANA_ GROWING BY LOUGH
NEAGH.

[_To face p. 174._]

there is a small but well-marked element in the flora which has its home
in the northern portion of the New World; in our islands these species
live side by side with the Pyrenean and Mediterranean plants lately
dealt with. Here, then, is the problem set before us. How are we to
account for the presence of these unexpected strangers in a flora
derived in the main from a westward migration from the adjoining parts
of the Continent, from which they are absent? And especially what are
their relations to the Glacial Epoch, during which the Continental flora
was forced far southward by the advance of the ice, while that of our
own islands was probably greatly reduced, and the balance forced into
limited refuges in the south-west, if it survived at all? It should at
once be pointed out that these peculiar Pyrenean and American elements
in our flora are matched by similar elements in the fauna. Into the
zoological evidence we cannot go here, but one well-marked species of
each geographical group may be mentioned. The Spotted Slug of Kerry
(_Geomalacus maculosus_) is elsewhere confined to Portugal; while a
little fresh-water Sponge, _Heteromeyenia ryderi_, widely spread in
Irish lakes and rivers, and occurring also in Scotland, is otherwise
exclusively American. In speculating, therefore, as to the origin of the
plants, we must not leave out of account the question of the
corresponding animals.

First of all, is it possible that these unexpected organisms were
introduced into our islands by man? In an earlier chapter it has been
seen how human trade and intercourse have imported into our flora plants
from the uttermost ends of the Earth. May we seek in this direction an
explanation? The evidence is entirely against such a solution. These
plants (and animals) are found chiefly--many of them entirely--in the
wildest parts of the country, and bear fully the stamp of natives of old
standing. Human foreign intercourse is not so old but that the
introductions which it effected are still easily discernible to the
student: the plants which have come to us thus bear the imprint of their
origin; they spread outwards from centres of human activity, and are
absent from undisturbed areas; they cannot in most cases compete with
the indigenous vegetation, and only exist by confining their attempts at
colonization to places where man has ousted the native flora--such as
tilled land, roadsides, railway tracks. Even those aliens which have
succeeded in winning a place among the native plants, such as the Monkey
Flower (_Mimulus Langsdorfii_) or Michaelmas Daisies (_Aster_ spp.) of
North America, which are found sometimes in quite wild situations, the
experienced field botanist detects readily enough. The introduction of
the plants in question by man has never been advocated by a responsible
biologist.

Assuming, then, that these groups owe their presence to natural
agencies, the next question that arises is, Could they have come to our
shores across the existing seas, or must we relegate their arrival to
periods when different distribution of sea and land would aid their
migration by allowing them to travel across a land surface, or at least
to cross sea-barriers less wide than the present? This leads us to
consider the means of dispersal possessed by the species in question,
and to measure these against the nature of the barriers they would have
been called on to cross. An investigation on these lines would be
lengthy, and out of place here. The reader has already from Chapter III.
acquired some insight into the powers as well as the limitations
possessed by seeds for crossing such barriers. Summing up the evidence
briefly, it may be said that the seeds of none of the southern group
float in water; consequently transport by currents is ruled out.
Secondly, none of them is so light (see pp. 62-69) as to render it
possible for them to cross the intervening sea by wind currents; very
much the lightest seeds in the group are those of the Orchid _Neotinea
intacta_, yet even these could not on any reasonable theory have been
transported by wind from the plant’s nearest station (in Southern
France); the high speed of fall of the small seeds of the Pyrenean
Heaths or Saxifrages renders their wind transport, even from the smaller
distance which has to be reckoned with, in their case still more
improbable. There is left, then, the agency of birds (see p. 70): can we
look to these swift messengers for assistance? The rapid digestion of
birds renders it futile to expect that even those which do not crush the
seeds which they eat could bring over from the Pyrenees seeds which they
have swallowed; so we are forced back on the uncertain method of
ectozoic dispersal: that is, on the assumption that seeds of these
plants have been imported by becoming entangled in the feathers of
birds, or by adhering--possibly with the aid of mud--to their feet. That
seeds are transported by these means has been shown by the observations
of Darwin and other observers; but that the seeds of a number of
different plants, growing in different situations, should be brought
thus from the Pyrenees and Mediterranean to our western coasts is a
highly speculative suggestion. If we discard it, there is left the
hypothesis that the plants migrated long ago overland, at a time when
the western coastline of Europe was continuous and lay farther seaward.
Such conditions have not occurred since the Ice Age; so we have to
assume that the plants, arriving perhaps in Pliocene times by slow
terrestrial dispersal, and subsequently cut off by invasions of the sea
upon their line of advance, survived the cold and ice of the Glacial
Period within the limits of our islands. That appears, on consideration
of the geological evidence of widespread glaciation, sufficiently
improbable; but we must remember that the evidence supplied by the
plants is buttressed formidably by that of the corresponding animals,
some of which, such as the Kerry Slug, are far less fitted for
transmarine dispersal than are the seeds of plants. Also, we are faced
with the problem of the American plants, and such organisms as the
American Sponge, _Heteromeyenia_: a direct crossing of the ocean appears
for them wholly impossible. Yet if they crossed over long-gone land
surfaces, their arrival on this side of the Atlantic must be very
ancient, and they must certainly have weathered successfully the Great
Ice Age. The problem, it is clear, is an exceedingly difficult one, upon
which it would be rash to pronounce any hasty opinion. Students of the
subject have come to widely difficult conclusions: some holding with
Edward Forbes that these Lusitanian and American organisms represent the
very oldest element in our fauna and flora, having migrated over bygone
land surfaces in distant times and successfully survived the terrors of
the Glacial Period; others claiming a much less remote period for their
immigration. Indeed, one eminent recent writer on the subject, the late
Clement Reid, considered that the Lusitanian plants are among the most
recent arrivals in the country, their introduction being due mainly to
birds driven by exceptional gales.

The question of the Lusitanian and American elements in our flora has
been treated at some length both because it offers one of the most
interesting problems in British botany, and because it affords a good
illustration of the far-reaching nature of the questions which may lie
behind the occurrence on our hills or in our valleys of even the
humblest plant or animal. Each organism has a long record behind it,
stretching far beyond the earliest periods of human history; and it is
only by wide and patient study that we can hope to trace any portion of
its story.




CHAPTER VIII

SOME INTERESTING BRITISH PLANT GROUPS


In the preceding chapters glimpses have been obtained of some of the
wider aspects of plant life, particularly as seen on the hills and
plains of our own country. The species composing our flora have been
seen mostly, not as individuals, but as portions of regiments and
armies, particular plants being mentioned but seldom, where required for
purposes of illustration. In the final chapter it will be well to
abandon this collective treatment, and glance at a few individual
species or genera or small natural groups which possess features of
interest of one sort or another. No systematic arrangement need be
attempted: it will be pleasanter to ramble on, allowing our points of
inquiry to turn up as they might on a country walk.

A consideration of abnormalities in the manner in which plants obtain
their food-supply--irregular nutrition, as it has been called--will
raise some interesting questions, and will bring us up against some of
the most remarkable species which are found in the British flora. The
outlines of the method by which plants manufacture their food are
familiar to all, and have been referred to already (pp. 75, 132). The
roots absorb from the soil water containing dissolved salts, which is
passed up by the stems into the leaves. The leaves extract from the air
carbon dioxide. The chlorophyll, or green colouring-matter of the
leaves, possesses the remarkable power in the presence of sunlight of
breaking up and recombining these substances into the compounds which go
to build up the plant-body. As has been pointed out, it is this power of
forming organic out of inorganic matter that especially distinguishes
plants from animals. But not all plants manufacture their food in this
way. A large number feed like animals, finding their sustenance
sometimes in living, more often in dead, organic material, either animal
or vegetable. The whole enormous group of the Fungi do not possess
chlorophyll, and in consequence are dependent on organic materials for
their food. Some of the most familiar of the lower Fungi live on cheese,
leather, bread, or any other damp animal or vegetable material. The
higher forms, which decorate our woods and pastures, find their
sustenance largely in leaf-mould. The groups of the Mosses, Hepatics,
and Ferns, which are more highly organized than the Fungi, possess
chlorophyll, and manufacture their own food; and it is with some little
surprise, therefore, that when we come to the Seed Plants, the highest
group of all, we find, though in relatively few cases, a reversion to
the animal trait of using organic food. Some of our woodland plants have
taken so entirely to a diet of leaf-mould that they have discarded the
apparatus which would enable them to manufacture their own food.
Chlorophyll, the magic wand by means of which the inorganic is
transformed into the organic, and also leaves, the mills wherein the
transformation takes place, are absent from these plants. For instance,
the Bird’s-nest Orchis (_Neottia Nidus-avis_),

[Illustration: FIG. 31.--BIRD’S-NEST ORCHIS (NEOTTIA NIDUS-AVIS). 1/2.]

sends up from a mass of fleshy roots a bare brown stem about a foot
high, bearing a spike of brown flowers, the whole being so much of the
same colour as the dead beech leaves among which the plant is usually
found that it may easily be passed over. It is quite incapable of
manufacturing its own food, but feeds on the decaying vegetable material
which was manufactured by the trees under whose shadow it grows.

It is but a step from _saprophytes_ such as this to _parasites_, which
feed, not on dead, but on living organic matter. In the case of the
higher plants, the hosts are always themselves plants, though, as
pointed out on p. 78, they are, in the case of the Fungi, sometimes
animals. One of the most interesting of these parasites is, like the
Bird’s-nest Orchis, found in woods--the Yellow Bird’s-nest (_Monotropa
Hypopitys_). This is, like the last, a leafless plant devoid of
chlorophyll, sending up from a tangled root-mass one or more pale yellow
stems, each bearing a drooping raceme of flowers of the same colour. The
flowers show affinities to the Heath family (_Ericaceæ_), but the plant
differs much from any other member of that Order. The Yellow Bird’s-nest
is always found associated with the _mycelium_, or cobwebby underground
portion, of a fungus, on which it appears to be parasitic. The fungus is
in turn a saprophyte, and the Seed Plant feeds at second hand, so to
speak, on decaying vegetable matter. This parasitism of a seed plant on
a fungus is a very exceptional case. A more frequent type is offered by
the Broomrapes (_Orobanche_), which we may find in meadows, etc.,
growing on Clover, Thyme, Ivy, and so on. These resemble the
Bird’s-nest Orchis in sending up a stout leafless stem crowned with a
spike of flowers. The different species display almost every colour
except green, being red or brown or purple or yellow, and one blue.
These plants live by attaching themselves to the roots of their host,
and drawing in the nourishment they need for their own growth--robbery
pure and simple. The seeds of the Broomrapes are very numerous and very
light, and of singularly primitive structure. When they develop, they
produce, not a young plant with root and stem, but a delicate spiral
filament which grows down into the ground. Should this meet with a root
of its host-plant, it adheres to it closely, and grows into a swollen
knob at the point of attachment, which when mature sends up the
flowering stem already described. Should a suitable root not be met
with, the filament withers away and dies as soon as it has exhausted the
small amount of reserve food stored in the seed. A parasite of a less
sedentary habit, to be found in spring in our copses and hedgerows, is
the Toothwort (_Lathræa Squamaria_). This curious plant has underground
creeping stems clothed with whitish, tooth-like, fleshy scales
(curiously modified leaves). In autumn and winter the stems lie dormant.
In spring they send out delicate roots which attach themselves to the
roots of trees of various kinds and suck nourishment from them, with the
aid of which the plant sends up into the air fleshy cream-coloured stems
bearing many drooping flowers of the same hue, the structure of which
shows that the plant is closely allied to the Broomrapes. The Toothwort
is a very harmless parasite, and the species of Broomrape also, though
sometimes abundant on Clover, etc., do not do much damage; but the same
cannot be said for the Dodders (_Cuscuta_), one of which is parasitic on
Flax, another on Clover, and so on. These are little annual plants whose
seeds lie dormant in the soil throughout the winter and well into the
spring. Then the young plant, which has remained coiled up inside this
seed like a spring, pushes forth in the form of a tiny thread. While one
extremity fastens itself to the soil, the other rises up into the air,
and its point slowly revolves. Should it come in contact with a living
stem of a suitable plant, it attaches itself to it by means of disc-like
suckers, penetrates the tissues of its victim, draws out nourishment,
and, growing rapidly, spreads from plant to plant, taking a couple of
close turns round each stem after the manner of a lasso, and then
sending in rootlets from the attaching disc, and sucking the life out of
each as it goes. It has no roots, no leaves, no chlorophyll, being of a
red or yellow tint, and is entirely dependent for its nourishment on the
plants which it attacks. In course of time--about August--an abundance
of pretty little waxy-white flowers are produced, which produce the next
year’s supply of seed. A few seedlings of Dodder, developing under
suitable conditions, will form a colony which is capable in its few
months of life of sweeping over a large area, wrecking the vegetation on
which it has battened.

A parasite of a quite different sort may be studied in the familiar
Mistletoe (_Viscum album_). It is the only parasitic native plant which
is shrubby, or which perches itself on trees (the seeds being spread by
birds, which devour the white berries). It is not, like some parasites,
particular as to the species upon which it grows, flourishing equally
upon a number of hosts, and even capable of living upon its own species.
It differs from those parasites which we have been considering in
possessing an abundance of green leaves, and being therefore capable of
manufacturing its own food. At the same time, it has no roots which can
penetrate the soil, and is incapable of an independent existence. It
seems probable that its relations with its host are to some extent
symbiotic--that is, each giving to the other--rather than purely
parasitic, where the benefit is entirely on one side. The Mistletoe,
retaining its leaves and manufacturing food throughout the year, is
clearly capable of aiding its host, which loses its leaves in autumn,
and cannot form fresh nourishment until spring is well advanced.

Before leaving this question of abnormal methods of procuring food as
found among the higher plants, we may return for a few moments to the
consideration of carnivorous plants, to which reference was made in
Chapter IV. Of these the Sundews (_Drosera_), Butterworts
(_Pinguicula_), and Bladderworts (_Utricularia_) supply very interesting
examples within our own flora, which anyone may study on a holiday spent
on the moors or mountains. The Sundews are familiar to all plant
lovers--little plants of the bogland, usually growing among Sphagnum,
and well distinguished by their leaves decked with spreading red hairs,
each of which is tipped with a little drop of sparkling sticky fluid. It
is these hairs or tentacles and their movements which place the Sundews
among the most interesting of all plants. It is important to note that
they are not hairs in the ordinary sense, which are organs of very
simple structure arising from the epidermis or skin of the leaf. The
tentacles of _Drosera_ have a complicated structure resembling that of
leaves, and the tip is occupied by a gland which produces the sticky
secretion already mentioned. These glands are exceedingly sensitive,
and, moreover, sensitive in a selective way. They are unaffected by the
drops of rain which frequently fall on them, but the touch of any solid
body, especially of organic material, immediately affects them; most of
all nitrogenous substances of any kind. Darwin found that a morsel of
human hair weighing only 1/78,740 of a grain was sufficient to set the
machinery of _Drosera_ in motion, and that immersion of a leaf in a
solution of phosphate of ammonium so weak that each tentacle could
absorb only 1/20,000,000 of a grain acted as a strong stimulus. In
nature the stimulus is usually given by some unwary insect--a midge or
other small flying creature--which, attracted by the bright colour or by
the odour of the leaf, ventures too close, and becomes entangled among
the sticky hairs. Then a most interesting series of events takes place.
Almost at once the tentacles--first the ones actually touched, and then
the adjoining ones--bend towards the point of disturbance, closing down
one by one on the unfortunate victim till the leaf resembles a closed
fist. At the same time the production of secretion increases, so as
further to entangle the victim. When it is firmly secured, the secretion
changes in character. Digestive ferments, closely resembling those by
which animals digest their food, are poured out. These dissolve the
animal’s body, all except the horny parts; the digested materials are
then absorbed into the plant, which, as experiments show, benefits
considerably by the addition to its diet of this animal food. When
digestion is completed, the tentacles open again and prepare for a fresh
victim. While the details of this remarkable process have been worked
out only by careful and minute research in the laboratory, the main
movements may be watched by anyone on any British moorland; or, bringing
home a few plants in the damp moss in which they grow, we may amuse
ourselves by experiments in feeding them.

In comparison with the Sundews, the other insectivorous plants which are
included in the British flora are of less interest. The Butterworts
(_Pinguicula_), of which four species are known in these islands, have a
rosette of smooth, broad, yellowish leaves covered with glands which
exercise the same functions as those of _Drosera_. To the touch of
raindrops, sand-grains, or other inorganic substances they are
indifferent; but a tiny insect alighting on the sticky leaf at once
provokes an outpouring of secretion, while the leaf rolls inward from
the edges till the victim is securely caught; it is then digested as in
the Sundew.

The Bladderworts (_Utricularia_), of which several species may be found
floating in boggy pools, are rootless, limp plants with finely divided
leaves, among which are numerous little bladders (in reality strangely
modified leaflets), and upright stems bearing pretty yellow
Snapdragon-like flowers. The bladders do not help the plant to float,
and appear to have for their sole function the securing of animal food.
In the Common Bladderwort (_U. vulgaris_) they are about 1/10 inch long.
At the upper end is a little hinged door, which is kept closed as by a
spring against a thickened rim or door-frame. Outside the door are a few
stiff hairs, a convenient perching-place for small aquatic creatures
such as the minute Crustaceans known as Water Fleas. Should one of these
try to explore the bladder, the door opens easily, but closes at once
behind the rash wanderer, imprisoning it. The Bladderworts do not
_digest_ the victims which they secure in this manner, but when the
bodies are decomposed by means of bacteria, the products of
decomposition are absorbed. How fatal this mousetrap arrangement is to
Water Fleas can be determined by dissecting the bladders of the plant.

Thus far, then, as regards some of those peculiar members of our flora
which make their living by the unusual method of stealing their
neighbour’s goods, or which eke out their existence by the capture of
animal food. Let us now take another line of exploration and consider
the conditions which prevail on the loftiest portions of our islands,
and how these affect the vegetation. Mountain-tops are always attractive
and interesting places--the keen rarefied air, the freedom and openness
of the summits, fill us with exhilaration. Our own mountains are not
lofty; nowhere in the British Islands is a height of a mile attained.
But we have only to ascend to a couple of thousand feet to note a great
change in the vegetation. The plants of the lower grounds to a great
extent die out (though some accompany us to our highest summit), and the
vegetation takes on a low compact form, which becomes more emphasized as
we ascend farther, till in sheltered nooks alone do we find any plants
more than a few inches in height. Furthermore, we notice an incoming of
new plants unknown at lower levels, which search will show us to be
confined to the mountains, each of them having a more or less definite
limit below which (also above which, though our mountains are not high
enough to render this point well marked) it is not found.

Among the plant formations and associations of the lower grounds which
we considered in Chapter II. it was noted that the controlling factors
were mainly connected with the nature of the soil and the amount of the
water-supply. Here on the mountains another factor, the climatic, comes
in emphatically, and takes charge. The temperature of the atmosphere
falls one degree centigrade for about every 200 feet of elevation, so
that a sharp frost on the lowlands may easily mean zero Fahrenheit on a
4,000-foot hill. The rarefaction of the atmosphere, too, tends to
produce a much greater range of temperature, both diurnal and seasonal.
Again, the velocity of the wind is much higher on the summits than on
the plains, where friction is greatly increased by trees and other
obstacles. These high winds have a very great cooling effect, as we may
notice on our own bodies even in summer. In fact, as regards climatic
change, an ascent of a thousand feet is comparable to a journey of
several hundred miles northward. Anyone who has, on a winter tramp, been
caught in a snowstorm on a 3,000-foot hill is forcibly reminded of what
he has read of winter conditions in the Arctic regions. In ascending Ben
Nevis we travel, in a sense, to the Arctic Circle. But the analogy is
false, for conditions, especially in summer, are very different in the
two places. The plants of our mountains have all the advantages of the
high summer elevation of the sun, very different from the weak, sloping
sunlight of the

[Illustration: FIG. 32.--ALPINE PLANT-BOSS (_SILENE ACAULIS_,
_HYMENOPHYLLUM UNILATERALE_, _MNIUM HORNUM_).

[_To face p. 191._]

Arctic. On our loftier hills, indeed, the heat is on occasions
oppressive.

Again, the mountain climate, with its heavy rainfall and long cold
period, tends to the formation of peat; and the acids thus engendered in
the soil, as well as the low temperature prevailing during most of the
year, render difficult the absorption of water by the roots of plants.
The conditions under which alpine plants, then, live may be summed up as
follows: a long cold winter, a short summer; great exposure; scarcity of
food-supply. The modifications which plants have undergone to meet these
conditions are very marked, and render alpine plants a source of
constant interest to the traveller and of delight to the gardener. The
effect of low temperature (also of peaty soil) in rendering difficult
the absorption of food materials, and causing extensive root production
and limited stem and leaf growth, is immediately observable. In Fig. 33
is seen an alpine Stonecrop (_Sedum primaloides_) as growing on the
Chinese Alps at some 12,000 feet. The root is out of all proportion to
the aerial parts. The same plant in the garden forms a little bush with
branching stems half a foot long, and flowers borne on leafy axillary
shoots a couple of inches long, while the roots are short and tufted.
The most characteristic form which alpine plants assume may be called
the cushion type. This is produced by excessive branching of the stems
of small-leaved plants, accompanied by but little longitudinal growth;
and it is excellently shown in many well-known plants such as the Mossy
Saxifrages, the Kabschia Saxifrages, the Cushion Pink (_Silene
acaulis_), and a number of others. The same type of

[Illustration: FIG. 33.--SEDUM PRIMULOIDES. 1/1.]

plant growth is characteristic of semi-desert regions, where the points
of similarity of environment to those of the mountain-tops are evident.
This cushion form has many advantages for the alpine plant. It keeps it
warm in winter and cool and damp in summer; it allows it to produce a
great amount of blossom without the necessity for extensive growth; it
resists the utmost efforts of furious gusts of wind almost as well as
would a half-buried stone; on the most storm-swept cliffs its fresh
green blobs “welcome every changing hour, and weather every sky.” Fig.
32 shows a boss of this kind, composed of the Cushion Pink (_Silene
acaulis_), with an admixture of Filmy Fern (_Hymenophyllum unilaterale_)
and a Moss (_Mnium hornum_). The shrubs of the alpine zone are mostly
small and creeping, weaving themselves among the vegetation, and with
low grasses and sedges forming a mat which is equally resistant to all
inimical conditions. Their leaves are small, to avoid damage by wind or
by excessive transpiration. In some genera--for instance,
_Veronica_--the diminution of leaf surface accompanying more elevated
habitat is very striking. In the New Zealand lowlands broad-leaved forms
(Fig. 34, _left_) are met with, which give way, as one ascends to 8,000
feet, to such forms as _V. Hectori_ (Fig. 34, _right_), in which the
leaves are reduced to mere scales, and the plant much resembles some of
the Cypresses or other Conifers with marked xerophile characters.

Other plants, again, escape climatic rigours by burrowing underground
and throwing up short aerial stems in summer; the spindly plants of the
lowland, with diffuse stems, and also the light-rooted annuals,

[Illustration: FIG. 34.--NEW ZEALAND SHRUBBY VERONICAS, SHOWING, FROM
LEFT TO RIGHT, REDUCTION OF LEAF WITH INCREASING ELEVATION OF HABITAT.
2/3.]

are conspicuous by their absence. The brief summer and long winter are
unsuitable to the economy of annual plants; and the alpine perennials
are so constructed that with the passing away of the cold, flowering and
fruiting may be accomplished quickly, before winter descends again. The
abundance and vividness of the flowers of alpines is almost proverbial.
Several explanations have been put forward to account for these
features, and probably there is some truth in each of them. It has been
held that the brilliancy of the sunlight is accountable; the shortness
of the period available for seed-production, and the consequent need of
prompt pollination by insects, have been suggested, as leading to
urgent advertisement by means of brilliant coloration; while the fact
that the pollinating insects are largely Butterflies, the most æsthetic
of flower visitors, has also been put forward as accounting for it. Be
that as it may, the glowing patches of colour produced by many quite
minute alpine plants are among the most delightful things in nature. Our
own flora contains but few of the more striking of these jewels; but
where will one find a more delightful sight than a well-flowered patch
of Spring Gentian (_G. verna_) or Mountain Avens (_Dryas octopetala_) or
Purple Saxifrage (_S. oppositifolia_)?

[Illustration: FIG. 35.--MOUNTAIN AVENS (DRYAS OCTOPETALA). 1/1.]

As we mount higher and higher on the hills, plants become fewer and more
stunted, but hardy forms persist even long after the level of perpetual
snow is reached. In the Alps, _Ranunculus glacialis_ occurs up to an
elevation of about 14,000 feet. In West Tibet, strange stunted species
of _Saussurea_, a genus of _Compositæ_ allied to the Thistles, exist at
elevations of 17,000 to 19,000 feet. Some of the Cryptogams go higher
still. Lichens grow on the summit of Kilimanjaro (over 19,600 feet); and
Schimper suggests[11] that this may by no means represent the absolute
limit of vegetation. The prevalence of snow and ice does not of itself
inhibit the lower forms of life. Since “red snow” was shown, nearly a
century ago, to be due to colonies of a minute Alga, many microscopic
organisms of like habitat have been discovered, and these algal
colonists of snow and ice are now known to extend far over the frozen
deserts of the highest hills, and to penetrate into the remotest regions
of the Arctic and Antarctic.

As we get up to the level of perpetual snow on the higher mountains, or
go northward within the Arctic Circle, the conditions under which plant
life exists become very severe. It has been pointed out that in spite of
a superficial similarity, wide disparity exists between the sets of
conditions prevailing in the two kinds of habitat just mentioned. In the
Arctic the winter is continuously dark and the summer continuously
light; and in summer the sun is never far above the horizon, so that the
temperature remains low, though it rises amply far enough above
freezing-point to allow of plant life. On high mountains, on the other
hand, there is the same succession of day and night which prevails on
the plains below, the height of the sun above the horizon being a
question of latitude. On mountain-ranges situated within the Temperate
Zone, such as the European Alps, and much more on those nearer the
Equator, the day temperature in summer is very high wherever the sun
strikes, and while plants may have to withstand at night a temperature
comparable to that borne by the Arctic flora, they must endure by day
the most intense insolation.

Neither in the Arctic nor on the high hills does plant life cease merely
on account of low temperature. Species belonging to many families
venture even beyond the limit of perpetual snow. The coldest known area
on the earth’s surface lies in Siberia, actually within the limits of
forest growth, and trees and herbs of many species survive winter
temperatures which may fall below -60° C. (76 degrees of frost
Fahrenheit). They freeze into solid lumps of ice without injury, and
indeed the thawing process in spring is more dangerous to them than
their congealment in autumn. Many of the high alpine plants are frozen
solid every night only to be roasted alive by day; it seems amazing that
any living organisms can endure under such circumstances. Yet it is not
only species confined to areas where such extremes exist, and specially
adapted thereto, which can resist them successfully. In Central Europe
the Common Chickweed and Common Daisy are often frozen solid, so that
leaves and stems snap between the fingers like sealing-wax, yet with a
rise of temperature they continue growth quite unperturbed, just as they
do in areas where frost is unknown. The main difficulty induced by cold
would appear to be the withdrawal of available water; if that goes on
for too long, life ceases. Of course the suspension of activities which
accompanies freezing cannot continue indefinitely, and in the cold
regions of the Earth plants are found only where for a sufficient
portion of the year the maximum temperature rises above freezing-point
enough to allow of ordinary vital functions being resumed. A curious
point in this power of resistance in plants to extremes of temperature
is that they display no obvious protective adaptations. “Our present
powers of investigation,” Schimper concludes,[12] “do not enable us to
recognize in plants any protective means against cold. The capacity of
withstanding intense cold is a specific property of the protoplasm of
certain plants, and is quite unassisted by protective means that are
external.”

It is a far cry from the high Alps to the seashore, but it will be of
interest to examine next the lower limit of the range of the Seed
Plants. While the upper limit varies much in different latitudes,
according to the distribution of temperature, the lower is controlled by
sea-level, which (for our purpose at least) is uniform over the whole
globe. The level of the fresh waters, whose margin marks the limit of
the bulk of the Seed Plants, is, on the other hand, various, lakes being
situated at different heights above (and occasionally below) sea-level,
while rivers slope across the lands down to the ocean. While the sea
margin forms a very real barrier to the spread of Seed Plants, the lakes
and rivers, on the other hand, yield many inhabitants, and we must
examine the relations existing between the aquatic and the terrestrial
species.

As has been stated on a former page, the evidence points to life having
originated in the water, at a period extremely remote. The most lowly as
well as the most minute of all organisms are the bacteria, some of which
are in size beyond the limit of the most powerful microscope to detect,
their presence being known only by their chemical actions. The most
primitive groups of bacteria, known as prototrophic, are able to live
without light, deriving their nourishment by the breaking up of
inorganic chemical compounds. It is difficult to conceive of any living
organism more primitive than these, and quite possibly they recall that
dim borderland where merely chemical structure and action mysteriously
advanced into the cell structure and purposive chemical changes which we
call life. From that lowly stage the evolution of plant life has been
marked especially by three great forward bounds, of inestimable
importance. The first of these was the “invention” of chlorophyll, which
allowed plants to use for their life-processes the vast supply of energy
furnished by the Sun. Sunlight then became essential to life, and the
Algæ, the probable ancestors of all the higher plants, were developed,
presumably through the peculiar _Cyanophyceæ_, or “Blue-green Algæ,” in
which the chlorophyll is in a somewhat undifferentiated condition. Much
later than this stage, yet far back in the history of evolution,
occurred the second of the great forward steps. This was the desertion
of the water for the land, which opened up for the plant world vast new
fields and a great variety of new conditions. The final stage was
reached by the abandonment of the aquatic mode of pollination by means
of swimming spermatozoids, as still found in the Maidenhair Tree
(_Ginkgo_), Cycads, Ferns, and groups lower in the scale, and the
adoption instead of pollination through the medium of the air, “which”
(to quote Mrs. Arber’s happy phrase) “has won for them the freedom of
the land.” The Seed Plants, then, achieved their wonderful abundance and
variety owing to the highly stimulating conditions offered by a
terrestrial existence; we must assign to all the existing types a long
terrestrial ancestry. How, then, about the water plants whose leaves and
flowers so decorate our lakes? There seems no doubt[13] that they are
species which have left the land to resume the aquatic habits of their
remote ancestors. With few exceptions they retain the aerial mode of
pollination which is the pride of the specialized land plants. The
pressure of competition has probably driven them into the water, where
they descend as far as the lessening light-supply will allow.
Some--presumably the earliest to take to an aquatic life--have all their
relations to keep them company, the remote ancestor which adopted an
aquatic habit being now represented by many species, or even by many
genera. In other cases a terrestrial genus or order has few or only a
single aquatic representative. It may be assumed that in such a case the
aquatic habit has been recently acquired. The great majority of water
plants send their flowers up above the surface to be pollinated by wind
or (more rarely) by insects. It may be noted that few of the more highly
evolved groups of Seed Plants are represented in the aquatic flora;
wind-pollinated flowers of a rather primitive type of structure are the
rule in our lakes and rivers; which points to an early assumption of the
aquatic habit, and suggests that the land is more favourable than the
water for the evolution of higher types.

While the fresh waters of the globe have thus acquired from the land an
abundant population of higher plants, the presence of salt, in water as
on land, has had a deterrent effect. The sea was at first fresh. The
primitive ocean derived by condensation from a cooling atmosphere in the
early days of the world’s history contained no excess of salts. Whether
life arose while this condition still persisted it is not possible to
say; but as the sea grew salter owing to the rivers bringing into it
incessantly salts derived from the land, the Seaweeds alone of the great
groups of plants adapted themselves to saline conditions, and the ocean
is now their unchallenged kingdom. The divisions which are represented
by the Mosses, Liverworts, Club-mosses, Horsetails, and Ferns, have not,
and so far as is known never had, a single representative in the sea.
Only one or two Fungi--often symbiotically combined with Algæ to form
Lichens--and a very few Flowering Plants, have attempted marine
colonization, after long ages spent on land; and they have met with
indifferent success. As we pass from fresh to brackish water, the
population decreases rapidly, till in the seas surrounding our islands
only one Seed Plant--the Grass-wrack, _Zostera marina_--has adopted a
habitat which is thoroughly marine, and very few are found in other
parts of the world. A study of the meeting-ground of the land and sea
plants, such as we may make on rambles along the coast, supplies us with
some interesting material. On sandy shores, the wave-trampled beach,
shifting under the influence of winds and currents, offers a stretch of
“no-man’s-land”--a desert strip untenanted alike by terrestrial or
marine plants. The former do not descend below spring-tide mark, if they
go so far; the latter cannot obtain foothold on the unstable substratum.
The peculiar characters of the terrestrial beach plants has been
referred to on a previous page (p. 36). On rocky shores the “desert”
strip is much narrowed, and a certain overlap may often be found, for
the Lichens--essentially a terrestrial group--descend from the
plant-covered slopes into the spray-swept zone below, and on to mix with
the Seaweeds which occupy the belt under high-water mark, some of them,
species of _Verrucaria_ and _Arthropyrenia_, continuing downward till
the low-water mark of spring tides is reached. On steep rocky shores the
dividing-line between the Flowering Plants and the Seaweeds is quite
narrow, and varies in elevation with the exposure. On cliffy coasts open
to the Atlantic waves the uppermost Seaweeds, such as _Pelvetia_, which
only asks to be wetted periodically by spray, occur far above high-water
mark, the lowest Seed Plants perching on the rocks much higher
still--sometimes not venturing to within 100 feet of the water-level.
were laid down in Cambrian
seas.
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil
forebodings.  I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure
my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success
of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which
braces my nerves and fills me with delight.  Do you understand this
feeling?  This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards
which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent
and vivid.  I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of
frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the
region of beauty and delight.  There, Margaret, the sun is for ever
visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a
perpetual splendour.  There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put
some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished;
and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in
wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable
globe.  Its productions and features may be without example, as the
phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered
solitudes.  What may not be expected in a country of eternal light?  I
may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may
regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this
voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever.  I
shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world
never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by
the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to
conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this
laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little
boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his
native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you
cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all
mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole
to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are
requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at
all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my
letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me
to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as
a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual
eye.  This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I
have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have
been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean
through the seas which surround the pole.  You may remember that a
history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the
whole of our good Uncle Thomas’ library.  My education was neglected,
yet I was passionately fond of reading.  These volumes were my study
day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which
I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction
had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven.  I also
became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the
names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated.  You are well
acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment.
But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my
thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking.  I
can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this
great enterprise.  I commenced by inuring my body to hardship.  I
accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea;
I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often
worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my
nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those
branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive
the greatest practical advantage.  Twice I actually hired myself as an
under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I
must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second
dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest
earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose?
My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to
every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging
voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is
firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am
about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which
will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits
of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia.  They fly
quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in
my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach.  The
cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs—a dress which I have
already adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the
deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise
prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins.  I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and
Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my
intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the
insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary
among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to
sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how
can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years,
will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon,
or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you,
and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your
love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. Walton






Letter 2




_To Mrs. Saville, England._


Archangel, 28th March, 17—.


How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!
Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise.  I have hired a
vessel and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have
already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly
possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the
absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no
friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there
will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no
one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts
to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of
feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose
eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I
bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet
courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose
tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a
friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution
and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me
that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild
on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages.
At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own
country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its
most important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the
necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native
country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many
schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my
daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters
call it) _keeping;_ and I greatly need a friend who would have sense
enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to
endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the
wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet
some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these
rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage
and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase
more characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an
Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices,
unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of
humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel;
finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist
in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the
ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This
circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made
me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years
spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the
groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to
the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be
necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness
of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt
myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard
of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the
happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved
a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable
sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw
his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in
tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her,
confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor,
and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend
reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover,
instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his
money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he
bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his
prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young
woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old
man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who,
when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned
until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her
inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is
so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind
of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct
the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which
otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can
conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am
wavering in my resolutions.  Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage
is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation.  The
winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well, and it
is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps I may sail
sooner than I expected.  I shall do nothing rashly:  you know me
sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the
safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my
undertaking.  It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of
the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which
I am preparing to depart.  I am going to unexplored regions, to “the
land of mist and snow,” but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not
be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and
woeful as the “Ancient Mariner.”  You will smile at my allusion, but I
will disclose a secret.  I have often attributed my attachment to, my
passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that
production of the most imaginative of modern poets.  There is something
at work in my soul which I do not understand.  I am practically
industrious—painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and
labour—but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief
in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out
of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited
regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after
having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of
Africa or America?  I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to
look on the reverse of the picture.  Continue for the present to write to
me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when
I need them most to support my spirits.  I love you very tenderly. 
Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,
  Robert Walton






Letter 3




_To Mrs. Saville, England._


July 7th, 17—.


My dear Sister,

I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe—and well advanced
on my voyage.  This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on
its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not
see my native land, perhaps, for many years.  I am, however, in good
spirits:  my men are bold and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the
floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers
of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We
have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of
summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales,
which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire
to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not
expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a
letter.  One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are
accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and
I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret.  Be assured that for my own sake, as well as
yours, I will not rashly encounter danger.  I will be cool,
persevering, and prudent.

But success _shall_ crown my endeavours.  Wherefore not?  Thus far I
have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars
themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph.  Why not
still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element?  What can stop the
determined heart and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus.  But I must
finish.  Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R.W.






Letter 4




_To Mrs. Saville, England._


August 5th, 17—.


So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear
recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before
these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed
in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which
she floated.  Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we
were compassed round by a very thick fog.  We accordingly lay to,
hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out
in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to
have no end.  Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to
grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly
attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own
situation.  We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by
dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a
being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,
sat in the sledge and guided the dogs.  We watched the rapid progress
of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the
distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,
many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that
it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by
ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the
greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before
night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the
morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which
float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to
rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and
found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently
talking to someone in the sea.  It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we
had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large
fragment of ice.  Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human
being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel.
He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of
some undiscovered island, but a European.  When I appeared on deck the
master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish
on the open sea.”

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a
foreign accent.  “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he,
“will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed
to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have
supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not
have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford.  I
replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the
northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.
Good God!  Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for
his safety, your surprise would have been boundless.  His limbs were
nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and
suffering.  I never saw a man in so wretched a condition.  We attempted
to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh
air he fainted.  We accordingly brought him back to the deck and
restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to
swallow a small quantity.  As soon as he showed signs of life we
wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the
kitchen stove.  By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup,
which restored him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often
feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding.  When he
had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and
attended on him as much as my duty would permit.  I never saw a more
interesting creature:  his eyes have generally an expression of
wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone
performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most
trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with
a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled.  But he
is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his
teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off
the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not
allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body
and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose.
Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice
in so strange a vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and
he replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”

“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”

“Yes.”

“Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we
saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”

This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of
questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had
pursued.  Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have,
doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good
people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”

“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to
trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have
benevolently restored me to life.”

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the
ice had destroyed the other sledge.  I replied that I could not answer
with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near
midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety
before that time; but of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for
the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in
the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere.
I have promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant
notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the
present day.  The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very
silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin.
Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all
interested in him, although they have had very little communication
with him.  For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and his
constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion.  He must
have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck
so attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend
on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been
broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother
of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,
should I have any fresh incidents to record.




August 13th, 17—.


My affection for my guest increases every day.  He excites at once my
admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree.  How can I see so
noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant
grief?  He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and
when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art,
yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,
apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he
interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently
conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without
disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my
eventual success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken
to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the
language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul
and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would
sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my
enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for
the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should
acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a
dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I
perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before
his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle
fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I
paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you
share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me;
let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the
paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened
powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were
necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise
himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of
despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked
me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it
awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a
friend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than
had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could
boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are
unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than
ourselves—such a friend ought to be—do not lend his aid to
perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most
noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting
friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for
despair. But I—I have lost everything and cannot begin life
anew.”

As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled
grief that touched me to the heart.  But he was silent and presently
retired to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he
does the beauties of nature.  The starry sky, the sea, and every sight
afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of
elevating his soul from earth.  Such a man has a double existence:  he
may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he
has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a
halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer?  You would not if you saw him.  You have been tutored and
refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore
somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to
appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man.  Sometimes I
have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that
elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew.  I
believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing
power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled
for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression and a
voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.




August 19th, 17—.


Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes.  I had
determined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with
me, but you have won me to alter my determination.  You seek for
knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the
gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine
has been.  I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be
useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same
course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me
what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one
that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you
in case of failure.  Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually
deemed marvellous.  Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might
fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things
will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would
provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers
of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series
internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered
communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by
a recital of his misfortunes.  I felt the greatest eagerness to hear
the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong
desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power.  I expressed
these feelings in my answer.

“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is
useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled.  I wait but for one event, and then I
shall repose in peace.  I understand your feeling,” continued he,
perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my
friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my
destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is
determined.”

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I
should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have
resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to
record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during
the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This
manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who
know him, and who hear it from his own lips—with what interest and
sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my
task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me
with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in
animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul
within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which
embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!





Chapter 1

I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most
distinguished of that republic.  My ancestors had been for many years
counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled several public
situations with honour and reputation.  He was respected by all who
knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public
business.  He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the
affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his
marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a
husband and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot
refrain from relating them.  One of his most intimate friends was a
merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous
mischances, into poverty.  This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a
proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence.  Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his
daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in
wretchedness.  My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship and
was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances.
He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct
so little worthy of the affection that united them.  He lost no time in
endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin
the world again through his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery,
he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the
Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort
had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but
it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in
the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a
merchant’s house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction;
his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had leisure for
reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at the end
of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw
with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that
there was no other prospect of support.  But Caroline Beaufort
possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support
her in her adversity.  She procured plain work; she plaited straw and
by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to
support life.

Several months passed in this manner.  Her father grew worse; her time
was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence
decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving
her an orphan and a beggar.  This last blow overcame her, and she knelt
by Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly, when my father entered the
chamber.  He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who
committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he
conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a
relation.  Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but
this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted
affection.  There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind
which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love
strongly.  Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the
late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set
a greater value on tried worth.  There was a show of gratitude and
worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her
virtues and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing
her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace
to his behaviour to her.  Everything was made to yield to her wishes
and her convenience.  He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is
sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her
with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and
benevolent mind.  Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto
constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through.  During
the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after
their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change
of scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders,
as a restorative for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born
at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained
for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each
other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very
mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and
my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my
first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something
better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature bestowed on
them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in
their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled
their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed
towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit
of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during
every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity,
and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but
one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a
daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five
years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they
passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent
disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my
mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a
passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been
relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the
afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale
attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number
of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst
shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother,
accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife,
hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to
five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far
above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were
dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her
hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her
clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was
clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of
her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold
her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent,
and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was
not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a
German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with
these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been
long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their
charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory
of Italy—one among the _schiavi ognor frementi,_ who exerted
himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its
weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria
was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and
a beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude
abode, fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of
our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed
to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter
than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his
permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their
charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed
a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty
and want when Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They
consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza
became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than
sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and
my pleasures.

Everyone loved Elizabeth.  The passionate and almost reverential
attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my
pride and my delight.  On the evening previous to her being brought to
my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty present for my
Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.”  And when, on the morrow, she
presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth
as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish.  All praises bestowed on
her I received as made to a possession of my own.  We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin.  No word, no expression could body
forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than
sister, since till death she was to be mine only.





Chapter 2

We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in
our ages.  I need not say that we were strangers to any species of
disunion or dispute.  Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and
the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us
nearer together.  Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated
disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense
application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge.
She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets;
and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss
home —the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons,
tempest and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of
our Alpine summers—she found ample scope for admiration and delight.
While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the
magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their
causes.  The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine.
Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature,
gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the
earliest sensations I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave
up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native
country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a _campagne_ on Belrive,
the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a
league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the
lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my
temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was
indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united
myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry
Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular
talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for
its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance.  He
composed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and
knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into
masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of
Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous
train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands
of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself.  My
parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence.
We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to
their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights
which we enjoyed.  When I mingled with other families I distinctly
discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted
the development of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some
law in my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits
but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things
indiscriminately.  I confess that neither the structure of languages,
nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states
possessed attractions for me.  It was the secrets of heaven and earth
that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of
things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man
that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical,
or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral
relations of things.  The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes,
and the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream was
to become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the
gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species.  The saintly soul
of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home.
Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of
her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us.  She was
the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become
sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that
she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness.  And
Clerval—could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval?  Yet
he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his
generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for
adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of
beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring
ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,
before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of
extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides,
in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which
led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would
account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my
destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost
forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent
which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire,
therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my
predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went
on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the
weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I
chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it
with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful
facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new
light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my
discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my
book and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste
your time upon this; it is sad trash.”

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me
that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern
system of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers
than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while
those of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I
should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my
imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my
former studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never
have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance
my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was
acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest
avidity.

When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this
author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and
studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me
treasures known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always
having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of
nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern
philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied.
Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking
up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his
successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted
appeared even to my boy’s apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same
pursuit.

The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted
with their practical uses.  The most learned philosopher knew little
more.  He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal
lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery.  He might dissect,
anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes
in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him.  I
had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep
human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and
ignorantly I had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew
more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their
disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth
century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of
Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite
studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a
child’s blindness, added to a student’s thirst for knowledge.
Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest
diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir
of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an
inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could
banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but
a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a
promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which
I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I
attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a
want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was
occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand
contradictory theories and floundering desperately in a very slough of
multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish
reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas.

When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near
Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It
advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once
with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained,
while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight.
As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an
old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so
soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing
remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found
the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the
shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld
anything so utterly destroyed.

Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of
electricity.  On this occasion a man of great research in natural
philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on
the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of
electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me.
All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa,
Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by
some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my
accustomed studies.  It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever
be known.  All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew
despicable.  By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps
most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former
occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed
and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a
would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of
real knowledge.  In this mood of mind I betook myself to the
mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as
being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity or ruin.  When I look back, it seems to me
as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the
immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life—the last effort
made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even
then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me.  Her victory was
announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which
followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting
studies.  It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with
their prosecution, happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual.
Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and
terrible destruction.





Chapter 3

When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I
should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.  I had
hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought it
necessary for the completion of my education that I should be made
acquainted with other customs than those of my native country.  My
departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day
resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life
occurred—an omen, as it were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was
in the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to
persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first
yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her
favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She
attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity
of the distemper—Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this
imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother
sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and the
looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her
deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert
her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My
children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were
placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the
consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to
my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy
and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are
not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to
death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”

She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death.
I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent
by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the
soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance.  It is so
long before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day
and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed
for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been
extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear
can be hushed, never more to be heard.  These are the reflections of
the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the
evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences.  Yet from whom has
not that rude hand rent away some dear connection?  And why should I
describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel?  The time at
length arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and
the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a
sacrilege, is not banished.  My mother was dead, but we had still
duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the
rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the
spoiler has not seized.

My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events,
was now again determined upon.  I obtained from my father a respite of
some weeks.  It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose,
akin to death, of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of
life.  I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me.  I was
unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me, and above
all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.

She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all.
She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and
zeal.  She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call
her uncle and cousins.  Never was she so enchanting as at this time,
when she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us.
She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.

The day of my departure at length arrived.  Clerval spent the last
evening with us.  He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit
him to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain.  His
father was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin in the
aspirations and ambition of his son.  Henry deeply felt the misfortune
of being debarred from a liberal education.  He said little, but when
he spoke I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a
restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details
of commerce.

We sat late.  We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor
persuade ourselves to say the word “Farewell!”  It was said, and we
retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the
other was deceived; but when at morning’s dawn I descended to the
carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there—my father
again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to
renew her entreaties that I would write often and to bestow the last
feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in
the most melancholy reflections.  I, who had ever been surrounded by
amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual
pleasure—I was now alone.  In the university whither I was going I
must form my own friends and be my own protector.  My life had hitherto
been remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible
repugnance to new countenances.  I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and
Clerval; these were “old familiar faces,” but I believed myself
totally unfitted for the company of strangers.  Such were my reflections as
I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose.  I
ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge.  I had often, when at home,
thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had
longed to enter the world and take my station among other human beings. 
Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to
repent.

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my
journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing.  At length the
high white steeple of the town met my eyes.  I alighted and was
conducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to
some of the principal professors.  Chance—or rather the evil
influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me
from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father’s
door—led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy.  He
was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He
asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches
of science appertaining to natural philosophy.  I replied carelessly, and
partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal
authors I had studied.  The professor stared.  “Have you,” he
said, “really spent your time in studying such nonsense?”

I replied in the affirmative.  “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with
warmth, “every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly
and entirely lost.  You have burdened your memory with exploded systems
and useless names.  Good God!  In what desert land have you lived,
where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you
have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they
are ancient?  I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific
age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus.  My dear
sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.”

So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books
treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and
dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the following
week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural
philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow
professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he
omitted.

I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long
considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I
returned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any
shape.  M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a
repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in
favour of his pursuits.  In rather a too philosophical and connected a
strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come
to concerning them in my early years.  As a child I had not been
content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural
science.  With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my
extreme youth and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the
steps of knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the
discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists.
Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy.
It was very different when the masters of the science sought
immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now
the scene was changed.  The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit
itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in
science was chiefly founded.  I was required to exchange chimeras of
boundless grandeur for realities of little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my
residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming
acquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my new
abode.  But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information
which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures.  And although I
could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver
sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M.
Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.

Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing
room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very
unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an
aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his
temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person
was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard.
He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and
the various improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing
with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took
a cursory view of the present state of the science and explained many of
its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory experiments, he
concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I
shall never forget:

“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he,
“promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters
promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that
the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem
only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or
crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses
of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the
heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of
the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers;
they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even
mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”

Such were the professor’s words—rather let me say such the words of
the fate—enounced to destroy me.  As he went on I felt as if my soul
were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were
touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was
sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception,
one purpose.  So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of
Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps
already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and
unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.

I closed not my eyes that night.  My internal being was in a state of
insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I
had no power to produce it.  By degrees, after the morning’s dawn,
sleep came.  I awoke, and my yesternight’s thoughts were as a dream.
There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies and to
devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a
natural talent.  On the same day I paid M. Waldman a visit.  His
manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public,
for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture which in
his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness.  I
gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had
given to his fellow professor.  He heard with attention the little
narration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius
Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had
exhibited. He said that “These were men to whose indefatigable zeal
modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their
knowledge.  They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names
and arrange in connected classifications the facts which they in a
great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light.  The
labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever
fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.”  I
listened to his statement, which was delivered without any presumption
or affectation, and then added that his lecture had removed my
prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured
terms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his
instructor, without letting escape (inexperience in life would have
made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended
labours.  I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to
procure.

“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a
disciple; and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of
your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the
greatest improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that
I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time, I have not
neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry
chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your
wish is to become really a man of science and not merely a petty
experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural
philosophy, including mathematics.”

He then took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his
various machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and
promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in
the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of
books which I had requested, and I took my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.





Chapter 4

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the
most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.
I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,
which modern inquirers have written on these subjects.  I attended the
lectures and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science of the
university, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense
and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive
physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable.  In
M. Waldman I found a true friend.  His gentleness was never tinged by
dogmatism, and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and
good nature that banished every idea of pedantry.  In a thousand ways
he smoothed for me the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse
inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension.  My application was at
first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and
soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the
light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress
was rapid.  My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and
my proficiency that of the masters.  Professor Krempe often asked me,
with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman
expressed the most heartfelt exultation in my progress.  Two years
passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was
engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries which I
hoped to make.  None but those who have experienced them can conceive
of the enticements of science.  In other studies you go as far as
others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in
a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder.
A mind of moderate capacity which closely pursues one study must
infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who
continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit and was
solely wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly that at the end of two
years I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical
instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the
university.  When I had arrived at this point and had become as well
acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as
depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my
residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought
of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident
happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was
the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with
life.  Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed?
It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a
mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming
acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our
inquiries.  I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined
thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of
natural philosophy which relate to physiology.  Unless I had been
animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this
study would have been irksome and almost intolerable.  To examine the
causes of life, we must first have recourse to death.  I became
acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I
must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.
In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my
mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors.  I do not ever
remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared
the apparition of a spirit.  Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and
a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of
life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become
food for the worm.  Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of
this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and
charnel-houses.  My attention was fixed upon every object the most
insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings.  I saw how the
fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of
death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm
inherited the wonders of the eye and brain.  I paused, examining and
analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change
from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this
darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant and
wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity
of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so
many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same
science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a
secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman.  The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is
true.  Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the
discovery were distinct and probable.  After days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of
generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery
soon gave place to delight and rapture.  After so much time spent in
painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the
most gratifying consummation of my toils.  But this discovery was so
great and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been
progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result.
What had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation
of the world was now within my grasp.  Not that, like a magic scene, it
all opened upon me at once:  the information I had obtained was of a
nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them
towards the object of my search than to exhibit that object already
accomplished.  I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead
and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering and seemingly
ineffectual light.

I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes
express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with
which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end
of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that
subject.  I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was,
to your destruction and infallible misery.  Learn from me, if not by my
precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town
to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature
will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to
prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of
fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable
difficulty and labour.  I doubted at first whether I should attempt the
creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization; but my
imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to
doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful
as man.  The materials at present within my command hardly appeared
adequate to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should
ultimately succeed.  I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my
operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be
imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement which every day takes
place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present
attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success.  Nor
could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any
argument of its impracticability.  It was with these feelings that I
began the creation of a human being.  As the minuteness of the parts
formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first
intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, that is to say,
about eight feet in height, and proportionably large.  After having
formed this determination and having spent some months in successfully
collecting and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like
a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success.  Life and death
appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and
pour a torrent of light into our dark world.  A new species would bless
me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would
owe their being to me.  No father could claim the gratitude of his
child so completely as I should deserve theirs.  Pursuing these
reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless
matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible)
renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking
with unremitting ardour.  My cheek had grown pale with study, and my
person had become emaciated with confinement.  Sometimes, on the very
brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the
next day or the next hour might realise.  One secret which I alone
possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon
gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless
eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places.  Who shall conceive
the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps
of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless
clay?  My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but
then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed
to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit.  It was
indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed
acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had
returned to my old habits.  I collected bones from charnel-houses and
disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human
frame.  In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house,
and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,
I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from
their sockets in attending to the details of my employment.  The
dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials;
and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation,
whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I
brought my work near to a conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in
one pursuit.  It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields
bestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant
vintage, but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature.  And the
same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also
to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had
not seen for so long a time.  I knew my silence disquieted them, and I
well remembered the words of my father:  “I know that while you are
pleased with yourself you will think of us with affection, and we shall
hear regularly from you.  You must pardon me if I regard any
interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties
are equally neglected.”

I knew well therefore what would be my father’s feelings, but I could
not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which
had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination.  I wished, as it
were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection
until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature,
should be completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
to vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced that he was
justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from
blame.  A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and
peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to
disturb his tranquillity.  I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge
is an exception to this rule.  If the study to which you apply yourself
has a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for
those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that
study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human
mind.  If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic
affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Cæsar would have spared his
country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the
empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my
tale, and your looks remind me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters and only took notice of my
silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves—sights which before always
yielded me supreme delight—so deeply was I engrossed in my
occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near
to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared
rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.
Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most
painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow
creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at
the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone
sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed that exercise and
amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and I promised myself
both of these when my creation should be complete.





Chapter 5

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment
of my toils.  With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I
collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a
spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.  It was
already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the
panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the
half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature
open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate
the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to
form?  His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as
beautiful.  Beautiful!  Great God!  His yellow skin scarcely covered
the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous
black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these
luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes,
that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which
they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings
of human nature.  I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole
purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body.  For this I had
deprived myself of rest and health.  I had desired it with an ardour
that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty
of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my
heart.  Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I
rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my
bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep.  At length lassitude
succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the
bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness.
But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest
dreams.  I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in
the streets of Ingolstadt.  Delighted and surprised, I embraced her,
but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with
the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I
held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her
form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel.
I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my
teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and
yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window
shutters, I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had
created.  He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they
may be called, were fixed on me.  His jaws opened, and he muttered some
inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks.  He might have
spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to
detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs.  I took refuge in the
courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained
during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest
agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if
it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I
had so miserably given life.

Oh!  No mortal could support the horror of that countenance.  A mummy
again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch.  I
had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those
muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing
such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly.  Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and
hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly
sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness.  Mingled with
this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had
been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a
hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my
sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple
and clock, which indicated the sixth hour.  The porter opened the gates
of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into
the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the
wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my
view.  I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but
felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured
from a black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring by
bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind.  I
traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or
what I was doing.  My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I
hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:
  
  Like one who, on a lonely road,
  Doth walk in fear and dread,
  And, having once turned round, walks on,
  And turns no more his head;
  Because he knows a frightful fiend
  Doth close behind him tread.
  
  [Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner.”]



Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various
diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why;
but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming
towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer I observed
that it was the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and
on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me,
instantly sprung out. “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed he,
“how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here at
the very moment of my alighting!”

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back
to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear
to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror
and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months,
calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial
manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for
some time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being
permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said
he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all
necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping;
and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant
answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch
schoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield: ‘I have ten thousand florins
a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’ But his
affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has
permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of
knowledge.”

“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left
my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”

“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from
you so seldom.  By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their
account myself.  But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping
short and gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill
you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights.”

“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one
occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see;
but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end and that I am at length free.”

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to
allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night.  I walked with a
quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college.  I then reflected, and
the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my
apartment might still be there, alive and walking about.  I dreaded to
behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room.  My hand was already on the
lock of the door before I recollected myself.  I then paused, and a
cold shivering came over me.  I threw the door forcibly open, as
children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in
waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared.  I stepped
fearfully in:  the apartment was empty, and my bedroom was also freed
from its hideous guest.  I could hardly believe that so great a good
fortune could have befallen me, but when I became assured that my enemy
had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;
but I was unable to contain myself.  It was not joy only that possessed
me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse
beat rapidly.  I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same
place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival,
but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes
for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless
laughter frightened and astonished him.

“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake,
is the matter?  Do not laugh in that manner.  How ill you are!  What is the
cause of all this?”

“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I
thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; “_he_ can
tell. Oh, save me!  Save me!”  I imagined that the monster seized me;
I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval!  What must have been his feelings?  A meeting, which he
anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness.  But I
was not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless and did not
recover my senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for
several months.  During all that time Henry was my only nurse.  I
afterwards learned that, knowing my father’s advanced age and unfitness
for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make
Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my
disorder.  He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive
nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he
did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest
action that he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life.
The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever
before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him.  Doubtless my
words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the wanderings
of my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity with which I
continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder
indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and
grieved my friend, I recovered.  I remember the first time I became
capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I
perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young
buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window.  It was
a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly to my
convalescence.  I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in
my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as
cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.

“Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good
you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you
promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever
repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I
have been the occasion, but you will forgive me.”

“You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get
well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I
may speak to you on one subject, may I not?”

I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on
whom I dared not even think?

“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of
colour, “I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father
and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your
own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy at
your long silence.”

“Is that all, my dear Henry?  How could you suppose that my first
thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love and
who are so deserving of my love?”

“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad
to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from
your cousin, I believe.”





Chapter 6

Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.  It was from my
own Elizabeth:

“My dearest Cousin,

“You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear
kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account.  You are
forbidden to write—to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,
is necessary to calm our apprehensions.  For a long time I have thought
that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have
restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt.  I have
prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so
long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to
perform it myself!  I figure to myself that the task of attending on
your sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never
guess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection of
your poor cousin.  Yet that is over now:  Clerval writes that indeed
you are getting better.  I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own handwriting.

“Get well—and return to us.  You will find a happy, cheerful home and
friends who love you dearly.  Your father’s health is vigorous, and he
asks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a
care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance.  How pleased you would
be to remark the improvement of our Ernest!  He is now sixteen and full
of activity and spirit.  He is desirous to be a true Swiss and to enter
into foreign service, but we cannot part with him, at least until his
elder brother returns to us.  My uncle is not pleased with the idea of
a military career in a distant country, but Ernest never had your
powers of application.  He looks upon study as an odious fetter; his
time is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the
lake.  I fear that he will become an idler unless we yield the point
and permit him to enter on the profession which he has selected.

“Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken
place since you left us.  The blue lake and snow-clad mountains—they
never change; and I think our placid home and our contented hearts are
regulated by the same immutable laws.  My trifling occupations take up
my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing
none but happy, kind faces around me.  Since you left us, but one
change has taken place in our little household.  Do you remember on
what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family?  Probably you do not;
I will relate her history, therefore in a few words.  Madame Moritz,
her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the
third.  This girl had always been the favourite of her father, but
through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and
after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill.  My aunt observed
this, and when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother
to allow her to live at our house.  The republican institutions of our
country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which
prevail in the great monarchies that surround it.  Hence there is less
distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the
lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are
more refined and moral.  A servant in Geneva does not mean the same
thing as a servant in France and England.  Justine, thus received in
our family, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which, in our
fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance and a
sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

“Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I
recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that
Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica—she looked so
frank-hearted and happy.  My aunt conceived a great attachment for her,
by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that
which she had at first intended.  This benefit was fully repaid;
Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world:  I do not
mean that she made any professions I never heard one pass her lips, but
you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress.
Although her disposition was gay and in many respects inconsiderate,
yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt.  She
thought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her
phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

“When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection.  Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.

“One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless.  The
conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the
deaths of her favourites was a judgement from heaven to chastise her
partiality.  She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor
confirmed the idea which she had conceived.  Accordingly, a few months
after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her
repentant mother.  Poor girl!  She wept when she quitted our house; she
was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness
and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable
for vivacity.  Nor was her residence at her mother’s house of a nature
to restore her gaiety.  The poor woman was very vacillating in her
repentance.  She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness,
but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her
brothers and sister.  Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz
into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is
now at peace for ever.  She died on the first approach of cold weather,
at the beginning of this last winter.  Justine has just returned to us;
and I assure you I love her tenderly.  She is very clever and gentle,
and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her
expression continually remind me of my dear aunt.

“I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William.  I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair.  When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health.  He has already had one or two little _wives,_ but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

“Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little
gossip concerning the good people of Geneva.  The pretty Miss Mansfield
has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching
marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq.  Her ugly
sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your
favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes
since the departure of Clerval from Geneva.  But he has already
recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a
lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier.  She is a widow, and much
older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with
everybody.

“I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety
returns upon me as I conclude.  Write, dearest Victor,—one line—one
word will be a blessing to us.  Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his
kindness, his affection, and his many letters; we are sincerely
grateful.  Adieu!  my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat
you, write!

“Elizabeth Lavenza.


“Geneva, March 18th, 17—.”



“Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed, when I had read her
letter: “I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety
they must feel.” I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but
my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another
fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university.  In doing this, I underwent a
kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had
sustained.  Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the
beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even
to the name of natural philosophy.  When I was otherwise quite restored
to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony
of my nervous symptoms.  Henry saw this, and had removed all my
apparatus from my view.  He had also changed my apartment; for he
perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had
previously been my laboratory.  But these cares of Clerval were made of
no avail when I visited the professors.  M. Waldman inflicted torture
when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I
had made in the sciences.  He soon perceived that I disliked the
subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to
modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science
itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out.  What
could I do?  He meant to please, and he tormented me.  I felt as if he
had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which
were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death.  I
writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn.  I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak.  I saw plainly
that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from
me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence
that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in
him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which
I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even
more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n
the fellow!” cried he; “why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has
outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A
youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly
as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if
he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.—Ay,
ay,” continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering,
“M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man.
Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was
myself when young; but that wears out in a very short time.”

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me.  He
came to the university with the design of making himself complete
master of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for
the plan of life he had marked out for himself.  Resolved to pursue no
inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording
scope for his spirit of enterprise.  The Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit
languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on
the same studies.  Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I
wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt
great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not
only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists.  I
did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for
I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary
amusement.  I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well
repaid my labours.  Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy
elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of
any other country.  When you read their writings, life appears to
consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,—in the smiles and frowns
of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart.  How
different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring.  I felt this
delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved
friends.  My return had only been delayed so long, from an
unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become
acquainted with any of its inhabitants.  The winter, however, was spent
cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came
its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited.  I acceded
with pleasure to this proposition:  I was fond of exercise, and Clerval
had always been my favourite companion in the ramble of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations:  my health and spirits
had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend.  Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught
me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend!  how sincerely you did love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own.  A selfish
pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and
affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature
who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care.
When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most
delightful sensations.  A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with
ecstasy.  The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring
bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud.  I
was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed
upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an
invincible burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he
exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled
his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in
imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful
fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew
me out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were
high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.





Chapter 7

On my return, I found the following letter from my father:—

“My dear Victor,

“You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of
your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few
lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you.  But
that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it.  What would be
your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to
behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness?  And how, Victor, can
I relate our misfortune?  Absence cannot have rendered you callous to
our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent
son?  I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is
impossible; even now your eye skims over the page to seek the words
which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

“William is dead!—that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed
my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay!  Victor, he is murdered!

“I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.

“Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to
walk in Plainpalais.  The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged
our walk farther than usual.  It was already dusk before we thought of
returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone
on before, were not to be found.  We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return.  Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen
his brother; he said, that he had been playing with him, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and
afterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.

“This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him
until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have
returned to the house.  He was not there.  We returned again, with
torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had
lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night;
Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish.  About five in the morning I
discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and
active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the
print of the murder’s finger was on his neck.

“He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth.  She was very earnest to
see the corpse.  At first I attempted to prevent her but she persisted,
and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the
victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, ‘O God!  I have murdered my
darling child!’

“She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty.  When she again
lived, it was only to weep and sigh.  She told me, that that same
evening William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable
miniature that she possessed of your mother.  This picture is gone, and
was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed.  We
have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him
are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!

“Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth.  She weeps
continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death;
her words pierce my heart.  We are all unhappy; but will not that be an
additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter?
Your dear mother!  Alas, Victor!  I now say, Thank God she did not live
to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

“Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,
but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of
festering, the wounds of our minds.  Enter the house of mourning, my
friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not
with hatred for your enemies.

“Your affectionate and afflicted father,

“Alphonse Frankenstein.



“Geneva, May 12th, 17—.”



Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was
surprised to observe the despair that succeeded the joy I at first
expressed on receiving new from my friends.  I threw the letter on the
table, and covered my face with my hands.

“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me
weep with bitterness, “are you always to be unhappy?  My dear friend,
what has happened?”

I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the
room in the extremest agitation.  Tears also gushed from the eyes of
Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

“I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he;
“your disaster is irreparable.  What do you intend to do?”

“To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses.”

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation;
he could only express his heartfelt sympathy.  “Poor William!” said he,
“dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother!  Who that had
seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his
untimely loss!  To die so miserably; to feel the murderer’s grasp!  How
much more a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence!  Poor little
fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but
he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever.
A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain.  He can no longer
be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable
survivors.”

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered them afterwards in
solitude.  But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a
cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed
to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I
drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain
the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through
scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years.
How altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden and
desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances
might have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were
done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I
dared no advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble,
although I was unable to define them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I
contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the
snowy mountains, “the palaces of nature,” were not changed. By
degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey
towards Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I
approached my native town.  I discovered more distinctly the black
sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc.  I wept like a
child.  “Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your
wanderer?  Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and
placid.  Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on
these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative
happiness, and I think of them with pleasure.  My country, my beloved
country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again
beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely
lake!

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also
closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still
more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I
foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human
beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single
circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not
conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates
of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at
Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky
was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot
where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the
town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais.
During this short voyage I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont
Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach
rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its
progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain
coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash
over my head.  It was echoed from Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of
Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the
lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash.  The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The
most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the
lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of
Copêt. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another
darkened and sometimes disclosed the Môle, a peaked mountain to the
east of the lake.

While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with
a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my
hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs
to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy
dæmon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I
shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that
idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth
chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure
passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could
have destroyed the fair child. _He_ was the murderer! I could not
doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the
fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for
another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly
perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the
south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared.

I remained motionless.  The thunder ceased; but the rain still
continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness.  I
revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget:
the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance of
the works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure.  Two years had
now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and
was this his first crime?  Alas!  I had turned loose into the world a
depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not
murdered my brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the
night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air.  But I did not
feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in
scenes of evil and despair.  I considered the being whom I had cast
among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes
of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light
of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced
to destroy all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town.  The gates were
open, and I hastened to my father’s house.  My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be
made.  But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A
being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain.  I
remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at
the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of
delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable.  I well knew that
if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have
looked upon it as the ravings of insanity.  Besides, the strange nature
of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited
as to persuade my relatives to commence it.  And then of what use would
be pursuit?  Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the
overhanging sides of Mont Salêve?  These reflections determined me, and
I resolved to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father’s house.  I
told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library
to attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I
stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my
departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained
to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the
mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father’s
desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling
by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale;
but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the
sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my
tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest
entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me:
“Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you
had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and
delighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can
alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems
sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor
Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.—Poor
William! he was our darling and our pride!”

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother’s eyes; a sense of mortal
agony crept over my frame.  Before, I had only imagined the
wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and
a not less terrible, disaster.  I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more
minutely concerning my father, and here I named my cousin.

“She most of all,” said Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused
herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her
very wretched.  But since the murderer has been discovered—”

“The murderer discovered!  Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him?  It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.  I saw him too; he
was free last night!”

“I do not know what you mean,” replied my brother, in accents of
wonder, “but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery.  No
one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be
convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence.  Indeed, who would credit
that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family,
could suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?”

“Justine Moritz!  Poor, poor girl, is she the accused?  But it is
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt.  But she will be tried today, and you will
then hear all.”

He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William
had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her
bed for several days.  During this interval, one of the servants,
happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the
murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which
had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer.  The servant
instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to
any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,
Justine was apprehended.  On being charged with the fact, the poor girl
confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of
manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer.  Justine, poor,
good Justine, is innocent.”

At that instant my father entered.  I saw unhappiness deeply impressed
on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and,
after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced
some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed,
“Good God, papa!  Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of
poor William.”

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father, “for indeed I had
rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much
depravity and ungratitude in one I valued so highly.”

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty.  She is to be
tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted.”

This speech calmed me.  I was firmly convinced in my own mind that
Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder.  I
had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be
brought forward strong enough to convict her.  My tale was not one to
announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as
madness by the vulgar.  Did any one indeed exist, except I, the
creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the
existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance
which I had let loose upon the world?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth.  Time had altered her since I last
beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of
her childish years.  There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but
it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect.
She welcomed me with the greatest affection.  “Your arrival, my dear
cousin,” said she, “fills me with hope.  You perhaps will find some
means to justify my poor guiltless Justine.  Alas! who is safe, if she
be convicted of crime?  I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do
upon my own.  Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only
lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely
love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate.  If she is condemned, I
never shall know joy more.  But she will not, I am sure she will not;
and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little
William.”

“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall
be proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance
of her acquittal.”

“How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible:  and to
see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me
hopeless and despairing.”  She wept.

“Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she
is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the
activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of
partiality.”





Chapter 8

We passed a few sad hours until eleven o’clock, when the trial was to
commence.  My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend
as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court.  During the whole of
this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture.  It was to
be decided whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow beings:  one a smiling babe full of
innocence and joy, the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
Justine also was a girl of merit and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy; now all was to be obliterated in an
ignominious grave, and I the cause!  A thousand times rather would I
have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I
was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have
been considered as the ravings of a madman and would not have
exculpated her who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm.  She was dressed in mourning, and
her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful.  Yet she appeared confident in
innocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by
thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the
imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed.  She
was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as
her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she
worked up her mind to an appearance of courage.  When she entered the
court she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were
seated.  A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly
recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest
her utter guiltlessness.

The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the
charge, several witnesses were called.  Several strange facts combined
against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof
of her innocence as I had.  She had been out the whole of the night on
which the murder had been committed and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the
murdered child had been afterwards found.  The woman asked her what she
did there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused
and unintelligible answer.  She returned to the house about eight
o’clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she
replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly
if anything had been heard concerning him.  When shown the body, she
fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days.  The
picture was then produced which the servant had found in her pocket;
and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same
which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round
his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence.  As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered.  Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly
expressed.  Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was
desired to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in an audible
although variable voice.

“God knows,” she said, “how entirely I am innocent. But I
do not pretend that my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence
on a plain and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced
against me, and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my
judges to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears
doubtful or suspicious.”

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the
house of an aunt at Chêne, a village situated at about a league from
Geneva.  On her return, at about nine o’clock, she met a man who asked
her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost.  She was
alarmed by this account and passed several hours in looking for him,
when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain
several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being
unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known.  Most
of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that
she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke.
It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour
to find my brother.  If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,
it was without her knowledge.  That she had been bewildered when
questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed
a sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.
Concerning the picture she could give no account.

“I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily and
fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of
explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left
to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been
placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no
enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me
wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity
afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have stolen the
jewel, to part with it again so soon?

“I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for
hope.  I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character, and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed
guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my
innocence.”

Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and
they spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling to come
forward.  Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent
dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address
the court.

“I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy child who
was murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived
with his parents ever since and even long before his birth. It may
therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but
when I see a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice of her
pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I
know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived
in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for nearly
two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and
benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in
her last illness, with the greatest affection and care and afterwards
attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited
the admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my
uncle’s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was
warmly attached to the child who is now dead and acted towards him like a
most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say that,
notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely
on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action; as to
the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it,
I should have willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value
her.”

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth’s simple and powerful
appeal, but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in
favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with
renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude.  She
herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer.  My own
agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial.  I believed
in her innocence; I knew it.  Could the dæmon who had (I did not for a
minute doubt) murdered my brother also in his hellish sport have
betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy?  I could not sustain the
horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular voice and
the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim,
I rushed out of the court in agony.  The tortures of the accused did
not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of
remorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness.  In the morning I went to
the court; my lips and throat were parched.  I dared not ask the fatal
question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my
visit.  The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine
was condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt.  I had before
experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon
them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the
heart-sickening despair that I then endured.  The person to whom I
addressed myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt.
“That evidence,” he observed, “was hardly required in so glaring a
case, but I am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our judges like to
condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so
decisive.”

This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean?  Had
my eyes deceived me?  And was I really as mad as the whole world would
believe me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions?  I
hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

“My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as you may have expected; all
judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that one guilty
should escape.  But she has confessed.”

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon
Justine’s innocence. “Alas!” said she. “How shall I
ever again believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as
my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray?
Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has
committed a murder.”

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my
cousin. My father wished her not to go but said that he left it to her own
judgment and feelings to decide. “Yes,” said Elizabeth,
“I will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany
me; I cannot go alone.” The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet
I could not refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some
straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on
her knees. She rose on seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with
her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My
cousin wept also.

“Oh, Justine!” said she.  “Why did you rob me of my last consolation?
I relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I
was not so miserable as I am now.”

“And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked?  Do you also
join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?” Her
voice was suffocated with sobs.

“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth; “why do you kneel,
if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies, I believed you
guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had
yourself declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be
assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a
moment, but your own confession.”

“I did confess, but I confessed a lie.  I confessed, that I might
obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than
all my other sins.  The God of heaven forgive me!  Ever since I was
condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced,
until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I
was.  He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my last moments if
I continued obdurate.  Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked
on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition.  What could I do?
In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly
miserable.”

She paused, weeping, and then continued, “I thought with horror, my
sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed
aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable
of a crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated.
Dear William! dearest blessed child!  I soon shall see you again in
heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I
am to suffer ignominy and death.”

“Oh, Justine!  Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you.
Why did you confess?  But do not mourn, dear girl.  Do not fear.  I
will proclaim, I will prove your innocence.  I will melt the stony
hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers.  You shall not die!
You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold!
No!  No!  I never could survive so horrible a misfortune.”

Justine shook her head mournfully.  “I do not fear to die,” she said;
“that pang is past.  God raises my weakness and gives me courage to
endure the worst.  I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember
me and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the
fate awaiting me.  Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to
the will of heaven!”

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room,
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me.  Despair!
Who dared talk of that?  The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass
the awful boundary between life and death, felt not, as I did, such
deep and bitter agony.  I gnashed my teeth and ground them together,
uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul.  Justine started.  When
she saw who it was, she approached me and said, “Dear sir, you are very
kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?”

I could not answer.  “No, Justine,” said Elizabeth; “he is more
convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you
had confessed, he did not credit it.”

“I truly thank him.  In these last moments I feel the sincerest
gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness.  How sweet is
the affection of others to such a wretch as I am!  It removes more than
half my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my
innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself.  She indeed
gained the resignation she desired.  But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or
consolation.  Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also was
the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair
moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness.  Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within
me which nothing could extinguish.  We stayed several hours with
Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear
herself away.  “I wish,” cried she, “that I were to die with you; I
cannot live in this world of misery.”

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty
repressed her bitter tears.  She embraced Elizabeth and said in a voice
of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth,
my beloved and only friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and
preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever
suffer!  Live, and be happy, and make others so.”

And on the morrow Justine died.  Elizabeth’s heart-rending eloquence
failed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the
criminality of the saintly sufferer.  My passionate and indignant
appeals were lost upon them.  And when I received their cold answers
and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed
avowal died away on my lips.  Thus I might proclaim myself a madman,
but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim.  She
perished on the scaffold as a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and
voiceless grief of my Elizabeth.  This also was my doing!  And my
father’s woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was
the work of my thrice-accursed hands!  Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these
are not your last tears!  Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and
the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard!
Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he
who would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no
thought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear
countenances, who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life
in serving you—he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond
his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction
pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,
I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and
Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.





Chapter 9

Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear.  Justine died, she rested, and I was alive.  The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart which nothing could remove.  Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet
behind.  Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue.
I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow
beings.  Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience
which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and
from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and
the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures
such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never
entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained.  I shunned
the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me;
solitude was my only consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition
and habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his
serene conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and
awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me.
“Do you think, Victor,” said he, “that I do not suffer
also? No one could love a child more than I loved your
brother”—tears came into his eyes as he spoke—“but
is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting
their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty
owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment,
or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for
society.”

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my
other sensations.  Now I could only answer my father with a look of
despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive.  This change was
particularly agreeable to me.  The shutting of the gates regularly at
ten o’clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that
hour had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome
to me.  I was now free.  Often, after the rest of the family had
retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the
water.  Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and
sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to
pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections.  I
was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only
unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and
heavenly—if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and
interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore—often,
I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters
might close over me and my calamities for ever.  But I was restrained,
when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly
loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine.  I thought also of my
father and surviving brother; should I by my base desertion leave them
exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose
among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had
created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling
that all was not over and that he would still commit some signal crime,
which by its enormity should almost efface the recollection of the past.
There was always scope for fear so long as anything I loved remained
behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of
him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to
extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I
reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds
of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the
Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I wished
to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his
head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father’s health was deeply
shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she
then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted
and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature who in earlier youth
wandered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our
future prospects. The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from
the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest
smiles.

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me.  Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient
days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to
reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men
appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood.  Yet I am
certainly unjust.  Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and
if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly
she would have been the most depraved of human creatures.  For the sake
of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend,
a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if
it had been her own!  I could not consent to the death of any human
being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to
remain in the society of men.  But she was innocent.  I know, I feel
she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me.
Alas!  Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can
assure themselves of certain happiness?  I feel as if I were walking on
the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and
endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss.  William and Justine were
assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free,
and perhaps respected.  But even if I were condemned to suffer on the
scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a
wretch.”

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony.  I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer.  Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, “My dearest friend, you
must calm yourself.  These events have affected me, God knows how
deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are.  There is an expression of
despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me
tremble.  Dear Victor, banish these dark passions.  Remember the
friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you.  Have we lost
the power of rendering you happy?  Ah!  While we love, while we are
true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native
country, we may reap every tranquil blessing—what can disturb our
peace?”

And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every
other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my
heart?  Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at
that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of
heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were
ineffectual.  I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial
influence could penetrate.  The wounded deer dragging its fainting
limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had
pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but
sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily
exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable
sensations.  It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left
my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought
in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and
my ephemeral, because human, sorrows.  My wanderings were directed
towards the valley of Chamounix.  I had visited it frequently during my
boyhood.  Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck, but nought
had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.

I performed the first part of my journey on horseback.  I afterwards
hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive
injury on these rugged roads.  The weather was fine; it was about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe.  The
weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in
the ravine of Arve.  The immense mountains and precipices that overhung
me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and
the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as
Omnipotence—and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less
almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here
displayed in their most terrific guise.  Still, as I ascended higher,
the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.
Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the
impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from
among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty.  But it was
augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and
shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another
earth, the habitations of another race of beings.

I passed the bridge of Pélissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it.  Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix.  This
valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and
picturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed.  The
high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no
more ruined castles and fertile fields.  Immense glaciers approached
the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and
marked the smoke of its passage.  Mont Blanc, the supreme and
magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_,
and its tremendous _dôme_ overlooked the valley.

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this
journey.  Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and
recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
lighthearted gaiety of boyhood.  The very winds whispered in soothing
accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more.  Then again the
kindly influence ceased to act—I found myself fettered again to grief
and indulging in all the misery of reflection.  Then I spurred on my
animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all,
myself—or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on
the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix.  Exhaustion succeeded
to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured.
For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid
lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of
the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath.  The same lulling sounds
acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head
upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed
the giver of oblivion.





Chapter 10

I spent the following day roaming through the valley.  I stood beside
the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that
with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to
barricade the valley.  The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before
me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were
scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious
presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling
waves or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the
avalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains, of the
accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws,
was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in
their hands.  These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the
greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving.  They elevated me
from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my
grief, they subdued and tranquillised it.  In some degree, also, they
diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the
last month.  I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were,
waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I
had contemplated during the day.  They congregated round me; the
unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,
and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds—they all
gathered round me and bade me be at peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke?  All of
soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every
thought.  The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the
summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those
mighty friends.  Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them
in their cloudy retreats.  What were rain and storm to me?  My mule was
brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of
Montanvert.  I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.
It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the
soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.
The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the
effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing
cares of life.  I determined to go without a guide, for I was well
acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the
solitary grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the
mountain.  It is a scene terrifically desolate.  In a thousand spots
the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie
broken and strewed on the ground, some entirely destroyed, others bent,
leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain or transversely upon
other trees.  The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines
of snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is
particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking
in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker.  The pines are not tall or
luxuriant, but they are sombre and add an air of severity to the scene.
I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite
mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain
poured from the dark sky and added to the melancholy impression I
received from the objects around me.  Alas!  Why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings.  If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by
every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may
convey to us.

  We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
       We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day.
  We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
       Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
  It is the same:  for, be it joy or sorrow,
       The path of its departure still is free.
  Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
       Nought may endure but mutability!



It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent.  For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice.  A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains.  Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier.  The surface is very
uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep.  The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it.  The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock.  From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty.  I remained in a recess
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene.  The sea,
or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains,
whose aerial summits hung over its recesses.  Their icy and glittering
peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds.  My heart, which was
before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed,
“Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow
beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion,
away from the joys of life.”

As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
advancing towards me with superhuman speed.  He bounded over the
crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his
stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man.  I was
troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me,
but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains.  I
perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!)
that it was the wretch whom I had created.  I trembled with rage and
horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in
mortal combat.  He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish,
combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness
rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes.  But I scarcely
observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,
and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious
detestation and contempt.

“Devil,” I exclaimed, “do you dare approach me? And do
not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head?
Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! And,
oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore
those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!”

“I expected this reception,” said the dæmon.  “All men hate the
wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all
living things!  Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature,
to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of
one of us.  You purpose to kill me.  How dare you sport thus with life?
Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of
mankind.  If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and
you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it
be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends.”

“Abhorred monster!  Fiend that thou art!  The tortures of hell are too
mild a vengeance for thy crimes.  Wretched devil!  You reproach me with
your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I
so negligently bestowed.”

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the
feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me and said,

“Be calm!  I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred
on my devoted head.  Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to
increase my misery?  Life, although it may only be an accumulation of
anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.  Remember, thou hast made
me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my
joints more supple.  But I will not be tempted to set myself in
opposition to thee.  I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and
docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part,
the which thou owest me.  Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every
other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy
clemency and affection, is most due.  Remember that I am thy creature;
I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou
drivest from joy for no misdeed.  Everywhere I see bliss, from which I
alone am irrevocably excluded.  I was benevolent and good; misery made
me a fiend.  Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.”

“Begone!  I will not hear you.  There can be no community between you
and me; we are enemies.  Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight,
in which one must fall.”

“How can I move thee?  Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a
favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and
compassion?  Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed
with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone?  You, my
creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures,
who owe me nothing?  They spurn and hate me.  The desert mountains and
dreary glaciers are my refuge.  I have wandered here many days; the
caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the
only one which man does not grudge.  These bleak skies I hail, for they
are kinder to me than your fellow beings.  If the multitude of mankind
knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for
my destruction.  Shall I not then hate them who abhor me?  I will keep
no terms with my enemies.  I am miserable, and they shall share my
wretchedness.  Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver
them from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that
not only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be
swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage.  Let your compassion be
moved, and do not disdain me.  Listen to my tale; when you have heard
that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve.
But hear me.  The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they
are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned.  Listen
to me, Frankenstein.  You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with
a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature.  Oh, praise the
eternal justice of man!  Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me,
and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands.”

“Why do you call to my remembrance,” I rejoined, “circumstances of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and
author?  Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw
light!  Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you!
You have made me wretched beyond expression.  You have left me no power
to consider whether I am just to you or not.  Begone!  Relieve me from
the sight of your detested form.”

“Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” he said, and placed his hated hands
before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; “thus I take from
thee a sight which you abhor.  Still thou canst listen to me and grant
me thy compassion.  By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this
from you.  Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of
this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon
the mountain.  The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends
to hide itself behind your snowy precipices and illuminate another
world, you will have heard my story and can decide.  On you it rests,
whether I quit for ever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless
life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of
your own speedy ruin.”

As he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed.  My heart
was full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded, I weighed the
various arguments that he had used and determined at least to listen to
his tale.  I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my
resolution.  I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my
brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.
For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards
his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I
complained of his wickedness.  These motives urged me to comply with
his demand.  We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite
rock.  The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend; we
entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy
heart and depressed spirits.  But I consented to listen, and seating
myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began
his tale.





Chapter 11

“It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of
my being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.
A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,
and smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I
learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses.  By
degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I
was obliged to shut my eyes.  Darkness then came over me and troubled
me, but hardly had I felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now
suppose, the light poured in upon me again.  I walked and, I believe,
descended, but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations.
Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my
touch or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with
no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid.  The light
became more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying me as I
walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade.  This was the
forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting
from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst.  This
roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I
found hanging on the trees or lying on the ground.  I slaked my thirst
at the brook, and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.

“It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half frightened, as it
were, instinctively, finding myself so desolate.  Before I had quitted
your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some
clothes, but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of
night.  I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could
distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat
down and wept.

“Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation of
pleasure.  I started up and beheld a radiant form rise from among the
trees.  [The moon]  I gazed with a kind of wonder.  It moved slowly,
but it enlightened my path, and I again went out in search of berries.
I was still cold when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, with
which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground.  No distinct
ideas occupied my mind; all was confused.  I felt light, and hunger,
and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears, and on
all sides various scents saluted me; the only object that I could
distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with
pleasure.

“Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had
greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each
other.  I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with
drink and the trees that shaded me with their foliage.  I was delighted
when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my
ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had
often intercepted the light from my eyes.  I began also to observe,
with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me and to perceive the
boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me.  Sometimes I
tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds but was unable.
Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the
uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.

“The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened
form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest.  My
sensations had by this time become distinct, and my mind received every
day additional ideas.  My eyes became accustomed to the light and to
perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from
the herb, and by degrees, one herb from another.  I found that the
sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and
thrush were sweet and enticing.

“One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been
left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the
warmth I experienced from it.  In my joy I thrust my hand into the live
embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain.  How strange,
I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects!  I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be
composed of wood.  I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet
and would not burn.  I was pained at this and sat still watching the
operation of the fire.  The wet wood which I had placed near the heat
dried and itself became inflamed.  I reflected on this, and by touching
the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself in
collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a
plentiful supply of fire.  When night came on and brought sleep with
it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished.  I
covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches
upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank
into sleep.

“It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire.
I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame.  I
observed this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the
embers when they were nearly extinguished.  When night came again I
found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat and that
the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I found
some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and
tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees.  I
tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on
the live embers.  I found that the berries were spoiled by this
operation, and the nuts and roots much improved.

“Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day
searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When
I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto
inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be
more easily satisfied.  In this emigration I exceedingly lamented the
loss of the fire which I had obtained through accident and knew not how
to reproduce it.  I gave several hours to the serious consideration of
this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply
it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood
towards the setting sun.  I passed three days in these rambles and at
length discovered the open country.  A great fall of snow had taken
place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the
appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold
damp substance that covered the ground.

“It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and
shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which
had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd.  This
was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with great
curiosity.  Finding the door open, I entered.  An old man sat in it,
near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast.  He turned on
hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the
hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form
hardly appeared capable.  His appearance, different from any I had ever
before seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me.  But I was enchanted
by the appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not
penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite
and divine a retreat as Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire.  I greedily devoured the
remnants of the shepherd’s breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese,
milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like.  Then, overcome by
fatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep.

“It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun, which
shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant’s breakfast in a
wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until
at sunset I arrived at a village.  How miraculous did this appear!  The
huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration by
turns.  The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw
placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One
of the best of these I entered, but I had hardly placed my foot within
the door before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.
The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,
grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I
escaped to the open country and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel,
quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had
beheld in the village.  This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat
and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I
dared not enter it.  My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so
low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it.  No wood, however,
was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and
although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an
agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.

“Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter,
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man.  As soon as morning dawned I crept from my
kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could
remain in the habitation I had found.  It was situated against the back
of the cottage and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig
sty and a clear pool of water.  One part was open, and by that I had
crept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived
with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on
occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and
that was sufficient for me.

“Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw, I
retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power.  I
had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day by a loaf
of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink
more conveniently than from my hand of the pure water which flowed by
my retreat.  The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept
perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was
tolerably warm.

“Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until
something should occur which might alter my determination.  It was
indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former residence,
the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth.  I ate my breakfast with
pleasure and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a little
water when I heard a step, and looking through a small chink, I beheld
a young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The
girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found
cottagers and farmhouse servants to be.  Yet she was meanly dressed, a
coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair
hair was plaited but not adorned:  she looked patient yet sad.  I lost
sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned bearing
the pail, which was now partly filled with milk.  As she walked along,
seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose
countenance expressed a deeper despondence.  Uttering a few sounds with
an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head and bore it to the
cottage himself.  She followed, and they disappeared.  Presently I saw
the young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field
behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the
house and sometimes in the yard.

“On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the
cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been
filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost
imperceptible chink through which the eye could just penetrate.
Through this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean
but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an
old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The
young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she
took something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat
down beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play
and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the
nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch who had
never beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent
countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle
manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air
which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of
which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then
pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt
at his feet. He raised her and smiled with such kindness and affection
that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature; they were
a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced,
either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the
window, unable to bear these emotions.

“Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a
load of wood.  The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of
his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on
the fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage,
and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese.  She seemed
pleased and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she
placed in water, and then upon the fire.  She afterwards continued her
work, whilst the young man went into the garden and appeared busily
employed in digging and pulling up roots.  After he had been employed
thus about an hour, the young woman joined him and they entered the
cottage together.

“The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance
of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to
eat.  The meal was quickly dispatched.  The young woman was again
occupied in arranging the cottage, the old man walked before the
cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth.
Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent
creatures.  One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming
with benevolence and love; the younger was slight and graceful in his
figure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his
eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency.  The
old man returned to the cottage, and the youth, with tools different
from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the
fields.

“Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found that the
cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was
delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the
pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours.  In the evening
the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the
instrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in
the morning.  So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play,
but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the
harmony of the old man’s instrument nor the songs of the birds; I since
found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the
science of words or letters.

“The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
extinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest.”





Chapter 12

“I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep.  I thought of the
occurrences of the day.  What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners
of these people, and I longed to join them, but dared not.  I
remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before from
the barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I
might hereafter think it right to pursue, that for the present I would
remain quietly in my hovel, watching and endeavouring to discover the
motives which influenced their actions.

“The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun.  The young woman
arranged the cottage and prepared the food, and the youth departed
after the first meal.

“This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it.
The young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in
various laborious occupations within.  The old man, whom I soon
perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument or
in contemplation.  Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the
younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion.  They
performed towards him every little office of affection and duty with
gentleness, and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.

“They were not entirely happy.  The young man and his companion often
went apart and appeared to weep.  I saw no cause for their unhappiness,
but I was deeply affected by it.  If such lovely creatures were
miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,
should be wretched.  Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy?  They
possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every
luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands
when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,
they enjoyed one another’s company and speech, interchanging each day
looks of affection and kindness.  What did their tears imply?  Did they
really express pain?  I was at first unable to solve these questions,
but perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which
were at first enigmatic.

“A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of
the uneasiness of this amiable family:  it was poverty, and they
suffered that evil in a very distressing degree.  Their nourishment
consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden and the milk of
one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters
could scarcely procure food to support it.  They often, I believe,
suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two
younger cottagers, for several times they placed food before the old
man when they reserved none for themselves.

“This trait of kindness moved me sensibly.  I had been accustomed,
during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own
consumption, but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on
the cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and
roots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.

“I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist
their labours.  I found that the youth spent a great part of each day
in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night I often
took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home
firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.

“I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she
opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great
pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the
youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure,
that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the
cottage and cultivating the garden.

“By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that
these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and
feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words
they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the
minds and countenances of the hearers.  This was indeed a godlike science,
and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in
every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and
the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible
objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the
mystery of their reference.  By great application, however, and after having
remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I
discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of
discourse; I learned and applied the words, _fire, milk, bread,_ and
_wood._ I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth
and his companion had each of them several names, but the old man had only
one, which was _father._ The girl was called _sister_ or
_Agatha,_ and the youth _Felix, brother,_ or _son_. I cannot
describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of
these sounds and was able to pronounce them.  I distinguished several other
words without being able as yet to understand or apply them, such as _good,
dearest, unhappy._

“I spent the winter in this manner.  The gentle manners and beauty of
the cottagers greatly endeared them to me; when they were unhappy, I
felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys.  I saw
few human beings besides them, and if any other happened to enter the
cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the
superior accomplishments of my friends.  The old man, I could perceive,
often endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that
he called them, to cast off their melancholy.  He would talk in a
cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure
even upon me.  Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled
with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I
generally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after
having listened to the exhortations of her father.  It was not thus
with Felix.  He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his
friends.  But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more
cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old
man.

“I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight, marked
the dispositions of these amiable cottagers.  In the midst of poverty
and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little
white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground.  Early in
the morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that
obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and
brought the wood from the outhouse, where, to his perpetual
astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible
hand.  In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring
farmer, because he often went forth and did not return until dinner,
yet brought no wood with him.  At other times he worked in the garden,
but as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old
man and Agatha.

“This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees I
discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when
he talked.  I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs
for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend
these also; but how was that possible when I did not even understand
the sounds for which they stood as signs?  I improved, however,
sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of
conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour, for I
easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to
the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become
master of their language, which knowledge might enable me to make them
overlook the deformity of my figure, for with this also the contrast
perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.

“I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers—their grace, beauty,
and delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed myself
in a transparent pool!  At first I started back, unable to believe that
it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became
fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was
filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.
Alas!  I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable
deformity.

“As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow
vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth.  From this
time Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving indications of
impending famine disappeared.  Their food, as I afterwards found, was
coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.
Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, which they
dressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season
advanced.

“The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did
not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its
waters.  This frequently took place, but a high wind quickly dried the
earth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been.

“My mode of life in my hovel was uniform.  During the morning I
attended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispersed in
various occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent in
observing my friends.  When they had retired to rest, if there was any
moon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods and collected
my own food and fuel for the cottage.  When I returned, as often as it
was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow and performed those
offices that I had seen done by Felix.  I afterwards found that these
labours, performed by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and
once or twice I heard them, on these occasions, utter the words _good
spirit, wonderful_; but I did not then understand the signification
of these terms.

“My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the
motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to
know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad.  I thought
(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to
these deserving people.  When I slept or was absent, the forms of the
venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix
flitted before me.  I looked upon them as superior beings who would be
the arbiters of my future destiny.  I formed in my imagination a
thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of
me.  I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle
demeanour and conciliating words, I should first win their favour and
afterwards their love.

“These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to
the acquiring the art of language.  My organs were indeed harsh, but
supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their
tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease.
It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose
intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved
better treatment than blows and execration.

“The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the
aspect of the earth.  Men who before this change seemed to have been
hid in caves dispersed themselves and were employed in various arts of
cultivation.  The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves
began to bud forth on the trees.  Happy, happy earth!  Fit habitation
for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and
unwholesome.  My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of
nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil,
and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy.”





Chapter 13

“I now hasten to the more moving part of my story.  I shall relate
events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,
have made me what I am.

“Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies
cloudless.  It surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy
should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure.  My
senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight and
a thousand sights of beauty.

“It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested
from labour—the old man played on his guitar, and the children
listened to him—that I observed the countenance of Felix was
melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once his father
paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired
the cause of his son’s sorrow.  Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and
the old man was recommencing his music when someone tapped at the door.

“It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide.
The lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black
veil.  Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied by
pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix.  Her voice was
musical but unlike that of either of my friends.  On hearing this word,
Felix came up hastily to the lady, who, when she saw him, threw up her
veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression.  Her
hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were
dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular
proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with
a lovely pink.

“Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of
sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of
ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his
eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I
thought him as beautiful as the stranger.  She appeared affected by
different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held
out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as
well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian.  She did not appear to
understand him, but smiled.  He assisted her to dismount, and
dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage.  Some
conversation took place between him and his father, and the young
stranger knelt at the old man’s feet and would have kissed his hand,
but he raised her and embraced her affectionately.

“I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds
and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood
by nor herself understood the cottagers.  They made many signs which I
did not comprehend, but I saw that her presence diffused gladness
through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the
morning mists.  Felix seemed peculiarly happy and with smiles of
delight welcomed his Arabian.  Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed
the hands of the lovely stranger, and pointing to her brother, made
signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she
came.  Some hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances,
expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend.  Presently I
found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which the stranger
repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language;
and the idea instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the
same instructions to the same end.  The stranger learned about twenty
words at the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had
before understood, but I profited by the others.

“As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early.  When they
separated Felix kissed the hand of the stranger and said, ‘Good night
sweet Safie.’  He sat up much longer, conversing with his father, and
by the frequent repetition of her name I conjectured that their lovely
guest was the subject of their conversation.  I ardently desired to
understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.

“The next morning Felix went out to his work, and after the usual
occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the
old man, and taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly
beautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my
eyes.  She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or
dying away like a nightingale of the woods.

“When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first
declined it.  She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in
sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger.  The old
man appeared enraptured and said some words which Agatha endeavoured to
explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that she
bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.

“The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration
that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.
Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the
knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most
of the words uttered by my protectors.

“In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and
the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the
scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;
the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal
rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun, for I never
ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same
treatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered.

“My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily
master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than
the Arabian, who understood very little and conversed in broken
accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that
was spoken.

“While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters as
it was taught to the stranger, and this opened before me a wide field
for wonder and delight.

“The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney’s _Ruins
of Empires_. I should not have understood the purport of this book had not
Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this
work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the
Eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of history
and a view of the several empires at present existing in the world; it gave
me an insight into the manners, governments, and religions of the different
nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics, of the stupendous
genius and mental activity of the Grecians, of the wars and wonderful virtue
of the early Romans—of their subsequent degenerating—of the
decline of that mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard
of the discovery of the American hemisphere and wept with Safie over the
hapless fate of its original inhabitants.

“These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings.  Was
man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so
vicious and base?  He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil
principle and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and
godlike.  To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour
that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on
record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more
abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm.  For a long time I
could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or
even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of
vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away with disgust and
loathing.

“Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me.
While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the
Arabian, the strange system of human society was explained to me.  I
heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid
poverty, of rank, descent, and noble blood.

“The words induced me to turn towards myself.  I learned that the
possessions most esteemed by your fellow creatures were high and
unsullied descent united with riches.  A man might be respected with
only one of these advantages, but without either he was considered,
except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to
waste his powers for the profits of the chosen few!  And what was I? Of
my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I
possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property.  I was, besides,
endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even
of the same nature as man.  I was more agile than they and could
subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with
less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs.  When I looked
around I saw and heard of none like me.  Was I, then, a monster, a blot
upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?

“I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted
upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with
knowledge.  Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor
known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!

“Of what a strange nature is knowledge!  It clings to the mind when it
has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock.  I wished sometimes to
shake off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one
means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state
which I feared yet did not understand.  I admired virtue and good
feelings and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers, but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except
through means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and
unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of
becoming one among my fellows.  The gentle words of Agatha and  the
animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me.  The mild
exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of the loved
Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!

“Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply.  I heard of the
difference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children, how the
father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the
older child, how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up
in the precious charge, how the mind of youth expanded and gained
knowledge, of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which
bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.

“But where were my friends and relations?  No father had watched my
infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if
they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I
distinguished nothing.  From my earliest remembrance I had been as I
then was in height and proportion.  I had never yet seen a being
resembling me or who claimed any intercourse with me.  What was I?  The
question again recurred, to be answered only with groans.

“I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow me now to
return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various
feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated
in additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in
an innocent, half-painful self-deceit, to call them).”





Chapter 14

“Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends.  It was
one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding
as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to
one so utterly inexperienced as I was.

“The name of the old man was De Lacey.  He was descended from a good
family in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence,
respected by his superiors and beloved by his equals.  His son was bred
in the service of his country, and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the
highest distinction.  A few months before my arrival they had lived in
a large and luxurious city called Paris, surrounded by friends and
possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or
taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.

“The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin.  He was a
Turkish merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some
reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government.
He was seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from
Constantinople to join him.  He was tried and condemned to death.  The
injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant;
and it was judged that his religion and wealth rather than the crime
alleged against him had been the cause of his condemnation.

“Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and
indignation were uncontrollable when he heard the decision of the
court.  He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him and then
looked around for the means.  After many fruitless attempts to gain
admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window in an
unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the
unfortunate Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the
execution of the barbarous sentence.  Felix visited the grate at night
and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour.  The Turk,
amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer
by promises of reward and wealth.  Felix rejected his offers with
contempt, yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit
her father and who by her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the
youth could not help owning to his own mind that the captive possessed
a treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.

“The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made
on the heart of Felix and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in
his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage so soon as he
should be conveyed to a place of safety.  Felix was too delicate to
accept this offer, yet he looked forward to the probability of the
event as to the consummation of his happiness.

“During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for
the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several
letters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to
express her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old
man, a servant of her father who understood French.  She thanked him in
the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her parent, and
at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.

“I have copies of these letters, for I found means, during my residence
in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters
were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha.  Before I depart I will
give them to you; they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present,
as the sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat
the substance of them to you.

“Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a
slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of
the father of Safie, who married her.  The young girl spoke in high and
enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced.  She instructed her daughter in
the tenets of her religion and taught her to aspire to higher powers of
intellect and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female
followers of Muhammad.  This lady died, but her lessons were indelibly
impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again
returning to Asia and being immured within the walls of a harem,
allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill-suited to
the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble
emulation for virtue.  The prospect of marrying a Christian and
remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in
society was enchanting to her.

“The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the night
previous to it he quitted his prison and before morning was distant
many leagues from Paris.  Felix had procured passports in the name of
his father, sister, and himself.  He had previously communicated his
plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under
the pretence of a journey and concealed himself, with his daughter, in
an obscure part of Paris.

“Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons and across Mont
Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable
opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.

“Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his
departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she
should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in
expectation of that event; and in the meantime he enjoyed the society
of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest
affection.  They conversed with one another through the means of an
interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie
sang to him the divine airs of her native country.

“The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes
of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other
plans.  He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a
Christian, but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear
lukewarm, for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer
if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they
inhabited.  He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled
to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and
secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed.  His plans
were facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.

“The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their
victim and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer.  The
plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were
thrown into prison.  The news reached Felix and roused him from his
dream of pleasure.  His blind and aged father and his gentle sister lay
in a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed the free air and the society of
her whom he loved.  This idea was torture to him.  He quickly arranged
with the Turk that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity
for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a
boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,
he hastened to Paris and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the
law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.

“He did not succeed.  They remained confined for five months before the
trial took place, the result of which deprived them of their fortune
and condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country.

“They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I
discovered them.  Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for
whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on
discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin,
became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy with
his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him,
as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.

“Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered
him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family.  He could
have endured poverty, and while this distress had been the meed of his
virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss
of his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable.  The
arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.

“When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth
and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her
lover, but to prepare to return to her native country.  The generous
nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to
expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his
tyrannical mandate.

“A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter’s apartment and told
her hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn
had been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered up to the
French government; he had consequently hired a vessel to convey him to
Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours.  He
intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential
servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his
property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.

“When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it
would become her to pursue in this emergency.  A residence in Turkey
was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike averse
to it.  By some papers of her father which fell into her hands she
heard of the exile of her lover and learnt the name of the spot where
he then resided.  She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her
determination.  Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a
sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn,
but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for
Germany.

“She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage
of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill.  Safie nursed her
with the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died, and the
Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country
and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world.  She fell, however,
into good hands.  The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for
which they were bound, and after her death the woman of the house in
which they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at
the cottage of her lover.”





Chapter 15

“Such was the history of my beloved cottagers.  It impressed me deeply.
I learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire
their virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind.

“As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and
generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to
become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities
were called forth and displayed.  But in giving an account of the
progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred
in the beginning of the month of August of the same year.

“One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood where I
collected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on
the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles of dress and
some books.  I eagerly seized the prize and returned with it to my hovel. 
Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I
had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of _Paradise Lost_, a volume
of _Plutarch’s Lives_, and the _Sorrows of Werter_. The
possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually
studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were
employed in their ordinary occupations.

“I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books.  They produced
in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me
to ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection.  In
the _Sorrows of Werter_, besides the interest of its simple and affecting
story, so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon
what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found in it a
never-ending source of speculation and astonishment.  The gentle and
domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and
feelings, which had for their object something out of self, accorded
well with my experience among my protectors and with the wants which
were for ever alive in my own bosom.  But I thought Werter himself a
more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character
contained no pretension, but it sank deep.  The disquisitions upon
death and suicide were calculated to fill  me with wonder.  I did not
pretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards
the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely
understanding it.

“As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and
condition.  I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely
unlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I
was a listener.  I sympathised with and partly understood them, but I
was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and related to none.
‘The path of my departure was free,’ and there was none to lament my
annihilation.  My person was hideous and my stature gigantic.  What did
this mean?  Who was I?  What was I?  Whence did I come?  What was my
destination?  These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to
solve them.

“The volume of _Plutarch’s Lives_ which I possessed contained the
histories of the first founders of the ancient republics.  This book
had a far different effect upon me from the _Sorrows of Werter_.  I
learned from Werter’s imaginations despondency and gloom, but Plutarch
taught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my
own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages.  Many
things I read surpassed my understanding and experience.  I had a very
confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers,
and boundless seas.  But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and
large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the
only school in which I had studied human nature, but this book
developed new and mightier scenes of action.  I read of men concerned
in public affairs, governing or massacring their species.  I felt the
greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as
far as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they
were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone.  Induced by these
feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa,
Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus.  The
patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take a
firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had
been made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should
have been imbued with different sensations.

“But _Paradise Lost_ excited different and far deeper emotions.  I read
it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as
a true history.  It moved every feeling of wonder and awe that the
picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of
exciting.  I often referred the several situations, as their similarity
struck me, to my own.  Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to
any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine
in every other respect.  He had come forth from the hands of God a
perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of
his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge from
beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition, for
often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter
gall of envy rose within me.

“Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings.  Soon
after my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers in the pocket of
the dress which I had taken from your laboratory.  At first I had
neglected them, but now that I was able to decipher the characters in
which they were written, I began to study them with diligence.  It was
your journal of the four months that preceded my creation.  You
minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress
of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic
occurrences.  You doubtless recollect these papers.  Here they are.
Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed
origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances
which produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious
and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own
horrors and rendered mine indelible.  I sickened as I read.  ‘Hateful
day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony.  ‘Accursed creator!
Why did you form a monster so hideous that even _you_ turned from me in
disgust?  God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own
image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the
very resemblance.  Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire
and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.’

“These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude;
but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and
benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should
become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues they  would
compassionate me and overlook my personal deformity.  Could they turn
from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion
and friendship?  I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way
to fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate.  I
postponed this attempt for some months longer, for the importance
attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail.
Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every
day’s experience that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking
until a few more months should have added to my sagacity.

“Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage.  The
presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants, and I also
found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there.  Felix and Agatha
spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted in
their labours by servants.  They did not appear rich, but they were
contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while
mine became every day more tumultuous.  Increase of knowledge only
discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was.  I
cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person
reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail
image and that inconstant shade.

“I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial
which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my
thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and
dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my
feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation.  But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my
sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone.  I remembered Adam’s
supplication to his Creator.  But where was mine?  He had abandoned me,
and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.

“Autumn passed thus.  I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay
and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it
had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon.  Yet I did
not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my
conformation for the endurance of cold than heat.  But my chief
delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay
apparel of summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention
towards the cottagers.  Their happiness was not decreased by the
absence of summer.  They loved and sympathised with one another; and
their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the
casualties that took place around them.  The more I saw of them, the
greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my
heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see
their sweet looks directed towards me with affection was the utmost
limit of my ambition.  I dared not think that they would turn them from
me with disdain and horror.  The poor that stopped at their door were
never driven away.  I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a
little food or rest:  I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not
believe myself utterly unworthy of it.

“The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken
place since I awoke into life.  My attention at this time was solely
directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my
protectors.  I revolved many projects, but that on which I finally
fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone.
I had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my
person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly
beheld me.  My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I
thought, therefore, that if in the absence of his children I could gain
the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might by his means
be tolerated by my younger protectors.

“One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground
and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha,
and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own
desire, was left alone in the cottage.  When his children had departed,
he took up his guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more
sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before.  At first his
countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued,
thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the
instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.

“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which
would decide my hopes or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a
neighbouring fair.  All was silent in and around the cottage; it was an
excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my
limbs failed me and I sank to the ground.  Again I rose, and exerting
all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had
placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat.  The fresh air revived
me, and with renewed determination I approached the door of their
cottage.

“I knocked. ‘Who is there?’ said the old man. ‘Come in.’

“I entered. ‘Pardon this intrusion,’ said I; ‘I am
a traveller in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me if you
would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.’

“‘Enter,’ said De Lacey, ‘and I will try in what
manner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are
from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to
procure food for you.’

“‘Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is
warmth and rest only that I need.’

“I sat down, and a silence ensued.  I knew that every minute was
precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence
the interview, when the old man addressed me.

‘By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you
French?’

“‘No; but I was educated by a French family and understand that
language only.  I am now going to claim the protection of some friends,
whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.’

“‘Are they Germans?’

“‘No, they are French.  But let us change the subject.  I am an
unfortunate and deserted creature, I look around and I have no relation
or friend upon earth.  These amiable people to whom I go have never
seen me and know little of me.  I am full of fears, for if I fail
there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.’

“‘Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but
the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are
full of brotherly love and charity.  Rely, therefore, on your hopes;
and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.’

“‘They are kind—they are the most excellent creatures in the world;
but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me.  I have good
dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless and in some degree
beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they
ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable
monster.’

“‘That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot
you undeceive them?’

“‘I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I
feel so many overwhelming terrors.  I tenderly love these friends; I
have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily
kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and
it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.’

“‘Where do these friends reside?’

“‘Near this spot.’

“The old man paused and then continued, ‘If you will unreservedly
confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in
undeceiving them.  I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance, but
there is something in your words which persuades me that you are
sincere.  I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true pleasure
to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.’

“‘Excellent man!  I thank you and accept your generous offer.  You
raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid,
I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow
creatures.’

“‘Heaven forbid!  Even if you were really criminal, for that can only
drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue.  I also am
unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent;
judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’

“‘How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor?  From your lips
first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall
be for ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success
with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.’

“‘May I know the names and residence of those friends?’

“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to
rob me of or bestow happiness on me for ever.  I struggled vainly for
firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my
remaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud.  At that
moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors.  I had not a moment
to lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, ‘Now is the
time!  Save and protect me!  You and your family are the friends whom I
seek.  Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!’

“‘Great God!’ exclaimed the old man.  ‘Who are you?’

“At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and
Agatha entered.  Who can describe their horror and consternation on
beholding me?  Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend to her
friend, rushed out of the cottage.  Felix darted forward, and with
supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung, in
a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me violently
with a stick.  I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends
the antelope.  But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and
I refrained.  I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when,
overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general
tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel.”





Chapter 16

“Cursed, cursed creator!  Why did I live?  Why, in that instant, did I
not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly
bestowed?  I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my
feelings were those of rage and revenge.  I could with pleasure have
destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself with
their shrieks and misery.

“When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood; and
now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my
anguish in fearful howlings.  I was like a wild beast that had broken
the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and ranging
through the wood with a stag-like swiftness.  Oh!  What a miserable
night I passed!  The cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees
waved their branches above me; now and then the sweet voice of a bird
burst forth amidst the universal stillness.  All, save I, were at rest
or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me, and
finding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the trees, spread
havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed
the ruin.

“But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became
fatigued with excess of bodily exertion and sank on the damp grass in
the sick impotence of despair.  There was none among the myriads of men
that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness
towards my enemies?  No; from that moment I declared everlasting war
against the species, and more than all, against him who had formed me
and sent me forth to this insupportable misery.

“The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was
impossible to return to my retreat during that day.  Accordingly I hid
myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours
to reflection on my situation.

“The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me to some
degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the
cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my
conclusions.  I had certainly acted imprudently.  It was apparent that
my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and  I was a
fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children.  I
ought to have familiarised the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to
have discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should have
been  prepared for my approach.  But I did not believe my errors to be
irretrievable, and after much consideration I resolved to return to the
cottage, seek the old man, and by my representations win him to my
party.

“These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound
sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by
peaceful dreams.  The horrible scene of the preceding day was for ever
acting before my eyes; the females were flying and the enraged Felix
tearing me from his father’s feet.  I awoke exhausted, and finding that
it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in
search of food.

“When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the
well-known path that conducted to the cottage.  All there was at peace.
I crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation of the
accustomed hour when the family arose.  That hour passed, the sun
mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear.  I
trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune.  The inside
of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the
agony of this suspense.

“Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage, they
entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not
understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country,
which differed from that of my protectors.  Soon after, however, Felix
approached with another man; I was surprised, as I knew that he had not
quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover from
his discourse the meaning of these unusual appearances.

“‘Do you consider,’ said his companion to him,
‘that you will be obliged to pay three months’ rent and to lose
the produce of your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and
I beg therefore that you will take some days to consider of your
determination.’

“‘It is utterly useless,’ replied Felix; ‘we can
never again inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest
danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and
my sister will never recover from their horror. I entreat you not to reason
with me any more. Take possession of your tenement and let me fly from this
place.’

“Felix trembled violently as he said this.  He and his companion
entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then
departed.  I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.

“I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of
utter and stupid despair.  My protectors had departed and had broken
the only link that held me to the world.  For the first time the
feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to
control them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I
bent my mind towards injury and death.  When I thought of my friends,
of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the
exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and a gush of
tears somewhat soothed me.  But again when I reflected that they had
spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to
injure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects.  As
night advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage,
and after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden,
I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my
operations.

“As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods and quickly
dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens; the blast tore
along like a mighty avalanche and produced a kind of insanity in my
spirits that burst all bounds of reason and reflection.  I lighted the
dry branch of a tree and danced with fury around the devoted cottage,
my eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon
nearly touched.  A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my
brand; it sank, and with a loud scream I fired the straw, and heath,
and bushes, which I had collected.  The wind fanned the fire, and the
cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it and
licked it with their forked and destroying tongues.

“As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of
the habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.

“And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps?  I
resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated
and despised, every country must be equally horrible.  At length the
thought of you crossed my mind.  I learned from your papers that you
were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness
than to him who had given me life?  Among the lessons that Felix had
bestowed upon Safie, geography had not been omitted; I had learned from
these the relative situations of the different countries of the earth.
You had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town, and towards
this place I resolved to proceed.

“But how was I to direct myself?  I knew that I must travel in a
southwesterly direction to reach my destination, but the sun was my
only guide.  I did not know the names of the towns that I was to pass
through, nor could I ask information from a single human being; but I
did not despair.  From you only could I hope for succour, although
towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred.  Unfeeling,
heartless creator!  You had endowed me with perceptions and passions
and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind.
But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I
determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from
any other being that wore the human form.

“My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense.  It was
late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided.
I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a
human being.  Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless;
rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface
of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter.  Oh,
earth!  How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being!  The
mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall
and bitterness.  The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more
deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart.  Snow
fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not.  A few incidents
now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I
often wandered wide from my path.  The agony of my feelings allowed me
no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could
not extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived
on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth
and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial
manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings.

“I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was
secured by night from the view of man.  One morning, however, finding
that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey
after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring,
cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of
the air.  I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long
appeared dead, revive within me.  Half surprised by the novelty of
these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and
forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.  Soft tears
again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with
thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me.

“I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its
boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many
of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring.
Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard
the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade
of a cypress.  I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running
towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from
someone in sport.  She continued her course along the precipitous sides
of the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the
rapid stream.  I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour,
from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore.  She
was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power to restore
animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic,
who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled.  On
seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms,
hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood.  I followed speedily, I
hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun,
which he carried, at my body and fired.  I sank to the ground, and my
injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.

“This was then the reward of my benevolence!  I had saved a human being
from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the miserable
pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone.  The feelings of
kindness and gentleness which I had entertained but a few moments
before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.  Inflamed by
pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.  But the
agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.

“For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to
cure the wound which I had received.  The ball had entered my shoulder,
and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at any
rate I had no means of extracting it.  My sufferings were augmented
also by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their
infliction.  My daily vows rose for revenge—a deep and deadly revenge,
such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had
endured.

“After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey.  The
labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or
gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery which insulted my
desolate state and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for
the enjoyment of pleasure.

“But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time I
reached the environs of Geneva.

“It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among
the fields that surround it to meditate in what manner I should apply
to you.  I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger and far too unhappy to
enjoy the gentle breezes of evening or the prospect of the sun setting
behind the stupendous mountains of Jura.

“At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection,
which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came
running into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of
infancy.  Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me that this
little creature was unprejudiced and had lived too short a time to have
imbibed a horror of deformity.  If, therefore, I could seize him and
educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in
this peopled earth.

“Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed and drew him
towards me.  As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before
his eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forcibly from his
face and said, ‘Child, what is the meaning of this?  I do not intend to
hurt you; listen to me.’

“He struggled violently. ‘Let me go,’ he cried;
‘monster! Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces. You
are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa.’

“‘Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.’

“‘Hideous monster!  Let me go.  My papa is a syndic—he is M.
Frankenstein—he will punish you.  You dare not keep me.’

“‘Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy—to him towards whom I have
sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.’

“The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets which carried
despair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a
moment he lay dead at my feet.

“I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish
triumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed, ‘I too can create desolation;
my enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and
a thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him.’

“As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his
breast.  I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman.  In spite
of my malignity, it softened and attracted me.  For a few moments I
gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her
lovely lips; but presently my rage returned; I remembered that I was
for ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could
bestow and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in
regarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity to one
expressive of disgust and affright.

“Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage?  I only
wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in
exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish in the
attempt to destroy them.

“While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had
committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I
entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty.  A woman was
sleeping on some straw; she was young, not indeed so beautiful as her
whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect and blooming in the
loveliness of youth and health.  Here, I thought, is one of those whose
joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me.  And then I bent over
her and whispered, ‘Awake, fairest, thy lover is near—he who would
give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my
beloved, awake!’

“The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me.  Should she
indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus
would she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened and she beheld me.
The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me—not I, but
she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I am for ever
robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone.  The crime had
its source in her; be hers the punishment!  Thanks to the lessons of
Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work
mischief.  I bent over her and placed the portrait securely in one of
the folds of her dress.  She moved again, and I fled.

“For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,
sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and
its miseries for ever.  At length I wandered towards these mountains,
and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning
passion which you alone can gratify.  We may not part until you have
promised to comply with my requisition.  I am alone and miserable; man
will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself
would not deny herself to me.  My companion must be of the same species
and have the same defects.  This being you must create.”





Chapter 17

The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the
expectation of a reply.  But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to
arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his
proposition.  He continued,

“You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being.  This you alone
can do, and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to
concede.”

The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had
died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and
as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within
me.

“I do refuse it,” I replied; “and no torture shall ever extort a
consent from me.  You may render me the most miserable of men, but you
shall never make me base in my own eyes.  Shall I create another like
yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world.  Begone!  I
have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent.”

“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and instead
of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I
am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator,
would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I
should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder if you
could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame, the
work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him
live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would
bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance.
But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our
union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will
revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and
chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear
inextinguishable hatred. Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor
finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of
your birth.”

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled
into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently
he calmed himself and proceeded—

“I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me, for you do
not reflect that _you_ are the cause of its excess. If any being felt
emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a
hundredfold; for that one creature’s sake I would make peace with the
whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised.
What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of
another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it
is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be
monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more
attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be
harmless and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me
happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I
excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my
request!”

I was moved.  I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences
of my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument.
His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature
of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion
of happiness that it was in my power to bestow?  He saw my change of
feeling and continued,

“If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see
us again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America.  My food is not
that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite;
acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment.  My companion will
be of the same nature as myself and will be content with the same fare.
We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on
man and will ripen our food.  The picture I present to you is peaceful
and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the
wantonness of power and cruelty.  Pitiless as you have been towards me,
I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment
and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire.”

“You propose,” replied I, “to fly from the habitations of
man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your
only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,
persevere in this exile? You will return and again seek their kindness, and
you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed,
and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction.
This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent.”

“How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved by
my representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints?
I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that
with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of man and
dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions
will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly
away, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker.”

His words had a strange effect upon me.  I compassionated him and
sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him, when
I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened and my
feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred.  I tried to stifle
these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathise with him, I
had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which
was yet in my power to bestow.

“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not
already shown a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust
you? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by
affording a wider scope for your revenge?”

“How is this?  I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer.  If
I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion;
the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall
become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant.  My vices
are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will
necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal.  I shall feel
the affections of a sensitive being and become linked to the chain of
existence and events from which I am now excluded.”

I paused some time to reflect on all he had related and the various
arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which
he had displayed on the opening of his existence and the subsequent blight
of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had
manifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my
calculations; a creature who could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers
and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices
was a being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a
long pause of reflection I concluded that the justice due both to him and
my fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request.
Turning to him, therefore, I said,

“I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,
and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall
deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile.”

“I swear,” he cried, “by the sun, and by the blue sky of
heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my
prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your
home and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with
unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall
appear.”

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in
my sentiments.  I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than
the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the
sea of ice.

His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of
the horizon when he departed.  I knew that I ought to hasten my descent
towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my
heart was heavy, and my steps slow.  The labour of winding among the
little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced
perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences
of the day had produced.  Night was far advanced when I came to the
halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain.  The stars
shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines
rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the
ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange
thoughts within me.  I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I
exclaimed, “Oh! stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock
me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as
nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness.”

These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you
how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I
listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its
way to consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no
rest, but returned immediately to Geneva.  Even in my own heart I could
give no expression to my sensations—they weighed on me with a
mountain’s weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them.
Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the
family.  My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I
answered no question, scarcely did I speak.  I felt as if I were placed
under a ban—as if I had no right to claim their sympathies—as if
never more might I enjoy companionship with them.  Yet even thus I
loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate
myself to my most abhorred task.  The prospect of such an occupation
made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream,
and that thought only had to me the reality of life.





Chapter 18

Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and
I could not collect the courage to recommence my work.  I feared the
vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my
repugnance to the task which was enjoined me.  I found that I could not
compose a female without again devoting several months to profound
study and laborious disquisition.  I had heard of some discoveries
having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was
material to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my
father’s consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to
every pretence of delay and shrank from taking the first step in an
undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to
me.  A change indeed had taken place in me; my health, which had
hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when
unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably.  My
father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts
towards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,
which every now and then would return by fits, and with a devouring
blackness overcast the approaching sunshine.  At these moments I took
refuge in the most perfect solitude.  I passed whole days on the lake
alone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the
rippling of the waves, silent and listless.  But the fresh air and
bright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure, and
on my return I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile
and a more cheerful heart.

It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father,
calling me aside, thus addressed me,

“I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former
pleasures and seem to be returning to yourself.  And yet you are still
unhappy and still avoid our society.  For some time I was lost in
conjecture as to the cause of this, but yesterday an idea struck me,
and if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it.  Reserve on such a
point would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all.”

I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued—

“I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your
marriage with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort and the
stay of my declining years. You were attached to each other from your
earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and
tastes, entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of
man that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan may have
entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any
wish that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another
whom you may love; and considering yourself as bound in honour to
Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you appear
to feel.”

“My dear father, reassure yourself.  I love my cousin tenderly and
sincerely.  I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my
warmest admiration and affection.  My future hopes and prospects are
entirely bound up in the expectation of our union.”

“The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor,
gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced.  If you
feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast
a gloom over us.  But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so
strong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate.  Tell me,
therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnisation of the
marriage.  We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us
from that everyday tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You
are younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent
fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future
plans of honour and utility that you may have formed.  Do not suppose,
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you or that a delay on
your part would cause me any serious uneasiness.  Interpret my words
with candour and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and
sincerity.”

I listened to my father in silence and remained for some time incapable
of offering any reply.  I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of
thoughts and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion.  Alas!  To me
the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and
dismay.  I was bound by a solemn promise which I had not yet fulfilled
and dared not break, or if I did, what manifold miseries might not
impend over me and my devoted family!  Could I enter into a festival
with this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck and bowing me to the
ground?  I must perform my engagement and let the monster depart with
his mate before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of a union from
which I expected peace.

I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to
England or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers
of that country whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable
use to me in my present undertaking.  The latter method of obtaining
the desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory; besides, I
had an insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my
loathsome task in my father’s house while in habits of familiar
intercourse with those I loved.  I knew that a thousand fearful
accidents might occur, the slightest of which would disclose a tale to
thrill all connected with me with horror.  I was aware also that I
should often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding the
harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of my
unearthly occupation.  I must absent myself from all I loved while thus
employed.  Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be
restored to my family in peace and happiness.  My promise fulfilled,
the monster would depart for ever.  Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some
accident might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my
slavery for ever.

These feelings dictated my answer to my father.  I expressed a wish to
visit England, but concealing the true reasons of this request, I
clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I
urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to
comply.  After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy that
resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find
that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey,
and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would, before my
return, have restored me entirely to myself.

The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or
at most a year, was the period contemplated.  One paternal kind
precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion.  Without
previously communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth,
arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasburgh.  This interfered
with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the
commencement of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be
an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many
hours of lonely, maddening reflection.  Nay, Henry might stand between
me and the intrusion of my foe.  If I were alone, would he not at times
force his abhorred presence on me to remind me of my task or to
contemplate its progress?

To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union
with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return.  My father’s
age rendered him extremely averse to delay.  For myself, there was one
reward I promised myself from my detested toils—one consolation for my
unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of that day when,
enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth and
forget the past in my union with her.

I now made arrangements for my journey, but one feeling haunted me
which filled me with fear and agitation.  During my absence I should
leave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy and
unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my
departure.  But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and
would he not accompany me to England?  This imagination was dreadful in
itself, but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.
I was agonised with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of
this might happen.  But through the whole period during which I was the
slave of my creature I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of
the moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend
would follow me and exempt my family from the danger of his
machinations.

It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native
country.  My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth
therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of
my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief.  It had
been her care which provided me a companion in Clerval—and yet a man
is blind to a thousand minute circumstances which call forth a woman’s
sedulous attention.  She longed to bid me hasten my return; a thousand
conflicting emotions rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent
farewell.

I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly
knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around.
I remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on
it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with
me.  Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful
and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving.  I could
only think of the bourne of my travels and the work which was to occupy
me whilst they endured.

After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed
many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for
Clerval.  He came.  Alas, how great was the contrast between us!  He
was alive to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the
setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new
day.  He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape and
the appearances of the sky.  “This is what it is to live,” he cried;
“now I enjoy existence!  But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are
you desponding and sorrowful!” In truth, I was occupied by gloomy
thoughts and neither saw the descent of the evening star nor the golden
sunrise reflected in the Rhine.  And you, my friend, would be far more
amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an
eye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections.  I, a
miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to
enjoyment.

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to
Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London.  During this
voyage we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns.
We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure from
Strasburgh, arrived at Mainz.  The course of the Rhine below Mainz
becomes much more picturesque.  The river descends rapidly and winds
between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms.  We saw
many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by
black woods, high and inaccessible.  This part of the Rhine, indeed,
presents a singularly variegated landscape.  In one spot you view
rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with
the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,
flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river
and populous towns occupy the scene.

We travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song of the labourers
as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits
continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the
bottom of the boat, and as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to
drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these
were my sensations, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had
been transported to Fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by
man. “I have seen,” he said, “the most beautiful scenes
of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the
snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black
and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance
were it not for the most verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay
appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore
up whirlwinds of water and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be
on the great ocean; and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain,
where the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and
where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the
nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud;
but this country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The
mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange, but there is a
charm in the banks of this divine river that I never before saw equalled.
Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the
island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now
that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village
half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits
and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who
pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of
our own country.”

Clerval! Beloved friend! Even now it delights me to record your words and
to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a
being formed in the “very poetry of nature.” His wild and
enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His
soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that
devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only
in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient to
satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature, which others regard
only with admiration, he loved with ardour:—

     ——The sounding cataract
     Haunted him like a passion:  the tall rock,
     The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
     Their colours and their forms, were then to him
     An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
     That had no need of a remoter charm,
     By thought supplied, or any interest
     Unborrow’d from the eye.
     
                    [Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”.]



And where does he now exist?  Is this gentle and lovely being lost
for ever?  Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful
and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the
life of its creator;—has this mind perished?  Does it now only exist
in my memory?  No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and
beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and
consoles your unhappy friend.

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight
tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,
overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates.  I will
proceed with my tale.

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to
post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the stream of
the river was too gentle to aid us.

Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we
arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.
It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw
the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene;
they were flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the
remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish
Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich—places which I had heard
of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s towering
above all, and the Tower famed in English history.





Chapter 19

London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several
months in this wonderful and celebrated city.  Clerval desired the
intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this
time, but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally
occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the
completion of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of
introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most
distinguished natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,
it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure.  But a blight had
come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of
the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest
was so terribly profound.  Company was irksome to me; when alone, I
could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of
Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory
peace.  But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to
my heart.  I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my
fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and
Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled
my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive
and anxious to gain experience and instruction.  The difference of
manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of
instruction and amusement.  He was also pursuing an object he had long
had in view.  His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had
in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had
taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of
European colonization and trade.  In Britain only could he further the
execution of his plan.  He was for ever busy, and the only check to his
enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind.  I tried to conceal this
as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures
natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by
any care or bitter recollection.  I often refused to accompany him,
alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone.  I now also
began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this
was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling
on the head.  Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme
anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips
to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in
Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the
beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient
allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth,
where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I,
although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams and
all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.

We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now
February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the
north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not
intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford,
Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of
this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments and
the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some
obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at
Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest.  This was a new scene to us
mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of
stately deer were all novelties to us.

From thence we proceeded to Oxford.  As we entered this city, our minds
were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted
there more than a century and a half before.  It was here that Charles
I. had collected his forces.  This city had remained faithful to him,
after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of
Parliament and liberty.  The memory of that unfortunate king and his
companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and
son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city which they
might be supposed to have inhabited.  The spirit of elder days found a
dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps.  If these
feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of
the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration.
The colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost
magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows
of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,
which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and
domes, embosomed among aged trees.

I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the
memory of the past and the anticipation of the future.  I was formed
for peaceful happiness.  During my youthful days discontent never
visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by _ennui_, the sight of what
is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent and sublime in
the productions of man could always interest my heart and communicate
elasticity to my spirits.  But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has
entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what
I shall soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity,
pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs
and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most
animating epoch of English history.  Our little voyages of discovery
were often prolonged by the successive objects that presented
themselves.  We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden and the
field on which that patriot fell.  For a moment my soul was elevated
from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas
of liberty and self-sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments
and the remembrancers.  For an instant I dared to shake off my chains
and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten
into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my
miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next
place of rest.  The country in the neighbourhood of this village
resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but
everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of
distant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains of my
native country.  We visited the wondrous cave and the little cabinets
of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same
manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix.  The latter name
made me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit
Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in
Cumberland and Westmorland.  I could now almost fancy myself among the
Swiss mountains.  The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the
northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the
rocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me.  Here also we
made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into
happiness.  The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than
mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found
in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have
imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his
inferiors.  “I could pass my life here,” said he to me; “and among
these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine.”

But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes much pain
amidst its enjoyments.  His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and
when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit
that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again
engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland
and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the period
of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them
to travel on.  For my own part I was not sorry.  I had now neglected my
promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the dæmon’s
disappointment.  He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance
on my relatives.  This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment
from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace.  I waited
for my letters with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was
miserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived and I
saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to
read and ascertain my fate.  Sometimes I thought that the fiend
followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.
When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment,
but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of
his destroyer.  I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the
consciousness of which haunted me.  I was guiltless, but I had indeed
drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might
have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well
as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him.
But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic
castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur’s
Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him for
the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was
impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew’s, and
along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us.
But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into
their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and
accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
alone.  “Do you,” said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this be our
rendezvous.  I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with
my motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short
time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more
congenial to your own temper.”

Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to
remonstrate.  He entreated me to write often.  “I had rather be with
you,” he said, “in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch
people, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my dear  friend, to return,
that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in
your absence.”

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of
Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the
monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have
finished, that he might receive his companion.

With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of
the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place
fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were
continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely
affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its
inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs
gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they
indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from
the mainland, which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of
these was vacant when I arrived.  This I hired.  It contained but two
rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable
penury.  The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the
door was off its hinges.  I ordered it to be repaired, bought some
furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have
occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been
benumbed by want and squalid poverty.  As it was, I lived ungazed at
and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes
which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations
of men.

In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening,
when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to
listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet.  It was a
monotonous yet ever-changing scene.  I thought of Switzerland; it was
far different from this desolate and appalling landscape.  Its hills
are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the
plains.  Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when
troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively
infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.

In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but
as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and
irksome to me.  Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my
laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night
in order to complete my work.  It was, indeed, a filthy process in
which I was engaged.  During my first experiment, a kind of
enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my
mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes
were shut to the horror of my proceedings.  But now I went to it in
cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in
a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from
the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I
grew restless and nervous.  Every moment I feared to meet my
persecutor.  Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing
to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much
dreaded to behold.  I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow
creatures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion.

In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably
advanced.  I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager
hope, which I dared not trust myself to question but which was
intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken
in my bosom.





Chapter 20

I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just
rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I
remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my
labour for the night or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention
to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me which led me to
consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before, I was
engaged in the same manner and had created a fiend whose unparalleled
barbarity had desolated my heart and filled it for ever with the bitterest
remorse. I was now about to form another being of whose dispositions I was
alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her
mate and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had
sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she
had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and
reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her
creation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived
loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence
for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn
with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him,
and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being
deserted by one of his own species.

Even if they were to leave Europe and inhabit the deserts of the new world,
yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the dæmon
thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon
the earth who might make the very existence of the species of man a
condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit,
to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved
by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck senseless by
his fiendish threats; but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my
promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me
as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at
the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race.

I trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by
the light of the moon the dæmon at the casement.  A ghastly grin
wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task
which he had allotted to me.  Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he
had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide
and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the
fulfilment of my promise.

As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of
malice and treachery.  I thought with a sensation of madness on my
promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion,
tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged.  The wretch saw me
destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for
happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.

I left the room, and locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own
heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I
sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate
the gloom and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most
terrible reveries.

Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea;
it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature
reposed under the eye of the quiet moon.  A few fishing vessels alone
specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound
of voices as the fishermen called to one another.  I felt the silence,
although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear
was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a
person landed close to my house.

In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one
endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a
presentiment of who it was and wished to rouse one of the peasants who
dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation
of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain
endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot.

Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door
opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he
approached me and said in a smothered voice,

“You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you
intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery;
I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among
its willow islands and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many
months in the heaths of England and among the deserts of Scotland. I have
endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my
hopes?”

“Begone!  I do break my promise; never will I create another like
yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness.”

“Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself
unworthy of my condescension.  Remember that I have power; you believe
yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of
day will be hateful to you.  You are my creator, but I am your master;
obey!”

“The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is
arrived.  Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but
they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in
vice.  Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a dæmon whose
delight is in death and wretchedness?  Begone!  I am firm, and your
words will only exasperate my rage.”

The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in the
impotence of anger. “Shall each man,” cried he, “find a
wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had
feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn.
Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery,
and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for
ever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my
wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge
remains—revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but
first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your
misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with
the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall
repent of the injuries you inflict.”

“Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice.
I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend
beneath words.  Leave me; I am inexorable.”

“It is well.  I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night.”

I started forward and exclaimed, “Villain!  Before you sign my
death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.”

I would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the house with
precipitation.  In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot
across the waters with an arrowy swiftness and was soon lost amidst the
waves.

All was again silent, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to
pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I
walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination
conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not
followed him and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him
to depart, and he had directed his course towards the mainland. I shuddered
to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge.
And then I thought again of his words—“_I will be with you on
your wedding-night._” That, then, was the period fixed for the
fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die and at once satisfy and
extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I
thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she
should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, tears, the first I
had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall
before my enemy without a bitter struggle.

The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became
calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into
the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last
night’s contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I
almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow
creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I
desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true,
but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to
be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a
dæmon whom I had myself created.

I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it
loved and miserable in the separation.  When it became noon, and the
sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a deep
sleep.  I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves
were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery.  The sleep
into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as
if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to
reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the
words of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared
like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.

The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my
appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a
fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet;
it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval entreating me to
join him.  He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where
he was, that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired
his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his
Indian enterprise.  He could not any longer delay his departure; but as
his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now
conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of
my society on him as I could spare.  He besought me, therefore, to
leave my solitary isle and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed
southwards together.  This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and
I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.

Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered
to reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I
must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must
handle those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The next
morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage and unlocked the door
of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had
destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had
mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself and
then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments
out of the room, but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my
work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly
put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying them
up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the
meantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my
chemical apparatus.

Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place
in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the dæmon.  I had
before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair as a thing that, with
whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film
had been taken from before my eyes and that I for the first time saw
clearly.  The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur
to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not
reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it.  I had resolved in
my own mind that to create another like the fiend I had first made
would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness, and I
banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different
conclusion.

Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my
basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore.
The scene was perfectly solitary; a few boats were returning towards land,
but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a
dreadful crime and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my
fellow creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was
suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of
darkness and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling sound
as it sank and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded, but
the air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze that was then
rising. But it refreshed me and filled me with such agreeable sensations
that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a
direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the
moon, everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as its
keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I
slept soundly.

I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I
found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and
the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found
that the wind was northeast and must have driven me far from the coast from
which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course but quickly found
that if I again made the attempt the boat would be instantly filled with
water. Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I
confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me
and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the
world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the
wide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation or be swallowed up in
the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already
been out many hours and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to
my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds
that flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others; I looked upon the
sea; it was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your
task is already fulfilled!” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and
of Clerval—all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his
sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie so
despairing and frightful that even now, when the scene is on the point of
closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it.

Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the
horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze and the sea became
free from breakers.  But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick
and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high
land towards the south.

Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue and the dreadful suspense I endured
for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of
warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have
of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a
part of my dress and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a
wild and rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer I easily perceived
the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore and found myself
suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I
carefully traced the windings of the land and hailed a steeple which I at
length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of
extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place
where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with
me. As I turned the promontory I perceived a small neat town and a good
harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected
escape.

As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several
people crowded towards the spot.  They seemed much surprised at my
appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance, whispered
together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me
a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they
spoke English, and I therefore addressed them in that language.  “My
good friends,” said I, “will you be so kind as to tell me the name of
this town and inform me where I am?”

“You will know that soon enough,” replied a man with a hoarse voice.
“Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste,
but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you.”

I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a
stranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and
angry countenances of his companions.  “Why do you answer me so
roughly?”  I replied.  “Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to
receive strangers so inhospitably.”

“I do not know,” said the man, “what the custom of the
English may be, but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains.”

While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly
increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which
annoyed and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn, but
no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the
crowd as they followed and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man
approaching tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come, sir, you must
follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s to give an account of yourself.”

“Who is Mr. Kirwin?  Why am I to give an account of myself?  Is not
this a free country?”

“Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks.  Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate,
and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was
found murdered here last night.”

This answer startled me, but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent;
that could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my conductor in silence
and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from
fatigue and hunger, but being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic
to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into
apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that
was in a few moments to overwhelm me and extinguish in horror and despair
all fear of ignominy or death.

I must pause here, for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of
the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my
recollection.





Chapter 21

I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old
benevolent man with calm and mild manners.  He looked upon me, however,
with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conductors,
he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.

About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the
magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing the night before with
his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o’clock,
they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in
for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did
not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about
two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle,
and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding
along the sands, he struck his foot against something and fell at his
length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him, and by the
light of their lantern they found that he had fallen on the body of a man,
who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was that it was the
corpse of some person who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the
waves, but on examination they found that the clothes were not wet and even
that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage
of an old woman near the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it
to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty
years of age. He had apparently been strangled, for there was no sign of
any violence except the black mark of fingers on his neck.

The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, but
when the mark of the fingers was mentioned I remembered the murder of
my brother and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a
mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for
support.  The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of course drew
an unfavourable augury from my manner.

The son confirmed his father’s account, but when Daniel Nugent was
called he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion, he
saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore;
and as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same
boat in which I had just landed.

A woman deposed that she lived near the beach and was standing at the door
of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour
before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat with
only one man in it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse
was afterwards found.

Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the
body into her house; it was not cold.  They put it into a bed and
rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was
quite gone.

Several other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed
that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it
was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours and had been
obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.
Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body
from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know
the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance
of the town of —— from the place where I had deposited the corpse.

Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into
the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what
effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably
suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the
murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate
and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the
strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night; but,
knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had
inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly
tranquil as to the consequences of the affair.

I entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How
can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with
horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and
agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses,
passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry
Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on
the body, I exclaimed, “Have my murderous machinations deprived you
also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other
victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my
benefactor—”

The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and
I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.

A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my
ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the
murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my
attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was
tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping
my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke
my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and
bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses.

Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not
sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming
children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and
youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the
next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I
made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of
the wheel, continually renewed the torture?

But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from
a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by
gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.
It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around
and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly.

This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside
me.  She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise
that class.  The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of misery. Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English,
and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings.

“Are you better now, sir?” said she.

I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror.”

“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you!  However, that’s none
of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty
with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same.”

I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a
speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt
languid and unable to reflect on all that had passed.  The whole series
of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality.

As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew
feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me.  The
physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared
them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the
second.  Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer but the
hangman who would gain his fee?

These were my first reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had
shown me extreme kindness.  He had caused the best room in the prison
to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who
had provided a physician and a nurse.  It is true, he seldom came to
see me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of
every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer.  He came, therefore, sometimes to see
that I was not neglected, but his visits were short and with long
intervals.

One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes
half open and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom
and misery and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to
remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I
considered whether I should not declare myself guilty and suffer the
penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my
thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin entered.
His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to
mine and addressed me in French,

“I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do anything to
make you more comfortable?”

“I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on the whole
earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.”

“I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to
one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune.  But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can
easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge.”

“That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events, become
the most miserable of mortals.  Persecuted and tortured as I am and
have been, can death be any evil to me?”

“Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the
strange chances that have lately occurred.  You were thrown, by some
surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality,
seized immediately, and charged with murder.  The first sight that was
presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so
unaccountable a manner and placed, as it were, by some fiend across
your path.”

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on
this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at
the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me.  I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin hastened
to say,

“Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on
your person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some
trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune
and illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I
discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote
to Geneva; nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.
But you are ill; even now you tremble; you are unfit for agitation of any
kind.”

“This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event;
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament?”

“Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin with
gentleness; “and someone, a friend, is come to visit you.”

I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires.  I put my hand before my eyes,
and cried out in agony,

“Oh! Take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake, do not
let him enter!”

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance.  He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and said in
rather a severe tone,

“I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father
would have been welcome instead of inspiring such violent repugnance.”

“My father!” cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure.  “Is my father indeed come?  How kind, how
very kind!  But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?”

My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence.  He rose and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.

Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him and cried,

“Are you then safe—and Elizabeth—and Ernest?”

My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by
dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of
cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!”
said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance
of the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems
to pursue you. And poor Clerval—”

The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.

“Alas! Yes, my father,” replied I; “some destiny of the
most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I
should have died on the coffin of Henry.”

We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that
could ensure tranquillity.  Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion.  But the
appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.

As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy that nothing could dissipate.  The image of Clerval was
for ever before me, ghastly and murdered.  More than once the agitation
into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous
relapse.  Alas!  Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a
life?  It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now
drawing to a close.  Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these
throbbings and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears
me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also
sink to rest.  Then the appearance of death was distant, although the
wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours
motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that
might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.

The season of the assizes approached.  I had already been three months
in prison, and although I was still weak and in continual danger of a
relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the country
town where the court was held.  Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every
care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence.  I was spared
the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not
brought before the court that decides on life and death.  The grand
jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney
Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight
after my removal I was liberated from prison.

My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country.  I did not
participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful.  The cup of life was poisoned for ever, and
although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I
saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me.  Sometimes
they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark
orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes that fringed
them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I
first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.

My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection.  He talked
of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but
these words only drew deep groans from me.  Sometimes, indeed, I felt a
wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved
cousin or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early
childhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a
prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and
despair.  At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.

Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally
triumphed over my selfish despair.  It was necessary that I should
return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those
I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any
chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to
blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to
the existence of the monstrous image which  I had endued with the
mockery of a soul still more monstrous.  My father still desired to
delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a
journey, for I was a shattered wreck—the shadow of a human being.  My
strength was gone.  I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day
preyed upon my wasted frame.

Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience,
my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel
bound for Havre-de-Grace and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores.
It was midnight. I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to
the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my
sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should
soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream;
yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested
shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly
that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and dearest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I
repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing
with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for
Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on
to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in
which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a
thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.

Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of taking
every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was by means of this drug
only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of
life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now
swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did
not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a
thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind
of nightmare; I felt the fiend’s grasp in my neck and could not free
myself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was
watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves
were around, the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of
security, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour
and the irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm
forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly
susceptible.





Chapter 22

The voyage came to an end.  We landed, and proceeded to Paris.  I soon
found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I
could continue my journey.  My father’s care and attentions were
indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and
sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill.  He wished me to
seek amusement in society.  I abhorred the face of man.  Oh, not
abhorred!  They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt
attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an
angelic nature and celestial mechanism.  But I felt that I had no right
to share their intercourse.  I had unchained an enemy among them whose
joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans.  How they
would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world, did they know
my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me!

My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by
various arguments to banish my despair.  Sometimes he thought that I
felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of
murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.

“Alas!  My father,” said I, “how little do you know me. 
Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such
a wretch as I felt pride.  Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent
as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause
of this—I murdered her.  William, Justine, and Henry—they all
died by my hands.”

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same
assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an
explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of
delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented
itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my
convalescence. I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence
concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be
supposed mad, and this in itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But,
besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my
hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of
his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was
silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret.
Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably
from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part
relieved the burden of my mysterious woe.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder,
“My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat
you never to make such an assertion again.”

“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the heavens, who
have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth.  I am the
assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations.
A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have
saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not
sacrifice the whole human race.”

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were
deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation and
endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts.  He wished as much as
possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in
Ireland and never alluded to them or suffered me to speak of my
misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my
heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own
crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them.  By the utmost
self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which
sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners
were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey
to the sea of ice.

A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the
following letter from Elizabeth:

“My dear Friend,

“It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle
dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may
hope to see you in less than a fortnight.  My poor cousin, how much you
must have suffered!  I expect to see you looking even more ill than
when you quitted Geneva.  This winter has been passed most miserably,
tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in
your countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of
comfort and tranquillity.

“Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable
a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time.  I would not disturb you at
this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a
conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders
some explanation necessary before we meet.

Explanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If
you really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied.
But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet
be pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the
case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I
have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to begin.

“You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of
your parents ever since our infancy.  We were told this when young, and
taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take
place.  We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I
believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But
as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each
other without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our
case?  Tell me, dearest Victor.  Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual
happiness, with simple truth—Do you not love another?

“You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at
Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last
autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every
creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our
connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of
your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations.
But this is false reasoning.  I confess to you, my friend, that I love
you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant
friend and companion.   But it is your happiness I desire as well as my
own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally
miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice.  Even now
I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest
misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word _honour_, all hope of that
love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself.  I, who
have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries
tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes.  Ah! Victor, be assured
that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be
made miserable by this supposition.  Be happy, my friend; and if you
obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth
will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.

“Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the
next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain.  My uncle
will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your
lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I
shall need no other happiness.

“Elizabeth Lavenza.



“Geneva, May 18th, 17—”



This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of
the fiend—“_I will be with you on your
wedding-night!_” Such was my sentence, and on that night would the
dæmon employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of
happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he
had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a
deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were
victorious I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end. If he
were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the
peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his
cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless,
penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in my
Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of
remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some
softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal
dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the
angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make
her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet,
again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My
destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my torturer
should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would
surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed
_to be with me on my wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that
threat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that
he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately
after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my
immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my
father’s happiness, my adversary’s designs against my life
should not retard it a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth.  My letter was calm and
affectionate.  “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “little happiness
remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in
you.  Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life
and my endeavours for contentment.  I have one secret, Elizabeth, a
dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with
horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured.  I will confide this tale of
misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place,
for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us.  But
until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it.  This I most
earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply.”

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter we returned
to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were
in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a
change in her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly
vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of
compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I
was.

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness
with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed
me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and
despondent. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless,
bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice
would soothe me when transported by passion and inspire me with human
feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me and for me. When reason
returned, she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with
resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the
guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is
otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with
Elizabeth. I remained silent.

“Have you, then, some other attachment?”

“None on earth.  I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with
delight.  Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate
myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin.”

“My dear Victor, do not speak thus.  Heavy misfortunes have befallen
us, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love
for those whom we have lost to those who yet live.  Our circle will be
small but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune.
And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of
care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly
deprived.”

Such were the lessons of my father.  But to me the remembrance of the
threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had
yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as
invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words “_I shall be with
you on your wedding-night_,” I should regard the threatened fate as
unavoidable.  But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were
balanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful
countenance, agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the
ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined,
the seal to my fate.

Great God!  If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish
intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself
for ever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over
the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage.  But, as if
possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real
intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I
hastened that of a far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or
a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my
feelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought smiles and joy to the
countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer
eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment,
not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed,
that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate
into an airy dream and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.

Preparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were received,
and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own
heart the anxiety that preyed there and entered with seeming earnestness
into the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the
decorations of my tragedy. Through my father’s exertions a part of
the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian
government. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It
was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa
Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake
near which it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the
fiend should openly attack me.  I carried pistols and a dagger
constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and
by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity.  Indeed, as the
period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be
regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for
in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed
for its solemnisation drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of
as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to
calm her mind.  But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my
destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her;
and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had
promised to reveal to her on the following day.  My father was in the
meantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only recognised in
the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my
father’s, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our
journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our
voyage on the following day.  The day was fair, the wind favourable;
all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the
feeling of happiness.  We passed rapidly along; the sun was hot, but we
were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoyed the
beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw
Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalègre, and at a distance,
surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy
mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the
opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the
ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost
insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth.  “You are sorrowful, my love.  Ah!  If
you knew what I have suffered and what I may yet endure, you would
endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this
one day at least permits me to enjoy.”

“Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth; “there is, I hope,
nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not
painted in my face, my heart is contented.  Something whispers to me
not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us, but I
will not listen to such a sinister voice.  Observe how fast we move
along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise
above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more
interesting.  Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in
the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at
the bottom.  What a divine day!  How happy and serene all nature
appears!”

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all
reflection upon melancholy subjects.  But her temper was fluctuating;
joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place
to distraction and reverie.

The sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance and
observed its path through the chasms of the higher and the glens of the
lower hills.  The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached
the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary.  The
spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the range
of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity,
sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water
and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the
shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and
hay.  The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched
the shore I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp
me and cling to me for ever.





Chapter 23

It was eight o’clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the
shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn and
contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured
in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.

The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence
in the west.  The moon had reached her summit in the heavens and was
beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the
flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the
scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves
that were beginning to rise.  Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.

I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured the
shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind.  I was anxious
and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in
my bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I would sell my
life dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or that
of my adversary was extinguished.

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence,
but there was something in my glance which communicated terror to her, and
trembling, she asked, “What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor?
What is it you fear?”

“Oh! Peace, peace, my love,” replied I; “this night, and
all will be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.”

I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how
fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife,
and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her
until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.

She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages
of the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to
my adversary.  But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to
conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the
execution of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful
scream.  It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired.  As I
heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the
motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood
trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This
state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed
into the room.

Great God! Why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the
destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She was
there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down
and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Everywhere I
turn I see the same figure—her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung
by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas!
Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment
only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.

When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their
countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others
appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I
escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my
wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the
posture in which I had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon
her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have
supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but
the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held
in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished.
The murderous mark of the fiend’s grasp was on her neck, and the
breath had ceased to issue from her lips.

While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up.
The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of
panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber.
The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror not to be
described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred.
A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his
fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards
the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me,
leaped from his station, and running with the swiftness of lightning,
plunged into the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to
the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with
boats; nets were cast, but in vain.  After passing several hours, we
returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a
form conjured up by my fancy.  After having landed, they proceeded to
search the country, parties going in different directions among the
woods and vines.

I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the
house, but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken
man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my
eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever.  In this state I
was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had
happened; my eyes wandered round the room as if to seek something that
I had lost.

After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room
where the corpse of my beloved lay.  There were women weeping around; I
hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no
distinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled to
various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their
cause.  I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror.  The death
of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly
of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining
friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now
might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his
feet.  This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action.  I started
up and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the
wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was
hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men
to row and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from
mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt,
and the excess of agitation that I endured rendered me incapable of any
exertion. I threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way
to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw scenes which were
familiar to me in my happier time and which I had contemplated but the day
before in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection.
Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw
the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had
then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as
a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower,
but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had
snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever been
so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of
man.

But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last
overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their
_acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know
that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My
own strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of
my hideous narration.

I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk
under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old
man! His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their
delight—his Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doted on with
all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having
few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed
be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste
in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated
around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was unable to
rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms.

What then became of me?  I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and
darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me.  Sometimes,
indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales
with the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself in a
dungeon.  Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear
conception of my miseries and situation and was then released from my
prison.  For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I
understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation.

Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I
awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge.  As the
memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their
cause—the monster whom I had created, the miserable dæmon whom I had
sent abroad into the world for my destruction.  I was possessed by a
maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed
that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal
revenge on his cursed head.

Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to
reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about
a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town
and told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the
destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole
authority for the apprehension of the murderer.

The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. “Be
assured, sir,” said he, “no pains or exertions on my part shall
be spared to discover the villain.”

“I thank you,” replied I; “listen, therefore, to the
deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I
should fear you would not credit it were there not something in truth
which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to
be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.” My
manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my
own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose
quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related
my history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with
accuracy and never deviating into invective or exclamation.

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued
he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with
horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted
on his countenance.

When I had concluded my narration, I said, “This is the being whom I
accuse and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your
whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that
your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those
functions on this occasion.”

This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own
auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given
to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon
to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity
returned. He, however, answered mildly, “I would willingly afford you
every aid in your pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to
have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an
animal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where
no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since
the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he
has wandered or what region he may now inhabit.”

“I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if
he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois
and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts; you do not
credit my narrative and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the
punishment which is his desert.”

As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated.
“You are mistaken,” said he. “I will exert myself, and if
it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer
punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have
yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove
impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should
make up your mind to disappointment.”

“That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail.  My
revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I
confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul.  My rage
is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned
loose upon society, still exists.  You refuse my just demand; I have
but one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to
his destruction.”

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy
in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness
which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed.  But to a Genevan
magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of
devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of
madness.  He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child and
reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.

“Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of
wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you say.”

I broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on
some other mode of action.





Chapter 24

My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was
swallowed up and lost.  I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone
endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings and
allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise
delirium or death would have been my portion.

My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I
was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became
hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels
which had belonged to my mother, and departed.

And now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life. I have
traversed a vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships
which travellers in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I
have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon
the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared
not die and leave my adversary in being.

When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I
might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy.  But my plan was unsettled,
and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain
what path I should pursue.  As night approached I found myself at the
entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father
reposed.  I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their
graves.  Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which
were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and the
scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested
observer.  The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to
cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the
mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to
rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived,
and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass
and kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed, “By the
sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the
deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the
spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the dæmon who caused this misery,
until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will
preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun
and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my
eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering
ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed
and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now
torments me.”

I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me
that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, but
the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish
laugh.  It rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed
it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter.
Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy and have
destroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard and that I
was reserved for vengeance.  The laughter died away, when a well-known
and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an
audible whisper, “I am satisfied, miserable wretch!  You have
determined to live, and I am satisfied.”

I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded, but the devil
eluded my grasp.  Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose and shone
full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than
mortal speed.

I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task.  Guided by a
slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly.  The
blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance, I saw the fiend
enter by night and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea.  I
took my passage in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not how.

Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I
have ever followed in his track.  Sometimes the peasants, scared by
this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself,
who feared that if I lost all trace of him I should despair and die,
left some mark to guide me.  The snows descended on my head, and I saw
the print of his huge step on the white plain.  To you first entering
on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand
what I have felt and still feel?  Cold, want, and fatigue were the
least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil
and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good
followed and directed my steps and when I most murmured would suddenly
extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties.  Sometimes,
when nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast
was prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me.  The
fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but
I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had
invoked to aid me.  Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and
I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the
few drops that revived me, and vanish.

I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the dæmon
generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the
country chiefly collected.  In other places human beings were seldom
seen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my
path.  I had money with me and gained the friendship of the villagers
by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed,
which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had
provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during
sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when most
miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The
spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of
happiness that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of
this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was
sustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my
friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent
countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s
voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by
a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should
come and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest
friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them! How did I cling to
their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and
persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that
burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the
destruction of the dæmon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the
mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the
ardent desire of my soul.

What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he
left marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided
me and instigated my fury. “My reign is not yet
over”—these words were legible in one of these
inscriptions—“you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I
seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of
cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if
you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my
enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable
hours must you endure until that period shall arrive.”

Scoffing devil!  Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee,
miserable fiend, to torture and death.  Never will I give up my search
until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my
Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the
reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the
cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were
shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to
seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to
seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be
procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance.

The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One
inscription that he left was in these words: “Prepare! Your toils
only begin; wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter
upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting
hatred.”

My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I
resolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on Heaven to support
me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts,
until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary
of the horizon.  Oh!  How unlike it was to the blue seasons of the
south!  Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by
its superior wildness and ruggedness.  The Greeks wept for joy when
they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with
rapture the boundary of their toils.  I did not weep, but I knelt down
and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in
safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe,
to meet and grapple with him.

Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus
traversed the snows with inconceivable speed.  I know not whether the
fiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had
daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that
when I first saw the ocean he was but one day’s journey in advance, and
I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach.  With new
courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched
hamlet on the seashore.  I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the
fiend and gained accurate information.  A gigantic monster, they said,
had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols,
putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of
his terrific appearance.  He had carried off their store of winter
food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a
numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same
night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his
journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they
conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the
ice or frozen by the eternal  frosts.

On hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair.
He had escaped me, and I must commence a destructive and almost endless
journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst cold that few
of the inhabitants could long endure and which I, the native of a
genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive.  Yet at the idea
that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance
returned, and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.
After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered
round and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.

I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of
the Frozen Ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I
departed from land.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured
misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution
burning within my heart could have enabled me to support.  Immense and
rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard
the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction.  But
again the frost came and made the paths of the sea secure.

By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that
I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction
of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of
despondency and grief from my eyes.  Despair had indeed almost secured
her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery.  Once, after
the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the
summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue,
died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye
caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain.  I strained my sight to
discover what it could be and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I
distinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions of a well-known
form within.  Oh!  With what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart!
Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might
not intercept the view I had of the dæmon; but still my sight was
dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that
oppressed me, I wept aloud.

But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their
dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and after an
hour’s rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly
irksome to me, I continued my route.  The sledge was still visible, nor
did I again lose sight of it except at the moments when for a short
time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags.  I indeed
perceptibly gained on it, and when, after nearly two days’ journey, I
beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within
me.

But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were
suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had
ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as
the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous
and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared;
and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a
tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished; in a few
minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left
drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening and
thus preparing for me a hideous death.

In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died, and I
myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress when I saw your
vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life.
I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north and was astounded
at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars, and
by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in
the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southwards,
still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my
purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue
my enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me on board when my
vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied
hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is unfulfilled.

Oh!  When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the dæmon, allow
me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live?  If I do,
swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him
and satisfy my vengeance in his death.  And do I dare to ask of you to
undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone?
No; I am not so selfish.  Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if
the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he
shall not live—swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated
woes and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes.  He is eloquent
and persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart; but
trust him not.  His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery
and fiend-like malice.  Hear him not; call on the names of William,
Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and
thrust your sword into his heart.  I will hover near and direct the
steel aright.

Walton, _in continuation._


August 26th, 17—.


You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not
feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles
mine?  Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his
tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with
difficulty the words so replete with anguish.  His fine and lovely eyes
were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow
and quenched in infinite wretchedness.  Sometimes he commanded his
countenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a
tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a
volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression
of the wildest rage as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.

His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth,
yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me,
and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a
greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations,
however earnest and connected. Such a monster has, then, really existence!
I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I
endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his
creature’s formation, but on this point he was impenetrable.

“Are you mad, my friend?” said he. “Or whither does your
senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the
world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries and do not seek
to increase your own.”

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked
to see them and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places,
but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held
with his enemy. “Since you have preserved my narration,” said
he, “I would not that a mutilated one should go down to
posterity.”

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest
tale that ever imagination formed.  My thoughts and every feeling of my
soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale
and his own elevated and gentle manners have created.  I wish to soothe
him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of
every hope of consolation, to live?  Oh, no!  The only joy that he can
now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and
death.  Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and
delirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse with his
friends and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries or
excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his
fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a
remote world.  This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render
them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and
misfortunes.  On every point of general literature he displays
unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension.  His
eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates
a pathetic incident or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love,
without tears.  What a glorious creature must he have been in the days
of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin!  He seems
to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.

“When younger,” said he, “I believed myself destined for
some great enterprise. My feelings are profound, but I possessed a coolness
of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of
the worth of my nature supported me when others would have been oppressed,
for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that
might be useful to my fellow creatures. When I reflected on the work I had
completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational
animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But
this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now
serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes
are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am
chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of
analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I
conceived the idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot
recollect without passion my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod
heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea
of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty
ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once
was, you would not recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency
rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell,
never, never again to rise.”

Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have
sought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert
seas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his
value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.

“I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions towards so
miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh
affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone?  Can any
man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth?  Even
where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence,
the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.  They know our
infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified,
are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more
certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives.  A sister or a
brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early,
suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend,
however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be
contemplated with suspicion.  But I enjoyed friends, dear not only
through habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever
I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation of
Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and but one
feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life.  If I
were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive
utility to my fellow creatures, then could I live to fulfil it.  But
such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I
gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled and I may die.”

My beloved Sister,

September 2d.


I write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am ever
doomed to see again dear England and the dearer friends that inhabit
it.  I am surrounded by mountains of ice which admit of no escape and
threaten every moment to crush my vessel.  The brave fellows whom I
have persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid, but I have
none to bestow.  There is something terribly appalling in our
situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me.  Yet it is
terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered
through me.  If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.

And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my
destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and
you will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! My
beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is,
in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband
and lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven bless you and make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion.  He
endeavours to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession
which he valued.  He reminds me how often the same accidents have
happened to other navigators who have attempted this sea, and in spite
of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries.  Even the sailors feel
the power of his eloquence; when he speaks, they no longer despair; he
rouses their energies, and while they hear his voice they believe these
vast mountains of ice are mole-hills which will vanish before the
resolutions of man.  These feelings are transitory; each day of
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny
caused by this despair.

September 5th.


A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although it is
highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot
forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger
of being crushed in their conflict.  The cold is excessive, and many of
my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of
desolation.  Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire
still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly
roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent
lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny.
This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend—his
eyes half closed and his limbs hanging listlessly—I was roused by half
a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin.  They
entered, and their leader addressed me.  He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation
to me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse.
We were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they
feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free
passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and
lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted
this.  They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn
promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my
course southwards.

This speech troubled me.  I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived
the idea of returning if set free.  Yet could I, in justice, or even in
possibility, refuse this demand?  I hesitated before I answered, when
Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly
to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,
and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour.  Turning towards the men,
he said,

“What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you, then,
so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious
expedition? “And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was
smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and
terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called forth
and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded it, and
these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this
was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the
benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men
who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now,
behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first
mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content
to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and
peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm
firesides. Why, that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come
thus far and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat merely to prove
yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your
purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your
hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it
shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace
marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered and
who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.”

He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed
in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can
you wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another and were
unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire and consider of what had
been said, that I would not lead them farther north if they strenuously
desired the contrary, but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage
would return.

They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and
almost deprived of life.

How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than
return shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled.  Yet I fear such will be my
fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never
willingly continue to endure their present hardships.

September 7th.


The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed.
Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back
ignorant and disappointed.  It requires more philosophy than I possess
to bear this injustice with patience.

September 12th.


It is past; I am returning to England.  I have lost my hopes of utility
and glory; I have lost my friend.  But I will endeavour to detail these
bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted
towards England and towards you, I will not despond.

September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard
at a distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were
in the most imminent peril, but as we could only remain passive, my chief
attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in
such a degree that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked
behind us and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang from
the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly
free. When the sailors saw this and that their return to their native
country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them,
loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the
cause of the tumult. “They shout,” I said, “because they
will soon return to England.”

“Do you, then, really return?”

“Alas!  Yes; I cannot withstand their demands.  I cannot lead them
unwillingly to danger, and I must return.”

“Do so, if you will; but I will not.  You may give up your purpose, but
mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not.  I am weak, but
surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with
sufficient strength.”  Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the
bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted.

It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was
entirely extinct.  At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with
difficulty and was unable to speak.  The surgeon gave him a composing
draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he
told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.

His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat
by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but
presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near,
said, “Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall
soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think
not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning
hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed; but I feel myself
justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I
have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable.
In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and was
bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and
well-being. This was my duty, but there was another still paramount to
that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to
my attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness or
misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to
create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity
and selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction
beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I
know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that he may
render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was
mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I
asked you to undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now,
when I am only induced by reason and virtue.

“Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil
this task; and now that you are returning to England, you will have
little chance of meeting with him.  But the consideration of these
points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I
leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near
approach of death.  I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I
may still be misled by passion.

“That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in
other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the
only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years.  The forms of
the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms.  Farewell,
Walton!  Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it
be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in
science and discoveries.  Yet why do I say this?  I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.”

His voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his
effort, he sank into silence.  About half an hour afterwards he
attempted again to speak but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and
his eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed
away from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this
glorious spirit?  What can I say that will enable you to understand the
depth of my sorrow?  All that I should express would be inadequate and
feeble.  My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of
disappointment.  But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.

I am interrupted.  What do these sounds portend?  It is midnight; the
breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir.  Again there
is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin
where the remains of Frankenstein still lie.  I must arise and examine.
Good night, my sister.

Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the
remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail
it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this
final and wonderful catastrophe.

I entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable
friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to
describe—gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its
proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long
locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and
apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my
approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror and sprung
towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of
such loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily and
endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer.
I called on him to stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder, and again turning towards the
lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and
every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some
uncontrollable passion.

“That is also my victim!” he exclaimed. “In his murder my
crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its
close! Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted being! What does it
avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee
by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer
me.”

His voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested to
me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend in destroying his
enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I
approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his
face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I
attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster
continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I
gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his passion.

“Your repentance,” I said, “is now superfluous. If you
had listened to the voice of conscience and heeded the stings of remorse
before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity,
Frankenstein would yet have lived.”

“And do you dream?” said the dæmon.  “Do you think that I was then
dead to agony and remorse?  He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse,
“he suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh!  Not the
ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the
lingering detail of its execution.  A frightful selfishness hurried me
on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse.  Think you that the
groans of Clerval were music to my ears?  My heart was fashioned to be
susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice
and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without
torture such as you cannot even imagine.

“After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken
and overcome.  I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I
abhorred myself.  But when I discovered that he, the author at once of
my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for
happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me
he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the
indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter
indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance.  I
recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished.  I
knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the
slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not
disobey.  Yet when she died!  Nay, then I was not miserable.  I had
cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my
despair.  Evil thenceforth became my good.  Urged thus far, I had no
choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly
chosen.  The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable
passion.  And now it is ended; there is my last victim!”

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called
to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and
persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my
friend, indignation was rekindled within me. “Wretch!” I said.
“It is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you
have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are
consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend!
If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would
he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you
feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn
from your power.”

“Oh, it is not thus—not thus,” interrupted the being.
“Yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to
be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery.
No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of
virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being
overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue has
become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am
content to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am
well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once
my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once
I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would
love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was
nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has
degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no
malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the
frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same
creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent
visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the
fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man
had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.

“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my
crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them
he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured
wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did
not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still
I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned.  Was there no
injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his
friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an
abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my
blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

“But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and
the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to
death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have
devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and
admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that
irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me, but
your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the
hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the
imagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these hands
will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.

“Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work
is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man’s death is needed to
consummate the series of my being and accomplish that which must be done,
but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this
sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice raft which brought me
thither and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall
collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its
remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch who would
create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the
agonies which now consume me or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet
unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no
more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no
longer see the sun or stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light,
feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my
happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first
opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the
rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to
me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by
crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in
death?

“Farewell!  I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these
eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive
and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better
satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou
didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;
and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think
and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than
that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to
thine, for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my
wounds until death shall close them for ever.

“But soon,” he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I
shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning
miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and
exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration
will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit
will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell.”

He sprang from the cabin-window as he said this, upon the ice raft
which lay close to the vessel.  He was soon borne away by the waves and
lost in darkness and distance.It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession
of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds
of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property
of some one or other of their daughters.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?”

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she
told me all about it.”

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.

“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken
by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came
down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much
delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he
is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to
be in the house by the end of next week.”

“What is his name?”

“Bingley.”

“Is he married or single?”

“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or
five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You
must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”

“Is that his design in settling here?”

“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he
_may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as
soon as he comes.”

“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send
them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are
as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the
party.”

“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of beauty, but
I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five
grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”

“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”

“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into
the neighbourhood.”

“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”

“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would
be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to
go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no
newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for _us_ to
visit him if you do not.”

“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very
glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my
hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though
I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.”

“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the
others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so
good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving _her_ the preference.”

“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he; “they are
all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of
quickness than her sisters.”

“Mr. Bennet, how _can_ you abuse your own children in such a way? You
take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.”

“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They
are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
these last twenty years at least.”

“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”

“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four
thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”

“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not
visit them.”

“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them
all.”

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had
been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind
was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding,
little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented,
she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her
daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.



Chapter 2


Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He
had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring
his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was
paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following
manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he
suddenly addressed her with:

“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”

“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her mother
resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”

“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him at the
assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.”

“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces
of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion
of her.”

“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that you do
not depend on her serving you.”

Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain
herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

“Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”

“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she times
them ill.”

“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully. “When is
your next ball to be, Lizzy?”

“To-morrow fortnight.”

“Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come back
till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him,
for she will not know him herself.”

“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce
Mr. Bingley to _her_.”

“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him
myself; how can you be so teasing?”

“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly
very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a
fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else will; and after all,
Mrs. Long and her neices must stand their chance; and, therefore, as
she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will
take it on myself.”

The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, “Nonsense,
nonsense!”

“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he. “Do
you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on
them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you _there_. What say you,
Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read
great books and make extracts.”

Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.

“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return to Mr.
Bingley.”

“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.

“I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that before? If
I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called
on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we
cannot escape the acquaintance now.”

The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs.
Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy
was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the
while.

“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a
good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a
word about it till now.”

“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Bennet; and,
as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

“What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the door was
shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness;
or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so
pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but
for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_
the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next
ball.”

“Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
youngest, I'm the tallest.”

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would
return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to
dinner.



Chapter 3


Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five
daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her
husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him
in various ways--with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and
distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at
last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour,
Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been
delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly
with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of
dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively
hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.

“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield,”
 said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the others equally well
married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”

In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about
ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being
admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had
heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more
fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper
window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already
had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her
housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley
was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable
to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite
disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town
so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that
he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never
settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears
a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get
a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley
was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly.
The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the
day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only
six with him from London--his five sisters and a cousin. And when
the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five
altogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and
another young man.

Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention
of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and
the report which was in general circulation within five minutes
after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen
pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he
was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great
admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be
proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all
his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared
with his friend.

Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance,
was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving
one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for
themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being
introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in
walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party.
His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again.
Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of
his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his
having slighted one of her daughters.

Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit
down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been
standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr.
Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend
to join it.

“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
dance.”

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this
it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not
another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to
stand up with.”

“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley, “for a
kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in
my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see
uncommonly pretty.”

“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr.
Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I
dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said:
“She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I am in no
humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her
smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story,
however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively,
playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield
party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been
distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as
her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's
pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most
accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they
had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they
were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With
a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a
good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised
such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on
the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a
different story to hear.

“Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a most
delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there.
Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well
she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with
her twice! Only think of _that_, my dear; he actually danced with her
twice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second
time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand
up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and
asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King,
and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again,
and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the _Boulanger_--”

“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband impatiently,
“he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of
his partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!”

“Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw
anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs.
Hurst's gown--”

Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch
of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some
exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much by not
suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at
all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring
him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very
great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my
dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”



Chapter 4


When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in
her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very
much she admired him.

“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,
good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!--so much
ease, with such perfect good breeding!”

“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man ought
likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”

“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I
did not expect such a compliment.”

“Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between
us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_ never. What
could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help
seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman
in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is
very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a
stupider person.”

“Dear Lizzy!”

“Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general.
You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable
in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your
life.”

“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak
what I think.”

“I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With _your_
good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of
others! Affectation of candour is common enough--one meets with it
everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design--to take the
good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing
of the bad--belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters,
too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.”

“Certainly not--at first. But they are very pleasing women when you
converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep
his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming
neighbour in her.”

Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at
the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more
quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister,
and with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she
was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine
ladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the
power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and
conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the
first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of
associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect
entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of
a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply
impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their
own had been acquired by trade.

Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and
sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a
good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those
who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the
remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to
purchase.

His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but,
though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no
means unwilling to preside at his table--nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had
married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider
his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of
age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation
to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for
half-an-hour--was pleased with the situation and the principal
rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it
immediately.

Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of
great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the
easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition
could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he
never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley
had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion.
In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means
deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty,
reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not
inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley
was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
giving offense.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently
characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or
prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive
to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt
acquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not
conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a
collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for
none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received
either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
but she smiled too much.

Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so--but still they admired
her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one
whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore
established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such
commendation to think of her as he chose.



Chapter 5


Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets
were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade
in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the
honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty.
The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a
disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town;
and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house
about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge,
where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and,
unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all
the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him
supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By
nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St.
James's had made him courteous.

Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest
of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was
Elizabeth's intimate friend.

That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over
a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly
brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.

“_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with civil
self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley's first choice.”

“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”

“Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be
sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her--indeed I rather believe he
_did_--I heard something about it--but I hardly know what--something
about Mr. Robinson.”

“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not
I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton
assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many
pretty women in the room, and _which_ he thought the prettiest? and his
answering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet,
beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'”

“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed--that does seem as
if--but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”

“_My_ overhearings were more to the purpose than _yours_, Eliza,” said
Charlotte. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend,
is he?--poor Eliza!--to be only just _tolerable_.”

“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his
ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite
a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he
sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.”

“Are you quite sure, ma'am?--is not there a little mistake?” said Jane.
“I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”

“Aye--because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he
could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at
being spoke to.”

“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much,
unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is remarkably
agreeable.”

“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very
agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it
was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had
heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to
the ball in a hack chaise.”

“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I
wish he had danced with Eliza.”

“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with _him_,
if I were you.”

“I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.”

“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend _me_ so much as pride
often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so
very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour,
should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a _right_
to be proud.”

“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive
_his_ pride, if he had not mortified _mine_.”

“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her
reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have
ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human
nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us
who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some
quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different
things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may
be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of
ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with
his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of
foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.”

“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs.
Bennet; “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle
directly.”

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she
would, and the argument ended only with the visit.



Chapter 6


The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on
the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to,
a wish of being better acquainted with _them_ was expressed towards
the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest
pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment
of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It
was generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her and
to _her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions
of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.

“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose
on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in
the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show _more_
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”

“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can
perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to
discover it too.”

“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do.”

“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
it, he must find it out.”

“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane
meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they
always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should
therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his
attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for
falling in love as much as she chooses.”

“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in
question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined
to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet,
she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite
enough to make her understand his character.”

“Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
remember that four evenings have also been spent together--and four
evenings may do a great deal.”

“Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they
both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other
leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.”

“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart; and
if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a
twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or
ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the
least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
life.”

“You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”

Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly
had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of
this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made
himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough
to dance with.

He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
assembled.

“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my
conversation with Colonel Forster?”

“That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer.”

“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see
what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by
being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.”

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such
a subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
turned to him and said:

“Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly
well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
Meryton?”

“With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady
energetic.”

“You are severe on us.”

“It will be _her_ turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going
to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”

“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me
to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken
a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would
really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of
hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,
she added, “Very well, if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing
at Mr. Darcy, “There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of
course familiar with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I
shall keep mine to swell my song.”

Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song
or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that
she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in
the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
impatient for display.

Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the
end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by
Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who,
with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in
dancing at one end of the room.

Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too
much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was
his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:

“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There
is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first
refinements of polished society.”

“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst
the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.”

Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he
continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; “and I doubt
not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy.”

“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”

“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
you often dance at St. James's?”

“Never, sir.”

“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”

“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.”

“You have a house in town, I conclude?”

Mr. Darcy bowed.

“I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself--for I am fond
of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
London would agree with Lady Lucas.”

He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed
to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was
struck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to
her:

“My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow
me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You
cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.”
 And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though
extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William:

“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you
not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”

Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of
her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at
all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.

“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny
me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
for one half-hour.”

“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.

“He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza,
we cannot wonder at his complaisance--for who would object to such a
partner?”

Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some
complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:

“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

“I should imagine not.”

“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.
I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise--the
nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would
I give to hear your strictures on them!”

“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”

Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment.
How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray, when am I to wish you
joy?”

“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”

“Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is
absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed;
and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.”

He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to
entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe, her wit flowed long.



Chapter 7


Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed,
in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's
fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
had left her four thousand pounds.

She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to
their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
London in a respectable line of trade.

The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted
thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and
to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing
better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news
the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with
news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the
neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the
headquarters.

Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most
interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge
of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a
secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr.
Phillips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of
felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and
Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation
to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the
regimentals of an ensign.

After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
Bennet coolly observed:

“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two
of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but
I am now convinced.”

Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter,
and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the
next morning to London.

“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be so
ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
of anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however.”

“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.”

“Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”

“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I
had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must
so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
foolish.”

“My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will
not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when
I liked a red coat myself very well--and, indeed, so I do still at my
heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,
should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought
Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in
his regimentals.”

“Mamma,” cried Lydia, “my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.”

Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with
a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited
for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was
eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,

“Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well,
Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”

“It is from Miss Bingley,” said Jane, and then read it aloud.

“MY DEAR FRIEND,--

“If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me,
we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives,
for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a
quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the
gentlemen are to dine with the officers.--Yours ever,

“CAROLINE BINGLEY”

“With the officers!” cried Lydia. “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
_that_.”

“Dining out,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that is very unlucky.”

“Can I have the carriage?” said Jane.

“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
rain; and then you must stay all night.”

“That would be a good scheme,” said Elizabeth, “if you were sure that
they would not offer to send her home.”

“Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton,
and the Hursts have no horses to theirs.”

“I had much rather go in the coach.”

“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?”

“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”

“But if you have got them to-day,” said Elizabeth, “my mother's purpose
will be answered.”

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a
bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before
it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;
Jane certainly could not come back.

“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Bennet more than
once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the
next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
brought the following note for Elizabeth:

“MY DEAREST LIZZY,--

“I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not
hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr.
Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been
to me--and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the
matter with me.--Yours, etc.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
aloud, “if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness--if she
should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
Mr. Bingley, and under your orders.”

“Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling
colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is
all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.”

Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though
the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking
was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.

“How can you be so silly,” cried her mother, “as to think of such a
thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
there.”

“I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want.”

“Is this a hint to me, Lizzy,” said her father, “to send for the
horses?”

“No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing
when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.”

“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Mary, “but every
impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.”

“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Catherine and Lydia.
Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off
together.

“If we make haste,” said Lydia, as they walked along, “perhaps we may
see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”

In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last
within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face
glowing with the warmth of exercise.

She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise.
That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such
dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt
for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their
brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there
was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr.
Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the
brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as
to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was
thinking only of his breakfast.

Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not
well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed
for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them
together, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the
extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
her.

When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and
solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having
examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught
a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice
was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head
ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were
the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in
fact, nothing to do elsewhere.

When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very
unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern
in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer
of the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present.
Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to
Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply
of clothes.



Chapter 8


At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six
Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then
poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the
much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very
favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing
this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored
Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.

Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could
regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his
attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling
herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the
others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was
engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to
eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain
dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.

When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the
same, and added:

“She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really
looked almost wild.”

“She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the
country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!”

“Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep
in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to
hide it not doing its office.”

“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley; “but this was
all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably
well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite
escaped my notice.”

“_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley; “and I am
inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your_ sister make such
an exhibition.”

“Certainly not.”

“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by
it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence,
a most country-town indifference to decorum.”

“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said
Bingley.

“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, “that
this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”

“Not at all,” he replied; “they were brightened by the exercise.” A
short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:

“I have an excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very
sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with
such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is
no chance of it.”

“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in
Meryton.”

“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”

“That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

“If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it
would not make them one jot less agreeable.”

“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
consideration in the world,” replied Darcy.

To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
their dear friend's vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on
leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.
She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till
late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and
when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go
downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting
them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the
excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.

“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular.”

“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great
reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”

“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Elizabeth; “I am
_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”

“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley; “and
I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.”

Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the
table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her
others--all that his library afforded.

“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more
than I ever looked into.”

Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those
in the room.

“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left
so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at
Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”

“It ought to be good,” he replied, “it has been the work of many
generations.”

“And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
books.”

“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
these.”

“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be
half as delightful as Pemberley.”

“I wish it may.”

“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
finer county in England than Derbyshire.”

“With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.”

“I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”

“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”

Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very
little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew
near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his
eldest sister, to observe the game.

“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” said Miss Bingley; “will
she be as tall as I am?”

“I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
rather taller.”

“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me
so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished
for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience
to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”

“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and
net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure
I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
informed that she was very accomplished.”

“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has
too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very
far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my
acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.

“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your
idea of an accomplished woman.”

“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really
esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides
all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
will be but half-deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must
yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
extensive reading.”

“I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_.”

“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all
this?”

“I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and
application, and elegance, as you describe united.”

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
room.

“Elizabeth Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her,
“is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the
other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
“there is a meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
despicable.”

Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
continue the subject.

Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for
immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so
unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters
declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief
to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.



Chapter 9


Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a
note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her
own judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and
its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.

Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was
not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
would not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried
home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all
attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.

“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be
moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass
a little longer on your kindness.”

“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
sure, will not hear of her removal.”

“You may depend upon it, Madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
“that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she
remains with us.”

Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.

“I am sure,” she added, “if it was not for such good friends I do not
know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers
a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are
nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a
charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the
country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it
in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”

“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he; “and therefore if I
should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”

“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth.

“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards her.

“Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly.”

“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
through I am afraid is pitiful.”

“That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate
character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”

“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in
the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”

“I did not know before,” continued Bingley immediately, “that you were a
studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”

“Yes, but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
least that advantage.”

“The country,” said Darcy, “can in general supply but a few subjects for
such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and
unvarying society.”

“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
observed in them for ever.”

“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning
a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
going on in the country as in town.”

Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
victory over him, continued her triumph.

“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for
my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”

“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it;
and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”

“Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
gentleman,” looking at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing
at all.”

“Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Elizabeth, blushing for her
mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not
such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town,
which you must acknowledge to be true.”

“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting
with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”

Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards
Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.

“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So
genteel and easy! He has always something to say to everybody. _That_
is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very
important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”

“Did Charlotte dine with you?”

“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For
my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work;
_my_ daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to
judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls,
I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think
Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend.”

“She seems a very pleasant young woman.”

“Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody
better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own
partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother
Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was
sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he
did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses
on her, and very pretty they were.”

“And so ended his affection,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “There has
been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”

“I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love,” said Darcy.

“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is
strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I
am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”

Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to
Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of
her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to
each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the
youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming
into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion
and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high
animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
attention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own
easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and
abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this
sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:

“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when
your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of
the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.”

Lydia declared herself satisfied. “Oh! yes--it would be much better to
wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter
would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball,” she
added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”

Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of
all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_.



Chapter 10


The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss
Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who
continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined
their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear.
Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching
the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by
messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and
Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in
attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual
commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness
of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern
with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was
exactly in union with her opinion of each.

“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!”

He made no answer.

“You write uncommonly fast.”

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a
year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”

“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”

“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend
pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you--but I always mend my own.”

“How can you contrive to write so even?”

He was silent.

“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp;
and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful
little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss
Grantley's.”

“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At
present I have not room to do them justice.”

“Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you
always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”

“They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me
to determine.”

“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with
ease, cannot write ill.”

“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her
brother, “because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for
words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”

“My style of writing is very different from yours.”

“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way
imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”

“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which
means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”

“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, “must disarm reproof.”

“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Darcy, “than the appearance of
humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an
indirect boast.”

“And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?”

“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in
writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of
thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you
think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with
quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any
attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs.
Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield
you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of
panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very
laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business
undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”

“Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the
foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour,
I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this
moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless
precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”

“I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that
you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as
dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were
mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better
stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not
go--and at another word, might stay a month.”

“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did
not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much
more than he did himself.”

“I am exceedingly gratified,” said Bingley, “by your converting what my
friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am
afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means
intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a
circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I
could.”

“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions
as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”

“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for
himself.”

“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,
but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to
stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet,
that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and
the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering
one argument in favour of its propriety.”

“To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit
with you.”

“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of
either.”

“You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of
friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make
one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason
one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have
supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the
circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour
thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend,
where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no
very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying
with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”

“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to
arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to
appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting
between the parties?”

“By all means,” cried Bingley; “let us hear all the particulars, not
forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more
weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure
you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with
myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not
know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in
particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening,
when he has nothing to do.”

Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was
rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly
resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her
brother for talking such nonsense.

“I see your design, Bingley,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument,
and want to silence this.”

“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss
Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very
thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”

“What you ask,” said Elizabeth, “is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr.
Darcy had much better finish his letter.”

Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.

When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth
for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity
to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead
the way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she
seated herself.

Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed,
Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books
that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed
on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of
admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her
because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine,
however, at last that she drew his notice because there was something
more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in
any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked
him too little to care for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by
a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near
Elizabeth, said to her:

“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an
opportunity of dancing a reel?”

She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some
surprise at her silence.

“Oh!” said she, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately
determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,'
that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always
delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of
their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell
you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all--and now despise me if
you dare.”

“Indeed I do not dare.”

Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his
gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her
manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy
had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really
believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he
should be in some danger.

Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great
anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some
assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.

She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of
their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.

“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery
the next day, “you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this
desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue;
and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after
officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to
check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence,
which your lady possesses.”

“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”

“Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed
in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the
judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different
lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for
what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”

“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their
colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be
copied.”

At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and
Elizabeth herself.

“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Miss Bingley, in some
confusion, lest they had been overheard.

“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mrs. Hurst, “running away without
telling us that you were coming out.”

Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk
by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness,
and immediately said:

“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the
avenue.”

But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them,
laughingly answered:

“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear
to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a
fourth. Good-bye.”

She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of
being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered
as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.



Chapter 11


When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her
sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the
drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many
professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable
as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared.
Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an
entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh
at their acquaintance with spirit.

But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object;
Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had
something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed
himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also
made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad;” but diffuseness
and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and
attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she
should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire
to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from
the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone
else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great
delight.

When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the
card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr.
Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open
petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and
the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr.
Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the
sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same;
and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets
and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss
Bennet.

Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr.
Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she
was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She
could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her
question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be
amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the
second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant
it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no
enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a
book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not
an excellent library.”

No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and
cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing
her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly
towards him and said:

“By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at
Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult
the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are
not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a
pleasure.”

“If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he
chooses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled
thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send
round my cards.”

“I should like balls infinitely better,” she replied, “if they were
carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably
tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much
more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of
the day.”

“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be
near so much like a ball.”

Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked
about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but
Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In
the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and,
turning to Elizabeth, said:

“Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a
turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so
long in one attitude.”

Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley
succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked
up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as
Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was
directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that
he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down
the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would
interfere. “What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his
meaning?”--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?

“Not at all,” was her answer; “but depend upon it, he means to be severe
on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing
about it.”

Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in
anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his
two motives.

“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon
as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing
the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret
affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures
appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be
completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better
as I sit by the fire.”

“Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley. “I never heard anything so
abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Elizabeth. “We
can all plague and punish one another. Tease him--laugh at him. Intimate
as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”

“But upon my honour, I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has
not yet taught me _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of
mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will
not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a
subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”

“Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” cried Elizabeth. “That is an
uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would
be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a
laugh.”

“Miss Bingley,” said he, “has given me more credit than can be.
The wisest and the best of men--nay, the wisest and best of their
actions--may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in
life is a joke.”

“Certainly,” replied Elizabeth--“there are such people, but I hope I
am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good.
Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, _do_ divert me, I own,
and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely
what you are without.”

“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study
of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong
understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride.”

“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real
superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”

Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.

“Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley;
“and pray what is the result?”

“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it
himself without disguise.”

“No,” said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough,
but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch
for. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the
convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others
so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings
are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper
would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost
forever.”

“_That_ is a failing indeed!” cried Elizabeth. “Implacable resentment
_is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I
really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me.”

“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular
evil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

“And _your_ defect is to hate everybody.”

“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand
them.”

“Do let us have a little music,” cried Miss Bingley, tired of a
conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my
waking Mr. Hurst?”

Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was
opened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for
it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.



Chapter 12


In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the
next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for
them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on
her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which
would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive
them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at
least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs.
Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage
before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley
and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them
very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively
resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the
contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long,
she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at
length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield
that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.

The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was
said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work
on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was
then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike
of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so
soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be
safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where
she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at
Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss
Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teasing than usual to himself.
He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration
should _now_ escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope
of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been
suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight
in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke
ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were
at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most
conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost
all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last
very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted,
after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her
to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most
tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of
the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet
wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much
trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their
father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really
glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The
evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of
its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and
Elizabeth.

They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human
nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of
threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information
for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said
in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers
had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it
had actually been hinted that Colonel Forster was going to be married.



Chapter 13


“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at
breakfast the next morning, “that you have ordered a good dinner to-day,
because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.”

“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure,
unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in--and I hope _my_ dinners
are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.”

“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”

Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr.
Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr.
Bingley. But--good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be
got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell--I must speak to Hill this
moment.”

“It is _not_ Mr. Bingley,” said her husband; “it is a person whom I
never saw in the whole course of my life.”

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being
eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:

“About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago
I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring
early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead,
may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”

“Oh! my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing
in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own
children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago
to do something or other about it.”

Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They
had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which
Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail
bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of
five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.

“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet, “and
nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little
softened by his manner of expressing himself.”

“No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of
him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did
before him?”

“Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that
head, as you will hear.”

“Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.

“Dear Sir,--

“The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured
father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the
misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but
for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might
seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone
with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.--'There, Mrs.
Bennet.'--My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having
received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be
distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de
Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has
preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be
my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which
are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I
feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in
all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I
flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and
that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate
will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the
offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the
means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for
it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible
amends--but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to
receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting
on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and
shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight
following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine
is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided
that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.--I
remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and
daughters, your well-wisher and friend,

“WILLIAM COLLINS”

“At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,”
 said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most
conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will
prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so
indulgent as to let him come to us again.”

“There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if
he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to
discourage him.”

“Though it is difficult,” said Jane, “to guess in what way he can mean
to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his
credit.”

Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady
Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying
his parishioners whenever it were required.

“He must be an oddity, I think,” said she. “I cannot make him
out.--There is something very pompous in his style.--And what can he
mean by apologising for being next in the entail?--We cannot suppose he
would help it if he could.--Could he be a sensible man, sir?”

“No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the
reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his
letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.”

“In point of composition,” said Mary, “the letter does not seem
defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I
think it is well expressed.”

To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any
degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should
come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had
received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for
their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will,
and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which
astonished her husband and daughters.

Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great
politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the
ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in
need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a
tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and
stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated
before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of
daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this
instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did
not doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This
gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs.
Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.

“You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may
prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so
oddly.”

“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”

“Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you
must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with _you_, for such things
I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates
will go when once they come to be entailed.”

“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and
could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing
forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come
prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps,
when we are better acquainted--”

He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each
other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins's admiration. The
hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised;
and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's
heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his
own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and
he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its
cooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who
assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a
good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He
begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared
herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a
quarter of an hour.



Chapter 14


During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants
were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his
guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to
shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady
Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for
his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen
better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him
to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect
he protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in
a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself
experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to
approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of
preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings,
and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of
quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many
people he knew, but _he_ had never seen anything but affability in her.
She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she
made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the
neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or
two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to
marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had
once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly
approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed
to suggest some herself--some shelves in the closet up stairs.”

“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Bennet, “and
I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies
in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?”

“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane
from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.”

“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”

“She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very
extensive property.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, “then she is better off than
many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”

“She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says
that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the
handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks
the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly
constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many
accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am
informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still
resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends
to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”

“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at
court.”

“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town;
and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the
British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased
with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to
offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable
to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that
her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most
elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by
her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and
it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to
pay.”

“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for you
that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask
whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the
moment, or are the result of previous study?”

“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I
sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant
compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to
give them as unstudied an air as possible.”

Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd
as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment,
maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance,
and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner
in his pleasure.

By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad
to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over,
glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily
assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything
announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and
begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at
him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some
deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the
volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three
pages, she interrupted him with:

“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away
Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me
so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more
about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.”

Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr.
Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:

“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books
of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes
me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to
them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.”

Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at
backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted
very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements.
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's
interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would
resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his
young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any
affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared
for backgammon.



Chapter 15


Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had
been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part
of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and
miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he
had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful
acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had
given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a
good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected
prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de
Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which
he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,
mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of
pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.

Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to
marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had
a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found
them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.
This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's
estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
part.

His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face
confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what
was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled
choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a
quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a
conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at
Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. “As to
her _younger_ daughters, she could not take upon her to say--she could
not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession; her
_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her
to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.”

Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon
done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally
next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.

Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of
the day before was now high in her good graces.

Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the
house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.

In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of
the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were
immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and
nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in
a shop window, could recall them.

But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking
with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was
the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came
to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the
stranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia,
determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under
pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately
had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had
reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated
permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with
him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a
commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the
young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming.
His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of
beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address.
The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness
of conversation--a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and
unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together
very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy
and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the
ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and
began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and
Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to
Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated
it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes
on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the
stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they
looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting.
Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham,
after a few moments, touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just
deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to
imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.

In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of
Mr. Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of
Mrs. Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the
invitation.

Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest,
from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was
eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as
their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing
about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the
street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to
Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility
was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She
received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with
as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous
acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself,
however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who
introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an
excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon
put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom,
however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that
Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a
lieutenant's commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the
last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr.
Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the
occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the
officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid,
disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses
the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips
protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either
or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain
such behaviour than her sister.

Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring
Mrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady
Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman;
for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even
pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although
utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be
attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so
much attention in the whole course of his life.



Chapter 16


As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their
aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for
a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and
the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in
the house.

When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast
parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what
Rosings was, and who was its proprietor--when she had listened to the
description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found
that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison
with the housekeeper's room.

In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and
the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the
gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive
listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she
heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as
soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,
and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine
their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the
interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however.
The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking
of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration.
The officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,
gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but
Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips,
breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.

Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel
that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered
interesting by the skill of the speaker.

With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the
officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young
ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind
listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly
supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he
had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.

“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “but I shall be glad
to improve myself, for in my situation in life--” Mrs. Phillips was very
glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there
seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most
determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,
she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets
and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular.
Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore
at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear
him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be
told--the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not
even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly
relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in
a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

“About a month,” said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
understand.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham; “his estate there is a noble one. A clear
ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more
capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for
I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my
infancy.”

Elizabeth could not but look surprised.

“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth very warmly. “I have
spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very
disagreeable.”

“I have no right to give _my_ opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being
agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him
too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_
to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”

“Upon my word, I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in
the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”

“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham, after a short
interruption, “that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond
their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The
world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his
high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”

“I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man.” Wickham only shook his head.

“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “whether he is
likely to be in this country much longer.”

“I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I
was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will
not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_
wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,
and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for
avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense
of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he
is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never
be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by
a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and
everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the
memory of his father.”

Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.

Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that
he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very
intelligible gallantry.

“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” he added,
“which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be
a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them.
Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
were speaking of just now.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best
living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.
I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
elsewhere.”

“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth; “but how could _that_ be? How could his
will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”

“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to
give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the
intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely
conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
to it by extravagance, imprudence--in short anything or nothing. Certain
it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was
of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and
I may have spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can
recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort
of men, and that he hates me.”

“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

“Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_.”

Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
ever as he expressed them.

“But what,” said she, after a pause, “can have been his motive? What can
have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but
attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had
not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort
of preference which was often given me.”

“I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked
him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be
despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
this.”

After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, “I _do_
remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of
his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition
must be dreadful.”

“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Wickham; “I can hardly
be just to him.”

Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To
treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his
father!” She could have added, “A young man, too, like _you_, whose very
countenance may vouch for your being amiable”--but she contented herself
with, “and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood,
connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!”

“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest
part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,
sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_
father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips,
appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up everything to be of
use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the
Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most
intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to
be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence,
and when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to
be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of his affection to myself.”

“How strange!” cried Elizabeth. “How abominable! I wonder that the very
pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better
motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest--for
dishonesty I must call it.”

“It _is_ wonderful,” replied Wickham, “for almost all his actions may
be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has
connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are
none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger
impulses even than pride.”

“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”

“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money
freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the
poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride--for he is very proud of what
his father was--have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family,
to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
which, with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and
careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up
as the most attentive and best of brothers.”

“What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to
speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother--very, very
proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond
of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is
nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen,
and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her
home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her
education.”

After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
help reverting once more to the first, and saying:

“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,
be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you
know Mr. Bingley?”

“Not at all.”

“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
Darcy is.”

“Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not
want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth
his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is
a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His
pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just,
sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable--allowing something
for fortune and figure.”

The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success were
made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every
point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon,
he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least
importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged
that she would not make herself uneasy.

“I know very well, madam,” said he, “that when persons sit down to a
card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I
am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
little matters.”

Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for
a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation
was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” she replied, “has very lately given him
a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her
notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”

“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy
were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy.”

“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
yesterday.”

“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”

This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
self-destined for another.

“Mr. Collins,” said she, “speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,
I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”

“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Wickham; “I have
not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked
her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the
reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe
she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her
nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an
understanding of the first class.”

Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper
put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise
of Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to
everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name
as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and
Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.



Chapter 17


Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr.
Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she
knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr.
Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the
veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The
possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to
interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be
done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each,
and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be
otherwise explained.

“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way
or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps
misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to
conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them,
without actual blame on either side.”

“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on
behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the
business? Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of
somebody.”

“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my
opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light
it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such
a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is
impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his
character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so
excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”

“I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than
that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me
last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it
be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his
looks.”

“It is difficult indeed--it is distressing. One does not know what to
think.”

“I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”

But Jane could think with certainty on only one point--that Mr. Bingley,
if he _had_ been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair
became public.

The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this
conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had
been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal
invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed
for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their
dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly
asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To
the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet
as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to
the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an
activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if
eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.

The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every
female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in
compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered
by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a
ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the
society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and
Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr.
Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look
and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended
less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they
each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham,
he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball
was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she
had no disinclination for it.

“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough--I
think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements.
Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those
who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for
everybody.”

Elizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did
not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking
him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if
he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's
amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no
scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke
either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to
dance.

“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball
of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people,
can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing
myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair
cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of
soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially,
a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right
cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”

Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being
engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins
instead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help
for it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce
delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins's proposal accepted with as
good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his
gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first
struck her, that _she_ was selected from among her sisters as worthy
of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a
quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors.
The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing
civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a
compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than
gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before
her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage
was extremely agreeable to _her_. Elizabeth, however, did not choose
to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the
consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and
till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the
younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this
time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there
was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton
once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after--the very
shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have
found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the
improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than
a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and
Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.



Chapter 18


Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in
vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a
doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty
of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that
might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than
usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all
that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than
might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose
the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's
pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though
this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was
pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who
told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the
day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile,
“I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if
he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.”

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by
Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for
Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every
feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate
disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to
the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make.
Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She
was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away
with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in
speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect
of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her
spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had
not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition
to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular
notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress;
they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn,
apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being
aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable
partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from
him was ecstasy.

She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of
Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances
were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with
her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took
her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that,
without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again
immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of
mind; Charlotte tried to console her:

“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”

“Heaven forbid! _That_ would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find
a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an
evil.”

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her
hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a
simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant
in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no
answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which
she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and
reading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding
it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to
imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at
first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would
be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made
some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again
silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time
with:--“It is _your_ turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked
about the dance, and _you_ ought to make some sort of remark on the size
of the room, or the number of couples.”

He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be
said.

“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may
observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But
_now_ we may be silent.”

“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be
entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of
_some_, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the
trouble of saying as little as possible.”

“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you
imagine that you are gratifying mine?”

“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great
similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial,
taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say
something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to
posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”

“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,”
 said he. “How near it may be to _mine_, I cannot pretend to say. _You_
think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”

“I must not decide on my own performance.”

He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down
the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often
walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist
the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just
been forming a new acquaintance.”

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of _hauteur_ overspread his
features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself
for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a
constrained manner said, “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners
as may ensure his _making_ friends--whether he may be equally capable of
_retaining_ them, is less certain.”

“He has been so unlucky as to lose _your_ friendship,” replied Elizabeth
with emphasis, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all
his life.”

Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At
that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass
through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr.
Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on
his dancing and his partner.

“I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very
superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the
first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not
disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated,
especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at
her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then
flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:--but let me not interrupt you, sir. You
will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that
young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”

The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir
William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and
Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly,
he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William's interruption has made
me forget what we were talking of.”

“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have
interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves.
We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we
are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”

“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.

“Books--oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same
feelings.”

“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be
no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”

“No--I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of
something else.”

“The _present_ always occupies you in such scenes--does it?” said he,
with a look of doubt.

“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her
thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared
by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy,
that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was
unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its _being
created_.”

“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion,
to be secure of judging properly at first.”

“May I ask to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration of _your_ character,” said she, endeavouring
to shake off her gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?”

She shook her head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different
accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

“I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “that reports may vary
greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were
not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to
fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”

“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another
opportunity.”

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied.
She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in
silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree,
for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards
her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against
another.

They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and
with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:

“So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham!
Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand
questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among
his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late
Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to
give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's
using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has
always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated
Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but
I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he
cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother
thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to
the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself
out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent
thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you,
Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really,
considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”

“His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,” said
Elizabeth angrily; “for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse
than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of _that_, I can
assure you, he informed me himself.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer.
“Excuse my interference--it was kindly meant.”

“Insolent girl!” said Elizabeth to herself. “You are much mistaken
if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see
nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr.
Darcy.” She then sought her eldest sister, who had undertaken to make
inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of
such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently
marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening.
Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for
Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way
before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.

“I want to know,” said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her
sister's, “what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have
been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case
you may be sure of my pardon.”

“No,” replied Jane, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing
satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of
his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have
principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct,
the probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that
Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has
received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's,
Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has
been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard.”

“Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?”

“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”

“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am
satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”

“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard
them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to
him _conditionally_ only.”

“I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity,” said Elizabeth warmly;
“but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr.
Bingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but
since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt
the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of
both gentlemen as I did before.”

She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on
which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with
delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr.
Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence
in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew
to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last
partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them,
and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as
to make a most important discovery.

“I have found out,” said he, “by a singular accident, that there is now
in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the
gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of
the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady
Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have
thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de
Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made
in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to
do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total
ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.”

“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!”

“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier.
I believe him to be Lady Catherine's _nephew_. It will be in my power to
assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.”

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him
that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction
as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that
it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either
side; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in
consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her
with the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she
ceased speaking, replied thus:

“My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in
your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your
understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide
difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity,
and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that
I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with
the highest rank in the kingdom--provided that a proper humility of
behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to
follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to
perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to
profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant
guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by
education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young
lady like yourself.” And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr.
Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose
astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced
his speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of
it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the
words “apology,” “Hunsford,” and “Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” It vexed
her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him
with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time
to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however,
was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed
abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the
end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr.
Collins then returned to Elizabeth.

“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “to be dissatisfied with my
reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered
me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying
that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be
certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very
handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.”

As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned
her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the
train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to,
made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in
that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection
could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of
endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts
she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to
venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to
supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which
placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find
that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely,
openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon
be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet
seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the
match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but
three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and
then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of
Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as
she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger
daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of
other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be
able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that
she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was
necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on
such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs.
Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She
concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally
fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no
chance of it.

In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's
words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible
whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the
chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her
mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.

“What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am
sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say
nothing _he_ may not like to hear.”

“For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you
to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by
so doing!”

Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would
talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and
blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently
glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what
she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was
convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression
of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and
steady gravity.

At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who
had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no
likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and
chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of
tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and
she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty,
preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent
entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance,
but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of
exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's
eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her
progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very
ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks
of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to
favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another.
Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was
weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at
Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to
Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs
of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however,
imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his
interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint,
and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, “That will do
extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other
young ladies have time to exhibit.”

Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and
Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid
her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.

“If I,” said Mr. Collins, “were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I
should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an
air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly
compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however,
to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time
to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The
rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make
such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not
offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time
that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care
and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making
as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance
that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody,
especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit
him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an
occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the
family.” And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had
been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared--many
smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his
wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly,
and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably
clever, good kind of young man.

To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to
expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would
have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or
finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister
that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his
feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he
must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should
have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough,
and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the
gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.

The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by
Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though
he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her
power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with
somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room.
He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it;
that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to
her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her
the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed
her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and
good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.

She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice;
though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite
disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the
probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in
it.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by
a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of
an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how
heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her
sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and
were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed
every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a
languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the
long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his
sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and
politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said
nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene.
Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the
rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a
silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too
much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord,
how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly
civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and
addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he
would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without
the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure,
and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on
her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next
day for a short time.

Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the
delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of
settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly
see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four
months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought
with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure.
Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the
man and the match were quite good enough for _her_, the worth of each
was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.



Chapter 19


The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having
no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at
the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On
finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together,
soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:

“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the
course of this morning?”

Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
Bennet answered instantly, “Oh dear!--yes--certainly. I am sure Lizzy
will be very happy--I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I
want you up stairs.” And, gathering her work together, she was hastening
away, when Elizabeth called out:

“Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse
me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am
going away myself.”

“No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are.” And upon
Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to
escape, she added: “Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing Mr.
Collins.”

Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's
consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to
conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between
distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as
they were gone, Mr. Collins began.

“Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected
mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the
purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of
my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for
marrying--and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design
of selecting a wife, as I certainly did.”

The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could
not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further,
and he continued:

“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will
add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought
to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and
recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling
patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked
too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I
left Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose
a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice
and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be
acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy
myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that
the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not
be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and
I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's
decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.”

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

“You are too hasty, sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no
answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for
the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of
your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to
decline them.”

“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a
third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”

“Upon my word, sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is a rather
extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make _me_
happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
situation.”

“Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so,” said Mr. Collins
very gravely--“but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of
seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your
modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.”

“Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You
must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may
be considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as she
thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus
addressed her:

“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I
shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given
me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on
the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to
encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the
female character.”

“Really, Mr. Collins,” cried Elizabeth with some warmth, “you puzzle me
exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form
of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
to convince you of its being one.”

“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is
unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would
be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further
consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo
the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me,
I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by
suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.”

“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind
of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would
rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you
again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but
to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant
female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking
the truth from her heart.”

“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward
gallantry; “and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express
authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of
being acceptable.”

To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make
no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if
he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered
in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could
not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.



Chapter 20


Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule
to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open
the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she
entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in
warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins
received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result
of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the
refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.

This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been
glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage
him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it,
and could not help saying so.

“But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins,” she added, “that Lizzy shall be
brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very
headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will
_make_ her know it.”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Collins; “but if
she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she
actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not
to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.”

“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. “Lizzy is
only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as
good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure.”

She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Bennet, you
are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make
Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you
do not make haste he will change his mind and not have _her_.”

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them
on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by
her communication.

“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had
finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”

“Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy.”

“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business.”

“Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
marrying him.”

“Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion.”

Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
library.

“Come here, child,” cried her father as she appeared. “I have sent for
you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Elizabeth replied that it was.
“Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?”

“I have, sir.”

“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?”

“Yes, or I will never see her again.”

“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you
again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
if you _do_.”

Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning,
but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.

“What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to
_insist_ upon her marrying him.”

“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request.
First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
library to myself as soon as may be.”

Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did
Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane
in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined
interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and
sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner
varied, however, her determination never did.

Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.
He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin
could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend
the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to
her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such
fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has
made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him.”

Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the
breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
family. “Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas,” she added in a melancholy tone,
“for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used,
nobody feels for my poor nerves.”

Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.

“Aye, there she comes,” continued Mrs. Bennet, “looking as unconcerned
as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy--if you take it
into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep
you--and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told
you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again,
and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking
to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking
to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have
no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it
is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.”

Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that
any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the
irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of
them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with
an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to
the girls, “Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold
your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation
together.”

Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected
conversation: “Oh! Mr. Collins!”

“My dear madam,” replied he, “let us be for ever silent on this point.
Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his
displeasure, “to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation
to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a
young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment;
and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt
of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand;
for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as
when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our
estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect
to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to
your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the
compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my
behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my
dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all
liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair.
My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due
consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_
has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.”



Chapter 21


The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her
mother. As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly
expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her,
but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke
to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and
especially to her friend.

The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill
health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.

After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their
aunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was
well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self-imposed.

“I found,” said he, “as the time drew near that I had better not meet
Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so
many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes
might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”

She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly
bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with
them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to
her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an
occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little,
hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and
Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw
her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected
herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual
cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety
on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no
sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane
invited her to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room,
Jane, taking out the letter, said:

“This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good
deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on
their way to town--and without any intention of coming back again. You
shall hear what she says.”

She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information
of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,
and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a
house. The next was in these words: “I do not pretend to regret anything
I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend;
but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that
delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may
lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved
correspondence. I depend on you for that.” To these highflown
expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust;
and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw
nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their
absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as
to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to
regard it, in the enjoyment of his.

“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “that you should not be
able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater
satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
them.”

“Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”

“When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we
are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are
already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my
dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd--but of
that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may
abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your
beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the
three of whom we shall deprive you.”

“It is evident by this,” added Jane, “that he comes back no more this
winter.”

“It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he _should_.”

“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own
master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_.”

“Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth,
_we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think
Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments;
and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into
something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of
her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the
country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have
frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing;
her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's
partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
of so many?”

“What do you think of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane as she
finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that
Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is
perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she
suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”

“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”

“Most willingly.”

“You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him
to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he
does not care about you.”

Jane shook her head.

“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you
together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She
is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr.
Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the
case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she
is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion
that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble
in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and
I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead
of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.”

“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your
representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the
foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving
anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving
herself.”

“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means.
You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer.”

“But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
elsewhere?”

“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth; “and if, upon mature
deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
all means to refuse him.”

“How can you talk so?” said Jane, faintly smiling. “You must know that
though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
not hesitate.”

“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider
your situation with much compassion.”

“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”

The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man
so totally independent of everyone.

She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt
on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.
Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,
though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that
Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.

They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;
but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,
and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen
to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr.
Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the
conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had
been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two
full courses.



Chapter 22


The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the
chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. “It keeps him in good
humour,” said she, “and I am more obliged to you than I can express.”
 Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her
from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very
soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost
secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday.
His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas
perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and
instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had
she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.

In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow,
everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as
they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that
was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must
be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with
his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must
guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure
and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that
establishment were gained.

Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more
interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short,
were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible
nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must
be imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly
either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was
the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune,
and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest
preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at
the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all
the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business
was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship
she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder,
and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be
shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved
to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins,
when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had
passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very
dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the
curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct
questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was
at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to
publish his prosperous love.

As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality,
said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever
his engagements might allow him to visit them.

“My dear madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly
gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and
you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as
possible.”

They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
so speedy a return, immediately said:

“But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my
good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of
offending your patroness.”

“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Collins, “I am particularly obliged to you
for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so
material a step without her ladyship's concurrence.”

“You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her
displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence.”

“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your
regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though
my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now
take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my
cousin Elizabeth.”

With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to
understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her
younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was
a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read
and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very
agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.

The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her
friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but
that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from
possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was
consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and
she could not help crying out:

“Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte--impossible!”

The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained
her composure, and calmly replied:

“Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible
that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?”

But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of
their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her
all imaginable happiness.

“I see what you are feeling,” replied Charlotte. “You must be surprised,
very much surprised--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry
you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be
satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never
was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on
entering the marriage state.”

Elizabeth quietly answered “Undoubtedly;” and after an awkward pause,
they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much
longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard.
It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so
unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers
of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now
accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was
not exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible
that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better
feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a
most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself
and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it
was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had
chosen.



Chapter 23


Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention
it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to
announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
houses, he unfolded the matter--to an audience not merely wondering, but
incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness,
protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and
often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:

“Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know
that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?”

Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried
him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the
most forbearing courtesy.

Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant
a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and
endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters
by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she
was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.

Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while
Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings
found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins
had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be
happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that
Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she
herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two
points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her
resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without
scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William
or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she
could at all forgive their daughter.

Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such
as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for
it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and
more foolish than his daughter!

Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said
less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty
and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a
clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
to spread at Meryton.

Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort
on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she
called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,
though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been
enough to drive happiness away.

Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that
no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her
disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her
sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could
never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious,
as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his
return.

Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to
their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
the happiest of men.

Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to
complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come
to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient
and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house
while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and
they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued
absence.

Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after
day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the
report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to
Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
falsehood.

Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that
his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as
she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
Darcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for
the strength of his attachment.

As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more
painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of
concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother,
an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed
all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
tranquillity.

Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his
reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of
anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour,
and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight
of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she
regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see
them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She
complained bitterly of all this to her husband.

“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,” said she, “it is very hard to think that Charlotte
Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
make way for _her_, and live to see her take her place in it!”

“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for
better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.”

This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of
making any answer, she went on as before.

“I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
not for the entail, I should not mind it.”

“What should not you mind?”

“I should not mind anything at all.”

“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility.”

“I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How
anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own
daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too!
Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?”

“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Bennet.



Chapter 24


Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first
sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for
the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had
time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left
the country.

Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest
of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the
writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied
the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline
boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict
the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former
letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an
inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of
the latter with regard to new furniture.

Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this,
heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern
for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's
assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no
credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she
had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she
could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness
of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave
of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness
to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however,
been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in
whatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as
she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short,
on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She
could think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really
died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether
he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his
observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be
materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained
the same, her peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to
Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a
longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could
not help saying:

“Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no
idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But
I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall
all be as we were before.”

Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said
nothing.

“You doubt me,” cried Jane, slightly colouring; “indeed, you have
no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my
acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear,
and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_ pain. A
little time, therefore--I shall certainly try to get the better.”

With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately,
that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it
has done no harm to anyone but myself.”

“My dear Jane!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “you are too good. Your sweetness
and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say
to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you
deserve.”

Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back
the praise on her sister's warm affection.

“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “this is not fair. _You_ wish to think all the
world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want
to think _you_ perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not
be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your
privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people
whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see
of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms
my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the
little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or
sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the
other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is
unaccountable!”

“My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will
ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference
of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and
Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a
large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be
ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like
regard and esteem for our cousin.”

“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else
could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that
Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her
understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a
conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as
I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him
cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though
it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual,
change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade
yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of
danger security for happiness.”

“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied
Jane; “and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy
together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You
mentioned _two_ instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat
you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking _that person_ to blame, and
saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy
ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man
to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but
our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than
it does.”

“And men take care that they should.”

“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea
of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.”

“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design,”
 said Elizabeth; “but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others
unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness,
want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution,
will do the business.”

“And do you impute it to either of those?”

“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what
I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.”

“You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?”

“Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”

“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can
only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can
secure it.”

“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his
happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they
may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great
connections, and pride.”

“Beyond a doubt, they _do_ wish him to choose Miss Darcy,” replied Jane;
“but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have
known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love
her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely
they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think
herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very
objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try
to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an
affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most
unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been
mistaken--or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what
I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in
the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.”

Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's
name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with
less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she
did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the
effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her
no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best
comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he one day,
“your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to
being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then.
It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction
among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in
Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
be _your_ man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
all expect Jane's good fortune.”

“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of
that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make
the most of it.”

Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom
which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was
pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they
had known anything of the matter.

Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be
any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society
of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for
allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes--but by everybody else
Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.



Chapter 25


After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity,
Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of
Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his
side, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason
to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would
be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his
relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair
cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another
letter of thanks.

On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving
her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas
at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly
superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield
ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived
by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so
well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger
than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant
woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the
two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard.
They had frequently been staying with her in town.

The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to
distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was
done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen.
Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They
had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her
girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was
nothing in it.

“I do not blame Jane,” she continued, “for Jane would have got Mr.
Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think
that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not
been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room,
and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have
a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just
as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed,
sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of
them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted
so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves
before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the
greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of
long sleeves.”

Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before,
in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her
sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the
conversation.

When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. “It
seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane,” said she. “I am
sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such
as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl
for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets
her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent.”

“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Elizabeth, “but it will not
do for _us_. We do not suffer by _accident_. It does not often
happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of
independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in
love with only a few days before.”

“But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so
doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as
often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance,
as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how _violent was_ Mr. Bingley's
love?”

“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite
inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time
they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he
offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I
spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be
finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?”

“Oh, yes!--of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor
Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get
over it immediately. It had better have happened to _you_, Lizzy; you
would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she
would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be
of service--and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as
anything.”

Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded
of her sister's ready acquiescence.

“I hope,” added Mrs. Gardiner, “that no consideration with regard to
this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of
town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go
out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all,
unless he really comes to see her.”

“And _that_ is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his
friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such
a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may
perhaps have _heard_ of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he
would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its
impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley
never stirs without him.”

“So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane
correspond with his sister? _She_ will not be able to help calling.”

“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”

But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this
point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being
withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which
convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely
hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that
his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends
successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's
attractions.

Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the
Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she
hoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother,
she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of
seeing him.

The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses,
the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its
engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment
of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family
dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always
made part of it--of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and
on these occasions, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's
warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them,
from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference
of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and
she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left
Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such
an attachment.

To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure,
unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago,
before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very
part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many
acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since
the death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher
intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of
procuring.

Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Darcy by
character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject
of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberley with the minute
description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of
praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both
him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's
treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's
reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and
was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam
Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.



Chapter 26


Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given
on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after
honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:

“You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because
you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking
openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve
yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want
of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against
_him_; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he
ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you
must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all
expect you to use it. Your father would depend on _your_ resolution and
good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”

“My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed.”

“Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise.”

“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of
myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I
can prevent it.”

“Elizabeth, you are not serious now.”

“I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with
Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison,
the most agreeable man I ever saw--and if he becomes really attached to
me--I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence
of it. Oh! _that_ abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does
me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My
father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I
should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but
since we see every day that where there is affection, young people
are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into
engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many
of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it
would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not
to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first
object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short,
I will do my best.”

“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very
often. At least, you should not _remind_ your mother of inviting him.”

“As I did the other day,” said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: “very
true, it will be wise in me to refrain from _that_. But do not imagine
that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been
so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the
necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my
honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope
you are satisfied.”

Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for
the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice
being given on such a point, without being resented.

Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted
by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases,
his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was
now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think
it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that
she “_wished_ they might be happy.” Thursday was to be the wedding day,
and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she
rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and
reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her
out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:

“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza.”

“_That_ you certainly shall.”

“And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”

“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”

“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to
come to Hunsford.”

Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the
visit.

“My father and Maria are coming to me in March,” added Charlotte, “and I
hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as
welcome as either of them.”

The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from
the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on
the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their
correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that
it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never
address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over,
and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the
sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters
were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be
curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would
like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to
be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte
expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She
wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing
which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and
roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most
friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and
Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait
for her own visit there to know the rest.

Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their
safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it
would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.

Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience
generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or
hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that
her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been
lost.

“My aunt,” she continued, “is going to-morrow into that part of the
town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.”

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley.
“I did not think Caroline in spirits,” were her words, “but she was very
glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming
to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached
her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much
engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that
Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was
not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall
see them soon here.”

Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that
accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.

Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to
persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be
blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning
for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the
visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more,
the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no
longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will
prove what she felt.

“My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her
better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been
entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister,
though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I
still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was
as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for
wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to
happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not
return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I
receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that
she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not
calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was
in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was
perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity,
though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out
as she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on
her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting
wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the
cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though _we_ know
this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily
account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to
his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and
amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now,
because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago.
He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said
herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she
wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I
cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should
be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity
in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought,
and think only of what will make me happy--your affection, and the
invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very
soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield
again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better
not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts
from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and
Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.--Yours, etc.”

This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she
considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least.
All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not
even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on
every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible
advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr.
Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly
regret what he had thrown away.

Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise
concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth
had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to
herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over,
he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to
see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain.
Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied
with believing that _she_ would have been his only choice, had fortune
permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most
remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself
agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than
in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence.
Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to
suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish her, she was
ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very
sincerely wish him happy.

All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the
circumstances, she thus went on: “I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that
I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure
and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and
wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial
towards _him_; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find
out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to
think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My
watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more
interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love
with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance.
Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take
his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the
ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that
handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain.”



Chapter 27


With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise
diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and
sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take
Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of
going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan
and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure
as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing
Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There
was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such
uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change
was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her
a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have
been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly,
and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was
to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement
of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became
perfect as plan could be.

The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her,
and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he
told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.

The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on
his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that
Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the
first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner
of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of
what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their
opinion of her--their opinion of everybody--would always coincide, there
was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to
him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that,
whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable
and pleasing.

Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her
think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a
good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say
that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much
delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but
she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of
the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were
worn out, like his information.

It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early
as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's
door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when
they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth,
looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and
lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls,
whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to
wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen
her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and
kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and
shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.

Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her
sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to
her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her
spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however,
to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the
particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and
repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and
herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the
acquaintance.

Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and
complimented her on bearing it so well.

“But my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I
should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”

“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs,
between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end,
and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me,
because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get
a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is
mercenary.”

“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know
what to think.”

“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”

“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death
made her mistress of this fortune.”

“No--why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain _my_
affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for
making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally
poor?”

“But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her
so soon after this event.”

“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant
decorums which other people may observe. If _she_ does not object to it,
why should _we_?”

“_Her_ not objecting does not justify _him_. It only shows her being
deficient in something herself--sense or feeling.”

“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. _He_ shall be
mercenary, and _she_ shall be foolish.”

“No, Lizzy, that is what I do _not_ choose. I should be sorry, you know,
to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”

“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in
Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not
much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow
where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has
neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones
worth knowing, after all.”

“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”

Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the
unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in
a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.

“We have not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner,
“but, perhaps, to the Lakes.”

No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her
acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my dear,
dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You
give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What
are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport
we shall spend! And when we _do_ return, it shall not be like other
travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We
_will_ know where we have gone--we _will_ recollect what we have seen.
Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our
imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene,
will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let _our_
first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of
travellers.”



Chapter 28


Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to
Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had
seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health,
and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.

When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in
search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view.
The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth
smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.

At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the
road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge,
everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte
appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which
led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of
the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing
at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the
liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with
coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw
instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage;
his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some
minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her
family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the
neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they
were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious
formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's
offers of refreshment.

Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help
in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its
aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her,
as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But
though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to
gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at
her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion.
When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be
ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her
eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but
in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to
admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to
the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had
happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the
garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of
which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most
respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance
with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and
owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way
through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an
interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out
with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the
fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in
the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which
the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the
prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered
the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome
modern building, well situated on rising ground.

From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows;
but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white
frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte
took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased,
probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's
help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything
was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which
Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be
forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by
Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often
forgotten.

She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It
was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining
in, observed:

“Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine
de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will
be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I
doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice
when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she
will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she
honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is
charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed
to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I
_should_ say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.”

“Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,” added
Charlotte, “and a most attentive neighbour.”

“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of
woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news,
and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed,
Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon
Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding,
and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it
was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit
would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious
interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with
Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.

About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready
for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in
confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running
up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened
the door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with
agitation, cried out--

“Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for
there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make
haste, and come down this moment.”

Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more,
and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in
quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the
garden gate.

“And is this all?” cried Elizabeth. “I expected at least that the pigs
were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her
daughter.”

“La! my dear,” said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, “it is not
Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them;
the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little
creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?”

“She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind.
Why does she not come in?”

“Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours
when Miss de Bourgh comes in.”

“I like her appearance,” said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. “She
looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will
make him a very proper wife.”

Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation
with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was
stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness
before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that
way.

At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and
the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two
girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which
Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked
to dine at Rosings the next day.



Chapter 29


Mr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete.
The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering
visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his
wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity
of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady
Catherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.

“I confess,” said he, “that I should not have been at all surprised by
her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at
Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it
would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who
could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there
(an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately
after your arrival!”

“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir William,
“from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which
my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such
instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.”

Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their
visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what
they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and
so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.

When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth--

“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady
Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which
becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on
whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest--there is no occasion
for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you
for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank
preserved.”

While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different
doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much
objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of
her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas
who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her
introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done
to his presentation at St. James's.

As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a
mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and
Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such
raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but
slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the
house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally
cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.

When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every
moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm.
Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady
Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or
miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought
she could witness without trepidation.

From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a
rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they
followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady
Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship,
with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had
settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should
be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those
apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.

In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir William was so completely
awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage
enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word;
and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge
of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself
quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her
composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked
features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not
conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her
visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by
silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone,
as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to
Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she
believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.

When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment
she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the
daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her
being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any
likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her
features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very
little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance
there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening
to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before
her eyes.

After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to
admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties,
and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth
looking at in the summer.

The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and
all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had
likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her
ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish
nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted
alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir
William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law
said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear.
But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and
gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved
a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth
was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated
between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh--the former of whom was engaged in
listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all
dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little
Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing
she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the
gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.

When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to
be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any
intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every
subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to
have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic
concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as
to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be
regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the
care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was
beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an
occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse
with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and
Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew
the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel,
pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters
she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of
them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they
had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been
her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of
her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then
observed,

“Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your
sake,” turning to Charlotte, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no
occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought
necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss
Bennet?”

“A little.”

“Oh! then--some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our
instrument is a capital one, probably superior to----You shall try it
some day. Do your sisters play and sing?”

“One of them does.”

“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss
Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do
you draw?”

“No, not at all.”

“What, none of you?”

“Not one.”

“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother
should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.”

“My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.”

“Has your governess left you?”

“We never had any governess.”

“No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home
without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must
have been quite a slave to your education.”

Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been
the case.

“Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you
must have been neglected.”

“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as
wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to
read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be
idle, certainly might.”

“Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had
known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage
one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady
and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is
wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that
way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces
of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and
it was but the other day that I recommended another young person,
who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite
delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's
calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady
Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your
younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?”

“Yes, ma'am, all.”

“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The
younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters
must be very young?”

“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps _she_ is full young to be
much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon
younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and
amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to
marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth
as the first. And to be kept back on _such_ a motive! I think it would
not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind.”

“Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “you give your opinion very decidedly
for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”

“With three younger sisters grown up,” replied Elizabeth, smiling, “your
ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”

Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer;
and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever
dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not
conceal your age.”

“I am not one-and-twenty.”

When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables
were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat
down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the
two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her
party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was
uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson
expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or
having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the
other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking--stating the mistakes
of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins
was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her
for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many.
Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes
and noble names.

When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose,
the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins,
gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered
round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were
to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by
the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr.
Collins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon
as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin
to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for
Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her
commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy
Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise
into his own hands.



Chapter 30


Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long
enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled,
and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not
often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his
morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but
when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments,
and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her
cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast
and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in
reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room,
which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards.
Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer
the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a
more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent
reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been
much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and
she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.

From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and
were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went
along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton,
which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened
almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and
had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever
prevailed upon to get out.

Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and
not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise;
and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings
to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many
hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship,
and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during
these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work,
and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement
of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she
accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding
out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.

Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in
commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate
in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her
by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to
be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the
village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold
them into harmony and plenty.

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week;
and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one
card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart
of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living
in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This,
however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time
comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with
Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had
often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she
frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was
along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was
a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and
where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.

In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away.
Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an
addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be
important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was
expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not
many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would
furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and
she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him
were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently
destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest
satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and
seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by
Miss Lucas and herself.

His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking
the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane,
in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his
bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great
intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his
respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for
Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of
his uncle Lord ----, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when
Mr. Collins returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Charlotte had seen
them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running
into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:

“I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would
never have come so soon to wait upon me.”

Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment,
before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly
afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam,
who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and
address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been
used to look in Hertfordshire--paid his compliments, with his usual
reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her
friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely
curtseyed to him without saying a word.

Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the
readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but
his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and
garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody.
At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of
Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual
way, and after a moment's pause, added:

“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never
happened to see her there?”

She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see
whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between
the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he
answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The
subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went
away.



Chapter 31


Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage,
and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures
of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they
received any invitation thither--for while there were visitors in the
house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day,
almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by
such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to
come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little
of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the
Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen
only at church.

The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined
the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received
them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so
acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact,
almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy,
much more than to any other person in the room.

Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a
welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had
moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and
talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying
at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so
well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much
spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself,
as well as of Mr. Darcy. _His_ eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned
towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a
while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not
scruple to call out:

“What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking
of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.”

“We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid
a reply.

“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I
must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music.
There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment
of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt,
I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health
had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed
delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?”

Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.

“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady
Catherine; “and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel
if she does not practice a good deal.”

“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “that she does not need such advice.
She practises very constantly.”

“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write
to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often
tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without
constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she
will never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs.
Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told
her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs.
Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part
of the house.”

Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made
no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having
promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He
drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then
talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away
from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte
stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's
countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first
convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:

“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear
me? I will not be alarmed though your sister _does_ play so well. There
is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the
will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate
me.”

“I shall not say you are mistaken,” he replied, “because you could not
really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have
had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find
great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are
not your own.”

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to
Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of
me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky
in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part
of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of
credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all
that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire--and, give me leave to
say, very impolitic too--for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such
things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”

“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.

“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel
Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”

“You shall hear then--but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.
The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know,
was at a ball--and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced
only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain
knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a
partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”

“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly
beyond my own party.”

“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”

“Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged better, had I sought an
introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”

“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still
addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and
education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend
himself to strangers?”

“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to
him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”

“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy,
“of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot
catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their
concerns, as I often see done.”

“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the
masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same
force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I
have always supposed it to be my own fault--because I will not take the
trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe _my_ fingers as
capable as any other woman's of superior execution.”

Darcy smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your
time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can
think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”

Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know
what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again.
Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said
to Darcy:

“Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and
could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion
of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have
been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.”

Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his
cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she
discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss
de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have
been just as likely to marry _her_, had she been his relation.

Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing
with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received
them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the
gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was
ready to take them all home.



Chapter 32


Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane
while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village,
when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a
visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to
be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her
half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions,
when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and
Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.

He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his
intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were
to be within.

They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made,
seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely
necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence
recollecting _when_ she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and
feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty
departure, she observed:

“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy!
It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you
all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day
before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?”

“Perfectly so, I thank you.”

She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short
pause added:

“I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever
returning to Netherfield again?”

“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend
very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and
is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually
increasing.”

“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for
the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we
might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did
not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as
for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same
principle.”

“I should not be surprised,” said Darcy, “if he were to give it up as
soon as any eligible purchase offers.”

Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his
friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the
trouble of finding a subject to him.

He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable
house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr.
Collins first came to Hunsford.”

“I believe she did--and I am sure she could not have bestowed her
kindness on a more grateful object.”

“Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”

“Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one
of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made
him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding--though
I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the
wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a
prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her.”

“It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a
distance of her own family and friends.”

“An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”

“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's
journey. Yes, I call it a _very_ easy distance.”

“I should never have considered the distance as one of the _advantages_
of the match,” cried Elizabeth. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins
was settled _near_ her family.”

“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond
the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”

As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she
understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and
Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:

“I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her
family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many
varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of
travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the
case _here_. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not
such a one as will allow of frequent journeys--and I am persuaded my
friend would not call herself _near_ her family under less than _half_
the present distance.”

Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “_You_ cannot
have a right to such very strong local attachment. _You_ cannot have
been always at Longbourn.”

Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of
feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and
glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:

“Are you pleased with Kent?”

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side
calm and concise--and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte
and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised
them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding
on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying
much to anybody, went away.

“What can be the meaning of this?” said Charlotte, as soon as he was
gone. “My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never
have called us in this familiar way.”

But when Elizabeth told of his silence, it did not seem very likely,
even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various
conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from
the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable
from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there
was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot
always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the
pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the
two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither
almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes
separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their
aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he
had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended
him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in
being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her
former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw
there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners,
she believed he might have the best informed mind.

But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult
to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there
ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak,
it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice--a sacrifice
to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really
animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel
Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was
generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told
her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect
of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself
seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at
Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He
certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that
look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often
doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it
seemed nothing but absence of mind.

She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his
being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs.
Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of
raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her
opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would
vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.


In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying
Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he
certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but,
to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage
in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.



Chapter 33


More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park,
unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the
mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to
prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that
it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time,
therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like
wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was
not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away,
but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He
never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking
or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third
rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions--about
her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her
opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of
Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to
expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying
_there_ too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel
Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must
mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed
her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the
pales opposite the Parsonage.

She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter,
and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in
spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw
on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the
letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:

“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”

“I have been making the tour of the park,” he replied, “as I generally
do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are
you going much farther?”

“No, I should have turned in a moment.”

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage
together.

“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.

“Yes--if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He
arranges the business just as he pleases.”

“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least
pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems
more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy.”

“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it
than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak
feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and
dependence.”

“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of
either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and
dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going
wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”

“These are home questions--and perhaps I cannot say that I have
experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater
weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where
they like.”

“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often
do.”

“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many
in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to
money.”

“Is this,” thought Elizabeth, “meant for me?” and she coloured at the
idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what
is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is
very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.”

He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt
a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed,
she soon afterwards said:

“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of
having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a
lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well
for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he
likes with her.”

“No,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “that is an advantage which he must
divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy.”

“Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your
charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a
little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she
may like to have her own way.”

As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner
in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to
give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other
got pretty near the truth. She directly replied:

“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare
say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a
very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and
Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them.”

“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man--he
is a great friend of Darcy's.”

“Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily; “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr.
Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”

“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy _does_ take care of him in
those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in
our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to
him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that
Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture.”

“What is it you mean?”

“It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known,
because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an
unpleasant thing.”

“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”

“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be
Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself
on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most
imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other
particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing
him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from
knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”

“Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?”

“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the
lady.”

“And what arts did he use to separate them?”

“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Fitzwilliam, smiling. “He
only told me what I have now told you.”

Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with
indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she
was so thoughtful.

“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Your
cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”

“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”

“I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his
friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to
determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy.
But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the
particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed
that there was much affection in the case.”

“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Fitzwilliam, “but it is a
lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.”

This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture
of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and
therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent
matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room,
as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption
of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other
people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There
could not exist in the world _two_ men over whom Mr. Darcy could have
such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures
taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had
always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement
of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, _he_ was
the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had
suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while
every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the
world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.

“There were some very strong objections against the lady,” were Colonel
Fitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her
having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in
business in London.

“To Jane herself,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of
objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!--her understanding
excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither
could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some
peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and
respectability which he will probably never reach.” When she thought of
her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow
that any objections _there_ had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose
pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of
importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense;
and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed
by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr.
Bingley for his sister.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a
headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to
her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her
cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins,
seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much
as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins
could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather
displeased by her staying at home.



Chapter 34


When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself
as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the
examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her
being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any
revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering.
But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that
cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which,
proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly
disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth
noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an
attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's
shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her
a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation
to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the
next--and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should
herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of
her spirits, by all that affection could do.

She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that
his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not
mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its
being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in
the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her.
But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently
affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the
room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her
health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better.
She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and
then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but
said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her
in an agitated manner, and thus began:

“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be
repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love
you.”

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement;
and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her,
immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides
those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the
subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--of
its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always
opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to
the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his
suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to
the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did
not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to
receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she
lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to
answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with
representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite
of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with
expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of
his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt
of a favourable answer. He _spoke_ of apprehension and anxiety, but
his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could
only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her
cheeks, and she said:

“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to
express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however
unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should
be felt, and if I could _feel_ gratitude, I would now thank you. But I
cannot--I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly
bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to
anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be
of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented
the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in
overcoming it after this explanation.”

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed
on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than
surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance
of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the
appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed
himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings
dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:

“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting!
I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little _endeavour_ at
civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”

“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why with so evident a desire
of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me
against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?
Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I _was_ uncivil? But I have
other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against
you--had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you
think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has
been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most
beloved sister?”

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she
continued:

“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can
excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted _there_. You dare not,
you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means
of dividing them from each other--of exposing one to the censure of the
world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for
disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind.”

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening
with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse.
He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of denying
that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your
sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards _him_ I have been
kinder than towards myself.”

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection,
but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike
is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was
decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received
many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to
say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?
or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns,” said Darcy,
in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?”

“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy contemptuously; “yes, his misfortunes
have been great indeed.”

“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth with energy. “You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty--comparative poverty. You have
withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for
him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence
which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this!
and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and
ridicule.”

“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room,
“is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me!
I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this
calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, stopping in
his walk, and turning towards her, “these offenses might have been
overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the
scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These
bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater
policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of
my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by
reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and
just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your
connections?--to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose
condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to
the utmost to speak with composure when she said:

“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern
which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more
gentlemanlike manner.”

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:

“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that
would have tempted me to accept it.”

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an
expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:

“From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of
my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest
belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of
the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of
disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a
dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the
last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your
feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been.
Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best
wishes for your health and happiness.”

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how
to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for
half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed,
was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of
marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for
so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of
all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying
her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his
own case--was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired
unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable
pride--his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to
Jane--his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could
not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr.
Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for
a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the
sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to
encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.



Chapter 35


Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations
which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the
surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything
else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after
breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding
directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's
sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park,
she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The
park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one
of the gates into the ground.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was
tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and
look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had
made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the
verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk,
when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which
edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr.
Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now
near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced
her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though
in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the
gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter,
which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure,
“I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you.
Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a
slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity,
Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder,
perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written
quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise
full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated
from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:--

“Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension
of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those
offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any
intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes
which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the
effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion,
should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written
and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand
your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I
demand it of your justice.

“Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal
magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was,
that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley
from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various
claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate
prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and
wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged
favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other
dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect
its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young
persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could
bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last
night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope
to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions
and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which
is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which
may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity
must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.

“I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with
others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young
woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance
at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious
attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I
had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir
William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to
your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage.
He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could
be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour
attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss
Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also
watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever,
but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced
from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions
with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of
sentiment. If _you_ have not been mistaken here, _I_ must have been
in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter
probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict
pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not
scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and
air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction
that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be
easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is
certain--but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions
are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe
her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial
conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the
marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have
the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of
connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But
there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still
existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had
myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before
me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your
mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that
total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by
herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your
father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern
for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this
representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to
have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure,
is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than
it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say
farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties
was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led
me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy
connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as
you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.

“The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness
had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was
soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in
detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in
London. We accordingly went--and there I readily engaged in the office
of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I
described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance
might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose
that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been
seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your
sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his
affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great
natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his
own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was
no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into
Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the
work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There
is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not
reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the
measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in
town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her
brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without
ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me
enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this
concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it
was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no
other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it
was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to
you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn
them.

“With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured
Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his
connection with my family. Of what he has _particularly_ accused me I
am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more
than one witness of undoubted veracity.

“Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many
years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good
conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to
be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his
kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at
school, and afterwards at Cambridge--most important assistance, as his
own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have
been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only
fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he
had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be
his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is
many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different
manner. The vicious propensities--the want of principle, which he was
careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape
the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself,
and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr.
Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain--to what degree
you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham
has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from
unfolding his real character--it adds even another motive.

“My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to
Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly
recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner
that his profession might allow--and if he took orders, desired that a
valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There
was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long
survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham
wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders,
he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more
immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he
could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying
law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would
be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed
him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to
his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the
business was therefore soon settled--he resigned all claim to assistance
in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to
receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection
between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him
to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly
lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free
from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation.
For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the
incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to
me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured
me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He
had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely
resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in
question--of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was
well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not
have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame
me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every
repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of
his circumstances--and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me
to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every
appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But
last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.

“I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself,
and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold
to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your
secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to
the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself.
About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed
for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided
over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by
design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him
and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and
by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana,
whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to
her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and
to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her
excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed
the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two
before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the
idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as
a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and
how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented
any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place
immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr.
Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which
is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of
revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have
been complete indeed.

“This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have
been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as
false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr.
Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he
had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered
at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either,
detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in
your inclination.

“You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but
I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to
be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more
particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our
near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of
the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted
with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of _me_
should make _my_ assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by
the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be
the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some
opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the
morning. I will only add, God bless you.

“FITZWILLIAM DARCY”



Chapter 36


If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to
contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of
its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly
she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited.
Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did
she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power;
and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation
to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what
had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly
left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the
next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of
the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she
instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst
objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing
him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied
her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and
insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham--when
she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which,
if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which
bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself--her
feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished
to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false!
This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”--and when she had
gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the
last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
regard it, that she would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on
nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter
was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she
again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and
commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence.
The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what
he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though
she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own
words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the
will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living
was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was
impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the
other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did
not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the
particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions
to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three
thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down
the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be
impartiality--deliberated on the probability of each statement--but with
little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read
on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had
believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to
render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a
turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at
Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could
bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his
entrance into the ----shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the
persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town,
had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life
nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As
to his real character, had information been in her power, she had
never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had
established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried
to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of
integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of
Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those
casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy
had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But
no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before
her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and
the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After
pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to
read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss
Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel
Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was
referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam
himself--from whom she had previously received the information of his
near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no
reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to
him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and
at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never
have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his
cousin's corroboration.

She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation
between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's.
Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was _now_
struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and
wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting
himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions
with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear
of seeing Mr. Darcy--that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that
_he_ should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball
the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield
family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but
herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed;
that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's
character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would
always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned!
His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and
hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer
the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything.
His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had
either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying
his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most
incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter
and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not
but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as
were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their
acquaintance--an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much
together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways--seen anything
that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust--anything that spoke him
of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was
esteemed and valued--that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a
brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his
sister as to prove him capable of _some_ amiable feeling; that had his
actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and
that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man
as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham
could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced,
absurd.

“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself
on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have
often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified
my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this
discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could
not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my
folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect
of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted
prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were
concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”

From herself to Jane--from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line
which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation
_there_ had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely
different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that
credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to
give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her
sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's
opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his
description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were
little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air
and manner not often united with great sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were
mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense
of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly
for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as
having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind
than on hers.

The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed,
but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been
self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered
that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest
relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt
by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she
had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every
variety of thought--re-considering events, determining probabilities,
and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and
so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made
her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish
of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such
reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.

She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each
called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take
leave--but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least
an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her
till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just _affect_ concern
in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no
longer an object; she could think only of her letter.



Chapter 37


The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having
been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then
hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return
brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship,
importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of
having them all to dine with her.

Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had
she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as
her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her
ladyship's indignation would have been. “What would she have said? how
would she have behaved?” were questions with which she amused herself.

Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I assure
you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Catherine; “I believe no one
feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly
attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to
me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The
dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy
seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His
attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”

Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which
were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of
spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that
she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:

“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that
you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your
company, I am sure.”

“I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied
Elizabeth, “but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town
next Saturday.”

“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected
you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There
can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly
spare you for another fortnight.”

“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”

“Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters
are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay
another _month_ complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as
far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as
Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room
for one of you--and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I
should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”

“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our
original plan.”

Lady Catherine seemed resigned. “Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant
with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea
of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper.
You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in
the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly
guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my
niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her
having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of
Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with
propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those
things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I
am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be
discreditable to _you_ to let them go alone.”

“My uncle is to send a servant for us.”

“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you
have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses?
Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be
attended to.”

Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey,
and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary,
which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so
occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be
reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it
as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary
walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant
recollections.

Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She
studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at
times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address,
she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly
she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against
herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion.
His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she
could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal,
or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past
behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in
the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin.
They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at
them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his
youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right
herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently
united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine
and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence,
what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited,
irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always
affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would
scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While
there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while
Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there
forever.

Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's
explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion,
heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved
to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any
could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How
grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every
respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had
been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!

When to these recollections was added the development of Wickham's
character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had
seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it
almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.

Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of
her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent
there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of
their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing,
and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right
way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the
work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.

When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them
a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year;
and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her
hand to both.



Chapter 38


On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few
minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of
paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.

“I know not, Miss Elizabeth,” said he, “whether Mrs. Collins has yet
expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very
certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for
it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We
know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain
manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we
see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like
yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension,
and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending
your time unpleasantly.”

Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She
had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with
Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make _her_
feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling
solemnity replied:

“It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not
disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately
having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and,
from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the
humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford
visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to
Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage
and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You
see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge
that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should
not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are
sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was
obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility
and truth in a few short sentences.

“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into
Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will
be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you
have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear
that your friend has drawn an unfortunate--but on this point it will be
as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth,
that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in
marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of
thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of
character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each
other.”

Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was
the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed
and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to
have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang.
Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she
had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that
her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her
home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their
dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.

At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels
placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate
parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by
Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her
with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks
for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his
compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her
in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed,
when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had
hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.

“But,” he added, “you will of course wish to have your humble respects
delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you
while you have been here.”

Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and
the carriage drove off.

“Good gracious!” cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, “it seems
but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have
happened!”

“A great many indeed,” said her companion with a sigh.

“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice!
How much I shall have to tell!”

Elizabeth added privately, “And how much I shall have to conceal!”

Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and
within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's
house, where they were to remain a few days.

Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her
spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her
aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at
Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for
Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know
that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish
Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own
vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation
to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision
in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate;
and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried
into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister
further.



Chapter 39


It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out
together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ----, in Hertfordshire;
and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage
was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's
punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room up stairs.
These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed
in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and
dressing a salad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set
out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming,
“Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?”

“And we mean to treat you all,” added Lydia, “but you must lend us the
money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing
her purchases--“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think
it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall
pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any
better.”

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect
unconcern, “Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and
when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I
think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what
one wears this summer, after the ----shire have left Meryton, and they
are going in a fortnight.”

“Are they indeed!” cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.

“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to
take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme;
and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to
go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall
have!”

“Yes,” thought Elizabeth, “_that_ would be a delightful scheme indeed,
and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole
campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor
regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!”

“Now I have got some news for you,” said Lydia, as they sat down at
table. “What do you think? It is excellent news--capital news--and about
a certain person we all like!”

Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need
not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:

“Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the
waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse
things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad
he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for
my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not?
There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She
is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe.”

“And Mary King is safe!” added Elizabeth; “safe from a connection
imprudent as to fortune.”

“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”

“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Jane.

“I am sure there is not on _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared
three straws about her--who could about such a nasty little freckled
thing?”

Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such
coarseness of _expression_ herself, the coarseness of the _sentiment_
was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was
ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their
boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and
Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.

“How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Lydia. “I am glad I bought my
bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now
let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way
home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all
since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any
flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband
before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare.
She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not
being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to
get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr.
Collins; but _I_ do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord!
how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would
chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece
of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend
the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the
evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are _such_ friends!) and so
she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen
was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We
dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a
lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs.
Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow
one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny,
and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they
did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs.
Forster. I thought I should have died. And _that_ made the men suspect
something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.”

With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did
Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her
companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she
could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane
in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet
say voluntarily to Elizabeth:

“I am glad you are come back, Lizzy.”

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases
came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that
occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and
poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one
hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat
some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger
Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's,
was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who
would hear her.

“Oh! Mary,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun!
As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there
was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty
had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved
very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold
luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated
you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never
should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then
we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that
anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”

To this Mary very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister,
to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the
generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for
_me_--I should infinitely prefer a book.”

But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to
anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.

In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk
to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily
opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could
not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers.
There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr.
Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The
comfort to _her_ of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond
expression. In a fortnight they were to go--and once gone, she hoped
there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.

She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton
scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under
frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her
father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were
at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often
disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.



Chapter 40


Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could
no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every
particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be
surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene
between Mr. Darcy and herself.

Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly
partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly
natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was
sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so
little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the
unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.

“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly
ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his
disappointment!”

“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has
other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me.
You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

“Blame you! Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

“No--I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

“But you _will_ know it, when I tell you what happened the very next
day.”

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far
as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane!
who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that
so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here
collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though
grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery.
Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and
seek to clear the one without involving the other.

“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both
of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied
with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just
enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting
about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's;
but you shall do as you choose.”

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so
very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only
consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the
knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing
of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it
so.”

“Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so
full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am
growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion
makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will
be as light as a feather.”

“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his
countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”

“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those
two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the
appearance of it.”

“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the _appearance_ of it as you
used to do.”

“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike
to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an
opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually
abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing
at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”

“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat
the matter as you do now.”

“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And
with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say
that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I
had! Oh! how I wanted you!”

“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions
in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they _do_ appear wholly
undeserved.”

“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most
natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There
is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I
ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand
Wickham's character.”

Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no
occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?”

“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me
to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular
relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to
myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his
conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy
is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in
Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal
to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to
anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out,
and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At
present I will say nothing about it.”

“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for
ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to
re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”

The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had
got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight,
and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish
to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind,
of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other
half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she
had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one
could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect
understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off
this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if that very
improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to
tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The
liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!”

She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real
state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a
very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself
in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment,
and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first
attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance,
and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her
attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the
indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own
health and their tranquillity.

“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what is your opinion _now_ of
this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak
of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But
I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is
a very undeserving young man--and I do not suppose there's the least
chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of
his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of
everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

“I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”

“Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I
shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I
would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will
die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”

But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation,
she made no answer.

“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the
Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope
it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an
excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her
mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in _their_
housekeeping, I dare say.”

“No, nothing at all.”

“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes, _they_ will
take care not to outrun their income. _They_ will never be distressed
for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often
talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as
quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”

“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”

“No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they
often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an
estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be
ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.”



Chapter 41


The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was
the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies
in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost
universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink,
and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very
frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and
Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such
hard-heartedness in any of the family.

“Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they
often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so,
Lizzy?”

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what
she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years
ago.

“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel
Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.”

“I am sure I shall break _mine_,” said Lydia.

“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Bennet.

“Oh, yes!--if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so
disagreeable.”

“A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”

“And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do _me_ a great deal of good,”
 added Kitty.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through
Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense
of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's
objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his
interference in the views of his friend.

But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she
received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of
the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a
very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour
and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of
their _three_ months' acquaintance they had been intimate _two_.

The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster,
the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely
to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia
flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's
congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever;
whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate
in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

“I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask _me_ as well as Lydia,”
 said she, “Though I am _not_ her particular friend. I have just as much
right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.”

In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make
her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from
exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she
considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense
for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it
known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her
go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general
behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of
such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more
imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must
be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:

“Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public
place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so
little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present
circumstances.”

“If you were aware,” said Elizabeth, “of the very great disadvantage to
us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and
imprudent manner--nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you
would judge differently in the affair.”

“Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Bennet. “What, has she frightened away
some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such
squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity
are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who
have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly.”

“Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not
of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our
importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the
wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark
Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear
father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and
of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of
her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character
will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt
that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the
worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond
youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness
of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal
contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger
Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain,
ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you
suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever
they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the
disgrace?”

Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and
affectionately taking her hand said in reply:

“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known
you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less
advantage for having a couple of--or I may say, three--very silly
sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to
Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will
keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an
object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance
even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find
women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being
there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow
many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest
of her life.”

With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion
continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not
in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on
them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret
over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her
disposition.

Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her
father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their
united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised
every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye
of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers.
She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them
at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp--its tents
stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young
and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she
saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six
officers at once.

Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such
realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have
been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same.
Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy
conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures
continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving
home.

Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been
frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty
well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. She had even
learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted
her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present
behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure,
for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which
had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after
what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in
finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous
gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the
reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever
cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified,
and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.

On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined,
with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth
disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some
inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she
mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three
weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's
recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen
him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man,
asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour.
With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:

“How long did you say he was at Rosings?”

“Nearly three weeks.”

“And you saw him frequently?”

“Yes, almost every day.”

“His manners are very different from his cousin's.”

“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance.”

“Indeed!” cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. “And
pray, may I ask?--” But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is
it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility
to his ordinary style?--for I dare not hope,” he continued in a lower
and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”

“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much
what he ever was.”

While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to
rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a
something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive
and anxious attention, while she added:

“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that
his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from
knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.”

Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated
look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his
embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of
accents:

“You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily
comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume
even the _appearance_ of what is right. His pride, in that direction,
may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only
deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only
fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been
alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good
opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always
operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be
imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I
am certain he has very much at heart.”

Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a
slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on
the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge
him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_, on his
side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish
Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a
mutual desire of never meeting again.

When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton,
from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation
between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the
only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs.
Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter,
and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the
opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible--advice which
there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in
the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more
gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.



Chapter 42


Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could
not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic
comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance
of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a
woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in
their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect,
esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views
of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of
a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own
imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often
console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of
the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal
enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as
her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not
the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his
wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true
philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.

Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her
father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but
respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of
herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to
banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation
and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own
children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so
strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so
unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising
from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used,
might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even
if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little
other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties
abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and
sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around
them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty
might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers
of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition
greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all
her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a
watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what
has been sometimes found before, that an event to which she had been
looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the
satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to
name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity--to have
some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by
again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the
present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes
was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation
for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother
and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the
scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

“But it is fortunate,” thought she, “that I have something to wish for.
Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain.
But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my
sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of
pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can
never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by
the defence of some little peculiar vexation.”

When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely
to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and
always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that
they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers
had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as
made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which
she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a
violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to
the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still
less to be learnt--for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were
much too full of lines under the words to be made public.

After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good
humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore
a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came
back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet
was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of
June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without
tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by
the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to
mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious
arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in
Meryton.

The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast
approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter
arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and
curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from
setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again
within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so
far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with
the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up
the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the
present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that
county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three
weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The
town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where
they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of
her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth,
Dovedale, or the Peak.

Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing
the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it
was her business to be satisfied--and certainly her temper to be happy;
and all was soon right again.

With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was
impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its
owner. “But surely,” said she, “I may enter his county with impunity,
and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.”

The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away
before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at
Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two
younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their
cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and
sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every
way--teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.

The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the
next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement.
One enjoyment was certain--that of suitableness of companions;
a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear
inconveniences--cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure--and affection
and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were
disappointments abroad.

It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire,
nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither
lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are
sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present
concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's
former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance
still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the
principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton,
Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not
in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In
talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed
an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his
willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.

“My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard
so much?” said her aunt; “a place, too, with which so many of your
acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you
know.”

Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at
Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She
must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so
many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.

Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house
richly furnished,” said she, “I should not care about it myself; but
the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the
country.”

Elizabeth said no more--but her mind could not acquiesce. The
possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly
occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and
thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such
a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved
that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the
absence of the family were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid
whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its
proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for
the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question--and her
alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of
curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the
next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and
with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike
to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.



Chapter 43


Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.

Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of
high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that
to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of
meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
wonder at her being where she was.

The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less
fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which
they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance,
was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and
she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its
banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it,
with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking
different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be
seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to
the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of
his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

“And of this place,” thought she, “I might have been mistress! With
these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,”--recollecting
herself--“that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to
me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”

This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like
regret.

She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really
absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question
was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs.
Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with
a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the
likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young
gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought
up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” she added;
“but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
return it.

“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
“is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other--about eight years ago.”

“I have heard much of your master's fine person,” said Mrs. Gardiner,
looking at the picture; “it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
us whether it is like or not.”

Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.

“Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth coloured, and said: “A little.”

“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?”

“Yes, very handsome.”

“I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
be then. He was very fond of them.”

This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.

Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
when she was only eight years old.

“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” said Mrs. Gardiner.

“Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is
a new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
comes here to-morrow with him.”

Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.

“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”

“Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months.”

“Except,” thought Elizabeth, “when she goes to Ramsgate.”

“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”

“Yes, sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
good enough for him.”

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, “It is
very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.”

“I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,”
 replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she
listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have
never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever
since he was four years old.”

This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion.
Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was
grateful to her uncle for saying:

“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
having such a master.”

“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could
not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and
he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the
world.”

Elizabeth almost stared at her. “Can this be Mr. Darcy?” thought she.

“His father was an excellent man,” said Mrs. Gardiner.

“Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
as affable to the poor.”

Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects
of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “that ever
lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but
themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give
him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw
anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away
like other young men.”

“In what an amiable light does this place him!” thought Elizabeth.

“This fine account of him,” whispered her aunt as they walked, “is not
quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”

“Perhaps we might be deceived.”

“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”

On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty
sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than
the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to
give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when
last at Pemberley.

“He is certainly a good brother,” said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever
can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There
is nothing he would not do for her.”

The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were
all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings;
but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of
the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested
her--and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a
smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he
looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest
contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery.
Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's
lifetime.

There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of
their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--how
much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!--how much of
good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his
eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
softened its impropriety of expression.

When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were
consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.

As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former
was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest
blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from
surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
of perfect civility.

She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer
she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the
alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that
he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in
her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent
had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as
to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in
Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
distraction of his thoughts.

At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
leave.

The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but
Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings,
followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her
coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the
world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light
might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely
thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he
thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes
sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination;
for it was plain that he was that moment arrived--that moment alighted
from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over
the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly
altered--what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was
amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family!
Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never
had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What
a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put
his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account
for it.

They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and
seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind--in
what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything,
she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he
felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice which was
not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in
seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
composure.

At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.

They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of
the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the
valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading
many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish
of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk.
With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round.
It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which
brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods,
to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed
it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene;
it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the
valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream,
and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it.
Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the
bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only
of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the
man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment
was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here
less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before
they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared
for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea
lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw
that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
but she had not got beyond the words “delightful,” and “charming,” when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed,
and she said no more.

Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared;
and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the
acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had
revolted in his offer to herself. “What will be his surprise,” thought
she, “when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of
fashion.”

The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and
so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had
some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.

The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy
invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time
to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder.
Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment
must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and
continually was she repeating, “Why is he so altered? From what can
it proceed? It cannot be for _me_--it cannot be for _my_ sake that his
manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a
change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.”

After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to
the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated
in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him
to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
very unexpected--“for your housekeeper,” she added, “informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected
in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that
business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They
will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some
who will claim an acquaintance with you--Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”

Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last
mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, _his_
mind was not very differently engaged.

“There is also one other person in the party,” he continued after a
pause, “who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow
me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
during your stay at Lambton?”

The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her
must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.

They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of
the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
mile behind.

He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected
that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale
with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her
patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was
over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go
into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and
they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the
ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him
walking slowly towards the house.

The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected.
“He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said her uncle.

“There _is_ something a little stately in him, to be sure,” replied her
aunt, “but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I
have seen nothing of it.”

“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling.”

“To be sure, Lizzy,” said her aunt, “he is not so handsome as Wickham;
or, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features
are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so
disagreeable?”

Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never
seen him so pleasant as this morning.

“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied
her uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off
his grounds.”

Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but
said nothing.

“From what we have seen of him,” continued Mrs. Gardiner, “I really
should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look.
On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he
speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would
not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the
good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character!
I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal
master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every
virtue.”

Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in
as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from
his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of
anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they
had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an
intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.

The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above
all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.



Chapter 44


Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently
resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their
arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the
place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn
to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a
carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in
a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing
the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her
surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she
expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment
of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many
of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on
the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that
there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a
quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these
newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of
Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite
amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet,
she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much
in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally
suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.

She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked
up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of
inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.

Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction
took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new
acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her
being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud;
but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was
only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from
her beyond a monosyllable.

Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though
little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance
womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there
was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly
unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as
acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much
relieved by discerning such different feelings.

They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley
was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her
satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick
step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All
Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still
felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected
cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He
inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked
and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.

To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage
than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before
them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just
arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards
each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from
those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew
what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little
in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was
evident enough.

Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the
feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and
to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she
feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she
endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley
was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.

In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh!
how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in
a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on
former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion
that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But,
though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his
behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look
appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred
between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point
she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred
ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a
recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying
more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed
to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone
which had something of real regret, that it “was a very long time since
he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before she could reply,
he added, “It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of
November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.”

Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards
took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether
_all_ her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question,
nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which
gave them meaning.

It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself;
but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general
complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed
from _hauteur_ or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that
the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however
temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When
she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion
of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a
disgrace--when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the
very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last
lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage--the difference, the change was
so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly
restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company
of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations
at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from
self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance
could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the
acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw
down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and
Rosings.

Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose
to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing
their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner
at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a
diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations,
readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing
how _she_, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its
acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however,
that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than
any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of
society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for
her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.

Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth
again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to
make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all
this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on
this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their
visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some
satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been
little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her
uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their
favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.

But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was
not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was
much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of;
it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to
interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.

Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far
as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could
not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character
from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference
to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known
would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest,
however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible
that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four
years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be
hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of
their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had
nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not,
it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town
where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he
was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.

With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held
there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the
son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known
fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind
him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.

As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than
the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not
long enough to determine her feelings towards _one_ in that mansion;
and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She
certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she
had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him,
that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his
valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some
time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened
into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in
his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light,
which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem,
there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked.
It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her,
but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and
acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations
accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid
her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most
eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display
of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only
were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent
on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much
pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude--for to love, ardent
love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a
sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be
exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him,
she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how
far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would
be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her
fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of
his addresses.

It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that
such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the
very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a
late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled,
by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that
it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following
morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when
she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.

Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been
renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting
some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.



Chapter 45


Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had
originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her
appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how
much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.

On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon,
whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows
opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody
hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts
which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.

In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there
with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in
London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with
all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear
of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior
the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece,
however, did her justice, and pitied her.

By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and,
on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be,
succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a
genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind
of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the
others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from
Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she
wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a
short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.

Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley,
and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without
calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her
from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an
inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity
of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every
moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she
feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether
she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After
sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss
Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold
inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal
indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.

The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the
entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the
finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many
a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been
given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole
party--for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the
beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected
them round the table.

While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether
she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the
feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but
a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to
regret that he came.

He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other
gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him
only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to
Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely
resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more
necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she
saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them,
and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour
when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive
curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the
smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its
objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions
to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's
entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he
was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded
as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss
Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the
first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:

“Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ----shire Militia removed from Meryton?
They must be a great loss to _your_ family.”

In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth
instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the
various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress;
but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she
presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While
she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened
complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with
confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what
pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would
have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose
Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed
her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in
Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies
and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected
with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's
meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy
was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections
her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very
wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming
hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without
meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss
Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern
for the welfare of his friend.

Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and
as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to
Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able
to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely
recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which
had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have
fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.

Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above
mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss
Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person,
behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's
recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not
err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana
without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When
Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to
him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.

“How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy,” she
cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since
the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing
that we should not have known her again.”

However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented
himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than
her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the
summer.

“For my own part,” she rejoined, “I must confess that I never could
see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no
brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose
wants character--there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are
tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes,
which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything
extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do
not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency
without fashion, which is intolerable.”

Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not
the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always
wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the
success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a
determination of making him speak, she continued:

“I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all
were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect
your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, '_She_
a beauty!--I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she
seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at
one time.”

“Yes,” replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, “but _that_
was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have
considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”

He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of
having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.

Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their
visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them
both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed,
except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked
of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit--of everything but
himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of
him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's
beginning the subject.



Chapter 46


Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from
Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been
renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but
on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the
receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that
it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as
Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and
her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by
themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been
written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their
little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded;
but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident
agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

“Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a
most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you--be
assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia.
An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,
from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland
with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our
surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am
very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing
to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.
Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step
(and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is
disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing.
Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How
thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against
him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about
twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at
eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have
passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect
him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of
their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor
mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly
know what I have written.”

Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing
what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the
other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it
had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.

“By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I
wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my
head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest
Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you,
and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham
and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has
taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone
to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the
day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short
letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna
Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W.
never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was
repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B.
intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham,
but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney
coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that
is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road.
I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that
side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing
them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but
without any success--no such people had been seen to pass through. With
the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions
to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved
for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our
distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the
worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make
it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue
their first plan; and even if _he_ could form such a design against a
young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose
her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that
Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his
head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared W. was not a man to
be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she
exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And
as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has
anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of
confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you
have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the
first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not
so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I
take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but
circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to
come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well,
that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something
more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel
Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure
I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any
measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to
be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my
uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will
immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness.”

“Oh! where, where is my uncle?” cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat
as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing
a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was
opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous
manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak,
she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation,
hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find
Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not
an instant to lose.”

“Good God! what is the matter?” cried he, with more feeling than
politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute;
but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are
not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”

Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how
little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back
the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless
an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and
mistress home instantly.

On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and
looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her,
or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration,
“Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you
present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”

“No, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There
is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by
some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”

She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could
not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say
something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate
silence. At length she spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Jane,
with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger
sister has left all her friends--has eloped; has thrown herself into
the power of--of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton.
_You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no
connections, nothing that can tempt him to--she is lost for ever.”

Darcy was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” she added in a yet
more agitated voice, “that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what
he was. Had I but explained some part of it only--some part of what I
learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not
have happened. But it is all--all too late now.”

“I am grieved indeed,” cried Darcy; “grieved--shocked. But is it
certain--absolutely certain?”

“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced
almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to
Scotland.”

“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”

“My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's
immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But
nothing can be done--I know very well that nothing can be done. How is
such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have
not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”

Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.

“When _my_ eyes were opened to his real character--Oh! had I known what
I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not--I was afraid of doing too
much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking
up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air
gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her
power was sinking; everything _must_ sink under such a proof of family
weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither
wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing
consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It
was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own
wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved
him, as now, when all love must be vain.

But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia--the
humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed
up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief,
Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of
several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by
the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke
compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been
long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my
stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything
could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to
such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may
seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I
fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley
to-day.”

“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that
urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as
long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.”

He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for
her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present
reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only
one serious, parting look, went away.

As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they
should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as
had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a
retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full
of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those
feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would
formerly have rejoiced in its termination.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's
change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if
otherwise--if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or
unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on
a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been
exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given
somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham,
and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other
less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him
go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must
produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched
business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained
a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought,
could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least
of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first
letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise--all astonishment that
Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry
for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared
incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment
as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose
Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention
of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue
nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.

She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that
Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia
wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one
officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions
raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been
fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and
mistaken indulgence towards such a girl--oh! how acutely did she now
feel it!

She was wild to be at home--to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to
share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a
family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and
requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing
could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost
importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr.
and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's
account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them
instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their
summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript
of the last with trembling energy.--Though Lydia had never been a
favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply
afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the
first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every
assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked
him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit,
everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to
be off as soon as possible. “But what is to be done about Pemberley?”
 cried Mrs. Gardiner. “John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for
us; was it so?”

“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.
_That_ is all settled.”

“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as she ran into her room to
prepare. “And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real
truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!”

But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the
hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure
to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was
impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of
business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to
be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their
sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr.
Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing
remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of
the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could
have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.



Chapter 47


“I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth,” said her uncle, as they
drove from the town; “and really, upon serious consideration, I am much
more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the
matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should
form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or
friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I
am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends
would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the
regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is
not adequate to the risk!”

“Do you really think so?” cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.

“Upon my word,” said Mrs. Gardiner, “I begin to be of your uncle's
opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and
interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of
Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe
him capable of it?”

“Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other
neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I
dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been
the case?”

“In the first place,” replied Mr. Gardiner, “there is no absolute proof
that they are not gone to Scotland.”

“Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such
a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the
Barnet road.”

“Well, then--supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though
for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is
not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it
might strike them that they could be more economically, though less
expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.”

“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their
marriage be private? Oh, no, no--this is not likely. His most particular
friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending
to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He
cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia--what attraction has she
beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake,
forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what
restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a
dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know
nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your
other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has
no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's
behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever
seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that _he_ would
do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in
such a matter.”

“But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him
as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?”

“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Elizabeth, with
tears in her eyes, “that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such
a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say.
Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never
been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year,
nay, for a twelvemonth--she has been given up to nothing but amusement
and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle
and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way.
Since the ----shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love,
flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing
everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give
greater--what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are
naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of
person and address that can captivate a woman.”

“But you see that Jane,” said her aunt, “does not think so very ill of
Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt.”

“Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be
their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt,
till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what
Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every
sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is
as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.”

“And do you really know all this?” cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity
as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.

“I do indeed,” replied Elizabeth, colouring. “I told you, the other day,
of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at
Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved
with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other
circumstances which I am not at liberty--which it is not worth while to
relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From
what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud,
reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He
must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found
her.”

“But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you
and Jane seem so well to understand?”

“Oh, yes!--that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw
so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was
ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ----shire
was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the
case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it
necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could
it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the
neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was
settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening
her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That _she_ could be
in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a
consequence as _this_ could ensue, you may easily believe, was far
enough from my thoughts.”

“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I
suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”

“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either
side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware
that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first
he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all
were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for
the first two months; but he never distinguished _her_ by any particular
attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and
wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment,
who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.”

                          * * * * *

It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added
to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by
its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during
the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent.
Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find
no interval of ease or forgetfulness.

They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night
on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a
comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied
by long expectations.

The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing
on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the
carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their
faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of
capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.

Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss,
hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her
mother's apartment, immediately met her.

Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the
eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been
heard of the fugitives.

“Not yet,” replied Jane. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope
everything will be well.”

“Is my father in town?”

“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”

“And have you heard from him often?”

“We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say
that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I
particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write
again till he had something of importance to mention.”

“And my mother--how is she? How are you all?”

“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly
shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you
all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty, thank
Heaven, are quite well.”

“But you--how are you?” cried Elizabeth. “You look pale. How much you
must have gone through!”

Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their
conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were
engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach
of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and
thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.

When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth
had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon
found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of
good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet
deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that
every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father,
to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.

Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes'
conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with
tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous
conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage;
blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the
errors of her daughter must principally be owing.

“If I had been able,” said she, “to carry my point in going to Brighton,
with all my family, _this_ would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia
had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out
of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their
side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been
well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the
charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child!
And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham,
wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become
of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his
grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we
shall do.”

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after
general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her
that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr.
Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.

“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “though it is right to be
prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain.
It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we
may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married,
and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as
lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make
him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult
together as to what is to be done.”

“Oh! my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Bennet, “that is exactly what I
could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out,
wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, _make_ them
marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but
tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them,
after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting.
Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my
wits--and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me--such
spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that
I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to
give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does
not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I
know you will contrive it all.”

But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours
in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well
in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till
dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on
the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.

Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real
occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to
oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her
tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it
better that _one_ only of the household, and the one whom they could
most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the
subject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been
too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance
before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The
faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible
in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger
which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of
fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was
mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance
of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:

“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of.
But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of
each other the balm of sisterly consolation.”

Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added,
“Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful
lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one
false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less
brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in
her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed
to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such
kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.

In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for
half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of
the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to
satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel
of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss
Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued
the subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which
I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel
Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement
took place? They must have seen them together for ever.”

“Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality,
especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so
grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He
_was_ coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had
any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension
first got abroad, it hastened his journey.”

“And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of
their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?”

“Yes; but, when questioned by _him_, Denny denied knowing anything of
their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not
repeat his persuasion of their not marrying--and from _that_, I am
inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.”

“And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a
doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”

“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt
a little uneasy--a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him
in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite
right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how
imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural
triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter
she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their
being in love with each other, many weeks.”

“But not before they went to Brighton?”

“No, I believe not.”

“And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does
he know his real character?”

“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly
did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad
affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt;
but I hope this may be false.”

“Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him,
this could not have happened!”

“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied her sister. “But to expose
the former faults of any person without knowing what their present
feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.”

“Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his
wife?”

“He brought it with him for us to see.”

Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These
were the contents:

“MY DEAR HARRIET,

“You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help
laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am
missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who,
I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I
love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think
it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my
going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater,
when I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke
it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to
Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night.
Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will
dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall
send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell
Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are
packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will
drink to our good journey.

“Your affectionate friend,

“LYDIA BENNET.”

“Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!” cried Elizabeth when she had
finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment!
But at least it shows that _she_ was serious on the subject of their
journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her
side a _scheme_ of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!”

“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten
minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in
such confusion!”

“Oh! Jane,” cried Elizabeth, “was there a servant belonging to it who
did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”

“I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is
very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to
give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so
much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen
almost took from me my faculties.”

“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look
well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety
upon yourself alone.”

“Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every
fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them.
Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours
of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn
on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till
Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And
Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to
condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if
they should be of use to us.”

“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she
_meant_ well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see
too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence
insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”

She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had
intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.

“He meant I believe,” replied Jane, “to go to Epsom, the place where
they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could
be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the
number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come
with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a
gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might
be remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow
discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he
determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible
to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any
other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone,
and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding
out even so much as this.”



Chapter 48


The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next
morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him.
His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and
dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion.
They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to
send; but even of _that_ they would have been glad to be certain. Mr.
Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.

When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant
information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting,
to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could,
to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only
security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.

Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few
days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable
to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a
great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also
visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of
cheering and heartening them up--though, as she never came without
reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity,
she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found
them.

All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months
before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt
to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with
the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family.
Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world;
and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the
appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above
half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of
her sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less
of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come
when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely
despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of
them.

Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a
letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately
found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street;
that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival,
but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now
determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet
thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first
coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself
did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was
eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr.
Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised
to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:

“I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if
possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment,
whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to
know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were
anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a
clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have
nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in
his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps,
Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any
other person.”

Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her
authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information
of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never
heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both
of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of
his companions in the ----shire might be able to give more information;
and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application
was a something to look forward to.

Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious
part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters
was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters,
whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every
succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.

But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for
their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane
had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence,
she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his
letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as
follows:

“MY DEAR SIR,

“I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation
in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now
suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from
Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself
sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in
your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because
proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be
wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune--or that
may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the
most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would
have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to
be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte
informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has
proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time,
for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think
that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be
guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be,
you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined
by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to
whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that
this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of
all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says,
will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads
me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event
of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved
in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to
console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child
from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her
own heinous offense.

“I am, dear sir, etc., etc.”

Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from
Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send.
It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he
kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one
living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he
had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of
particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore,
who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the
wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for
secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for
it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a
very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a
thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton.
He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more
formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars
from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. “A gamester!”
 she cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”

Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their
father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered
spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded
to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and
leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable
for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did
not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering
what her anxiety for his life had been before.

“What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?” she cried. “Sure he
will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham,
and make him marry her, if he comes away?”

As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she
and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet
came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their
journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.

Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her
Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His
name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and
the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their
being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had
received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.

The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for
the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be
fairly conjectured from _that_, though Elizabeth, who was by this time
tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware
that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of
Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought,
one sleepless night out of two.

When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual
philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the
habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him
away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of
it.

It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that
Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly
expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say
nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing,
and I ought to feel it.”

“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Elizabeth.

“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone
to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have
been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression.
It will pass away soon enough.”

“Do you suppose them to be in London?”

“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”

“And Lydia used to want to go to London,” added Kitty.

“She is happy then,” said her father drily; “and her residence there
will probably be of some duration.”

Then after a short silence he continued:

“Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me
last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.”

They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's
tea.

“This is a parade,” he cried, “which does one good; it gives such an
elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my
library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as
I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.”

“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Kitty fretfully. “If I should
ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia.”

“_You_ go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne
for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and
you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into
my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be
absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters.
And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have
spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.”

Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.

“Well, well,” said he, “do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good
girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of
them.”



Chapter 49


Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their
mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons,
when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I beg your pardon,
madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some
good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.”

“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”

“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “don't you know
there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here
this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”

Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They
ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the
library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of
seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the
butler, who said:

“If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the
little copse.”

Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once
more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately
pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.

Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as
Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath,
came up with him, and eagerly cried out:

“Oh, papa, what news--what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”

“Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”

“Well, and what news does it bring--good or bad?”

“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from
his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”

Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.

“Read it aloud,” said their father, “for I hardly know myself what it is
about.”

“Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.

“MY DEAR BROTHER,

“At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as,
upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you
left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of
London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough
to know they are discovered. I have seen them both--”

“Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Jane; “they are married!”

Elizabeth read on:

“I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there
was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the
engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will
not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure
to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand
pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and
my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her,
during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions
which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with,
as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by
express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You
will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's
circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be.
The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there
will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to
settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude
will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout
the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to
Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the
smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at
Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as
fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it
best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope
you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as
anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,

“EDW. GARDINER.”

“Is it possible?” cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. “Can it be
possible that he will marry her?”

“Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said her
sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”

“And have you answered the letter?” cried Elizabeth.

“No; but it must be done soon.”

Most earnestly did she then entreat him to lose no more time before he
wrote.

“Oh! my dear father,” she cried, “come back and write immediately.
Consider how important every moment is in such a case.”

“Let me write for you,” said Jane, “if you dislike the trouble
yourself.”

“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “but it must be done.”

And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.

“And may I ask--” said Elizabeth; “but the terms, I suppose, must be
complied with.”

“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”

“And they _must_ marry! Yet he is _such_ a man!”

“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there
are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money
your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever
to pay him.”

“Money! My uncle!” cried Jane, “what do you mean, sir?”

“I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a
temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am
gone.”

“That is very true,” said Elizabeth; “though it had not occurred to me
before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh!
it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has
distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.”

“No,” said her father; “Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing
less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him,
in the very beginning of our relationship.”

“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be
repaid?”

Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued
silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the
library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.

“And they are really to be married!” cried Elizabeth, as soon as they
were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for _this_ we are to be
thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness,
and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!”

“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Jane, “that he certainly would
not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind
uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten
thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children
of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand
pounds?”

“If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been,” said
Elizabeth, “and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall
exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has
not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never
be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal
protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as
years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is
actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now,
she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she
first sees my aunt!”

“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said
Jane: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to
marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of
thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself
they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in
time make their past imprudence forgotten.”

“Their conduct has been such,” replied Elizabeth, “as neither you, nor
I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.”

It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood
perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library,
therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make
it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly
replied:

“Just as you please.”

“May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?”

“Take whatever you like, and get away.”

Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went up stairs
together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication
would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news,
the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As
soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon
married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its
exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she
had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter
would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her
felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.

“My dear, dear Lydia!” she cried. “This is delightful indeed! She will
be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen!
My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage
everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the
clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about
them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him
how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell,
Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear
Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!”

Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of
these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr.
Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.

“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” she added, “in a great
measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to
assist Mr. Wickham with money.”

“Well,” cried her mother, “it is all very right; who should do it but
her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children
must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have
ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy!
In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well
it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in
such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and
you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money
afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”

She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and
cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had
not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her
father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed,
would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite
so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.

“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “as soon as I am dressed, and tell the
good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call
on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage.
An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do
anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you
heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall
all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.”

Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her
congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took
refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.

Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was
no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in
looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could
be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had
feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had
gained.



Chapter 50


Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that,
instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for
the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived
him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that
respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever
of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of
prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be
her husband might then have rested in its proper place.

He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone
should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he
was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance,
and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.

When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly
useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join
in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow
and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters
successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs.
Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he
would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then
too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her
husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their
income.

Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and
the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the
latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with
regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet
could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In
terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother,
though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect
approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the
engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed
that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would
be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present
arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the
hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket
allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her
through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within
that sum.

That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was
another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as
little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports
of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he
naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon
dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick
in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he
was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any
message to her.

The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate
speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent
philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage
of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the
happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant
farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the
good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from
all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit
in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery
was considered certain.

It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this
happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in
spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her
triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object
of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of
accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those
attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and
servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a
proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering
what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and
importance.

“Haye Park might do,” said she, “if the Gouldings could quit it--or the
great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is
too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for
Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”

Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the
servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: “Mrs.
Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and
daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into _one_ house in this
neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the
impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.”

A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It
soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror,
that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his
daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of
affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend
it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable
resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her
marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe
possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new
clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of
shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they
took place.

Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of
the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for
her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the
proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its
unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the
spot.

She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were
few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended;
but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's
frailty would have mortified her so much--not, however, from any fear
of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate,
there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been
concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that
Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other
objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the
nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.

From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The
wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his
feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a
blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she
hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no
longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there
seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that
she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they
should meet.

What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the
proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now
have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she
doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal,
there must be a triumph.

She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in
disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and
temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It
was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease
and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved;
and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she
must have received benefit of greater importance.

But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what
connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and
precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their
family.

How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence,
she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could
belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions
were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.

                          * * * * *

Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's
acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to
promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties
that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal
purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved
on quitting the militia.

“It was greatly my wish that he should do so,” he added, “as soon as
his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in
considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on
his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into
the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who
are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an
ensigncy in General ----'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It
is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He
promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each
have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have
written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements,
and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham
in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I
have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying
similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin
a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I
hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions,
and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment,
unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs.
Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she
leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to
you and her mother.--Yours, etc.,

“E. GARDINER.”

Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal
from the ----shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet
was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North,
just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company,
for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in
Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a
pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted
with everybody, and had so many favourites.

“She is so fond of Mrs. Forster,” said she, “it will be quite shocking
to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she
likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ----'s
regiment.”

His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being
admitted into her family again before she set off for the North,
received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth,
who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and
consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents,
urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her
and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was
prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their
mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show
her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the
North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent
his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as
the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was
surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and
had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would
have been the last object of her wishes.



Chapter 51


Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her
probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to
meet them at ----, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their
arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially,
who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she
been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister
must endure.

They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive
them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to
the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed,
anxious, uneasy.

Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and
she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and
welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile,
to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an
alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.

Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite
so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely
opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was
enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet
was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy,
and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their
congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly
round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and
observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been
there.

Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners
were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been
exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he
claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had
not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down,
resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence
of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the
two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.

There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither
of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near
Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood,
with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her
replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the
world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led
voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for
the world.

“Only think of its being three months,” she cried, “since I went away;
it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things
enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure
I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I
thought it would be very good fun if I was.”

Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked
expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of
which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! mamma, do the
people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not;
and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he
should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took
off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that
he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”

Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room;
and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to
the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with
anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say
to her eldest sister, “Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go
lower, because I am a married woman.”

It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment
from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good
spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and
all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Wickham”
 by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her
ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast
room, “and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I
am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half
my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get
husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.”

“Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't
at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”

“Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all
things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We
shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some
balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.”

“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.

“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the
winter is over.”

“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Elizabeth; “but I do not
particularly like your way of getting husbands.”

Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham
had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join
his regiment at the end of a fortnight.

No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and
she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and
having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to
all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did
think, than such as did not.

Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected
to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her
present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that
their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather
than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring
for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain
that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and
if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity
of having a companion.

Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every
occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every
thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on
the first of September, than any body else in the country.

One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two
elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:

“Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You
were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you
curious to hear how it was managed?”

“No really,” replied Elizabeth; “I think there cannot be too little said
on the subject.”

“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were
married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in
that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven
o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others
were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in
such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to
put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was
my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as
if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in
ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed
to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”

“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never
be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt
were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe
me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a
fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was
rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so
just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon
business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once
they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I
did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we
were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he
came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However,
I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the
wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well.”

“Mr. Darcy!” repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.

“Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious
me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised
them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!”

“If it was to be secret,” said Jane, “say not another word on the
subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further.”

“Oh! certainly,” said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; “we will
ask you no questions.”

“Thank you,” said Lydia, “for if you did, I should certainly tell you
all, and then Wickham would be angry.”

On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her
power, by running away.

But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least
it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at
her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people,
where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go.
Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her
brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as
placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She
could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper,
wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what
Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been
intended.

“You may readily comprehend,” she added, “what my curiosity must be
to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively
speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such
a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it--unless it is,
for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems
to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with
ignorance.”

“Not that I _shall_, though,” she added to herself, as she finished
the letter; “and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable
manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it
out.”

Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to
Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad
of it;--till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any
satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.



Chapter 52


Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as
soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it
than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to
be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to
be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not
contain a denial.

“Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.

“MY DEAR NIECE,

“I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning
to answering it, as I foresee that a _little_ writing will not comprise
what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your
application; I did not expect it from _you_. Don't think me angry,
however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such
inquiries to be necessary on _your_ side. If you do not choose to
understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised
as I am--and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned
would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really
innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit.

“On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most
unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several
hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so
dreadfully racked as _yours_ seems to have been. He came to tell Mr.
Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were,
and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly,
Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day
after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for
them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to
himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to
make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide
in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and
confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private
actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He
called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy
an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he _had another_
motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days
in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to
direct his search, which was more than _we_ had; and the consciousness
of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us.

“There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago
governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause
of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large
house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting
lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with
Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to
town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he
wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and
corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found.
Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had
she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up
their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the
wished-for direction. They were in ---- street. He saw Wickham, and
afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he
acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful
situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed
on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But
he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared
for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear
of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or
other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings,
it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which,
in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never
been _his_ design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment,
on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and
scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her
own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as
to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He
must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have
nothing to live on.

“Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though
Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able
to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by
marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still
cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in
some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely
to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief.

“They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of
course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be
reasonable.

“Every thing being settled between _them_, Mr. Darcy's next step was to
make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch
street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be
seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was
still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge
your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your
uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the
departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next
day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business.

“On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home,
and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together.

“They met again on Sunday, and then _I_ saw him too. It was not all
settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to
Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that
obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been
accused of many faults at different times, but _this_ is the true one.
Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and
I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your
uncle would most readily have settled the whole.

“They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either
the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle
was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his
niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it,
which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter
this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation
that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where
it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane
at most.

“You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young
people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably
more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own
settled upon _her_, and his commission purchased. The reason why all
this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It
was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that
Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he
had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth
in _this_; though I doubt whether _his_ reserve, or _anybody's_ reserve,
can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking,
my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would
never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for _another
interest_ in the affair.

“When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who
were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in
London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were
then to receive the last finish.

“I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which
you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not
afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant
admission to the house. _He_ was exactly what he had been, when I
knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was
satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not
perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming
home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell
you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most
serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had
done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she
heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was
sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and
Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her.

“Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you,
attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave
town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my
dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold
enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has,
in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His
understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little
more liveliness, and _that_, if he marry _prudently_, his wife may teach
him. I thought him very sly;--he hardly ever mentioned your name. But
slyness seems the fashion.

“Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not
punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy
till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little
pair of ponies, would be the very thing.

“But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half
hour.

“Yours, very sincerely,

“M. GARDINER.”

The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits,
in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the
greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had
produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's
match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too
great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the
pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true!
He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all
the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which
supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and
despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason
with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to
avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had
done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her
heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly
checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity
was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her--for
a woman who had already refused him--as able to overcome a sentiment so
natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law
of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had,
to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had
given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary
stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been
wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and
though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she
could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist
his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially
concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were
under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They
owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh!
how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever
encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For
herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause
of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself.
She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It
was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some
pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she
and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted
between Mr. Darcy and herself.

She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's
approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was
overtaken by Wickham.

“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?” said he,
as he joined her.

“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile; “but it does not follow
that the interruption must be unwelcome.”

“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and
now we are better.”

“True. Are the others coming out?”

“I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to
Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that
you have actually seen Pemberley.”

She replied in the affirmative.

“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much
for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the
old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of
me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”

“Yes, she did.”

“And what did she say?”

“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had--not turned
out well. At such a distance as _that_, you know, things are strangely
misrepresented.”

“Certainly,” he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had
silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:

“I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other
several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”

“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh,” said
Elizabeth. “It must be something particular, to take him there at this
time of year.”

“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I
understood from the Gardiners that you had.”

“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”

“And do you like her?”

“Very much.”

“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year
or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad
you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”

“I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”

“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”

“I do not recollect that we did.”

“I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A
most delightful place!--Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited
me in every respect.”

“How should you have liked making sermons?”

“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty,
and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to
repine;--but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The
quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas
of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the
circumstance, when you were in Kent?”

“I have heard from authority, which I thought _as good_, that it was
left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.”

“You have. Yes, there was something in _that_; I told you so from the
first, you may remember.”

“I _did_ hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not
so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually
declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business
had been compromised accordingly.”

“You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember
what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.”

They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast
to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him,
she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:

“Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let
us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one
mind.”

She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though
he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.



Chapter 53


Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he
never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth,
by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she
had said enough to keep him quiet.

The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was
forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means
entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to
continue at least a twelvemonth.

“Oh! my dear Lydia,” she cried, “when shall we meet again?”

“Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”

“Write to me very often, my dear.”

“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for
writing. My sisters may write to _me_. They will have nothing else to
do.”

Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He
smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of
the house, “as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to
us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas
himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”

The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.

“I often think,” said she, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with
one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”

“This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter,” said
Elizabeth. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are
single.”

“It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married,
but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If
that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.”

But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly
relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an
article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper
at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her
master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several
weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and
smiled and shook her head by turns.

“Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs.
Phillips first brought her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not
that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am
sure _I_ never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome
to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what _may_ happen?
But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to
mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”

“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “for Mrs. Nicholls was in
Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose
to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He
comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was
going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on
Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”

Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing
colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to
Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:

“I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present
report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from
any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that
I _should_ be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect
me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes
alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of
_myself_, but I dread other people's remarks.”

Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in
Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no
other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial
to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming
there _with_ his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come
without it.

“Yet it is hard,” she sometimes thought, “that this poor man cannot
come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this
speculation! I _will_ leave him to himself.”

In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her
feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily
perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed,
more unequal, than she had often seen them.

The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents,
about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.

“As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “you
will wait on him of course.”

“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I
went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in
nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.”

His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention
would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to
Netherfield.

“'Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society,
let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours
in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back
again.”

“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait
on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I
am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will
make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for
him.”

Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her
husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her
neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before
_they_ did. As the day of his arrival drew near,--

“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Jane to her sister. “It
would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can
hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well;
but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she
says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!”

“I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Elizabeth; “but it
is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction
of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have
always so much.”

Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants,
contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety
and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted
the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent;
hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his
arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window,
enter the paddock and ride towards the house.

Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely
kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went
to the window--she looked,--she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down
again by her sister.

“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Kitty; “who can it be?”

“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not
know.”

“La!” replied Kitty, “it looks just like that man that used to be with
him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man.”

“Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!--and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of
Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must
say that I hate the very sight of him.”

Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little
of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness
which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time
after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable
enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their
mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be
civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either
of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be
suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs.
Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him.
To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused,
and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive
information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted
for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an
interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as
what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming--at his
coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again,
was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered
behaviour in Derbyshire.

The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a
minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to
her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and
wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.

“Let me first see how he behaves,” said she; “it will then be early
enough for expectation.”

She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to
lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of
her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little
paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the
gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with
tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any
symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.

Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down
again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She
had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and,
she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as
she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's
presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but
not an improbable, conjecture.

Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period
saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs.
Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed,
especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of
her curtsey and address to his friend.

Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter
the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy,
was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill
applied.

Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question
which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He
was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but
it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends,
when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without
bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist
the impulse of curiosity, she raised her eyes to his face, she as often
found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but
the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when
they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry
with herself for being so.

“Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he come?”

She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to
him she had hardly courage to speak.

She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.

“It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away,” said Mrs. Bennet.

He readily agreed to it.

“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People _did_ say
you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope
it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood,
since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my
own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have
seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know;
though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately,
George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a
syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything.
It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to
make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”

Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth
dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could
not tell.

“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,”
 continued her mother, “but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very
hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to
Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay
I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have
heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the
regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so
many as he deserves.”

Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such
misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her,
however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually
done before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in
the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.

“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley,” said her mother,
“I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr.
Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and
will save all the best of the covies for you.”

Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious
attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had
flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be
hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt
that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for
moments of such painful confusion.

“The first wish of my heart,” said she to herself, “is never more to
be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure
that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either
one or the other again!”

Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no
compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing
how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her
former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little;
but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He
found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and
as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no
difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded
that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged,
that she did not always know when she was silent.

When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her
intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at
Longbourn in a few days time.

“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley,” she added, “for when
you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with
us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure
you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep
your engagement.”

Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of
his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.

Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine
there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did
not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man
on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride
of one who had ten thousand a year.



Chapter 54


As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits;
or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that
must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.

“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said she,
“did he come at all?”

She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.

“He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when
he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If
he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will
think no more about him.”

Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach
of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her
better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.

“Now,” said she, “that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly
easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by
his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly
seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent
acquaintance.”

“Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Elizabeth, laughingly. “Oh, Jane,
take care.”

“My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?”

“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with
you as ever.”

                          * * * * *

They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in
the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good
humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had
revived.

On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two
who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality
as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the
dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take
the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by
her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore
to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to
hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was
decided. He placed himself by her.

Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend.
He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that
Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes
likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing
alarm.

His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an
admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded
Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his
own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the
consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It
gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in
no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table
could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little
such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to
advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but
she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and
cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness,
made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind;
and she would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell
him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the
family.

She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of
bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away
without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than
the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious
and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the
gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her
uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all
her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.

“If he does not come to me, _then_,” said she, “I shall give him up for
ever.”

The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have
answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table,
where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee,
in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her
which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of
the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:

“The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them;
do we?”

Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with
her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough
to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for
being so silly!

“A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to
expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not
protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman?
There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!”

She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup
himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:

“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”

“Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”

“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”

“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough,
these three weeks.”

She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse
with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for
some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering
to Elizabeth again, he walked away.

When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies
all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him,
when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her
mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated
with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure.
They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had
nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side
of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.

Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to
supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the
others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.

“Well girls,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “What
say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well,
I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The
venison was roasted to a turn--and everybody said they never saw so
fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the
Lucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges
were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French
cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater
beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And
what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her
at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good
a creature as ever lived--and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls,
and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.”

Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of
Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at
last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy
humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at
not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.

“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. “The
party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we
may often meet again.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me.
I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an
agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am
perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had
any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed
with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally
pleasing, than any other man.”

“You are very cruel,” said her sister, “you will not let me smile, and
are provoking me to it every moment.”

“How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”

“And how impossible in others!”

“But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I
acknowledge?”

“That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to
instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive
me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.”



Chapter 55


A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His
friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in
ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably
good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many
expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.

“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”

He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would
give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.

“Can you come to-morrow?”

Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was
accepted with alacrity.

He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them
dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing
gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:

“My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come--Mr. Bingley is
come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss
Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss
Lizzy's hair.”

“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Jane; “but I dare say Kitty is
forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.”

“Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick!
Where is your sash, my dear?”

But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down
without one of her sisters.

The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the
evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his
custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of
the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at
Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any
impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last
Kitty did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter mamma? What do
you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?”

“Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still
five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she
suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, “Come here, my love, I want to
speak to you,” took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look
at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her
entreaty that _she_ would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs.
Bennet half-opened the door and called out:

“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you.”

Elizabeth was forced to go.

“We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said her mother, as
soon as she was in the hall. “Kitty and I are going up stairs to sit in
my dressing-room.”

Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained
quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned
into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every
thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His
ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their
evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the
mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command
of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.

He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went
away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs.
Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.

After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed
between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in
the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy
returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably
persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's
concurrence.

Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent
the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more
agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption
or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into
silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the
other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner;
and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get
every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter
to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea;
for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be
wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.

But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she
saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother
had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her
sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in
earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of
both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would
have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but _hers_ she
thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and
Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as
well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few
words to her sister, ran out of the room.

Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give
pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest
emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.

“'Tis too much!” she added, “by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh!
why is not everybody as happy?”

Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth,
a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of
kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not
allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be
said for the present.

“I must go instantly to my mother;” she cried. “I would not on any
account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it
from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to
know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear
family! how shall I bear so much happiness!”

She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the
card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.

Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease
with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many
previous months of suspense and vexation.

“And this,” said she, “is the end of all his friend's anxious
circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the
happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”

In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her
father had been short and to the purpose.

“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.

“With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.”

He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes
and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed
her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with
great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen
to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections;
and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his
expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for
basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of
Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and
himself.

It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of
Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as
made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped
her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or
speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings,
though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when
Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed
how really happy he was.

Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their
visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he
turned to his daughter, and said:

“Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”

Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his
goodness.

“You are a good girl;” he replied, “and I have great pleasure in
thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your
doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are
each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so
easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will
always exceed your income.”

“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be
unpardonable in me.”

“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet,” cried his wife, “what are you
talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely
more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so
happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it
would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not
be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when
he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was
that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that
ever was seen!”

Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her
favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger
sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness
which she might in future be able to dispense.

Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty
begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.

Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn;
coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after
supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough
detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself
obliged to accept.

Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for
while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else;
but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours
of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he
always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of
her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of
relief.

“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “by telling me that he
was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed
it possible.”

“I suspected as much,” replied Elizabeth. “But how did he account for
it?”

“It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to
his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have
chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see,
as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will
learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we
can never be what we once were to each other.”

“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Elizabeth, “that I ever
heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again
the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard.”

“Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November,
he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of _my_ being
indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!”

“He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his
modesty.”

This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and
the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased
to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for,
though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she
knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.

“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried
Jane. “Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed
above them all! If I could but see _you_ as happy! If there _were_ but
such another man for you!”

“If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as
you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your
happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very
good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time.”

The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a
secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips,
and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her
neighbours in Meryton.

The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the
world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away,
they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.



Chapter 56


One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been
formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the
dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the
sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up
the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the
equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses
were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who
preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that
somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid
the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the
shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three
continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown
open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their
astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs.
Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even
inferior to what Elizabeth felt.

She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no
other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the
head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her
name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of
introduction had been made.

Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such
high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting
for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,

“I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your
mother.”

Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.

“And _that_ I suppose is one of your sisters.”

“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to Lady Catherine.
“She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married,
and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man
who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.”

“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Catherine after a short
silence.

“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I
assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's.”

“This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in
summer; the windows are full west.”

Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then
added:

“May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and
Mrs. Collins well.”

“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”

Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from
Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no
letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.

Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some
refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely,
declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,

“Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness
on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you
will favour me with your company.”

“Go, my dear,” cried her mother, “and show her ladyship about the
different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”

Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol,
attended her noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the
hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and
drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent
looking rooms, walked on.

Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her
waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk
that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for
conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and
disagreeable.

“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said she, as she looked in
her face.

As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following
manner:--

“You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my
journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I
come.”

Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.

“Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account
for the honour of seeing you here.”

“Miss Bennet,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to
know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere _you_ may
choose to be, you shall not find _me_ so. My character has ever been
celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such
moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most
alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your
sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that
you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon
afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I
_know_ it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him
so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved
on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to
you.”

“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Elizabeth, colouring
with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming
so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?”

“At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.”

“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Elizabeth
coolly, “will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report
is in existence.”

“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been
industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a
report is spread abroad?”

“I never heard that it was.”

“And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?”

“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may
ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”

“This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has
he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?”

“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”

“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his
reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation,
have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You
may have drawn him in.”

“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”

“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such
language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world,
and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”

“But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this,
ever induce me to be explicit.”

“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the
presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is
engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”

“Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will
make an offer to me.”

Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy,
they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of
_his_ mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned
the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would
be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of
inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to
the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his
tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of
propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest
hours he was destined for his cousin?”

“Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is
no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not
be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to
marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the
marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither
by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make
another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”

“Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes,
Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or
friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will
be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him.
Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned
by any of us.”

“These are heavy misfortunes,” replied Elizabeth. “But the wife of Mr.
Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily
attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause
to repine.”

“Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude
for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that
score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came
here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will
I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's
whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”

“_That_ will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable;
but it will have no effect on me.”

“I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my
nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal
side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable,
honourable, and ancient--though untitled--families. Their fortune on
both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of
every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them?
The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections,
or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you
were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in
which you have been brought up.”

“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that
sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are
equal.”

“True. You _are_ a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother?
Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their
condition.”

“Whatever my connections may be,” said Elizabeth, “if your nephew does
not object to them, they can be nothing to _you_.”

“Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”

Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady
Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a
moment's deliberation:

“I am not.”

Lady Catherine seemed pleased.

“And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?”

“I will make no promise of the kind.”

“Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more
reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that
I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the
assurance I require.”

“And I certainly _never_ shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into
anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry
your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their
marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would
my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin?
Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have
supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the
application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if
you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your
nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell;
but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg,
therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”

“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the
objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am
no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous
elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a
patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is
such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his
late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!--of what are
you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”

“You can now have nothing further to say,” she resentfully answered.
“You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to
the house.”

And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned
back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.

“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew!
Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you
must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”

“Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.”

“You are then resolved to have him?”

“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner,
which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without
reference to _you_, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”

“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the
claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in
the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.”

“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Elizabeth, “have any
possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either
would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the
resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former
_were_ excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's
concern--and the world in general would have too much sense to join in
the scorn.”

“And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well.
I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your
ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you
reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.”

In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of
the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I take no leave
of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve
no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.”

Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her
ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She
heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother
impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady
Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.

“She did not choose it,” said her daughter, “she would go.”

“She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously
civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were
well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through
Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had
nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to
acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.



Chapter 57


The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw
Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many
hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it
appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings,
for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr.
Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report
of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine;
till she recollected that _his_ being the intimate friend of Bingley,
and _her_ being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the
expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply
the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her
sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours
at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the
Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached Lady Catherine), had
only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked
forward to as possible at some future time.

In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help
feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting
in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to
prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate
an application to her nephew; and how _he_ might take a similar
representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared
not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his
aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose
that he thought much higher of her ladyship than _she_ could do; and it
was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with _one_,
whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would
address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would
probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak
and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.

If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often
seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might
settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity
unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady
Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to
Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.

“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his
friend within a few days,” she added, “I shall know how to understand
it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his
constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might
have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him
at all.”

                          * * * * *

The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had
been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same
kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and
Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.

The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her
father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.

“Lizzy,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my room.”

She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to
tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner
connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it
might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the
consequent explanations.

She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He
then said,

“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me
exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its
contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink
of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.”

The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous
conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt;
and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained
himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to
herself; when her father continued:

“You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters
as these; but I think I may defy even _your_ sagacity, to discover the
name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins.”

“From Mr. Collins! and what can _he_ have to say?”

“Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with
congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of
which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping
Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says
on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus
offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on
this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another;
of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter
Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after
her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may
be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in
this land.'

“Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this? 'This young
gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of
mortal can most desire,--splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive
patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin
Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate
closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be
inclined to take immediate advantage of.'

“Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:

“'My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine
that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with
a friendly eye.'

“_Mr. Darcy_, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I _have_
surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within
the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie
more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any
woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his
life! It is admirable!”

Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force
one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so
little agreeable to her.

“Are you not diverted?”

“Oh! yes. Pray read on.”

“'After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last
night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she
felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some
family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her
consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty
to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and
her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.' Mr.
Collins moreover adds, 'I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad
business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
living together before the marriage took place should be so generally
known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young
couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them,
as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
names to be mentioned in your hearing.' That is his notion of Christian
forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's
situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you
look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be _missish_,
I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we
live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our
turn?”

“Oh!” cried Elizabeth, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so
strange!”

“Yes--_that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference, and _your_
pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any
consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”

To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by
his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she
would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by
what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but
wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of
his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.



Chapter 58


Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as
Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy
with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's
visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time
to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat
in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed
their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the
habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five
set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others
to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy
were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty
was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a
desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon
Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern,
when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the
moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was
high, she immediately said:

“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving
relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I
can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my
poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to
acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest
of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”

“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise
and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a
mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner
was so little to be trusted.”

“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to
me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could
not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again,
in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced
you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the
sake of discovering them.”

“If you _will_ thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone.
That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other
inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your
_family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought
only of _you_.”

Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause,
her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your
feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_
affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence
me on this subject for ever.”

Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of
his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not
very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone
so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make
her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The
happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never
felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as
warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth
been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the
expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him;
but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of
feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his
affection every moment more valuable.

They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to
be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She
soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding
to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through
London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the
substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on
every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension,
peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that
such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise
from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her
ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself
to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that,
had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have
acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.”

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough
of my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so
abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all
your relations.”

“What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your
accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my
behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was
unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”

“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that
evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined,
will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved
in civility.”

“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I
then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of
it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your
reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a
more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can
scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;--though it was some time,
I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”

“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an
impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such
a way.”

“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper
feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never
forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible
way that would induce you to accept me.”

“Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at
all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”

Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make you
think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its
contents?”

She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her
former prejudices had been removed.

“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was
necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part
especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the
power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might
justly make you hate me.”

“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the
preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my
opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily
changed as that implies.”

“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly
calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a
dreadful bitterness of spirit.”

“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The
adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings
of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now
so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant
circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some
of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you
pleasure.”

“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your
retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment
arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of
innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude
which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish
being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I
was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I
was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.
Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt
by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all
that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught
me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family
circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least
to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I
was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been
but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You
taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you,
I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception.
You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman
worthy of being pleased.”

“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”

“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be
wishing, expecting my addresses.”

“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure
you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me
wrong. How you must have hated me after _that_ evening?”

“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take
a proper direction.”

“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at
Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”

“No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”

“Your surprise could not be greater than _mine_ in being noticed by you.
My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I
confess that I did not expect to receive _more_ than my due.”

“My object then,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility in
my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to
obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you
see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes
introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an
hour after I had seen you.”

He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her
disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to
the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of
following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed
before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness
there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must
comprehend.

She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to
each, to be dwelt on farther.

After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know
anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
it was time to be at home.

“What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which
introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with
their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of
it.

“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.

“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”

“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And
though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much
the case.

“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a
confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I
told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his
affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had
the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself
mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent
to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was
unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”

Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his
friend.

“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him
that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”

“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits
which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.”

“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to
him.”

“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had
prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but
his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess
one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not
allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months
last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was
angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained
in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me
now.”

Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful
friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked
herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at,
and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness
of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he
continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they
parted.



Chapter 59


“My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?” was a question
which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room,
and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to
say in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own
knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor anything
else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.

The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The
acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent.
Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth;
and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy
than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment,
there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt
in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no
one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a
dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far
from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.

“You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no,
you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”

“This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and
I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am
in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are
engaged.”

Jane looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much
you dislike him.”

“You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I
did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as
these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever
remember it myself.”

Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more
seriously assured her of its truth.

“Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,” cried
Jane. “My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you
certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be
happy with him?”

“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that
we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased,
Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?”

“Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more
delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you
really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do anything rather than
marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought
to do?”

“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I
tell you all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am
afraid you will be angry.”

“My dearest sister, now _be_ serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let
me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me
how long you have loved him?”

“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began.
But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds
at Pemberley.”

Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the
desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances
of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing
further to wish.

“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “for you will be as happy as myself.
I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you,
I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your
husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But
Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you
tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know
of it to another, not to you.”

Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling
to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made
her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer
conceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged,
and half the night spent in conversation.

                          * * * * *

“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next
morning, “if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with
our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always
coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or
other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him?
Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's
way.”

Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet
was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an
epithet.

As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and
shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information;
and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes
hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?”

“I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty,” said Mrs. Bennet, “to walk
to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has
never seen the view.”

“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. Bingley; “but I am
sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?” Kitty owned that
she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see
the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went
up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:

“I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that
disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is
all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking
to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to
inconvenience.”

During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be
asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the
application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother
would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur
would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she
were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it
was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit
to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear
the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her
disapprobation.

                          * * * * *

In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw
Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was
extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to
be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means--that _she_,
his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be
filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her--was a wretched
reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when,
looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes
he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while
pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, “Go to your father, he
wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.

Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious.
“Lizzy,” said he, “what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be
accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”

How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more
reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from
explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give;
but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion,
of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.

“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be
sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane.
But will they make you happy?”

“Have you any other objection,” said Elizabeth, “than your belief of my
indifference?”

“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but
this would be nothing if you really liked him.”

“I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears in her eyes, “I love him.
Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not
know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in
such terms.”

“Lizzy,” said her father, “I have given him my consent. He is the kind
of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he
condescended to ask. I now give it to _you_, if you are resolved on
having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know
your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor
respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked
up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the
greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape
discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing
_you_ unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are
about.”

Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and
at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object
of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of
him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection
was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months'
suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did
conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

“Well, my dear,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no more to
say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with
you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy.”

To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy
had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.

“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing;
made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him
his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble
and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and _would_ have
paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own
way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about
his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.”

He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading
Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her
at last to go--saying, as she quitted the room, “If any young men come
for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.”

Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after
half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join
the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for
gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer
anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity
would come in time.

When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her,
and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary;
for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to
utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could
comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit
what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a
lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in
her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.

“Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would
have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich
and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages
you will have! Jane's is nothing to it--nothing at all. I am so
pleased--so happy. Such a charming man!--so handsome! so tall!--Oh, my
dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I
hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing
that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh,
Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”

This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and
Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself,
soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room,
her mother followed her.

“My dearest child,” she cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten
thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a
special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But
my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of,
that I may have it to-morrow.”

This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman
himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain
possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations'
consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow
passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood
in such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to
him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her
deference for his opinion.

Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get
acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising
every hour in his esteem.

“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Wickham, perhaps,
is my favourite; but I think I shall like _your_ husband quite as well
as Jane's.”



Chapter 60


Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr.
Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. “How could
you begin?” said she. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when
you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first
place?”

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which
laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I
knew that I _had_ begun.”

“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behaviour
to _you_ was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke
to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere;
did you admire me for my impertinence?”

“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”

“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less.
The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious
attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking,
and looking, and thinking for _your_ approbation alone. I roused, and
interested you, because I was so unlike _them_. Had you not been really
amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you
took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and
in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously
courted you. There--I have saved you the trouble of accounting for
it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly
reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me--but nobody thinks
of _that_ when they fall in love.”

“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was
ill at Netherfield?”

“Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it
by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are
to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me
to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may
be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling
to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first
called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did
you look as if you did not care about me?”

“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.”

“But I was embarrassed.”

“And so was I.”

“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”

“A man who had felt less, might.”

“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that
I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you
_would_ have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when
you _would_ have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of
thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect.
_Too much_, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort
springs from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the
subject. This will never do.”

“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady
Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of
removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to
your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour
to wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me
hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.”

“Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy,
for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to
Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed?
or had you intended any more serious consequence?”

“My real purpose was to see _you_, and to judge, if I could, whether I
might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to
myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley,
and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.”

“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to
befall her?”

“I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it
ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be
done directly.”

“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and
admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But
I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected.”

From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy
had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's
long letter; but now, having _that_ to communicate which she knew would
be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and
aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as
follows:

“I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done,
for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the
truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed.
But _now_ suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your
fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the
subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you
cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a
great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again,
for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your
idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I
am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so
before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she
only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that
he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas.
Yours, etc.”

Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still
different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply
to his last.

“DEAR SIR,

“I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon
be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can.
But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.

“Yours sincerely, etc.”

Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching
marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even
to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her
former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was
affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing
her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.

The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information,
was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were
insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of
being loved by her sister.

Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations
to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the
Collinses were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this
sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered
so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that
Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till
the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend
was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their
meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she
saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of
her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even
listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away
the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all
meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did
shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.

Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his
forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in
too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good
humour encouraged, yet, whenever she _did_ speak, she must be vulgar.
Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all
likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield
him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep
him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse
without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising
from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it
added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to
the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing
to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at
Pemberley.



Chapter 61


Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got
rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride
she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may
be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the
accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many
of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible,
amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it
was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity
in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and
invariably silly.

Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her
drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in
going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.

Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near
a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to
_his_ easy temper, or _her_ affectionate heart. The darling wish of his
sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county
to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source
of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.

Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with
her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally
known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a
temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example,
she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less
ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's
society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham
frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of
balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.

Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily
drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite
unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but
she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no
longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own,
it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without
much reluctance.

As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from
the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that
Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude
and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every
thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on
to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received
from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least,
if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this
effect:

“MY DEAR LIZZY,

“I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear
Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so
rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us.
I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not
think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help.
Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however,
do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.

“Yours, etc.”

As it happened that Elizabeth had _much_ rather not, she endeavoured in
her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind.
Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice
of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she
frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an
income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in
their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to
their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or
herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance
towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the
restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the
extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap
situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for
her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and
in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to
reputation which her marriage had given her.

Though Darcy could never receive _him_ at Pemberley, yet, for
Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Lydia was
occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself
in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently
staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he
proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.

Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she
thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she
dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as
attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility
to Elizabeth.

Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters
was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each
other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion
in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with
an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of
talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect
which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open
pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen
in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that
a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not
always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.

Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew;
and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in
her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him
language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time
all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion,
he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation;
and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her
resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity
to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait
on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had
received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the
visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.

With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms.
Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever
sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing
her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
it was the age of wisdom,
it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief,
it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,
it was the season of Darkness,
it was the spring of hope,
it was the winter of despair,
we had everything before us,
we had nothing before us,
we were all going direct to Heaven,
we were all going direct the other way--
in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of
its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for
evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with
a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer
than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,
that things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,
as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were
made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane
ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its
messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally
deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the
earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,
from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange
to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any
communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane
brood.

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her
sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down
hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her
Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane
achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue
torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not
kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks
which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty
yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and
Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,
already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into
boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in
it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses
of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were
sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with
rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which
the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of
the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about
with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion
that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;
families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing
their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman
in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
“the Captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the
mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and
then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the
failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace;
that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand
and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the
illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London
gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law
fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;
thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at
Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search
for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the
musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences
much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy
and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing
up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on
Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the
hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of
Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,
and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of
sixpence.

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close
upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,
those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the
fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights
with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred
and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small
creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the
roads that lay before them.




II. The Mail


It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,
before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up
Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,
as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish
for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,
and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the
horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the
coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back
to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in
combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals
are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to
their duty.

With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through
the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested
them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “Wo-ho! so-ho-then!” the
near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an
unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the
hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a
nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.

There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed
into it, as if they had made it all.

Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on
the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,
when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in
“the Captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard
of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as
he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a
loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,
deposited on a substratum of cutlass.

The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but
the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have
taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the
journey.

“Wo-ho!” said the coachman. “So, then! One more pull and you're at the
top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to
it!--Joe!”

“Halloa!” the guard replied.

“What o'clock do you make it, Joe?”

“Ten minutes, good, past eleven.”

“My blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of Shooter's
yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!”

The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,
made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed
suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its
passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach
stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three
had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead
into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of
getting shot instantly as a highwayman.

The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for
the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.

“Tst! Joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
box.

“What do you say, Tom?”

They both listened.

“I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.”

“_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold
of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. “Gentlemen! In the king's
name, all of you!”

With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on
the offensive.

The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained
in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,
and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked
back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up
his ears and looked back, without contradicting.

The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring
of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet
indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to
the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the
passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the
quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding
the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.

The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.

“So-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. “Yo there! Stand!
I shall fire!”

The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,
a man's voice called from the mist, “Is that the Dover mail?”

“Never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted. “What are you?”

“_Is_ that the Dover mail?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I want a passenger, if it is.”

“What passenger?”

“Mr. Jarvis Lorry.”

Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.

“Keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist,
“because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in
your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.”

“What is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
speech. “Who wants me? Is it Jerry?”

(“I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,” growled the guard to
himself. “He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.”)

“Yes, Mr. Lorry.”

“What is the matter?”

“A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.”

“I know this messenger, guard,” said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the
road--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two
passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and
pulled up the window. “He may come close; there's nothing wrong.”

“I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,” said the
guard, in gruff soliloquy. “Hallo you!”

“Well! And hallo you!” said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.

“Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that
saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil
at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So
now let's look at you.”

The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,
and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger
a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and
rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of
the man.

“Guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.

The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,
answered curtly, “Sir.”

“There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must
know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown
to drink. I may read this?”

“If so be as you're quick, sir.”

He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and
read--first to himself and then aloud: “'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'
It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED
TO LIFE.”

Jerry started in his saddle. “That's a Blazing strange answer, too,”
 said he, at his hoarsest.

“Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as
well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.”

With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape
the hazard of originating any other kind of action.

The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round
it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss
in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and
having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,
looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a
few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was
furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown
and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut
himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,
and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in
five minutes.

“Tom!” softly over the coach roof.

“Hallo, Joe.”

“Did you hear the message?”

“I did, Joe.”

“What did you make of it, Tom?”

“Nothing at all, Joe.”

“That's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for I made the same of it
myself.”

Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not
only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and
shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of
holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his
heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within
hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the
hill.

“After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your
fore-legs till I get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger,
glancing at his mare. “'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange
message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd
be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
Jerry!”




III. The Night Shadows


A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is
constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A
solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every
one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every
room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating
heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of
its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I
turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time
to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable
water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses
of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the
book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read
but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an
eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood
in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,
my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable
consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In
any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there
a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their
innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the
messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the
first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the
three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had
been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the
breadth of a county between him and the next.

The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his
own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with
no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they
were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too
far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like
a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and
throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped
for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he
poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he
muffled again.

“No, Jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
“It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't
suit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd
been a drinking!”

His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,
which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all
over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was
so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might
have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.

While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who
was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the
night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such
shapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.
They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.

What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon
its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,
likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms
their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.

Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank
passenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what
lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,
and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special
jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little
coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the
bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great
stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,
and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with
all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then
the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable
stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a
little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among
them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them
safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.

But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach
(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was
always with him, there was another current of impression that never
ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one
out of a grave.

Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him
was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did
not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by
years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,
and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;
so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands
and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was
prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this
spectre:

“Buried how long?”

The answer was always the same: “Almost eighteen years.”

“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”

“Long ago.”

“You know that you are recalled to life?”

“They tell me so.”

“I hope you care to live?”

“I can't say.”

“Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?”

The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes
the broken reply was, “Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.”
 Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,
“Take me to her.” Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it
was, “I don't know her. I don't understand.”

After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,
and dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his
hands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth
hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The
passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the
reality of mist and rain on his cheek.

Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating
by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train
of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the
real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express
sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out
of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost
it again.

“Buried how long?”

“Almost eighteen years.”

“I hope you care to live?”

“I can't say.”

Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two
passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two
slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again
slid away into the bank and the grave.

“Buried how long?”

“Almost eighteen years.”

“You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”

“Long ago.”

The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in
his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary
passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
shadows of the night were gone.

He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a
ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left
last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,
in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained
upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,
and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.

“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”




IV. The Preparation


When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
traveller upon.

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp
and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather
like a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out
of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and
muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.

“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”

“Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The
tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,
sir?”

“I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.”

“And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.
Show Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off
gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!”

The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the
mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from
head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the
Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,
all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another
drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all
loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord
and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a
brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to
his breakfast.

The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,
that he might have been sitting for his portrait.

Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,
as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain
of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a
fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He
wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his
head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which
looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
His linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,
was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring
beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the
quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost
their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and
reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his
cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were
principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps
second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.

Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,
Mr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,
and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:

“I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.”

“Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.”

“Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.”

“Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
sir?”

“Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last
from France.”

“Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's
time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.”

“I believe so.”

“But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen
years ago?”

“You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
the truth.”

“Indeed, sir!”

Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.

When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on
the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away
from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine
ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling
wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was
destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and
brought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong
a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be
dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little
fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by
night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,
sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable
that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.

As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been
at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became
again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud
too. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting
his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
digging, digging, in the live red coals.

A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last
glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is
ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has
got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow
street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.

He set down his glass untouched. “This is Mam'selle!” said he.

In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette
had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
Tellson's.

“So soon?”

Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's
immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.

The gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his
glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen
wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.
It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black
horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and
oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room
were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep
graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected
from them until they were dug out.

The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for
the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and
the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,
and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As
his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden
hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and
a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth
it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was
not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright
fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his
eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,
of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital
procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were
offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the
feminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.

“Pray take a seat, sir.” In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.

“I kiss your hand, miss,” said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.

“I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that
some intelligence--or discovery--”

“The word is not material, miss; either word will do.”

“--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so
long dead--”

Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
hospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for
anybody in their absurd baskets!

“--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate
with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for
the purpose.”

“Myself.”

“As I was prepared to hear, sir.”

She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
was than she. He made her another bow.

“I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by
those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to
France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with
me, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,
during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The
gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to
beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”

“I was happy,” said Mr. Lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
be more happy to execute it.”

“Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me
by the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
strong and eager interest to know what they are.”

“Naturally,” said Mr. Lorry. “Yes--I--”

After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the
ears, “It is very difficult to begin.”

He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
forehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty
and characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,
as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing
shadow.

“Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”

“Am I not?” Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with
an argumentative smile.

Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
moment she raised her eyes again, went on:

“In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
as a young English lady, Miss Manette?”

“If you please, sir.”

“Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to
acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than
if I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with
your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”

“Story!”

He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,
in a hurry, “Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call
our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
gentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.”

“Not of Beauvais?”

“Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the
gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.
Our relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that
time in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.”

“At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?”

“I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and
I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.
In a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;
there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like
sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my
business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in
the course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere
machine. To go on--”

“But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think”--the
curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--“that when I was
left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,
it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.”

Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced
to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then
conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding
the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub
his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking
down into her face while she sat looking up into his.

“Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself
just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold
with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect
that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance
of them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary
Mangle.”

After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
before), and resumed his former attitude.

“So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your
regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died
when he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!”

She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.

“Pray,” said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation--a matter of
business. As I was saying--”

Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:

“As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly
and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not
been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could
trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a
privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid
to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the
privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one
to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had
implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of
him, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have
been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.”

“I entreat you to tell me more, sir.”

“I will. I am going to. You can bear it?”

“I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this
moment.”

“You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!” (Though
his manner was less satisfied than his words.) “A matter of business.
Regard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now
if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,
had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was
born--”

“The little child was a daughter, sir.”

“A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the
poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
rearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In
Heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”

“For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”

“A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
much more at my ease about your state of mind.”

Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp
his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she
communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.

“That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before
you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with
you. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened
her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,
to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud
upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”

As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the
flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have
been already tinged with grey.

“You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what
they had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
discovery, of money, or of any other property; but--”

He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.

“But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant
in Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”

A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,

“I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!”

Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. “There, there,
there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.
You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair
sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”

She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “I have been free, I
have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!”

“Only one thing more,” said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under
another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be
worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to
know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly
held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,
anywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all
events--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even
Tellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of
the matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring
to it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,
and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'
which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a
word! Miss Manette!”

Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she
sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed
upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or
branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he
feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called
out loudly for assistance without moving.

A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to
be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,
or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the
inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the
poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him
flying back against the nearest wall.

(“I really think this must be a man!” was Mr. Lorry's breathless
reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)

“Why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
“Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring
at me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch
things? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold
water, and vinegar, quick, I will.”

There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she
softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her
golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.

“And you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;
“couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her
to death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do
you call _that_ being a Banker?”

Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to
answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler
sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn
servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something
not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a
regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head
upon her shoulder.

“I hope she will do well now,” said Mr. Lorry.

“No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!”

“I hope,” said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
humility, “that you accompany Miss Manette to France?”

“A likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman. “If it was ever
intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence
would have cast my lot in an island?”

This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
consider it.




V. The Wine-shop


A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just
outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.

All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,
had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help
women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all
run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in
the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with
handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;
others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and
there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new
directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed
pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted
fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the
wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up
along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,
if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous
presence.

A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,
and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There
was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a
special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part
of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen
together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been
most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these
demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who
had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in
motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of
hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own
starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men
with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom
gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.

The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks
on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his
head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled
upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.

The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.

And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary
gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was
heavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in
waiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;
but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a
terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the
fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,
passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered
in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which
had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the
children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the
grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,
was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out
of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and
lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and
paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of
firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless
chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,
among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the
baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of
bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that
was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting
chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every
farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant
drops of oil.

Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding
street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets
diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags
and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them
that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some
wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and
slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor
compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted
into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or
inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman
painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of
meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,
croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were
gloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a
flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives
and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the
gunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,
with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but
broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down
the middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy
rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across
the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and
pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,
and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly
manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and
the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.

For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region
should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so
long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling
up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their
condition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over
France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of
song and feather, took no warning.

The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its
appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside
it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle
for the lost wine. “It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug
of the shoulders. “The people from the market did it. Let them bring
another.”

There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,
he called to him across the way:

“Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”

The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often
the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is
often the way with his tribe too.

“What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop
keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. “Why do you write
in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place
to write such words in?”

In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his
own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his
hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly
practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.

“Put it on, put it on,” said the other. “Call wine, wine; and finish
there.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's
dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on
his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.

This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on
the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong
resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing
down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn
the man.

Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he
came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with
a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand
heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of
manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might
have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself
in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being
sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright
shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large
earrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick
her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported
by her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but
coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting
of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a
line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the
shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while
he stepped over the way.

The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they
rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in
a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing
dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply
of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the
elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “This is our man.”

“What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defarge
to himself; “I don't know you.”

But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.

“How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. “Is
all the spilt wine swallowed?”

“Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.

When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,
and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.

“It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
Defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”

“It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.

At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.

The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty
drinking vessel and smacked his lips.

“Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle
always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I
right, Jacques?”

“You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.

This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
slightly rustled in her seat.

“Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. “Gentlemen--my wife!”

The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and
giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose
of spirit, and became absorbed in it.

“Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
upon her, “good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the
fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard
close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of
my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”

They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur
Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly
gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.

“Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
the door.

Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had
not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then
beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge
knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.

Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,
and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the
gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee
to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was
a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable
transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour
in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,
angry, dangerous man.

“It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”
 Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began
ascending the stairs.

“Is he alone?” the latter whispered.

“Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the
same low voice.

“Is he always alone, then?”

“Yes.”

“Of his own desire?”

“Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they
found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be
discreet--as he was then, so he is now.”

“He is greatly changed?”

“Changed!”

The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,
and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his
two companions ascended higher and higher.

Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
within the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,
the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general
staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and
hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted
the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their
intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost
insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to
his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.
Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made
at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left
uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed
to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were
caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer
or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any
promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.

At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination
and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story
was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in
advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he
dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about
here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over
his shoulder, took out a key.

“The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.

“Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.

“You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”

“I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered it
closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.

“Why?”

“Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be
frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what
harm--if his door was left open.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.

“Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. “Yes. And a beautiful
world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things
are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under
that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”

This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word
of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled
under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,
and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent
on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.

“Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,
all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you
bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”

They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
wine-shop.

“I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained Monsieur
Defarge. “Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”

The three glided by, and went silently down.

There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of
the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.
Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:

“Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”

“I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”

“Is that well?”

“_I_ think it is well.”

“Who are the few? How do you choose them?”

“I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the
sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another
thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”

With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to
make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
it as heavily as he could.

The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the
room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more
than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.

He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he
felt that she was sinking.

“A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of
business shining on his cheek. “Come in, come in!”

“I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.

“Of it? What?”

“I mean of him. Of my father.”

Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of
their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his
shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her
down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.

Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,
took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,
methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he
could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to
where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.

The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from
the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any
other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this
door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it
was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit
alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work
requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being
done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face
towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at
him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very
busy, making shoes.




VI. The Shoemaker


“Good day!” said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
bent low over the shoemaking.

It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
salutation, as if it were at a distance:

“Good day!”

“You are still hard at work, I see?”

After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes
had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.

The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was
the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo
of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive
it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,
wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered
home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.

Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked
up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
aware of had stood, was not yet empty.

“I want,” said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
“to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?”

The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.

“What did you say?”

“You can bear a little more light?”

“I must bear it, if you let it in.” (Laying the palest shadow of a
stress upon the second word.)

The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his
labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his
feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very
long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and
thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet
dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really
otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
His yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body
to be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose
stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion
from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of
parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.

He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones
of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,
pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without
first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had
lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without
first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.

“Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked Defarge,
motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.

“What did you say?”

“Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”

“I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.”

But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.

Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When
he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
look and the action had occupied but an instant.

“You have a visitor, you see,” said Monsieur Defarge.

“What did you say?”

“Here is a visitor.”

The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
work.

“Come!” said Defarge. “Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.”

Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.

“Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”

There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:

“I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?”

“I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's
information?”

“It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.” He
glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.

“And the maker's name?” said Defarge.

Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of
recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he
had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
fast-dying man.

“Did you ask me for my name?”

“Assuredly I did.”

“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”

“Is that all?”

“One Hundred and Five, North Tower.”

With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
again, until the silence was again broken.

“You are not a shoemaker by trade?” said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
at him.

His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
on the questioner when they had sought the ground.

“I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--”

He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face
from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and
resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
subject of last night.

“I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after
a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.”

As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:

“Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?”

The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
questioner.

“Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; “do you
remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your
mind, Monsieur Manette?”

As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.
Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And
so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who
had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where
she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only
raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and
shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,
trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young
breast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression
repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it
looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.

Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground
and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he
took the shoe up, and resumed his work.

“Have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked Defarge in a whisper.

“Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!”

She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the
figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped
over his labour.

Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
beside him, and he bent over his work.

It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was
stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He
raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,
but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his
striking at her with the knife, though they had.

He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began
to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in
the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:

“What is this?”

With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she
laid his ruined head there.

“You are not the gaoler's daughter?”

She sighed “No.”

“Who are you?”

Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange
thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he
laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.

Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action
he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his
shoemaking.

But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to
be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand
to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag
attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained
a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.

He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. “It is
the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!”

As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
light, and looked at her.

“She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was
brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will
leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very
well.”

He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
though slowly.

“How was this?--_Was it you_?”

Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
said, in a low voice, “I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near
us, do not speak, do not move!”

“Hark!” he exclaimed. “Whose voice was that?”

His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and
tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and
gloomily shook his head.

“No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the
prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face
she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He
was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your
name, my gentle angel?”

Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.

“O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!”

His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.

“If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when
I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you
with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the
remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,
weep for it, weep for it!”

She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
child.

“If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,
and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my
honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake
striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of
my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep
for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred
tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank
God for us, thank God!”

He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which
had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.

When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm
called Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and
daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay
there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his
head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained
him from the light.

“If, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be
arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
could be taken away--”

“But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?” asked Mr. Lorry.

“More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
him.”

“It is true,” said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. “More
than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.
Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?”

“That's business,” said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, I had better do it.”

“Then be so kind,” urged Miss Manette, “as to leave us here. You see how
composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me
now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until
you return, and then we will remove him straight.”

Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and
in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage
and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,
for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily
dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away
to do it.

Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness
deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
through the chinks in the wall.

Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and
had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and
meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the
lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the
garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and
assisted him to his feet.

No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that
he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to
answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for
the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of
occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen
in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his
daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.

In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand
in both his own.

They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps
of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and
round at the walls.

“You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?”

“What did you say?”

But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if
she had repeated it.

“Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.”

That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
“One Hundred and Five, North Tower;” and when he looked about him, it
evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed
him. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was
no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.

No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and
saw nothing.

The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed
him, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and
went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned
against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.

Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “To the Barrier!” The
postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
over-swinging lamps.

Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,
illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. “Your papers,
travellers!” “See here then, Monsieur the Officer,” said Defarge,
getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of
monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with
him, at the--” He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the
military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm
in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day
or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. “It is well.
Forward!” from the uniform. “Adieu!” from Defarge. And so, under a short
grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great
grove of stars.

Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their
rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything
is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried
man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever
lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:

“I hope you care to be recalled to life?”

And the old answer:

“I can't say.”


The end of the first book.





Book the Second--the Golden Thread




I. Five Years Later


Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the
year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very
dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,
moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were
proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,
proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence
in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if
it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was
no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more
convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted
no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no
embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but
Tellson's, thank Heaven--!

Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the
question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much
on a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for
suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly
objectionable, but were only the more respectable.

Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection
of inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with
a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,
and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little
counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the
wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of
windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,
and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the
heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing
“the House,” you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,
where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its
hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal
twilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden
drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when
they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they
were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among
the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good
polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms
made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family
papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great
dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year
one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you
by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released
from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
Abyssinia or Ashantee.

But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue
with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.
Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?
Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note
was put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the
purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder
of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to
Death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of
three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to
Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it
might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the
reverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each
particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked
after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,
its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid
low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately
disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the
ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.

Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the
oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young
man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was
old. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full
Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches
and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.

Outside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an
odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless
upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin
of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,
in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always
tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted
this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful
occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the
easterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added
appellation of Jerry.

The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)

Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as
it was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was
already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged
for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth
was spread.

Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin
at home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll
and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair
looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he
exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:

“Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”

A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
person referred to.

“What!” said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. “You're at it
agin, are you?”

After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at
the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the
odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,
whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.

“What,” said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his
mark--“what are you up to, Aggerawayter?”

“I was only saying my prayers.”

“Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
yourself down and praying agin me?”

“I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.”

“You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!
your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
You've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping
herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out
of the mouth of her only child.”

Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning
to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal
board.

“And what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said Mr. Cruncher, with
unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?
Name the price that you put _your_ prayers at!”

“They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than
that.”

“Worth no more than that,” repeated Mr. Cruncher. “They ain't worth
much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't
afford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If
you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and
child, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral
wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might
have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and
countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
B-u-u-ust me!” said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting
on his clothes, “if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and
another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor
devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my
boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and
then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I
tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “I won't be gone agin,
in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as
laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if
it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet
I'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've
been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for
it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you
say now!”

Growling, in addition, such phrases as “Ah! yes! You're religious, too.
You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
and child, would you? Not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
In the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,
and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,
kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor
woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made
his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “You are going to flop, mother.
--Halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in
again with an undutiful grin.

Mr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his
breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular
animosity.

“Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?”

His wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”

“Don't do it!” said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. “I
ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles
blest off my table. Keep still!”

Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried
his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed
inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled
aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as
he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation
of the day.

It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite
description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” His stock consisted of
a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,
young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to
beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned
from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's
feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.
Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar
itself,--and was almost as in-looking.

Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,
Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing
boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,
extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic
in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two
eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that
the mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else
in Fleet-street.

The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's
establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:

“Porter wanted!”

“Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!”

Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on
the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father
had been chewing, and cogitated.

“Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young Jerry.
“Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron
rust here!”




II. A Sight


“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of
clerks to Jerry the messenger.

“Ye-es, sir,” returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. “I _do_
know the Bailey.”

“Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.”

“I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much
better,” said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment
in question, “than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.”

“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.”

“Into the court, sir?”

“Into the court.”

Mr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
interchange the inquiry, “What do you think of this?”

“Am I to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that
conference.

“I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.
Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's
attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,
to remain there until he wants you.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
you are there.”

As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,
Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
blotting-paper stage, remarked:

“I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?”

“Treason!”

“That's quartering,” said Jerry. “Barbarous!”

“It is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
spectacles upon him. “It is the law.”

“It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill
him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”

“Not at all,” retained the ancient clerk. “Speak well of the law. Take
care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
care of itself. I give you that advice.”

“It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said Jerry. “I
leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”

“Well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of
gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry
ways. Here is the letter. Go along.”

Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
deference than he made an outward show of, “You are a lean old one,
too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,
and went his way.

They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and
villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came
into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the
dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It
had more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced
his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,
from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on
a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a
half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It
was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted
a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for
the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and
softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in
blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically
leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice
illustration of the precept, that “Whatever is is right;” an aphorism
that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome
consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.

Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in
his letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the
former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
doors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the
criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.

After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
court.

“What's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next
to.

“Nothing yet.”

“What's coming on?”

“The Treason case.”

“The quartering one, eh?”

“Ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to
be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own
face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,
and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
That's the sentence.”

“If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?” Jerry added, by way of proviso.

“Oh! they'll find him guilty,” said the other. “Don't you be afraid of
that.”

Mr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he
saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry
sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged
gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers
before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands
in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him
then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the
court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing
with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up
to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.

“What's _he_ got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.

“Blest if I know,” said Jerry.

“What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”

“Blest if I know that either,” said Jerry.

The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling
down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the
central point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,
went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.

Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled
at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round
pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows
stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,
laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help
themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got
upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall
of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a
whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with
the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,
that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him
in an impure mist and rain.

The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and
a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out
of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express
itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his
situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the
soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,
bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.

The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,
was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
horrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage
details being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his
fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered
and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various
spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and
powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.

Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that
he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so
forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers
occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French
King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and
so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of
our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the
said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise
evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our
said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation
to send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head
becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with
huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that
the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood
there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and
that Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.

The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from
the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;
and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which
it was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.

Over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down
upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in
it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted
in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the
glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one
day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace
for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be
that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar
of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his
face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.

It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,
in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look
immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his
aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.

The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,
but pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he
looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as
it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a
handsome man, not past the prime of life.

His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion
that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very
noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who
had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,
“Who are they?”

Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about
him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and
from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got
to Jerry:

“Witnesses.”

“For which side?”

“Against.”

“Against what side?”

“The prisoner's.”

The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was
in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the
axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.




III. A Disappointment


Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the
public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or
even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the
prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and
repassing between France and England, on secret business of which
he could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of
traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real
wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the
prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.
That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and
attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's
friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his
infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish
in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues
were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as
they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,
as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that
they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness
for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him
a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,
and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to
hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,
in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)
brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.
Attorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence
on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two
witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be
produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of
his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by
sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed
such information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be
proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the
same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof
would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged
in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the
very first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.
That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they
were), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must
positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether
they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their
pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying
their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion
of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that
there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon
pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head
Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith
of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
good as dead and gone.

When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if
a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in
anticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the
unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.

Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if
it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom
of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the
wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.
Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting
opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.

Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.
What did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't
precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.
Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'
prison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'
prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever
been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell
downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
dice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who
committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?
Positively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not
more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.
Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a
very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more
about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.
Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government
pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear
no. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
patriotism? None whatever.

The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of
the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging
his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from
the drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He
had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen
at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and
Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given
information. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;
he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be
only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;
that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious
coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a
curious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He
was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.

The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
Lorry.

“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?”

“I am.”

“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
Dover by the mail?”

“It did.”

“Were there any other passengers in the mail?”

“Two.”

“Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”

“They did.”

“Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?”

“I cannot undertake to say that he was.”

“Does he resemble either of these two passengers?”

“Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.”

“Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
render it unlikely that he was one of them?”

“No.”

“You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?”

“No.”

“So at least you say he may have been one of them?”

“Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like
myself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous
air.”

“Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?”

“I certainly have seen that.”

“Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
certain knowledge, before?”

“I have.”

“When?”

“I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
voyage with me.”

“At what hour did he come on board?”

“At a little after midnight.”

“In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board
at that untimely hour?”

“He happened to be the only one.”

“Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
came on board in the dead of the night?”

“He was.”

“Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?”

“With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.”

“They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?”

“Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and
I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”

“Miss Manette!”

The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
kept her hand drawn through his arm.

“Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.”

To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all
the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs
before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts
to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour
rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.

“Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
occasion.”

“You are the young lady just now referred to?”

“O! most unhappily, I am!”

The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: “Answer the questions put
to you, and make no remark upon them.”

“Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
passage across the Channel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Recall it.”

In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: “When the
gentleman came on board--”

“Do you mean the prisoner?” inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then say the prisoner.”

“When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,” turning
her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, “was much fatigued
and in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was
afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the
deck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take
care of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.
The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could
shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I
had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would
set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed
great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he
felt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.”

“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?”

“No.”

“How many were with him?”

“Two French gentlemen.”

“Had they conferred together?”

“They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.”

“Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?”

“Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
papers.”

“Like these in shape and size?”

“Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that
they looked at papers.”

“Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.”

“The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out
of my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
father. I hope,” bursting into tears, “I may not repay him by doing him
harm to-day.”

Buzzing from the blue-flies.

“Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that
you give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must
give--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,
he is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.”

“He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
therefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business
had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,
take him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long
time to come.”

“Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.”

“He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on
England's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George
Washington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the
Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said
laughingly, and to beguile the time.”

Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in
a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when
she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon
the counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous
heresy about George Washington.

Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.

“Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?”

“Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or
three years and a half ago.”

“Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
speak to his conversation with your daughter?”

“Sir, I can do neither.”

“Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
either?”

He answered, in a low voice, “There is.”

“Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?”

He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, “A long imprisonment.”

“Were you newly released on the occasion in question?”

“They tell me so.”

“Have you no remembrance of the occasion?”

“None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what
time--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the
time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter
here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored
my faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become
familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.”

Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
together.

A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and
got out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did
not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,
to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness
was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,
in the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,
waiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner
on any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time
been looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a
little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening
this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great
attention and curiosity at the prisoner.

“You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?”

The witness was quite sure.

“Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?”

Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.

“Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,” pointing
to him who had tossed the paper over, “and then look well upon the
prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?”

Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,
not only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought
into comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became
much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's
counsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
friend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he
would ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen
this illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so
confident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash
this witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to
useless lumber.

Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
fingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.
Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit
of clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and
traitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest
scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look
rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,
and was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false
swearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family
affairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making
those passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a
consideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,
even for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped
and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they
had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent
gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
and young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that
reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.
How it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this
attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies
and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;
how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
character of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the
State Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed
(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could
not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.

Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning
the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.

And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.

Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.
While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,
whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced
anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and
grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,
and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion
in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man
sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his
hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all
day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him
a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he
undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the
lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the
observation to his next neighbour, and added, “I'd hold half a guinea
that _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one
to get any, do he?”

Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon
her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:
“Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.
Don't you see she will fall!”

There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to
him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown
strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or
brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,
ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a
moment, spoke, through their foreman.

They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
the court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the
jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get
refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat
down.

Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
could easily get near him.

“Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment
behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You
are the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long
before I can.”

Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up
at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.

“How is the young lady?”

“She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
feels the better for being out of court.”

“I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman
like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.”

Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.
The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all
eyes, ears, and spikes.

“Mr. Darnay!”

The prisoner came forward directly.

“You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.”

“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so
for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?”

“Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.”

Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.

“I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.”

“What,” said Carton, still only half turned towards him, “do you expect,
Mr. Darnay?”

“The worst.”

“It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
withdrawing is in your favour.”

Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
more: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other
in manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
them.

An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.
The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide
of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along
with them.

“Jerry! Jerry!” Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
there.

“Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!”

Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. “Quick! Have you got
it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hastily written on the paper was the word “ACQUITTED.”

“If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,” muttered
Jerry, as he turned, “I should have known what you meant, this time.”

He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out
with a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz
swept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
search of other carrion.




IV. Congratulatory


From the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor
for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
Charles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from
death.

It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise
in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the
shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him
twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation
had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and
to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent
reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long
lingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition
from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of
itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those
unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual
Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three
hundred miles away.

Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from
his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few
and slight, and she believed them over.

Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned
to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little
more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,
loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing
way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.

He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the
less likely to succeed on that account.”

“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,”
 said his late client, taking his hand.

“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
another man's, I believe.”

It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry
said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested
object of squeezing himself back again.

“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day,
and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.”

“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
him out of it--“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.”

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night's work to
do yet. Speak for yourself.”

“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for
Miss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?”
 He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.

His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at
Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,
not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his
thoughts had wandered away.

“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.

He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.

“Shall we go home, my father?”

With a long breath, he answered “Yes.”

The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the
impression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be
released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the
passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,
and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of
gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into
the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter
departed in it.

Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back
to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or
interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning
against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled
out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now
stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.

“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?”

Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's
proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
better for it in appearance.

“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.”

Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before,
sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
have to think of the House more than ourselves.”

“_I_ know, _I_ know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don't be
nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,
I dare say.”

“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don't
know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very
much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your
business.”

“Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,” said Mr. Carton.

“It is a pity you have not, sir.”

“I think so, too.”

“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.”

“Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,” said Mr. Carton.

“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
“business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,
if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance
for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy
life.--Chair there!”

Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,
who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
then, and turned to Darnay:

“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must
be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on
these street stones?”

“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world
again.”

“I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far
advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.”

“I begin to think I _am_ faint.”

“Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those
numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or
some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.”

Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat
opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port
before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.

“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
Darnay?”

“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
mended as to feel that.”

“It must be an immense satisfaction!”

He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large
one.

“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
It has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we
are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are
not much alike in any particular, you and I.”

Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with
this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was
at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.

“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don't you call a
health, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?”

“What health? What toast?”

“Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll
swear it's there.”

“Miss Manette, then!”

“Miss Manette, then!”

Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.

“That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!”
 he said, filling his new goblet.

A slight frown and a laconic “Yes,” were the answer.

“That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
feel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such
sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?”

Again Darnay answered not a word.

“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.”

The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this
disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the
strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him
for it.

“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder.
“It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did
it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.”

“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.”

“Do you think I particularly like you?”

“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have
not asked myself the question.”

“But ask yourself the question now.”

“You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.”

“_I_ don't think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good
opinion of your understanding.”

“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is
nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our
parting without ill-blood on either side.”

Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole
reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then
bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at
ten.”

The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat
of defiance in his manner, and said, “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think
I am drunk?”

“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.”

“Think? You know I have been drinking.”

“Since I must say so, I know it.”

“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I
care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.”

“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.”

“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,
however; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!”

When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.

“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why
should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing
in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have
made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change
places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as
he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and
have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.”

He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.




V. The Jackal


Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is
the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow
in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
drier parts of the legal race.

A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which
he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the
florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of
the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from
among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.

It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib
man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that
faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is
among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.
But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more
business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its
pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney
Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.

Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great
ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring
at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there
they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was
rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily
to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,
among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton
would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he
rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.

“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”

“_What's_ the matter?”

“Ten o'clock, sir.”

“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”

“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”

“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”

After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man
dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,
he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,
and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's
Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.

The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone
home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,
and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He
had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which
may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of
Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.

“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.

“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”

They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in
the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon
it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.

“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”

“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or
seeing him dine--it's all one!”

“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”

“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”

Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.

“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”

Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them
out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down
at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”

“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,
gaily, as he looked among his papers.

“How much?”

“Only two sets of them.”

“Give me the worst first.”

“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”

The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to
his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in
a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in
his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some
lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,
so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he
stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or
more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the
matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on
him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the
jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as
no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious
gravity.

At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,
made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal
assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his
hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then
invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application
to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;
this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not
disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.

“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.
Stryver.

The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.

“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
to-day. Every question told.”

“I always am sound; am I not?”

“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to
it and smooth it again.”

With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.

“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding
his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the
old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and
now in despondency!”

“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same
luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”

“And why not?”

“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”

He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
him, looking at the fire.

“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,
as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour
was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney
Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way
is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look
at me.”

“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more
good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”

“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I
do?”

“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth
your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to
do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”

“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”

“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said
Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.

“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”
 pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into
mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,
picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always
nowhere.”

“And whose fault was that?”

“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy
thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.
Turn me in some other direction before I go.”

“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up
his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”

Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.

“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had
enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”

“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”

“_She_ pretty?”

“Is she not?”

“No.”

“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”

“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge
of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”

“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather
thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”

“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.
I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;
I'll get to bed.”

When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the
dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a
lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round
before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and
the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.

Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still
on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.
A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of
houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its
pillow was wet with wasted tears.

Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight
on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.




VI. Hundreds of People


The quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not
far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the
waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried
it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis
Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,
on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into
business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the
quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.

On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in
the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine
Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;
secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and
generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have
his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the
Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving
them.

A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of
the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that
had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,
north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers
grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a
consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,
instead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a
settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which
the peaches ripened in their season.

The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part
of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,
though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a
glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful
place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.

There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and
there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where
several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was
audible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In
a building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree
rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver
to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant
who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if
he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all
visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured
to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have
a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray
workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered
about there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a
thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions
required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind
the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way
from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.

Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and
its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.
His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting
ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and
he earned as much as he wanted.

These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and
notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,
on the fine Sunday afternoon.

“Doctor Manette at home?”

Expected home.

“Miss Lucie at home?”

Expected home.

“Miss Pross at home?”

Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to
anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the
fact.

“As I am at home myself,” said Mr. Lorry, “I'll go upstairs.”

Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her
birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to
make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most
agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off
by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,
that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the
rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,
the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by
delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in
themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry
stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,
with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this
time, whether he approved?

There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which
he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was
the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,
and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was
the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,
changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the
Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's
bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the
dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.

“I wonder,” said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, “that he keeps
that reminder of his sufferings about him!”

“And why wonder at that?” was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.

It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and
had since improved.

“I should have thought--” Mr. Lorry began.

“Pooh! You'd have thought!” said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.

“How do you do?” inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to
express that she bore him no malice.

“I am pretty well, I thank you,” answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; “how
are you?”

“Nothing to boast of,” said Miss Pross.

“Indeed?”

“Ah! indeed!” said Miss Pross. “I am very much put out about my
Ladybird.”

“Indeed?”

“For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll
fidget me to death,” said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from
stature) was shortness.

“Really, then?” said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.

“Really, is bad enough,” returned Miss Pross, “but better. Yes, I am
very much put out.”

“May I ask the cause?”

“I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
come here looking after her,” said Miss Pross.

“_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?”

“Hundreds,” said Miss Pross.

It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,
she exaggerated it.

“Dear me!” said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.

“I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and
paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her
for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,”
 said Miss Pross.

Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
fit anything.

“All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
are always turning up,” said Miss Pross. “When you began it--”

“_I_ began it, Miss Pross?”

“Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?”

“Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--” said Mr. Lorry.

“It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except
that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on
him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any
circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds
and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven
him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.”

Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by
this time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and
admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost
it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were
never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there
is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so
rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted
respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own
mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss
Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably
better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.

“There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,” said
Miss Pross; “and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a
mistake in life.”

Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had
established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to
speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with
no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon
(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious
matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.

“As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
business,” he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had
sat down there in friendly relations, “let me ask you--does the Doctor,
in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?”

“Never.”

“And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?”

“Ah!” returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. “But I don't say he don't
refer to it within himself.”

“Do you believe that he thinks of it much?”

“I do,” said Miss Pross.

“Do you imagine--” Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
short with:

“Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.”

“I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,
sometimes?”

“Now and then,” said Miss Pross.

“Do you suppose,” Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his
bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, “that Doctor Manette has any
theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to
the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his
oppressor?”

“I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.”

“And that is--?”

“That she thinks he has.”

“Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a
mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.”

“Dull?” Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.

Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, “No, no,
no. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor
Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss
Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of
zealous interest.”

“Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell
me,” said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, “he is afraid
of the whole subject.”

“Afraid?”

“It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful
remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not
knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never
feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the
subject pleasant, I should think.”

It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. “True,” said
he, “and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss
Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression
always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness
it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.”

“Can't be helped,” said Miss Pross, shaking her head. “Touch that
string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.
In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in
the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking
up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to
know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in
his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up
and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says
a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it
best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down
together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have
brought him to himself.”

Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a
perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,
in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to
her possessing such a thing.

The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it
had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it
seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had
set it going.

“Here they are!” said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;
“and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!”

It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a
peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,
looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied
they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though
the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be
heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close
at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross
was ready at the street door to receive them.

Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up
with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and
folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with
as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she
had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant
sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against
her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do
playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own
chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at
them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with
eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would
have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,
beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor
stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no
Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain
for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.

Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of
the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and
always acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest
quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their
contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be
better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical
kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of
impoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would
impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters
of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl
who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,
or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,
a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she
pleased.

On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days
persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to
which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts
to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.

It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the
wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit
there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,
they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for
the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some
time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the
plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs
and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree
whispered to them in its own way above their heads.

Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he
was only One.

Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, “a fit of the
jerks.”

The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting
his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the
likeness.

He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual
vivacity. “Pray, Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the
plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,
which happened to be the old buildings of London--“have you seen much of
the Tower?”

“Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.”

“_I_ have been there, as you remember,” said Darnay, with a smile,
though reddening a little angrily, “in another character, and not in a
character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
curious thing when I was there.”

“What was that?” Lucie asked.

“In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of
its inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by
prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone
in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to
execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with
some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.
At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully
examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or
legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses
were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested
that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The
floor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the
earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found
the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case
or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he
had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.”

“My father,” exclaimed Lucie, “you are ill!”

He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and
his look quite terrified them all.

“No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
made me start. We had better go in.”

He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry
either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned
towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it
when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.

He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of
his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more
steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he
was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and
that the rain had startled him.

Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he
made only Two.

The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was
done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the
heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton
leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of
the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the
ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.

“The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,” said Doctor
Manette. “It comes slowly.”

“It comes surely,” said Carton.

They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.

There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to
get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes
resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a
footstep was there.

“A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!” said Darnay, when they had
listened for a while.

“Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?” asked Lucie. “Sometimes, I have
sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of
a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and
solemn--”

“Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.”

“It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have
sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made
the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming
by-and-bye into our lives.”

“There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,”
 Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.

The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,
as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some
coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in
the distant streets, and not one within sight.

“Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
are we to divide them among us?”

“I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come
into my life, and my father's.”

“I take them into mine!” said Carton. “_I_ ask no questions and make no
stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,
and I see them--by the Lightning.” He added the last words, after there
had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.

“And I hear them!” he added again, after a peal of thunder. “Here they
come, fast, fierce, and furious!”

It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,
for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and
lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's
interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at
midnight.

The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when
Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set
forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches
of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful
of foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was
usually performed a good two hours earlier.

“What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry, “to
bring the dead out of their graves.”

“I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what
would do that,” answered Jerry.

“Good night, Mr. Carton,” said the man of business. “Good night, Mr.
Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!”

Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
bearing down upon them, too.




VII. Monseigneur in Town


Monseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in
his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to
the crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many
things with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather
rapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so
much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
strong men besides the Cook.

Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried
the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed
the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;
a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
watches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to
dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high
place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon
his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three
men; he must have died of two.

Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at
a little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance
for France, as the like always is for all countries similarly
favoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted
days of the merry Stuart who sold it.

Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
his way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and
particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original
by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: “The earth and the fulness
thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.”

Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet
time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could
wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with
a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer
rooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior
mankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked
down upon him with the loftiest contempt.

A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
forage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial
relations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality
among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.

For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would
have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have
been anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,
yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives
passed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were
no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies
for imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had
discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the
State was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to
root out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears
they could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
Philosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making
card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving
Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this
wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of
the finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been
since--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural
subject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various
notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies
among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half
of the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among
the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of
bringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far
towards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing
known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,
and brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and
supped as at twenty.

The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic
sect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
spot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
Future, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other
three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a
jargon about “the Centre of Truth:” holding that Man had got out of the
Centre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got
out of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of
the Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
discoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never
became manifest.

But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen
of the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and
fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and
his devouring hunger far away.

Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all
things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that
was never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through
Monseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals
of Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball
descended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was
required to officiate “frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,
and white silk stockings.” At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a
rarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother
Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call
him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at
Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year
of our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled
hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would
see the very stars out!

Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown
open, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and
fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in
body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have
been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never
troubled it.

Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one
happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably
passed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of
Truth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due
course of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
sprites, and was seen no more.

The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon
but one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm
and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his
way out.

“I devote you,” said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, “to the Devil!”

With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.

He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top
of each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little
change that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing
colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted
by something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of
treachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with
attention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the
line of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a
handsome face, and a remarkable one.

Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer
in his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable
to him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no
check into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had
sometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,
that, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a
barbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second
time, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were
left to get out of their difficulties as they could.

With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage
dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming
before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of
its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its
wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a
number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.

But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,
and there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.

“What has gone wrong?” said Monsieur, calmly looking out.

A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of
the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was
down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.

“Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!” said a ragged and submissive man, “it is
a child.”

“Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?”

“Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.”

The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly
got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the
Marquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.

“Killed!” shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
their length above his head, and staring at him. “Dead!”

The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness
and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the
people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat
and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes
over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.

He took out his purse.

“It is extraordinary to me,” said he, “that you people cannot take care
of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in
the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give
him that.”

He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, “Dead!”

He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They
were as silent, however, as the men.

“I know all, I know all,” said the last comer. “Be a brave man, my
Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour
as happily?”

“You are a philosopher, you there,” said the Marquis, smiling. “How do
they call you?”

“They call me Defarge.”

“Of what trade?”

“Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.”

“Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,” said the Marquis,
throwing him another gold coin, “and spend it as you will. The horses
there; are they right?”

Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.

“Hold!” said Monsieur the Marquis. “Hold the horses! Who threw that?”

He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a
moment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on
the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the
figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.

“You dogs!” said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
except as to the spots on his nose: “I would ride over any of you very
willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
should be crushed under the wheels.”

So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not
a voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.
But the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the
Marquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his
contemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he
leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word “Go on!”

He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking
on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the
spectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through
which they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and
bidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle
while it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who
had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness
of Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran
into evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,
time and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all
things ran their course.




VIII. Monseigneur in the Country


A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas
and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected
disposition to give up, and wither away.

Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up
a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was
no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting
sun.

The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will
die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”

In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the
heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down
hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed
quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow
left when the drag was taken off.

But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village
at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a
church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a
fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects
as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was
coming near home.

The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor
tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor
fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All
its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,
shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the
fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,
were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be
paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until
the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.

Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,
their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest
terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;
or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.

Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'
whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as
if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in
his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow
sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the
meagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
truth through the best part of a hundred years.

Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that
drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before
Monseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces
drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender
of the roads joined the group.

“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.

The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round
to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.

“I passed you on the road?”

“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”

“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”

“Monseigneur, it is true.”

“What did you look at, so fixedly?”

“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”

He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.

“What man, pig? And why look there?”

“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.”

“Who?” demanded the traveller.

“Monseigneur, the man.”

“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You
know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”

“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
all the days of my life, I never saw him.”

“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”

“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
His head hanging over--like this!”

He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his
face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered
himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.

“What was he like?”

“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,
white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”

The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur
the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his
conscience.

“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
Gabelle!”

Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
official manner.

“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.

“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village
to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”

“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”

“Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?”

The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and
presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.

“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”

“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as
a person plunges into the river.”

“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”

The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the
wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky
to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or
they might not have been so fortunate.

The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,
it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the
points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the
courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.

At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,
with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor
figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had
studied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was
dreadfully spare and thin.

To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been
growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She
turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and
presented herself at the carriage-door.

“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”

With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
Monseigneur looked out.

“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”

“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”

“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
cannot pay something?”

“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”

“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”

“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
grass.”

“Well?”

“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?”

“Again, well?”

She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together
with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,
caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
feel the appealing touch.

“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”

“Again, well? Can I feed them?”

“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,
that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed
over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly
forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I
shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they
are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
Monseigneur!”

The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into
a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
his chateau.

The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as
the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group
at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid
of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his
man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they
could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled
in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more
stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
been extinguished.

The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
of his chateau was opened to him.

“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”

“Monseigneur, not yet.”




IX. The Gorgon's Head


It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
finished, two centuries ago.

Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.

The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
was angry.

Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
pages in the history of France.

A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.

“My nephew,” said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; “they
said he was not arrived.”

Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.

“Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.”

In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
lips, when he put it down.

“What is that?” he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
horizontal lines of black and stone colour.

“Monseigneur? That?”

“Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.”

It was done.

“Well?”

“Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
here.”

The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
for instructions.

“Good,” said the imperturbable master. “Close them again.”

That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
front of the chateau.

“Ask who is arrived.”

It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.

He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.

Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
hands.

“You left Paris yesterday, sir?” he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
seat at table.

“Yesterday. And you?”

“I come direct.”

“From London?”

“Yes.”

“You have been a long time coming,” said the Marquis, with a smile.

“On the contrary; I come direct.”

“Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
intending the journey.”

“I have been detained by”--the nephew stopped a moment in his
answer--“various business.”

“Without doubt,” said the polished uncle.

So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
fine mask, opened a conversation.

“I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
sustained me.”

“Not to death,” said the uncle; “it is not necessary to say, to death.”

“I doubt, sir,” returned the nephew, “whether, if it had carried me to
the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.”

The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
breeding that it was not reassuring.

“Indeed, sir,” pursued the nephew, “for anything I know, you may have
expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
circumstances that surrounded me.”

“No, no, no,” said the uncle, pleasantly.

“But, however that may be,” resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
deep distrust, “I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
and would know no scruple as to means.”

“My friend, I told you so,” said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
two marks. “Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.”

“I recall it.”

“Thank you,” said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.

His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
instrument.

“In effect, sir,” pursued the nephew, “I believe it to be at once your
bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
France here.”

“I do not quite understand,” returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
“Dare I ask you to explain?”

“I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.”

“It is possible,” said the uncle, with great calmness. “For the honour
of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
Pray excuse me!”

“I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,” observed the nephew.

“I would not say happily, my friend,” returned the uncle, with refined
politeness; “I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
bad!”

The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
containing himself, that great means of regeneration.

“We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
time also,” said the nephew, gloomily, “that I believe our name to be
more detested than any name in France.”

“Let us hope so,” said the uncle. “Detestation of the high is the
involuntary homage of the low.”

“There is not,” pursued the nephew, in his former tone, “a face I can
look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.”

“A compliment,” said the Marquis, “to the grandeur of the family,
merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
Hah!” And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
crossed his legs.

But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
indifference.

“Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
and slavery, my friend,” observed the Marquis, “will keep the dogs
obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,” looking up to it, “shuts
out the sky.”

That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.

“Meanwhile,” said the Marquis, “I will preserve the honour and repose
of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
terminate our conference for the night?”

“A moment more.”

“An hour, if you please.”

“Sir,” said the nephew, “we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
of wrong.”

“_We_ have done wrong?” repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.

“Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
inheritor, and next successor, from himself?”

“Death has done that!” said the Marquis.

“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is
frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.”

“Seeking them from me, my nephew,” said the Marquis, touching him on the
breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--“you
will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.”

Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
body, and said,

“My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
lived.”

When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
box in his pocket.

“Better to be a rational creature,” he added then, after ringing a small
bell on the table, “and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
Monsieur Charles, I see.”

“This property and France are lost to me,” said the nephew, sadly; “I
renounce them.”

“Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?”

“I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
to me from you, to-morrow--”

“Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.”

“--or twenty years hence--”

“You do me too much honour,” said the Marquis; “still, I prefer that
supposition.”

“--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!”

“Hah!” said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.

“To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
and suffering.”

“Hah!” said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.

“If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
on it, and on all this land.”

“And you?” said the uncle. “Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
philosophy, graciously intend to live?”

“I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
their backs, may have to do some day--work.”

“In England, for example?”

“Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.”

The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
valet.

“England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
prospered there,” he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
with a smile.

“I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.”

“They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“With a daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” said the Marquis. “You are fatigued. Good night!”

As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
looked handsomely diabolic.

“Yes,” repeated the Marquis. “A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!”

It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.

“Good night!” said the uncle. “I look to the pleasure of seeing you
again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,” he
added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
valet to his own bedroom.

The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
coming on.

He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
tall man with his arms up, crying, “Dead!”

“I am cool now,” said Monsieur the Marquis, “and may go to bed.”

So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.

The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
hardly ever to say what is set down for them.

For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
freed.

The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.

Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.

Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
foot.

The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.

All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?

What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
fountain.

All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
the German ballad of Leonora?

It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.

The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
through about two hundred years.

It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:

“Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.”




X. Two Promises


More months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he
would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with
young men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a
living tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for
its stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in
sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not
at that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were
to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had
dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a
tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and
profitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his
work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became
known and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the
circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.
So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.

In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor
to lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he
would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and
did it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.

A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he
read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a
contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek
and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in
London.

Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days
when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has
invariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a
woman.

He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never
heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;
he had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was
confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for
him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination
at the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,
long, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the
mere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.

That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a
summer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,
he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity
of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer
day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.

He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy
which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated
their sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a
very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength
of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was
sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the
exercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been
frequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.

He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.

“Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.”

“I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,” he answered,
a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. “Miss
Manette--”

“Is well,” said the Doctor, as he stopped short, “and your return will
delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will
soon be home.”

“Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
being from home, to beg to speak to you.”

There was a blank silence.

“Yes?” said the Doctor, with evident constraint. “Bring your chair here,
and speak on.”

He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
easy.

“I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,”
 so he at length began, “for some year and a half, that I hope the topic
on which I am about to touch may not--”

He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he
had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:

“Is Lucie the topic?”

“She is.”

“It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me
to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.”

“It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
Manette!” he said deferentially.

There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:

“I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.”

His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
Darnay hesitated.

“Shall I go on, sir?”

Another blank.

“Yes, go on.”

“You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly
I say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and
the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been
laden. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,
disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love
her. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!”

The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the
ground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,
and cried:

“Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!”

His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles
Darnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had
extended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter
so received it, and remained silent.

“I ask your pardon,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
moments. “I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.”

He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or
raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair
overshadowed his face:

“Have you spoken to Lucie?”

“No.”

“Nor written?”

“Never.”

“It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is
to be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks
you.”

He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.

“I know,” said Darnay, respectfully, “how can I fail to know, Doctor
Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between
you and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it
can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
child. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled
with the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there
is, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy
itself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is
now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present
years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the
early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if
you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could
hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that
in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to
you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your
neck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her
own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,
loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I
have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.”

Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a
little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.

“Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you
with this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as
long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even
now feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch
your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.
Heaven is my witness that I love her!”

“I believe it,” answered her father, mournfully. “I have thought so
before now. I believe it.”

“But, do not believe,” said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
struck with a reproachful sound, “that if my fortune were so cast as
that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time
put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a
word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I
should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at
a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my
heart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not
now touch this honoured hand.”

He laid his own upon it as he spoke.

“No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting
in a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your
life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide
with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to
come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.”

His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a
moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of
his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.

“You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank
you with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have
you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?”

“None. As yet, none.”

“Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
ascertain that, with my knowledge?”

“Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I
might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.”

“Do you seek any guidance from me?”

“I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it
in your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.”

“Do you seek any promise from me?”

“I do seek that.”

“What is it?”

“I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
innocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I
could retain no place in it against her love for her father.”

“If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?”

“I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's
favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,
Doctor Manette,” said Darnay, modestly but firmly, “I would not ask that
word, to save my life.”

“I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
heart.”

“May I ask, sir, if you think she is--” As he hesitated, her father
supplied the rest.

“Is sought by any other suitor?”

“It is what I meant to say.”

Her father considered a little before he answered:

“You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.”

“Or both,” said Darnay.

“I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want
a promise from me. Tell me what it is.”

“It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against
me. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The
condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to
require, I will observe immediately.”

“I give the promise,” said the Doctor, “without any condition. I believe
your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I
believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties
between me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me
that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.
If there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--”

The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
the Doctor spoke:

“--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
new or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility
thereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her
sake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me
than wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.”

So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange
his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own
hand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.

“You said something to me,” said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
“What was it you said to me?”

He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:

“Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is
not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
why I am in England.”

“Stop!” said the Doctor of Beauvais.

“I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
secret from you.”

“Stop!”

For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for
another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.

“Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
promise?”

“Willingly.

“Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she
should not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!”

It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for
Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his
reading-chair empty.

“My father!” she called to him. “Father dear!”

Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
blood all chilled, “What shall I do! What shall I do!”

Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at
his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of
her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
together for a long time.

She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
work, were all as usual.




XI. A Companion Picture


“Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
jackal; “mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.”

Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
bring grist to the mill again.

Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
intervals for the last six hours.

“Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?” said Stryver the portly, with
his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
his back.

“I am.”

“Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.”

“_Do_ you?”

“Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?”

“I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?”

“Guess.”

“Do I know her?”

“Guess.”

“I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
me to dinner.”

“Well then, I'll tell you,” said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
posture. “Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
because you are such an insensible dog.”

“And you,” returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, “are such a
sensitive and poetical spirit--”

“Come!” rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, “though I don't prefer
any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.”

“You are a luckier, if you mean that.”

“I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--”

“Say gallantry, while you are about it,” suggested Carton.

“Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,” said Stryver,
inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, “who cares more to
be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.”

“Go on,” said Sydney Carton.

“No; but before I go on,” said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
way, “I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
Sydney!”

“It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
be ashamed of anything,” returned Sydney; “you ought to be much obliged
to me.”

“You shall not get off in that way,” rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
rejoinder at him; “no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.”

Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.

“Look at me!” said Stryver, squaring himself; “I have less need to make
myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
Why do I do it?”

“I never saw you do it yet,” muttered Carton.

“I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
get on.”

“You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,”
 answered Carton, with a careless air; “I wish you would keep to that. As
to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?”

He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.

“You have no business to be incorrigible,” was his friend's answer,
delivered in no very soothing tone.

“I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,” said Sydney Carton.
“Who is the lady?”

“Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
for the disclosure he was about to make, “because I know you don't mean
half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
me in slighting terms.”

“I did?”

“Certainly; and in these chambers.”

Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.

“You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
of mine, who had no ear for music.”

Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
looking at his friend.

“Now you know all about it, Syd,” said Mr. Stryver. “I don't care about
fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?”

Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I be
astonished?”

“You approve?”

Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, “Why should I not approve?”

“Well!” said his friend Stryver, “you take it more easily than I fancied
you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
you really ought to think about a nurse.”

The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
big as he was, and four times as offensive.

“Now, let me recommend you,” pursued Stryver, “to look it in the face.
I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.”

“I'll think of it,” said Sydney.




XII. The Fellow of Delicacy


Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
fortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known
to her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental
debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as
well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange
at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two
before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it
and Hilary.

As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
grounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a
plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for
the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to
consider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer
case could be.

Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.

Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
while the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.
Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet
on Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way
along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have
seen how safe and strong he was.

His way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and
knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron
bars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything
under the clouds were a sum.

“Halloa!” said Mr. Stryver. “How do you do? I hope you are well!”

It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks
in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if
the Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.

The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
recommend under the circumstances, “How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do
you do, sir?” and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner
of shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook
hands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry, in his
business character.

“Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
have come for a private word.”

“Oh indeed!” said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
to the House afar off.

“I am going,” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to
be not half desk enough for him: “I am going to make an offer of myself
in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.”

“Oh dear me!” cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
visitor dubiously.

“Oh dear me, sir?” repeated Stryver, drawing back. “Oh dear you, sir?
What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?”

“My meaning,” answered the man of business, “is, of course, friendly and
appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,
my meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.
Stryver--” Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest
manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,
“you know there really is so much too much of you!”

“Well!” said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,
opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, “if I understand you,
Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!”

Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
end, and bit the feather of a pen.

“D--n it all, sir!” said Stryver, staring at him, “am I not eligible?”

“Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!” said Mr. Lorry. “If you say
eligible, you are eligible.”

“Am I not prosperous?” asked Stryver.

“Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,” said Mr. Lorry.

“And advancing?”

“If you come to advancing you know,” said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be
able to make another admission, “nobody can doubt that.”

“Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” demanded Stryver,
perceptibly crestfallen.

“Well! I--Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.

“Straight!” said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.

“Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.”

“Why?” said Stryver. “Now, I'll put you in a corner,” forensically
shaking a forefinger at him. “You are a man of business and bound to
have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?”

“Because,” said Mr. Lorry, “I wouldn't go on such an object without
having some cause to believe that I should succeed.”

“D--n _me_!” cried Stryver, “but this beats everything.”

Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry
Stryver.

“Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_
a Bank,” said Stryver; “and having summed up three leading reasons for
complete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his
head on!” Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have
been infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.

“When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and
when I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of
causes and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young
lady, my good sir,” said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, “the
young lady. The young lady goes before all.”

“Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver, squaring his
elbows, “that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at
present in question is a mincing Fool?”

“Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,” said Mr. Lorry,
reddening, “that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady
from any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose
taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my
mind.”

The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's
blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;
Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in
no better state now it was his turn.

“That is what I mean to tell you, sir,” said Mr. Lorry. “Pray let there
be no mistake about it.”

Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:

“This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not
to go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench
bar?”

“Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.”

“And all I can say of it is,” laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, “that
this--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.”

“Now understand me,” pursued Mr. Lorry. “As a man of business, I am
not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of
business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried
Miss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and
of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have
spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I
may not be right?”

“Not I!” said Stryver, whistling. “I can't undertake to find third
parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense
in certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's
new to me, but you are right, I dare say.”

“What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And
understand me, sir,” said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, “I
will not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any
gentleman breathing.”

“There! I beg your pardon!” said Stryver.

“Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be
painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you
in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a
little new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon
it. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its
soundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is
best spared. What do you say?”

“How long would you keep me in town?”

“Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.”

“Then I say yes,” said Stryver: “I won't go up there now, I am not so
hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look
in to-night. Good morning.”

Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength
of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were
always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly
believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in
the empty office until they bowed another customer in.

The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
swallow, he got it down. “And now,” said Mr. Stryver, shaking his
forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, “my way
out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.”

It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
great relief. “You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,” said Mr.
Stryver; “I'll do that for you.”

Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,
Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of
the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was
altogether in an absent and preoccupied state.

“Well!” said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. “I have been to
Soho.”

“To Soho?” repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. “Oh, to be sure! What am I
thinking of!”

“And I have no doubt,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was right in the
conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my
advice.”

“I assure you,” returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, “that I
am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's
account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let
us say no more about it.”

“I don't understand you,” said Mr. Lorry.

“I dare say not,” rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
final way; “no matter, no matter.”

“But it does matter,” Mr. Lorry urged.

“No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was
sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is
not a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is
done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have
repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish
aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been
a bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am
glad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
for me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could
have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not
proposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means
certain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to
that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and
giddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,
I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.
And I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,
and for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;
you were right, it never would have done.”

Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.
Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of
showering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.
“Make the best of it, my dear sir,” said Stryver; “say no more about it;
thank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!”

Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.




XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy


If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,
and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he
cared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely
pierced by the light within him.

And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night
he vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no
transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams
of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture
in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time
brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,
into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known
him more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon
it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that
neighbourhood.

On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal
that “he had thought better of that marrying matter”) had carried his
delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the
City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health
for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod
those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became
animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,
they took him to the Doctor's door.

He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had
never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at
his face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed
a change in it.

“I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!”

“No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?”

“Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to
live no better life?”

“God knows it is a shame!”

“Then why not change it?”

Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
answered:

“It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall
sink lower, and be worse.”

He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
table trembled in the silence that followed.

She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
be so, without looking at her, and said:

“Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of
what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?”

“If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,
it would make me very glad!”

“God bless you for your sweet compassion!”

He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.

“Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like
one who died young. All my life might have been.”

“No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.”

“Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the
mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget
it!”

She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair
of himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have
been holden.

“If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,
poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been
conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
be.”

“Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall
you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your
confidence? I know this is a confidence,” she modestly said, after a
little hesitation, and in earnest tears, “I know you would say this to
no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?”

He shook his head.

“To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not
been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this
home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had
died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that
I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from
old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I
have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off
sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all
a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,
but I wish you to know that you inspired it.”

“Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!”

“No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the
weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,
heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in
its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
service, idly burning away.”

“Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy
than you were before you knew me--”

“Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.”

“Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can
make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for
good, with you, at all?”

“The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come
here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,
the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;
and that there was something left in me at this time which you could
deplore and pity.”

“Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!”

“Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,
and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let
me believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life
was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there
alone, and will be shared by no one?”

“If that will be a consolation to you, yes.”

“Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?”

“Mr. Carton,” she answered, after an agitated pause, “the secret is
yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.”

“Thank you. And again, God bless you.”

He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.

“Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it
again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In
the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and
shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made
to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried
in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!”

He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so
sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept
down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he
stood looking back at her.

“Be comforted!” he said, “I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn
but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any
wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I
shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be
what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make
to you, is, that you will believe this of me.”

“I will, Mr. Carton.”

“My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve
you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and
between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say
it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to
you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that
there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would
embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold
me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one
thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new
ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly
and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever
grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a
happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright
beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is
a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!”

He said, “Farewell!” said a last “God bless you!” and left her.




XIV. The Honest Tradesman


To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in
Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and
variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit
upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and
not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending
westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,
both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where
the sun goes down!

With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever
running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed
to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to
have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from
the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent
purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.

Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in
the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,
but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.

It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were
few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so
unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.
Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an
unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of
funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this
funeral, which engendered uproar.

“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a
buryin'.”

“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.

The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched
his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.

“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey
to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't
let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye
hear?”

“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.

“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no
harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”

His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
 with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.

Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:

“What is it, brother? What's it about?”

“_I_ don't know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”

He asked another man. “Who is it?”

“_I_ don't know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”

At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
funeral of one Roger Cly.

“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.

“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
Spi--i--ies!”

“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
assisted. “I've seen him. Dead, is he?”

“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can't be too dead. Have 'em
out, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!”

The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles
so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach
doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
other symbolical tears.

These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning
coach.

The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
that part of the procession in which he walked.

Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
highly to its own satisfaction.

The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
progress of a mob.

Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
maturely considering the spot.

“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”

Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.

Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.

“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you
for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”

The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.

“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
angry apprehension.

“I am saying nothing.”

“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”

“Yes, Jerry.”

“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”

Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
ironical dissatisfaction.

“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”

“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
another bite.

“Yes, I am.”

“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.

“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's
where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”

“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”

“Never you mind.”

“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”

“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a
going out, till you've been long abed.”

He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.

“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”

Then he began grumbling again:

“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't
know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your
flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”

This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.

Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
extinguished the light, and went out.

Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
door stood ajar all night.

Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
the two trudged on together.

Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the
winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a
lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,
that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
himself into two.

The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped
under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low
brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and
wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which
the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.
Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that
Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well
defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.
He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the
third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay
there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands
and knees.

It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,
holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking
in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!
and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard
that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church
tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not
creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to
fish.

They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent
appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.
Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful
striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,
with his hair as stiff as his father's.

But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not
only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They
were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for
the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a
screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were
strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the
earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what
it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to
wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he
made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.

He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable
to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen
was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him
and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to
shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it
was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the
roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them
like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways
too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up
to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,
and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was
incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then
it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every
stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on
his breast when he fell asleep.

From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the
family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the
ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the
bed.

“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”

“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.

“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me
and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't
you?”

“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.

“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it
honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”

“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”

“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a
honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations
when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying
wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious
woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have
no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has
of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”

The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on
his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay
down too, and fell asleep again.

There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case
he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed
and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his
ostensible calling.

Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side
along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and
solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,
and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not
improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,
that fine morning.

“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep
at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a
Resurrection-Man?”

Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How
should I know?”

“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.

“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”

“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.

“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a
branch of Scientific goods.”

“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.

“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.

“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite
growed up!”

Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop
your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and
there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit
for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,
to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to
himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will
yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”




XV. Knitting


There had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best
of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that
he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its
influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No
vivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur
Defarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in
the dregs of it.

This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun
on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early
brooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and
slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could
not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These
were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could
have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,
and from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy
looks.

Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the
threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see
only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of
wine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced
and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of
humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.

A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in
at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's
gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built
towers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
of wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve
with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible
a long way off.

Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under
his swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a
mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered
the wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast
of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and
flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had
followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though
the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.

“Good day, gentlemen!” said Monsieur Defarge.

It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited
an answering chorus of “Good day!”

“It is bad weather, gentlemen,” said Defarge, shaking his head.

Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.

“My wife,” said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: “I have
travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called
Jacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.
He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
drink, my wife!”

A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark
bread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near
Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.

Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less
than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
rarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.
He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even
Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.

“Have you finished your repast, friend?” he asked, in due season.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could
occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.”

Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a
courtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the
staircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man
sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.

No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at
him through the chinks in the wall.

Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:

“Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness
encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.
Speak, Jacques Five!”

The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with
it, and said, “Where shall I commence, monsieur?”

“Commence,” was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, “at the
commencement.”

“I saw him then, messieurs,” began the mender of roads, “a year ago this
running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
hanging by the chain--like this.”

Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which
he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been
the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village
during a whole year.

Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?

“Never,” answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.

Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?

“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,
'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'”

“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.

“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not
offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,
standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'
My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”

“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had
interrupted. “Go on!”

“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man
is lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”

“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last
he is unluckily found. Go on!”

“I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to
go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man
with his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!”

With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.

“I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers
and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any
spectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I
see no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and
that they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun
going to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that
their long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the
road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.
Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
with them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near
to me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would
be well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!”

He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.

“I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
our eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the
village, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I
follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
consequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!”

He imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the
butt-ends of muskets.

“As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They
laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,
but he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into
the village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,
and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the
darkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!”

He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding
snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by
opening it again, Defarge said, “Go on, Jacques.”

“All the village,” pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
voice, “withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on
my way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty
iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no
hand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a
dead man.”

Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all
of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
countryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One
and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on
his hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally
intent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding
over the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge
standing between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the
light of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to
him.

“Go on, Jacques,” said Defarge.

“He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks
at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a
distance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work
of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all
faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards
the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They
whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be
executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing
that he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say
that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?
It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.”

“Listen then, Jacques,” Number One of that name sternly interposed.
“Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,
yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,
sitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the
hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in
his hand.”

“And once again listen, Jacques!” said the kneeling Number Three:
his fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a
strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither
food nor drink; “the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,
and struck him blows. You hear?”

“I hear, messieurs.”

“Go on then,” said Defarge.

“Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,” resumed the
countryman, “that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
father of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a
parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed
with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds
which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be
poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,
that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man
says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on
the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
I am not a scholar.”

“Listen once again then, Jacques!” said the man with the restless hand
and the craving air. “The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was
all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and
nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than
the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager
attention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was
done--why, how old are you?”

“Thirty-five,” said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.

“It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
it.”

“Enough!” said Defarge, with grim impatience. “Long live the Devil! Go
on.”

“Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday
night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from
the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.
Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by
the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the
water.”

The mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,
and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.

“All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,
the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers
have marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst
of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is
a gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he
laughed.” He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,
from the corners of his mouth to his ears. “On the top of the gallows is
fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged
there forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.”

They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,
on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the
spectacle.

“It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have
I said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to
bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,
across the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,
messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!”

The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other
three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.

“That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),
and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was
warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now
walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here
you see me!”

After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, “Good! You have acted
and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the
door?”

“Very willingly,” said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.

The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
the garret.

“How say you, Jacques?” demanded Number One. “To be registered?”

“To be registered, as doomed to destruction,” returned Defarge.

“Magnificent!” croaked the man with the craving.

“The chateau, and all the race?” inquired the first.

“The chateau and all the race,” returned Defarge. “Extermination.”

The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, “Magnificent!” and began
gnawing another finger.

“Are you sure,” asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, “that no embarrassment
can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is
safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always
be able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?”

“Jacques,” returned Defarge, drawing himself up, “if madame my wife
undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose
a word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her
own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
to erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.”

There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
hungered, asked: “Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
very simple; is he not a little dangerous?”

“He knows nothing,” said Defarge; “at least nothing more than would
easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself
with him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him
on his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and
Court; let him see them on Sunday.”

“What?” exclaimed the hungry man, staring. “Is it a good sign, that he
wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?”

“Jacques,” said Defarge; “judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her
to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish
him to bring it down one day.”

Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already
dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the
pallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon
asleep.

Worse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found
in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious
dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very
new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it
into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a
murder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through
with it until the play was played out.

Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted
(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur
and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have
madame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was
additionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to
see the carriage of the King and Queen.

“You work hard, madame,” said a man near her.

“Yes,” answered Madame Defarge; “I have a good deal to do.”

“What do you make, madame?”

“Many things.”

“For instance--”

“For instance,” returned Madame Defarge, composedly, “shrouds.”

The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close
and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was
fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King
and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the
shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing
ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour
and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both
sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary
intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of
ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,
terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,
more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept
with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three
hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,
and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him
from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to
pieces.

“Bravo!” said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
patron; “you are a good boy!”

The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.

“You are the fellow we want,” said Defarge, in his ear; “you make
these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
insolent, and it is the nearer ended.”

“Hey!” cried the mender of roads, reflectively; “that's true.”

“These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would
stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than
in one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath
tells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot
deceive them too much.”

Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
confirmation.

“As to you,” said she, “you would shout and shed tears for anything, if
it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?”

“Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.”

“If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to
pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would
pick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?”

“Truly yes, madame.”

“Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were
set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,
you would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?”

“It is true, madame.”

“You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,” said Madame Defarge, with
a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
“now, go home!”




XVI. Still Knitting


Madame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the
bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the
darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by
the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where
the chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to
the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,
for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village
scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead
stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that
the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the
village--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that
when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to
faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled
up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel
look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the
stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder
was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which
everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the
scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the
crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares
who could find a living there.

Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
stone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres
of land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the
night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole
world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse
the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in
the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.

The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,
in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their
journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier
guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual
examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two
of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate
with, and affectionately embraced.

When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,
and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were
picking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his
streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:

“Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?”

“Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy
commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he
can say, but he knows of one.”

“Eh well!” said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool
business air. “It is necessary to register him. How do they call that
man?”

“He is English.”

“So much the better. His name?”

“Barsad,” said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
correctness.

“Barsad,” repeated madame. “Good. Christian name?”

“John.”

“John Barsad,” repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.
“Good. His appearance; is it known?”

“Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face
thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a
peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,
sinister.”

“Eh my faith. It is a portrait!” said madame, laughing. “He shall be
registered to-morrow.”

They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of
her own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally
dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl
of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her
handkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the
night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked
up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he
walked up and down through life.

The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was
by no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than
it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He
whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.

“You are fatigued,” said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
money. “There are only the usual odours.”

“I am a little tired,” her husband acknowledged.

“You are a little depressed, too,” said madame, whose quick eyes had
never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for
him. “Oh, the men, the men!”

“But my dear!” began Defarge.

“But my dear!” repeated madame, nodding firmly; “but my dear! You are
faint of heart to-night, my dear!”

“Well, then,” said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his
breast, “it _is_ a long time.”

“It is a long time,” repeated his wife; “and when is it not a long time?
Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.”

“It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,” said
Defarge.

“How long,” demanded madame, composedly, “does it take to make and store
the lightning? Tell me.”

Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
too.

“It does not take a long time,” said madame, “for an earthquake to
swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the
earthquake?”

“A long time, I suppose,” said Defarge.

“But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not
seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.”

She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.

“I tell thee,” said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,
“that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and
coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it
is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world
that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider
the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with
more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock
you.”

“My brave wife,” returned Defarge, standing before her with his head
a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
attentive pupil before his catechist, “I do not question all this. But
it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,
it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.”

“Eh well! How then?” demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there
were another enemy strangled.

“Well!” said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
“We shall not see the triumph.”

“We shall have helped it,” returned madame, with her extended hand in
strong action. “Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
would--”

Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.

“Hold!” cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
cowardice; “I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.”

“Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.
When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the
time with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.”

Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains
out, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.

Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the
wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she
now and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her
usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not
drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,
and heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous
perquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell
dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies
out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they
themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met
the same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they
thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.

A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.

It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the
customers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the
wine-shop.

“Good day, madame,” said the new-comer.

“Good day, monsieur.”

She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
“Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black
hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,
thin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a
peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
expression! Good day, one and all!”

“Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a
mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.”

Madame complied with a polite air.

“Marvellous cognac this, madame!”

It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame
Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,
however, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The
visitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity
of observing the place in general.

“You knit with great skill, madame.”

“I am accustomed to it.”

“A pretty pattern too!”

“_You_ think so?” said madame, looking at him with a smile.

“Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?”

“Pastime,” said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
fingers moved nimbly.

“Not for use?”

“That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,” said
madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
coquetry, “I'll use it!”

It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be
decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two
men had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,
catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.
Nor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there
one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,
but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a
poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and
unimpeachable.

“_John_,” thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,
and her eyes looked at the stranger. “Stay long enough, and I shall knit
'BARSAD' before you go.”

“You have a husband, madame?”

“I have.”

“Children?”

“No children.”

“Business seems bad?”

“Business is very bad; the people are so poor.”

“Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.”

“As _you_ say,” madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an
extra something into his name that boded him no good.

“Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.
Of course.”

“_I_ think?” returned madame, in a high voice. “I and my husband have
enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we
think, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and
it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without
embarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.”

The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.

“A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor
Gaspard!” With a sigh of great compassion.

“My faith!” returned madame, coolly and lightly, “if people use knives
for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the
price of his luxury was; he has paid the price.”

“I believe,” said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary
susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: “I believe there
is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
fellow? Between ourselves.”

“Is there?” asked madame, vacantly.

“Is there not?”

“--Here is my husband!” said Madame Defarge.

As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted
him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, “Good day,
Jacques!” Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.

“Good day, Jacques!” the spy repeated; with not quite so much
confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.

“You deceive yourself, monsieur,” returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
“You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.”

“It is all the same,” said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: “good
day!”

“Good day!” answered Defarge, drily.

“I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when
you entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy
and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.”

“No one has told me so,” said Defarge, shaking his head. “I know nothing
of it.”

Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the
person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would
have shot with the greatest satisfaction.

The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it
out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over
it.

“You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?”
 observed Defarge.

“Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
in its miserable inhabitants.”

“Hah!” muttered Defarge.

“The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,”
 pursued the spy, “that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
associations with your name.”

“Indeed!” said Defarge, with much indifference.

“Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,
had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am
informed of the circumstances?”

“Such is the fact, certainly,” said Defarge. He had had it conveyed
to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and
warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.

“It was to you,” said the spy, “that his daughter came; and it was
from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
monsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of
Tellson and Company--over to England.”

“Such is the fact,” repeated Defarge.

“Very interesting remembrances!” said the spy. “I have known Doctor
Manette and his daughter, in England.”

“Yes?” said Defarge.

“You don't hear much about them now?” said the spy.

“No,” said Defarge.

“In effect,” madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
song, “we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,
they have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held
no correspondence.”

“Perfectly so, madame,” replied the spy. “She is going to be married.”

“Going?” echoed madame. “She was pretty enough to have been married long
ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.”

“Oh! You know I am English.”

“I perceive your tongue is,” returned madame; “and what the tongue is, I
suppose the man is.”

He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
end, he added:

“Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard
was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.”

Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,
as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was
troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no
spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.

Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be
worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad
paid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,
in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the
pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the
husband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should
come back.

“Can it be true,” said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: “what he has
said of Ma'amselle Manette?”

“As he has said it,” returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, “it
is probably false. But it may be true.”

“If it is--” Defarge began, and stopped.

“If it is?” repeated his wife.

“--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her
sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.”

“Her husband's destiny,” said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
“will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is
to end him. That is all I know.”

“But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange”--said
Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,
“that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her
husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by
the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?”

“Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,” answered
madame. “I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here
for their merits; that is enough.”

She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.

In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned
himself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came
to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame
Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place
to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like
her--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women
knitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a
mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the
jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.

But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
behind.

Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. “A
great woman,” said he, “a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully
grand woman!”

Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and
the distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as
the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another
darkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a
wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,
Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat
knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around
a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
counting dropping heads.




XVII. One Night


Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.

Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening
for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.

“You are happy, my dear father?”

“Quite, my child.”

They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it
was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself
in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in
both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this
time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.

“And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the
love that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love
for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or
if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by
the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and
self-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--”

Even as it was, she could not command her voice.

In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face
upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of
the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and
its going.

“Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,
quite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will
ever interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your
own heart, do you feel quite certain?”

Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
scarcely have assumed, “Quite sure, my darling! More than that,” he
added, as he tenderly kissed her: “my future is far brighter, Lucie,
seen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever
was--without it.”

“If I could hope _that_, my father!--”

“Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain
it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot
fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be
wasted--”

She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
the word.

“--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the
natural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely
comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,
how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?”

“If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
with you.”

He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
without Charles, having seen him; and replied:

“My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been
Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I
should have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have
cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.”

It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him
refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new
sensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long
afterwards.

“See!” said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.
“I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her
light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think
of her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,
that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I
could draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines
with which I could intersect them.” He added in his inward and pondering
manner, as he looked at the moon, “It was twenty either way, I remember,
and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.”

The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,
deepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in
the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present
cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.

“I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had
been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it
was a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it
was a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live
to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own
will and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.”

She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.

“I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of
me--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have
cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married
to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from
the remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a
blank.”

“My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.”

“You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have
brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and
the moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?”

“She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.”

“So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence
have touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as
like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
foundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and
leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?”

“The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?”

“No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of
sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another
and more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than
that she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you
have--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?
I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these
perplexed distinctions.”

His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.

“In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture
was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,
cheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.”

“I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love
that was I.”

“And she showed me her children,” said the Doctor of Beauvais, “and
they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed
a prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked
up at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I
imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.
But then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and
blessed her.”

“I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless
me as fervently to-morrow?”

“Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night
for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.”

He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
house.

There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,
by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the
apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.

Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving
little plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.

So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
beforehand.

All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his
hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the
shadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;
then, leaned over him, and looked at him.

Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.

She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that
she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his
sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once
more, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves
of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved
in praying for him.




XVIII. Nine Days


The marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles
Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.
Lorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of
reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
have been the bridegroom.

“And so,” said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,
and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,
pretty dress; “and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought
you across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought
what I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring
on my friend Mr. Charles!”

“You didn't mean it,” remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, “and
therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!”

“Really? Well; but don't cry,” said the gentle Mr. Lorry.

“I am not crying,” said Miss Pross; “_you_ are.”

“I, my Pross?” (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,
on occasion.)

“You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such
a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into
anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,” said
Miss Pross, “that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till
I couldn't see it.”

“I am highly gratified,” said Mr. Lorry, “though, upon my honour, I
had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance
invisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man
speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there
might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!”

“Not at all!” From Miss Pross.

“You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?” asked the
gentleman of that name.

“Pooh!” rejoined Miss Pross; “you were a bachelor in your cradle.”

“Well!” observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, “that
seems probable, too.”

“And you were cut out for a bachelor,” pursued Miss Pross, “before you
were put in your cradle.”

“Then, I think,” said Mr. Lorry, “that I was very unhandsomely dealt
with, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my
pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,” drawing his arm soothingly round
her waist, “I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and
I, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final
opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave
your good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your
own; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next
fortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's
shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
the fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on
your other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent
him to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear
Somebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an
old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his
own.”

For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.

The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles
Darnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they
went in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.
But, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the
shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the
old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold
wind.

He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.

Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little
group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,
glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the
dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to
breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had
mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were
mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the
door at parting.

It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father
cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her
enfolding arms, “Take her, Charles! She is yours!”

And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
gone.

The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,
and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into
the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great
change to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted
there, had struck him a poisoned blow.

He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was
the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the
wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.

“I think,” he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, “I
think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.
I must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back
presently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine
there, and all will be well.”

It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of
Tellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
into the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.

“Good God!” he said, with a start. “What's that?”

Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. “O me, O me! All is
lost!” cried she, wringing her hands. “What is to be told to Ladybird?
He doesn't know me, and is making shoes!”

Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
Doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been
when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent
down, and he was very busy.

“Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!”

The Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he
were angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.

He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old
haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked
hard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.

Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a
shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by
him, and asked what it was.

“A young lady's walking shoe,” he muttered, without looking up. “It
ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.”

“But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!”

He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
his work.

“You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
occupation. Think, dear friend!”

Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at
a time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract
a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and
words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on
the air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that
he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there
seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were
trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.

Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;
the second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In
conjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter
precaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a
few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised
on his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been
called away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of
two or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been
addressed to her by the same post.

These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in
the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept
another course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he
thought the best, on the Doctor's case.

In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course
being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him
attentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He
therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the
first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same
room.

He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak
to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that
attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always
before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had
fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the
window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and
natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.

Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
that first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour
after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.
When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose
and said to him:

“Will you go out?”

He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:

“Out?”

“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”

He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.
Lorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,
with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in
some misty way asking himself, “Why not?” The sagacity of the man of
business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.

Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him
at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long
time before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he
fell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his
bench and to work.

On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
and spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He
returned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and
that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry
to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;
at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then
present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing
amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long
enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's
friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he
appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding
him.

When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:

“Dear Doctor, will you go out?”

As before, he repeated, “Out?”

“Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?”

This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had
sat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he
slipped away to his bench.

The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his
heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.
The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,
seven days, eight days, nine days.

With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was
well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,
was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on
his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in
the dusk of the ninth evening.




XIX. An Opinion


Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
night.

He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had
done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench
and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading
at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which
Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly
studious and attentive.

Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed
as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of
which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?

It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the
answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real
corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?
How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor
Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning?

Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he
had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have
resolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.
He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular
breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual
had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.
Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from
the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.

Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked
out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical
toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual
white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the
usual way, and came to breakfast.

So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
advance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken
place yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to
the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,
he was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid
he sought. And that aid was his own.

Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:

“My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
so.”

Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the
Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced
at his hands more than once.

“Doctor Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the
arm, “the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray
give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,
for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.”

“If I understand,” said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, “some mental
shock--?”

“Yes!”

“Be explicit,” said the Doctor. “Spare no detail.”

Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.

“My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,
of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,
the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a
shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there
are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from
which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace
himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is
the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to
be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and
great exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his
stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,
there has been,” he paused and took a deep breath--“a slight relapse.”

The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, “Of how long duration?”

“Nine days and nights.”

“How did it show itself? I infer,” glancing at his hands again, “in the
resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?”

“That is the fact.”

“Now, did you ever see him,” asked the Doctor, distinctly and
collectedly, though in the same low voice, “engaged in that pursuit
originally?”

“Once.”

“And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all
respects--as he was then?”

“I think in all respects.”

“You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?”

“No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.”

The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, “That was very kind. That was
very thoughtful!” Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of
the two spoke for a little while.

“Now, my dear Manette,” said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most
considerate and most affectionate way, “I am a mere man of business,
and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not
possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of
intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom
I could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it
be prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come
about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been
more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,
if I knew how.

“But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.
Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,
and teach me how to be a little more useful.”

Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
Mr. Lorry did not press him.

“I think it probable,” said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
“that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
unforeseen by its subject.”

“Was it dreaded by him?” Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.

“Very much.” He said it with an involuntary shudder.

“You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's
mind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force
himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.”

“Would he,” asked Mr. Lorry, “be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
him?”

“I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
believe it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.”

“Now,” said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,
after a short silence on both sides, “to what would you refer this
attack?”

“I believe,” returned Doctor Manette, “that there had been a strong and
extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that
was the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most
distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that
there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a
particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the
effort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.”

“Would he remember what took place in the relapse?” asked Mr. Lorry,
with natural hesitation.

The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and
answered, in a low voice, “Not at all.”

“Now, as to the future,” hinted Mr. Lorry.

“As to the future,” said the Doctor, recovering firmness, “I should have
great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
the worst was over.”

“Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!” said Mr. Lorry.

“I am thankful!” repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.

“There are two other points,” said Mr. Lorry, “on which I am anxious to
be instructed. I may go on?”

“You cannot do your friend a better service.” The Doctor gave him his
hand.

“To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does
he do too much?”

“I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in
part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy
things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy
direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.”

“You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?”

“I think I am quite sure of it.”

“My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--”

“My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a
violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.”

“Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,
that he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
disorder?”

“I do not think so. I do not think,” said Doctor Manette with the
firmness of self-conviction, “that anything but the one train of
association would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some
extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has
happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any
such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost
believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.”

He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing
would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the
confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal
endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that
confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he
really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to
be the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning
conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the
last nine days, he knew that he must face it.

“The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction
so happily recovered from,” said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, “we
will call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a
case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by
him?”

The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot
nervously on the ground.

“He has always kept it by him,” said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
his friend. “Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?”

Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
ground.

“You do not find it easy to advise me?” said Mr. Lorry. “I quite
understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--” And there he
shook his head, and stopped.

“You see,” said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,
“it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings
of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that
occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for
the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more
practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental
torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it
quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of
himself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind
of confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not
find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may
fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.”

He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's
face.

“But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business
who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and
bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of
the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the
forge?”

There was another silence.

“You see, too,” said the Doctor, tremulously, “it is such an old
companion.”

“I would not keep it,” said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained
in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. “I would recommend him to
sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.
Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's
sake, my dear Manette!”

Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!

“In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;
let him miss his old companion after an absence.”

Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth
day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that
had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and
she had no suspicions.

On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and
guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while
Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for
which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The
burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the
purpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction
and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,
while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its
traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible
crime.




XX. A Plea


When the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.

He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
speaking to him when no one overheard.

“Mr. Darnay,” said Carton, “I wish we might be friends.”

“We are already friends, I hope.”

“You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't
mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be
friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.”

Charles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and
good-fellowship, what he did mean?

“Upon my life,” said Carton, smiling, “I find that easier to comprehend
in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You
remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than
usual?”

“I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
you had been drinking.”

“I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,
when all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to
preach.”

“I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming
to me.”

“Ah!” said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
away. “On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as
you know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I
wish you would forget it.”

“I forgot it long ago.”

“Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to
me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,
and a light answer does not help me to forget it.”

“If it was a light answer,” returned Darnay, “I beg your forgiveness
for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?”

“As to the great service,” said Carton, “I am bound to avow to you, when
you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
don't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I
say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.”

“You make light of the obligation,” returned Darnay, “but I will not
quarrel with _your_ light answer.”

“Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;
I was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
ask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.”

“I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.”

“Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done
any good, and never will.”

“I don't know that you 'never will.'”

“But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure
to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent
reputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be
permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might
be regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the
resemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I
doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I
should avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I
dare say, to know that I had it.”

“Will you try?”

“That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?”

“I think so, Carton, by this time.”

They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.

When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss
Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of
this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a
problem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not
bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw
him as he showed himself.

He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found
her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
marked.

“We are thoughtful to-night!” said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.

“Yes, dearest Charles,” with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
and attentive expression fixed upon him; “we are rather thoughtful
to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.”

“What is it, my Lucie?”

“Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to
ask it?”

“Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?”

What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the
cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!

“I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and
respect than you expressed for him to-night.”

“Indeed, my own? Why so?”

“That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.”

“If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?”

“I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.”

“It is a painful reflection to me,” said Charles Darnay, quite
astounded, “that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this
of him.”

“My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is
scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable
now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,
even magnanimous things.”

She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,
that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.

“And, O my dearest Love!” she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, “remember how strong
we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!”

The supplication touched him home. “I will always remember it, dear
Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.”

He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded
her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,
could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops
of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of
that husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not
have parted from his lips for the first time--

“God bless her for her sweet compassion!”




XXI. Echoing Footsteps


A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where
the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound
her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in
the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of
years.

At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
Fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided
her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would
be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
eyes, and broke like waves.

That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
the shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of
children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take
her child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred
joy to her.

Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all
their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the
echoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's
step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
Lo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an
unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the
plane-tree in the garden!

Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not
harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a
pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant
smile, “Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to
leave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!” those were not
tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit
departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and
forbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!

Thus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other
echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath
of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were
mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed
murmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as
the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or
dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of
the Two Cities that were blended in her life.

The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by
all true echoes for ages and ages.

No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a
blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,
but her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive
delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in
such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton
was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,
and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of
him, almost at the last. “Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!”

Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in
his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually
in a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped
life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and
stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made
it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his
state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of
rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with
property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them
but the straight hair of their dumpling heads.

These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three
sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to
Lucie's husband: delicately saying “Halloa! here are three lumps of
bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!” The polite
rejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.
Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the
training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the
pride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of
declaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts
Mrs. Darnay had once put in practice to “catch” him, and on the
diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him “not
to be caught.” Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally
parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the
latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed
it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an
originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried
off to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.

These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active
and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.
Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself
with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any
waste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet
in her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her
more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the
many times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed
to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her “What is
the magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,
as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to
have too much to do?”

But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly
in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about
little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,
as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.

On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
Lorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and
her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were
all three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
lightning from the same place.

“I began to think,” said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, “that
I should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of
business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way
to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a
run of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able
to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
among some of them for sending it to England.”

“That has a bad look,” said Darnay--

“A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason
there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are
getting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course
without due occasion.”

“Still,” said Darnay, “you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.”

“I know that, to be sure,” assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade
himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, “but I
am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is
Manette?”

“Here he is,” said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.

“I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
reason. You are not going out, I hope?”

“No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,” said the
Doctor.

“I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't
see.”

“Of course, it has been kept for you.”

“Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?”

“And sleeping soundly.”

“That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be
otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear
the echoes about which you have your theory.”

“Not a theory; it was a fancy.”

“A fancy, then, my wise pet,” said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. “They
are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!”

Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's
life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
the dark London window.

Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy
heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous
roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms
struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:
all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a
weapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.

Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
have told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,
powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every
weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who
could lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to
force stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and
heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.
Every living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented
with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.

As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron
had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,
already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,
thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm
another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.

“Keep near to me, Jacques Three,” cried Defarge; “and do you, Jacques
One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
patriots as you can. Where is my wife?”

“Eh, well! Here you see me!” said madame, composed as ever, but not
knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,
in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol
and a cruel knife.

“Where do you go, my wife?”

“I go,” said madame, “with you at present. You shall see me at the head
of women, by-and-bye.”

“Come, then!” cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. “Patriots and
friends, we are ready! The Bastille!”

With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on
depth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums
beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack
began.

Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great
towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through
the smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against
a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the
wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.

Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! “Work, comrades
all, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques
Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all
the Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!” Thus Defarge of the
wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.

“To me, women!” cried madame his wife. “What! We can kill as well as
the men when the place is taken!” And to her, with a shrill thirsty
cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and
revenge.

Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,
execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the
furious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the
single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great
towers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot
by the service of Four fierce hours.

A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly
perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly
the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer
walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!

So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to
draw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the
outer courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he
made a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;
Madame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the
inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
furious dumb-show.

“The Prisoners!”

“The Records!”

“The secret cells!”

“The instruments of torture!”

“The Prisoners!”

Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, “The Prisoners!” was
the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of
these men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his
hand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the
wall.

“Show me the North Tower!” said Defarge. “Quick!”

“I will faithfully,” replied the man, “if you will come with me. But
there is no one there.”

“What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?” asked
Defarge. “Quick!”

“The meaning, monsieur?”

“Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
shall strike you dead?”

“Kill him!” croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.

“Monsieur, it is a cell.”

“Show it me!”

“Pass this way, then.”

Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,
held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had
been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the
noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and
its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around
outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,
occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the
air like spray.

Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past
hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,
and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry
waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,
linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and
there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;
but when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a
tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls
and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible
to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had
come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.

The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung
the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed
in:

“One hundred and five, North Tower!”

There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,
with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by
stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred
across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes
on the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were
the four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.

“Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,” said
Defarge to the turnkey.

The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.

“Stop!--Look here, Jacques!”

“A. M.!” croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.

“Alexandre Manette,” said Defarge in his ear, following the letters
with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. “And here he
wrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched
a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it
me!”

He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.

“Hold the light higher!” he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. “Look
among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,”
 throwing it to him; “rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the
light higher, you!”

With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and
in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney
into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a
cautious touch.

“Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?”

“Nothing.”

“Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light
them, you!”

The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense
of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once
more.

They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's
blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be
unavenged.

In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to
encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red
decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a
woman's. “See, there is my husband!” she cried, pointing him out.
“See Defarge!” She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and
remained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through
the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable
close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to
be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the
long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him
when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot
upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.

The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea
of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint
Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the
iron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the
governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge
where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. “Lower
the lamp yonder!” cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new
means of death; “here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!” The
swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.

The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving
of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces
were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,
voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering
until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.

But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so
fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore
more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly
released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high
overhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last
Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.
Other seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose
drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive
faces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;
faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped
lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, “THOU DIDST
IT!”

Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters
and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken
hearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint
Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven
hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,
and keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,
and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask
at Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once
stained red.




XXII. The Sea Still Rises


Haggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with
the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame
Defarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of
Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting
themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a
portentously elastic swing with them.

Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense
of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on
the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: “I know how
hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;
but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to
destroy life in you?” Every lean bare arm, that had been without work
before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.
The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that
they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;
the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the
last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.

Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was
to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her
sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved
grocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had
already earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.

“Hark!” said The Vengeance. “Listen, then! Who comes?”

As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
murmur came rushing along.

“It is Defarge,” said madame. “Silence, patriots!”

Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
around him! “Listen, everywhere!” said madame again. “Listen to him!”
 Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had
sprung to their feet.

“Say then, my husband. What is it?”

“News from the other world!”

“How, then?” cried madame, contemptuously. “The other world?”

“Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people
that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?”

“Everybody!” from all throats.

“The news is of him. He is among us!”

“Among us!” from the universal throat again. “And dead?”

“Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself
to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have
found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have
seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?”

Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had
never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he
could have heard the answering cry.

A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.

“Patriots!” said Defarge, in a determined voice, “are we ready?”

Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about
her head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to
house, rousing the women.

The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into
the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From
such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their
children, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground
famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one
another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.
Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant
Foulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon
alive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon
who told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread
to give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these
breasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my
knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,
and young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,
Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend
Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from
him! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,
whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they
dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men
belonging to them from being trampled under foot.

Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at
the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew
his own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out
of the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with
such a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not
a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the
wailing children.

No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where
this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent
open space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,
and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance
from him in the Hall.

“See!” cried madame, pointing with her knife. “See the old villain bound
with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.
Ha, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!” Madame put her knife
under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.

The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of
her satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to
others, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the
clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,
and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent
expressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at
a distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some
wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture
to look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a
telegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.

At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was
too much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had
stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got
him!

It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge
had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable
wretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned
her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and
Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows
had not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high
perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, “Bring him
out! Bring him to the lamp!”

Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on
his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,
and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his
face by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of
action, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one
another back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through
a forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one
of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat
might have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him
while they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately
screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have
him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope
broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and
held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the
mouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.

Nor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when
the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes
on flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the
breast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on
pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession
through the streets.

Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by
long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while
they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by
embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them
again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and
frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and
slender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in
common, afterwards supping at their doors.

Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of
most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused
some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of
cheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full
share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;
and lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and
hoped.

It was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last
knot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in
husky tones, while fastening the door:

“At last it is come, my dear!”

“Eh well!” returned madame. “Almost.”

Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with
her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the
only voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The
Vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had
the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon
was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint
Antoine's bosom.




XXIII. Fire Rises


There was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where
the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his
poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the
crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,
but not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of
them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not
be what he was ordered.

Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.
Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as
shrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,
dejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated
animals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn
out.

Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought
things to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for
Monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must
be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it
was, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the
flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that
its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and
unaccountable.

But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung
it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures
of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting
the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces
of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in
the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the
disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and
beautifying features of Monseigneur.

For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the
dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and
to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in
thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if
he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on
foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now
a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern
without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a
mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many
highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled
with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.

Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,
as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he
could get from a shower of hail.

The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects
in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
intelligible:

“How goes it, Jacques?”

“All well, Jacques.”

“Touch then!”

They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.

“No dinner?”

“Nothing but supper now,” said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.

“It is the fashion,” growled the man. “I meet no dinner anywhere.”

He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and
steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held
it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and
thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.

“Touch then.” It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this
time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.

“To-night?” said the mender of roads.

“To-night,” said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.

“Where?”

“Here.”

He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge
of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.

“Show me!” said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.

“See!” returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. “You go down
here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--”

“To the Devil with all that!” interrupted the other, rolling his eye
over the landscape. “_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.
Well?”

“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
village.”

“Good. When do you cease to work?”

“At sunset.”

“Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
wake me?”

“Surely.”

The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He
was fast asleep directly.

As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to
by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap
now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the
heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used
his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.
The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen
red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of
beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen
and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender
of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were
footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed
with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long
leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into
sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at
secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept
with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.
Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and
drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against
this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and
looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no
obstacle, tending to centres all over France.

The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps
of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed
them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,
the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready
to go down into the village, roused him.

“Good!” said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. “Two leagues beyond the
summit of the hill?”

“About.”

“About. Good!”

The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him
according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,
squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and
appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.
When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,
as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A
curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered
together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of
looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,
chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top
alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his
chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to
the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need
to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.

The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis
had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
was black again.

But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,
and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the
stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.

A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
Gabelle's door. “Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!” The tocsin rang
impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The
mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood
with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the
sky. “It must be forty feet high,” said they, grimly; and never moved.

The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on
the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;
removed from them, a group of soldiers. “Help, gentlemen--officers! The
chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
timely aid! Help, help!” The officers looked towards the soldiers who
looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
of lips, “It must burn.”

As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on
that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to
authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,
and that post-horses would roast.

The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the
two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke
again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake
and contending with the fire.

The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,
scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce
figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten
lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran
dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the
heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and
splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied
birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures
trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded
roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next
destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,
abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.

Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment
of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter
days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,
Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel
with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again
withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time
resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man
of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the
parapet, and crush a man or two below.

Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the
distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,
combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an
ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,
which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.
A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of
the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur
Gabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the
rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,
and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that
while.

Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were
other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom
the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they
had been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople
less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the
functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up
in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,
North, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.
The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,
no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate
successfully.




XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock


In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by
the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on
the shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays
of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful
tissue of the life of her home.

Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in
the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging
feet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of
a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in
danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted
in.

Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as
to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and
this life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with
infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could
ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after
boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,
and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no
sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.

The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good
eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,
Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped
out and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its
outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was
all gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
“suspended,” when the last tidings came over.

The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was
come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.

As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to
haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur
without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.
Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most
to be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent
house, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen
from their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming
storm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made
provident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there
by their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as
a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that
time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this
was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in
consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news
out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran
through Temple Bar to read.

On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now
the news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an
hour or so of the time of closing.

“But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said Charles
Darnay, rather hesitating, “I must still suggest to you--”

“I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.

“Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”

“My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, “you touch
some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
old, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all
these years, who ought to be?”

“I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
and like one thinking aloud.

“Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.
Lorry. “You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
are a wise counsellor.”

“My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the
thought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through
my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for
the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spoke
here in his former thoughtful manner, “that one might be listened to,
and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,
after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”

“When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. “Yes. I wonder you
are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
France at this time of day!”

“However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. “It is
more to the purpose that you say you are.”

“And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorry
glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, “you can have no
conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and
of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The
Lord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers
of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they
might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set
afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these
with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise
getting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of
precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall
I hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose
bread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about
the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”

“How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”

“Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing at
the House again, “you are to remember, that getting things out of
Paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an
impossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought
to us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to
whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,
every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed
the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily
as in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”

“And do you really go to-night?”

“I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
delay.”

“And do you take no one with you?”

“All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing
to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my
bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.
Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or
of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
master.”

“I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and
youthfulness.”

“I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and
live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”

This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with
Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he
would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too
much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it
was much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this
terrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under
the skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or
omitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched
millions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that
should have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,
years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such
vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the
restoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,
and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured
without some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood
in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had
already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.

Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his
way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching
to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating
them from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for
accomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition
of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard
with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between
going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his
word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.

The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
that he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right
name. The address, turned into English, ran:

“Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of
France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,
London, England.”

On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should
be--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate
between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no
suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.

“No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; “I have referred it,
I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this
gentleman is to be found.”

The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He
held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the
person of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at
it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,
and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in
English, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.

“Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the
polished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. “Happy to say, I never
knew him.”

“A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur had
been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
hay--“some years ago.”

“Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the direction
through his glass in passing; “set himself in opposition to the last
Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”

“Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. “Did he though? Is that the sort of
fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”

Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on
the shoulder, and said:

“I know the fellow.”

“Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. “I am sorry for it.”

“Why?”

“Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these
times.”

“But I do ask why?”

“Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to
hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,
who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that
ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth
that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a
man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry
because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's
why.”

Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
said: “You may not understand the gentleman.”

“I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said Bully
Stryver, “and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_
understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position
to this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,
“I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never
find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such
precious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair
of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”

With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver
shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of
his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,
in the general departure from the Bank.

“Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. “You know where to
deliver it?”

“I do.”

“Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been
addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and
that it has been here some time?”

“I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”

“From here, at eight.”

“I will come back, to see you off.”

Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,
Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the
letter, and read it. These were its contents:


“Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.

“June 21, 1792. “MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.

“After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the
village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and
brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a
great deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the
ground.

“The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my
life (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against
the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an
emigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
against, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,
before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the
imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had
had recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for
an emigrant, and where is that emigrant?

“Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he
not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your
ears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!

“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to
succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh
Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!

“From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.

“Your afflicted,

“Gabelle.”


The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life
by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose
only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so
reproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple
considering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.

He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated
the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his
resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his
conscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,
he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own
mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
do it, and that it had never been done.

The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time
which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still
without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched
the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled
until the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from
France by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of
confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,
was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in
France that might impeach him for it.

But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so
far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had
relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no
favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own
bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate
on written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little
there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have
in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in
the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his
own safety, so that it could not but appear now.

This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
that he would go to Paris.

Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him
to itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted
him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible
attraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being
worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who
could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,
trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy
and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching
him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the
brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison
(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,
which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were
coarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's
letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his
justice, honour, and good name.

His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.

Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention
with which he had done what he had done, even although he had left
it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be
gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert
it. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the
sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even
saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging
Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.

As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.
Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always
reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,
should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in
the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his
situation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety
to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not
discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence
in his course.

He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to
return to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived
in Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say
nothing of his intention now.

A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
booted and equipped.

“I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. “I
would not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but
perhaps you will take a verbal one?”

“That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it is not dangerous.”

“Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”

“What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his
hand.

“Gabelle.”

“Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”

“Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”

“Any time mentioned?”

“He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”

“Any person mentioned?”

“No.”

He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,
and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the
misty air of Fleet-street. “My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” said
Mr. Lorry at parting, “and take precious care of them till I come back.”
 Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
rolled away.

That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote
two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation
he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons
that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no
personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and
their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters
in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.

It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise
of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
streets, with a heavier heart.

The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his
two letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.
“For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of
your noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened
his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and
floated away for the Loadstone Rock.


The end of the second book.





Book the Third--the Track of a Storm




I. In Secret


The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad
horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and
unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;
but, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than
these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of
citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state
of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,
inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,
turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in
hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning
Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
Death.

A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there
was no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen
at Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.
Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across
the road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in
the series that was barred between him and England. The universal
watchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,
or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have
felt his freedom more completely gone.

This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in
a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.

Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his
prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey
to have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as
a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he
had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.

Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.

“Emigrant,” said the functionary, “I am going to send you on to Paris,
under an escort.”

“Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
dispense with the escort.”

“Silence!” growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
of his musket. “Peace, aristocrat!”

“It is as the good patriot says,” observed the timid functionary. “You
are an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.”

“I have no choice,” said Charles Darnay.

“Choice! Listen to him!” cried the same scowling red-cap. “As if it was
not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!”

“It is always as the good patriot says,” observed the functionary. “Rise
and dress yourself, emigrant.”

Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by
a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.

The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
side of him.

The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to
his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his
wrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their
faces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,
and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without
change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay
between them and the capital.

They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of
being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger
as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying
his musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint
that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,
he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits
of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,
confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.

But when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,
when the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from
himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd
gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called
out loudly, “Down with the emigrant!”

He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,
resuming it as his safest place, said:

“Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own
will?”

“You are a cursed emigrant,” cried a farrier, making at him in a
furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; “and you are a cursed
aristocrat!”

The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's
bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, “Let him
be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.”

“Judged!” repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. “Ay! and condemned
as a traitor.” At this the crowd roared approval.

Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the
yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with
the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his
voice heard:

“Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
traitor.”

“He lies!” cried the smith. “He is a traitor since the decree. His life
is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!”

At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,
and the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier
struck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no
more was done.

“What is this decree that the smith spoke of?” Darnay asked the
postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.

“Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.”

“When passed?”

“On the fourteenth.”

“The day I left England!”

“Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be
others--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and
condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said
your life was not your own.”

“But there are no such decrees yet?”

“What do I know!” said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; “there
may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?”

They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many
wild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride
unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and
lonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor
cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and
would find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,
circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn
up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in
Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more
into solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and
wet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth
that year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by
the sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their
way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.

Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.

“Where are the papers of this prisoner?” demanded a resolute-looking man
in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.

Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,
in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had
imposed upon him, and which he had paid for.

“Where,” repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
whatever, “are the papers of this prisoner?”

The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
eyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some
disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.

He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went
into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the
gate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles
Darnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and
patriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
into the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar
traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest
people, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not
to mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue
forth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they
filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the
ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered
about. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men
and women.

When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these
things, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,
who directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the
escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him
to dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,
turned and rode away without entering the city.

He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,
drunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and
waking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The
light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of
the night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly
uncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an
officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.

“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of
paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”

“This is the man.”

“Your age, Evremonde?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Married, Evremonde?”

“Yes.”

“Where married?”

“In England.”

“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?”

“In England.”

“Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La
Force.”

“Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”

The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.

“We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.” He
said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.

“I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that
my right?”

“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” was the stolid reply. The officer
wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words “In secret.”

Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended
them.

“Is it you,” said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, “who married the daughter of
Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?”

“Yes,” replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.

“My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint
Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.”

“My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!”

The word “wife” seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
with sudden impatience, “In the name of that sharp female newly-born,
and called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?”

“You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the
truth?”

“A bad truth for you,” said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
looking straight before him.

“Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a
little help?”

“None.” Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.

“Will you answer me a single question?”

“Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.”

“In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
communication with the world outside?”

“You will see.”

“I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
presenting my case?”

“You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried
in worse prisons, before now.”

“But never by me, Citizen Defarge.”

Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady
and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope
there was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.
He, therefore, made haste to say:

“It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better
than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to
Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,
the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the
prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?”

“I will do,” Defarge doggedly rejoined, “nothing for you. My duty is to
my country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.
I will do nothing for you.”

Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride
was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see
how used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be
going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they
passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited
audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal
family. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made
it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the
foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at
Beauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal
watchfulness had completely isolated him.

That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by
the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future
was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant
hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few
rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed
garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had
been a hundred thousand years away. The “sharp female newly-born, and
called La Guillotine,” was hardly known to him, or to the generality
of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were
probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could
they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?

Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the
certainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on
his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he
arrived at the prison of La Force.

A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
presented “The Emigrant Evremonde.”

“What the Devil! How many more of them!” exclaimed the man with the
bloated face.

Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
with his two fellow-patriots.

“What the Devil, I say again!” exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
“How many more!”

The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
replied, “One must have patience, my dear!” Three turnkeys who entered
responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, “For
the love of Liberty;” which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
conclusion.

The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that
are ill cared for!

“In secret, too,” grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. “As
if I was not already full to bursting!”

He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay
awaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and
fro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in
either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
subordinates.

“Come!” said the chief, at length taking up his keys, “come with me,
emigrant.”

Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,
until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with
prisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading
and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the
most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the
room.

In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.

So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and
misery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand
in a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost
of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.

It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance
in the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly
coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were
there--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the
mature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and
likelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its
utmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress
of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!

“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a
gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the
honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you
on the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate
happily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,
to ask your name and condition?”

Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in
words as suitable as he could find.

“But I hope,” said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
eyes, who moved across the room, “that you are not in secret?”

“I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
so.”

“Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several
members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted
but a short time.” Then he added, raising his voice, “I grieve to inform
the society--in secret.”

There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room
to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among
which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave
him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to
render the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and
the apparitions vanished from his sight forever.

The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted
them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a
solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.

“Yours,” said the gaoler.

“Why am I confined alone?”

“How do I know!”

“I can buy pen, ink, and paper?”

“Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.”

There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As
the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four
walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of
the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler
was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like
a man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was
gone, he thought in the same wandering way, “Now am I left, as if I were
dead.” Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it
with a sick feeling, and thought, “And here in these crawling creatures
is the first condition of the body after death.”

“Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five
paces by four and a half.” The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,
counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled
drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. “He made shoes, he made
shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner counted the measurement again, and
paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.
“The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among
them, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the
embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden
hair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,
through the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He
made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and
a half.” With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of
his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting
and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it
still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he
knew, in the swell that rose above them.




II. The Grindstone


Tellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was
in a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from
the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to
a great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the
troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A
mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his
metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation
of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
besides the cook in question.

Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and
willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and
indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's
house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all
things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce
precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month
of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were
drinking brandy in its state apartments.

A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,
would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have
said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid
over the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the
Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest
linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to
night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of
the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and
also of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest
provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things
exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had
taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.

What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would
lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,
and when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with
Tellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into
the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis
Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by
a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was
prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a
deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the
room distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.

He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which
he had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they
derived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main
building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about
that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did
his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,
was extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages
of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two
great flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the
open air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared
to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,
or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless
objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had
opened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and
he had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.

From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came
the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring
in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible
nature were going up to Heaven.

“Thank God,” said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, “that no one near and
dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all
who are in danger!”

Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,
“They have come back!” and sat listening. But, there was no loud
irruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate
clash again, and all was quiet.

The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
amazement.

Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give
force and power to it in this one passage of her life.

“What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. “What is the
matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?
What is it?”

With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted
out in his arms, imploringly, “O my dear friend! My husband!”

“Your husband, Lucie?”

“Charles.”

“What of Charles?”

“Here.

“Here, in Paris?”

“Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't
collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to
us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.”

The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices
came pouring into the courtyard.

“What is that noise?” said the Doctor, turning towards the window.

“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry. “Don't look out! Manette, for your life,
don't touch the blind!”

The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
said, with a cool, bold smile:

“My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been
a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In
France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would
touch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.
My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the
barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I
knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I
told Lucie so.--What is that noise?” His hand was again upon the window.

“Don't look!” cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. “No, Lucie, my
dear, nor you!” He got his arm round her, and held her. “Don't be so
terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm
having happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in
this fatal place. What prison is he in?”

“La Force!”

“La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in
your life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to
do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or
I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;
you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you
to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must
instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for
two minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not
delay.”

“I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
nothing else than this. I know you are true.”

The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the
key; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and
partly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and
looked out with him into the courtyard.

Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.

But, such awful workers, and such awful work!

The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two
men, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of
the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than
the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.
False eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their
hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with
howling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of
sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung
forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women
held wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping
blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks
struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and
fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from
the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the
sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all
over their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain
upon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace
and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through
and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be
sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to
the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments
of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And
as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream
of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in
their frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have
given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.

All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of
any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it
were there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for
explanation in his friend's ashy face.

“They are,” Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at
the locked room, “murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you
say; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you
have--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It
may be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!”

Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,
and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.

His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,
carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.
For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and
the unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,
surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all
linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with
cries of--“Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's
kindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save
the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!” and a thousand answering shouts.

He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window
and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was
assisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found
her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be
surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat
watching them in such quiet as the night knew.

Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own
bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty
charge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O
the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!

Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.
“What is it?” cried Lucie, affrighted. “Hush! The soldiers' swords are
sharpened there,” said Mr. Lorry. “The place is national property now,
and used as a kind of armoury, my love.”

Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.
Soon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself
from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so
besmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back
to consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by
the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.
Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of
the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,
climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its
dainty cushions.

The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
never given, and would never take away.




III. The Shadow


One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
Lorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to
imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust
he held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict
man of business.

At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out
the wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to
the safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the
same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the
most violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in
its dangerous workings.

Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay
tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and
he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry
went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up
in a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows
of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.

To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.
He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.
A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly
and heavily the day lagged on with him.

It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to
do next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a
man stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,
addressed him by his name.

“Your servant,” said Mr. Lorry. “Do you know me?”

He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five
to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
emphasis, the words:

“Do you know me?”

“I have seen you somewhere.”

“Perhaps at my wine-shop?”

Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: “You come from Doctor
Manette?”

“Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.”

“And what says he? What does he send me?”

Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
words in the Doctor's writing:

    “Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
     I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
     from Charles to his wife.  Let the bearer see his wife.”

It was dated from La Force, within an hour.

“Will you accompany me,” said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
this note aloud, “to where his wife resides?”

“Yes,” returned Defarge.

Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical
way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.

“Madame Defarge, surely!” said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly
the same attitude some seventeen years ago.

“It is she,” observed her husband.

“Does Madame go with us?” inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
they moved.

“Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.
It is for their safety.”

Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously
at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being
The Vengeance.

They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,
and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the
tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that
delivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in
the night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.

     “DEAREST,--Take courage.  I am well, and your father has
      influence around me.  You cannot answer this.
      Kiss our child for me.”

That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received
it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the
hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly
action, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took
to its knitting again.

There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.

“My dear,” said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; “there are frequent
risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power
to protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she
may identify them. I believe,” said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
upon him more and more, “I state the case, Citizen Defarge?”

Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a
gruff sound of acquiescence.

“You had better, Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to
propitiate, by tone and manner, “have the dear child here, and our
good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no
French.”

The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,
whom her eyes first encountered, “Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope
_you_ are pretty well!” She also bestowed a British cough on Madame
Defarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.

“Is that his child?” said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it
were the finger of Fate.

“Yes, madame,” answered Mr. Lorry; “this is our poor prisoner's darling
daughter, and only child.”

The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively
kneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The
shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,
threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.

“It is enough, my husband,” said Madame Defarge. “I have seen them. We
may go.”

But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and
presented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as
she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:

“You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
help me to see him if you can?”

“Your husband is not my business here,” returned Madame Defarge, looking
down at her with perfect composure. “It is the daughter of your father
who is my business here.”

“For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She
will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
afraid of you than of these others.”

Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
collected his face into a sterner expression.

“What is it that your husband says in that little letter?” asked Madame
Defarge, with a lowering smile. “Influence; he says something touching
influence?”

“That my father,” said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her
breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, “has
much influence around him.”

“Surely it will release him!” said Madame Defarge. “Let it do so.”

“As a wife and mother,” cried Lucie, most earnestly, “I implore you to
have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against
my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think
of me. As a wife and mother!”

Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,
turning to her friend The Vengeance:

“The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
known _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?”

“We have seen nothing else,” returned The Vengeance.

“We have borne this a long time,” said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
again upon Lucie. “Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
and mother would be much to us now?”

She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
went last, and closed the door.

“Courage, my dear Lucie,” said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. “Courage,
courage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of
late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.”

“I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
shadow on me and on all my hopes.”

“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Lorry; “what is this despondency in the brave
little breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.”

But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,
for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.




IV. Calm in Storm


Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that
not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she
know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all
ages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been
darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been
tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that
some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.

To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth
to be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back
to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he
had announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen
years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this
man was Defarge.

That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
to the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some
dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life
and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as
a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded
to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and
examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,
the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that
the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the
Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and
assure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,
delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had
often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and
had remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.

The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against
those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had
been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had
thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress
the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him
in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies
of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this
awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man
with the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him
carefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged
anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.

As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of
his friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that
such dread experiences would revive the old danger.

But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never
at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which
could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.
“It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.
As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be
helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid
of Heaven I will do it!” Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw
the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing
of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a
clock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which
had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.

Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself
in his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees
of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his
personal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician
of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie
that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the
general body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet
messages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself
sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was
not permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of
plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were
known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.

This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;
but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that
time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter
and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.
Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through
that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's
ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to
trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself
and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and
affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in
rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. “All
curious to see,” thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, “but all
natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it
couldn't be in better hands.”

But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get
Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,
the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new
era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death
against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the
great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise
against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils
of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and
had yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and
alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of
the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds
and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the
fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.
What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year
One of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,
and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!

There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever
of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the
unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the
head of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the
head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned
widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.

And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in
all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A
revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand
revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,
which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over
any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged
with people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;
these things became the established order and nature of appointed
things, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.
Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before
the general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the
sharp female called La Guillotine.

It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,
it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a
peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which
shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window
and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the
human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts
from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and
believed in where the Cross was denied.

It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and
good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one
dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.
The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief
functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his
namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every
day.

Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the
current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more
wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,
that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the
violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares
under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the
terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at
that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable
in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and
victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the
appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all
other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if
he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were
a Spirit moving among mortals.




V. The Wood-Sawyer


One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never
sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her
husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the
tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright
women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and
old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all
daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,
and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.
Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to
bestow, O Guillotine!

If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle
despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in
the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was
truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good
will always be.

As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had
its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,
as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
that they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy
return, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the
solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many
unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only
outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.

She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at
night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had
repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,
was on him. He always resolutely answered: “Nothing can happen to him
without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.”

They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
father said to her, on coming home one evening:

“My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to
it--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you
in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can
show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even
if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.”

“O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.”

From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the
clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.
When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they
went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a
single day.

It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel
of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that
end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed
her.

“Good day, citizeness.”

“Good day, citizen.”

This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been
established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;
but, was now law for everybody.

“Walking here again, citizeness?”

“You see me, citizen!”

The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he
had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed
at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent
bars, peeped through them jocosely.

“But it's not my business,” said he. And went on sawing his wood.

Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
appeared.

“What? Walking here again, citizeness?”

“Yes, citizen.”

“Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”

“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.

“Yes, dearest.”

“Yes, citizen.”

“Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I
call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head
comes!”

The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.

“I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!
Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.
Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the
family!”

Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.

He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart
up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,
with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. “But it's
not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would
briskly fall to his sawing again.

In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in
five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not
for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did
see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have
waited out the day, seven days a week.

These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!

The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole
surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got
somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in
with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike
and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his
saw inscribed as his “Little Sainte Guillotine”--for the great sharp
female was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he
was not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.

But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement
and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment
afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the
prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with
The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and
they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music
than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,
keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced
together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a
mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they
filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly
apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They
advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one
another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round
in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest
linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,
and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they
all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then
reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width
of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high
up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible
as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once
innocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into
a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the
heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how
warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly
bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the
delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of
the disjointed time.

This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow
fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.

“O my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she
had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”

“I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be
frightened! Not one of them would harm you.”

“I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
husband, and the mercies of these people--”

“We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to
the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may
kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”

“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”

“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”

“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
“no.”

A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you, citizeness,”
 from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in passing. Nothing more.
Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.

“Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness
and courage, for his sake. That was well done;” they had left the spot;
“it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.”

“For to-morrow!”

“There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned
before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know
that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the
Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?”

She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”

“Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall
be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
protection. I must see Lorry.”

He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.

“I must see Lorry,” the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.

The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated
and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No
better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to
hold his peace.

A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted
the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the
Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and
deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity, or Death!

Who could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the
chair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,
agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did
he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,
he said: “Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”




VI. Triumph


The dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined
Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were
read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The
standard gaoler-joke was, “Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you
inside there!”

“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”

So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.

When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved
for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
hundreds pass away so.

His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them
to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the
list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three
names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so
summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been
guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber
where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his
arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human
creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the
scaffold.

There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs
who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from
insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the
time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour
or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to
brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere
boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In
seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the
disease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have
like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke
them.

The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen
were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.

“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,” was at length arraigned.

His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap
and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking
at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the
usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the
honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never
without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing
spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,
anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,
the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore
knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many
knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under
her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom
he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly
remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in
his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed
in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to
himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to
be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at
the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,
in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who
wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the
Carmagnole.

Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor
as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.

“Take off his head!” cried the audience. “An enemy to the Republic!”

The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the
prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in
England?

Undoubtedly it was.

Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?

Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.

Why not? the President desired to know.

Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful
to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left
his country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present
acceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in
England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.

What proof had he of this?

He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and
Alexandre Manette.

But he had married in England? the President reminded him.

True, but not an English woman.

A citizeness of France?

Yes. By birth.

Her name and family?

“Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
sits there.”

This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation
of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were
the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as
if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.

On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious
counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
inch of his road.

The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
sooner?

He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means
of living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,
he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.
He had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of
a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his
absence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his
testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal
in the eyes of the Republic?

The populace cried enthusiastically, “No!” and the President rang his
bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry “No!”
 until they left off, of their own will.

The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,
but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before
the President.

The Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that
it would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced
and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen
Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of
enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly
overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out
of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he
had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's
declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
called Darnay.

Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,
and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he
proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his
release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in
England, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat
government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as
the foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these
circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the
straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the
populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur
Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,
had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his
account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that
they were ready with their votes if the President were content to
receive them.

At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace
set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's
favour, and the President declared him free.

Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against
their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,
to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner
was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood
at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the
prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after
his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from
exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same
people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with
the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the
streets.

His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to
him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four
hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign
of Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, “Long live the
Republic!”

The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
Court--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the
concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
shore.

They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they
had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not
even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home
on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,
and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that
he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he
was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.

In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing
him out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the
prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as
they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father
had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his
feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.

As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his
face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come
together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the
rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.
Then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the
crowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and
overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,
and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled
them away.

After grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud
before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in
breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;
after kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round
his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who
lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their
rooms.

“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”

“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have
prayed to Him.”

They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
his arms, he said to her:

“And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
could have done what he has done for me.”

She laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor
head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he
had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his
strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't
tremble so. I have saved him.”




VII. A Knock at the Door


“I have saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which he had
often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a
vague but heavy fear was upon her.

All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that
many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to
her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her
heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
The shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now
the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
them, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to
his real presence and trembled more.

Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,
no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task
he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let
them all lean upon him.

Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,
had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards
the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and
citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them
occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by
Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every
night.

It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters
of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.
Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down
below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name
himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had
employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called
Darnay.

In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as
in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.

For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home
such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
association with a French family, might have known as much of their
language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was
pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing
was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always
made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,
one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.

“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
“if you are ready, I am.”

Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn
all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.

“There's all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and we shall
have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts
these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”

“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,”
 retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.”

“Who's he?” said Miss Pross.

Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “Old
Nick's.”

“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the
meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,
and Mischief.”

“Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!” cried Lucie.

“Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the
streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!
Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your
pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?”

“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered, smiling.

“For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
that,” said Miss Pross.

“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.

“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the
short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and
as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”

Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words
after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.

“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss Pross, approvingly.
“But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”--it was the good creature's
way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety
with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--“is there any
prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”

“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”

“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we
must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and
fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't
you move, Ladybird!”

They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the
child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the
Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in
a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie
sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,
in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of
a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out
a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and
quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.

“What is that?” she cried, all at once.

“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand
on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The
least thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!”

“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face
and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.”

“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”

As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.

“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”

“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
shoulder, “I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go
to the door.”

He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,
and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough
men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.

“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.

“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.

“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the
Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.”

The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
to him.

“Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?”

“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will
know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.”

Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
woollen shirt, said:

“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”

“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”

“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.

He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
after a pause:

“Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?”

“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to
the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who
had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”

The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:

“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”

“Of what?” asked the Doctor.

“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no
more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as
a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.
The People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.”

“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who denounced him?”

“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of Saint
Antoine here.”

The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his
feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:

“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by
the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.”

“What other?”

“Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be
answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”




VIII. A Hand at Cards


Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases
she had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They
both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they
passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and
turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It
was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing
lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the
Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got
undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never
grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.

Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil
for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the
Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather
took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same
description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was
not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her
opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
attended by her cavalier.

Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of
the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be
resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the
popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,
like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached
the counter, and showed what they wanted.

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No
sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped
her hands.

In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only
saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all
the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
evidently English.

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that
not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,
Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual
account--was in a state of the greatest wonder.

“What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in
English.

“Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
“After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,
do I find you here!”

“Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked the
man, in a furtive, frightened way.

“Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. “Have I ever
been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”

“Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, “and come out, if you
want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
affectionate brother, said through her tears, “Mr. Cruncher.”

“Let him come out too,” said Solomon. “Does he think me a ghost?”

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a
word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule
through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did
so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus
of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French
language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and
pursuits.

“Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you
want?”

“How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
from!” cried Miss Pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no
affection.”

“There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's
lips with his own. “Now are you content?”

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.

“If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, “I am not
surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
you really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you
do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
am an official.”

“My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and
greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in
his--”

“I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. “I knew it. You want to be
the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just
as I am getting on!”

“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. “Far
rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever
loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,
and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will
detain you no longer.”

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent
her money and left her!

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,
all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,
hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
question:

“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
or Solomon John?”

The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
previously uttered a word.

“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,
was more than he could do himself.) “John Solomon, or Solomon John? She
calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know
you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name
was, over the water.”

“No?”

“No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness
at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
yourself, was you called at that time?”

“Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.

“That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind
him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's
elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.

“Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his
surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
was not a Sheep of the Prisons.”

Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--

“I'll tell you,” said Sydney. “I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out
of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,
an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember
faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having
a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your
direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and
sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved
conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the
nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed
to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”

“What purpose?” the spy asked.

“It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
company--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”

“Under a threat?”

“Oh! Did I say that?”

“Then, why should I go there?”

“Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”

“Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.

“You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”

Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,
and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and
made the most of it.

“Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”

“Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. “Don't be ungrateful.
But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so
pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual
satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”

“I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”

“I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,
at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort
knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we
ready? Come then!”

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up
in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was
too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved
her affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to
heed what she observed.

They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
Pross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the
picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked
into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
which he saw a stranger.

“Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. “Mr. Barsad.”

“Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “Barsad? I have an association
with the name--and with the face.”

“I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,
coolly. “Pray sit down.”

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,
by saying to him with a frown, “Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorry
immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised
look of abhorrence.

“Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate
brother you have heard of,” said Sydney, “and has acknowledged the
relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “What do you
tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about
to return to him!”

“Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”

“Just now, if at all.”

“Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, “and I
have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep
over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the
messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no
earthly doubt that he is retaken.”

Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss
of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something
might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was
silently attentive.

“Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, “that the name and influence of
Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he
would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”

“Yes; I believe so.”

“--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the
power to prevent this arrest.”

“He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.

“But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
identified he is with his son-in-law.”

“That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his
chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.

“In short,” said Sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games
are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one
carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend
in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
Barsad.”

“You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.

“I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a
brute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”

It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another
glassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.

“Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking
over a hand at cards: “Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican
committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,
so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman
is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a
Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican
French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic
English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent
card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the
spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,
the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so
difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my
hand, Mr. Barsad?”

“Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.

“I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't
hurry.”

He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and
drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself
into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he
poured out and drank another glassful.

“Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”

It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards
in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing
there--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for
vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern
date--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in
France: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen
there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He
knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint
Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police
such heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,
release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to
familiar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame
Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered
with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he
talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over
again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the
guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as
he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that
he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of
his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning
terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such
grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw
that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many
proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash
his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify
the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.

“You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatest
composure. “Do you play?”

“I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
Lorry, “I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to
put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can
under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace
of which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is
considered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by
somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean
himself as to make himself one?”

“I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”

“I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to
hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister--”

“I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
relieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.

“You think not, sir?”

“I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”

The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a
mystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and
failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
of contemplating cards:

“And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I
have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and
fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;
who was he?”

“French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.

“French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him
at all, though he echoed his word. “Well; he may be.”

“Is, I assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”

“Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanical
way--“though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know
the face.”

“I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.

“It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. “Can't-be. Spoke good
French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”

“Provincial,” said the spy.

“No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
light broke clearly on his mind. “Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We
had that man before us at the Old Bailey.”

“Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give
me an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
to lay him in his coffin.”

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it
to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the
risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.

“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To show you
how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will
lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have
carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened
it, “ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
it in your hand; it's no forgery.”

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and
Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on
the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.

“That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
iron-bound visage. “So _you_ put him in his coffin?”

“I did.”

“Who took him out of it?”

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!
I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”

The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in
unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.

“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in
that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a
take in. Me and two more knows it.”

“How do you know it?”

“What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it's you I have got a
old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”

Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at
this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and
explain himself.

“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is
ill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well
wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,
in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his
throat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as
quite a liberal offer; “or I'll out and announce him.”

“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for
you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong
card--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”

“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk
of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that
he never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this
man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”

“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious
Mr. Cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to
that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could not
be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his
liberality--“I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
guinea.”

The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,
with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and
can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?
Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my
office, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my
life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,
I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate
here. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my
way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with
me?”

“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
 said the spy, firmly.

“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
Conciergerie?”

“I am sometimes.”

“You can be when you choose?”

“I can pass in and out when I choose.”

Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out
upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he
said, rising:

“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that
the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come
into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”




IX. The Game Made


While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked
at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's
manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the
leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,
and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very
questionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught
his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the
hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.

“Jerry,” said Mr. Lorry. “Come here.”

Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
of him.

“What have you been, besides a messenger?”

After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,
Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “Agicultooral
character.”

“My mind misgives me much,” said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's
as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you
get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”

“I hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, “that a gentleman like
yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,
would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it
is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if
it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides
to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking
up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his
fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor
yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking
their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going
out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.
Well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the
goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos
in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,
a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark
ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at
it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,
and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with
undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot
with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get
much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never
prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want
all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being
once in--even if it wos so.”

“Ugh!” cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “I am shocked at
the sight of you.”

“Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued Mr. Cruncher,
“even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--”

“Don't prevaricate,” said Mr. Lorry.

“No, I will _not_, sir,” returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
further from his thoughts or practice--“which I don't say it is--wot I
would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it
wos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to
you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of
his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and
let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends
for what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with
a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
That, Mr. Lorry,” said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
discourse, “is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't
see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down
to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you
fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good
cause when I might have kep' it back.”

“That at least is true,” said Mr. Lorry. “Say no more now. It may be
that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in
action--not in words. I want no more words.”

Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy
returned from the dark room. “Adieu, Mr. Barsad,” said the former; “our
arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”

He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?

“Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access
to him, once.”

Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.

“It is all I could do,” said Carton. “To propose too much, would be
to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing
worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the
weakness of the position. There is no help for it.”

“But access to him,” said Mr. Lorry, “if it should go ill before the
Tribunal, will not save him.”

“I never said it would.”

Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his
darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually
weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,
and his tears fell.

“You are a good man and a true friend,” said Carton, in an altered
voice. “Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my
father weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your
sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,
however.”

Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,
that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly
unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.

“To return to poor Darnay,” said Carton. “Don't tell Her of this
interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see
him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey
to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”

Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to
see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
evidently understood it.

“She might think a thousand things,” Carton said, “and any of them would
only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when
I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.”

“I am going now, directly.”

“I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
on you. How does she look?”

“Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”

“Ah!”

It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It
attracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the
fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),
passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a
wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat
and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their
light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,
all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was
sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;
his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had
broken under the weight of his foot.

“I forgot it,” he said.

Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having
the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly
reminded of that expression.

“And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said Carton, turning
to him.

“Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so
unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to
have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have
my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.”

They were both silent.

“Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said Carton, wistfully.

“I am in my seventy-eighth year.”

“You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
trusted, respected, and looked up to?”

“I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
may say that I was a man of business when a boy.”

“See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss
you when you leave it empty!”

“A solitary old bachelor,” answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. “There
is nobody to weep for me.”

“How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?”

“Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”

“It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?”

“Surely, surely.”

“If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,
'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or
respect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no
regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
not?”

“You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.”

Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a
few moments, said:

“I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”

Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:

“Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and
nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances
that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),
and by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not
so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”

“I understand the feeling!” exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. “And
you are the better for it?”

“I hope so.”

Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with
his outer coat; “But you,” said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, “you
are young.”

“Yes,” said Carton. “I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
age. Enough of me.”

“And of me, I am sure,” said Mr. Lorry. “Are you going out?”

“I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless
habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be
uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?”

“Yes, unhappily.”

“I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a
place for me. Take my arm, sir.”

Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A
few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him
there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate
again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to
the prison every day. “She came out here,” he said, looking about him,
“turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in
her steps.”

It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having
closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.

“Good night, citizen,” said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
man eyed him inquisitively.

“Good night, citizen.”

“How goes the Republic?”

“You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount
to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being
exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!”

“Do you often go to see him--”

“Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?”

“Never.”

“Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
than two pipes. Word of honour!”

As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire
to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.

“But you are not English,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear
English dress?”

“Yes,” said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.

“You speak like a Frenchman.”

“I am an old student here.”

“Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.”

“Good night, citizen.”

“But go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after
him. “And take a pipe with you!”

Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of
the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap
of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered
the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,
for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with
his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill
thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.

Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his
counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. “Whew!” the chemist
whistled softly, as he read it. “Hi! hi! hi!”

Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:

“For you, citizen?”

“For me.”

“You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
consequences of mixing them?”

“Perfectly.”

Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by
one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,
and deliberately left the shop. “There is nothing more to do,” said he,
glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow. I can't sleep.”

It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into
his road and saw its end.

Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been
read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark
streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing
on high above him. “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:
he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and
whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”

In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow
rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,
and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,
and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that
brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,
might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and
went on.

With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were
going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors
surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers
were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length
of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and
profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon
the gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets
along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and
material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among
the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn
interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its
short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for
the lighter streets.

Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the
people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At
one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking
for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,
and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
believeth in me, shall never die.”

Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words
were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm
and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he
heard them always.

The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light
of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the
sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to
Death's dominion.

But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river
sparkled under it.

The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the
bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little
longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--“Like me.”

A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,
ended in the words, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a
little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh
himself, went out to the place of trial.

The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell
away from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
sitting beside her father.

When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.

Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the
Revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.

Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance
gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,
cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.
Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.

Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye
in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one
another, before bending forward with a strained attention.

Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,
called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.

To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.

The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?

“Openly, President.”

“By whom?”

“Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.”

“Good.”

“Therese Defarge, his wife.”

“Good.”

“Alexandre Manette, physician.”

A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.

“President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and
a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My
daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who
and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband
of my child!”

“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer
to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the
Republic.”

Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
with warmth resumed.

“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child
herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is
to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”

Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with
his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew
closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,
and restored the usual hand to his mouth.

Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
his having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,
and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
This short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.

“You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?”

“I believe so.”

Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “You were one of the
best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day
there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when
it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!”

It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “I defy that bell!”
 wherein she was likewise much commended.

“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
citizen.”

“I knew,” said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the
bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;
“I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell
known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He
knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,
when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to
the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a
gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a
stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens
of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.
I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of
the President.”

“Let it be read.”

In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking
lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge
never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there
intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as
follows.




X. The Substance of the Shadow


“I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write
it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it
in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a
place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I
and my sorrows are dust.

“These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed
with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope
has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I
solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right
mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the
truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they
be ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.

“One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,
at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the
School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very
fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it
might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a
voice called to the driver to stop.

“The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,
and the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage
was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the
door and alight before I came up with it.

“I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to
conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,
I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather
younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,
and (as far as I could see) face too.

“'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.

“I am.”

“'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young
physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
has made a rising reputation in Paris?'

“'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
graciously.'

“'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being
so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were
probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of
overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'

“The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
They were armed. I was not.

“'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me
the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to
which I am summoned.'

“The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,
your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,
our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to
enter the carriage?'

“I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
entered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The
carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.

“I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make
the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my
paper in its hiding-place.

        *****

“The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the
Barrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards
when I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently
stopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by
a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had
overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in
answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck
the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.

“There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,
for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the
other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner
with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly
alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.

“From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found
locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had
relocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was
conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we
ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,
lying on a bed.

“The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to
her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were
all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed
scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,
and the letter E.

“I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the
edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was
in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve
her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the
corner caught my sight.

“I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her
and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and
wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the
words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to
twelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause
to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she
would repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and
would count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the
order, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's
pause, in the utterance of these sounds.

“'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'

“To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the
younger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It
was the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'

“'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'

“'A brother.'

“'I do not address her brother?'

“He answered with great contempt, 'No.'

“'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'

“The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'

“'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how
useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming
to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There
are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'

“The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is
a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on
the table.

        *****

“I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.

“'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.

“'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no
more.

“I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it
after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then
sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman
in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into
a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently
furnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick
old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the
sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular
succession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the
counting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had
not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to
them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement
in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much
soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the
figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more
regular.

“For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by
the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,
before the elder said:

“'There is another patient.'

“I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'

“'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.

        *****

“The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which
was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling
to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and
there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of
the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to
pass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in
this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my
captivity, as I saw them all that night.

“On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.

“'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'

“'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'

“It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to
without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder
brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was
ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all
as if he were a fellow-creature.

“'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.

“'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
and has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'

“There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this
answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to
have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would
have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his
vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about
the boy, or about his fate.

“The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
slowly moved to me.

“'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are
proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but
we have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'

“The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.

“I said, 'I have seen her.'

“'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we
have had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say
so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a
tenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.
The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'

“It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force
to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.

“'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
are by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden
for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and
plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we
ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his
people should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,
and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a
dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should
most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable
race die out!'

“I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth
like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people
somewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the
dying boy.

“'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
him in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not
been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired
her, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among
us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two
then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
willing?'

“The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
Bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all
trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.

“'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to
harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and
drove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their
grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep
may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at
night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was
not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he
could find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the
bell, and died on her bosom.'

“Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as
he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his
wound.

“'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his
brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his
brother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if
it is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,
for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the
tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words
that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place
beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be
_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed
in--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was
somewhere here?'

“The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around
him. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled
over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.

“'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck
at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to
make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword
that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust
at me with all his skill for his life.'

“My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of
a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In
another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.

“'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'

“'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
referred to the brother.

“'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the
man who was here? Turn my face to him.'

“I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the
moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging
me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.

“'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and
his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be
answered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to
answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that
I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,
I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them
separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do
it.'

“Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
down dead.

        *****

“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving
in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last
for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the
grave.

“I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of
the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order
of her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
twelve. Hush!'

“This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.

“It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew
her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being
a mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had
had of her.

“'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the
elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.

“'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'

“'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down
at her with some curiosity.

“'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and
despair.'

“He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a
chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a
subdued voice,

“'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,
and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful
of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,
and not spoken of.'

“I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.

“'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'

“'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients
are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I
was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.

“Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the
pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I
resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.

        *****

“I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so
fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total
darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or
failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that
was ever spoken between me and those brothers.

“She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It
was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her
head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.

“I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until
then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the
woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind
the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to
that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as
if--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.

“I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind
of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading
to the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger
brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,
for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to
me than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance
in the mind of the elder, too.

“My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,
answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone
with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and
all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.

“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride
away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with
their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.

“'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.

“'She is dead,' said I.

“'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.

“He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now
gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on
the table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept
nothing.

“'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'

“They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to
them, and we parted without another word on either side.

        *****

“I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
have written with this gaunt hand.

“Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a
little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately
to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities
of the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be
heard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a
profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state
in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but
I was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.

“I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that
night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just
completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.

        *****

“I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
dreadful.

“The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long
life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the
wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the
boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered
on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I
had seen that nobleman very lately.

“My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and
in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's
share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl
was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,
in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of
Heaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.

“She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing
but that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her
inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope
that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this
wretched hour I am ignorant of both.

        *****

“These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.

“She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.

“'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do
all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What
I have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few
jewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the
compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if
the sister can be discovered.'

“She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear
sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her
bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and
went away caressing him. I never saw her more.

“As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,
I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not
trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.

“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in
a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed
my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came
into the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!
My fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
the gate, standing silent behind him.

“An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,
he had a coach in waiting.

“It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and
my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark
corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light
of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living
grave.

“If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the
brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of
my dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
dead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times
when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven
and to earth.”

A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A
sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but
blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,
and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.

Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have
sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.

And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a
well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One
of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of
the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President
said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good
physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by
rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel
a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an
orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of
human sympathy.

“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured Madame Defarge,
smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my Doctor, save him!”

At every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
roar.

Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy
of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the
Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!




XI. Dusk


The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under
the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no
sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was
she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment
it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.

The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,
the Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's
emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood
stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face
but love and consolation.

“If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
you would have so much compassion for us!”

There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had
taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the
show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, “Let her embrace
him then; it is but a moment.” It was silently acquiesced in, and they
passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by
leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.

“Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”

They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.

“I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer
for me. A parting blessing for our child.”

“I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
you.”

“My husband. No! A moment!” He was tearing himself apart from her.
“We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.”

Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both
of them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:

“No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel
to us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what
you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We
know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and
duty. Heaven be with you!”

Her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,
and wring them with a shriek of anguish.

“It could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner. “All things have worked
together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence
near you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in
nature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven
bless you!”

As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and
with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting
smile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head
lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his
feet.

Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
Yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a
flush of pride in it.

“Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.”

He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a
coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat
beside the driver.

When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not
many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of
the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up
the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where
her child and Miss Pross wept over her.

“Don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is
better so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”

“Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!” cried little Lucie, springing up and
throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. “Now that
you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
love her, bear to see her so?”

He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.

“Before I go,” he said, and paused--“I may kiss her?”

It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to
him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a
handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “A life you love.”

When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:

“You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least
be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to
you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”

“Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the
strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.” He returned the
answer in great trouble, and very slowly.

“Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
and short, but try.”

“I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.”

“That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before
now--though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such
great things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse
it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it
were not.”

“I will go,” said Doctor Manette, “to the Prosecutor and the President
straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
write too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no
one will be accessible until dark.”

“That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
these dread powers, Doctor Manette?”

“Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from
this.”

“It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I
go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from
our friend or from yourself?”

“Yes.”

“May you prosper!”

Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.

“I have no hope,” said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.

“Nor have I.”

“If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare
him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's
to them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the
court.”

“And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”

Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.

“Don't despond,” said Carton, very gently; “don't grieve. I encouraged
Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly
thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
But he will perish; there is no real hope.”

“Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed Carton.

And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.




XII. Darkness


Sydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. “At
Tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face. “Shall I
do well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that
these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
Let me think it out!”

Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought
in his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was
confirmed. “It is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people
should know there is such a man as I here.” And he turned his face
towards Saint Antoine.

Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined
at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the
first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he
had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had
dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had
done with it.

It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out
into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he
stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered
the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and
his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.

There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like
a regular member of the establishment.

As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent
French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless
glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced
to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.

He repeated what he had already said.

“English?” asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark
eyebrows.

After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
accent. “Yes, madame, yes. I am English!”

Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he
took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its
meaning, he heard her say, “I swear to you, like Evremonde!”

Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.

“How?”

“Good evening.”

“Oh! Good evening, citizen,” filling his glass. “Ah! and good wine. I
drink to the Republic.”

Defarge went back to the counter, and said, “Certainly, a little like.”
 Madame sternly retorted, “I tell you a good deal like.” Jacques Three
pacifically remarked, “He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
 The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, “Yes, my faith! And you
are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
to-morrow!”

Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow
forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning
their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence
of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without
disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
their conversation.

“It is true what madame says,” observed Jacques Three. “Why stop? There
is great force in that. Why stop?”

“Well, well,” reasoned Defarge, “but one must stop somewhere. After all,
the question is still where?”

“At extermination,” said madame.

“Magnificent!” croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
approved.

“Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said Defarge, rather
troubled; “in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has
suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when
the paper was read.”

“I have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
“Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!”

“And you have observed, my wife,” said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
“the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”

“I have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, I have observed
his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I
have observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and
I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my
finger--!” She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on
his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
if the axe had dropped.

“The citizeness is superb!” croaked the Juryman.

“She is an Angel!” said The Vengeance, and embraced her.

“As to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it
depended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this
man even now.”

“No!” protested Defarge. “Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.”

“See you then, Jacques,” said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; “and see you,
too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.”

“It is so,” assented Defarge, without being asked.

“In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,
by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.”

“It is so,” assented Defarge.

“That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is
that so.”

“It is so,” assented Defarge again.

“I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two
hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up
among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured
by the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my
family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground
was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child
was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,
those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things
descends to me!' Ask him, is that so.”

“It is so,” assented Defarge once more.

“Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't
tell me.”

Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature
of her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
her--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed
a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but
only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. “Tell
the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!”

Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer
paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as
a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge
took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
The English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might
be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and
deep.

But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present
himself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman
walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie
until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and
keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the
banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his
mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been
more than five hours gone: where could he be?

Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and
he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he
should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.

He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette
did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
brought none. Where could he be?

They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some
weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on
the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was
lost.

Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at
them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.

“I cannot find it,” said he, “and I must have it. Where is it?”

His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.

“Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
can't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
finish those shoes.”

They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.

“Come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to
work. Give me my work.”

Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the
ground, like a distracted child.

“Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful
cry; “but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are
not done to-night?”

Lost, utterly lost!

It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
that--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and
soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should
have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the
embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret
time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into
the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.

Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely
daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both
too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with
one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:

“The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken
to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to
me? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and
exact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.”

“I do not doubt it,” answered Mr. Lorry. “Say on.”

The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as
they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the
night.

Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his
feet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to
carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton
took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. “We should look
at this!” he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and
exclaimed, “Thank _God!_”

“What is it?” asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.

“A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,” he put his hand in
his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which
enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,
an Englishman?”

Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.

“Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you
remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
frontier! You see?”

“Yes!”

“Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it
up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
think, will be.”

“They are not in danger?”

“They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,
is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by
Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her”--he never mentioned Lucie's
name--“making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that
the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will
involve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for
both have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You
will save them all.”

“Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?”

“I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend
on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place
until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;
more probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to
mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her
father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that
strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?”

“So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for
the moment I lose sight,” touching the back of the Doctor's chair, “even
of this distress.”

“You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast
as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been
completed for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your
horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the
afternoon.”

“It shall be done!”

His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the
flame, and was as quick as youth.

“You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child
and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head
beside her husband's cheerfully.” He faltered for an instant; then went
on as before. “For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her
the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell
her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more
depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her
father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”

“I am sure of it.”

“I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.”

“I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?”

“You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and
then for England!”

“Why, then,” said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young
and ardent man at my side.”

“By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
another.”

“Nothing, Carton.”

“Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for
any reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
inevitably be sacrificed.”

“I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.”

“And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!”

Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,
as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find
where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought
to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the
courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in
the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to
it--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained
there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of
her room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a
Farewell.




XIII. Fifty-two


In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants
were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set
apart.

Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered
in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;
and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally
without distinction.

Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no
flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line
of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had
fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,
that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
avail him nothing.

Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life
was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts
and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and
when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,
this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,
a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and
child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a
selfish thing.

But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there
was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same
road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate
him. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind
enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,
by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his
thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.

Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means
of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the
prison lamps should be extinguished.

He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing
of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,
and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had
already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name
he had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that
her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he
had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,
for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had
become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled
to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on
that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had
preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that
he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no
mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had
discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He
besought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console
her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think
of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly
reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
sakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and
blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their
dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
father.

To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And
he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
tending.

To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so
full of the others, that he never once thought of him.

He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.

But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there
was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”

Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could
meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking
thoughts, which was very difficult to master.

He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How
high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be
stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed
red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise
directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless
times. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no
fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like
the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.

The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for
ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard
contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly
repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.
He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for
himself and for them.

Twelve gone for ever.

He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily
and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two
before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the
interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.

Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,
he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had
measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
recovered self-possession, he thought, “There is but another now,” and
turned to walk again.

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.

The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or
as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He has never seen
me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose
no time!”

The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him
face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his
features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.

There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's
hand, and it was his real grasp.

“Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.

“I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You
are not”--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--“a prisoner?”

“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers
here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your
wife, dear Darnay.”

The prisoner wrung his hand.

“I bring you a request from her.”

“What is it?”

“A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you
in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well
remember.”

The prisoner turned his face partly aside.

“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have
no time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you
wear, and draw on these of mine.”

There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.

“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
them. Quick!”

“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
will only die with me. It is madness.”

“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you
to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change
that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do
it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like
this of mine!”

With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.

“Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”

“Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,
refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand
steady enough to write?”

“It was when you came in.”

“Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!”

Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.

“Write exactly as I speak.”

“To whom do I address it?”

“To no one.” Carton still had his hand in his breast.

“Do I date it?”

“No.”

The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
his hand in his breast, looked down.

“'If you remember,'” said Carton, dictating, “'the words that passed
between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'”

He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look
up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
something.

“Have you written 'forget them'?” Carton asked.

“I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?”

“No; I am not armed.”

“What is it in your hand?”

“You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.” He
dictated again. “'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'” As he said these
words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
moved down close to the writer's face.

The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about
him vacantly.

“What vapour is that?” he asked.

“Vapour?”

“Something that crossed me?”

“I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen
and finish. Hurry, hurry!”

As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton
with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his
hand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.

“Hurry, hurry!”

The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.

“'If it had been otherwise;'” Carton's hand was again watchfully and
softly stealing down; “'I never should have used the longer opportunity.
If it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'I
should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
otherwise--'” Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
unintelligible signs.

Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
with a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his
nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
the ground.

Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
softly called, “Enter there! Come in!” and the Spy presented himself.

“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very
great?”

“Mr. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my
hazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to
the whole of your bargain.”

“Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.”

“You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.”

“Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the
rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and
take me to the coach.”

“You?” said the Spy nervously.

“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which
you brought me in?”

“Of course.”

“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
Quick! Call assistance!”

“You swear not to betray me?” said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
last moment.

“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn by no
solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious
moments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place
him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of
last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”

The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.

“How, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. “So
afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
Sainte Guillotine?”

“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted
if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had
brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.

“The time is short, Evremonde,” said the Spy, in a warning voice.

“I know it well,” answered Carton. “Be careful of my friend, I entreat
you, and leave me.”

“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come away!”

The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,
footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry
made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he
sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.

Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then
began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and
finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely
saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room,
at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows
within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern
the others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were
standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;
but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
fixedly at the ground.

As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two
were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,
as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from
the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.

“Citizen Evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand. “I am a
poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.”

He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were accused of?”

“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature
like me?”

The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
started from his eyes.

“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I
am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good
to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,
Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!”

As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.

“I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?”

“It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.”

“If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your
hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me
more courage.”

As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
fingers, and touched his lips.

“Are you dying for him?” she whispered.

“And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.”

“O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”

“Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.”

        *****

The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that
same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about
it, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.

“Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!”

The papers are handed out, and read.

“Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?”

This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
pointed out.

“Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”

Greatly too much for him.

“Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?”

This is she.

“Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?”

It is.

“Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
This is she?”

She and no other.

“Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
English. Which is he?”

He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.

“Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?”

It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that
he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
under the displeasure of the Republic.

“Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.
Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?”

“I am he. Necessarily, being the last.”

It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It
is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach
door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the
carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it
carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to
the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its
mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of
an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.

“Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.”

“One can depart, citizen?”

“One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!”

“I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!”

These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there
is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.

“Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?”
 asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.

“It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;
it would rouse suspicion.”

“Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”

“The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.”

Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing
anything but stopping.

Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary
farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,
avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back
by another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,
no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!
the posting-house.

Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it
of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible
existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and
plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count
their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would
far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.

At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and
on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
haunches. We are pursued?

“Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!”

“What is it?” asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.

“How many did they say?”

“I do not understand you.”

“--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?”

“Fifty-two.”

“I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!”

The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and
to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,
by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help
us! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and
the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of
us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.




XIV. The Knitting Done


In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate
Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and
Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame
Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the
conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who
was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.

“But our Defarge,” said Jacques Three, “is undoubtedly a good
Republican? Eh?”

“There is no better,” the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill
notes, “in France.”

“Peace, little Vengeance,” said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with
a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak. My husband,
fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved
well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has
his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.”

“It is a great pity,” croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good
citizen; it is a thing to regret.”

“See you,” said madame, “I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to
me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and
child must follow the husband and father.”

“She has a fine head for it,” croaked Jacques Three. “I have seen blue
eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held
them up.” Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.

Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.

“The child also,” observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment
of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
there. It is a pretty sight!”

“In a word,” said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,
“I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since
last night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;
but also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,
and then they might escape.”

“That must never be,” croaked Jacques Three; “no one must escape. We
have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.”

“In a word,” Madame Defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for
pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
therefore. Come hither, little citizen.”

The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.

“Touching those signals, little citizen,” said Madame Defarge, sternly,
“that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
this very day?”

“Ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer. “Every day, in all weathers, from
two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.”

He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had
never seen.

“Clearly plots,” said Jacques Three. “Transparently!”

“There is no doubt of the Jury?” inquired Madame Defarge, letting her
eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.

“Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
fellow-Jurymen.”

“Now, let me see,” said Madame Defarge, pondering again. “Yet once more!
Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can
I spare him?”

“He would count as one head,” observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.
“We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.”

“He was signalling with her when I saw her,” argued Madame Defarge; “I
cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and
trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a
bad witness.”

The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of
witnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a
celestial witness.

“He must take his chance,” said Madame Defarge. “No, I cannot spare
him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of
to-day executed.--You?”

The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at
him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears
for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.

“I,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place. After it is
over--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we
will give information against these people at my Section.”

The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.

Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:

“She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will
be mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
I will go to her.”

“What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed Jacques
Three, rapturously. “Ah, my cherished!” cried The Vengeance; and
embraced her.

“Take you my knitting,” said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep
me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a
greater concourse than usual, to-day.”

“I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,” said The Vengeance with
alacrity, and kissing her cheek. “You will not be late?”

“I shall be there before the commencement.”

“And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,” said
The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the
street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”

Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and
might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the
mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the
Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative
of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.

There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart
to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of
her.

It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of
his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that
his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and
her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had
been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which
she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had
been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any
softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
sent her there.

Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly
worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her
dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her
bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened
dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such
a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually
walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown
sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.

Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment
waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,
the difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's
attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,
but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining
it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their
escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
Finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross
and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at
three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,
passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in
advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours
of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.

Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,
taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the
else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.

“Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose agitation
was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken
suspicion.”

“My opinion, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “is as you're right. Likewise
wot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.”

“I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said
Miss Pross, wildly crying, “that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?”

“Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned Mr. Cruncher, “I
hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here
crisis?”

“Oh, for gracious sake!” cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, “record
them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”

“First,” said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no
more will I do it, never no more!”

“I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,” returned Miss Pross, “that you
never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it
necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”

“No, miss,” returned Jerry, “it shall not be named to you. Second: them
poor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with
Mrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!”

“Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said Miss Pross,
striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “I have no doubt it
is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own
superintendence.--O my poor darlings!”

“I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--“and let my words
be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my
opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present
time.”

“There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted
Miss Pross, “and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.”

“Forbid it,” proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,
additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold
out, “as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my
earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all
flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal
risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!” This was Mr. Cruncher's
conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.

And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came
nearer and nearer.

“If we ever get back to our native land,” said Miss Pross, “you may rely
upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events
you may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in
earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
Cruncher, let us think!”

Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
and nearer.

“If you were to go before,” said Miss Pross, “and stop the vehicle and
horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't
that be best?”

Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.

“Where could you wait for me?” asked Miss Pross.

Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
Defarge was drawing very near indeed.

“By the cathedral door,” said Miss Pross. “Would it be much out of
the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two
towers?”

“No, miss,” answered Mr. Cruncher.

“Then, like the best of men,” said Miss Pross, “go to the posting-house
straight, and make that change.”

“I am doubtful,” said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
“about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.”

“Heaven knows we don't,” returned Miss Pross, “but have no fear for me.
Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,
and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
that may depend on both of us!”

This exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty
clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself
to follow as she had proposed.

The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the
streets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty
minutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.

Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door
in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.

The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
those feet had come to meet that water.

Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “The wife of Evremonde;
where is she?”

It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,
and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.

Madame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,
and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful
about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,
of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different
way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.

“You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,” said Miss
Pross, in her breathing. “Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
me. I am an Englishwoman.”

Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of
Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,
hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a
woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that
Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well
that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.

“On my way yonder,” said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of
her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my
knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I
wish to see her.”

“I know that your intentions are evil,” said Miss Pross, “and you may
depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.”

Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;
both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what
the unintelligible words meant.

“It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this
moment,” said Madame Defarge. “Good patriots will know what that means.
Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?”

“If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned Miss Pross, “and I
was an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,
you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.”

Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in
detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set
at naught.

“Woman imbecile and pig-like!” said Madame Defarge, frowning. “I take no
answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand
to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
 This, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.

“I little thought,” said Miss Pross, “that I should ever want to
understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,
except the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any
part of it.”

Neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame
Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross
first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.

“I am a Briton,” said Miss Pross, “I am desperate. I don't care an
English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the
greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that
dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”

Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes
between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.

But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame
Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. “Ha, ha!” she
laughed, “you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that
Doctor.” Then she raised her voice and called out, “Citizen Doctor! Wife
of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,
answer the Citizeness Defarge!”

Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.
Three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.

“Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
you! Let me look.”

“Never!” said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
Madame Defarge understood the answer.

“If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
brought back,” said Madame Defarge to herself.

“As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are
uncertain what to do,” said Miss Pross to herself; “and you shall not
know that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know
that, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.”

“I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,
I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,” said
Madame Defarge.

“We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to
my darling,” said Miss Pross.

Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle
that they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her
face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and
clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.

Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
waist. “It is under my arm,” said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, “you
shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
you till one or other of us faints or dies!”

Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw
what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood
alone--blinded with smoke.

All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
whose body lay lifeless on the ground.

In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of
what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to
go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to
get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,
out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking
away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe
and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.

By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement
like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of
gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her
dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a
hundred ways.

In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving
at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,
she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if
it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains
discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and
charged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the
escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.

“Is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.

“The usual noises,” Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
question and by her aspect.

“I don't hear you,” said Miss Pross. “What do you say?”

It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
not hear him. “So I'll nod my head,” thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, “at
all events she'll see that.” And she did.

“Is there any noise in the streets now?” asked Miss Pross again,
presently.

Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.

“I don't hear it.”

“Gone deaf in an hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind
much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”

“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash,
and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.”

“Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher, more and
more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
Hark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?”

“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing. O,
my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be
broken any more as long as my life lasts.”

“If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
journey's end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my
opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”

And indeed she never did.




XV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever


Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,
are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in
France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,
a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under
conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush
humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will
twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of
rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield
the same fruit according to its kind.

Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be
the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's
house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order
of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed
into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in
the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this
form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
 Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.

As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up
a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces
are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that
in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the
hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in
the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a
curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to
tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.

Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as
they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,
and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and
he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made
drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole
number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is
always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The
horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with
their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands
at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a
mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has
no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the
girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised
against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he
shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily
touch his face, his arms being bound.

On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.
He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he
sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.

“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.

“That. At the back there.”

“With his hand in the girl's?”

“Yes.”

The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
Down, Evremonde!”

“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.

“And why not, citizen?”

“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
Let him be at peace.”

But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of
Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the
Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.

The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and
close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following
to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of
public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the
fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.

“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese
Defarge!”

“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.

“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance, petulantly. “Therese.”

“Louder,” the woman recommends.

Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet
it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,
lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread
deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far
enough to find her!

“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and
here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and
she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for
her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”

As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
robed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could
think and speak, count One.

The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And
the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
his face and thanks him.

“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been
able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might
have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by
Heaven.”

“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
and mind no other object.”

“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let
it go, if they are rapid.”

“They will be rapid. Fear not!”

The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to
heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart
and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
together, and to rest in her bosom.

“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
am very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I
love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a
farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows
nothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I
tell her! It is better as it is.”

“Yes, yes: better as it is.”

“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still
thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so
much support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,
and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may
live a long time: she may even live to be old.”

“What then, my gentle sister?”

“Do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
“that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”

“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”

“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
moment come?”

“Yes.”

She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than
a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before
him--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth
in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
believeth in me shall never die.”

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing
on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells
forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
Twenty-Three.

        *****

They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the
peacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked
sublime and prophetic.

One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked
at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:

“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of
the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease
out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people
rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in
their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil
of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.

“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see
Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,
aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his
healing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their
friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
tranquilly to his reward.

“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of
their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping
for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their
course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know
that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,
than I was in the souls of both.

“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the
light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,
fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to
look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him
tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.

“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book, in
the first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the
composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest
in it, is so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided between
pleasure and regret--pleasure in the achievement of a long design,
regret in the separation from many companions--that I am in danger of
wearying the reader whom I love, with personal confidences, and private
emotions.

Besides which, all that I could say of the Story, to any purpose, I have
endeavoured to say in it.

It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know, how sorrowfully
the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task; or
how an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself
into the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain
are going from him for ever. Yet, I have nothing else to tell; unless,
indeed, I were to confess (which might be of less moment still) that no
one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I have
believed it in the writing.

Instead of looking back, therefore, I will look forward. I cannot close
this Volume more agreeably to myself, than with a hopeful glance towards
the time when I shall again put forth my two green leaves once a month,
and with a faithful remembrance of the genial sun and showers that have
fallen on these leaves of David Copperfield, and made me happy.

     London, October, 1850.




PREFACE TO THE CHARLES DICKENS EDITION


I REMARKED in the original Preface to this Book, that I did not find it
easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in the first sensations of
having finished it, to refer to it with the composure which this formal
heading would seem to require. My interest in it was so recent and
strong, and my mind was so divided between pleasure and regret--pleasure
in the achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from many
companions--that I was in danger of wearying the reader with personal
confidences and private emotions.

Besides which, all that I could have said of the Story to any purpose, I
had endeavoured to say in it.

It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how sorrowfully the
pen is laid down at the close of a two-years’ imaginative task; or how
an Author feels as if he were dismissing some portion of himself into
the shadowy world, when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going
from him for ever. Yet, I had nothing else to tell; unless, indeed, I
were to confess (which might be of less moment still), that no one can
ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than I believed it in
the writing.

So true are these avowals at the present day, that I can now only take
the reader into one confidence more. Of all my books, I like this the
best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond parent to every child
of my fancy, and that no one can ever love that family as dearly as I
love them. But, like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a
favourite child. And his name is

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

     1869




THE PERSONAL HISTORY AND EXPERIENCE OF DAVID COPPERFIELD THE YOUNGER



CHAPTER 1. I AM BORN



Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that
station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my
life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have
been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night.
It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry,
simultaneously.

In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by
the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a
lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility
of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be
unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and
spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to
all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a
Friday night.

I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show
better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified
by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark,
that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still
a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of
having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in
the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it.

I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the
newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going
people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and
preferred cork jackets, I don’t know; all I know is, that there was but
one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the
bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance
in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher
bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead
loss--for as to sherry, my poor dear mother’s own sherry was in the
market then--and ten years afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle
down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a
head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I
remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of
myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by
an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it
the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny
short--as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to
endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will
be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned,
but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it
was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the
water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which
she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation
at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go
‘meandering’ about the world. It was in vain to represent to her
that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this
objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and
with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, ‘Let us
have no meandering.’

Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth.

I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or ‘there by’, as they say in
Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father’s eyes had closed upon
the light of this world six months, when mine opened on it. There is
something strange to me, even now, in the reflection that he never saw
me; and something stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have
of my first childish associations with his white grave-stone in the
churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used to feel for it
lying out alone there in the dark night, when our little parlour
was warm and bright with fire and candle, and the doors of our house
were--almost cruelly, it seemed to me sometimes--bolted and locked
against it.

An aunt of my father’s, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, of whom
I shall have more to relate by and by, was the principal magnate of our
family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss Betsey, as my poor mother always called
her, when she sufficiently overcame her dread of this formidable
personage to mention her at all (which was seldom), had been married
to a husband younger than herself, who was very handsome, except in the
sense of the homely adage, ‘handsome is, that handsome does’--for he
was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss Betsey, and even of having
once, on a disputed question of supplies, made some hasty but determined
arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs’ window. These
evidences of an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey to pay him
off, and effect a separation by mutual consent. He went to India with
his capital, and there, according to a wild legend in our family, he was
once seen riding on an elephant, in company with a Baboon; but I think
it must have been a Baboo--or a Begum. Anyhow, from India tidings of his
death reached home, within ten years. How they affected my aunt, nobody
knew; for immediately upon the separation, she took her maiden name
again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long way off,
established herself there as a single woman with one servant, and
was understood to live secluded, ever afterwards, in an inflexible
retirement.

My father had once been a favourite of hers, I believe; but she was
mortally affronted by his marriage, on the ground that my mother was ‘a
wax doll’. She had never seen my mother, but she knew her to be not
yet twenty. My father and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double
my mother’s age when he married, and of but a delicate constitution. He
died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six months before I came
into the world.

This was the state of matters, on the afternoon of, what I may be
excused for calling, that eventful and important Friday. I can make no
claim therefore to have known, at that time, how matters stood; or to
have any remembrance, founded on the evidence of my own senses, of what
follows.

My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and very low in
spirits, looking at it through her tears, and desponding heavily about
herself and the fatherless little stranger, who was already welcomed by
some grosses of prophetic pins, in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at
all excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was sitting
by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and
very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her,
when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the window opposite, she
saw a strange lady coming up the garden.

My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance, that it was
Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the strange lady, over the
garden-fence, and she came walking up to the door with a fell rigidity
of figure and composure of countenance that could have belonged to
nobody else.

When she reached the house, she gave another proof of her identity.
My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like any
ordinary Christian; and now, instead of ringing the bell, she came and
looked in at that identical window, pressing the end of her nose against
the glass to that extent, that my poor dear mother used to say it became
perfectly flat and white in a moment.

She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been convinced I am
indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born on a Friday.

My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone behind it in
the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the room, slowly and inquiringly,
began on the other side, and carried her eyes on, like a Saracen’s Head
in a Dutch clock, until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown
and a gesture to my mother, like one who was accustomed to be obeyed, to
come and open the door. My mother went.

‘Mrs. David Copperfield, I think,’ said Miss Betsey; the emphasis
referring, perhaps, to my mother’s mourning weeds, and her condition.

‘Yes,’ said my mother, faintly.

‘Miss Trotwood,’ said the visitor. ‘You have heard of her, I dare say?’

My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And she had a disagreeable
consciousness of not appearing to imply that it had been an overpowering
pleasure.

‘Now you see her,’ said Miss Betsey. My mother bent her head, and begged
her to walk in.

They went into the parlour my mother had come from, the fire in the best
room on the other side of the passage not being lighted--not having
been lighted, indeed, since my father’s funeral; and when they were both
seated, and Miss Betsey said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying to
restrain herself, began to cry. ‘Oh tut, tut, tut!’ said Miss Betsey, in
a hurry. ‘Don’t do that! Come, come!’

My mother couldn’t help it notwithstanding, so she cried until she had
had her cry out.

‘Take off your cap, child,’ said Miss Betsey, ‘and let me see you.’

My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance with this odd
request, if she had any disposition to do so. Therefore she did as she
was told, and did it with such nervous hands that her hair (which was
luxuriant and beautiful) fell all about her face.

‘Why, bless my heart!’ exclaimed Miss Betsey. ‘You are a very Baby!’

My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appearance even for her
years; she hung her head, as if it were her fault, poor thing, and said,
sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she was but a childish widow, and
would be but a childish mother if she lived. In a short pause which
ensued, she had a fancy that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and
that with no ungentle hand; but, looking at her, in her timid hope, she
found that lady sitting with the skirt of her dress tucked up, her hands
folded on one knee, and her feet upon the fender, frowning at the fire.

‘In the name of Heaven,’ said Miss Betsey, suddenly, ‘why Rookery?’

‘Do you mean the house, ma’am?’ asked my mother.

‘Why Rookery?’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Cookery would have been more to the
purpose, if you had had any practical ideas of life, either of you.’

‘The name was Mr. Copperfield’s choice,’ returned my mother. ‘When he
bought the house, he liked to think that there were rooks about it.’

The evening wind made such a disturbance just now, among some tall old
elm-trees at the bottom of the garden, that neither my mother nor Miss
Betsey could forbear glancing that way. As the elms bent to one another,
like giants who were whispering secrets, and after a few seconds of such
repose, fell into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if
their late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of mind,
some weatherbeaten ragged old rooks’-nests, burdening their higher
branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea.

‘Where are the birds?’ asked Miss Betsey.

‘The--?’ My mother had been thinking of something else.

‘The rooks--what has become of them?’ asked Miss Betsey.

‘There have not been any since we have lived here,’ said my mother. ‘We
thought--Mr. Copperfield thought--it was quite a large rookery; but
the nests were very old ones, and the birds have deserted them a long
while.’

‘David Copperfield all over!’ cried Miss Betsey. ‘David Copperfield from
head to foot! Calls a house a rookery when there’s not a rook near it,
and takes the birds on trust, because he sees the nests!’

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned my mother, ‘is dead, and if you dare to
speak unkindly of him to me--’

My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary intention of
committing an assault and battery upon my aunt, who could easily have
settled her with one hand, even if my mother had been in far better
training for such an encounter than she was that evening. But it passed
with the action of rising from her chair; and she sat down again very
meekly, and fainted.

When she came to herself, or when Miss Betsey had restored her,
whichever it was, she found the latter standing at the window. The
twilight was by this time shading down into darkness; and dimly as they
saw each other, they could not have done that without the aid of the
fire.

‘Well?’ said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as if she had only
been taking a casual look at the prospect; ‘and when do you expect--’

‘I am all in a tremble,’ faltered my mother. ‘I don’t know what’s the
matter. I shall die, I am sure!’

‘No, no, no,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Have some tea.’

‘Oh dear me, dear me, do you think it will do me any good?’ cried my
mother in a helpless manner.

‘Of course it will,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘It’s nothing but fancy. What do
you call your girl?’

‘I don’t know that it will be a girl, yet, ma’am,’ said my mother
innocently.

‘Bless the Baby!’ exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconsciously quoting the
second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer upstairs, but
applying it to my mother instead of me, ‘I don’t mean that. I mean your
servant-girl.’

‘Peggotty,’ said my mother.

‘Peggotty!’ repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation. ‘Do you mean to
say, child, that any human being has gone into a Christian church,
and got herself named Peggotty?’ ‘It’s her surname,’ said my mother,
faintly. ‘Mr. Copperfield called her by it, because her Christian name
was the same as mine.’

‘Here! Peggotty!’ cried Miss Betsey, opening the parlour door. ‘Tea.
Your mistress is a little unwell. Don’t dawdle.’

Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality as if she had been
a recognized authority in the house ever since it had been a house,
and having looked out to confront the amazed Peggotty coming along the
passage with a candle at the sound of a strange voice, Miss Betsey shut
the door again, and sat down as before: with her feet on the fender, the
skirt of her dress tucked up, and her hands folded on one knee.

‘You were speaking about its being a girl,’ said Miss Betsey. ‘I have no
doubt it will be a girl. I have a presentiment that it must be a girl.
Now child, from the moment of the birth of this girl--’

‘Perhaps boy,’ my mother took the liberty of putting in.

‘I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl,’ returned Miss
Betsey. ‘Don’t contradict. From the moment of this girl’s birth, child,
I intend to be her friend. I intend to be her godmother, and I beg
you’ll call her Betsey Trotwood Copperfield. There must be no mistakes
in life with THIS Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with HER
affections, poor dear. She must be well brought up, and well guarded
from reposing any foolish confidences where they are not deserved. I
must make that MY care.’

There was a twitch of Miss Betsey’s head, after each of these sentences,
as if her own old wrongs were working within her, and she repressed any
plainer reference to them by strong constraint. So my mother suspected,
at least, as she observed her by the low glimmer of the fire: too
much scared by Miss Betsey, too uneasy in herself, and too subdued and
bewildered altogether, to observe anything very clearly, or to know what
to say.

‘And was David good to you, child?’ asked Miss Betsey, when she had been
silent for a little while, and these motions of her head had gradually
ceased. ‘Were you comfortable together?’

‘We were very happy,’ said my mother. ‘Mr. Copperfield was only too good
to me.’

‘What, he spoilt you, I suppose?’ returned Miss Betsey.

‘For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough world
again, yes, I fear he did indeed,’ sobbed my mother.

‘Well! Don’t cry!’ said Miss Betsey. ‘You were not equally matched,
child--if any two people can be equally matched--and so I asked the
question. You were an orphan, weren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’

‘And a governess?’

‘I was nursery-governess in a family where Mr. Copperfield came to
visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me, and took a great deal of
notice of me, and paid me a good deal of attention, and at last proposed
to me. And I accepted him. And so we were married,’ said my mother
simply.

‘Ha! Poor Baby!’ mused Miss Betsey, with her frown still bent upon the
fire. ‘Do you know anything?’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ faltered my mother.

‘About keeping house, for instance,’ said Miss Betsey.

‘Not much, I fear,’ returned my mother. ‘Not so much as I could wish.
But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me--’

[‘Much he knew about it himself!’) said Miss Betsey in a parenthesis.
--‘And I hope I should have improved, being very anxious to learn, and
he very patient to teach me, if the great misfortune of his death’--my
mother broke down again here, and could get no farther.

‘Well, well!’ said Miss Betsey. --‘I kept my housekeeping-book
regularly, and balanced it with Mr. Copperfield every night,’ cried my
mother in another burst of distress, and breaking down again.

‘Well, well!’ said Miss Betsey. ‘Don’t cry any more.’ --‘And I am
sure we never had a word of difference respecting it, except when Mr.
Copperfield objected to my threes and fives being too much like each
other, or to my putting curly tails to my sevens and nines,’ resumed my
mother in another burst, and breaking down again.

‘You’ll make yourself ill,’ said Miss Betsey, ‘and you know that will
not be good either for you or for my god-daughter. Come! You mustn’t do
it!’

This argument had some share in quieting my mother, though her
increasing indisposition had a larger one. There was an interval of
silence, only broken by Miss Betsey’s occasionally ejaculating ‘Ha!’ as
she sat with her feet upon the fender.

‘David had bought an annuity for himself with his money, I know,’ said
she, by and by. ‘What did he do for you?’

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said my mother, answering with some difficulty, ‘was
so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part of it to
me.’

‘How much?’ asked Miss Betsey.

‘A hundred and five pounds a year,’ said my mother.

‘He might have done worse,’ said my aunt.

The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was so much worse
that Peggotty, coming in with the teaboard and candles, and seeing at a
glance how ill she was,--as Miss Betsey might have done sooner if there
had been light enough,--conveyed her upstairs to her own room with all
speed; and immediately dispatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who had been
for some days past secreted in the house, unknown to my mother, as a
special messenger in case of emergency, to fetch the nurse and doctor.

Those allied powers were considerably astonished, when they arrived
within a few minutes of each other, to find an unknown lady of
portentous appearance, sitting before the fire, with her bonnet tied
over her left arm, stopping her ears with jewellers’ cotton. Peggotty
knowing nothing about her, and my mother saying nothing about her,
she was quite a mystery in the parlour; and the fact of her having a
magazine of jewellers’ cotton in her pocket, and sticking the article
in her ears in that way, did not detract from the solemnity of her
presence.

The doctor having been upstairs and come down again, and having
satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a probability of this
unknown lady and himself having to sit there, face to face, for some
hours, laid himself out to be polite and social. He was the meekest of
his sex, the mildest of little men. He sidled in and out of a room, to
take up the less space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet,
and more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in modest
depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation of everybody
else. It is nothing to say that he hadn’t a word to throw at a dog. He
couldn’t have thrown a word at a mad dog. He might have offered him one
gently, or half a one, or a fragment of one; for he spoke as slowly as
he walked; but he wouldn’t have been rude to him, and he couldn’t have
been quick with him, for any earthly consideration.

Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on one side, and
making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the jewellers’ cotton, as
he softly touched his left ear:

‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’

‘What!’ replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one ear like a cork.

Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness--as he told my mother
afterwards--that it was a mercy he didn’t lose his presence of mind. But
he repeated sweetly:

‘Some local irritation, ma’am?’

‘Nonsense!’ replied my aunt, and corked herself again, at one blow.

Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this, but sit and look at her feebly,
as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was called upstairs again.
After some quarter of an hour’s absence, he returned.

‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear nearest to him.

‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are--we are progressing slowly,
ma’am.’

‘Ba--a--ah!’ said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the contemptuous
interjection. And corked herself as before.

Really--really--as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was almost shocked;
speaking in a professional point of view alone, he was almost shocked.
But he sat and looked at her, notwithstanding, for nearly two hours,
as she sat looking at the fire, until he was again called out. After
another absence, he again returned.

‘Well?’ said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side again.

‘Well, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘we are--we are progressing slowly,
ma’am.’

‘Ya--a--ah!’ said my aunt. With such a snarl at him, that Mr. Chillip
absolutely could not bear it. It was really calculated to break his
spirit, he said afterwards. He preferred to go and sit upon the stairs,
in the dark and a strong draught, until he was again sent for.

Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school, and was a very dragon at
his catechism, and who may therefore be regarded as a credible witness,
reported next day, that happening to peep in at the parlour-door an hour
after this, he was instantly descried by Miss Betsey, then walking to
and fro in a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make
his escape. That there were now occasional sounds of feet and voices
overhead which he inferred the cotton did not exclude, from the
circumstance of his evidently being clutched by the lady as a victim on
whom to expend her superabundant agitation when the sounds were loudest.
That, marching him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had
been taking too much laudanum), she, at those times, shook him, rumpled
his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his ears as if she confounded
them with her own, and otherwise tousled and maltreated him. This was
in part confirmed by his aunt, who saw him at half past twelve o’clock,
soon after his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was.

The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at such a time, if
at any time. He sidled into the parlour as soon as he was at liberty,
and said to my aunt in his meekest manner:

‘Well, ma’am, I am happy to congratulate you.’

‘What upon?’ said my aunt, sharply.

Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme severity of my aunt’s
manner; so he made her a little bow and gave her a little smile, to
mollify her.

‘Mercy on the man, what’s he doing!’ cried my aunt, impatiently. ‘Can’t
he speak?’

‘Be calm, my dear ma’am,’ said Mr. Chillip, in his softest accents.

‘There is no longer any occasion for uneasiness, ma’am. Be calm.’

It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn’t shake
him, and shake what he had to say, out of him. She only shook her own
head at him, but in a way that made him quail.

‘Well, ma’am,’ resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had courage, ‘I am
happy to congratulate you. All is now over, ma’am, and well over.’

During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to the delivery
of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly.

‘How is she?’ said my aunt, folding her arms with her bonnet still tied
on one of them.

‘Well, ma’am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,’ returned Mr.
Chillip. ‘Quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother to be,
under these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot be any
objection to your seeing her presently, ma’am. It may do her good.’

‘And SHE. How is SHE?’ said my aunt, sharply.

Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and looked at my
aunt like an amiable bird.

‘The baby,’ said my aunt. ‘How is she?’

‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr. Chillip, ‘I apprehended you had known. It’s a
boy.’

My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the strings, in the
manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip’s head with it, put it on
bent, walked out, and never came back. She vanished like a discontented
fairy; or like one of those supernatural beings, whom it was popularly
supposed I was entitled to see; and never came back any more.

No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed; but Betsey
Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of dreams and shadows, the
tremendous region whence I had so lately travelled; and the light upon
the window of our room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such
travellers, and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was he,
without whom I had never been.



CHAPTER 2. I OBSERVE


The first objects that assume a distinct presence before me, as I look
far back, into the blank of my infancy, are my mother with her pretty
hair and youthful shape, and Peggotty with no shape at all, and eyes so
dark that they seemed to darken their whole neighbourhood in her face,
and cheeks and arms so hard and red that I wondered the birds didn’t
peck her in preference to apples.

I believe I can remember these two at a little distance apart, dwarfed
to my sight by stooping down or kneeling on the floor, and I going
unsteadily from the one to the other. I have an impression on my mind
which I cannot distinguish from actual remembrance, of the touch of
Peggotty’s forefinger as she used to hold it out to me, and of its being
roughened by needlework, like a pocket nutmeg-grater.

This may be fancy, though I think the memory of most of us can go
farther back into such times than many of us suppose; just as I believe
the power of observation in numbers of very young children to be quite
wonderful for its closeness and accuracy. Indeed, I think that most
grown men who are remarkable in this respect, may with greater propriety
be said not to have lost the faculty, than to have acquired it; the
rather, as I generally observe such men to retain a certain freshness,
and gentleness, and capacity of being pleased, which are also an
inheritance they have preserved from their childhood.

I might have a misgiving that I am ‘meandering’ in stopping to say this,
but that it brings me to remark that I build these conclusions, in part
upon my own experience of myself; and if it should appear from
anything I may set down in this narrative that I was a child of close
observation, or that as a man I have a strong memory of my childhood, I
undoubtedly lay claim to both of these characteristics.

Looking back, as I was saying, into the blank of my infancy, the first
objects I can remember as standing out by themselves from a confusion of
things, are my mother and Peggotty. What else do I remember? Let me see.


There comes out of the cloud, our house--not new to me, but quite
familiar, in its earliest remembrance. On the ground-floor is Peggotty’s
kitchen, opening into a back yard; with a pigeon-house on a pole, in
the centre, without any pigeons in it; a great dog-kennel in a corner,
without any dog; and a quantity of fowls that look terribly tall to me,
walking about, in a menacing and ferocious manner. There is one cock who
gets upon a post to crow, and seems to take particular notice of me as
I look at him through the kitchen window, who makes me shiver, he is so
fierce. Of the geese outside the side-gate who come waddling after
me with their long necks stretched out when I go that way, I dream at
night: as a man environed by wild beasts might dream of lions.

Here is a long passage--what an enormous perspective I make of
it!--leading from Peggotty’s kitchen to the front door. A dark
store-room opens out of it, and that is a place to be run past at
night; for I don’t know what may be among those tubs and jars and old
tea-chests, when there is nobody in there with a dimly-burning light,
letting a mouldy air come out of the door, in which there is the smell
of soap, pickles, pepper, candles, and coffee, all at one whiff. Then
there are the two parlours: the parlour in which we sit of an evening,
my mother and I and Peggotty--for Peggotty is quite our companion, when
her work is done and we are alone--and the best parlour where we sit
on a Sunday; grandly, but not so comfortably. There is something of a
doleful air about that room to me, for Peggotty has told me--I don’t
know when, but apparently ages ago--about my father’s funeral, and the
company having their black cloaks put on. One Sunday night my mother
reads to Peggotty and me in there, how Lazarus was raised up from the
dead. And I am so frightened that they are afterwards obliged to take me
out of bed, and show me the quiet churchyard out of the bedroom window,
with the dead all lying in their graves at rest, below the solemn moon.

There is nothing half so green that I know anywhere, as the grass of
that churchyard; nothing half so shady as its trees; nothing half so
quiet as its tombstones. The sheep are feeding there, when I kneel up,
early in the morning, in my little bed in a closet within my mother’s
room, to look out at it; and I see the red light shining on the
sun-dial, and think within myself, ‘Is the sun-dial glad, I wonder, that
it can tell the time again?’

Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew! With a window
near it, out of which our house can be seen, and IS seen many times
during the morning’s service, by Peggotty, who likes to make herself
as sure as she can that it’s not being robbed, or is not in flames. But
though Peggotty’s eye wanders, she is much offended if mine does,
and frowns to me, as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at the
clergyman. But I can’t always look at him--I know him without that white
thing on, and I am afraid of his wondering why I stare so, and perhaps
stopping the service to inquire--and what am I to do? It’s a dreadful
thing to gape, but I must do something. I look at my mother, but she
pretends not to see me. I look at a boy in the aisle, and he makes faces
at me. I look at the sunlight coming in at the open door through
the porch, and there I see a stray sheep--I don’t mean a sinner, but
mutton--half making up his mind to come into the church. I feel that
if I looked at him any longer, I might be tempted to say something out
loud; and what would become of me then! I look up at the monumental
tablets on the wall, and try to think of Mr. Bodgers late of this
parish, and what the feelings of Mrs. Bodgers must have been, when
affliction sore, long time Mr. Bodgers bore, and physicians were in
vain. I wonder whether they called in Mr. Chillip, and he was in vain;
and if so, how he likes to be reminded of it once a week. I look from
Mr. Chillip, in his Sunday neckcloth, to the pulpit; and think what a
good place it would be to play in, and what a castle it would make, with
another boy coming up the stairs to attack it, and having the velvet
cushion with the tassels thrown down on his head. In time my eyes
gradually shut up; and, from seeming to hear the clergyman singing a
drowsy song in the heat, I hear nothing, until I fall off the seat with
a crash, and am taken out, more dead than alive, by Peggotty.

And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed
bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling air, and the
ragged old rooks’-nests still dangling in the elm-trees at the bottom
of the front garden. Now I am in the garden at the back, beyond the
yard where the empty pigeon-house and dog-kennel are--a very preserve
of butterflies, as I remember it, with a high fence, and a gate and
padlock; where the fruit clusters on the trees, riper and richer than
fruit has ever been since, in any other garden, and where my
mother gathers some in a basket, while I stand by, bolting furtive
gooseberries, and trying to look unmoved. A great wind rises, and the
summer is gone in a moment. We are playing in the winter twilight,
dancing about the parlour. When my mother is out of breath and rests
herself in an elbow-chair, I watch her winding her bright curls round
her fingers, and straitening her waist, and nobody knows better than I
do that she likes to look so well, and is proud of being so pretty.

That is among my very earliest impressions. That, and a sense that we
were both a little afraid of Peggotty, and submitted ourselves in most
things to her direction, were among the first opinions--if they may be
so called--that I ever derived from what I saw.

Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlour fire, alone. I
had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I must have read very
perspicuously, or the poor soul must have been deeply interested, for I
remember she had a cloudy impression, after I had done, that they were
a sort of vegetable. I was tired of reading, and dead sleepy; but
having leave, as a high treat, to sit up until my mother came home from
spending the evening at a neighbour’s, I would rather have died upon
my post (of course) than have gone to bed. I had reached that stage of
sleepiness when Peggotty seemed to swell and grow immensely large.
I propped my eyelids open with my two forefingers, and looked
perseveringly at her as she sat at work; at the little bit of wax-candle
she kept for her thread--how old it looked, being so wrinkled in
all directions!--at the little house with a thatched roof, where the
yard-measure lived; at her work-box with a sliding lid, with a view of
St. Paul’s Cathedral (with a pink dome) painted on the top; at the brass
thimble on her finger; at herself, whom I thought lovely. I felt so
sleepy, that I knew if I lost sight of anything for a moment, I was
gone.

‘Peggotty,’ says I, suddenly, ‘were you ever married?’

‘Lord, Master Davy,’ replied Peggotty. ‘What’s put marriage in your
head?’

She answered with such a start, that it quite awoke me. And then she
stopped in her work, and looked at me, with her needle drawn out to its
thread’s length.

‘But WERE you ever married, Peggotty?’ says I. ‘You are a very handsome
woman, an’t you?’

I thought her in a different style from my mother, certainly; but of
another school of beauty, I considered her a perfect example. There
was a red velvet footstool in the best parlour, on which my mother
had painted a nosegay. The ground-work of that stool, and Peggotty’s
complexion appeared to me to be one and the same thing. The stool was
smooth, and Peggotty was rough, but that made no difference.

‘Me handsome, Davy!’ said Peggotty. ‘Lawk, no, my dear! But what put
marriage in your head?’

‘I don’t know!--You mustn’t marry more than one person at a time, may
you, Peggotty?’

‘Certainly not,’ says Peggotty, with the promptest decision.

‘But if you marry a person, and the person dies, why then you may marry
another person, mayn’t you, Peggotty?’

‘YOU MAY,’ says Peggotty, ‘if you choose, my dear. That’s a matter of
opinion.’

‘But what is your opinion, Peggotty?’ said I.

I asked her, and looked curiously at her, because she looked so
curiously at me.

‘My opinion is,’ said Peggotty, taking her eyes from me, after a little
indecision and going on with her work, ‘that I never was married myself,
Master Davy, and that I don’t expect to be. That’s all I know about the
subject.’

‘You an’t cross, I suppose, Peggotty, are you?’ said I, after sitting
quiet for a minute.

I really thought she was, she had been so short with me; but I was quite
mistaken: for she laid aside her work (which was a stocking of her own),
and opening her arms wide, took my curly head within them, and gave it
a good squeeze. I know it was a good squeeze, because, being very plump,
whenever she made any little exertion after she was dressed, some of the
buttons on the back of her gown flew off. And I recollect two bursting
to the opposite side of the parlour, while she was hugging me.

‘Now let me hear some more about the Crorkindills,’ said Peggotty, who
was not quite right in the name yet, ‘for I an’t heard half enough.’

I couldn’t quite understand why Peggotty looked so queer, or why she
was so ready to go back to the crocodiles. However, we returned to those
monsters, with fresh wakefulness on my part, and we left their eggs in
the sand for the sun to hatch; and we ran away from them, and baffled
them by constantly turning, which they were unable to do quickly, on
account of their unwieldy make; and we went into the water after them,
as natives, and put sharp pieces of timber down their throats; and in
short we ran the whole crocodile gauntlet. I did, at least; but I had
my doubts of Peggotty, who was thoughtfully sticking her needle into
various parts of her face and arms, all the time.

We had exhausted the crocodiles, and begun with the alligators, when
the garden-bell rang. We went out to the door; and there was my mother,
looking unusually pretty, I thought, and with her a gentleman with
beautiful black hair and whiskers, who had walked home with us from
church last Sunday.

As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me in her arms and
kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly privileged little fellow
than a monarch--or something like that; for my later understanding
comes, I am sensible, to my aid here.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked him, over her shoulder.

He patted me on the head; but somehow, I didn’t like him or his deep
voice, and I was jealous that his hand should touch my mother’s in
touching me--which it did. I put it away, as well as I could.

‘Oh, Davy!’ remonstrated my mother.

‘Dear boy!’ said the gentleman. ‘I cannot wonder at his devotion!’

I never saw such a beautiful colour on my mother’s face before. She
gently chid me for being rude; and, keeping me close to her shawl,
turned to thank the gentleman for taking so much trouble as to bring her
home. She put out her hand to him as she spoke, and, as he met it with
his own, she glanced, I thought, at me.

‘Let us say “good night”, my fine boy,’ said the gentleman, when he had
bent his head--I saw him!--over my mother’s little glove.

‘Good night!’ said I.

‘Come! Let us be the best friends in the world!’ said the gentleman,
laughing. ‘Shake hands!’

My right hand was in my mother’s left, so I gave him the other.

‘Why, that’s the Wrong hand, Davy!’ laughed the gentleman.

My mother drew my right hand forward, but I was resolved, for my former
reason, not to give it him, and I did not. I gave him the other, and he
shook it heartily, and said I was a brave fellow, and went away.

At this minute I see him turn round in the garden, and give us a last
look with his ill-omened black eyes, before the door was shut.

Peggotty, who had not said a word or moved a finger, secured the
fastenings instantly, and we all went into the parlour. My mother,
contrary to her usual habit, instead of coming to the elbow-chair by the
fire, remained at the other end of the room, and sat singing to herself.
--‘Hope you have had a pleasant evening, ma’am,’ said Peggotty, standing
as stiff as a barrel in the centre of the room, with a candlestick in
her hand.

‘Much obliged to you, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, in a cheerful
voice, ‘I have had a VERY pleasant evening.’

‘A stranger or so makes an agreeable change,’ suggested Peggotty.

‘A very agreeable change, indeed,’ returned my mother.

Peggotty continuing to stand motionless in the middle of the room, and
my mother resuming her singing, I fell asleep, though I was not so sound
asleep but that I could hear voices, without hearing what they said.
When I half awoke from this uncomfortable doze, I found Peggotty and my
mother both in tears, and both talking.

‘Not such a one as this, Mr. Copperfield wouldn’t have liked,’ said
Peggotty. ‘That I say, and that I swear!’

‘Good Heavens!’ cried my mother, ‘you’ll drive me mad! Was ever any
poor girl so ill-used by her servants as I am! Why do I do myself
the injustice of calling myself a girl? Have I never been married,
Peggotty?’

‘God knows you have, ma’am,’ returned Peggotty. ‘Then, how can you
dare,’ said my mother--‘you know I don’t mean how can you dare,
Peggotty, but how can you have the heart--to make me so uncomfortable
and say such bitter things to me, when you are well aware that I
haven’t, out of this place, a single friend to turn to?’

‘The more’s the reason,’ returned Peggotty, ‘for saying that it won’t
do. No! That it won’t do. No! No price could make it do. No!’--I thought
Peggotty would have thrown the candlestick away, she was so emphatic
with it.

‘How can you be so aggravating,’ said my mother, shedding more tears
than before, ‘as to talk in such an unjust manner! How can you go on as
if it was all settled and arranged, Peggotty, when I tell you over
and over again, you cruel thing, that beyond the commonest civilities
nothing has passed! You talk of admiration. What am I to do? If people
are so silly as to indulge the sentiment, is it my fault? What am I to
do, I ask you? Would you wish me to shave my head and black my face, or
disfigure myself with a burn, or a scald, or something of that sort? I
dare say you would, Peggotty. I dare say you’d quite enjoy it.’

Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much to heart, I thought.

‘And my dear boy,’ cried my mother, coming to the elbow-chair in which
I was, and caressing me, ‘my own little Davy! Is it to be hinted to me
that I am wanting in affection for my precious treasure, the dearest
little fellow that ever was!’

‘Nobody never went and hinted no such a thing,’ said Peggotty.

‘You did, Peggotty!’ returned my mother. ‘You know you did. What else
was it possible to infer from what you said, you unkind creature,
when you know as well as I do, that on his account only last quarter I
wouldn’t buy myself a new parasol, though that old green one is frayed
the whole way up, and the fringe is perfectly mangy? You know it is,
Peggotty. You can’t deny it.’ Then, turning affectionately to me, with
her cheek against mine, ‘Am I a naughty mama to you, Davy? Am I a nasty,
cruel, selfish, bad mama? Say I am, my child; say “yes”, dear boy, and
Peggotty will love you; and Peggotty’s love is a great deal better than
mine, Davy. I don’t love you at all, do I?’

At this, we all fell a-crying together. I think I was the loudest of
the party, but I am sure we were all sincere about it. I was quite
heart-broken myself, and am afraid that in the first transports of
wounded tenderness I called Peggotty a ‘Beast’. That honest creature was
in deep affliction, I remember, and must have become quite buttonless
on the occasion; for a little volley of those explosives went off,
when, after having made it up with my mother, she kneeled down by the
elbow-chair, and made it up with me.

We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking me, for a long
time; and when one very strong sob quite hoisted me up in bed, I found
my mother sitting on the coverlet, and leaning over me. I fell asleep in
her arms, after that, and slept soundly.

Whether it was the following Sunday when I saw the gentleman again,
or whether there was any greater lapse of time before he reappeared,
I cannot recall. I don’t profess to be clear about dates. But there he
was, in church, and he walked home with us afterwards. He came in, too,
to look at a famous geranium we had, in the parlour-window. It did not
appear to me that he took much notice of it, but before he went he asked
my mother to give him a bit of the blossom. She begged him to choose it
for himself, but he refused to do that--I could not understand why--so
she plucked it for him, and gave it into his hand. He said he would
never, never part with it any more; and I thought he must be quite a
fool not to know that it would fall to pieces in a day or two.

Peggotty began to be less with us, of an evening, than she had always
been. My mother deferred to her very much--more than usual, it occurred
to me--and we were all three excellent friends; still we were different
from what we used to be, and were not so comfortable among ourselves.
Sometimes I fancied that Peggotty perhaps objected to my mother’s
wearing all the pretty dresses she had in her drawers, or to her
going so often to visit at that neighbour’s; but I couldn’t, to my
satisfaction, make out how it was.

Gradually, I became used to seeing the gentleman with the black
whiskers. I liked him no better than at first, and had the same uneasy
jealousy of him; but if I had any reason for it beyond a child’s
instinctive dislike, and a general idea that Peggotty and I could make
much of my mother without any help, it certainly was not THE reason that
I might have found if I had been older. No such thing came into my mind,
or near it. I could observe, in little pieces, as it were; but as to
making a net of a number of these pieces, and catching anybody in it,
that was, as yet, beyond me.

One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front garden, when Mr.
Murdstone--I knew him by that name now--came by, on horseback. He reined
up his horse to salute my mother, and said he was going to Lowestoft to
see some friends who were there with a yacht, and merrily proposed to
take me on the saddle before him if I would like the ride.

The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed to like the
idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood snorting and pawing at the
garden-gate, that I had a great desire to go. So I was sent upstairs
to Peggotty to be made spruce; and in the meantime Mr. Murdstone
dismounted, and, with his horse’s bridle drawn over his arm, walked
slowly up and down on the outer side of the sweetbriar fence, while my
mother walked slowly up and down on the inner to keep him company. I
recollect Peggotty and I peeping out at them from my little window; I
recollect how closely they seemed to be examining the sweetbriar between
them, as they strolled along; and how, from being in a perfectly angelic
temper, Peggotty turned cross in a moment, and brushed my hair the wrong
way, excessively hard.

Mr. Murdstone and I were soon off, and trotting along on the green turf
by the side of the road. He held me quite easily with one arm, and I
don’t think I was restless usually; but I could not make up my mind to
sit in front of him without turning my head sometimes, and looking up in
his face. He had that kind of shallow black eye--I want a better word to
express an eye that has no depth in it to be looked into--which, when
it is abstracted, seems from some peculiarity of light to be disfigured,
for a moment at a time, by a cast. Several times when I glanced at him,
I observed that appearance with a sort of awe, and wondered what he
was thinking about so closely. His hair and whiskers were blacker and
thicker, looked at so near, than even I had given them credit for being.
A squareness about the lower part of his face, and the dotted indication
of the strong black beard he shaved close every day, reminded me of
the wax-work that had travelled into our neighbourhood some half-a-year
before. This, his regular eyebrows, and the rich white, and black, and
brown, of his complexion--confound his complexion, and his memory!--made
me think him, in spite of my misgivings, a very handsome man. I have no
doubt that my poor dear mother thought him so too.

We went to an hotel by the sea, where two gentlemen were smoking cigars
in a room by themselves. Each of them was lying on at least four chairs,
and had a large rough jacket on. In a corner was a heap of coats and
boat-cloaks, and a flag, all bundled up together.

They both rolled on to their feet in an untidy sort of manner, when we
came in, and said, ‘Halloa, Murdstone! We thought you were dead!’

‘Not yet,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

‘And who’s this shaver?’ said one of the gentlemen, taking hold of me.

‘That’s Davy,’ returned Mr. Murdstone.

‘Davy who?’ said the gentleman. ‘Jones?’

‘Copperfield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

‘What! Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield’s encumbrance?’ cried the gentleman.
‘The pretty little widow?’

‘Quinion,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘take care, if you please. Somebody’s
sharp.’

‘Who is?’ asked the gentleman, laughing. I looked up, quickly; being
curious to know.

‘Only Brooks of Sheffield,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

I was quite relieved to find that it was only Brooks of Sheffield; for,
at first, I really thought it was I.

There seemed to be something very comical in the reputation of Mr.
Brooks of Sheffield, for both the gentlemen laughed heartily when he
was mentioned, and Mr. Murdstone was a good deal amused also. After some
laughing, the gentleman whom he had called Quinion, said:

‘And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffield, in reference to the
projected business?’

‘Why, I don’t know that Brooks understands much about it at present,’
replied Mr. Murdstone; ‘but he is not generally favourable, I believe.’

There was more laughter at this, and Mr. Quinion said he would ring the
bell for some sherry in which to drink to Brooks. This he did; and when
the wine came, he made me have a little, with a biscuit, and, before
I drank it, stand up and say, ‘Confusion to Brooks of Sheffield!’ The
toast was received with great applause, and such hearty laughter that
it made me laugh too; at which they laughed the more. In short, we quite
enjoyed ourselves.

We walked about on the cliff after that, and sat on the grass, and
looked at things through a telescope--I could make out nothing myself
when it was put to my eye, but I pretended I could--and then we came
back to the hotel to an early dinner. All the time we were out, the two
gentlemen smoked incessantly--which, I thought, if I might judge from
the smell of their rough coats, they must have been doing, ever since
the coats had first come home from the tailor’s. I must not forget that
we went on board the yacht, where they all three descended into the
cabin, and were busy with some papers. I saw them quite hard at work,
when I looked down through the open skylight. They left me, during this
time, with a very nice man with a very large head of red hair and a very
small shiny hat upon it, who had got a cross-barred shirt or waistcoat
on, with ‘Skylark’ in capital letters across the chest. I thought it was
his name; and that as he lived on board ship and hadn’t a street door
to put his name on, he put it there instead; but when I called him Mr.
Skylark, he said it meant the vessel.

I observed all day that Mr. Murdstone was graver and steadier than the
two gentlemen. They were very gay and careless. They joked freely with
one another, but seldom with him. It appeared to me that he was
more clever and cold than they were, and that they regarded him with
something of my own feeling. I remarked that, once or twice when Mr.
Quinion was talking, he looked at Mr. Murdstone sideways, as if to make
sure of his not being displeased; and that once when Mr. Passnidge (the
other gentleman) was in high spirits, he trod upon his foot, and gave
him a secret caution with his eyes, to observe Mr. Murdstone, who was
sitting stern and silent. Nor do I recollect that Mr. Murdstone laughed
at all that day, except at the Sheffield joke--and that, by the by, was
his own.

We went home early in the evening. It was a very fine evening, and my
mother and he had another stroll by the sweetbriar, while I was sent in
to get my tea. When he was gone, my mother asked me all about the day I
had had, and what they had said and done. I mentioned what they had said
about her, and she laughed, and told me they were impudent fellows who
talked nonsense--but I knew it pleased her. I knew it quite as well as
I know it now. I took the opportunity of asking if she was at all
acquainted with Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, but she answered No, only she
supposed he must be a manufacturer in the knife and fork way.

Can I say of her face--altered as I have reason to remember it, perished
as I know it is--that it is gone, when here it comes before me at this
instant, as distinct as any face that I may choose to look on in a
crowded street? Can I say of her innocent and girlish beauty, that it
faded, and was no more, when its breath falls on my cheek now, as it
fell that night? Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance brings
her back to life, thus only; and, truer to its loving youth than I have
been, or man ever is, still holds fast what it cherished then?

I write of her just as she was when I had gone to bed after this talk,
and she came to bid me good night. She kneeled down playfully by the
side of the bed, and laying her chin upon her hands, and laughing, said:

‘What was it they said, Davy? Tell me again. I can’t believe it.’

‘“Bewitching--“’ I began.

My mother put her hands upon my lips to stop me.

‘It was never bewitching,’ she said, laughing. ‘It never could have been
bewitching, Davy. Now I know it wasn’t!’

‘Yes, it was. “Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield”,’ I repeated stoutly. ‘And,
“pretty.”’

‘No, no, it was never pretty. Not pretty,’ interposed my mother, laying
her fingers on my lips again.

‘Yes it was. “Pretty little widow.”’

‘What foolish, impudent creatures!’ cried my mother, laughing and
covering her face. ‘What ridiculous men! An’t they? Davy dear--’

‘Well, Ma.’

‘Don’t tell Peggotty; she might be angry with them. I am dreadfully
angry with them myself; but I would rather Peggotty didn’t know.’

I promised, of course; and we kissed one another over and over again,
and I soon fell fast asleep.

It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if it were the next day
when Peggotty broached the striking and adventurous proposition I am
about to mention; but it was probably about two months afterwards.

We were sitting as before, one evening (when my mother was out as
before), in company with the stocking and the yard-measure, and the bit
of wax, and the box with St. Paul’s on the lid, and the crocodile book,
when Peggotty, after looking at me several times, and opening her mouth
as if she were going to speak, without doing it--which I thought was
merely gaping, or I should have been rather alarmed--said coaxingly:

‘Master Davy, how should you like to go along with me and spend a
fortnight at my brother’s at Yarmouth? Wouldn’t that be a treat?’

‘Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty?’ I inquired, provisionally.

‘Oh, what an agreeable man he is!’ cried Peggotty, holding up her hands.
‘Then there’s the sea; and the boats and ships; and the fishermen; and
the beach; and Am to play with--’

Peggotty meant her nephew Ham, mentioned in my first chapter; but she
spoke of him as a morsel of English Grammar.

I was flushed by her summary of delights, and replied that it would
indeed be a treat, but what would my mother say?

‘Why then I’ll as good as bet a guinea,’ said Peggotty, intent upon my
face, ‘that she’ll let us go. I’ll ask her, if you like, as soon as ever
she comes home. There now!’

‘But what’s she to do while we’re away?’ said I, putting my small elbows
on the table to argue the point. ‘She can’t live by herself.’

If Peggotty were looking for a hole, all of a sudden, in the heel of
that stocking, it must have been a very little one indeed, and not worth
darning.

‘I say! Peggotty! She can’t live by herself, you know.’

‘Oh, bless you!’ said Peggotty, looking at me again at last. ‘Don’t
you know? She’s going to stay for a fortnight with Mrs. Grayper. Mrs.
Grayper’s going to have a lot of company.’

Oh! If that was it, I was quite ready to go. I waited, in the utmost
impatience, until my mother came home from Mrs. Grayper’s (for it was
that identical neighbour), to ascertain if we could get leave to carry
out this great idea. Without being nearly so much surprised as I had
expected, my mother entered into it readily; and it was all arranged
that night, and my board and lodging during the visit were to be paid
for.

The day soon came for our going. It was such an early day that it came
soon, even to me, who was in a fever of expectation, and half afraid
that an earthquake or a fiery mountain, or some other great convulsion
of nature, might interpose to stop the expedition. We were to go in a
carrier’s cart, which departed in the morning after breakfast. I would
have given any money to have been allowed to wrap myself up over-night,
and sleep in my hat and boots.

It touches me nearly now, although I tell it lightly, to recollect how
eager I was to leave my happy home; to think how little I suspected what
I did leave for ever.

I am glad to recollect that when the carrier’s cart was at the gate, and
my mother stood there kissing me, a grateful fondness for her and for
the old place I had never turned my back upon before, made me cry. I am
glad to know that my mother cried too, and that I felt her heart beat
against mine.

I am glad to recollect that when the carrier began to move, my mother
ran out at the gate, and called to him to stop, that she might kiss me
once more. I am glad to dwell upon the earnestness and love with which
she lifted up her face to mine, and did so.

As we left her standing in the road, Mr. Murdstone came up to where
she was, and seemed to expostulate with her for being so moved. I was
looking back round the awning of the cart, and wondered what business
it was of his. Peggotty, who was also looking back on the other side,
seemed anything but satisfied; as the face she brought back in the cart
denoted.

I sat looking at Peggotty for some time, in a reverie on this
supposititious case: whether, if she were employed to lose me like the
boy in the fairy tale, I should be able to track my way home again by
the buttons she would shed.



CHAPTER 3. I HAVE A CHANGE


The carrier’s horse was the laziest horse in the world, I should hope,
and shuffled along, with his head down, as if he liked to keep people
waiting to whom the packages were directed. I fancied, indeed, that he
sometimes chuckled audibly over this reflection, but the carrier said
he was only troubled with a cough. The carrier had a way of keeping his
head down, like his horse, and of drooping sleepily forward as he drove,
with one of his arms on each of his knees. I say ‘drove’, but it struck
me that the cart would have gone to Yarmouth quite as well without him,
for the horse did all that; and as to conversation, he had no idea of it
but whistling.

Peggotty had a basket of refreshments on her knee, which would have
lasted us out handsomely, if we had been going to London by the same
conveyance. We ate a good deal, and slept a good deal. Peggotty always
went to sleep with her chin upon the handle of the basket, her hold of
which never relaxed; and I could not have believed unless I had heard
her do it, that one defenceless woman could have snored so much.

We made so many deviations up and down lanes, and were such a long time
delivering a bedstead at a public-house, and calling at other places,
that I was quite tired, and very glad, when we saw Yarmouth. It looked
rather spongy and soppy, I thought, as I carried my eye over the great
dull waste that lay across the river; and I could not help wondering, if
the world were really as round as my geography book said, how any
part of it came to be so flat. But I reflected that Yarmouth might be
situated at one of the poles; which would account for it.

As we drew a little nearer, and saw the whole adjacent prospect lying a
straight low line under the sky, I hinted to Peggotty that a mound or so
might have improved it; and also that if the land had been a little more
separated from the sea, and the town and the tide had not been quite
so much mixed up, like toast and water, it would have been nicer. But
Peggotty said, with greater emphasis than usual, that we must take
things as we found them, and that, for her part, she was proud to call
herself a Yarmouth Bloater.

When we got into the street (which was strange enough to me) and smelt
the fish, and pitch, and oakum, and tar, and saw the sailors walking
about, and the carts jingling up and down over the stones, I felt that I
had done so busy a place an injustice; and said as much to Peggotty, who
heard my expressions of delight with great complacency, and told me it
was well known (I suppose to those who had the good fortune to be born
Bloaters) that Yarmouth was, upon the whole, the finest place in the
universe.

‘Here’s my Am!’ screamed Peggotty, ‘growed out of knowledge!’

He was waiting for us, in fact, at the public-house; and asked me how I
found myself, like an old acquaintance. I did not feel, at first, that
I knew him as well as he knew me, because he had never come to our house
since the night I was born, and naturally he had the advantage of me.
But our intimacy was much advanced by his taking me on his back to carry
me home. He was, now, a huge, strong fellow of six feet high, broad in
proportion, and round-shouldered; but with a simpering boy’s face and
curly light hair that gave him quite a sheepish look. He was dressed in
a canvas jacket, and a pair of such very stiff trousers that they
would have stood quite as well alone, without any legs in them. And you
couldn’t so properly have said he wore a hat, as that he was covered in
a-top, like an old building, with something pitchy.

Ham carrying me on his back and a small box of ours under his arm,
and Peggotty carrying another small box of ours, we turned down lanes
bestrewn with bits of chips and little hillocks of sand, and went
past gas-works, rope-walks, boat-builders’ yards, shipwrights’ yards,
ship-breakers’ yards, caulkers’ yards, riggers’ lofts, smiths’ forges,
and a great litter of such places, until we came out upon the dull waste
I had already seen at a distance; when Ham said,

‘Yon’s our house, Mas’r Davy!’

I looked in all directions, as far as I could stare over the wilderness,
and away at the sea, and away at the river, but no house could I make
out. There was a black barge, or some other kind of superannuated boat,
not far off, high and dry on the ground, with an iron funnel sticking
out of it for a chimney and smoking very cosily; but nothing else in the
way of a habitation that was visible to me.

‘That’s not it?’ said I. ‘That ship-looking thing?’

‘That’s it, Mas’r Davy,’ returned Ham.

If it had been Aladdin’s palace, roc’s egg and all, I suppose I could
not have been more charmed with the romantic idea of living in it. There
was a delightful door cut in the side, and it was roofed in, and there
were little windows in it; but the wonderful charm of it was, that
it was a real boat which had no doubt been upon the water hundreds of
times, and which had never been intended to be lived in, on dry land.
That was the captivation of it to me. If it had ever been meant to be
lived in, I might have thought it small, or inconvenient, or lonely; but
never having been designed for any such use, it became a perfect abode.

It was beautifully clean inside, and as tidy as possible. There was a
table, and a Dutch clock, and a chest of drawers, and on the chest of
drawers there was a tea-tray with a painting on it of a lady with a
parasol, taking a walk with a military-looking child who was trundling a
hoop. The tray was kept from tumbling down, by a bible; and the tray, if
it had tumbled down, would have smashed a quantity of cups and saucers
and a teapot that were grouped around the book. On the walls there were
some common coloured pictures, framed and glazed, of scripture subjects;
such as I have never seen since in the hands of pedlars, without seeing
the whole interior of Peggotty’s brother’s house again, at one view.
Abraham in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and Daniel in yellow
cast into a den of green lions, were the most prominent of these. Over
the little mantelshelf, was a picture of the ‘Sarah Jane’ lugger, built
at Sunderland, with a real little wooden stern stuck on to it; a work of
art, combining composition with carpentry, which I considered to be one
of the most enviable possessions that the world could afford. There
were some hooks in the beams of the ceiling, the use of which I did not
divine then; and some lockers and boxes and conveniences of that sort,
which served for seats and eked out the chairs.

All this I saw in the first glance after I crossed the
threshold--child-like, according to my theory--and then Peggotty opened
a little door and showed me my bedroom. It was the completest and most
desirable bedroom ever seen--in the stern of the vessel; with a little
window, where the rudder used to go through; a little looking-glass,
just the right height for me, nailed against the wall, and framed with
oyster-shells; a little bed, which there was just room enough to get
into; and a nosegay of seaweed in a blue mug on the table. The walls
were whitewashed as white as milk, and the patchwork counterpane made my
eyes quite ache with its brightness. One thing I particularly noticed
in this delightful house, was the smell of fish; which was so searching,
that when I took out my pocket-handkerchief to wipe my nose, I found it
smelt exactly as if it had wrapped up a lobster. On my imparting this
discovery in confidence to Peggotty, she informed me that her brother
dealt in lobsters, crabs, and crawfish; and I afterwards found that a
heap of these creatures, in a state of wonderful conglomeration with one
another, and never leaving off pinching whatever they laid hold of,
were usually to be found in a little wooden outhouse where the pots and
kettles were kept.

We were welcomed by a very civil woman in a white apron, whom I had seen
curtseying at the door when I was on Ham’s back, about a quarter of a
mile off. Likewise by a most beautiful little girl (or I thought her so)
with a necklace of blue beads on, who wouldn’t let me kiss her when I
offered to, but ran away and hid herself. By and by, when we had dined
in a sumptuous manner off boiled dabs, melted butter, and potatoes, with
a chop for me, a hairy man with a very good-natured face came home. As
he called Peggotty ‘Lass’, and gave her a hearty smack on the cheek, I
had no doubt, from the general propriety of her conduct, that he was her
brother; and so he turned out--being presently introduced to me as Mr.
Peggotty, the master of the house.

‘Glad to see you, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘You’ll find us rough, sir,
but you’ll find us ready.’

I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be happy in such a
delightful place.

‘How’s your Ma, sir?’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Did you leave her pretty
jolly?’

I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as I could wish,
and that she desired her compliments--which was a polite fiction on my
part.

‘I’m much obleeged to her, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Well, sir,
if you can make out here, fur a fortnut, ‘long wi’ her,’ nodding at his
sister, ‘and Ham, and little Em’ly, we shall be proud of your company.’

Having done the honours of his house in this hospitable manner, Mr.
Peggotty went out to wash himself in a kettleful of hot water, remarking
that ‘cold would never get his muck off’. He soon returned, greatly
improved in appearance; but so rubicund, that I couldn’t help
thinking his face had this in common with the lobsters, crabs, and
crawfish,--that it went into the hot water very black, and came out very
red.

After tea, when the door was shut and all was made snug (the nights
being cold and misty now), it seemed to me the most delicious retreat
that the imagination of man could conceive. To hear the wind getting
up out at sea, to know that the fog was creeping over the desolate flat
outside, and to look at the fire, and think that there was no house near
but this one, and this one a boat, was like enchantment. Little Em’ly
had overcome her shyness, and was sitting by my side upon the lowest and
least of the lockers, which was just large enough for us two, and just
fitted into the chimney corner. Mrs. Peggotty with the white apron, was
knitting on the opposite side of the fire. Peggotty at her needlework
was as much at home with St. Paul’s and the bit of wax-candle, as if
they had never known any other roof. Ham, who had been giving me my
first lesson in all-fours, was trying to recollect a scheme of telling
fortunes with the dirty cards, and was printing off fishy impressions of
his thumb on all the cards he turned. Mr. Peggotty was smoking his pipe.
I felt it was a time for conversation and confidence.

‘Mr. Peggotty!’ says I.

‘Sir,’ says he.

‘Did you give your son the name of Ham, because you lived in a sort of
ark?’

Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but answered:

‘No, sir. I never giv him no name.’

‘Who gave him that name, then?’ said I, putting question number two of
the catechism to Mr. Peggotty.

‘Why, sir, his father giv it him,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘I thought you were his father!’

‘My brother Joe was his father,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘Dead, Mr. Peggotty?’ I hinted, after a respectful pause.

‘Drowndead,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

I was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not Ham’s father, and
began to wonder whether I was mistaken about his relationship to anybody
else there. I was so curious to know, that I made up my mind to have it
out with Mr. Peggotty.

‘Little Em’ly,’ I said, glancing at her. ‘She is your daughter, isn’t
she, Mr. Peggotty?’

‘No, sir. My brother-in-law, Tom, was her father.’

I couldn’t help it. ‘--Dead, Mr. Peggotty?’ I hinted, after another
respectful silence.

‘Drowndead,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, but had not got to the
bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom somehow. So I said:

‘Haven’t you ANY children, Mr. Peggotty?’

‘No, master,’ he answered with a short laugh. ‘I’m a bacheldore.’

‘A bachelor!’ I said, astonished. ‘Why, who’s that, Mr. Peggotty?’
pointing to the person in the apron who was knitting.

‘That’s Missis Gummidge,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty?’

But at this point Peggotty--I mean my own peculiar Peggotty--made such
impressive motions to me not to ask any more questions, that I could
only sit and look at all the silent company, until it was time to go to
bed. Then, in the privacy of my own little cabin, she informed me that
Ham and Em’ly were an orphan nephew and niece, whom my host had
at different times adopted in their childhood, when they were left
destitute: and that Mrs. Gummidge was the widow of his partner in
a boat, who had died very poor. He was but a poor man himself, said
Peggotty, but as good as gold and as true as steel--those were her
similes. The only subject, she informed me, on which he ever showed a
violent temper or swore an oath, was this generosity of his; and if it
were ever referred to, by any one of them, he struck the table a heavy
blow with his right hand (had split it on one such occasion), and swore
a dreadful oath that he would be ‘Gormed’ if he didn’t cut and run
for good, if it was ever mentioned again. It appeared, in answer to
my inquiries, that nobody had the least idea of the etymology of this
terrible verb passive to be gormed; but that they all regarded it as
constituting a most solemn imprecation.

I was very sensible of my entertainer’s goodness, and listened to the
women’s going to bed in another little crib like mine at the opposite
end of the boat, and to him and Ham hanging up two hammocks for
themselves on the hooks I had noticed in the roof, in a very luxurious
state of mind, enhanced by my being sleepy. As slumber gradually stole
upon me, I heard the wind howling out at sea and coming on across the
flat so fiercely, that I had a lazy apprehension of the great deep
rising in the night. But I bethought myself that I was in a boat, after
all; and that a man like Mr. Peggotty was not a bad person to have on
board if anything did happen.

Nothing happened, however, worse than morning. Almost as soon as it
shone upon the oyster-shell frame of my mirror I was out of bed, and out
with little Em’ly, picking up stones upon the beach.

‘You’re quite a sailor, I suppose?’ I said to Em’ly. I don’t know that I
supposed anything of the kind, but I felt it an act of gallantry to
say something; and a shining sail close to us made such a pretty little
image of itself, at the moment, in her bright eye, that it came into my
head to say this.

‘No,’ replied Em’ly, shaking her head, ‘I’m afraid of the sea.’

‘Afraid!’ I said, with a becoming air of boldness, and looking very big
at the mighty ocean. ‘I an’t!’

‘Ah! but it’s cruel,’ said Em’ly. ‘I have seen it very cruel to some of
our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big as our house, all to pieces.’

‘I hope it wasn’t the boat that--’

‘That father was drownded in?’ said Em’ly. ‘No. Not that one, I never
see that boat.’

‘Nor him?’ I asked her.

Little Em’ly shook her head. ‘Not to remember!’

Here was a coincidence! I immediately went into an explanation how I had
never seen my own father; and how my mother and I had always lived
by ourselves in the happiest state imaginable, and lived so then, and
always meant to live so; and how my father’s grave was in the churchyard
near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which I had
walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morning. But there were
some differences between Em’ly’s orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She
had lost her mother before her father; and where her father’s grave was
no one knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea.

‘Besides,’ said Em’ly, as she looked about for shells and pebbles, ‘your
father was a gentleman and your mother is a lady; and my father was a
fisherman and my mother was a fisherman’s daughter, and my uncle Dan is
a fisherman.’

‘Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he?’ said I.

‘Uncle Dan--yonder,’ answered Em’ly, nodding at the boat-house.

‘Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should think?’

‘Good?’ said Em’ly. ‘If I was ever to be a lady, I’d give him a sky-blue
coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a
cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money.’

I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these treasures.
I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult to picture him quite at his
ease in the raiment proposed for him by his grateful little niece, and
that I was particularly doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat; but I
kept these sentiments to myself.

Little Em’ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her enumeration
of these articles, as if they were a glorious vision. We went on again,
picking up shells and pebbles.

‘You would like to be a lady?’ I said.

Emily looked at me, and laughed and nodded ‘yes’.

‘I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks together, then.
Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn’t mind then, when
there comes stormy weather.---Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would
for the poor fishermen’s, to be sure, and we’d help ‘em with money when
they come to any hurt.’ This seemed to me to be a very satisfactory and
therefore not at all improbable picture. I expressed my pleasure in the
contemplation of it, and little Em’ly was emboldened to say, shyly,

‘Don’t you think you are afraid of the sea, now?’

It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt if I had seen a
moderately large wave come tumbling in, I should have taken to my heels,
with an awful recollection of her drowned relations. However, I said
‘No,’ and I added, ‘You don’t seem to be either, though you say you
are,’--for she was walking much too near the brink of a sort of old
jetty or wooden causeway we had strolled upon, and I was afraid of her
falling over.

‘I’m not afraid in this way,’ said little Em’ly. ‘But I wake when it
blows, and tremble to think of Uncle Dan and Ham and believe I hear ‘em
crying out for help. That’s why I should like so much to be a lady. But
I’m not afraid in this way. Not a bit. Look here!’

She started from my side, and ran along a jagged timber which protruded
from the place we stood upon, and overhung the deep water at some
height, without the least defence. The incident is so impressed on my
remembrance, that if I were a draughtsman I could draw its form here,
I dare say, accurately as it was that day, and little Em’ly springing
forward to her destruction (as it appeared to me), with a look that I
have never forgotten, directed far out to sea.

The light, bold, fluttering little figure turned and came back safe
to me, and I soon laughed at my fears, and at the cry I had uttered;
fruitlessly in any case, for there was no one near. But there have been
times since, in my manhood, many times there have been, when I have
thought, Is it possible, among the possibilities of hidden things, that
in the sudden rashness of the child and her wild look so far off, there
was any merciful attraction of her into danger, any tempting her towards
him permitted on the part of her dead father, that her life might have
a chance of ending that day? There has been a time since when I have
wondered whether, if the life before her could have been revealed to me
at a glance, and so revealed as that a child could fully comprehend it,
and if her preservation could have depended on a motion of my hand, I
ought to have held it up to save her. There has been a time since--I do
not say it lasted long, but it has been--when I have asked myself the
question, would it have been better for little Em’ly to have had the
waters close above her head that morning in my sight; and when I have
answered Yes, it would have been.

This may be premature. I have set it down too soon, perhaps. But let it
stand.

We strolled a long way, and loaded ourselves with things that we thought
curious, and put some stranded starfish carefully back into the water--I
hardly know enough of the race at this moment to be quite certain
whether they had reason to feel obliged to us for doing so, or the
reverse--and then made our way home to Mr. Peggotty’s dwelling. We
stopped under the lee of the lobster-outhouse to exchange an innocent
kiss, and went in to breakfast glowing with health and pleasure.

‘Like two young mavishes,’ Mr. Peggotty said. I knew this meant, in our
local dialect, like two young thrushes, and received it as a compliment.

Of course I was in love with little Em’ly. I am sure I loved that
baby quite as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater purity and more
disinterestedness, than can enter into the best love of a later time
of life, high and ennobling as it is. I am sure my fancy raised up
something round that blue-eyed mite of a child, which etherealized,
and made a very angel of her. If, any sunny forenoon, she had spread
a little pair of wings and flown away before my eyes, I don’t think I
should have regarded it as much more than I had had reason to expect.

We used to walk about that dim old flat at Yarmouth in a loving manner,
hours and hours. The days sported by us, as if Time had not grown up
himself yet, but were a child too, and always at play. I told Em’ly
I adored her, and that unless she confessed she adored me I should be
reduced to the necessity of killing myself with a sword. She said she
did, and I have no doubt she did.

As to any sense of inequality, or youthfulness, or other difficulty
in our way, little Em’ly and I had no such trouble, because we had no
future. We made no more provision for growing older, than we did for
growing younger. We were the admiration of Mrs. Gummidge and Peggotty,
who used to whisper of an evening when we sat, lovingly, on our little
locker side by side, ‘Lor! wasn’t it beautiful!’ Mr. Peggotty smiled at
us from behind his pipe, and Ham grinned all the evening and did nothing
else. They had something of the sort of pleasure in us, I suppose, that
they might have had in a pretty toy, or a pocket model of the Colosseum.

I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always make herself so
agreeable as she might have been expected to do, under the circumstances
of her residence with Mr. Peggotty. Mrs. Gummidge’s was rather a fretful
disposition, and she whimpered more sometimes than was comfortable for
other parties in so small an establishment. I was very sorry for
her; but there were moments when it would have been more agreeable, I
thought, if Mrs. Gummidge had had a convenient apartment of her own to
retire to, and had stopped there until her spirits revived.

Mr. Peggotty went occasionally to a public-house called The Willing
Mind. I discovered this, by his being out on the second or third evening
of our visit, and by Mrs. Gummidge’s looking up at the Dutch clock,
between eight and nine, and saying he was there, and that, what was
more, she had known in the morning he would go there.

Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all day, and had burst into tears
in the forenoon, when the fire smoked. ‘I am a lone lorn creetur’,’ were
Mrs. Gummidge’s words, when that unpleasant occurrence took place, ‘and
everythink goes contrary with me.’

‘Oh, it’ll soon leave off,’ said Peggotty--I again mean our
Peggotty--‘and besides, you know, it’s not more disagreeable to you than
to us.’

‘I feel it more,’ said Mrs. Gummidge.

It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts of wind. Mrs. Gummidge’s
peculiar corner of the fireside seemed to me to be the warmest and
snuggest in the place, as her chair was certainly the easiest, but it
didn’t suit her that day at all. She was constantly complaining of the
cold, and of its occasioning a visitation in her back which she called
‘the creeps’. At last she shed tears on that subject, and said again
that she was ‘a lone lorn creetur’ and everythink went contrary with
her’.

‘It is certainly very cold,’ said Peggotty. ‘Everybody must feel it so.’

‘I feel it more than other people,’ said Mrs. Gummidge.

So at dinner; when Mrs. Gummidge was always helped immediately after me,
to whom the preference was given as a visitor of distinction. The
fish were small and bony, and the potatoes were a little burnt. We all
acknowledged that we felt this something of a disappointment; but Mrs.
Gummidge said she felt it more than we did, and shed tears again, and
made that former declaration with great bitterness.

Accordingly, when Mr. Peggotty came home about nine o’clock, this
unfortunate Mrs. Gummidge was knitting in her corner, in a very wretched
and miserable condition. Peggotty had been working cheerfully. Ham had
been patching up a great pair of waterboots; and I, with little Em’ly
by my side, had been reading to them. Mrs. Gummidge had never made any
other remark than a forlorn sigh, and had never raised her eyes since
tea.

‘Well, Mates,’ said Mr. Peggotty, taking his seat, ‘and how are you?’

We all said something, or looked something, to welcome him, except Mrs.
Gummidge, who only shook her head over her knitting.

‘What’s amiss?’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a clap of his hands. ‘Cheer up,
old Mawther!’ (Mr. Peggotty meant old girl.)

Mrs. Gummidge did not appear to be able to cheer up. She took out an old
black silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes; but instead of putting it
in her pocket, kept it out, and wiped them again, and still kept it out,
ready for use.

‘What’s amiss, dame?’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘Nothing,’ returned Mrs. Gummidge. ‘You’ve come from The Willing Mind,
Dan’l?’

‘Why yes, I’ve took a short spell at The Willing Mind tonight,’ said Mr.
Peggotty.

‘I’m sorry I should drive you there,’ said Mrs. Gummidge.

‘Drive! I don’t want no driving,’ returned Mr. Peggotty with an honest
laugh. ‘I only go too ready.’

‘Very ready,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, shaking her head, and wiping her eyes.
‘Yes, yes, very ready. I am sorry it should be along of me that you’re
so ready.’

‘Along o’ you! It an’t along o’ you!’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Don’t ye
believe a bit on it.’

‘Yes, yes, it is,’ cried Mrs. Gummidge. ‘I know what I am. I know that I
am a lone lorn creetur’, and not only that everythink goes contrary with
me, but that I go contrary with everybody. Yes, yes. I feel more than
other people do, and I show it more. It’s my misfortun’.’

I really couldn’t help thinking, as I sat taking in all this, that the
misfortune extended to some other members of that family besides Mrs.
Gummidge. But Mr. Peggotty made no such retort, only answering with
another entreaty to Mrs. Gummidge to cheer up.

‘I an’t what I could wish myself to be,’ said Mrs. Gummidge. ‘I am far
from it. I know what I am. My troubles has made me contrary. I feel my
troubles, and they make me contrary. I wish I didn’t feel ‘em, but I
do. I wish I could be hardened to ‘em, but I an’t. I make the house
uncomfortable. I don’t wonder at it. I’ve made your sister so all day,
and Master Davy.’

Here I was suddenly melted, and roared out, ‘No, you haven’t, Mrs.
Gummidge,’ in great mental distress.

‘It’s far from right that I should do it,’ said Mrs. Gummidge. ‘It an’t
a fit return. I had better go into the house and die. I am a lone lorn
creetur’, and had much better not make myself contrary here. If thinks
must go contrary with me, and I must go contrary myself, let me go
contrary in my parish. Dan’l, I’d better go into the house, and die and
be a riddance!’

Mrs. Gummidge retired with these words, and betook herself to bed. When
she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had not exhibited a trace of any feeling
but the profoundest sympathy, looked round upon us, and nodding his head
with a lively expression of that sentiment still animating his face,
said in a whisper:

‘She’s been thinking of the old ‘un!’

I did not quite understand what old one Mrs. Gummidge was supposed to
have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, on seeing me to bed, explained
that it was the late Mr. Gummidge; and that her brother always took that
for a received truth on such occasions, and that it always had a moving
effect upon him. Some time after he was in his hammock that night, I
heard him myself repeat to Ham, ‘Poor thing! She’s been thinking of the
old ‘un!’ And whenever Mrs. Gummidge was overcome in a similar manner
during the remainder of our stay (which happened some few times), he
always said the same thing in extenuation of the circumstance, and
always with the tenderest commiseration.

So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the variation of
the tide, which altered Mr. Peggotty’s times of going out and coming in,
and altered Ham’s engagements also. When the latter was unemployed, he
sometimes walked with us to show us the boats and ships, and once
or twice he took us for a row. I don’t know why one slight set of
impressions should be more particularly associated with a place than
another, though I believe this obtains with most people, in reference
especially to the associations of their childhood. I never hear the
name, or read the name, of Yarmouth, but I am reminded of a certain
Sunday morning on the beach, the bells ringing for church, little Em’ly
leaning on my shoulder, Ham lazily dropping stones into the water, and
the sun, away at sea, just breaking through the heavy mist, and showing
us the ships, like their own shadows.

At last the day came for going home. I bore up against the separation
from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge, but my agony of mind at leaving
little Em’ly was piercing. We went arm-in-arm to the public-house where
the carrier put up, and I promised, on the road, to write to her. (I
redeemed that promise afterwards, in characters larger than those in
which apartments are usually announced in manuscript, as being to let.)
We were greatly overcome at parting; and if ever, in my life, I have had
a void made in my heart, I had one made that day.

Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been ungrateful to my
home again, and had thought little or nothing about it. But I was no
sooner turned towards it, than my reproachful young conscience seemed
to point that way with a ready finger; and I felt, all the more for the
sinking of my spirits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my
comforter and friend.

This gained upon me as we went along; so that the nearer we drew, the
more familiar the objects became that we passed, the more excited I was
to get there, and to run into her arms. But Peggotty, instead of sharing
in those transports, tried to check them (though very kindly), and
looked confused and out of sorts.

Blunderstone Rookery would come, however, in spite of her, when the
carrier’s horse pleased--and did. How well I recollect it, on a cold
grey afternoon, with a dull sky, threatening rain!

The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half crying in my
pleasant agitation, for my mother. It was not she, but a strange
servant.

‘Why, Peggotty!’ I said, ruefully, ‘isn’t she come home?’

‘Yes, yes, Master Davy,’ said Peggotty. ‘She’s come home. Wait a bit,
Master Davy, and I’ll--I’ll tell you something.’

Between her agitation, and her natural awkwardness in getting out of the
cart, Peggotty was making a most extraordinary festoon of herself, but
I felt too blank and strange to tell her so. When she had got down, she
took me by the hand; led me, wondering, into the kitchen; and shut the
door.

‘Peggotty!’ said I, quite frightened. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter, bless you, Master Davy dear!’ she answered,
assuming an air of sprightliness.

‘Something’s the matter, I’m sure. Where’s mama?’

‘Where’s mama, Master Davy?’ repeated Peggotty.

‘Yes. Why hasn’t she come out to the gate, and what have we come in here
for? Oh, Peggotty!’ My eyes were full, and I felt as if I were going to
tumble down.

‘Bless the precious boy!’ cried Peggotty, taking hold of me. ‘What is
it? Speak, my pet!’

‘Not dead, too! Oh, she’s not dead, Peggotty?’

Peggotty cried out No! with an astonishing volume of voice; and then sat
down, and began to pant, and said I had given her a turn.

I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her another turn
in the right direction, and then stood before her, looking at her in
anxious inquiry.

‘You see, dear, I should have told you before now,’ said Peggotty,
‘but I hadn’t an opportunity. I ought to have made it, perhaps, but
I couldn’t azackly’--that was always the substitute for exactly, in
Peggotty’s militia of words--‘bring my mind to it.’

‘Go on, Peggotty,’ said I, more frightened than before.

‘Master Davy,’ said Peggotty, untying her bonnet with a shaking hand,
and speaking in a breathless sort of way. ‘What do you think? You have
got a Pa!’

I trembled, and turned white. Something--I don’t know what, or
how--connected with the grave in the churchyard, and the raising of the
dead, seemed to strike me like an unwholesome wind.

‘A new one,’ said Peggotty.

‘A new one?’ I repeated.

Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing something that was very
hard, and, putting out her hand, said:

‘Come and see him.’

‘I don’t want to see him.’ --‘And your mama,’ said Peggotty.

I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best parlour, where
she left me. On one side of the fire, sat my mother; on the other, Mr.
Murdstone. My mother dropped her work, and arose hurriedly, but timidly
I thought.

‘Now, Clara my dear,’ said Mr. Murdstone. ‘Recollect! control yourself,
always control yourself! Davy boy, how do you do?’

I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went and kissed my
mother: she kissed me, patted me gently on the shoulder, and sat down
again to her work. I could not look at her, I could not look at him,
I knew quite well that he was looking at us both; and I turned to the
window and looked out there, at some shrubs that were drooping their
heads in the cold.

As soon as I could creep away, I crept upstairs. My old dear bedroom was
changed, and I was to lie a long way off. I rambled downstairs to find
anything that was like itself, so altered it all seemed; and roamed into
the yard. I very soon started back from there, for the empty dog-kennel
was filled up with a great dog--deep mouthed and black-haired like
Him--and he was very angry at the sight of me, and sprang out to get at
me.



CHAPTER 4. I FALL INTO DISGRACE


If the room to which my bed was removed were a sentient thing that could
give evidence, I might appeal to it at this day--who sleeps there now,
I wonder!--to bear witness for me what a heavy heart I carried to it.
I went up there, hearing the dog in the yard bark after me all the way
while I climbed the stairs; and, looking as blank and strange upon the
room as the room looked upon me, sat down with my small hands crossed,
and thought.

I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the room, of the
cracks in the ceiling, of the paper on the walls, of the flaws in
the window-glass making ripples and dimples on the prospect, of the
washing-stand being rickety on its three legs, and having a discontented
something about it, which reminded me of Mrs. Gummidge under the
influence of the old one. I was crying all the time, but, except that I
was conscious of being cold and dejected, I am sure I never thought
why I cried. At last in my desolation I began to consider that I was
dreadfully in love with little Em’ly, and had been torn away from her to
come here where no one seemed to want me, or to care about me, half as
much as she did. This made such a very miserable piece of business of
it, that I rolled myself up in a corner of the counterpane, and cried
myself to sleep.

I was awoke by somebody saying ‘Here he is!’ and uncovering my hot head.
My mother and Peggotty had come to look for me, and it was one of them
who had done it.

‘Davy,’ said my mother. ‘What’s the matter?’

I thought it was very strange that she should ask me, and answered,
‘Nothing.’ I turned over on my face, I recollect, to hide my trembling
lip, which answered her with greater truth. ‘Davy,’ said my mother.
‘Davy, my child!’

I dare say no words she could have uttered would have affected me
so much, then, as her calling me her child. I hid my tears in the
bedclothes, and pressed her from me with my hand, when she would have
raised me up.

‘This is your doing, Peggotty, you cruel thing!’ said my mother. ‘I have
no doubt at all about it. How can you reconcile it to your conscience,
I wonder, to prejudice my own boy against me, or against anybody who is
dear to me? What do you mean by it, Peggotty?’

Poor Peggotty lifted up her hands and eyes, and only answered, in a
sort of paraphrase of the grace I usually repeated after dinner, ‘Lord
forgive you, Mrs. Copperfield, and for what you have said this minute,
may you never be truly sorry!’

‘It’s enough to distract me,’ cried my mother. ‘In my honeymoon, too,
when my most inveterate enemy might relent, one would think, and not
envy me a little peace of mind and happiness. Davy, you naughty boy!
Peggotty, you savage creature! Oh, dear me!’ cried my mother, turning
from one of us to the other, in her pettish wilful manner, ‘what a
troublesome world this is, when one has the most right to expect it to
be as agreeable as possible!’

I felt the touch of a hand that I knew was neither hers nor Peggotty’s,
and slipped to my feet at the bed-side. It was Mr. Murdstone’s hand, and
he kept it on my arm as he said:

‘What’s this? Clara, my love, have you forgotten?--Firmness, my dear!’

‘I am very sorry, Edward,’ said my mother. ‘I meant to be very good, but
I am so uncomfortable.’

‘Indeed!’ he answered. ‘That’s a bad hearing, so soon, Clara.’

‘I say it’s very hard I should be made so now,’ returned my mother,
pouting; ‘and it is--very hard--isn’t it?’

He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her. I knew as
well, when I saw my mother’s head lean down upon his shoulder, and her
arm touch his neck--I knew as well that he could mould her pliant nature
into any form he chose, as I know, now, that he did it.

‘Go you below, my love,’ said Mr. Murdstone. ‘David and I will come
down, together. My friend,’ turning a darkening face on Peggotty, when
he had watched my mother out, and dismissed her with a nod and a smile;
‘do you know your mistress’s name?’

‘She has been my mistress a long time, sir,’ answered Peggotty, ‘I ought
to know it.’ ‘That’s true,’ he answered. ‘But I thought I heard you, as
I came upstairs, address her by a name that is not hers. She has taken
mine, you know. Will you remember that?’

Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed herself out of the
room without replying; seeing, I suppose, that she was expected to go,
and had no excuse for remaining. When we two were left alone, he shut
the door, and sitting on a chair, and holding me standing before him,
looked steadily into my eyes. I felt my own attracted, no less steadily,
to his. As I recall our being opposed thus, face to face, I seem again
to hear my heart beat fast and high.

‘David,’ he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them together, ‘if I
have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do you think I do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I beat him.’

I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in my
silence, that my breath was shorter now.

‘I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, “I’ll conquer that
fellow”; and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I should do
it. What is that upon your face?’

‘Dirt,’ I said.

He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he had asked the
question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I believe my baby
heart would have burst before I would have told him so.

‘You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow,’ he said,
with a grave smile that belonged to him, ‘and you understood me very
well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and come down with me.’

He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out to be like Mrs.
Gummidge, and motioned me with his head to obey him directly. I had
little doubt then, and I have less doubt now, that he would have knocked
me down without the least compunction, if I had hesitated.

‘Clara, my dear,’ he said, when I had done his bidding, and he walked me
into the parlour, with his hand still on my arm; ‘you will not be made
uncomfortable any more, I hope. We shall soon improve our youthful
humours.’

God help me, I might have been improved for my whole life, I might have
been made another creature perhaps, for life, by a kind word at that
season. A word of encouragement and explanation, of pity for my childish
ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might
have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my
hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect instead of hate
him. I thought my mother was sorry to see me standing in the room so
scared and strange, and that, presently, when I stole to a chair, she
followed me with her eyes more sorrowfully still--missing, perhaps, some
freedom in my childish tread--but the word was not spoken, and the time
for it was gone.

We dined alone, we three together. He seemed to be very fond of my
mother--I am afraid I liked him none the better for that--and she was
very fond of him. I gathered from what they said, that an elder sister
of his was coming to stay with them, and that she was expected that
evening. I am not certain whether I found out then, or afterwards, that,
without being actively concerned in any business, he had some share in,
or some annual charge upon the profits of, a wine-merchant’s house
in London, with which his family had been connected from his
great-grandfather’s time, and in which his sister had a similar
interest; but I may mention it in this place, whether or no.

After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was meditating an
escape to Peggotty without having the hardihood to slip away, lest
it should offend the master of the house, a coach drove up to the
garden-gate and he went out to receive the visitor. My mother followed
him. I was timidly following her, when she turned round at the parlour
door, in the dusk, and taking me in her embrace as she had been used to
do, whispered me to love my new father and be obedient to him. She did
this hurriedly and secretly, as if it were wrong, but tenderly; and,
putting out her hand behind her, held mine in it, until we came near
to where he was standing in the garden, where she let mine go, and drew
hers through his arm.

It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-looking lady she
was; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly resembled in face and
voice; and with very heavy eyebrows, nearly meeting over her large nose,
as if, being disabled by the wrongs of her sex from wearing whiskers,
she had carried them to that account. She brought with her two
uncompromising hard black boxes, with her initials on the lids in hard
brass nails. When she paid the coachman she took her money out of a hard
steel purse, and she kept the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung
upon her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite. I had never, at
that time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was.

She was brought into the parlour with many tokens of welcome, and there
formally recognized my mother as a new and near relation. Then she
looked at me, and said:

‘Is that your boy, sister-in-law?’

My mother acknowledged me.

‘Generally speaking,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘I don’t like boys. How d’ye
do, boy?’

Under these encouraging circumstances, I replied that I was very well,
and that I hoped she was the same; with such an indifferent grace, that
Miss Murdstone disposed of me in two words:

‘Wants manner!’

Having uttered which, with great distinctness, she begged the favour of
being shown to her room, which became to me from that time forth a place
of awe and dread, wherein the two black boxes were never seen open or
known to be left unlocked, and where (for I peeped in once or twice when
she was out) numerous little steel fetters and rivets, with which Miss
Murdstone embellished herself when she was dressed, generally hung upon
the looking-glass in formidable array.

As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and had no intention
of ever going again. She began to ‘help’ my mother next morning, and was
in and out of the store-closet all day, putting things to rights, and
making havoc in the old arrangements. Almost the first remarkable thing
I observed in Miss Murdstone was, her being constantly haunted by
a suspicion that the servants had a man secreted somewhere on the
premises. Under the influence of this delusion, she dived into the
coal-cellar at the most untimely hours, and scarcely ever opened the
door of a dark cupboard without clapping it to again, in the belief that
she had got him.

Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone, she was a
perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up (and, as I believe
to this hour, looking for that man) before anybody in the house was
stirring. Peggotty gave it as her opinion that she even slept with one
eye open; but I could not concur in this idea; for I tried it myself
after hearing the suggestion thrown out, and found it couldn’t be done.

On the very first morning after her arrival she was up and ringing her
bell at cock-crow. When my mother came down to breakfast and was going
to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave her a kind of peck on the cheek,
which was her nearest approach to a kiss, and said:

‘Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to relieve you of all
the trouble I can. You’re much too pretty and thoughtless’--my mother
blushed but laughed, and seemed not to dislike this character--‘to have
any duties imposed upon you that can be undertaken by me. If you’ll be
so good as give me your keys, my dear, I’ll attend to all this sort of
thing in future.’

From that time, Miss Murdstone kept the keys in her own little jail all
day, and under her pillow all night, and my mother had no more to do
with them than I had.

My mother did not suffer her authority to pass from her without a shadow
of protest. One night when Miss Murdstone had been developing certain
household plans to her brother, of which he signified his approbation,
my mother suddenly began to cry, and said she thought she might have
been consulted.

‘Clara!’ said Mr. Murdstone sternly. ‘Clara! I wonder at you.’

‘Oh, it’s very well to say you wonder, Edward!’ cried my mother, ‘and
it’s very well for you to talk about firmness, but you wouldn’t like it
yourself.’

Firmness, I may observe, was the grand quality on which both Mr. and
Miss Murdstone took their stand. However I might have expressed
my comprehension of it at that time, if I had been called upon, I
nevertheless did clearly comprehend in my own way, that it was another
name for tyranny; and for a certain gloomy, arrogant, devil’s humour,
that was in them both. The creed, as I should state it now, was this.
Mr. Murdstone was firm; nobody in his world was to be so firm as Mr.
Murdstone; nobody else in his world was to be firm at all, for everybody
was to be bent to his firmness. Miss Murdstone was an exception.
She might be firm, but only by relationship, and in an inferior and
tributary degree. My mother was another exception. She might be firm,
and must be; but only in bearing their firmness, and firmly believing
there was no other firmness upon earth.

‘It’s very hard,’ said my mother, ‘that in my own house--’

‘My own house?’ repeated Mr. Murdstone. ‘Clara!’

‘OUR own house, I mean,’ faltered my mother, evidently frightened--‘I
hope you must know what I mean, Edward--it’s very hard that in YOUR own
house I may not have a word to say about domestic matters. I am sure
I managed very well before we were married. There’s evidence,’ said my
mother, sobbing; ‘ask Peggotty if I didn’t do very well when I wasn’t
interfered with!’

‘Edward,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘let there be an end of this. I go
tomorrow.’

‘Jane Murdstone,’ said her brother, ‘be silent! How dare you to
insinuate that you don’t know my character better than your words
imply?’

‘I am sure,’ my poor mother went on, at a grievous disadvantage, and
with many tears, ‘I don’t want anybody to go. I should be very
miserable and unhappy if anybody was to go. I don’t ask much. I am not
unreasonable. I only want to be consulted sometimes. I am very much
obliged to anybody who assists me, and I only want to be consulted as a
mere form, sometimes. I thought you were pleased, once, with my being a
little inexperienced and girlish, Edward--I am sure you said so--but you
seem to hate me for it now, you are so severe.’

‘Edward,’ said Miss Murdstone, again, ‘let there be an end of this. I go
tomorrow.’

‘Jane Murdstone,’ thundered Mr. Murdstone. ‘Will you be silent? How dare
you?’

Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-handkerchief, and held
it before her eyes.

‘Clara,’ he continued, looking at my mother, ‘you surprise me! You
astound me! Yes, I had a satisfaction in the thought of marrying
an inexperienced and artless person, and forming her character, and
infusing into it some amount of that firmness and decision of which
it stood in need. But when Jane Murdstone is kind enough to come to my
assistance in this endeavour, and to assume, for my sake, a condition
something like a housekeeper’s, and when she meets with a base return--’

‘Oh, pray, pray, Edward,’ cried my mother, ‘don’t accuse me of being
ungrateful. I am sure I am not ungrateful. No one ever said I was
before. I have many faults, but not that. Oh, don’t, my dear!’

‘When Jane Murdstone meets, I say,’ he went on, after waiting until my
mother was silent, ‘with a base return, that feeling of mine is chilled
and altered.’

‘Don’t, my love, say that!’ implored my mother very piteously.
‘Oh, don’t, Edward! I can’t bear to hear it. Whatever I am, I am
affectionate. I know I am affectionate. I wouldn’t say it, if I
wasn’t sure that I am. Ask Peggotty. I am sure she’ll tell you I’m
affectionate.’

‘There is no extent of mere weakness, Clara,’ said Mr. Murdstone in
reply, ‘that can have the least weight with me. You lose breath.’

‘Pray let us be friends,’ said my mother, ‘I couldn’t live under
coldness or unkindness. I am so sorry. I have a great many defects, I
know, and it’s very good of you, Edward, with your strength of mind, to
endeavour to correct them for me. Jane, I don’t object to anything. I
should be quite broken-hearted if you thought of leaving--’ My mother
was too much overcome to go on.

‘Jane Murdstone,’ said Mr. Murdstone to his sister, ‘any harsh words
between us are, I hope, uncommon. It is not my fault that so unusual an
occurrence has taken place tonight. I was betrayed into it by another.
Nor is it your fault. You were betrayed into it by another. Let us both
try to forget it. And as this,’ he added, after these magnanimous words,
‘is not a fit scene for the boy--David, go to bed!’

I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood in my eyes.
I was so sorry for my mother’s distress; but I groped my way out, and
groped my way up to my room in the dark, without even having the heart
to say good night to Peggotty, or to get a candle from her. When her
coming up to look for me, an hour or so afterwards, awoke me, she said
that my mother had gone to bed poorly, and that Mr. and Miss Murdstone
were sitting alone.

Going down next morning rather earlier than usual, I paused outside the
parlour door, on hearing my mother’s voice. She was very earnestly and
humbly entreating Miss Murdstone’s pardon, which that lady granted, and
a perfect reconciliation took place. I never knew my mother afterwards
to give an opinion on any matter, without first appealing to Miss
Murdstone, or without having first ascertained by some sure means, what
Miss Murdstone’s opinion was; and I never saw Miss Murdstone, when out
of temper (she was infirm that way), move her hand towards her bag as
if she were going to take out the keys and offer to resign them to my
mother, without seeing that my mother was in a terrible fright.

The gloomy taint that was in the Murdstone blood, darkened the Murdstone
religion, which was austere and wrathful. I have thought, since,
that its assuming that character was a necessary consequence of Mr.
Murdstone’s firmness, which wouldn’t allow him to let anybody off from
the utmost weight of the severest penalties he could find any excuse
for. Be this as it may, I well remember the tremendous visages with
which we used to go to church, and the changed air of the place. Again,
the dreaded Sunday comes round, and I file into the old pew first, like
a guarded captive brought to a condemned service. Again, Miss Murdstone,
in a black velvet gown, that looks as if it had been made out of a pall,
follows close upon me; then my mother; then her husband. There is no
Peggotty now, as in the old time. Again, I listen to Miss Murdstone
mumbling the responses, and emphasizing all the dread words with a cruel
relish. Again, I see her dark eyes roll round the church when she says
‘miserable sinners’, as if she were calling all the congregation names.
Again, I catch rare glimpses of my mother, moving her lips timidly
between the two, with one of them muttering at each ear like low
thunder. Again, I wonder with a sudden fear whether it is likely that
our good old clergyman can be wrong, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone right,
and that all the angels in Heaven can be destroying angels. Again, if I
move a finger or relax a muscle of my face, Miss Murdstone pokes me with
her prayer-book, and makes my side ache.

Yes, and again, as we walk home, I note some neighbours looking at my
mother and at me, and whispering. Again, as the three go on arm-in-arm,
and I linger behind alone, I follow some of those looks, and wonder if
my mother’s step be really not so light as I have seen it, and if the
gaiety of her beauty be really almost worried away. Again, I wonder
whether any of the neighbours call to mind, as I do, how we used to
walk home together, she and I; and I wonder stupidly about that, all the
dreary dismal day.

There had been some talk on occasions of my going to boarding-school.
Mr. and Miss Murdstone had originated it, and my mother had of course
agreed with them. Nothing, however, was concluded on the subject yet.
In the meantime, I learnt lessons at home. Shall I ever forget those
lessons! They were presided over nominally by my mother, but really by
Mr. Murdstone and his sister, who were always present, and found them
a favourable occasion for giving my mother lessons in that miscalled
firmness, which was the bane of both our lives. I believe I was kept
at home for that purpose. I had been apt enough to learn, and willing
enough, when my mother and I had lived alone together. I can faintly
remember learning the alphabet at her knee. To this day, when I look
upon the fat black letters in the primer, the puzzling novelty of their
shapes, and the easy good-nature of O and Q and S, seem to present
themselves again before me as they used to do. But they recall no
feeling of disgust or reluctance. On the contrary, I seem to have walked
along a path of flowers as far as the crocodile-book, and to have been
cheered by the gentleness of my mother’s voice and manner all the
way. But these solemn lessons which succeeded those, I remember as the
death-blow of my peace, and a grievous daily drudgery and misery. They
were very long, very numerous, very hard--perfectly unintelligible,
some of them, to me--and I was generally as much bewildered by them as I
believe my poor mother was herself.

Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morning back again.

I come into the second-best parlour after breakfast, with my books,
and an exercise-book, and a slate. My mother is ready for me at her
writing-desk, but not half so ready as Mr. Murdstone in his easy-chair
by the window (though he pretends to be reading a book), or as Miss
Murdstone, sitting near my mother stringing steel beads. The very sight
of these two has such an influence over me, that I begin to feel the
words I have been at infinite pains to get into my head, all sliding
away, and going I don’t know where. I wonder where they do go, by the
by?

I hand the first book to my mother. Perhaps it is a grammar, perhaps a
history, or geography. I take a last drowning look at the page as I give
it into her hand, and start off aloud at a racing pace while I have
got it fresh. I trip over a word. Mr. Murdstone looks up. I trip
over another word. Miss Murdstone looks up. I redden, tumble over
half-a-dozen words, and stop. I think my mother would show me the book
if she dared, but she does not dare, and she says softly:

‘Oh, Davy, Davy!’

‘Now, Clara,’ says Mr. Murdstone, ‘be firm with the boy. Don’t say, “Oh,
Davy, Davy!” That’s childish. He knows his lesson, or he does not know
it.’

‘He does NOT know it,’ Miss Murdstone interposes awfully.

‘I am really afraid he does not,’ says my mother.

‘Then, you see, Clara,’ returns Miss Murdstone, ‘you should just give
him the book back, and make him know it.’

‘Yes, certainly,’ says my mother; ‘that is what I intend to do, my dear
Jane. Now, Davy, try once more, and don’t be stupid.’

I obey the first clause of the injunction by trying once more, but am
not so successful with the second, for I am very stupid. I tumble down
before I get to the old place, at a point where I was all right before,
and stop to think. But I can’t think about the lesson. I think of the
number of yards of net in Miss Murdstone’s cap, or of the price of Mr.
Murdstone’s dressing-gown, or any such ridiculous problem that I have
no business with, and don’t want to have anything at all to do with. Mr.
Murdstone makes a movement of impatience which I have been expecting
for a long time. Miss Murdstone does the same. My mother glances
submissively at them, shuts the book, and lays it by as an arrear to be
worked out when my other tasks are done.

There is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells like a rolling
snowball. The bigger it gets, the more stupid I get. The case is so
hopeless, and I feel that I am wallowing in such a bog of nonsense, that
I give up all idea of getting out, and abandon myself to my fate. The
despairing way in which my mother and I look at each other, as I blunder
on, is truly melancholy. But the greatest effect in these miserable
lessons is when my mother (thinking nobody is observing her) tries
to give me the cue by the motion of her lips. At that instant, Miss
Murdstone, who has been lying in wait for nothing else all along, says
in a deep warning voice:

‘Clara!’

My mother starts, colours, and smiles faintly. Mr. Murdstone comes out
of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me or boxes my ears with it,
and turns me out of the room by the shoulders.

Even when the lessons are done, the worst is yet to happen, in the shape
of an appalling sum. This is invented for me, and delivered to me orally
by Mr. Murdstone, and begins, ‘If I go into a cheesemonger’s shop, and
buy five thousand double-Gloucester cheeses at fourpence-halfpenny each,
present payment’--at which I see Miss Murdstone secretly overjoyed.
I pore over these cheeses without any result or enlightenment until
dinner-time, when, having made a Mulatto of myself by getting the dirt
of the slate into the pores of my skin, I have a slice of bread to help
me out with the cheeses, and am considered in disgrace for the rest of
the evening.

It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if my unfortunate studies
generally took this course. I could have done very well if I had been
without the Murdstones; but the influence of the Murdstones upon me was
like the fascination of two snakes on a wretched young bird. Even when
I did get through the morning with tolerable credit, there was not
much gained but dinner; for Miss Murdstone never could endure to see me
untasked, and if I rashly made any show of being unemployed, called her
brother’s attention to me by saying, ‘Clara, my dear, there’s nothing
like work--give your boy an exercise’; which caused me to be clapped
down to some new labour, there and then. As to any recreation with other
children of my age, I had very little of that; for the gloomy theology
of the Murdstones made all children out to be a swarm of little vipers
(though there WAS a child once set in the midst of the Disciples), and
held that they contaminated one another.

The natural result of this treatment, continued, I suppose, for some six
months or more, was to make me sullen, dull, and dogged. I was not
made the less so by my sense of being daily more and more shut out and
alienated from my mother. I believe I should have been almost stupefied
but for one circumstance.

It was this. My father had left a small collection of books in a little
room upstairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined my own) and which
nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that blessed little room,
Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, the
Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and Robinson Crusoe, came
out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, and
my hope of something beyond that place and time,--they, and the Arabian
Nights, and the Tales of the Genii,--and did me no harm; for whatever
harm was in some of them was not there for me; I knew nothing of it. It
is astonishing to me now, how I found time, in the midst of my porings
and blunderings over heavier themes, to read those books as I did. It
is curious to me how I could ever have consoled myself under my
small troubles (which were great troubles to me), by impersonating my
favourite characters in them--as I did--and by putting Mr. and Miss
Murdstone into all the bad ones--which I did too. I have been Tom Jones
(a child’s Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. I have
sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I
verily believe. I had a greedy relish for a few volumes of Voyages and
Travels--I forget what, now--that were on those shelves; and for days
and days I can remember to have gone about my region of our house,
armed with the centre-piece out of an old set of boot-trees--the perfect
realization of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, in danger of
being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his life at a great price.
The Captain never lost dignity, from having his ears boxed with the
Latin Grammar. I did; but the Captain was a Captain and a hero, in
despite of all the grammars of all the languages in the world, dead or
alive.

This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think of it, the
picture always rises in my mind, of a summer evening, the boys at play
in the churchyard, and I sitting on my bed, reading as if for life.
Every barn in the neighbourhood, every stone in the church, and every
foot of the churchyard, had some association of its own, in my mind,
connected with these books, and stood for some locality made famous in
them. I have seen Tom Pipes go climbing up the church-steeple; I have
watched Strap, with the knapsack on his back, stopping to rest himself
upon the wicket-gate; and I know that Commodore Trunnion held that club
with Mr. Pickle, in the parlour of our little village alehouse.

The reader now understands, as well as I do, what I was when I came to
that point of my youthful history to which I am now coming again.

One morning when I went into the parlour with my books, I found my
mother looking anxious, Miss Murdstone looking firm, and Mr. Murdstone
binding something round the bottom of a cane--a lithe and limber cane,
which he left off binding when I came in, and poised and switched in the
air.

‘I tell you, Clara,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘I have been often flogged
myself.’

‘To be sure; of course,’ said Miss Murdstone.

‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ faltered my mother, meekly. ‘But--but do you
think it did Edward good?’

‘Do you think it did Edward harm, Clara?’ asked Mr. Murdstone, gravely.

‘That’s the point,’ said his sister.

To this my mother returned, ‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ and said no more.

I felt apprehensive that I was personally interested in this dialogue,
and sought Mr. Murdstone’s eye as it lighted on mine.

‘Now, David,’ he said--and I saw that cast again as he said it--‘you
must be far more careful today than usual.’ He gave the cane another
poise, and another switch; and having finished his preparation of it,
laid it down beside him, with an impressive look, and took up his book.

This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a beginning. I felt
the words of my lessons slipping off, not one by one, or line by line,
but by the entire page; I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed,
if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me
with a smoothness there was no checking.

We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with an idea of
distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I was very well prepared;
but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book was added to
the heap of failures, Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the
time. And when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes he
made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out crying.

‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice.

‘I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think,’ said my mother.

I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and said, taking up
the cane:

‘Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with perfect firmness,
the worry and torment that David has occasioned her today. That would be
stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and improved, but we can hardly
expect so much from her. David, you and I will go upstairs, boy.’

As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards us. Miss Murdstone
said, ‘Clara! are you a perfect fool?’ and interfered. I saw my mother
stop her ears then, and I heard her crying.

He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely--I am certain he had a
delight in that formal parade of executing justice--and when we got
there, suddenly twisted my head under his arm.

‘Mr. Murdstone! Sir!’ I cried to him. ‘Don’t! Pray don’t beat me! I have
tried to learn, sir, but I can’t learn while you and Miss Murdstone are
by. I can’t indeed!’

‘Can’t you, indeed, David?’ he said. ‘We’ll try that.’

He had my head as in a vice, but I twined round him somehow, and stopped
him for a moment, entreating him not to beat me. It was only a moment
that I stopped him, for he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in
the same instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my mouth,
between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my teeth on edge to think
of it.

He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death. Above all the
noise we made, I heard them running up the stairs, and crying out--I
heard my mother crying out--and Peggotty. Then he was gone; and the
door was locked outside; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and
sore, and raging in my puny way, upon the floor.

How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an unnatural stillness
seemed to reign through the whole house! How well I remember, when my
smart and passion began to cool, how wicked I began to feel!

I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound. I crawled
up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, so swollen, red, and
ugly that it almost frightened me. My stripes were sore and stiff, and
made me cry afresh, when I moved; but they were nothing to the guilt I
felt. It lay heavier on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious
criminal, I dare say.

It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window (I had been lying,
for the most part, with my head upon the sill, by turns crying, dozing,
and looking listlessly out), when the key was turned, and Miss Murdstone
came in with some bread and meat, and milk. These she put down upon the
table without a word, glaring at me the while with exemplary firmness,
and then retired, locking the door after her.

Long after it was dark I sat there, wondering whether anybody else would
come. When this appeared improbable for that night, I undressed, and
went to bed; and, there, I began to wonder fearfully what would be done
to me. Whether it was a criminal act that I had committed? Whether I
should be taken into custody, and sent to prison? Whether I was at all
in danger of being hanged?

I never shall forget the waking, next morning; the being cheerful and
fresh for the first moment, and then the being weighed down by the stale
and dismal oppression of remembrance. Miss Murdstone reappeared before
I was out of bed; told me, in so many words, that I was free to walk in
the garden for half an hour and no longer; and retired, leaving the door
open, that I might avail myself of that permission.

I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment, which lasted five
days. If I could have seen my mother alone, I should have gone down on
my knees to her and besought her forgiveness; but I saw no one, Miss
Murdstone excepted, during the whole time--except at evening prayers in
the parlour; to which I was escorted by Miss Murdstone after everybody
else was placed; where I was stationed, a young outlaw, all alone by
myself near the door; and whence I was solemnly conducted by my jailer,
before any one arose from the devotional posture. I only observed that
my mother was as far off from me as she could be, and kept her face
another way so that I never saw it; and that Mr. Murdstone’s hand was
bound up in a large linen wrapper.

The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to any one. They
occupy the place of years in my remembrance. The way in which I listened
to all the incidents of the house that made themselves audible to me;
the ringing of bells, the opening and shutting of doors, the murmuring
of voices, the footsteps on the stairs; to any laughing, whistling, or
singing, outside, which seemed more dismal than anything else to me in
my solitude and disgrace--the uncertain pace of the hours, especially
at night, when I would wake thinking it was morning, and find that the
family were not yet gone to bed, and that all the length of night had
yet to come--the depressed dreams and nightmares I had--the return of
day, noon, afternoon, evening, when the boys played in the churchyard,
and I watched them from a distance within the room, being ashamed to
show myself at the window lest they should know I was a prisoner--the
strange sensation of never hearing myself speak--the fleeting intervals
of something like cheerfulness, which came with eating and drinking,
and went away with it--the setting in of rain one evening, with a fresh
smell, and its coming down faster and faster between me and the church,
until it and gathering night seemed to quench me in gloom, and fear, and
remorse--all this appears to have gone round and round for years instead
of days, it is so vividly and strongly stamped on my remembrance. On the
last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hearing my own name spoken
in a whisper. I started up in bed, and putting out my arms in the dark,
said:

‘Is that you, Peggotty?’

There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my name again, in a
tone so very mysterious and awful, that I think I should have gone into
a fit, if it had not occurred to me that it must have come through the
keyhole.

I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to the keyhole,
whispered: ‘Is that you, Peggotty dear?’

‘Yes, my own precious Davy,’ she replied. ‘Be as soft as a mouse, or the
Cat’ll hear us.’

I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sensible of the
urgency of the case; her room being close by.

‘How’s mama, dear Peggotty? Is she very angry with me?’

I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of the keyhole, as I was
doing on mine, before she answered. ‘No. Not very.’

‘What is going to be done with me, Peggotty dear? Do you know?’

‘School. Near London,’ was Peggotty’s answer. I was obliged to get her
to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time quite down my throat,
in consequence of my having forgotten to take my mouth away from the
keyhole and put my ear there; and though her words tickled me a good
deal, I didn’t hear them.

‘When, Peggotty?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes out of my
drawers?’ which she had done, though I have forgotten to mention it.

‘Yes,’ said Peggotty. ‘Box.’

‘Shan’t I see mama?’

‘Yes,’ said Peggotty. ‘Morning.’

Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and delivered these
words through it with as much feeling and earnestness as a keyhole
has ever been the medium of communicating, I will venture to assert:
shooting in each broken little sentence in a convulsive little burst of
its own.

‘Davy, dear. If I ain’t been azackly as intimate with you. Lately, as I
used to be. It ain’t because I don’t love you. Just as well and more, my
pretty poppet. It’s because I thought it better for you. And for someone
else besides. Davy, my darling, are you listening? Can you hear?’

‘Ye-ye-ye-yes, Peggotty!’ I sobbed.

‘My own!’ said Peggotty, with infinite compassion. ‘What I want to say,
is. That you must never forget me. For I’ll never forget you. And I’ll
take as much care of your mama, Davy. As ever I took of you. And I won’t
leave her. The day may come when she’ll be glad to lay her poor head.
On her stupid, cross old Peggotty’s arm again. And I’ll write to you,
my dear. Though I ain’t no scholar. And I’ll--I’ll--’ Peggotty fell to
kissing the keyhole, as she couldn’t kiss me.

‘Thank you, dear Peggotty!’ said I. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you! Will you
promise me one thing, Peggotty? Will you write and tell Mr. Peggotty and
little Em’ly, and Mrs. Gummidge and Ham, that I am not so bad as they
might suppose, and that I sent ‘em all my love--especially to little
Em’ly? Will you, if you please, Peggotty?’

The kind soul promised, and we both of us kissed the keyhole with the
greatest affection--I patted it with my hand, I recollect, as if it had
been her honest face--and parted. From that night there grew up in my
breast a feeling for Peggotty which I cannot very well define. She did
not replace my mother; no one could do that; but she came into a vacancy
in my heart, which closed upon her, and I felt towards her something
I have never felt for any other human being. It was a sort of comical
affection, too; and yet if she had died, I cannot think what I should
have done, or how I should have acted out the tragedy it would have been
to me.

In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and told me I was going
to school; which was not altogether such news to me as she supposed. She
also informed me that when I was dressed, I was to come downstairs into
the parlour, and have my breakfast. There, I found my mother, very pale
and with red eyes: into whose arms I ran, and begged her pardon from my
suffering soul.

‘Oh, Davy!’ she said. ‘That you could hurt anyone I love! Try to be
better, pray to be better! I forgive you; but I am so grieved, Davy,
that you should have such bad passions in your heart.’

They had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellow, and she was more
sorry for that than for my going away. I felt it sorely. I tried to eat
my parting breakfast, but my tears dropped upon my bread-and-butter,
and trickled into my tea. I saw my mother look at me sometimes, and then
glance at the watchful Miss Murdstone, and than look down, or look away.

‘Master Copperfield’s box there!’ said Miss Murdstone, when wheels were
heard at the gate.

I looked for Peggotty, but it was not she; neither she nor Mr. Murdstone
appeared. My former acquaintance, the carrier, was at the door. The box
was taken out to his cart, and lifted in.

‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, in her warning note.

‘Ready, my dear Jane,’ returned my mother. ‘Good-bye, Davy. You are
going for your own good. Good-bye, my child. You will come home in the
holidays, and be a better boy.’

‘Clara!’ Miss Murdstone repeated.

‘Certainly, my dear Jane,’ replied my mother, who was holding me. ‘I
forgive you, my dear boy. God bless you!’

‘Clara!’ Miss Murdstone repeated.

Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the cart, and to say on
the way that she hoped I would repent, before I came to a bad end; and
then I got into the cart, and the lazy horse walked off with it.



CHAPTER 5. I AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME


We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-handkerchief was
quite wet through, when the carrier stopped short. Looking out to
ascertain for what, I saw, to My amazement, Peggotty burst from a hedge
and climb into the cart. She took me in both her arms, and squeezed me
to her stays until the pressure on my nose was extremely painful, though
I never thought of that till afterwards when I found it very tender. Not
a single word did Peggotty speak. Releasing one of her arms, she put
it down in her pocket to the elbow, and brought out some paper bags of
cakes which she crammed into my pockets, and a purse which she put into
my hand, but not one word did she say. After another and a final squeeze
with both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away; and, my belief
is, and has always been, without a solitary button on her gown. I
picked up one, of several that were rolling about, and treasured it as a
keepsake for a long time.

The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were coming back. I
shook my head, and said I thought not. ‘Then come up,’ said the carrier
to the lazy horse; who came up accordingly.

Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I began to think
it was of no use crying any more, especially as neither Roderick Random,
nor that Captain in the Royal British Navy, had ever cried, that I
could remember, in trying situations. The carrier, seeing me in this
resolution, proposed that my pocket-handkerchief should be spread upon
the horse’s back to dry. I thanked him, and assented; and particularly
small it looked, under those circumstances.

I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather purse,
with a snap, and had three bright shillings in it, which Peggotty had
evidently polished up with whitening, for my greater delight. But its
most precious contents were two half-crowns folded together in a bit
of paper, on which was written, in my mother’s hand, ‘For Davy. With my
love.’ I was so overcome by this, that I asked the carrier to be so good
as to reach me my pocket-handkerchief again; but he said he thought I
had better do without it, and I thought I really had, so I wiped my eyes
on my sleeve and stopped myself.

For good, too; though, in consequence of my previous emotions, I was
still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had jogged on for
some little time, I asked the carrier if he was going all the way.

‘All the way where?’ inquired the carrier.

‘There,’ I said.

‘Where’s there?’ inquired the carrier.

‘Near London,’ I said.

‘Why that horse,’ said the carrier, jerking the rein to point him out,
‘would be deader than pork afore he got over half the ground.’

‘Are you only going to Yarmouth then?’ I asked.

‘That’s about it,’ said the carrier. ‘And there I shall take you to the
stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that’ll take you to--wherever it is.’

As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr. Barkis)
to say--he being, as I observed in a former chapter, of a phlegmatic
temperament, and not at all conversational--I offered him a cake as a
mark of attention, which he ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant,
and which made no more impression on his big face than it would have
done on an elephant’s.

‘Did SHE make ‘em, now?’ said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward, in his
slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an arm on each knee.

‘Peggotty, do you mean, sir?’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Her.’

‘Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking.’

‘Do she though?’ said Mr. Barkis. He made up his mouth as if to whistle,
but he didn’t whistle. He sat looking at the horse’s ears, as if he saw
something new there; and sat so, for a considerable time. By and by, he
said:

‘No sweethearts, I b’lieve?’

‘Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?’ For I thought he wanted
something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that description of
refreshment.

‘Hearts,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Sweet hearts; no person walks with her!’

‘With Peggotty?’

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Her.’

‘Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart.’

‘Didn’t she, though!’ said Mr. Barkis.

Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn’t whistle, but
sat looking at the horse’s ears.

‘So she makes,’ said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of reflection,
‘all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, do she?’

I replied that such was the fact.

‘Well. I’ll tell you what,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘P’raps you might be
writin’ to her?’

‘I shall certainly write to her,’ I rejoined.

‘Ah!’ he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me. ‘Well! If you was
writin’ to her, p’raps you’d recollect to say that Barkis was willin’;
would you?’

‘That Barkis is willing,’ I repeated, innocently. ‘Is that all the
message?’

‘Ye-es,’ he said, considering. ‘Ye-es. Barkis is willin’.’

‘But you will be at Blunderstone again tomorrow, Mr. Barkis,’ I said,
faltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it then, and
could give your own message so much better.’

As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of his head,
and once more confirmed his previous request by saying, with profound
gravity, ‘Barkis is willin’. That’s the message,’ I readily undertook
its transmission. While I was waiting for the coach in the hotel
at Yarmouth that very afternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and
an inkstand, and wrote a note to Peggotty, which ran thus: ‘My dear
Peggotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love to mama.
Yours affectionately. P.S. He says he particularly wants you to
know--BARKIS IS WILLING.’

When I had taken this commission on myself prospectively, Mr. Barkis
relapsed into perfect silence; and I, feeling quite worn out by all that
had happened lately, lay down on a sack in the cart and fell asleep. I
slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth; which was so entirely new
and strange to me in the inn-yard to which we drove, that I at once
abandoned a latent hope I had had of meeting with some of Mr. Peggotty’s
family there, perhaps even with little Em’ly herself.

The coach was in the yard, shining very much all over, but without any
horses to it as yet; and it looked in that state as if nothing was
more unlikely than its ever going to London. I was thinking this, and
wondering what would ultimately become of my box, which Mr. Barkis had
put down on the yard-pavement by the pole (he having driven up the yard
to turn his cart), and also what would ultimately become of me, when a
lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were
hanging up, and said:

‘Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said.

‘What name?’ inquired the lady.

‘Copperfield, ma’am,’ I said.

‘That won’t do,’ returned the lady. ‘Nobody’s dinner is paid for here,
in that name.’

‘Is it Murdstone, ma’am?’ I said.

‘If you’re Master Murdstone,’ said the lady, ‘why do you go and give
another name, first?’

I explained to the lady how it was, who than rang a bell, and called
out, ‘William! show the coffee-room!’ upon which a waiter came running
out of a kitchen on the opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed
a good deal surprised when he was only to show it to me.

It was a large long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could
have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries, and
I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to
sit down, with my cap in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the
door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set
of castors on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.

He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in
such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some
offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at
the table, and saying, very affably, ‘Now, six-foot! come on!’

I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely
difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity,
or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing
opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful
manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second
chop, he said:

‘There’s half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?’

I thanked him and said, ‘Yes.’ Upon which he poured it out of a jug
into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look
beautiful.

‘My eye!’ he said. ‘It seems a good deal, don’t it?’

‘It does seem a good deal,’ I answered with a smile. For it was quite
delightful to me, to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed,
pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and
as he stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with
the other hand, he looked quite friendly.

‘There was a gentleman here, yesterday,’ he said--‘a stout gentleman, by
the name of Topsawyer--perhaps you know him?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think--’

‘In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey coat, speckled
choker,’ said the waiter.

‘No,’ I said bashfully, ‘I haven’t the pleasure--’

‘He came in here,’ said the waiter, looking at the light through the
tumbler, ‘ordered a glass of this ale--WOULD order it--I told him
not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn’t to be
drawn; that’s the fact.’

I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I
thought I had better have some water.

‘Why you see,’ said the waiter, still looking at the light through the
tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, ‘our people don’t like things
being ordered and left. It offends ‘em. But I’ll drink it, if you like.
I’m used to it, and use is everything. I don’t think it’ll hurt me, if I
throw my head back, and take it off quick. Shall I?’

I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he thought
he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he did throw his
head back, and take it off quick, I had a horrible fear, I confess,
of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall
lifeless on the carpet. But it didn’t hurt him. On the contrary, I
thought he seemed the fresher for it.

‘What have we got here?’ he said, putting a fork into my dish. ‘Not
chops?’

‘Chops,’ I said.

‘Lord bless my soul!’ he exclaimed, ‘I didn’t know they were chops. Why,
a chop’s the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Ain’t
it lucky?’

So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other,
and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction.
He afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that,
another chop and another potato. When we had done, he brought me a
pudding, and having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become
absent in his mind for some moments.

‘How’s the pie?’ he said, rousing himself.

‘It’s a pudding,’ I made answer.

‘Pudding!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, bless me, so it is! What!’ looking at it
nearer. ‘You don’t mean to say it’s a batter-pudding!’

‘Yes, it is indeed.’

‘Why, a batter-pudding,’ he said, taking up a table-spoon, ‘is my
favourite pudding! Ain’t that lucky? Come on, little ‘un, and let’s see
who’ll get most.’

The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in
and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, his dispatch to
my dispatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at
the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw anyone enjoy
a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone, as if
his enjoyment of it lasted still.

Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was then that I asked
for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggotty. He not only brought
it immediately, but was good enough to look over me while I wrote the
letter. When I had finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.

I said, ‘Near London,’ which was all I knew.

‘Oh! my eye!’ he said, looking very low-spirited, ‘I am sorry for that.’

‘Why?’ I asked him.

‘Oh, Lord!’ he said, shaking his head, ‘that’s the school where they
broke the boy’s ribs--two ribs--a little boy he was. I should say he
was--let me see--how old are you, about?’

I told him between eight and nine.

‘That’s just his age,’ he said. ‘He was eight years and six months old
when they broke his first rib; eight years and eight months old when
they broke his second, and did for him.’

I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that this was an
uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His answer was
not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal words, ‘With
whopping.’

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion,
which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and
diffidence of having a purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there
were anything to pay.

‘There’s a sheet of letter-paper,’ he returned. ‘Did you ever buy a
sheet of letter-paper?’

I could not remember that I ever had.

‘It’s dear,’ he said, ‘on account of the duty. Threepence. That’s
the way we’re taxed in this country. There’s nothing else, except the
waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.’

‘What should you--what should I--how much ought I to--what would it be
right to pay the waiter, if you please?’ I stammered, blushing.

‘If I hadn’t a family, and that family hadn’t the cowpock,’ said the
waiter, ‘I wouldn’t take a sixpence. If I didn’t support a aged pairint,
and a lovely sister,’--here the waiter was greatly agitated--‘I wouldn’t
take a farthing. If I had a good place, and was treated well here, I
should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live
on broken wittles--and I sleep on the coals’--here the waiter burst into
tears.

I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt that any
recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness of
heart. Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings, which he
received with much humility and veneration, and spun up with his thumb,
directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.

It was a little disconcerting to me, to find, when I was being helped
up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner
without any assistance. I discovered this, from overhearing the lady in
the bow-window say to the guard, ‘Take care of that child, George, or
he’ll burst!’ and from observing that the women-servants who were about
the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon. My
unfortunate friend the waiter, who had quite recovered his spirits, did
not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in the general admiration
without being at all confused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose
this half awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that with the simple
confidence of a child, and the natural reliance of a child upon superior
years (qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely change
for worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him on the whole, even
then.

I felt it rather hard, I must own, to be made, without deserving it, the
subject of jokes between the coachman and guard as to the coach drawing
heavy behind, on account of my sitting there, and as to the greater
expediency of my travelling by waggon. The story of my supposed appetite
getting wind among the outside passengers, they were merry upon it
likewise; and asked me whether I was going to be paid for, at school,
as two brothers or three, and whether I was contracted for, or went upon
the regular terms; with other pleasant questions. But the worst of
it was, that I knew I should be ashamed to eat anything, when an
opportunity offered, and that, after a rather light dinner, I should
remain hungry all night--for I had left my cakes behind, at the hotel,
in my hurry. My apprehensions were realized. When we stopped for supper
I couldn’t muster courage to take any, though I should have liked it
very much, but sat by the fire and said I didn’t want anything. This did
not save me from more jokes, either; for a husky-voiced gentleman with
a rough face, who had been eating out of a sandwich-box nearly all the
way, except when he had been drinking out of a bottle, said I was like
a boa-constrictor who took enough at one meal to last him a long time;
after which, he actually brought a rash out upon himself with boiled
beef.

We had started from Yarmouth at three o’clock in the afternoon, and we
were due in London about eight next morning. It was Mid-summer weather,
and the evening was very pleasant. When we passed through a village, I
pictured to myself what the insides of the houses were like, and what
the inhabitants were about; and when boys came running after us, and
got up behind and swung there for a little way, I wondered whether their
fathers were alive, and whether they were happy at home. I had plenty to
think of, therefore, besides my mind running continually on the kind
of place I was going to--which was an awful speculation. Sometimes, I
remember, I resigned myself to thoughts of home and Peggotty; and to
endeavouring, in a confused blind way, to recall how I had felt, and
what sort of boy I used to be, before I bit Mr. Murdstone: which I
couldn’t satisfy myself about by any means, I seemed to have bitten him
in such a remote antiquity.

The night was not so pleasant as the evening, for it got chilly; and
being put between two gentlemen (the rough-faced one and another) to
prevent my tumbling off the coach, I was nearly smothered by their
falling asleep, and completely blocking me up. They squeezed me so hard
sometimes, that I could not help crying out, ‘Oh! If you please!’--which
they didn’t like at all, because it woke them. Opposite me was an
elderly lady in a great fur cloak, who looked in the dark more like a
haystack than a lady, she was wrapped up to such a degree. This lady had
a basket with her, and she hadn’t known what to do with it, for a long
time, until she found that on account of my legs being short, it could
go underneath me. It cramped and hurt me so, that it made me perfectly
miserable; but if I moved in the least, and made a glass that was in the
basket rattle against something else (as it was sure to do), she gave
me the cruellest poke with her foot, and said, ‘Come, don’t YOU fidget.
YOUR bones are young enough, I’m sure!’

At last the sun rose, and then my companions seemed to sleep easier.
The difficulties under which they had laboured all night, and which had
found utterance in the most terrific gasps and snorts, are not to be
conceived. As the sun got higher, their sleep became lighter, and so
they gradually one by one awoke. I recollect being very much surprised
by the feint everybody made, then, of not having been to sleep at all,
and by the uncommon indignation with which everyone repelled the
charge. I labour under the same kind of astonishment to this day, having
invariably observed that of all human weaknesses, the one to which our
common nature is the least disposed to confess (I cannot imagine why) is
the weakness of having gone to sleep in a coach.

What an amazing place London was to me when I saw it in the distance,
and how I believed all the adventures of all my favourite heroes to be
constantly enacting and re-enacting there, and how I vaguely made it
out in my own mind to be fuller of wonders and wickedness than all the
cities of the earth, I need not stop here to relate. We approached it by
degrees, and got, in due time, to the inn in the Whitechapel district,
for which we were bound. I forget whether it was the Blue Bull, or the
Blue Boar; but I know it was the Blue Something, and that its likeness
was painted up on the back of the coach.

The guard’s eye lighted on me as he was getting down, and he said at the
booking-office door:

‘Is there anybody here for a yoongster booked in the name of Murdstone,
from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, to be left till called for?’

Nobody answered.

‘Try Copperfield, if you please, sir,’ said I, looking helplessly down.

‘Is there anybody here for a yoongster, booked in the name of Murdstone,
from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, but owning to the name of Copperfield, to
be left till called for?’ said the guard. ‘Come! IS there anybody?’

No. There was nobody. I looked anxiously around; but the inquiry made no
impression on any of the bystanders, if I except a man in gaiters, with
one eye, who suggested that they had better put a brass collar round my
neck, and tie me up in the stable.

A ladder was brought, and I got down after the lady, who was like a
haystack: not daring to stir, until her basket was removed. The coach
was clear of passengers by that time, the luggage was very soon cleared
out, the horses had been taken out before the luggage, and now the coach
itself was wheeled and backed off by some hostlers, out of the way.
Still, nobody appeared, to claim the dusty youngster from Blunderstone,
Suffolk.

More solitary than Robinson Crusoe, who had nobody to look at him
and see that he was solitary, I went into the booking-office, and, by
invitation of the clerk on duty, passed behind the counter, and sat down
on the scale at which they weighed the luggage. Here, as I sat looking
at the parcels, packages, and books, and inhaling the smell of stables
(ever since associated with that morning), a procession of most
tremendous considerations began to march through my mind. Supposing
nobody should ever fetch me, how long would they consent to keep me
there? Would they keep me long enough to spend seven shillings? Should I
sleep at night in one of those wooden bins, with the other luggage,
and wash myself at the pump in the yard in the morning; or should I
be turned out every night, and expected to come again to be left till
called for, when the office opened next day? Supposing there was no
mistake in the case, and Mr. Murdstone had devised this plan to get rid
of me, what should I do? If they allowed me to remain there until my
seven shillings were spent, I couldn’t hope to remain there when I began
to starve. That would obviously be inconvenient and unpleasant to the
customers, besides entailing on the Blue Whatever-it-was, the risk of
funeral expenses. If I started off at once, and tried to walk back home,
how could I ever find my way, how could I ever hope to walk so far, how
could I make sure of anyone but Peggotty, even if I got back? If I
found out the nearest proper authorities, and offered myself to go for a
soldier, or a sailor, I was such a little fellow that it was most likely
they wouldn’t take me in. These thoughts, and a hundred other such
thoughts, turned me burning hot, and made me giddy with apprehension and
dismay. I was in the height of my fever when a man entered and whispered
to the clerk, who presently slanted me off the scale, and pushed me over
to him, as if I were weighed, bought, delivered, and paid for.

As I went out of the office, hand in hand with this new acquaintance,
I stole a look at him. He was a gaunt, sallow young man, with hollow
cheeks, and a chin almost as black as Mr. Murdstone’s; but there the
likeness ended, for his whiskers were shaved off, and his hair, instead
of being glossy, was rusty and dry. He was dressed in a suit of black
clothes which were rather rusty and dry too, and rather short in the
sleeves and legs; and he had a white neck-kerchief on, that was not
over-clean. I did not, and do not, suppose that this neck-kerchief was
all the linen he wore, but it was all he showed or gave any hint of.

‘You’re the new boy?’ he said. ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

I supposed I was. I didn’t know.

‘I’m one of the masters at Salem House,’ he said.

I made him a bow and felt very much overawed. I was so ashamed to allude
to a commonplace thing like my box, to a scholar and a master at Salem
House, that we had gone some little distance from the yard before I had
the hardihood to mention it. We turned back, on my humbly insinuating
that it might be useful to me hereafter; and he told the clerk that the
carrier had instructions to call for it at noon.

‘If you please, sir,’ I said, when we had accomplished about the same
distance as before, ‘is it far?’

‘It’s down by Blackheath,’ he said.

‘Is that far, sir?’ I diffidently asked.

‘It’s a good step,’ he said. ‘We shall go by the stage-coach. It’s about
six miles.’

I was so faint and tired, that the idea of holding out for six miles
more, was too much for me. I took heart to tell him that I had had
nothing all night, and that if he would allow me to buy something to
eat, I should be very much obliged to him. He appeared surprised at
this--I see him stop and look at me now--and after considering for a few
moments, said he wanted to call on an old person who lived not far off,
and that the best way would be for me to buy some bread, or whatever I
liked best that was wholesome, and make my breakfast at her house, where
we could get some milk.

Accordingly we looked in at a baker’s window, and after I had made a
series of proposals to buy everything that was bilious in the shop, and
he had rejected them one by one, we decided in favour of a nice little
loaf of brown bread, which cost me threepence. Then, at a grocer’s shop,
we bought an egg and a slice of streaky bacon; which still left what
I thought a good deal of change, out of the second of the bright
shillings, and made me consider London a very cheap place. These
provisions laid in, we went on through a great noise and uproar that
confused my weary head beyond description, and over a bridge which, no
doubt, was London Bridge (indeed I think he told me so, but I was half
asleep), until we came to the poor person’s house, which was a part of
some alms-houses, as I knew by their look, and by an inscription on a
stone over the gate which said they were established for twenty-five
poor women.

The Master at Salem House lifted the latch of one of a number of little
black doors that were all alike, and had each a little diamond-paned
window on one side, and another little diamond--paned window above; and
we went into the little house of one of these poor old women, who was
blowing a fire to make a little saucepan boil. On seeing the master
enter, the old woman stopped with the bellows on her knee, and said
something that I thought sounded like ‘My Charley!’ but on seeing me
come in too, she got up, and rubbing her hands made a confused sort of
half curtsey.

‘Can you cook this young gentleman’s breakfast for him, if you please?’
said the Master at Salem House.

‘Can I?’ said the old woman. ‘Yes can I, sure!’

‘How’s Mrs. Fibbitson today?’ said the Master, looking at another old
woman in a large chair by the fire, who was such a bundle of clothes
that I feel grateful to this hour for not having sat upon her by
mistake.

‘Ah, she’s poorly,’ said the first old woman. ‘It’s one of her bad days.
If the fire was to go out, through any accident, I verily believe she’d
go out too, and never come to life again.’

As they looked at her, I looked at her also. Although it was a warm day,
she seemed to think of nothing but the fire. I fancied she was jealous
even of the saucepan on it; and I have reason to know that she took its
impressment into the service of boiling my egg and broiling my bacon, in
dudgeon; for I saw her, with my own discomfited eyes, shake her fist at
me once, when those culinary operations were going on, and no one else
was looking. The sun streamed in at the little window, but she sat with
her own back and the back of the large chair towards it, screening the
fire as if she were sedulously keeping IT warm, instead of it keeping
her warm, and watching it in a most distrustful manner. The completion
of the preparations for my breakfast, by relieving the fire, gave her
such extreme joy that she laughed aloud--and a very unmelodious laugh
she had, I must say.

I sat down to my brown loaf, my egg, and my rasher of bacon, with a
basin of milk besides, and made a most delicious meal. While I was yet
in the full enjoyment of it, the old woman of the house said to the
Master:

‘Have you got your flute with you?’

‘Yes,’ he returned.

‘Have a blow at it,’ said the old woman, coaxingly. ‘Do!’

The Master, upon this, put his hand underneath the skirts of his coat,
and brought out his flute in three pieces, which he screwed together,
and began immediately to play. My impression is, after many years of
consideration, that there never can have been anybody in the world who
played worse. He made the most dismal sounds I have ever heard produced
by any means, natural or artificial. I don’t know what the tunes
were--if there were such things in the performance at all, which I
doubt--but the influence of the strain upon me was, first, to make me
think of all my sorrows until I could hardly keep my tears back; then to
take away my appetite; and lastly, to make me so sleepy that I couldn’t
keep my eyes open. They begin to close again, and I begin to nod, as the
recollection rises fresh upon me. Once more the little room, with its
open corner cupboard, and its square-backed chairs, and its angular
little staircase leading to the room above, and its three peacock’s
feathers displayed over the mantelpiece--I remember wondering when I
first went in, what that peacock would have thought if he had known what
his finery was doomed to come to--fades from before me, and I nod, and
sleep. The flute becomes inaudible, the wheels of the coach are heard
instead, and I am on my journey. The coach jolts, I wake with a start,
and the flute has come back again, and the Master at Salem House is
sitting with his legs crossed, playing it dolefully, while the old woman
of the house looks on delighted. She fades in her turn, and he fades,
and all fades, and there is no flute, no Master, no Salem House, no
David Copperfield, no anything but heavy sleep.

I dreamed, I thought, that once while he was blowing into this dismal
flute, the old woman of the house, who had gone nearer and nearer to him
in her ecstatic admiration, leaned over the back of his chair and gave
him an affectionate squeeze round the neck, which stopped his playing
for a moment. I was in the middle state between sleeping and waking,
either then or immediately afterwards; for, as he resumed--it was a real
fact that he had stopped playing--I saw and heard the same old woman ask
Mrs. Fibbitson if it wasn’t delicious (meaning the flute), to which Mrs.
Fibbitson replied, ‘Ay, ay! yes!’ and nodded at the fire: to which, I am
persuaded, she gave the credit of the whole performance.

When I seemed to have been dozing a long while, the Master at Salem
House unscrewed his flute into the three pieces, put them up as before,
and took me away. We found the coach very near at hand, and got upon the
roof; but I was so dead sleepy, that when we stopped on the road to take
up somebody else, they put me inside where there were no passengers, and
where I slept profoundly, until I found the coach going at a footpace up
a steep hill among green leaves. Presently, it stopped, and had come to
its destination.

A short walk brought us--I mean the Master and me--to Salem House, which
was enclosed with a high brick wall, and looked very dull. Over a door
in this wall was a board with SALEM HOUSE upon it; and through a grating
in this door we were surveyed when we rang the bell by a surly face,
which I found, on the door being opened, belonged to a stout man with a
bull-neck, a wooden leg, overhanging temples, and his hair cut close all
round his head.

‘The new boy,’ said the Master.

The man with the wooden leg eyed me all over--it didn’t take long, for
there was not much of me--and locked the gate behind us, and took out
the key. We were going up to the house, among some dark heavy trees,
when he called after my conductor. ‘Hallo!’

We looked back, and he was standing at the door of a little lodge, where
he lived, with a pair of boots in his hand.

‘Here! The cobbler’s been,’ he said, ‘since you’ve been out, Mr. Mell,
and he says he can’t mend ‘em any more. He says there ain’t a bit of the
original boot left, and he wonders you expect it.’

With these words he threw the boots towards Mr. Mell, who went back a
few paces to pick them up, and looked at them (very disconsolately,
I was afraid), as we went on together. I observed then, for the first
time, that the boots he had on were a good deal the worse for wear, and
that his stocking was just breaking out in one place, like a bud.

Salem House was a square brick building with wings; of a bare and
unfurnished appearance. All about it was so very quiet, that I said to
Mr. Mell I supposed the boys were out; but he seemed surprised at my
not knowing that it was holiday-time. That all the boys were at their
several homes. That Mr. Creakle, the proprietor, was down by the
sea-side with Mrs. and Miss Creakle; and that I was sent in holiday-time
as a punishment for my misdoing, all of which he explained to me as we
went along.

I gazed upon the schoolroom into which he took me, as the most forlorn
and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it now. A long room with three
long rows of desks, and six of forms, and bristling all round with pegs
for hats and slates. Scraps of old copy-books and exercises litter the
dirty floor. Some silkworms’ houses, made of the same materials, are
scattered over the desks. Two miserable little white mice, left behind
by their owner, are running up and down in a fusty castle made of
pasteboard and wire, looking in all the corners with their red eyes
for anything to eat. A bird, in a cage very little bigger than himself,
makes a mournful rattle now and then in hopping on his perch, two inches
high, or dropping from it; but neither sings nor chirps. There is a
strange unwholesome smell upon the room, like mildewed corduroys, sweet
apples wanting air, and rotten books. There could not well be more ink
splashed about it, if it had been roofless from its first construction,
and the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the
varying seasons of the year.

Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable boots upstairs, I
went softly to the upper end of the room, observing all this as I crept
along. Suddenly I came upon a pasteboard placard, beautifully written,
which was lying on the desk, and bore these words: ‘TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE
BITES.’

I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least a great dog
underneath. But, though I looked all round with anxious eyes, I could
see nothing of him. I was still engaged in peering about, when Mr. Mell
came back, and asked me what I did up there?

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ says I, ‘if you please, I’m looking for the
dog.’

‘Dog?’ he says. ‘What dog?’

‘Isn’t it a dog, sir?’

‘Isn’t what a dog?’

‘That’s to be taken care of, sir; that bites.’

‘No, Copperfield,’ says he, gravely, ‘that’s not a dog. That’s a boy.
My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this placard on your back. I am
sorry to make such a beginning with you, but I must do it.’ With that he
took me down, and tied the placard, which was neatly constructed for
the purpose, on my shoulders like a knapsack; and wherever I went,
afterwards, I had the consolation of carrying it.

What I suffered from that placard, nobody can imagine. Whether it was
possible for people to see me or not, I always fancied that somebody was
reading it. It was no relief to turn round and find nobody; for wherever
my back was, there I imagined somebody always to be. That cruel man with
the wooden leg aggravated my sufferings. He was in authority; and if he
ever saw me leaning against a tree, or a wall, or the house, he roared
out from his lodge door in a stupendous voice, ‘Hallo, you sir! You
Copperfield! Show that badge conspicuous, or I’ll report you!’ The
playground was a bare gravelled yard, open to all the back of the house
and the offices; and I knew that the servants read it, and the butcher
read it, and the baker read it; that everybody, in a word, who came
backwards and forwards to the house, of a morning when I was ordered to
walk there, read that I was to be taken care of, for I bit, I recollect
that I positively began to have a dread of myself, as a kind of wild boy
who did bite.

There was an old door in this playground, on which the boys had a
custom of carving their names. It was completely covered with such
inscriptions. In my dread of the end of the vacation and their coming
back, I could not read a boy’s name, without inquiring in what tone and
with what emphasis HE would read, ‘Take care of him. He bites.’ There
was one boy--a certain J. Steerforth--who cut his name very deep and
very often, who, I conceived, would read it in a rather strong voice,
and afterwards pull my hair. There was another boy, one Tommy Traddles,
who I dreaded would make game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully
frightened of me. There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would
sing it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at that door, until
the owners of all the names--there were five-and-forty of them in the
school then, Mr. Mell said--seemed to send me to Coventry by general
acclamation, and to cry out, each in his own way, ‘Take care of him. He
bites!’

It was the same with the places at the desks and forms. It was the same
with the groves of deserted bedsteads I peeped at, on my way to, and
when I was in, my own bed. I remember dreaming night after night, of
being with my mother as she used to be, or of going to a party at Mr.
Peggotty’s, or of travelling outside the stage-coach, or of dining again
with my unfortunate friend the waiter, and in all these circumstances
making people scream and stare, by the unhappy disclosure that I had
nothing on but my little night-shirt, and that placard.

In the monotony of my life, and in my constant apprehension of the
re-opening of the school, it was such an insupportable affliction! I had
long tasks every day to do with Mr. Mell; but I did them, there being
no Mr. and Miss Murdstone here, and got through them without disgrace.
Before, and after them, I walked about--supervised, as I have mentioned,
by the man with the wooden leg. How vividly I call to mind the damp
about the house, the green cracked flagstones in the court, an old leaky
water-butt, and the discoloured trunks of some of the grim trees, which
seemed to have dripped more in the rain than other trees, and to have
blown less in the sun! At one we dined, Mr. Mell and I, at the upper end
of a long bare dining-room, full of deal tables, and smelling of fat.
Then, we had more tasks until tea, which Mr. Mell drank out of a blue
teacup, and I out of a tin pot. All day long, and until seven or eight
in the evening, Mr. Mell, at his own detached desk in the schoolroom,
worked hard with pen, ink, ruler, books, and writing-paper, making out
the bills (as I found) for last half-year. When he had put up his things
for the night he took out his flute, and blew at it, until I almost
thought he would gradually blow his whole being into the large hole at
the top, and ooze away at the keys.

I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted rooms, sitting with my
head upon my hand, listening to the doleful performance of Mr. Mell,
and conning tomorrow’s lessons. I picture myself with my books shut up,
still listening to the doleful performance of Mr. Mell, and listening
through it to what used to be at home, and to the blowing of the wind
on Yarmouth flats, and feeling very sad and solitary. I picture myself
going up to bed, among the unused rooms, and sitting on my bed-side
crying for a comfortable word from Peggotty. I picture myself coming
downstairs in the morning, and looking through a long ghastly gash of a
staircase window at the school-bell hanging on the top of an out-house
with a weathercock above it; and dreading the time when it shall ring J.
Steerforth and the rest to work: which is only second, in my foreboding
apprehensions, to the time when the man with the wooden leg shall unlock
the rusty gate to give admission to the awful Mr. Creakle. I cannot
think I was a very dangerous character in any of these aspects, but in
all of them I carried the same warning on my back.

Mr. Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh to me. I suppose
we were company to each other, without talking. I forgot to mention that
he would talk to himself sometimes, and grin, and clench his fist, and
grind his teeth, and pull his hair in an unaccountable manner. But he
had these peculiarities: and at first they frightened me, though I soon
got used to them.



CHAPTER 6. I ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE


I HAD led this life about a month, when the man with the wooden leg
began to stump about with a mop and a bucket of water, from which I
inferred that preparations were making to receive Mr. Creakle and the
boys. I was not mistaken; for the mop came into the schoolroom before
long, and turned out Mr. Mell and me, who lived where we could, and got
on how we could, for some days, during which we were always in the way
of two or three young women, who had rarely shown themselves before, and
were so continually in the midst of dust that I sneezed almost as much
as if Salem House had been a great snuff-box.

One day I was informed by Mr. Mell that Mr. Creakle would be home that
evening. In the evening, after tea, I heard that he was come. Before
bedtime, I was fetched by the man with the wooden leg to appear before
him.

Mr. Creakle’s part of the house was a good deal more comfortable than
ours, and he had a snug bit of garden that looked pleasant after the
dusty playground, which was such a desert in miniature, that I thought
no one but a camel, or a dromedary, could have felt at home in it. It
seemed to me a bold thing even to take notice that the passage looked
comfortable, as I went on my way, trembling, to Mr. Creakle’s presence:
which so abashed me, when I was ushered into it, that I hardly saw
Mrs. Creakle or Miss Creakle (who were both there, in the parlour), or
anything but Mr. Creakle, a stout gentleman with a bunch of watch-chain
and seals, in an arm-chair, with a tumbler and bottle beside him.

‘So!’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘This is the young gentleman whose teeth are to
be filed! Turn him round.’

The wooden-legged man turned me about so as to exhibit the placard; and
having afforded time for a full survey of it, turned me about again,
with my face to Mr. Creakle, and posted himself at Mr. Creakle’s side.
Mr. Creakle’s face was fiery, and his eyes were small, and deep in his
head; he had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large
chin. He was bald on the top of his head; and had some thin wet-looking
hair that was just turning grey, brushed across each temple, so that
the two sides interlaced on his forehead. But the circumstance about
him which impressed me most, was, that he had no voice, but spoke in a
whisper. The exertion this cost him, or the consciousness of talking in
that feeble way, made his angry face so much more angry, and his thick
veins so much thicker, when he spoke, that I am not surprised, on
looking back, at this peculiarity striking me as his chief one. ‘Now,’
said Mr. Creakle. ‘What’s the report of this boy?’

‘There’s nothing against him yet,’ returned the man with the wooden leg.
‘There has been no opportunity.’

I thought Mr. Creakle was disappointed. I thought Mrs. and Miss Creakle
(at whom I now glanced for the first time, and who were, both, thin and
quiet) were not disappointed.

‘Come here, sir!’ said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me.

‘Come here!’ said the man with the wooden leg, repeating the gesture.

‘I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law,’ whispered Mr.
Creakle, taking me by the ear; ‘and a worthy man he is, and a man of
a strong character. He knows me, and I know him. Do YOU know me? Hey?’
said Mr. Creakle, pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness.

‘Not yet, sir,’ I said, flinching with the pain.

‘Not yet? Hey?’ repeated Mr. Creakle. ‘But you will soon. Hey?’

‘You will soon. Hey?’ repeated the man with the wooden leg. I afterwards
found that he generally acted, with his strong voice, as Mr. Creakle’s
interpreter to the boys.

I was very much frightened, and said, I hoped so, if he pleased. I felt,
all this while, as if my ear were blazing; he pinched it so hard.

‘I’ll tell you what I am,’ whispered Mr. Creakle, letting it go at last,
with a screw at parting that brought the water into my eyes. ‘I’m a
Tartar.’

‘A Tartar,’ said the man with the wooden leg.

‘When I say I’ll do a thing, I do it,’ said Mr. Creakle; ‘and when I say
I will have a thing done, I will have it done.’

‘--Will have a thing done, I will have it done,’ repeated the man with
the wooden leg.

‘I am a determined character,’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘That’s what I am. I
do my duty. That’s what I do. My flesh and blood’--he looked at Mrs.
Creakle as he said this--‘when it rises against me, is not my flesh
and blood. I discard it. Has that fellow’--to the man with the wooden
leg--‘been here again?’

‘No,’ was the answer.

‘No,’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘He knows better. He knows me. Let him keep
away. I say let him keep away,’ said Mr. Creakle, striking his hand upon
the table, and looking at Mrs. Creakle, ‘for he knows me. Now you have
begun to know me too, my young friend, and you may go. Take him away.’

I was very glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss Creakle were both
wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncomfortable for them as I did for
myself. But I had a petition on my mind which concerned me so nearly,
that I couldn’t help saying, though I wondered at my own courage:

‘If you please, sir--’

Mr. Creakle whispered, ‘Hah! What’s this?’ and bent his eyes upon me, as
if he would have burnt me up with them.

‘If you please, sir,’ I faltered, ‘if I might be allowed (I am very
sorry indeed, sir, for what I did) to take this writing off, before the
boys come back--’

Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only did it to
frighten me, I don’t know, but he made a burst out of his chair, before
which I precipitately retreated, without waiting for the escort of the
man with the wooden leg, and never once stopped until I reached my own
bedroom, where, finding I was not pursued, I went to bed, as it was
time, and lay quaking, for a couple of hours.

Next morning Mr. Sharp came back. Mr. Sharp was the first master, and
superior to Mr. Mell. Mr. Mell took his meals with the boys, but
Mr. Sharp dined and supped at Mr. Creakle’s table. He was a limp,
delicate-looking gentleman, I thought, with a good deal of nose, and a
way of carrying his head on one side, as if it were a little too heavy
for him. His hair was very smooth and wavy; but I was informed by the
very first boy who came back that it was a wig (a second-hand one HE
said), and that Mr. Sharp went out every Saturday afternoon to get it
curled.

It was no other than Tommy Traddles who gave me this piece of
intelligence. He was the first boy who returned. He introduced himself
by informing me that I should find his name on the right-hand corner of
the gate, over the top-bolt; upon that I said, ‘Traddles?’ to which he
replied, ‘The same,’ and then he asked me for a full account of myself
and family.

It was a happy circumstance for me that Traddles came back first. He
enjoyed my placard so much, that he saved me from the embarrassment of
either disclosure or concealment, by presenting me to every other boy
who came back, great or small, immediately on his arrival, in this form
of introduction, ‘Look here! Here’s a game!’ Happily, too, the greater
part of the boys came back low-spirited, and were not so boisterous at
my expense as I had expected. Some of them certainly did dance about me
like wild Indians, and the greater part could not resist the temptation
of pretending that I was a dog, and patting and soothing me, lest I
should bite, and saying, ‘Lie down, sir!’ and calling me Towzer. This
was naturally confusing, among so many strangers, and cost me some
tears, but on the whole it was much better than I had anticipated.

I was not considered as being formally received into the school,
however, until J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boy, who was
reputed to be a great scholar, and was very good-looking, and at least
half-a-dozen years my senior, I was carried as before a magistrate. He
inquired, under a shed in the playground, into the particulars of my
punishment, and was pleased to express his opinion that it was ‘a jolly
shame’; for which I became bound to him ever afterwards.

‘What money have you got, Copperfield?’ he said, walking aside with
me when he had disposed of my affair in these terms. I told him seven
shillings.

‘You had better give it to me to take care of,’ he said. ‘At least, you
can if you like. You needn’t if you don’t like.’

I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and opening
Peggotty’s purse, turned it upside down into his hand.

‘Do you want to spend anything now?’ he asked me.

‘No thank you,’ I replied.

‘You can, if you like, you know,’ said Steerforth. ‘Say the word.’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ I repeated.

‘Perhaps you’d like to spend a couple of shillings or so, in a bottle of
currant wine by and by, up in the bedroom?’ said Steerforth. ‘You belong
to my bedroom, I find.’

It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said, Yes, I should
like that.

‘Very good,’ said Steerforth. ‘You’ll be glad to spend another shilling
or so, in almond cakes, I dare say?’

I said, Yes, I should like that, too.

‘And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in fruit, eh?’ said
Steerforth. ‘I say, young Copperfield, you’re going it!’

I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in my mind, too.

‘Well!’ said Steerforth. ‘We must make it stretch as far as we can;
that’s all. I’ll do the best in my power for you. I can go out when I
like, and I’ll smuggle the prog in.’ With these words he put the money
in his pocket, and kindly told me not to make myself uneasy; he would
take care it should be all right. He was as good as his word, if that
were all right which I had a secret misgiving was nearly all wrong--for
I feared it was a waste of my mother’s two half-crowns--though I had
preserved the piece of paper they were wrapped in: which was a precious
saving. When we went upstairs to bed, he produced the whole seven
shillings’ worth, and laid it out on my bed in the moonlight, saying:

‘There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread you’ve got.’

I couldn’t think of doing the honours of the feast, at my time of life,
while he was by; my hand shook at the very thought of it. I begged him
to do me the favour of presiding; and my request being seconded by the
other boys who were in that room, he acceded to it, and sat upon my
pillow, handing round the viands--with perfect fairness, I must say--and
dispensing the currant wine in a little glass without a foot, which was
his own property. As to me, I sat on his left hand, and the rest were
grouped about us, on the nearest beds and on the floor.

How well I recollect our sitting there, talking in whispers; or their
talking, and my respectfully listening, I ought rather to say; the
moonlight falling a little way into the room, through the window,
painting a pale window on the floor, and the greater part of us in
shadow, except when Steerforth dipped a match into a phosphorus-box,
when he wanted to look for anything on the board, and shed a blue glare
over us that was gone directly! A certain mysterious feeling, consequent
on the darkness, the secrecy of the revel, and the whisper in which
everything was said, steals over me again, and I listen to all they tell
me with a vague feeling of solemnity and awe, which makes me glad that
they are all so near, and frightens me (though I feign to laugh) when
Traddles pretends to see a ghost in the corner.

I heard all kinds of things about the school and all belonging to it.
I heard that Mr. Creakle had not preferred his claim to being a Tartar
without reason; that he was the sternest and most severe of masters;
that he laid about him, right and left, every day of his life, charging
in among the boys like a trooper, and slashing away, unmercifully. That
he knew nothing himself, but the art of slashing, being more ignorant
(J. Steerforth said) than the lowest boy in the school; that he had
been, a good many years ago, a small hop-dealer in the Borough, and had
taken to the schooling business after being bankrupt in hops, and making
away with Mrs. Creakle’s money. With a good deal more of that sort,
which I wondered how they knew.

I heard that the man with the wooden leg, whose name was Tungay, was an
obstinate barbarian who had formerly assisted in the hop business, but
had come into the scholastic line with Mr. Creakle, in consequence,
as was supposed among the boys, of his having broken his leg in Mr.
Creakle’s service, and having done a deal of dishonest work for him,
and knowing his secrets. I heard that with the single exception of Mr.
Creakle, Tungay considered the whole establishment, masters and boys,
as his natural enemies, and that the only delight of his life was to be
sour and malicious. I heard that Mr. Creakle had a son, who had not been
Tungay’s friend, and who, assisting in the school, had once held some
remonstrance with his father on an occasion when its discipline was very
cruelly exercised, and was supposed, besides, to have protested against
his father’s usage of his mother. I heard that Mr. Creakle had turned
him out of doors, in consequence; and that Mrs. and Miss Creakle had
been in a sad way, ever since.

But the greatest wonder that I heard of Mr. Creakle was, there being one
boy in the school on whom he never ventured to lay a hand, and that
boy being J. Steerforth. Steerforth himself confirmed this when it was
stated, and said that he should like to begin to see him do it. On being
asked by a mild boy (not me) how he would proceed if he did begin to see
him do it, he dipped a match into his phosphorus-box on purpose to shed
a glare over his reply, and said he would commence by knocking him down
with a blow on the forehead from the seven-and-sixpenny ink-bottle
that was always on the mantelpiece. We sat in the dark for some time,
breathless.

I heard that Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both supposed to be wretchedly
paid; and that when there was hot and cold meat for dinner at Mr.
Creakle’s table, Mr. Sharp was always expected to say he preferred cold;
which was again corroborated by J. Steerforth, the only parlour-boarder.
I heard that Mr. Sharp’s wig didn’t fit him; and that he needn’t be so
‘bounceable’--somebody else said ‘bumptious’--about it, because his own
red hair was very plainly to be seen behind.

I heard that one boy, who was a coal-merchant’s son, came as a set-off
against the coal-bill, and was called, on that account, ‘Exchange or
Barter’--a name selected from the arithmetic book as expressing this
arrangement. I heard that the table beer was a robbery of parents, and
the pudding an imposition. I heard that Miss Creakle was regarded by the
school in general as being in love with Steerforth; and I am sure, as I
sat in the dark, thinking of his nice voice, and his fine face, and his
easy manner, and his curling hair, I thought it very likely. I heard
that Mr. Mell was not a bad sort of fellow, but hadn’t a sixpence to
bless himself with; and that there was no doubt that old Mrs. Mell, his
mother, was as poor as job. I thought of my breakfast then, and what had
sounded like ‘My Charley!’ but I was, I am glad to remember, as mute as
a mouse about it.

The hearing of all this, and a good deal more, outlasted the banquet
some time. The greater part of the guests had gone to bed as soon as the
eating and drinking were over; and we, who had remained whispering and
listening half-undressed, at last betook ourselves to bed, too.

‘Good night, young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth. ‘I’ll take care of
you.’ ‘You’re very kind,’ I gratefully returned. ‘I am very much obliged
to you.’

‘You haven’t got a sister, have you?’ said Steerforth, yawning.

‘No,’ I answered.

‘That’s a pity,’ said Steerforth. ‘If you had had one, I should think
she would have been a pretty, timid, little, bright-eyed sort of girl. I
should have liked to know her. Good night, young Copperfield.’

‘Good night, sir,’ I replied.

I thought of him very much after I went to bed, and raised myself,
I recollect, to look at him where he lay in the moonlight, with his
handsome face turned up, and his head reclining easily on his arm. He
was a person of great power in my eyes; that was, of course, the reason
of my mind running on him. No veiled future dimly glanced upon him in
the moonbeams. There was no shadowy picture of his footsteps, in the
garden that I dreamed of walking in all night.



CHAPTER 7. MY ‘FIRST HALF’ AT SALEM HOUSE


School began in earnest next day. A profound impression was made
upon me, I remember, by the roar of voices in the schoolroom suddenly
becoming hushed as death when Mr. Creakle entered after breakfast, and
stood in the doorway looking round upon us like a giant in a story-book
surveying his captives.

Tungay stood at Mr. Creakle’s elbow. He had no occasion, I thought,
to cry out ‘Silence!’ so ferociously, for the boys were all struck
speechless and motionless.

Mr. Creakle was seen to speak, and Tungay was heard, to this effect.

‘Now, boys, this is a new half. Take care what you’re about, in this new
half. Come fresh up to the lessons, I advise you, for I come fresh up
to the punishment. I won’t flinch. It will be of no use your rubbing
yourselves; you won’t rub the marks out that I shall give you. Now get
to work, every boy!’

When this dreadful exordium was over, and Tungay had stumped out again,
Mr. Creakle came to where I sat, and told me that if I were famous for
biting, he was famous for biting, too. He then showed me the cane, and
asked me what I thought of THAT, for a tooth? Was it a sharp tooth, hey?
Was it a double tooth, hey? Had it a deep prong, hey? Did it bite, hey?
Did it bite? At every question he gave me a fleshy cut with it that made
me writhe; so I was very soon made free of Salem House (as Steerforth
said), and was very soon in tears also.

Not that I mean to say these were special marks of distinction,
which only I received. On the contrary, a large majority of the boys
(especially the smaller ones) were visited with similar instances
of notice, as Mr. Creakle made the round of the schoolroom. Half the
establishment was writhing and crying, before the day’s work began; and
how much of it had writhed and cried before the day’s work was over, I
am really afraid to recollect, lest I should seem to exaggerate.

I should think there never can have been a man who enjoyed his
profession more than Mr. Creakle did. He had a delight in cutting at
the boys, which was like the satisfaction of a craving appetite. I am
confident that he couldn’t resist a chubby boy, especially; that there
was a fascination in such a subject, which made him restless in his
mind, until he had scored and marked him for the day. I was chubby
myself, and ought to know. I am sure when I think of the fellow now, my
blood rises against him with the disinterested indignation I should
feel if I could have known all about him without having ever been in his
power; but it rises hotly, because I know him to have been an incapable
brute, who had no more right to be possessed of the great trust he held,
than to be Lord High Admiral, or Commander-in-Chief--in either of
which capacities it is probable that he would have done infinitely less
mischief.

Miserable little propitiators of a remorseless Idol, how abject we were
to him! What a launch in life I think it now, on looking back, to be so
mean and servile to a man of such parts and pretensions!

Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye--humbly watching his eye,
as he rules a ciphering-book for another victim whose hands have just
been flattened by that identical ruler, and who is trying to wipe the
sting out with a pocket-handkerchief. I have plenty to do. I don’t watch
his eye in idleness, but because I am morbidly attracted to it, in a
dread desire to know what he will do next, and whether it will be my
turn to suffer, or somebody else’s. A lane of small boys beyond me, with
the same interest in his eye, watch it too. I think he knows it,
though he pretends he don’t. He makes dreadful mouths as he rules the
ciphering-book; and now he throws his eye sideways down our lane, and we
all droop over our books and tremble. A moment afterwards we are again
eyeing him. An unhappy culprit, found guilty of imperfect exercise,
approaches at his command. The culprit falters excuses, and professes a
determination to do better tomorrow. Mr. Creakle cuts a joke before he
beats him, and we laugh at it,--miserable little dogs, we laugh, with
our visages as white as ashes, and our hearts sinking into our boots.

Here I sit at the desk again, on a drowsy summer afternoon. A buzz and
hum go up around me, as if the boys were so many bluebottles. A cloggy
sensation of the lukewarm fat of meat is upon me (we dined an hour or
two ago), and my head is as heavy as so much lead. I would give the
world to go to sleep. I sit with my eye on Mr. Creakle, blinking at him
like a young owl; when sleep overpowers me for a minute, he still looms
through my slumber, ruling those ciphering-books, until he softly comes
behind me and wakes me to plainer perception of him, with a red ridge
across my back.

Here I am in the playground, with my eye still fascinated by him, though
I can’t see him. The window at a little distance from which I know he is
having his dinner, stands for him, and I eye that instead. If he shows
his face near it, mine assumes an imploring and submissive expression.
If he looks out through the glass, the boldest boy (Steerforth excepted)
stops in the middle of a shout or yell, and becomes contemplative. One
day, Traddles (the most unfortunate boy in the world) breaks that window
accidentally, with a ball. I shudder at this moment with the tremendous
sensation of seeing it done, and feeling that the ball has bounded on to
Mr. Creakle’s sacred head.

Poor Traddles! In a tight sky-blue suit that made his arms and legs like
German sausages, or roly-poly puddings, he was the merriest and most
miserable of all the boys. He was always being caned--I think he was
caned every day that half-year, except one holiday Monday when he was
only ruler’d on both hands--and was always going to write to his uncle
about it, and never did. After laying his head on the desk for a little
while, he would cheer up, somehow, begin to laugh again, and draw
skeletons all over his slate, before his eyes were dry. I used at first
to wonder what comfort Traddles found in drawing skeletons; and for some
time looked upon him as a sort of hermit, who reminded himself by those
symbols of mortality that caning couldn’t last for ever. But I believe
he only did it because they were easy, and didn’t want any features.

He was very honourable, Traddles was, and held it as a solemn duty
in the boys to stand by one another. He suffered for this on several
occasions; and particularly once, when Steerforth laughed in church,
and the Beadle thought it was Traddles, and took him out. I see him now,
going away in custody, despised by the congregation. He never said
who was the real offender, though he smarted for it next day, and was
imprisoned so many hours that he came forth with a whole churchyard-full
of skeletons swarming all over his Latin Dictionary. But he had his
reward. Steerforth said there was nothing of the sneak in Traddles, and
we all felt that to be the highest praise. For my part, I could have
gone through a good deal (though I was much less brave than Traddles,
and nothing like so old) to have won such a recompense.

To see Steerforth walk to church before us, arm-in-arm with Miss
Creakle, was one of the great sights of my life. I didn’t think Miss
Creakle equal to little Em’ly in point of beauty, and I didn’t love
her (I didn’t dare); but I thought her a young lady of extraordinary
attractions, and in point of gentility not to be surpassed. When
Steerforth, in white trousers, carried her parasol for her, I felt proud
to know him; and believed that she could not choose but adore him with
all her heart. Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both notable personages in my
eyes; but Steerforth was to them what the sun was to two stars.

Steerforth continued his protection of me, and proved a very useful
friend; since nobody dared to annoy one whom he honoured with his
countenance. He couldn’t--or at all events he didn’t--defend me from Mr.
Creakle, who was very severe with me; but whenever I had been treated
worse than usual, he always told me that I wanted a little of his pluck,
and that he wouldn’t have stood it himself; which I felt he intended
for encouragement, and considered to be very kind of him. There was one
advantage, and only one that I know of, in Mr. Creakle’s severity. He
found my placard in his way when he came up or down behind the form on
which I sat, and wanted to make a cut at me in passing; for this reason
it was soon taken off, and I saw it no more.

An accidental circumstance cemented the intimacy between Steerforth
and me, in a manner that inspired me with great pride and satisfaction,
though it sometimes led to inconvenience. It happened on one occasion,
when he was doing me the honour of talking to me in the playground, that
I hazarded the observation that something or somebody--I forget what
now--was like something or somebody in Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing
at the time; but when I was going to bed at night, asked me if I had got
that book?

I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read it, and all
those other books of which I have made mention.

‘And do you recollect them?’ Steerforth said.

‘Oh yes,’ I replied; I had a good memory, and I believed I recollected
them very well.

‘Then I tell you what, young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth, ‘you
shall tell ‘em to me. I can’t get to sleep very early at night, and I
generally wake rather early in the morning. We’ll go over ‘em one after
another. We’ll make some regular Arabian Nights of it.’

I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we commenced
carrying it into execution that very evening. What ravages I committed
on my favourite authors in the course of my interpretation of them, I am
not in a condition to say, and should be very unwilling to know; but
I had a profound faith in them, and I had, to the best of my belief,
a simple, earnest manner of narrating what I did narrate; and these
qualities went a long way.

The drawback was, that I was often sleepy at night, or out of spirits
and indisposed to resume the story; and then it was rather hard work,
and it must be done; for to disappoint or to displease Steerforth was of
course out of the question. In the morning, too, when I felt weary, and
should have enjoyed another hour’s repose very much, it was a tiresome
thing to be roused, like the Sultana Scheherazade, and forced into a
long story before the getting-up bell rang; but Steerforth was resolute;
and as he explained to me, in return, my sums and exercises, and
anything in my tasks that was too hard for me, I was no loser by the
transaction. Let me do myself justice, however. I was moved by no
interested or selfish motive, nor was I moved by fear of him. I admired
and loved him, and his approval was return enough. It was so precious to
me that I look back on these trifles, now, with an aching heart.

Steerforth was considerate, too; and showed his consideration, in
one particular instance, in an unflinching manner that was a little
tantalizing, I suspect, to poor Traddles and the rest. Peggotty’s
promised letter--what a comfortable letter it was!--arrived before
‘the half’ was many weeks old; and with it a cake in a perfect nest
of oranges, and two bottles of cowslip wine. This treasure, as in duty
bound, I laid at the feet of Steerforth, and begged him to dispense.

‘Now, I’ll tell you what, young Copperfield,’ said he: ‘the wine shall
be kept to wet your whistle when you are story-telling.’

I blushed at the idea, and begged him, in my modesty, not to think of
it. But he said he had observed I was sometimes hoarse--a little roopy
was his exact expression--and it should be, every drop, devoted to the
purpose he had mentioned. Accordingly, it was locked up in his box, and
drawn off by himself in a phial, and administered to me through a
piece of quill in the cork, when I was supposed to be in want of a
restorative. Sometimes, to make it a more sovereign specific, he was so
kind as to squeeze orange juice into it, or to stir it up with ginger,
or dissolve a peppermint drop in it; and although I cannot assert that
the flavour was improved by these experiments, or that it was exactly
the compound one would have chosen for a stomachic, the last thing at
night and the first thing in the morning, I drank it gratefully and was
very sensible of his attention.

We seem, to me, to have been months over Peregrine, and months more over
the other stories. The institution never flagged for want of a story, I
am certain; and the wine lasted out almost as well as the matter. Poor
Traddles--I never think of that boy but with a strange disposition to
laugh, and with tears in my eyes--was a sort of chorus, in general;
and affected to be convulsed with mirth at the comic parts, and to be
overcome with fear when there was any passage of an alarming character
in the narrative. This rather put me out, very often. It was a great
jest of his, I recollect, to pretend that he couldn’t keep his teeth
from chattering, whenever mention was made of an Alguazill in connexion
with the adventures of Gil Blas; and I remember that when Gil Blas met
the captain of the robbers in Madrid, this unlucky joker counterfeited
such an ague of terror, that he was overheard by Mr. Creakle, who
was prowling about the passage, and handsomely flogged for disorderly
conduct in the bedroom. Whatever I had within me that was romantic and
dreamy, was encouraged by so much story-telling in the dark; and in that
respect the pursuit may not have been very profitable to me. But the
being cherished as a kind of plaything in my room, and the consciousness
that this accomplishment of mine was bruited about among the boys, and
attracted a good deal of notice to me though I was the youngest there,
stimulated me to exertion. In a school carried on by sheer cruelty,
whether it is presided over by a dunce or not, there is not likely to
be much learnt. I believe our boys were, generally, as ignorant a set
as any schoolboys in existence; they were too much troubled and knocked
about to learn; they could no more do that to advantage, than any one
can do anything to advantage in a life of constant misfortune, torment,
and worry. But my little vanity, and Steerforth’s help, urged me on
somehow; and without saving me from much, if anything, in the way of
punishment, made me, for the time I was there, an exception to the
general body, insomuch that I did steadily pick up some crumbs of
knowledge.

In this I was much assisted by Mr. Mell, who had a liking for me that
I am grateful to remember. It always gave me pain to observe that
Steerforth treated him with systematic disparagement, and seldom lost
an occasion of wounding his feelings, or inducing others to do so.
This troubled me the more for a long time, because I had soon told
Steerforth, from whom I could no more keep such a secret, than I could
keep a cake or any other tangible possession, about the two old women
Mr. Mell had taken me to see; and I was always afraid that Steerforth
would let it out, and twit him with it.

We little thought, any one of us, I dare say, when I ate my breakfast
that first morning, and went to sleep under the shadow of the peacock’s
feathers to the sound of the flute, what consequences would come of the
introduction into those alms-houses of my insignificant person. But the
visit had its unforeseen consequences; and of a serious sort, too, in
their way.

One day when Mr. Creakle kept the house from indisposition, which
naturally diffused a lively joy through the school, there was a good
deal of noise in the course of the morning’s work. The great relief and
satisfaction experienced by the boys made them difficult to manage; and
though the dreaded Tungay brought his wooden leg in twice or thrice, and
took notes of the principal offenders’ names, no great impression was
made by it, as they were pretty sure of getting into trouble tomorrow,
do what they would, and thought it wise, no doubt, to enjoy themselves
today.

It was, properly, a half-holiday; being Saturday. But as the noise in
the playground would have disturbed Mr. Creakle, and the weather was
not favourable for going out walking, we were ordered into school in the
afternoon, and set some lighter tasks than usual, which were made for
the occasion. It was the day of the week on which Mr. Sharp went out to
get his wig curled; so Mr. Mell, who always did the drudgery, whatever
it was, kept school by himself. If I could associate the idea of a bull
or a bear with anyone so mild as Mr. Mell, I should think of him, in
connexion with that afternoon when the uproar was at its height, as of
one of those animals, baited by a thousand dogs. I recall him bending
his aching head, supported on his bony hand, over the book on his desk,
and wretchedly endeavouring to get on with his tiresome work, amidst an
uproar that might have made the Speaker of the House of Commons giddy.
Boys started in and out of their places, playing at puss in the corner
with other boys; there were laughing boys, singing boys, talking boys,
dancing boys, howling boys; boys shuffled with their feet, boys whirled
about him, grinning, making faces, mimicking him behind his back and
before his eyes; mimicking his poverty, his boots, his coat, his mother,
everything belonging to him that they should have had consideration for.

‘Silence!’ cried Mr. Mell, suddenly rising up, and striking his desk
with the book. ‘What does this mean! It’s impossible to bear it. It’s
maddening. How can you do it to me, boys?’

It was my book that he struck his desk with; and as I stood beside him,
following his eye as it glanced round the room, I saw the boys all stop,
some suddenly surprised, some half afraid, and some sorry perhaps.

Steerforth’s place was at the bottom of the school, at the opposite end
of the long room. He was lounging with his back against the wall, and
his hands in his pockets, and looked at Mr. Mell with his mouth shut up
as if he were whistling, when Mr. Mell looked at him.

‘Silence, Mr. Steerforth!’ said Mr. Mell.

‘Silence yourself,’ said Steerforth, turning red. ‘Whom are you talking
to?’

‘Sit down,’ said Mr. Mell.

‘Sit down yourself,’ said Steerforth, ‘and mind your business.’

There was a titter, and some applause; but Mr. Mell was so white, that
silence immediately succeeded; and one boy, who had darted out behind
him to imitate his mother again, changed his mind, and pretended to want
a pen mended.

‘If you think, Steerforth,’ said Mr. Mell, ‘that I am not acquainted
with the power you can establish over any mind here’--he laid his hand,
without considering what he did (as I supposed), upon my head--‘or that
I have not observed you, within a few minutes, urging your juniors on to
every sort of outrage against me, you are mistaken.’

‘I don’t give myself the trouble of thinking at all about you,’ said
Steerforth, coolly; ‘so I’m not mistaken, as it happens.’

‘And when you make use of your position of favouritism here, sir,’
pursued Mr. Mell, with his lip trembling very much, ‘to insult a
gentleman--’

‘A what?--where is he?’ said Steerforth.

Here somebody cried out, ‘Shame, J. Steerforth! Too bad!’ It was
Traddles; whom Mr. Mell instantly discomfited by bidding him hold his
tongue. --‘To insult one who is not fortunate in life, sir, and who
never gave you the least offence, and the many reasons for not insulting
whom you are old enough and wise enough to understand,’ said Mr. Mell,
with his lips trembling more and more, ‘you commit a mean and base
action. You can sit down or stand up as you please, sir. Copperfield, go
on.’

‘Young Copperfield,’ said Steerforth, coming forward up the room,
‘stop a bit. I tell you what, Mr. Mell, once for all. When you take the
liberty of calling me mean or base, or anything of that sort, you are
an impudent beggar. You are always a beggar, you know; but when you do
that, you are an impudent beggar.’

I am not clear whether he was going to strike Mr. Mell, or Mr. Mell was
going to strike him, or there was any such intention on either side.
I saw a rigidity come upon the whole school as if they had been turned
into stone, and found Mr. Creakle in the midst of us, with Tungay at his
side, and Mrs. and Miss Creakle looking in at the door as if they were
frightened. Mr. Mell, with his elbows on his desk and his face in his
hands, sat, for some moments, quite still.

‘Mr. Mell,’ said Mr. Creakle, shaking him by the arm; and his whisper
was so audible now, that Tungay felt it unnecessary to repeat his words;
‘you have not forgotten yourself, I hope?’

‘No, sir, no,’ returned the Master, showing his face, and shaking his
head, and rubbing his hands in great agitation. ‘No, sir. No. I have
remembered myself, I--no, Mr. Creakle, I have not forgotten myself, I--I
have remembered myself, sir. I--I--could wish you had remembered me a
little sooner, Mr. Creakle. It--it--would have been more kind, sir, more
just, sir. It would have saved me something, sir.’

Mr. Creakle, looking hard at Mr. Mell, put his hand on Tungay’s
shoulder, and got his feet upon the form close by, and sat upon the
desk. After still looking hard at Mr. Mell from his throne, as he
shook his head, and rubbed his hands, and remained in the same state of
agitation, Mr. Creakle turned to Steerforth, and said:

‘Now, sir, as he don’t condescend to tell me, what is this?’

Steerforth evaded the question for a little while; looking in scorn and
anger on his opponent, and remaining silent. I could not help thinking
even in that interval, I remember, what a noble fellow he was in
appearance, and how homely and plain Mr. Mell looked opposed to him.

‘What did he mean by talking about favourites, then?’ said Steerforth at
length.

‘Favourites?’ repeated Mr. Creakle, with the veins in his forehead
swelling quickly. ‘Who talked about favourites?’

‘He did,’ said Steerforth.

‘And pray, what did you mean by that, sir?’ demanded Mr. Creakle,
turning angrily on his assistant.

‘I meant, Mr. Creakle,’ he returned in a low voice, ‘as I said; that
no pupil had a right to avail himself of his position of favouritism to
degrade me.’

‘To degrade YOU?’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘My stars! But give me leave to ask
you, Mr. What’s-your-name’; and here Mr. Creakle folded his arms, cane
and all, upon his chest, and made such a knot of his brows that his
little eyes were hardly visible below them; ‘whether, when you talk
about favourites, you showed proper respect to me? To me, sir,’ said Mr.
Creakle, darting his head at him suddenly, and drawing it back again,
‘the principal of this establishment, and your employer.’

‘It was not judicious, sir, I am willing to admit,’ said Mr. Mell. ‘I
should not have done so, if I had been cool.’

Here Steerforth struck in.

‘Then he said I was mean, and then he said I was base, and then I called
him a beggar. If I had been cool, perhaps I shouldn’t have called him a
beggar. But I did, and I am ready to take the consequences of it.’

Without considering, perhaps, whether there were any consequences to
be taken, I felt quite in a glow at this gallant speech. It made an
impression on the boys too, for there was a low stir among them, though
no one spoke a word.

‘I am surprised, Steerforth--although your candour does you honour,’
said Mr. Creakle, ‘does you honour, certainly--I am surprised,
Steerforth, I must say, that you should attach such an epithet to any
person employed and paid in Salem House, sir.’

Steerforth gave a short laugh.

‘That’s not an answer, sir,’ said Mr. Creakle, ‘to my remark. I expect
more than that from you, Steerforth.’

If Mr. Mell looked homely, in my eyes, before the handsome boy, it would
be quite impossible to say how homely Mr. Creakle looked. ‘Let him deny
it,’ said Steerforth.

‘Deny that he is a beggar, Steerforth?’ cried Mr. Creakle. ‘Why, where
does he go a-begging?’

‘If he is not a beggar himself, his near relation’s one,’ said
Steerforth. ‘It’s all the same.’

He glanced at me, and Mr. Mell’s hand gently patted me upon the
shoulder. I looked up with a flush upon my face and remorse in my heart,
but Mr. Mell’s eyes were fixed on Steerforth. He continued to pat me
kindly on the shoulder, but he looked at him.

‘Since you expect me, Mr. Creakle, to justify myself,’ said Steerforth,
‘and to say what I mean,--what I have to say is, that his mother lives
on charity in an alms-house.’

Mr. Mell still looked at him, and still patted me kindly on the
shoulder, and said to himself, in a whisper, if I heard right: ‘Yes, I
thought so.’

Mr. Creakle turned to his assistant, with a severe frown and laboured
politeness:

‘Now, you hear what this gentleman says, Mr. Mell. Have the goodness, if
you please, to set him right before the assembled school.’

‘He is right, sir, without correction,’ returned Mr. Mell, in the midst
of a dead silence; ‘what he has said is true.’

‘Be so good then as declare publicly, will you,’ said Mr. Creakle,
putting his head on one side, and rolling his eyes round the school,
‘whether it ever came to my knowledge until this moment?’

‘I believe not directly,’ he returned.

‘Why, you know not,’ said Mr. Creakle. ‘Don’t you, man?’

‘I apprehend you never supposed my worldly circumstances to be very
good,’ replied the assistant. ‘You know what my position is, and always
has been, here.’

‘I apprehend, if you come to that,’ said Mr. Creakle, with his veins
swelling again bigger than ever, ‘that you’ve been in a wrong position
altogether, and mistook this for a charity school. Mr. Mell, we’ll part,
if you please. The sooner the better.’

‘There is no time,’ answered Mr. Mell, rising, ‘like the present.’

‘Sir, to you!’ said Mr. Creakle.

‘I take my leave of you, Mr. Creakle, and all of you,’ said Mr. Mell,
glancing round the room, and again patting me gently on the shoulders.
‘James Steerforth, the best wish I can leave you is that you may come to
be ashamed of what you have done today. At present I would prefer to see
you anything rather than a friend, to me, or to anyone in whom I feel an
interest.’

Once more he laid his hand upon my shoulder; and then taking his
flute and a few books from his desk, and leaving the key in it for his
successor, he went out of the school, with his property under his arm.
Mr. Creakle then made a speech, through Tungay, in which he thanked
Steerforth for asserting (though perhaps too warmly) the independence
and respectability of Salem House; and which he wound up by shaking
hands with Steerforth, while we gave three cheers--I did not quite know
what for, but I supposed for Steerforth, and so joined in them ardently,
though I felt miserable. Mr. Creakle then caned Tommy Traddles for
being discovered in tears, instead of cheers, on account of Mr. Mell’s
departure; and went back to his sofa, or his bed, or wherever he had
come from.

We were left to ourselves now, and looked very blank, I recollect, on
one another. For myself, I felt so much self-reproach and contrition for
my part in what had happened, that nothing would have enabled me to keep
back my tears but the fear that Steerforth, who often looked at me, I
saw, might think it unfriendly--or, I should rather say, considering our
relative ages, and the feeling with which I regarded him, undutiful--if
I showed the emotion which distressed me. He was very angry with
Traddles, and said he was glad he had caught it.

Poor Traddles, who had passed the stage of lying with his head upon the
desk, and was relieving himself as usual with a burst of skeletons, said
he didn’t care. Mr. Mell was ill-used.

‘Who has ill-used him, you girl?’ said Steerforth.

‘Why, you have,’ returned Traddles.

‘What have I done?’ said Steerforth.

‘What have you done?’ retorted Traddles. ‘Hurt his feelings, and lost
him his situation.’

‘His feelings?’ repeated Steerforth disdainfully. ‘His feelings will
soon get the better of it, I’ll be bound. His feelings are not like
yours, Miss Traddles. As to his situation--which was a precious one,
wasn’t it?--do you suppose I am not going to write home, and take care
that he gets some money? Polly?’

We thought this intention very noble in Steerforth, whose mother was
a widow, and rich, and would do almost anything, it was said, that he
asked her. We were all extremely glad to see Traddles so put down,
and exalted Steerforth to the skies: especially when he told us, as he
condescended to do, that what he had done had been done expressly for
us, and for our cause; and that he had conferred a great boon upon us
by unselfishly doing it. But I must say that when I was going on with a
story in the dark that night, Mr. Mell’s old flute seemed more than once
to sound mournfully in my ears; and that when at last Steerforth was
tired, and I lay down in my bed, I fancied it playing so sorrowfully
somewhere, that I was quite wretched.

I soon forgot him in the contemplation of Steerforth, who, in an easy
amateur way, and without any book (he seemed to me to know everything by
heart), took some of his classes until a new master was found. The new
master came from a grammar school; and before he entered on his duties,
dined in the parlour one day, to be introduced to Steerforth. Steerforth
approved of him highly, and told us he was a Brick. Without exactly
understanding what learned distinction was meant by this, I respected
him greatly for it, and had no doubt whatever of his superior knowledge:
though he never took the pains with me--not that I was anybody--that Mr.
Mell had taken.

There was only one other event in this half-year, out of the daily
school-life, that made an impression upon me which still survives. It
survives for many reasons.

One afternoon, when we were all harassed into a state of dire confusion,
and Mr. Creakle was laying about him dreadfully, Tungay came in, and
called out in his usual strong way: ‘Visitors for Copperfield!’

A few words were interchanged between him and Mr. Creakle, as, who the
visitors were, and what room they were to be shown into; and then I, who
had, according to custom, stood up on the announcement being made, and
felt quite faint with astonishment, was told to go by the back stairs
and get a clean frill on, before I repaired to the dining-room. These
orders I obeyed, in such a flutter and hurry of my young spirits as
I had never known before; and when I got to the parlour door, and the
thought came into my head that it might be my mother--I had only thought
of Mr. or Miss Murdstone until then--I drew back my hand from the lock,
and stopped to have a sob before I went in.

At first I saw nobody; but feeling a pressure against the door, I looked
round it, and there, to my amazement, were Mr. Peggotty and Ham, ducking
at me with their hats, and squeezing one another against the wall. I
could not help laughing; but it was much more in the pleasure of seeing
them, than at the appearance they made. We shook hands in a very
cordial way; and I laughed and laughed, until I pulled out my
pocket-handkerchief and wiped my eyes.

Mr. Peggotty (who never shut his mouth once, I remember, during the
visit) showed great concern when he saw me do this, and nudged Ham to
say something.

‘Cheer up, Mas’r Davy bor’!’ said Ham, in his simpering way. ‘Why, how
you have growed!’

‘Am I grown?’ I said, drying my eyes. I was not crying at anything
in particular that I know of; but somehow it made me cry, to see old
friends.

‘Growed, Mas’r Davy bor’? Ain’t he growed!’ said Ham.

‘Ain’t he growed!’ said Mr. Peggotty.

They made me laugh again by laughing at each other, and then we all
three laughed until I was in danger of crying again.

‘Do you know how mama is, Mr. Peggotty?’ I said. ‘And how my dear, dear,
old Peggotty is?’

‘Oncommon,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘And little Em’ly, and Mrs. Gummidge?’

‘On--common,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

There was a silence. Mr. Peggotty, to relieve it, took two prodigious
lobsters, and an enormous crab, and a large canvas bag of shrimps, out
of his pockets, and piled them up in Ham’s arms.

‘You see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘knowing as you was partial to a little
relish with your wittles when you was along with us, we took the
liberty. The old Mawther biled ‘em, she did. Mrs. Gummidge biled ‘em.
Yes,’ said Mr. Peggotty, slowly, who I thought appeared to stick to the
subject on account of having no other subject ready, ‘Mrs. Gummidge, I
do assure you, she biled ‘em.’

I expressed my thanks; and Mr. Peggotty, after looking at Ham, who stood
smiling sheepishly over the shellfish, without making any attempt to
help him, said:

‘We come, you see, the wind and tide making in our favour, in one of our
Yarmouth lugs to Gravesen’. My sister she wrote to me the name of this
here place, and wrote to me as if ever I chanced to come to Gravesen’,
I was to come over and inquire for Mas’r Davy and give her dooty,
humbly wishing him well and reporting of the fam’ly as they was oncommon
toe-be-sure. Little Em’ly, you see, she’ll write to my sister when I go
back, as I see you and as you was similarly oncommon, and so we make it
quite a merry-go-rounder.’

I was obliged to consider a little before I understood what Mr. Peggotty
meant by this figure, expressive of a complete circle of intelligence. I
then thanked him heartily; and said, with a consciousness of reddening,
that I supposed little Em’ly was altered too, since we used to pick up
shells and pebbles on the beach?

‘She’s getting to be a woman, that’s wot she’s getting to be,’ said Mr.
Peggotty. ‘Ask HIM.’ He meant Ham, who beamed with delight and assent
over the bag of shrimps.

‘Her pretty face!’ said Mr. Peggotty, with his own shining like a light.

‘Her learning!’ said Ham.

‘Her writing!’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Why it’s as black as jet! And so
large it is, you might see it anywheres.’

It was perfectly delightful to behold with what enthusiasm Mr. Peggotty
became inspired when he thought of his little favourite. He stands
before me again, his bluff hairy face irradiating with a joyful love and
pride, for which I can find no description. His honest eyes fire up, and
sparkle, as if their depths were stirred by something bright. His broad
chest heaves with pleasure. His strong loose hands clench themselves,
in his earnestness; and he emphasizes what he says with a right arm that
shows, in my pigmy view, like a sledge-hammer.

Ham was quite as earnest as he. I dare say they would have said much
more about her, if they had not been abashed by the unexpected coming in
of Steerforth, who, seeing me in a corner speaking with two strangers,
stopped in a song he was singing, and said: ‘I didn’t know you were
here, young Copperfield!’ (for it was not the usual visiting room) and
crossed by us on his way out.

I am not sure whether it was in the pride of having such a friend as
Steerforth, or in the desire to explain to him how I came to have such a
friend as Mr. Peggotty, that I called to him as he was going away. But I
said, modestly--Good Heaven, how it all comes back to me this long time
afterwards--!

‘Don’t go, Steerforth, if you please. These are two Yarmouth
boatmen--very kind, good people--who are relations of my nurse, and have
come from Gravesend to see me.’

‘Aye, aye?’ said Steerforth, returning. ‘I am glad to see them. How are
you both?’

There was an ease in his manner--a gay and light manner it was, but not
swaggering--which I still believe to have borne a kind of enchantment
with it. I still believe him, in virtue of this carriage, his animal
spirits, his delightful voice, his handsome face and figure, and, for
aught I know, of some inborn power of attraction besides (which I think
a few people possess), to have carried a spell with him to which it was
a natural weakness to yield, and which not many persons could withstand.
I could not but see how pleased they were with him, and how they seemed
to open their hearts to him in a moment.

‘You must let them know at home, if you please, Mr. Peggotty,’ I said,
‘when that letter is sent, that Mr. Steerforth is very kind to me, and
that I don’t know what I should ever do here without him.’

‘Nonsense!’ said Steerforth, laughing. ‘You mustn’t tell them anything
of the sort.’

‘And if Mr. Steerforth ever comes into Norfolk or Suffolk, Mr.
Peggotty,’ I said, ‘while I am there, you may depend upon it I shall
bring him to Yarmouth, if he will let me, to see your house. You never
saw such a good house, Steerforth. It’s made out of a boat!’

‘Made out of a boat, is it?’ said Steerforth. ‘It’s the right sort of a
house for such a thorough-built boatman.’

‘So ‘tis, sir, so ‘tis, sir,’ said Ham, grinning. ‘You’re right, young
gen’l’m’n! Mas’r Davy bor’, gen’l’m’n’s right. A thorough-built boatman!
Hor, hor! That’s what he is, too!’

Mr. Peggotty was no less pleased than his nephew, though his modesty
forbade him to claim a personal compliment so vociferously.

‘Well, sir,’ he said, bowing and chuckling, and tucking in the ends
of his neckerchief at his breast: ‘I thankee, sir, I thankee! I do my
endeavours in my line of life, sir.’

‘The best of men can do no more, Mr. Peggotty,’ said Steerforth. He had
got his name already.

‘I’ll pound it, it’s wot you do yourself, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
shaking his head, ‘and wot you do well--right well! I thankee, sir. I’m
obleeged to you, sir, for your welcoming manner of me. I’m rough, sir,
but I’m ready--least ways, I hope I’m ready, you unnerstand. My house
ain’t much for to see, sir, but it’s hearty at your service if ever you
should come along with Mas’r Davy to see it. I’m a reg’lar Dodman,
I am,’ said Mr. Peggotty, by which he meant snail, and this was in
allusion to his being slow to go, for he had attempted to go after every
sentence, and had somehow or other come back again; ‘but I wish you both
well, and I wish you happy!’

Ham echoed this sentiment, and we parted with them in the heartiest
manner. I was almost tempted that evening to tell Steerforth about
pretty little Em’ly, but I was too timid of mentioning her name, and
too much afraid of his laughing at me. I remember that I thought a good
deal, and in an uneasy sort of way, about Mr. Peggotty having said that
she was getting on to be a woman; but I decided that was nonsense.

We transported the shellfish, or the ‘relish’ as Mr. Peggotty had
modestly called it, up into our room unobserved, and made a great supper
that evening. But Traddles couldn’t get happily out of it. He was too
unfortunate even to come through a supper like anybody else. He was
taken ill in the night--quite prostrate he was--in consequence of Crab;
and after being drugged with black draughts and blue pills, to an extent
which Demple (whose father was a doctor) said was enough to undermine
a horse’s constitution, received a caning and six chapters of Greek
Testament for refusing to confess.

The rest of the half-year is a jumble in my recollection of the daily
strife and struggle of our lives; of the waning summer and the changing
season; of the frosty mornings when we were rung out of bed, and the
cold, cold smell of the dark nights when we were rung into bed again; of
the evening schoolroom dimly lighted and indifferently warmed, and the
morning schoolroom which was nothing but a great shivering-machine; of
the alternation of boiled beef with roast beef, and boiled mutton with
roast mutton; of clods of bread-and-butter, dog’s-eared lesson-books,
cracked slates, tear-blotted copy-books, canings, rulerings,
hair-cuttings, rainy Sundays, suet-puddings, and a dirty atmosphere of
ink, surrounding all.

I well remember though, how the distant idea of the holidays, after
seeming for an immense time to be a stationary speck, began to come
towards us, and to grow and grow. How from counting months, we came to
weeks, and then to days; and how I then began to be afraid that I should
not be sent for and when I learnt from Steerforth that I had been sent
for, and was certainly to go home, had dim forebodings that I might
break my leg first. How the breaking-up day changed its place fast, at
last, from the week after next to next week, this week, the day after
tomorrow, tomorrow, today, tonight--when I was inside the Yarmouth mail,
and going home.

I had many a broken sleep inside the Yarmouth mail, and many an
incoherent dream of all these things. But when I awoke at intervals, the
ground outside the window was not the playground of Salem House, and the
sound in my ears was not the sound of Mr. Creakle giving it to Traddles,
but the sound of the coachman touching up the horses.



CHAPTER 8. MY HOLIDAYS. ESPECIALLY ONE HAPPY AFTERNOON


When we arrived before day at the inn where the mail stopped, which was
not the inn where my friend the waiter lived, I was shown up to a nice
little bedroom, with DOLPHIN painted on the door. Very cold I was, I
know, notwithstanding the hot tea they had given me before a large fire
downstairs; and very glad I was to turn into the Dolphin’s bed, pull the
Dolphin’s blankets round my head, and go to sleep.

Mr. Barkis the carrier was to call for me in the morning at nine
o’clock. I got up at eight, a little giddy from the shortness of my
night’s rest, and was ready for him before the appointed time. He
received me exactly as if not five minutes had elapsed since we were
last together, and I had only been into the hotel to get change for
sixpence, or something of that sort.

As soon as I and my box were in the cart, and the carrier seated, the
lazy horse walked away with us all at his accustomed pace.

‘You look very well, Mr. Barkis,’ I said, thinking he would like to know
it.

Mr. Barkis rubbed his cheek with his cuff, and then looked at his cuff
as if he expected to find some of the bloom upon it; but made no other
acknowledgement of the compliment.

‘I gave your message, Mr. Barkis,’ I said: ‘I wrote to Peggotty.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Barkis.

Mr. Barkis seemed gruff, and answered drily.

‘Wasn’t it right, Mr. Barkis?’ I asked, after a little hesitation.

‘Why, no,’ said Mr. Barkis.

‘Not the message?’

‘The message was right enough, perhaps,’ said Mr. Barkis; ‘but it come
to an end there.’

Not understanding what he meant, I repeated inquisitively: ‘Came to an
end, Mr. Barkis?’

‘Nothing come of it,’ he explained, looking at me sideways. ‘No answer.’

‘There was an answer expected, was there, Mr. Barkis?’ said I, opening
my eyes. For this was a new light to me.

‘When a man says he’s willin’,’ said Mr. Barkis, turning his glance
slowly on me again, ‘it’s as much as to say, that man’s a-waitin’ for a
answer.’

‘Well, Mr. Barkis?’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Barkis, carrying his eyes back to his horse’s ears;
‘that man’s been a-waitin’ for a answer ever since.’

‘Have you told her so, Mr. Barkis?’

‘No--no,’ growled Mr. Barkis, reflecting about it. ‘I ain’t got no call
to go and tell her so. I never said six words to her myself, I ain’t
a-goin’ to tell her so.’

‘Would you like me to do it, Mr. Barkis?’ said I, doubtfully. ‘You might
tell her, if you would,’ said Mr. Barkis, with another slow look at me,
‘that Barkis was a-waitin’ for a answer. Says you--what name is it?’

‘Her name?’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Barkis, with a nod of his head.

‘Peggotty.’

‘Chrisen name? Or nat’ral name?’ said Mr. Barkis.

‘Oh, it’s not her Christian name. Her Christian name is Clara.’

‘Is it though?’ said Mr. Barkis.

He seemed to find an immense fund of reflection in this circumstance,
and sat pondering and inwardly whistling for some time.

‘Well!’ he resumed at length. ‘Says you, “Peggotty! Barkis is waitin’
for a answer.” Says she, perhaps, “Answer to what?” Says you, “To what I
told you.” “What is that?” says she. “Barkis is willin’,” says you.’

This extremely artful suggestion Mr. Barkis accompanied with a nudge
of his elbow that gave me quite a stitch in my side. After that, he
slouched over his horse in his usual manner; and made no other reference
to the subject except, half an hour afterwards, taking a piece of chalk
from his pocket, and writing up, inside the tilt of the cart, ‘Clara
Peggotty’--apparently as a private memorandum.

Ah, what a strange feeling it was to be going home when it was not home,
and to find that every object I looked at, reminded me of the happy old
home, which was like a dream I could never dream again! The days when my
mother and I and Peggotty were all in all to one another, and there was
no one to come between us, rose up before me so sorrowfully on the road,
that I am not sure I was glad to be there--not sure but that I would
rather have remained away, and forgotten it in Steerforth’s company. But
there I was; and soon I was at our house, where the bare old elm-trees
wrung their many hands in the bleak wintry air, and shreds of the old
rooks’-nests drifted away upon the wind.

The carrier put my box down at the garden-gate, and left me. I walked
along the path towards the house, glancing at the windows, and fearing
at every step to see Mr. Murdstone or Miss Murdstone lowering out of
one of them. No face appeared, however; and being come to the house, and
knowing how to open the door, before dark, without knocking, I went in
with a quiet, timid step.

God knows how infantine the memory may have been, that was awakened
within me by the sound of my mother’s voice in the old parlour, when I
set foot in the hall. She was singing in a low tone. I think I must have
lain in her arms, and heard her singing so to me when I was but a baby.
The strain was new to me, and yet it was so old that it filled my heart
brim-full; like a friend come back from a long absence.

I believed, from the solitary and thoughtful way in which my mother
murmured her song, that she was alone. And I went softly into the room.
She was sitting by the fire, suckling an infant, whose tiny hand she
held against her neck. Her eyes were looking down upon its face, and she
sat singing to it. I was so far right, that she had no other companion.

I spoke to her, and she started, and cried out. But seeing me, she
called me her dear Davy, her own boy! and coming half across the room
to meet me, kneeled down upon the ground and kissed me, and laid my head
down on her bosom near the little creature that was nestling there, and
put its hand to my lips.

I wish I had died. I wish I had died then, with that feeling in my
heart! I should have been more fit for Heaven than I ever have been
since.

‘He is your brother,’ said my mother, fondling me. ‘Davy, my pretty boy!
My poor child!’ Then she kissed me more and more, and clasped me round
the neck. This she was doing when Peggotty came running in, and bounced
down on the ground beside us, and went mad about us both for a quarter
of an hour.

It seemed that I had not been expected so soon, the carrier being much
before his usual time. It seemed, too, that Mr. and Miss Murdstone had
gone out upon a visit in the neighbourhood, and would not return before
night. I had never hoped for this. I had never thought it possible that
we three could be together undisturbed, once more; and I felt, for the
time, as if the old days were come back.

We dined together by the fireside. Peggotty was in attendance to wait
upon us, but my mother wouldn’t let her do it, and made her dine with
us. I had my own old plate, with a brown view of a man-of-war in full
sail upon it, which Peggotty had hoarded somewhere all the time I
had been away, and would not have had broken, she said, for a hundred
pounds. I had my own old mug with David on it, and my own old little
knife and fork that wouldn’t cut.

While we were at table, I thought it a favourable occasion to tell
Peggotty about Mr. Barkis, who, before I had finished what I had to tell
her, began to laugh, and throw her apron over her face.

‘Peggotty,’ said my mother. ‘What’s the matter?’

Peggotty only laughed the more, and held her apron tight over her face
when my mother tried to pull it away, and sat as if her head were in a
bag.

‘What are you doing, you stupid creature?’ said my mother, laughing.

‘Oh, drat the man!’ cried Peggotty. ‘He wants to marry me.’

‘It would be a very good match for you; wouldn’t it?’ said my mother.

‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said Peggotty. ‘Don’t ask me. I wouldn’t have him if
he was made of gold. Nor I wouldn’t have anybody.’

‘Then, why don’t you tell him so, you ridiculous thing?’ said my mother.

‘Tell him so,’ retorted Peggotty, looking out of her apron. ‘He has
never said a word to me about it. He knows better. If he was to make so
bold as say a word to me, I should slap his face.’

Her own was as red as ever I saw it, or any other face, I think; but she
only covered it again, for a few moments at a time, when she was taken
with a violent fit of laughter; and after two or three of those attacks,
went on with her dinner.

I remarked that my mother, though she smiled when Peggotty looked at
her, became more serious and thoughtful. I had seen at first that she
was changed. Her face was very pretty still, but it looked careworn, and
too delicate; and her hand was so thin and white that it seemed to me
to be almost transparent. But the change to which I now refer was
superadded to this: it was in her manner, which became anxious and
fluttered. At last she said, putting out her hand, and laying it
affectionately on the hand of her old servant,

‘Peggotty, dear, you are not going to be married?’

‘Me, ma’am?’ returned Peggotty, staring. ‘Lord bless you, no!’

‘Not just yet?’ said my mother, tenderly.

‘Never!’ cried Peggotty.

My mother took her hand, and said:

‘Don’t leave me, Peggotty. Stay with me. It will not be for long,
perhaps. What should I ever do without you!’

‘Me leave you, my precious!’ cried Peggotty. ‘Not for all the world and
his wife. Why, what’s put that in your silly little head?’--For Peggotty
had been used of old to talk to my mother sometimes like a child.

But my mother made no answer, except to thank her, and Peggotty went
running on in her own fashion.

‘Me leave you? I think I see myself. Peggotty go away from you? I should
like to catch her at it! No, no, no,’ said Peggotty, shaking her head,
and folding her arms; ‘not she, my dear. It isn’t that there ain’t some
Cats that would be well enough pleased if she did, but they sha’n’t be
pleased. They shall be aggravated. I’ll stay with you till I am a cross
cranky old woman. And when I’m too deaf, and too lame, and too blind,
and too mumbly for want of teeth, to be of any use at all, even to be
found fault with, than I shall go to my Davy, and ask him to take me
in.’

‘And, Peggotty,’ says I, ‘I shall be glad to see you, and I’ll make you
as welcome as a queen.’

‘Bless your dear heart!’ cried Peggotty. ‘I know you will!’ And she
kissed me beforehand, in grateful acknowledgement of my hospitality.
After that, she covered her head up with her apron again and had another
laugh about Mr. Barkis. After that, she took the baby out of its little
cradle, and nursed it. After that, she cleared the dinner table;
after that, came in with another cap on, and her work-box, and the
yard-measure, and the bit of wax-candle, all just the same as ever.

We sat round the fire, and talked delightfully. I told them what a hard
master Mr. Creakle was, and they pitied me very much. I told them what a
fine fellow Steerforth was, and what a patron of mine, and Peggotty said
she would walk a score of miles to see him. I took the little baby in
my arms when it was awake, and nursed it lovingly. When it was asleep
again, I crept close to my mother’s side according to my old custom,
broken now a long time, and sat with my arms embracing her waist, and my
little red cheek on her shoulder, and once more felt her beautiful
hair drooping over me--like an angel’s wing as I used to think, I
recollect--and was very happy indeed.

While I sat thus, looking at the fire, and seeing pictures in the
red-hot coals, I almost believed that I had never been away; that Mr.
and Miss Murdstone were such pictures, and would vanish when the fire
got low; and that there was nothing real in all that I remembered, save
my mother, Peggotty, and I.

Peggotty darned away at a stocking as long as she could see, and then
sat with it drawn on her left hand like a glove, and her needle in her
right, ready to take another stitch whenever there was a blaze. I cannot
conceive whose stockings they can have been that Peggotty was always
darning, or where such an unfailing supply of stockings in want of
darning can have come from. From my earliest infancy she seems to have
been always employed in that class of needlework, and never by any
chance in any other.

‘I wonder,’ said Peggotty, who was sometimes seized with a fit of
wondering on some most unexpected topic, ‘what’s become of Davy’s
great-aunt?’ ‘Lor, Peggotty!’ observed my mother, rousing herself from a
reverie, ‘what nonsense you talk!’

‘Well, but I really do wonder, ma’am,’ said Peggotty.

‘What can have put such a person in your head?’ inquired my mother. ‘Is
there nobody else in the world to come there?’

‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Peggotty, ‘unless it’s on account of
being stupid, but my head never can pick and choose its people. They
come and they go, and they don’t come and they don’t go, just as they
like. I wonder what’s become of her?’

‘How absurd you are, Peggotty!’ returned my mother. ‘One would suppose
you wanted a second visit from her.’

‘Lord forbid!’ cried Peggotty.

‘Well then, don’t talk about such uncomfortable things, there’s a good
soul,’ said my mother. ‘Miss Betsey is shut up in her cottage by the
sea, no doubt, and will remain there. At all events, she is not likely
ever to trouble us again.’

‘No!’ mused Peggotty. ‘No, that ain’t likely at all.---I wonder, if she
was to die, whether she’d leave Davy anything?’

‘Good gracious me, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, ‘what a nonsensical
woman you are! when you know that she took offence at the poor dear
boy’s ever being born at all.’

‘I suppose she wouldn’t be inclined to forgive him now,’ hinted
Peggotty.

‘Why should she be inclined to forgive him now?’ said my mother, rather
sharply.

‘Now that he’s got a brother, I mean,’ said Peggotty.

My mother immediately began to cry, and wondered how Peggotty dared to
say such a thing.

‘As if this poor little innocent in its cradle had ever done any harm to
you or anybody else, you jealous thing!’ said she. ‘You had much better
go and marry Mr. Barkis, the carrier. Why don’t you?’

‘I should make Miss Murdstone happy, if I was to,’ said Peggotty.

‘What a bad disposition you have, Peggotty!’ returned my mother. ‘You
are as jealous of Miss Murdstone as it is possible for a ridiculous
creature to be. You want to keep the keys yourself, and give out all the
things, I suppose? I shouldn’t be surprised if you did. When you know
that she only does it out of kindness and the best intentions! You know
she does, Peggotty--you know it well.’

Peggotty muttered something to the effect of ‘Bother the best
intentions!’ and something else to the effect that there was a little
too much of the best intentions going on.

‘I know what you mean, you cross thing,’ said my mother. ‘I understand
you, Peggotty, perfectly. You know I do, and I wonder you don’t colour
up like fire. But one point at a time. Miss Murdstone is the point now,
Peggotty, and you sha’n’t escape from it. Haven’t you heard her
say, over and over again, that she thinks I am too thoughtless and
too--a--a--’

‘Pretty,’ suggested Peggotty.

‘Well,’ returned my mother, half laughing, ‘and if she is so silly as to
say so, can I be blamed for it?’

‘No one says you can,’ said Peggotty.

‘No, I should hope not, indeed!’ returned my mother. ‘Haven’t you heard
her say, over and over again, that on this account she wished to spare
me a great deal of trouble, which she thinks I am not suited for, and
which I really don’t know myself that I AM suited for; and isn’t she up
early and late, and going to and fro continually--and doesn’t she do
all sorts of things, and grope into all sorts of places, coal-holes and
pantries and I don’t know where, that can’t be very agreeable--and do
you mean to insinuate that there is not a sort of devotion in that?’

‘I don’t insinuate at all,’ said Peggotty.

‘You do, Peggotty,’ returned my mother. ‘You never do anything else,
except your work. You are always insinuating. You revel in it. And when
you talk of Mr. Murdstone’s good intentions--’

‘I never talked of ‘em,’ said Peggotty.

‘No, Peggotty,’ returned my mother, ‘but you insinuated. That’s what I
told you just now. That’s the worst of you. You WILL insinuate. I said,
at the moment, that I understood you, and you see I did. When you talk
of Mr. Murdstone’s good intentions, and pretend to slight them (for I
don’t believe you really do, in your heart, Peggotty), you must be as
well convinced as I am how good they are, and how they actuate him in
everything. If he seems to have been at all stern with a certain person,
Peggotty--you understand, and so I am sure does Davy, that I am not
alluding to anybody present--it is solely because he is satisfied that
it is for a certain person’s benefit. He naturally loves a certain
person, on my account; and acts solely for a certain person’s good. He
is better able to judge of it than I am; for I very well know that I am
a weak, light, girlish creature, and that he is a firm, grave, serious
man. And he takes,’ said my mother, with the tears which were engendered
in her affectionate nature, stealing down her face, ‘he takes great
pains with me; and I ought to be very thankful to him, and very
submissive to him even in my thoughts; and when I am not, Peggotty, I
worry and condemn myself, and feel doubtful of my own heart, and don’t
know what to do.’

Peggotty sat with her chin on the foot of the stocking, looking silently
at the fire.

‘There, Peggotty,’ said my mother, changing her tone, ‘don’t let us fall
out with one another, for I couldn’t bear it. You are my true friend, I
know, if I have any in the world. When I call you a ridiculous creature,
or a vexatious thing, or anything of that sort, Peggotty, I only mean
that you are my true friend, and always have been, ever since the night
when Mr. Copperfield first brought me home here, and you came out to the
gate to meet me.’

Peggotty was not slow to respond, and ratify the treaty of friendship by
giving me one of her best hugs. I think I had some glimpses of the real
character of this conversation at the time; but I am sure, now, that
the good creature originated it, and took her part in it, merely that
my mother might comfort herself with the little contradictory summary in
which she had indulged. The design was efficacious; for I remember that
my mother seemed more at ease during the rest of the evening, and that
Peggotty observed her less.

When we had had our tea, and the ashes were thrown up, and the candles
snuffed, I read Peggotty a chapter out of the Crocodile Book, in
remembrance of old times--she took it out of her pocket: I don’t know
whether she had kept it there ever since--and then we talked about Salem
House, which brought me round again to Steerforth, who was my great
subject. We were very happy; and that evening, as the last of its race,
and destined evermore to close that volume of my life, will never pass
out of my memory.

It was almost ten o’clock before we heard the sound of wheels. We all
got up then; and my mother said hurriedly that, as it was so late, and
Mr. and Miss Murdstone approved of early hours for young people, perhaps
I had better go to bed. I kissed her, and went upstairs with my candle
directly, before they came in. It appeared to my childish fancy, as I
ascended to the bedroom where I had been imprisoned, that they brought
a cold blast of air into the house which blew away the old familiar
feeling like a feather.

I felt uncomfortable about going down to breakfast in the morning, as
I had never set eyes on Mr. Murdstone since the day when I committed my
memorable offence. However, as it must be done, I went down, after two
or three false starts half-way, and as many runs back on tiptoe to my
own room, and presented myself in the parlour.

He was standing before the fire with his back to it, while Miss
Murdstone made the tea. He looked at me steadily as I entered, but made
no sign of recognition whatever. I went up to him, after a moment of
confusion, and said: ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I am very sorry for what I
did, and I hope you will forgive me.’

‘I am glad to hear you are sorry, David,’ he replied.

The hand he gave me was the hand I had bitten. I could not restrain my
eye from resting for an instant on a red spot upon it; but it was not so
red as I turned, when I met that sinister expression in his face.

‘How do you do, ma’am?’ I said to Miss Murdstone.

‘Ah, dear me!’ sighed Miss Murdstone, giving me the tea-caddy scoop
instead of her fingers. ‘How long are the holidays?’

‘A month, ma’am.’

‘Counting from when?’

‘From today, ma’am.’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Murdstone. ‘Then here’s one day off.’

She kept a calendar of the holidays in this way, and every morning
checked a day off in exactly the same manner. She did it gloomily until
she came to ten, but when she got into two figures she became more
hopeful, and, as the time advanced, even jocular.

It was on this very first day that I had the misfortune to throw her,
though she was not subject to such weakness in general, into a state of
violent consternation. I came into the room where she and my mother
were sitting; and the baby (who was only a few weeks old) being on
my mother’s lap, I took it very carefully in my arms. Suddenly Miss
Murdstone gave such a scream that I all but dropped it.

‘My dear Jane!’ cried my mother.

‘Good heavens, Clara, do you see?’ exclaimed Miss Murdstone.

‘See what, my dear Jane?’ said my mother; ‘where?’

‘He’s got it!’ cried Miss Murdstone. ‘The boy has got the baby!’

She was limp with horror; but stiffened herself to make a dart at me,
and take it out of my arms. Then, she turned faint; and was so very
ill that they were obliged to give her cherry brandy. I was solemnly
interdicted by her, on her recovery, from touching my brother any more
on any pretence whatever; and my poor mother, who, I could see, wished
otherwise, meekly confirmed the interdict, by saying: ‘No doubt you are
right, my dear Jane.’

On another occasion, when we three were together, this same dear
baby--it was truly dear to me, for our mother’s sake--was the innocent
occasion of Miss Murdstone’s going into a passion. My mother, who had
been looking at its eyes as it lay upon her lap, said:

‘Davy! come here!’ and looked at mine.

I saw Miss Murdstone lay her beads down.

‘I declare,’ said my mother, gently, ‘they are exactly alike. I suppose
they are mine. I think they are the colour of mine. But they are
wonderfully alike.’

‘What are you talking about, Clara?’ said Miss Murdstone.

‘My dear Jane,’ faltered my mother, a little abashed by the harsh tone
of this inquiry, ‘I find that the baby’s eyes and Davy’s are exactly
alike.’

‘Clara!’ said Miss Murdstone, rising angrily, ‘you are a positive fool
sometimes.’

‘My dear Jane,’ remonstrated my mother.

‘A positive fool,’ said Miss Murdstone. ‘Who else could compare my
brother’s baby with your boy? They are not at all alike. They are
exactly unlike. They are utterly dissimilar in all respects. I hope
they will ever remain so. I will not sit here, and hear such comparisons
made.’ With that she stalked out, and made the door bang after her.

In short, I was not a favourite with Miss Murdstone. In short, I was not
a favourite there with anybody, not even with myself; for those who did
like me could not show it, and those who did not, showed it so plainly
that I had a sensitive consciousness of always appearing constrained,
boorish, and dull.

I felt that I made them as uncomfortable as they made me. If I came into
the room where they were, and they were talking together and my mother
seemed cheerful, an anxious cloud would steal over her face from the
moment of my entrance. If Mr. Murdstone were in his best humour, I
checked him. If Miss Murdstone were in her worst, I intensified it. I
had perception enough to know that my mother was the victim always; that
she was afraid to speak to me or to be kind to me, lest she should
give them some offence by her manner of doing so, and receive a
lecture afterwards; that she was not only ceaselessly afraid of her own
offending, but of my offending, and uneasily watched their looks if I
only moved. Therefore I resolved to keep myself as much out of their way
as I could; and many a wintry hour did I hear the church clock strike,
when I was sitting in my cheerless bedroom, wrapped in my little
great-coat, poring over a book.

In the evening, sometimes, I went and sat with Peggotty in the kitchen.
There I was comfortable, and not afraid of being myself. But neither of
these resources was approved of in the parlour. The tormenting humour
which was dominant there stopped them both. I was still held to be
necessary to my poor mother’s training, and, as one of her trials, could
not be suffered to absent myself.

‘David,’ said Mr. Murdstone, one day after dinner when I was going to
leave the room as usual; ‘I am sorry to observe that you are of a sullen
disposition.’

‘As sulky as a bear!’ said Miss Murdstone.

I stood still, and hung my head.

‘Now, David,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘a sullen obdurate disposition is, of
all tempers, the worst.’

‘And the boy’s is, of all such dispositions that ever I have seen,’
remarked his sister, ‘the most confirmed and stubborn. I think, my dear
Clara, even you must observe it?’

‘I beg your pardon, my dear Jane,’ said my mother, ‘but are you quite
sure--I am certain you’ll excuse me, my dear Jane--that you understand
Davy?’

‘I should be somewhat ashamed of myself, Clara,’ returned Miss
Murdstone, ‘if I could not understand the boy, or any boy. I don’t
profess to be profound; but I do lay claim to common sense.’

‘No doubt, my dear Jane,’ returned my mother, ‘your understanding is
very vigorous--’

‘Oh dear, no! Pray don’t say that, Clara,’ interposed Miss Murdstone,
angrily.

‘But I am sure it is,’ resumed my mother; ‘and everybody knows it is. I
profit so much by it myself, in many ways--at least I ought to--that no
one can be more convinced of it than myself; and therefore I speak with
great diffidence, my dear Jane, I assure you.’

‘We’ll say I don’t understand the boy, Clara,’ returned Miss Murdstone,
arranging the little fetters on her wrists. ‘We’ll agree, if you please,
that I don’t understand him at all. He is much too deep for me. But
perhaps my brother’s penetration may enable him to have some insight
into his character. And I believe my brother was speaking on the subject
when we--not very decently--interrupted him.’

‘I think, Clara,’ said Mr. Murdstone, in a low grave voice, ‘that there
may be better and more dispassionate judges of such a question than
you.’

‘Edward,’ replied my mother, timidly, ‘you are a far better judge of all
questions than I pretend to be. Both you and Jane are. I only said--’

‘You only said something weak and inconsiderate,’ he replied. ‘Try not
to do it again, my dear Clara, and keep a watch upon yourself.’

My mother’s lips moved, as if she answered ‘Yes, my dear Edward,’ but
she said nothing aloud.

‘I was sorry, David, I remarked,’ said Mr. Murdstone, turning his head
and his eyes stiffly towards me, ‘to observe that you are of a sullen
disposition. This is not a character that I can suffer to develop itself
beneath my eyes without an effort at improvement. You must endeavour,
sir, to change it. We must endeavour to change it for you.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I faltered. ‘I have never meant to be sullen
since I came back.’

‘Don’t take refuge in a lie, sir!’ he returned so fiercely, that I saw
my mother involuntarily put out her trembling hand as if to interpose
between us. ‘You have withdrawn yourself in your sullenness to your own
room. You have kept your own room when you ought to have been here. You
know now, once for all, that I require you to be here, and not there.
Further, that I require you to bring obedience here. You know me, David.
I will have it done.’

Miss Murdstone gave a hoarse chuckle.

‘I will have a respectful, prompt, and ready bearing towards myself,’ he
continued, ‘and towards Jane Murdstone, and towards your mother. I will
not have this room shunned as if it were infected, at the pleasure of a
child. Sit down.’

He ordered me like a dog, and I obeyed like a dog.

‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘I observe that you have an attachment to low
and common company. You are not to associate with servants. The
kitchen will not improve you, in the many respects in which you need
improvement. Of the woman who abets you, I say nothing--since you,
Clara,’ addressing my mother in a lower voice, ‘from old associations
and long-established fancies, have a weakness respecting her which is
not yet overcome.’

‘A most unaccountable delusion it is!’ cried Miss Murdstone.

‘I only say,’ he resumed, addressing me, ‘that I disapprove of your
preferring such company as Mistress Peggotty, and that it is to be
abandoned. Now, David, you understand me, and you know what will be the
consequence if you fail to obey me to the letter.’

I knew well--better perhaps than he thought, as far as my poor mother
was concerned--and I obeyed him to the letter. I retreated to my own
room no more; I took refuge with Peggotty no more; but sat wearily in
the parlour day after day, looking forward to night, and bedtime.

What irksome constraint I underwent, sitting in the same attitude hours
upon hours, afraid to move an arm or a leg lest Miss Murdstone should
complain (as she did on the least pretence) of my restlessness, and
afraid to move an eye lest she should light on some look of dislike
or scrutiny that would find new cause for complaint in mine! What
intolerable dulness to sit listening to the ticking of the clock; and
watching Miss Murdstone’s little shiny steel beads as she strung them;
and wondering whether she would ever be married, and if so, to what
sort of unhappy man; and counting the divisions in the moulding of the
chimney-piece; and wandering away, with my eyes, to the ceiling, among
the curls and corkscrews in the paper on the wall!

What walks I took alone, down muddy lanes, in the bad winter weather,
carrying that parlour, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone in it, everywhere: a
monstrous load that I was obliged to bear, a daymare that there was
no possibility of breaking in, a weight that brooded on my wits, and
blunted them!

What meals I had in silence and embarrassment, always feeling that there
were a knife and fork too many, and that mine; an appetite too many, and
that mine; a plate and chair too many, and those mine; a somebody too
many, and that I!

What evenings, when the candles came, and I was expected to employ
myself, but, not daring to read an entertaining book, pored over some
hard-headed, harder-hearted treatise on arithmetic; when the tables of
weights and measures set themselves to tunes, as ‘Rule Britannia’, or
‘Away with Melancholy’; when they wouldn’t stand still to be learnt, but
would go threading my grandmother’s needle through my unfortunate head,
in at one ear and out at the other! What yawns and dozes I lapsed into,
in spite of all my care; what starts I came out of concealed sleeps
with; what answers I never got, to little observations that I rarely
made; what a blank space I seemed, which everybody overlooked, and
yet was in everybody’s way; what a heavy relief it was to hear Miss
Murdstone hail the first stroke of nine at night, and order me to bed!

Thus the holidays lagged away, until the morning came when Miss
Murdstone said: ‘Here’s the last day off!’ and gave me the closing cup
of tea of the vacation.

I was not sorry to go. I had lapsed into a stupid state; but I was
recovering a little and looking forward to Steerforth, albeit Mr.
Creakle loomed behind him. Again Mr. Barkis appeared at the gate, and
again Miss Murdstone in her warning voice, said: ‘Clara!’ when my mother
bent over me, to bid me farewell.

I kissed her, and my baby brother, and was very sorry then; but not
sorry to go away, for the gulf between us was there, and the parting was
there, every day. And it is not so much the embrace she gave me, that
lives in my mind, though it was as fervent as could be, as what followed
the embrace.

I was in the carrier’s cart when I heard her calling to me. I looked
out, and she stood at the garden-gate alone, holding her baby up in her
arms for me to see. It was cold still weather; and not a hair of her
head, nor a fold of her dress, was stirred, as she looked intently at
me, holding up her child.

So I lost her. So I saw her afterwards, in my sleep at school--a silent
presence near my bed--looking at me with the same intent face--holding
up her baby in her arms.



CHAPTER 9. I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY


I PASS over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of my
birthday came round in March. Except that Steerforth was more to be
admired than ever, I remember nothing. He was going away at the end of
the half-year, if not sooner, and was more spirited and independent than
before in my eyes, and therefore more engaging than before; but beyond
this I remember nothing. The great remembrance by which that time is
marked in my mind, seems to have swallowed up all lesser recollections,
and to exist alone.

It is even difficult for me to believe that there was a gap of full
two months between my return to Salem House and the arrival of that
birthday. I can only understand that the fact was so, because I know it
must have been so; otherwise I should feel convinced that there was no
interval, and that the one occasion trod upon the other’s heels.

How well I recollect the kind of day it was! I smell the fog that hung
about the place; I see the hoar frost, ghostly, through it; I feel my
rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek; I look along the dim perspective of
the schoolroom, with a sputtering candle here and there to light up the
foggy morning, and the breath of the boys wreathing and smoking in the
raw cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap their feet upon the
floor. It was after breakfast, and we had been summoned in from the
playground, when Mr. Sharp entered and said:

‘David Copperfield is to go into the parlour.’

I expected a hamper from Peggotty, and brightened at the order. Some
of the boys about me put in their claim not to be forgotten in the
distribution of the good things, as I got out of my seat with great
alacrity.

‘Don’t hurry, David,’ said Mr. Sharp. ‘There’s time enough, my boy,
don’t hurry.’

I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which he spoke, if I
had given it a thought; but I gave it none until afterwards. I hurried
away to the parlour; and there I found Mr. Creakle, sitting at his
breakfast with the cane and a newspaper before him, and Mrs. Creakle
with an opened letter in her hand. But no hamper.

‘David Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a sofa, and
sitting down beside me. ‘I want to speak to you very particularly. I
have something to tell you, my child.’

Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head without looking
at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large piece of buttered toast.

‘You are too young to know how the world changes every day,’ said Mrs.
Creakle, ‘and how the people in it pass away. But we all have to learn
it, David; some of us when we are young, some of us when we are old,
some of us at all times of our lives.’

I looked at her earnestly.

‘When you came away from home at the end of the vacation,’ said Mrs.
Creakle, after a pause, ‘were they all well?’ After another pause, ‘Was
your mama well?’

I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked at her
earnestly, making no attempt to answer.

‘Because,’ said she, ‘I grieve to tell you that I hear this morning your
mama is very ill.’

A mist rose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure seemed to move
in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning tears run down my face,
and it was steady again.

‘She is very dangerously ill,’ she added.

I knew all now.

‘She is dead.’

There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out into a
desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world.

She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left me alone
sometimes; and I cried, and wore myself to sleep, and awoke and
cried again. When I could cry no more, I began to think; and then the
oppression on my breast was heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that
there was no ease for.

And yet my thoughts were idle; not intent on the calamity that weighed
upon my heart, but idly loitering near it. I thought of our house shut
up and hushed. I thought of the little baby, who, Mrs. Creakle said, had
been pining away for some time, and who, they believed, would die too. I
thought of my father’s grave in the churchyard, by our house, and of my
mother lying there beneath the tree I knew so well. I stood upon a chair
when I was left alone, and looked into the glass to see how red my eyes
were, and how sorrowful my face. I considered, after some hours were
gone, if my tears were really hard to flow now, as they seemed to be,
what, in connexion with my loss, it would affect me most to think
of when I drew near home--for I was going home to the funeral. I am
sensible of having felt that a dignity attached to me among the rest of
the boys, and that I was important in my affliction.

If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was. But I remember
that this importance was a kind of satisfaction to me, when I walked in
the playground that afternoon while the boys were in school. When I
saw them glancing at me out of the windows, as they went up to their
classes, I felt distinguished, and looked more melancholy, and walked
slower. When school was over, and they came out and spoke to me, I felt
it rather good in myself not to be proud to any of them, and to take
exactly the same notice of them all, as before.

I was to go home next night; not by the mail, but by the heavy
night-coach, which was called the Farmer, and was principally used by
country-people travelling short intermediate distances upon the road. We
had no story-telling that evening, and Traddles insisted on lending me
his pillow. I don’t know what good he thought it would do me, for I
had one of my own: but it was all he had to lend, poor fellow, except a
sheet of letter-paper full of skeletons; and that he gave me at parting,
as a soother of my sorrows and a contribution to my peace of mind.

I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I little thought then that
I left it, never to return. We travelled very slowly all night, and
did not get into Yarmouth before nine or ten o’clock in the morning. I
looked out for Mr. Barkis, but he was not there; and instead of him a
fat, short-winded, merry-looking, little old man in black, with rusty
little bunches of ribbons at the knees of his breeches, black stockings,
and a broad-brimmed hat, came puffing up to the coach window, and said:

‘Master Copperfield?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Will you come with me, young sir, if you please,’ he said, opening the
door, ‘and I shall have the pleasure of taking you home.’

I put my hand in his, wondering who he was, and we walked away to a
shop in a narrow street, on which was written OMER, DRAPER, TAILOR,
HABERDASHER, FUNERAL FURNISHER, &c. It was a close and stifling little
shop; full of all sorts of clothing, made and unmade, including
one window full of beaver-hats and bonnets. We went into a little
back-parlour behind the shop, where we found three young women at work
on a quantity of black materials, which were heaped upon the table,
and little bits and cuttings of which were littered all over the floor.
There was a good fire in the room, and a breathless smell of warm black
crape--I did not know what the smell was then, but I know now.

The three young women, who appeared to be very industrious and
comfortable, raised their heads to look at me, and then went on with
their work. Stitch, stitch, stitch. At the same time there came from
a workshop across a little yard outside the window, a regular sound
of hammering that kept a kind of tune: RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat,
RAT--tat-tat, without any variation.

‘Well,’ said my conductor to one of the three young women. ‘How do you
get on, Minnie?’

‘We shall be ready by the trying-on time,’ she replied gaily, without
looking up. ‘Don’t you be afraid, father.’

Mr. Omer took off his broad-brimmed hat, and sat down and panted. He was
so fat that he was obliged to pant some time before he could say:

‘That’s right.’

‘Father!’ said Minnie, playfully. ‘What a porpoise you do grow!’

‘Well, I don’t know how it is, my dear,’ he replied, considering about
it. ‘I am rather so.’

‘You are such a comfortable man, you see,’ said Minnie. ‘You take things
so easy.’

‘No use taking ‘em otherwise, my dear,’ said Mr. Omer.

‘No, indeed,’ returned his daughter. ‘We are all pretty gay here, thank
Heaven! Ain’t we, father?’

‘I hope so, my dear,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘As I have got my breath now, I
think I’ll measure this young scholar. Would you walk into the shop,
Master Copperfield?’

I preceded Mr. Omer, in compliance with his request; and after showing
me a roll of cloth which he said was extra super, and too good mourning
for anything short of parents, he took my various dimensions, and put
them down in a book. While he was recording them he called my attention
to his stock in trade, and to certain fashions which he said had ‘just
come up’, and to certain other fashions which he said had ‘just gone
out’.

‘And by that sort of thing we very often lose a little mint of money,’
said Mr. Omer. ‘But fashions are like human beings. They come in, nobody
knows when, why, or how; and they go out, nobody knows when, why, or
how. Everything is like life, in my opinion, if you look at it in that
point of view.’

I was too sorrowful to discuss the question, which would possibly have
been beyond me under any circumstances; and Mr. Omer took me back into
the parlour, breathing with some difficulty on the way.

He then called down a little break-neck range of steps behind a door:
‘Bring up that tea and bread-and-butter!’ which, after some time,
during which I sat looking about me and thinking, and listening to the
stitching in the room and the tune that was being hammered across the
yard, appeared on a tray, and turned out to be for me.

‘I have been acquainted with you,’ said Mr. Omer, after watching me
for some minutes, during which I had not made much impression on the
breakfast, for the black things destroyed my appetite, ‘I have been
acquainted with you a long time, my young friend.’

‘Have you, sir?’

‘All your life,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘I may say before it. I knew your
father before you. He was five foot nine and a half, and he lays in
five-and-twen-ty foot of ground.’

‘RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat,’ across the yard.

‘He lays in five and twen-ty foot of ground, if he lays in a fraction,’
said Mr. Omer, pleasantly. ‘It was either his request or her direction,
I forget which.’

‘Do you know how my little brother is, sir?’ I inquired.

Mr. Omer shook his head.

‘RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat.’

‘He is in his mother’s arms,’ said he.

‘Oh, poor little fellow! Is he dead?’

‘Don’t mind it more than you can help,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Yes. The baby’s
dead.’

My wounds broke out afresh at this intelligence. I left the
scarcely-tasted breakfast, and went and rested my head on another table,
in a corner of the little room, which Minnie hastily cleared, lest I
should spot the mourning that was lying there with my tears. She was
a pretty, good-natured girl, and put my hair away from my eyes with a
soft, kind touch; but she was very cheerful at having nearly finished
her work and being in good time, and was so different from me!

Presently the tune left off, and a good-looking young fellow came across
the yard into the room. He had a hammer in his hand, and his mouth was
full of little nails, which he was obliged to take out before he could
speak.

‘Well, Joram!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘How do you get on?’

‘All right,’ said Joram. ‘Done, sir.’

Minnie coloured a little, and the other two girls smiled at one another.

‘What! you were at it by candle-light last night, when I was at the
club, then? Were you?’ said Mr. Omer, shutting up one eye.

‘Yes,’ said Joram. ‘As you said we could make a little trip of it, and
go over together, if it was done, Minnie and me--and you.’

‘Oh! I thought you were going to leave me out altogether,’ said Mr.
Omer, laughing till he coughed.

‘--As you was so good as to say that,’ resumed the young man, ‘why I
turned to with a will, you see. Will you give me your opinion of it?’

‘I will,’ said Mr. Omer, rising. ‘My dear’; and he stopped and turned to
me: ‘would you like to see your--’

‘No, father,’ Minnie interposed.

‘I thought it might be agreeable, my dear,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘But perhaps
you’re right.’

I can’t say how I knew it was my dear, dear mother’s coffin that they
went to look at. I had never heard one making; I had never seen one that
I know of.--but it came into my mind what the noise was, while it was
going on; and when the young man entered, I am sure I knew what he had
been doing.

The work being now finished, the two girls, whose names I had not heard,
brushed the shreds and threads from their dresses, and went into the
shop to put that to rights, and wait for customers. Minnie stayed behind
to fold up what they had made, and pack it in two baskets. This she did
upon her knees, humming a lively little tune the while. Joram, who I had
no doubt was her lover, came in and stole a kiss from her while she was
busy (he didn’t appear to mind me, at all), and said her father was gone
for the chaise, and he must make haste and get himself ready. Then he
went out again; and then she put her thimble and scissors in her pocket,
and stuck a needle threaded with black thread neatly in the bosom of her
gown, and put on her outer clothing smartly, at a little glass behind
the door, in which I saw the reflection of her pleased face.

All this I observed, sitting at the table in the corner with my head
leaning on my hand, and my thoughts running on very different things.
The chaise soon came round to the front of the shop, and the baskets
being put in first, I was put in next, and those three followed. I
remember it as a kind of half chaise-cart, half pianoforte-van, painted
of a sombre colour, and drawn by a black horse with a long tail. There
was plenty of room for us all.

I do not think I have ever experienced so strange a feeling in my life
(I am wiser now, perhaps) as that of being with them, remembering how
they had been employed, and seeing them enjoy the ride. I was not angry
with them; I was more afraid of them, as if I were cast away among
creatures with whom I had no community of nature. They were very
cheerful. The old man sat in front to drive, and the two young people
sat behind him, and whenever he spoke to them leaned forward, the one on
one side of his chubby face and the other on the other, and made a great
deal of him. They would have talked to me too, but I held back, and
moped in my corner; scared by their love-making and hilarity, though
it was far from boisterous, and almost wondering that no judgement came
upon them for their hardness of heart.

So, when they stopped to bait the horse, and ate and drank and enjoyed
themselves, I could touch nothing that they touched, but kept my fast
unbroken. So, when we reached home, I dropped out of the chaise behind,
as quickly as possible, that I might not be in their company before
those solemn windows, looking blindly on me like closed eyes once
bright. And oh, how little need I had had to think what would move me to
tears when I came back--seeing the window of my mother’s room, and next
it that which, in the better time, was mine!

I was in Peggotty’s arms before I got to the door, and she took me into
the house. Her grief burst out when she first saw me; but she controlled
it soon, and spoke in whispers, and walked softly, as if the dead could
be disturbed. She had not been in bed, I found, for a long time. She
sat up at night still, and watched. As long as her poor dear pretty was
above the ground, she said, she would never desert her.

Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when I went into the parlour where he
was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silently, and pondering in his
elbow-chair. Miss Murdstone, who was busy at her writing-desk, which
was covered with letters and papers, gave me her cold finger-nails, and
asked me, in an iron whisper, if I had been measured for my mourning.

I said: ‘Yes.’

‘And your shirts,’ said Miss Murdstone; ‘have you brought ‘em home?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I have brought home all my clothes.’

This was all the consolation that her firmness administered to me. I do
not doubt that she had a choice pleasure in exhibiting what she called
her self-command, and her firmness, and her strength of mind, and
her common sense, and the whole diabolical catalogue of her unamiable
qualities, on such an occasion. She was particularly proud of her turn
for business; and she showed it now in reducing everything to pen and
ink, and being moved by nothing. All the rest of that day, and from
morning to night afterwards, she sat at that desk, scratching composedly
with a hard pen, speaking in the same imperturbable whisper to
everybody; never relaxing a muscle of her face, or softening a tone of
her voice, or appearing with an atom of her dress astray.

Her brother took a book sometimes, but never read it that I saw. He
would open it and look at it as if he were reading, but would remain for
a whole hour without turning the leaf, and then put it down and walk to
and fro in the room. I used to sit with folded hands watching him, and
counting his footsteps, hour after hour. He very seldom spoke to her,
and never to me. He seemed to be the only restless thing, except the
clocks, in the whole motionless house.

In these days before the funeral, I saw but little of Peggotty, except
that, in passing up or down stairs, I always found her close to the room
where my mother and her baby lay, and except that she came to me every
night, and sat by my bed’s head while I went to sleep. A day or
two before the burial--I think it was a day or two before, but I am
conscious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with nothing
to mark its progress--she took me into the room. I only recollect that
underneath some white covering on the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness
and freshness all around it, there seemed to me to lie embodied the
solemn stillness that was in the house; and that when she would have
turned the cover gently back, I cried: ‘Oh no! oh no!’ and held her
hand.

If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it better. The
very air of the best parlour, when I went in at the door, the bright
condition of the fire, the shining of the wine in the decanters, the
patterns of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet smell of cake, the
odour of Miss Murdstone’s dress, and our black clothes. Mr. Chillip is
in the room, and comes to speak to me.

‘And how is Master David?’ he says, kindly.

I cannot tell him very well. I give him my hand, which he holds in his.

‘Dear me!’ says Mr. Chillip, meekly smiling, with something shining in
his eye. ‘Our little friends grow up around us. They grow out of our
knowledge, ma’am?’ This is to Miss Murdstone, who makes no reply.

‘There is a great improvement here, ma’am?’ says Mr. Chillip.

Miss Murdstone merely answers with a frown and a formal bend: Mr.
Chillip, discomfited, goes into a corner, keeping me with him, and opens
his mouth no more.

I remark this, because I remark everything that happens, not because
I care about myself, or have done since I came home. And now the bell
begins to sound, and Mr. Omer and another come to make us ready. As
Peggotty was wont to tell me, long ago, the followers of my father to
the same grave were made ready in the same room.

There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbour Mr. Grayper, Mr. Chillip, and
I. When we go out to the door, the Bearers and their load are in the
garden; and they move before us down the path, and past the elms, and
through the gate, and into the churchyard, where I have so often heard
the birds sing on a summer morning.

We stand around the grave. The day seems different to me from every
other day, and the light not of the same colour--of a sadder colour.
Now there is a solemn hush, which we have brought from home with what is
resting in the mould; and while we stand bareheaded, I hear the voice
of the clergyman, sounding remote in the open air, and yet distinct and
plain, saying: ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord!’
Then I hear sobs; and, standing apart among the lookers-on, I see that
good and faithful servant, whom of all the people upon earth I love the
best, and unto whom my childish heart is certain that the Lord will one
day say: ‘Well done.’

There are many faces that I know, among the little crowd; faces that I
knew in church, when mine was always wondering there; faces that first
saw my mother, when she came to the village in her youthful bloom. I do
not mind them--I mind nothing but my grief--and yet I see and know them
all; and even in the background, far away, see Minnie looking on, and
her eye glancing on her sweetheart, who is near me.

It is over, and the earth is filled in, and we turn to come away. Before
us stands our house, so pretty and unchanged, so linked in my mind with
the young idea of what is gone, that all my sorrow has been nothing to
the sorrow it calls forth. But they take me on; and Mr. Chillip talks to
me; and when we get home, puts some water to my lips; and when I ask his
leave to go up to my room, dismisses me with the gentleness of a woman.

All this, I say, is yesterday’s event. Events of later date have floated
from me to the shore where all forgotten things will reappear, but this
stands like a high rock in the ocean.

I knew that Peggotty would come to me in my room. The Sabbath stillness
of the time (the day was so like Sunday! I have forgotten that) was
suited to us both. She sat down by my side upon my little bed; and
holding my hand, and sometimes putting it to her lips, and sometimes
smoothing it with hers, as she might have comforted my little brother,
told me, in her way, all that she had to tell concerning what had
happened.

‘She was never well,’ said Peggotty, ‘for a long time. She was uncertain
in her mind, and not happy. When her baby was born, I thought at first
she would get better, but she was more delicate, and sunk a little every
day. She used to like to sit alone before her baby came, and then she
cried; but afterwards she used to sing to it--so soft, that I once
thought, when I heard her, it was like a voice up in the air, that was
rising away.

‘I think she got to be more timid, and more frightened-like, of late;
and that a hard word was like a blow to her. But she was always the same
to me. She never changed to her foolish Peggotty, didn’t my sweet girl.’

Here Peggotty stopped, and softly beat upon my hand a little while.

‘The last time that I saw her like her own old self, was the night when
you came home, my dear. The day you went away, she said to me, “I never
shall see my pretty darling again. Something tells me so, that tells the
truth, I know.”

‘She tried to hold up after that; and many a time, when they told her
she was thoughtless and light-hearted, made believe to be so; but it was
all a bygone then. She never told her husband what she had told me--she
was afraid of saying it to anybody else--till one night, a little more
than a week before it happened, when she said to him: “My dear, I think
I am dying.”

‘“It’s off my mind now, Peggotty,” she told me, when I laid her in her
bed that night. “He will believe it more and more, poor fellow, every
day for a few days to come; and then it will be past. I am very tired.
If this is sleep, sit by me while I sleep: don’t leave me. God bless
both my children! God protect and keep my fatherless boy!”

‘I never left her afterwards,’ said Peggotty. ‘She often talked to them
two downstairs--for she loved them; she couldn’t bear not to love anyone
who was about her--but when they went away from her bed-side, she always
turned to me, as if there was rest where Peggotty was, and never fell
asleep in any other way.

‘On the last night, in the evening, she kissed me, and said: “If my baby
should die too, Peggotty, please let them lay him in my arms, and bury
us together.” (It was done; for the poor lamb lived but a day beyond
her.) “Let my dearest boy go with us to our resting-place,” she said,
“and tell him that his mother, when she lay here, blessed him not once,
but a thousand times.”’

Another silence followed this, and another gentle beating on my hand.

‘It was pretty far in the night,’ said Peggotty, ‘when she asked me for
some drink; and when she had taken it, gave me such a patient smile, the
dear!--so beautiful!

‘Daybreak had come, and the sun was rising, when she said to me, how
kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had always been to her, and how
he had borne with her, and told her, when she doubted herself, that
a loving heart was better and stronger than wisdom, and that he was a
happy man in hers. “Peggotty, my dear,” she said then, “put me nearer to
you,” for she was very weak. “Lay your good arm underneath my neck,” she
said, “and turn me to you, for your face is going far off, and I want it
to be near.” I put it as she asked; and oh Davy! the time had come when
my first parting words to you were true--when she was glad to lay her
poor head on her stupid cross old Peggotty’s arm--and she died like a
child that had gone to sleep!’


Thus ended Peggotty’s narration. From the moment of my knowing of the
death of my mother, the idea of her as she had been of late had vanished
from me. I remembered her, from that instant, only as the young mother
of my earliest impressions, who had been used to wind her bright curls
round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twilight in the
parlour. What Peggotty had told me now, was so far from bringing me back
to the later period, that it rooted the earlier image in my mind. It may
be curious, but it is true. In her death she winged her way back to her
calm untroubled youth, and cancelled all the rest.

The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my infancy; the
little creature in her arms, was myself, as I had once been, hushed for
ever on her bosom.



CHAPTER 10. I BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR


The first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when the day of the
solemnity was over, and light was freely admitted into the house, was
to give Peggotty a month’s warning. Much as Peggotty would have disliked
such a service, I believe she would have retained it, for my sake, in
preference to the best upon earth. She told me we must part, and told me
why; and we condoled with one another, in all sincerity.

As to me or my future, not a word was said, or a step taken. Happy
they would have been, I dare say, if they could have dismissed me at a
month’s warning too. I mustered courage once, to ask Miss Murdstone when
I was going back to school; and she answered dryly, she believed I was
not going back at all. I was told nothing more. I was very anxious to
know what was going to be done with me, and so was Peggotty; but neither
she nor I could pick up any information on the subject.

There was one change in my condition, which, while it relieved me of
a great deal of present uneasiness, might have made me, if I had been
capable of considering it closely, yet more uncomfortable about the
future. It was this. The constraint that had been put upon me, was quite
abandoned. I was so far from being required to keep my dull post in
the parlour, that on several occasions, when I took my seat there, Miss
Murdstone frowned to me to go away. I was so far from being warned off
from Peggotty’s society, that, provided I was not in Mr. Murdstone’s, I
was never sought out or inquired for. At first I was in daily dread of
his taking my education in hand again, or of Miss Murdstone’s
devoting herself to it; but I soon began to think that such fears were
groundless, and that all I had to anticipate was neglect.

I do not conceive that this discovery gave me much pain then. I was
still giddy with the shock of my mother’s death, and in a kind of
stunned state as to all tributary things. I can recollect, indeed, to
have speculated, at odd times, on the possibility of my not being taught
any more, or cared for any more; and growing up to be a shabby, moody
man, lounging an idle life away, about the village; as well as on the
feasibility of my getting rid of this picture by going away somewhere,
like the hero in a story, to seek my fortune: but these were transient
visions, daydreams I sat looking at sometimes, as if they were faintly
painted or written on the wall of my room, and which, as they melted
away, left the wall blank again.

‘Peggotty,’ I said in a thoughtful whisper, one evening, when I was
warming my hands at the kitchen fire, ‘Mr. Murdstone likes me less than
he used to. He never liked me much, Peggotty; but he would rather not
even see me now, if he can help it.’

‘Perhaps it’s his sorrow,’ said Peggotty, stroking my hair.

‘I am sure, Peggotty, I am sorry too. If I believed it was his sorrow,
I should not think of it at all. But it’s not that; oh, no, it’s not
that.’

‘How do you know it’s not that?’ said Peggotty, after a silence.

‘Oh, his sorrow is another and quite a different thing. He is sorry at
this moment, sitting by the fireside with Miss Murdstone; but if I was
to go in, Peggotty, he would be something besides.’

‘What would he be?’ said Peggotty.

‘Angry,’ I answered, with an involuntary imitation of his dark frown.
‘If he was only sorry, he wouldn’t look at me as he does. I am only
sorry, and it makes me feel kinder.’

Peggotty said nothing for a little while; and I warmed my hands, as
silent as she.

‘Davy,’ she said at length.

‘Yes, Peggotty?’ ‘I have tried, my dear, all ways I could think of--all
the ways there are, and all the ways there ain’t, in short--to get a
suitable service here, in Blunderstone; but there’s no such a thing, my
love.’

‘And what do you mean to do, Peggotty,’ says I, wistfully. ‘Do you mean
to go and seek your fortune?’

‘I expect I shall be forced to go to Yarmouth,’ replied Peggotty, ‘and
live there.’

‘You might have gone farther off,’ I said, brightening a little, ‘and
been as bad as lost. I shall see you sometimes, my dear old Peggotty,
there. You won’t be quite at the other end of the world, will you?’

‘Contrary ways, please God!’ cried Peggotty, with great animation. ‘As
long as you are here, my pet, I shall come over every week of my life to
see you. One day, every week of my life!’

I felt a great weight taken off my mind by this promise: but even this
was not all, for Peggotty went on to say:

‘I’m a-going, Davy, you see, to my brother’s, first, for another
fortnight’s visit--just till I have had time to look about me, and
get to be something like myself again. Now, I have been thinking that
perhaps, as they don’t want you here at present, you might be let to go
along with me.’

If anything, short of being in a different relation to every one about
me, Peggotty excepted, could have given me a sense of pleasure at that
time, it would have been this project of all others. The idea of being
again surrounded by those honest faces, shining welcome on me; of
renewing the peacefulness of the sweet Sunday morning, when the bells
were ringing, the stones dropping in the water, and the shadowy ships
breaking through the mist; of roaming up and down with little Em’ly,
telling her my troubles, and finding charms against them in the shells
and pebbles on the beach; made a calm in my heart. It was ruffled next
moment, to be sure, by a doubt of Miss Murdstone’s giving her consent;
but even that was set at rest soon, for she came out to take an evening
grope in the store-closet while we were yet in conversation, and
Peggotty, with a boldness that amazed me, broached the topic on the
spot.

‘The boy will be idle there,’ said Miss Murdstone, looking into a
pickle-jar, ‘and idleness is the root of all evil. But, to be sure, he
would be idle here--or anywhere, in my opinion.’

Peggotty had an angry answer ready, I could see; but she swallowed it
for my sake, and remained silent.

‘Humph!’ said Miss Murdstone, still keeping her eye on the pickles;
‘it is of more importance than anything else--it is of paramount
importance--that my brother should not be disturbed or made
uncomfortable. I suppose I had better say yes.’

I thanked her, without making any demonstration of joy, lest it should
induce her to withdraw her assent. Nor could I help thinking this a
prudent course, since she looked at me out of the pickle-jar, with
as great an access of sourness as if her black eyes had absorbed its
contents. However, the permission was given, and was never retracted;
for when the month was out, Peggotty and I were ready to depart.

Mr. Barkis came into the house for Peggotty’s boxes. I had never known
him to pass the garden-gate before, but on this occasion he came into
the house. And he gave me a look as he shouldered the largest box and
went out, which I thought had meaning in it, if meaning could ever be
said to find its way into Mr. Barkis’s visage.

Peggotty was naturally in low spirits at leaving what had been her home
so many years, and where the two strong attachments of her life--for
my mother and myself--had been formed. She had been walking in the
churchyard, too, very early; and she got into the cart, and sat in it
with her handkerchief at her eyes.

So long as she remained in this condition, Mr. Barkis gave no sign
of life whatever. He sat in his usual place and attitude like a great
stuffed figure. But when she began to look about her, and to speak to
me, he nodded his head and grinned several times. I have not the least
notion at whom, or what he meant by it.

‘It’s a beautiful day, Mr. Barkis!’ I said, as an act of politeness.

‘It ain’t bad,’ said Mr. Barkis, who generally qualified his speech, and
rarely committed himself.

‘Peggotty is quite comfortable now, Mr. Barkis,’ I remarked, for his
satisfaction.

‘Is she, though?’ said Mr. Barkis.

After reflecting about it, with a sagacious air, Mr. Barkis eyed her,
and said:

‘ARE you pretty comfortable?’

Peggotty laughed, and answered in the affirmative.

‘But really and truly, you know. Are you?’ growled Mr. Barkis, sliding
nearer to her on the seat, and nudging her with his elbow. ‘Are you?
Really and truly pretty comfortable? Are you? Eh?’

At each of these inquiries Mr. Barkis shuffled nearer to her, and gave
her another nudge; so that at last we were all crowded together in the
left-hand corner of the cart, and I was so squeezed that I could hardly
bear it.

Peggotty calling his attention to my sufferings, Mr. Barkis gave me a
little more room at once, and got away by degrees. But I could not help
observing that he seemed to think he had hit upon a wonderful expedient
for expressing himself in a neat, agreeable, and pointed manner, without
the inconvenience of inventing conversation. He manifestly chuckled over
it for some time. By and by he turned to Peggotty again, and repeating,
‘Are you pretty comfortable though?’ bore down upon us as before, until
the breath was nearly edged out of my body. By and by he made another
descent upon us with the same inquiry, and the same result. At length,
I got up whenever I saw him coming, and standing on the foot-board,
pretended to look at the prospect; after which I did very well.

He was so polite as to stop at a public-house, expressly on our account,
and entertain us with broiled mutton and beer. Even when Peggotty was
in the act of drinking, he was seized with one of those approaches, and
almost choked her. But as we drew nearer to the end of our journey, he
had more to do and less time for gallantry; and when we got on Yarmouth
pavement, we were all too much shaken and jolted, I apprehend, to have
any leisure for anything else.

Mr. Peggotty and Ham waited for us at the old place. They received me
and Peggotty in an affectionate manner, and shook hands with Mr. Barkis,
who, with his hat on the very back of his head, and a shame-faced leer
upon his countenance, and pervading his very legs, presented but a
vacant appearance, I thought. They each took one of Peggotty’s trunks,
and we were going away, when Mr. Barkis solemnly made a sign to me with
his forefinger to come under an archway.

‘I say,’ growled Mr. Barkis, ‘it was all right.’

I looked up into his face, and answered, with an attempt to be very
profound: ‘Oh!’

‘It didn’t come to a end there,’ said Mr. Barkis, nodding
confidentially. ‘It was all right.’

Again I answered, ‘Oh!’

‘You know who was willin’,’ said my friend. ‘It was Barkis, and Barkis
only.’

I nodded assent.

‘It’s all right,’ said Mr. Barkis, shaking hands; ‘I’m a friend of
your’n. You made it all right, first. It’s all right.’

In his attempts to be particularly lucid, Mr. Barkis was so extremely
mysterious, that I might have stood looking in his face for an hour, and
most assuredly should have got as much information out of it as out
of the face of a clock that had stopped, but for Peggotty’s calling me
away. As we were going along, she asked me what he had said; and I told
her he had said it was all right.

‘Like his impudence,’ said Peggotty, ‘but I don’t mind that! Davy dear,
what should you think if I was to think of being married?’

‘Why--I suppose you would like me as much then, Peggotty, as you do
now?’ I returned, after a little consideration.

Greatly to the astonishment of the passengers in the street, as well as
of her relations going on before, the good soul was obliged to stop and
embrace me on the spot, with many protestations of her unalterable love.

‘Tell me what should you say, darling?’ she asked again, when this was
over, and we were walking on.

‘If you were thinking of being married--to Mr. Barkis, Peggotty?’

‘Yes,’ said Peggotty.

‘I should think it would be a very good thing. For then you know,
Peggotty, you would always have the horse and cart to bring you over to
see me, and could come for nothing, and be sure of coming.’

‘The sense of the dear!’ cried Peggotty. ‘What I have been thinking
of, this month back! Yes, my precious; and I think I should be more
independent altogether, you see; let alone my working with a better
heart in my own house, than I could in anybody else’s now. I don’t know
what I might be fit for, now, as a servant to a stranger. And I shall be
always near my pretty’s resting-place,’ said Peggotty, musing, ‘and be
able to see it when I like; and when I lie down to rest, I may be laid
not far off from my darling girl!’

We neither of us said anything for a little while.

‘But I wouldn’t so much as give it another thought,’ said Peggotty,
cheerily ‘if my Davy was anyways against it--not if I had been asked in
church thirty times three times over, and was wearing out the ring in my
pocket.’

‘Look at me, Peggotty,’ I replied; ‘and see if I am not really glad, and
don’t truly wish it!’ As indeed I did, with all my heart.

‘Well, my life,’ said Peggotty, giving me a squeeze, ‘I have thought of
it night and day, every way I can, and I hope the right way; but I’ll
think of it again, and speak to my brother about it, and in the meantime
we’ll keep it to ourselves, Davy, you and me. Barkis is a good plain
creature,’ said Peggotty, ‘and if I tried to do my duty by him, I think
it would be my fault if I wasn’t--if I wasn’t pretty comfortable,’
said Peggotty, laughing heartily. This quotation from Mr. Barkis was
so appropriate, and tickled us both so much, that we laughed again and
again, and were quite in a pleasant humour when we came within view of
Mr. Peggotty’s cottage.

It looked just the same, except that it may, perhaps, have shrunk a
little in my eyes; and Mrs. Gummidge was waiting at the door as if she
had stood there ever since. All within was the same, down to the seaweed
in the blue mug in my bedroom. I went into the out-house to look about
me; and the very same lobsters, crabs, and crawfish possessed by the
same desire to pinch the world in general, appeared to be in the same
state of conglomeration in the same old corner.

But there was no little Em’ly to be seen, so I asked Mr. Peggotty where
she was.

‘She’s at school, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, wiping the heat consequent
on the porterage of Peggotty’s box from his forehead; ‘she’ll be home,’
looking at the Dutch clock, ‘in from twenty minutes to half-an-hour’s
time. We all on us feel the loss of her, bless ye!’

Mrs. Gummidge moaned.

‘Cheer up, Mawther!’ cried Mr. Peggotty.

‘I feel it more than anybody else,’ said Mrs. Gummidge; ‘I’m a lone
lorn creetur’, and she used to be a’most the only thing that didn’t go
contrary with me.’

Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking her head, applied herself to
blowing the fire. Mr. Peggotty, looking round upon us while she was so
engaged, said in a low voice, which he shaded with his hand: ‘The old
‘un!’ From this I rightly conjectured that no improvement had taken
place since my last visit in the state of Mrs. Gummidge’s spirits.

Now, the whole place was, or it should have been, quite as delightful
a place as ever; and yet it did not impress me in the same way. I felt
rather disappointed with it. Perhaps it was because little Em’ly was
not at home. I knew the way by which she would come, and presently found
myself strolling along the path to meet her.

A figure appeared in the distance before long, and I soon knew it to be
Em’ly, who was a little creature still in stature, though she was grown.
But when she drew nearer, and I saw her blue eyes looking bluer, and her
dimpled face looking brighter, and her whole self prettier and gayer, a
curious feeling came over me that made me pretend not to know her, and
pass by as if I were looking at something a long way off. I have done
such a thing since in later life, or I am mistaken.

Little Em’ly didn’t care a bit. She saw me well enough; but instead of
turning round and calling after me, ran away laughing. This obliged me
to run after her, and she ran so fast that we were very near the cottage
before I caught her.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said little Em’ly.

‘Why, you knew who it was, Em’ly,’ said I.

‘And didn’t YOU know who it was?’ said Em’ly. I was going to kiss her,
but she covered her cherry lips with her hands, and said she wasn’t a
baby now, and ran away, laughing more than ever, into the house.

She seemed to delight in teasing me, which was a change in her I
wondered at very much. The tea table was ready, and our little locker
was put out in its old place, but instead of coming to sit by me, she
went and bestowed her company upon that grumbling Mrs. Gummidge: and on
Mr. Peggotty’s inquiring why, rumpled her hair all over her face to hide
it, and could do nothing but laugh.

‘A little puss, it is!’ said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with his great
hand.

‘So sh’ is! so sh’ is!’ cried Ham. ‘Mas’r Davy bor’, so sh’ is!’ and he
sat and chuckled at her for some time, in a state of mingled admiration
and delight, that made his face a burning red.

Little Em’ly was spoiled by them all, in fact; and by no one more than
Mr. Peggotty himself, whom she could have coaxed into anything, by
only going and laying her cheek against his rough whisker. That was my
opinion, at least, when I saw her do it; and I held Mr. Peggotty to be
thoroughly in the right. But she was so affectionate and sweet-natured,
and had such a pleasant manner of being both sly and shy at once, that
she captivated me more than ever.

She was tender-hearted, too; for when, as we sat round the fire after
tea, an allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over his pipe to the loss
I had sustained, the tears stood in her eyes, and she looked at me so
kindly across the table, that I felt quite thankful to her.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Peggotty, taking up her curls, and running them over his
hand like water, ‘here’s another orphan, you see, sir. And here,’ said
Mr. Peggotty, giving Ham a backhanded knock in the chest, ‘is another of
‘em, though he don’t look much like it.’

‘If I had you for my guardian, Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, shaking my head,
‘I don’t think I should FEEL much like it.’

‘Well said, Mas’r Davy bor’!’ cried Ham, in an ecstasy. ‘Hoorah! Well
said! Nor more you wouldn’t! Hor! Hor!’--Here he returned Mr. Peggotty’s
back-hander, and little Em’ly got up and kissed Mr. Peggotty. ‘And how’s
your friend, sir?’ said Mr. Peggotty to me.

‘Steerforth?’ said I.

‘That’s the name!’ cried Mr. Peggotty, turning to Ham. ‘I knowed it was
something in our way.’

‘You said it was Rudderford,’ observed Ham, laughing.

‘Well!’ retorted Mr. Peggotty. ‘And ye steer with a rudder, don’t ye? It
ain’t fur off. How is he, sir?’

‘He was very well indeed when I came away, Mr. Peggotty.’

‘There’s a friend!’ said Mr. Peggotty, stretching out his pipe. ‘There’s
a friend, if you talk of friends! Why, Lord love my heart alive, if it
ain’t a treat to look at him!’

‘He is very handsome, is he not?’ said I, my heart warming with this
praise.

‘Handsome!’ cried Mr. Peggotty. ‘He stands up to you like--like a--why I
don’t know what he don’t stand up to you like. He’s so bold!’

‘Yes! That’s just his character,’ said I. ‘He’s as brave as a lion, and
you can’t think how frank he is, Mr. Peggotty.’

‘And I do suppose, now,’ said Mr. Peggotty, looking at me through the
smoke of his pipe, ‘that in the way of book-larning he’d take the wind
out of a’most anything.’

‘Yes,’ said I, delighted; ‘he knows everything. He is astonishingly
clever.’

‘There’s a friend!’ murmured Mr. Peggotty, with a grave toss of his
head.

‘Nothing seems to cost him any trouble,’ said I. ‘He knows a task if he
only looks at it. He is the best cricketer you ever saw. He will give
you almost as many men as you like at draughts, and beat you easily.’

Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to say: ‘Of course
he will.’

‘He is such a speaker,’ I pursued, ‘that he can win anybody over; and I
don’t know what you’d say if you were to hear him sing, Mr. Peggotty.’

Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to say: ‘I have no
doubt of it.’

‘Then, he’s such a generous, fine, noble fellow,’ said I, quite carried
away by my favourite theme, ‘that it’s hardly possible to give him as
much praise as he deserves. I am sure I can never feel thankful enough
for the generosity with which he has protected me, so much younger and
lower in the school than himself.’

I was running on, very fast indeed, when my eyes rested on little
Em’ly’s face, which was bent forward over the table, listening with the
deepest attention, her breath held, her blue eyes sparkling like jewels,
and the colour mantling in her cheeks. She looked so extraordinarily
earnest and pretty, that I stopped in a sort of wonder; and they all
observed her at the same time, for as I stopped, they laughed and looked
at her.

‘Em’ly is like me,’ said Peggotty, ‘and would like to see him.’

Em’ly was confused by our all observing her, and hung down her head,
and her face was covered with blushes. Glancing up presently through her
stray curls, and seeing that we were all looking at her still (I am sure
I, for one, could have looked at her for hours), she ran away, and kept
away till it was nearly bedtime.

I lay down in the old little bed in the stern of the boat, and the wind
came moaning on across the flat as it had done before. But I could not
help fancying, now, that it moaned of those who were gone; and instead
of thinking that the sea might rise in the night and float the boat
away, I thought of the sea that had risen, since I last heard those
sounds, and drowned my happy home. I recollect, as the wind and water
began to sound fainter in my ears, putting a short clause into my
prayers, petitioning that I might grow up to marry little Em’ly, and so
dropping lovingly asleep.

The days passed pretty much as they had passed before, except--it was
a great exception--that little Em’ly and I seldom wandered on the beach
now. She had tasks to learn, and needle-work to do; and was absent
during a great part of each day. But I felt that we should not have had
those old wanderings, even if it had been otherwise. Wild and full of
childish whims as Em’ly was, she was more of a little woman than I
had supposed. She seemed to have got a great distance away from me,
in little more than a year. She liked me, but she laughed at me, and
tormented me; and when I went to meet her, stole home another way, and
was laughing at the door when I came back, disappointed. The best times
were when she sat quietly at work in the doorway, and I sat on the
wooden step at her feet, reading to her. It seems to me, at this
hour, that I have never seen such sunlight as on those bright April
afternoons; that I have never seen such a sunny little figure as I used
to see, sitting in the doorway of the old boat; that I have never beheld
such sky, such water, such glorified ships sailing away into golden air.

On the very first evening after our arrival, Mr. Barkis appeared in an
exceedingly vacant and awkward condition, and with a bundle of oranges
tied up in a handkerchief. As he made no allusion of any kind to this
property, he was supposed to have left it behind him by accident when
he went away; until Ham, running after him to restore it, came back with
the information that it was intended for Peggotty. After that occasion
he appeared every evening at exactly the same hour, and always with a
little bundle, to which he never alluded, and which he regularly put
behind the door and left there. These offerings of affection were of a
most various and eccentric description. Among them I remember a double
set of pigs’ trotters, a huge pin-cushion, half a bushel or so of
apples, a pair of jet earrings, some Spanish onions, a box of dominoes,
a canary bird and cage, and a leg of pickled pork.

Mr. Barkis’s wooing, as I remember it, was altogether of a peculiar
kind. He very seldom said anything; but would sit by the fire in much
the same attitude as he sat in his cart, and stare heavily at Peggotty,
who was opposite. One night, being, as I suppose, inspired by love, he
made a dart at the bit of wax-candle she kept for her thread, and put
it in his waistcoat-pocket and carried it off. After that, his great
delight was to produce it when it was wanted, sticking to the lining of
his pocket, in a partially melted state, and pocket it again when it was
done with. He seemed to enjoy himself very much, and not to feel at all
called upon to talk. Even when he took Peggotty out for a walk on the
flats, he had no uneasiness on that head, I believe; contenting himself
with now and then asking her if she was pretty comfortable; and I
remember that sometimes, after he was gone, Peggotty would throw her
apron over her face, and laugh for half-an-hour. Indeed, we were
all more or less amused, except that miserable Mrs. Gummidge, whose
courtship would appear to have been of an exactly parallel nature, she
was so continually reminded by these transactions of the old one.

At length, when the term of my visit was nearly expired, it was given
out that Peggotty and Mr. Barkis were going to make a day’s holiday
together, and that little Em’ly and I were to accompany them. I had but
a broken sleep the night before, in anticipation of the pleasure of
a whole day with Em’ly. We were all astir betimes in the morning; and
while we were yet at breakfast, Mr. Barkis appeared in the distance,
driving a chaise-cart towards the object of his affections.

Peggotty was dressed as usual, in her neat and quiet mourning; but Mr.
Barkis bloomed in a new blue coat, of which the tailor had given him
such good measure, that the cuffs would have rendered gloves unnecessary
in the coldest weather, while the collar was so high that it pushed his
hair up on end on the top of his head. His bright buttons, too, were
of the largest size. Rendered complete by drab pantaloons and a buff
waistcoat, I thought Mr. Barkis a phenomenon of respectability.

When we were all in a bustle outside the door, I found that Mr. Peggotty
was prepared with an old shoe, which was to be thrown after us for luck,
and which he offered to Mrs. Gummidge for that purpose.

‘No. It had better be done by somebody else, Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gummidge.
‘I’m a lone lorn creetur’ myself, and everythink that reminds me of
creetur’s that ain’t lone and lorn, goes contrary with me.’

‘Come, old gal!’ cried Mr. Peggotty. ‘Take and heave it.’

‘No, Dan’l,’ returned Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking her head.
‘If I felt less, I could do more. You don’t feel like me, Dan’l; thinks
don’t go contrary with you, nor you with them; you had better do it
yourself.’

But here Peggotty, who had been going about from one to another in a
hurried way, kissing everybody, called out from the cart, in which we
all were by this time (Em’ly and I on two little chairs, side by side),
that Mrs. Gummidge must do it. So Mrs. Gummidge did it; and, I am sorry
to relate, cast a damp upon the festive character of our departure, by
immediately bursting into tears, and sinking subdued into the arms of
Ham, with the declaration that she knowed she was a burden, and had
better be carried to the House at once. Which I really thought was a
sensible idea, that Ham might have acted on.

Away we went, however, on our holiday excursion; and the first thing
we did was to stop at a church, where Mr. Barkis tied the horse to some
rails, and went in with Peggotty, leaving little Em’ly and me alone in
the chaise. I took that occasion to put my arm round Em’ly’s waist, and
propose that as I was going away so very soon now, we should determine
to be very affectionate to one another, and very happy, all day. Little
Em’ly consenting, and allowing me to kiss her, I became desperate;
informing her, I recollect, that I never could love another, and that
I was prepared to shed the blood of anybody who should aspire to her
affections.

How merry little Em’ly made herself about it! With what a demure
assumption of being immensely older and wiser than I, the fairy little
woman said I was ‘a silly boy’; and then laughed so charmingly that
I forgot the pain of being called by that disparaging name, in the
pleasure of looking at her.

Mr. Barkis and Peggotty were a good while in the church, but came out at
last, and then we drove away into the country. As we were going along,
Mr. Barkis turned to me, and said, with a wink,--by the by, I should
hardly have thought, before, that he could wink:

‘What name was it as I wrote up in the cart?’

‘Clara Peggotty,’ I answered.

‘What name would it be as I should write up now, if there was a tilt
here?’

‘Clara Peggotty, again?’ I suggested.

‘Clara Peggotty BARKIS!’ he returned, and burst into a roar of laughter
that shook the chaise.

In a word, they were married, and had gone into the church for no other
purpose. Peggotty was resolved that it should be quietly done; and
the clerk had given her away, and there had been no witnesses of the
ceremony. She was a little confused when Mr. Barkis made this abrupt
announcement of their union, and could not hug me enough in token of her
unimpaired affection; but she soon became herself again, and said she
was very glad it was over.

We drove to a little inn in a by-road, where we were expected, and
where we had a very comfortable dinner, and passed the day with great
satisfaction. If Peggotty had been married every day for the last ten
years, she could hardly have been more at her ease about it; it made no
sort of difference in her: she was just the same as ever, and went
out for a stroll with little Em’ly and me before tea, while Mr. Barkis
philosophically smoked his pipe, and enjoyed himself, I suppose, with
the contemplation of his happiness. If so, it sharpened his appetite;
for I distinctly call to mind that, although he had eaten a good deal of
pork and greens at dinner, and had finished off with a fowl or two, he
was obliged to have cold boiled bacon for tea, and disposed of a large
quantity without any emotion.

I have often thought, since, what an odd, innocent, out-of-the-way kind
of wedding it must have been! We got into the chaise again soon after
dark, and drove cosily back, looking up at the stars, and talking about
them. I was their chief exponent, and opened Mr. Barkis’s mind to
an amazing extent. I told him all I knew, but he would have believed
anything I might have taken it into my head to impart to him; for he
had a profound veneration for my abilities, and informed his wife in my
hearing, on that very occasion, that I was ‘a young Roeshus’--by which I
think he meant prodigy.

When we had exhausted the subject of the stars, or rather when I had
exhausted the mental faculties of Mr. Barkis, little Em’ly and I made a
cloak of an old wrapper, and sat under it for the rest of the journey.
Ah, how I loved her! What happiness (I thought) if we were married,
and were going away anywhere to live among the trees and in the fields,
never growing older, never growing wiser, children ever, rambling hand
in hand through sunshine and among flowery meadows, laying down our
heads on moss at night, in a sweet sleep of purity and peace, and buried
by the birds when we were dead! Some such picture, with no real world in
it, bright with the light of our innocence, and vague as the stars afar
off, was in my mind all the way. I am glad to think there were two such
guileless hearts at Peggotty’s marriage as little Em’ly’s and mine. I
am glad to think the Loves and Graces took such airy forms in its homely
procession.

Well, we came to the old boat again in good time at night; and there
Mr. and Mrs. Barkis bade us good-bye, and drove away snugly to their
own home. I felt then, for the first time, that I had lost Peggotty. I
should have gone to bed with a sore heart indeed under any other roof
but that which sheltered little Em’ly’s head.

Mr. Peggotty and Ham knew what was in my thoughts as well as I did, and
were ready with some supper and their hospitable faces to drive it away.
Little Em’ly came and sat beside me on the locker for the only time in
all that visit; and it was altogether a wonderful close to a wonderful
day.

It was a night tide; and soon after we went to bed, Mr. Peggotty and Ham
went out to fish. I felt very brave at being left alone in the solitary
house, the protector of Em’ly and Mrs. Gummidge, and only wished that
a lion or a serpent, or any ill-disposed monster, would make an attack
upon us, that I might destroy him, and cover myself with glory. But as
nothing of the sort happened to be walking about on Yarmouth flats that
night, I provided the best substitute I could by dreaming of dragons
until morning.

With morning came Peggotty; who called to me, as usual, under my window
as if Mr. Barkis the carrier had been from first to last a dream too.
After breakfast she took me to her own home, and a beautiful little
home it was. Of all the moveables in it, I must have been impressed by
a certain old bureau of some dark wood in the parlour (the tile-floored
kitchen was the general sitting-room), with a retreating top which
opened, let down, and became a desk, within which was a large quarto
edition of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. This precious volume, of which I do
not recollect one word, I immediately discovered and immediately applied
myself to; and I never visited the house afterwards, but I kneeled on
a chair, opened the casket where this gem was enshrined, spread my arms
over the desk, and fell to devouring the book afresh. I was chiefly
edified, I am afraid, by the pictures, which were numerous, and
represented all kinds of dismal horrors; but the Martyrs and Peggotty’s
house have been inseparable in my mind ever since, and are now.

I took leave of Mr. Peggotty, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge, and little
Em’ly, that day; and passed the night at Peggotty’s, in a little room
in the roof (with the Crocodile Book on a shelf by the bed’s head) which
was to be always mine, Peggotty said, and should always be kept for me
in exactly the same state.

‘Young or old, Davy dear, as long as I am alive and have this house over
my head,’ said Peggotty, ‘you shall find it as if I expected you here
directly minute. I shall keep it every day, as I used to keep your old
little room, my darling; and if you was to go to China, you might think
of it as being kept just the same, all the time you were away.’

I felt the truth and constancy of my dear old nurse, with all my heart,
and thanked her as well as I could. That was not very well, for she
spoke to me thus, with her arms round my neck, in the morning, and I was
going home in the morning, and I went home in the morning, with herself
and Mr. Barkis in the cart. They left me at the gate, not easily or
lightly; and it was a strange sight to me to see the cart go on, taking
Peggotty away, and leaving me under the old elm-trees looking at the
house, in which there was no face to look on mine with love or liking
any more.

And now I fell into a state of neglect, which I cannot look back upon
without compassion. I fell at once into a solitary condition,--apart
from all friendly notice, apart from the society of all other boys of
my own age, apart from all companionship but my own spiritless
thoughts,--which seems to cast its gloom upon this paper as I write.

What would I have given, to have been sent to the hardest school that
ever was kept!--to have been taught something, anyhow, anywhere! No
such hope dawned upon me. They disliked me; and they sullenly, sternly,
steadily, overlooked me. I think Mr. Murdstone’s means were straitened
at about this time; but it is little to the purpose. He could not bear
me; and in putting me from him he tried, as I believe, to put away the
notion that I had any claim upon him--and succeeded.

I was not actively ill-used. I was not beaten, or starved; but the wrong
that was done to me had no intervals of relenting, and was done in a
systematic, passionless manner. Day after day, week after week, month
after month, I was coldly neglected. I wonder sometimes, when I think
of it, what they would have done if I had been taken with an illness;
whether I should have lain down in my lonely room, and languished
through it in my usual solitary way, or whether anybody would have
helped me out.

When Mr. and Miss Murdstone were at home, I took my meals with them; in
their absence, I ate and drank by myself. At all times I lounged about
the house and neighbourhood quite disregarded, except that they were
jealous of my making any friends: thinking, perhaps, that if I did, I
might complain to someone. For this reason, though Mr. Chillip often
asked me to go and see him (he was a widower, having, some years before
that, lost a little small light-haired wife, whom I can just remember
connecting in my own thoughts with a pale tortoise-shell cat), it was
but seldom that I enjoyed the happiness of passing an afternoon in his
closet of a surgery; reading some book that was new to me, with
the smell of the whole Pharmacopoeia coming up my nose, or pounding
something in a mortar under his mild directions.

For the same reason, added no doubt to the old dislike of her, I was
seldom allowed to visit Peggotty. Faithful to her promise, she either
came to see me, or met me somewhere near, once every week, and never
empty-handed; but many and bitter were the disappointments I had, in
being refused permission to pay a visit to her at her house. Some few
times, however, at long intervals, I was allowed to go there; and then
I found out that Mr. Barkis was something of a miser, or as Peggotty
dutifully expressed it, was ‘a little near’, and kept a heap of money
in a box under his bed, which he pretended was only full of coats
and trousers. In this coffer, his riches hid themselves with such a
tenacious modesty, that the smallest instalments could only be tempted
out by artifice; so that Peggotty had to prepare a long and elaborate
scheme, a very Gunpowder Plot, for every Saturday’s expenses.

All this time I was so conscious of the waste of any promise I had
given, and of my being utterly neglected, that I should have been
perfectly miserable, I have no doubt, but for the old books. They were
my only comfort; and I was as true to them as they were to me, and read
them over and over I don’t know how many times more.

I now approach a period of my life, which I can never lose the
remembrance of, while I remember anything: and the recollection of
which has often, without my invocation, come before me like a ghost, and
haunted happier times.

I had been out, one day, loitering somewhere, in the listless,
meditative manner that my way of life engendered, when, turning the
corner of a lane near our house, I came upon Mr. Murdstone walking with
a gentleman. I was confused, and was going by them, when the gentleman
cried:

‘What! Brooks!’

‘No, sir, David Copperfield,’ I said.

‘Don’t tell me. You are Brooks,’ said the gentleman. ‘You are Brooks of
Sheffield. That’s your name.’

At these words, I observed the gentleman more attentively. His laugh
coming to my remembrance too, I knew him to be Mr. Quinion, whom I
had gone over to Lowestoft with Mr. Murdstone to see, before--it is no
matter--I need not recall when.

‘And how do you get on, and where are you being educated, Brooks?’ said
Mr. Quinion.

He had put his hand upon my shoulder, and turned me about, to walk
with them. I did not know what to reply, and glanced dubiously at Mr.
Murdstone.

‘He is at home at present,’ said the latter. ‘He is not being educated
anywhere. I don’t know what to do with him. He is a difficult subject.’

That old, double look was on me for a moment; and then his eyes darkened
with a frown, as it turned, in its aversion, elsewhere.

‘Humph!’ said Mr. Quinion, looking at us both, I thought. ‘Fine
weather!’

Silence ensued, and I was considering how I could best disengage my
shoulder from his hand, and go away, when he said:

‘I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still? Eh, Brooks?’

‘Aye! He is sharp enough,’ said Mr. Murdstone, impatiently. ‘You had
better let him go. He will not thank you for troubling him.’

On this hint, Mr. Quinion released me, and I made the best of my
way home. Looking back as I turned into the front garden, I saw Mr.
Murdstone leaning against the wicket of the churchyard, and Mr. Quinion
talking to him. They were both looking after me, and I felt that they
were speaking of me.

Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfast, the next
morning, I had put my chair away, and was going out of the room, when
Mr. Murdstone called me back. He then gravely repaired to another table,
where his sister sat herself at her desk. Mr. Quinion, with his hands
in his pockets, stood looking out of window; and I stood looking at them
all.

‘David,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘to the young this is a world for action;
not for moping and droning in.’ --‘As you do,’ added his sister.

‘Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say, David, to the
young this is a world for action, and not for moping and droning in. It
is especially so for a young boy of your disposition, which requires a
great deal of correcting; and to which no greater service can be done
than to force it to conform to the ways of the working world, and to
bend it and break it.’

‘For stubbornness won’t do here,’ said his sister ‘What it wants is, to
be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall be, too!’

He gave her a look, half in remonstrance, half in approval, and went on:

‘I suppose you know, David, that I am not rich. At any rate, you know it
now. You have received some considerable education already. Education is
costly; and even if it were not, and I could afford it, I am of opinion
that it would not be at all advantageous to you to be kept at school.
What is before you, is a fight with the world; and the sooner you begin
it, the better.’

I think it occurred to me that I had already begun it, in my poor way:
but it occurs to me now, whether or no.

‘You have heard the “counting-house” mentioned sometimes,’ said Mr.
Murdstone.

‘The counting-house, sir?’ I repeated. ‘Of Murdstone and Grinby, in the
wine trade,’ he replied.

I suppose I looked uncertain, for he went on hastily:

‘You have heard the “counting-house” mentioned, or the business, or the
cellars, or the wharf, or something about it.’

‘I think I have heard the business mentioned, sir,’ I said, remembering
what I vaguely knew of his and his sister’s resources. ‘But I don’t know
when.’

‘It does not matter when,’ he returned. ‘Mr. Quinion manages that
business.’

I glanced at the latter deferentially as he stood looking out of window.

‘Mr. Quinion suggests that it gives employment to some other boys,
and that he sees no reason why it shouldn’t, on the same terms, give
employment to you.’

‘He having,’ Mr. Quinion observed in a low voice, and half turning
round, ‘no other prospect, Murdstone.’

Mr. Murdstone, with an impatient, even an angry gesture, resumed,
without noticing what he had said:

‘Those terms are, that you will earn enough for yourself to provide for
your eating and drinking, and pocket-money. Your lodging (which I have
arranged for) will be paid by me. So will your washing--’

‘--Which will be kept down to my estimate,’ said his sister.

‘Your clothes will be looked after for you, too,’ said Mr. Murdstone;
‘as you will not be able, yet awhile, to get them for yourself. So you
are now going to London, David, with Mr. Quinion, to begin the world on
your own account.’

‘In short, you are provided for,’ observed his sister; ‘and will please
to do your duty.’

Though I quite understood that the purpose of this announcement was
to get rid of me, I have no distinct remembrance whether it pleased
or frightened me. My impression is, that I was in a state of confusion
about it, and, oscillating between the two points, touched neither. Nor
had I much time for the clearing of my thoughts, as Mr. Quinion was to
go upon the morrow.

Behold me, on the morrow, in a much-worn little white hat, with a black
crape round it for my mother, a black jacket, and a pair of hard, stiff
corduroy trousers--which Miss Murdstone considered the best armour for
the legs in that fight with the world which was now to come off. Behold
me so attired, and with my little worldly all before me in a small
trunk, sitting, a lone lorn child (as Mrs. Gummidge might have said),
in the post-chaise that was carrying Mr. Quinion to the London coach at
Yarmouth! See, how our house and church are lessening in the distance;
how the grave beneath the tree is blotted out by intervening objects;
how the spire points upwards from my old playground no more, and the sky
is empty!



CHAPTER 11. I BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT, AND DON’T LIKE IT


I know enough of the world now, to have almost lost the capacity of
being much surprised by anything; but it is matter of some surprise to
me, even now, that I can have been so easily thrown away at such an age.
A child of excellent abilities, and with strong powers of observation,
quick, eager, delicate, and soon hurt bodily or mentally, it seems
wonderful to me that nobody should have made any sign in my behalf. But
none was made; and I became, at ten years old, a little labouring hind
in the service of Murdstone and Grinby.

Murdstone and Grinby’s warehouse was at the waterside. It was down in
Blackfriars. Modern improvements have altered the place; but it was the
last house at the bottom of a narrow street, curving down hill to the
river, with some stairs at the end, where people took boat. It was a
crazy old house with a wharf of its own, abutting on the water when the
tide was in, and on the mud when the tide was out, and literally overrun
with rats. Its panelled rooms, discoloured with the dirt and smoke of
a hundred years, I dare say; its decaying floors and staircase; the
squeaking and scuffling of the old grey rats down in the cellars; and
the dirt and rottenness of the place; are things, not of many years ago,
in my mind, but of the present instant. They are all before me, just as
they were in the evil hour when I went among them for the first time,
with my trembling hand in Mr. Quinion’s.

Murdstone and Grinby’s trade was among a good many kinds of people, but
an important branch of it was the supply of wines and spirits to certain
packet ships. I forget now where they chiefly went, but I think there
were some among them that made voyages both to the East and West Indies.
I know that a great many empty bottles were one of the consequences of
this traffic, and that certain men and boys were employed to examine
them against the light, and reject those that were flawed, and to rinse
and wash them. When the empty bottles ran short, there were labels to be
pasted on full ones, or corks to be fitted to them, or seals to be put
upon the corks, or finished bottles to be packed in casks. All this work
was my work, and of the boys employed upon it I was one.

There were three or four of us, counting me. My working place was
established in a corner of the warehouse, where Mr. Quinion could see
me, when he chose to stand up on the bottom rail of his stool in the
counting-house, and look at me through a window above the desk. Hither,
on the first morning of my so auspiciously beginning life on my own
account, the oldest of the regular boys was summoned to show me my
business. His name was Mick Walker, and he wore a ragged apron and a
paper cap. He informed me that his father was a bargeman, and walked, in
a black velvet head-dress, in the Lord Mayor’s Show. He also informed me
that our principal associate would be another boy whom he introduced by
the--to me--extraordinary name of Mealy Potatoes. I discovered, however,
that this youth had not been christened by that name, but that it had
been bestowed upon him in the warehouse, on account of his complexion,
which was pale or mealy. Mealy’s father was a waterman, who had the
additional distinction of being a fireman, and was engaged as such at
one of the large theatres; where some young relation of Mealy’s--I think
his little sister--did Imps in the Pantomimes.

No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into this
companionship; compared these henceforth everyday associates with those
of my happier childhood--not to say with Steerforth, Traddles, and the
rest of those boys; and felt my hopes of growing up to be a learned
and distinguished man, crushed in my bosom. The deep remembrance of the
sense I had, of being utterly without hope now; of the shame I felt in
my position; of the misery it was to my young heart to believe that day
by day what I had learned, and thought, and delighted in, and raised my
fancy and my emulation up by, would pass away from me, little by little,
never to be brought back any more; cannot be written. As often as Mick
Walker went away in the course of that forenoon, I mingled my tears with
the water in which I was washing the bottles; and sobbed as if there
were a flaw in my own breast, and it were in danger of bursting.

The counting-house clock was at half past twelve, and there was
general preparation for going to dinner, when Mr. Quinion tapped at the
counting-house window, and beckoned to me to go in. I went in, and
found there a stoutish, middle-aged person, in a brown surtout and black
tights and shoes, with no more hair upon his head (which was a large
one, and very shining) than there is upon an egg, and with a very
extensive face, which he turned full upon me. His clothes were shabby,
but he had an imposing shirt-collar on. He carried a jaunty sort of a
stick, with a large pair of rusty tassels to it; and a quizzing-glass
hung outside his coat,--for ornament, I afterwards found, as he very
seldom looked through it, and couldn’t see anything when he did.

‘This,’ said Mr. Quinion, in allusion to myself, ‘is he.’

‘This,’ said the stranger, with a certain condescending roll in his
voice, and a certain indescribable air of doing something genteel, which
impressed me very much, ‘is Master Copperfield. I hope I see you well,
sir?’

I said I was very well, and hoped he was. I was sufficiently ill at
ease, Heaven knows; but it was not in my nature to complain much at that
time of my life, so I said I was very well, and hoped he was.

‘I am,’ said the stranger, ‘thank Heaven, quite well. I have received a
letter from Mr. Murdstone, in which he mentions that he would desire
me to receive into an apartment in the rear of my house, which is at
present unoccupied--and is, in short, to be let as a--in short,’
said the stranger, with a smile and in a burst of confidence, ‘as a
bedroom--the young beginner whom I have now the pleasure to--’ and the
stranger waved his hand, and settled his chin in his shirt-collar.

‘This is Mr. Micawber,’ said Mr. Quinion to me.

‘Ahem!’ said the stranger, ‘that is my name.’

‘Mr. Micawber,’ said Mr. Quinion, ‘is known to Mr. Murdstone. He takes
orders for us on commission, when he can get any. He has been written to
by Mr. Murdstone, on the subject of your lodgings, and he will receive
you as a lodger.’

‘My address,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘is Windsor Terrace, City Road. I--in
short,’ said Mr. Micawber, with the same genteel air, and in another
burst of confidence--‘I live there.’

I made him a bow.

‘Under the impression,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘that your peregrinations in
this metropolis have not as yet been extensive, and that you might have
some difficulty in penetrating the arcana of the Modern Babylon in the
direction of the City Road,--in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, in another
burst of confidence, ‘that you might lose yourself--I shall be happy to
call this evening, and install you in the knowledge of the nearest way.’

I thanked him with all my heart, for it was friendly in him to offer to
take that trouble.

‘At what hour,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘shall I--’

‘At about eight,’ said Mr. Quinion.

‘At about eight,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘I beg to wish you good day, Mr.
Quinion. I will intrude no longer.’

So he put on his hat, and went out with his cane under his arm: very
upright, and humming a tune when he was clear of the counting-house.

Mr. Quinion then formally engaged me to be as useful as I could in
the warehouse of Murdstone and Grinby, at a salary, I think, of six
shillings a week. I am not clear whether it was six or seven. I am
inclined to believe, from my uncertainty on this head, that it was six
at first and seven afterwards. He paid me a week down (from his own
pocket, I believe), and I gave Mealy sixpence out of it to get my
trunk carried to Windsor Terrace that night: it being too heavy for my
strength, small as it was. I paid sixpence more for my dinner, which was
a meat pie and a turn at a neighbouring pump; and passed the hour which
was allowed for that meal, in walking about the streets.

At the appointed time in the evening, Mr. Micawber reappeared. I washed
my hands and face, to do the greater honour to his gentility, and we
walked to our house, as I suppose I must now call it, together; Mr.
Micawber impressing the name of streets, and the shapes of corner houses
upon me, as we went along, that I might find my way back, easily, in the
morning.

Arrived at this house in Windsor Terrace (which I noticed was shabby
like himself, but also, like himself, made all the show it could), he
presented me to Mrs. Micawber, a thin and faded lady, not at all
young, who was sitting in the parlour (the first floor was altogether
unfurnished, and the blinds were kept down to delude the neighbours),
with a baby at her breast. This baby was one of twins; and I may remark
here that I hardly ever, in all my experience of the family, saw both
the twins detached from Mrs. Micawber at the same time. One of them was
always taking refreshment.

There were two other children; Master Micawber, aged about four, and
Miss Micawber, aged about three. These, and a dark-complexioned young
woman, with a habit of snorting, who was servant to the family, and
informed me, before half an hour had expired, that she was ‘a Orfling’,
and came from St. Luke’s workhouse, in the neighbourhood, completed the
establishment. My room was at the top of the house, at the back: a close
chamber; stencilled all over with an ornament which my young imagination
represented as a blue muffin; and very scantily furnished.

‘I never thought,’ said Mrs. Micawber, when she came up, twin and all,
to show me the apartment, and sat down to take breath, ‘before I was
married, when I lived with papa and mama, that I should ever find it
necessary to take a lodger. But Mr. Micawber being in difficulties, all
considerations of private feeling must give way.’

I said: ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Mr. Micawber’s difficulties are almost overwhelming just at present,’
said Mrs. Micawber; ‘and whether it is possible to bring him through
them, I don’t know. When I lived at home with papa and mama, I really
should have hardly understood what the word meant, in the sense in which
I now employ it, but experientia does it,--as papa used to say.’

I cannot satisfy myself whether she told me that Mr. Micawber had been
an officer in the Marines, or whether I have imagined it. I only know
that I believe to this hour that he WAS in the Marines once upon a time,
without knowing why. He was a sort of town traveller for a number
of miscellaneous houses, now; but made little or nothing of it, I am
afraid.

‘If Mr. Micawber’s creditors will not give him time,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, ‘they must take the consequences; and the sooner they bring it
to an issue the better. Blood cannot be obtained from a stone, neither
can anything on account be obtained at present (not to mention law
expenses) from Mr. Micawber.’

I never can quite understand whether my precocious self-dependence
confused Mrs. Micawber in reference to my age, or whether she was so
full of the subject that she would have talked about it to the very
twins if there had been nobody else to communicate with, but this was
the strain in which she began, and she went on accordingly all the time
I knew her.

Poor Mrs. Micawber! She said she had tried to exert herself, and so,
I have no doubt, she had. The centre of the street door was perfectly
covered with a great brass-plate, on which was engraved ‘Mrs. Micawber’s
Boarding Establishment for Young Ladies’: but I never found that any
young lady had ever been to school there; or that any young lady ever
came, or proposed to come; or that the least preparation was ever made
to receive any young lady. The only visitors I ever saw, or heard of,
were creditors. THEY used to come at all hours, and some of them were
quite ferocious. One dirty-faced man, I think he was a boot-maker,
used to edge himself into the passage as early as seven o’clock in the
morning, and call up the stairs to Mr. Micawber--‘Come! You ain’t out
yet, you know. Pay us, will you? Don’t hide, you know; that’s mean. I
wouldn’t be mean if I was you. Pay us, will you? You just pay us, d’ye
hear? Come!’ Receiving no answer to these taunts, he would mount in
his wrath to the words ‘swindlers’ and ‘robbers’; and these being
ineffectual too, would sometimes go to the extremity of crossing the
street, and roaring up at the windows of the second floor, where he knew
Mr. Micawber was. At these times, Mr. Micawber would be transported with
grief and mortification, even to the length (as I was once made aware by
a scream from his wife) of making motions at himself with a razor;
but within half-an-hour afterwards, he would polish up his shoes with
extraordinary pains, and go out, humming a tune with a greater air of
gentility than ever. Mrs. Micawber was quite as elastic. I have known
her to be thrown into fainting fits by the king’s taxes at three
o’clock, and to eat lamb chops, breaded, and drink warm ale (paid for
with two tea-spoons that had gone to the pawnbroker’s) at four. On one
occasion, when an execution had just been put in, coming home through
some chance as early as six o’clock, I saw her lying (of course with a
twin) under the grate in a swoon, with her hair all torn about her face;
but I never knew her more cheerful than she was, that very same night,
over a veal cutlet before the kitchen fire, telling me stories about her
papa and mama, and the company they used to keep.

In this house, and with this family, I passed my leisure time. My own
exclusive breakfast of a penny loaf and a pennyworth of milk, I provided
myself. I kept another small loaf, and a modicum of cheese, on a
particular shelf of a particular cupboard, to make my supper on when I
came back at night. This made a hole in the six or seven shillings, I
know well; and I was out at the warehouse all day, and had to support
myself on that money all the week. From Monday morning until Saturday
night, I had no advice, no counsel, no encouragement, no consolation,
no assistance, no support, of any kind, from anyone, that I can call to
mind, as I hope to go to heaven!

I was so young and childish, and so little qualified--how could I be
otherwise?--to undertake the whole charge of my own existence, that
often, in going to Murdstone and Grinby’s, of a morning, I could
not resist the stale pastry put out for sale at half-price at the
pastrycooks’ doors, and spent in that the money I should have kept for
my dinner. Then, I went without my dinner, or bought a roll or a slice
of pudding. I remember two pudding shops, between which I was divided,
according to my finances. One was in a court close to St. Martin’s
Church--at the back of the church,--which is now removed altogether.
The pudding at that shop was made of currants, and was rather a special
pudding, but was dear, twopennyworth not being larger than a pennyworth
of more ordinary pudding. A good shop for the latter was in the
Strand--somewhere in that part which has been rebuilt since. It was a
stout pale pudding, heavy and flabby, and with great flat raisins in it,
stuck in whole at wide distances apart. It came up hot at about my time
every day, and many a day did I dine off it. When I dined regularly and
handsomely, I had a saveloy and a penny loaf, or a fourpenny plate of
red beef from a cook’s shop; or a plate of bread and cheese and a
glass of beer, from a miserable old public-house opposite our place of
business, called the Lion, or the Lion and something else that I have
forgotten. Once, I remember carrying my own bread (which I had brought
from home in the morning) under my arm, wrapped in a piece of paper,
like a book, and going to a famous alamode beef-house near Drury Lane,
and ordering a ‘small plate’ of that delicacy to eat with it. What the
waiter thought of such a strange little apparition coming in all alone,
I don’t know; but I can see him now, staring at me as I ate my dinner,
and bringing up the other waiter to look. I gave him a halfpenny for
himself, and I wish he hadn’t taken it.

We had half-an-hour, I think, for tea. When I had money enough, I used
to get half-a-pint of ready-made coffee and a slice of bread and butter.
When I had none, I used to look at a venison shop in Fleet Street; or
I have strolled, at such a time, as far as Covent Garden Market, and
stared at the pineapples. I was fond of wandering about the Adelphi,
because it was a mysterious place, with those dark arches. I see myself
emerging one evening from some of these arches, on a little public-house
close to the river, with an open space before it, where some
coal-heavers were dancing; to look at whom I sat down upon a bench. I
wonder what they thought of me!

I was such a child, and so little, that frequently when I went into the
bar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale or porter, to moisten
what I had had for dinner, they were afraid to give it me. I remember
one hot evening I went into the bar of a public-house, and said to the
landlord: ‘What is your best--your very best--ale a glass?’ For it was a
special occasion. I don’t know what. It may have been my birthday.

‘Twopence-halfpenny,’ says the landlord, ‘is the price of the Genuine
Stunning ale.’

‘Then,’ says I, producing the money, ‘just draw me a glass of the
Genuine Stunning, if you please, with a good head to it.’

The landlord looked at me in return over the bar, from head to foot,
with a strange smile on his face; and instead of drawing the beer,
looked round the screen and said something to his wife. She came out
from behind it, with her work in her hand, and joined him in surveying
me. Here we stand, all three, before me now. The landlord in his
shirt-sleeves, leaning against the bar window-frame; his wife looking
over the little half-door; and I, in some confusion, looking up at them
from outside the partition. They asked me a good many questions; as,
what my name was, how old I was, where I lived, how I was employed,
and how I came there. To all of which, that I might commit nobody, I
invented, I am afraid, appropriate answers. They served me with the ale,
though I suspect it was not the Genuine Stunning; and the landlord’s
wife, opening the little half-door of the bar, and bending down, gave
me my money back, and gave me a kiss that was half admiring and half
compassionate, but all womanly and good, I am sure.

I know I do not exaggerate, unconsciously and unintentionally, the
scantiness of my resources or the difficulties of my life. I know that
if a shilling were given me by Mr. Quinion at any time, I spent it in
a dinner or a tea. I know that I worked, from morning until night, with
common men and boys, a shabby child. I know that I lounged about the
streets, insufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed. I know that, but for
the mercy of God, I might easily have been, for any care that was taken
of me, a little robber or a little vagabond.

Yet I held some station at Murdstone and Grinby’s too. Besides that Mr.
Quinion did what a careless man so occupied, and dealing with a thing so
anomalous, could, to treat me as one upon a different footing from the
rest, I never said, to man or boy, how it was that I came to be there,
or gave the least indication of being sorry that I was there. That I
suffered in secret, and that I suffered exquisitely, no one ever knew
but I. How much I suffered, it is, as I have said already, utterly
beyond my power to tell. But I kept my own counsel, and I did my work.
I knew from the first, that, if I could not do my work as well as any
of the rest, I could not hold myself above slight and contempt. I soon
became at least as expeditious and as skilful as either of the other
boys. Though perfectly familiar with them, my conduct and manner were
different enough from theirs to place a space between us. They and
the men generally spoke of me as ‘the little gent’, or ‘the young
Suffolker.’ A certain man named Gregory, who was foreman of the packers,
and another named Tipp, who was the carman, and wore a red jacket, used
to address me sometimes as ‘David’: but I think it was mostly when we
were very confidential, and when I had made some efforts to entertain
them, over our work, with some results of the old readings; which were
fast perishing out of my remembrance. Mealy Potatoes uprose once, and
rebelled against my being so distinguished; but Mick Walker settled him
in no time.

My rescue from this kind of existence I considered quite hopeless, and
abandoned, as such, altogether. I am solemnly convinced that I never for
one hour was reconciled to it, or was otherwise than miserably unhappy;
but I bore it; and even to Peggotty, partly for the love of her and
partly for shame, never in any letter (though many passed between us)
revealed the truth.

Mr. Micawber’s difficulties were an addition to the distressed state of
my mind. In my forlorn state I became quite attached to the family, and
used to walk about, busy with Mrs. Micawber’s calculations of ways and
means, and heavy with the weight of Mr. Micawber’s debts. On a Saturday
night, which was my grand treat,--partly because it was a great thing
to walk home with six or seven shillings in my pocket, looking into the
shops and thinking what such a sum would buy, and partly because I went
home early,--Mrs. Micawber would make the most heart-rending confidences
to me; also on a Sunday morning, when I mixed the portion of tea or
coffee I had bought over-night, in a little shaving-pot, and sat late
at my breakfast. It was nothing at all unusual for Mr. Micawber to sob
violently at the beginning of one of these Saturday night conversations,
and sing about Jack’s delight being his lovely Nan, towards the end of
it. I have known him come home to supper with a flood of tears, and a
declaration that nothing was now left but a jail; and go to bed making a
calculation of the expense of putting bow-windows to the house, ‘in
case anything turned up’, which was his favourite expression. And Mrs.
Micawber was just the same.

A curious equality of friendship, originating, I suppose, in our
respective circumstances, sprung up between me and these people,
notwithstanding the ludicrous disparity in our years. But I never
allowed myself to be prevailed upon to accept any invitation to eat and
drink with them out of their stock (knowing that they got on badly with
the butcher and baker, and had often not too much for themselves),
until Mrs. Micawber took me into her entire confidence. This she did one
evening as follows:

‘Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I make no stranger of you,
and therefore do not hesitate to say that Mr. Micawber’s difficulties
are coming to a crisis.’

It made me very miserable to hear it, and I looked at Mrs. Micawber’s
red eyes with the utmost sympathy.

‘With the exception of the heel of a Dutch cheese--which is not adapted
to the wants of a young family’--said Mrs. Micawber, ‘there is really
not a scrap of anything in the larder. I was accustomed to speak of
the larder when I lived with papa and mama, and I use the word almost
unconsciously. What I mean to express is, that there is nothing to eat
in the house.’

‘Dear me!’ I said, in great concern.

I had two or three shillings of my week’s money in my pocket--from which
I presume that it must have been on a Wednesday night when we held this
conversation--and I hastily produced them, and with heartfelt emotion
begged Mrs. Micawber to accept of them as a loan. But that lady, kissing
me, and making me put them back in my pocket, replied that she couldn’t
think of it.

‘No, my dear Master Copperfield,’ said she, ‘far be it from my thoughts!
But you have a discretion beyond your years, and can render me another
kind of service, if you will; and a service I will thankfully accept
of.’

I begged Mrs. Micawber to name it.

‘I have parted with the plate myself,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘Six tea, two
salt, and a pair of sugars, I have at different times borrowed money on,
in secret, with my own hands. But the twins are a great tie; and to me,
with my recollections, of papa and mama, these transactions are very
painful. There are still a few trifles that we could part with. Mr.
Micawber’s feelings would never allow him to dispose of them; and
Clickett’--this was the girl from the workhouse--‘being of a vulgar
mind, would take painful liberties if so much confidence was reposed in
her. Master Copperfield, if I might ask you--’

I understood Mrs. Micawber now, and begged her to make use of me to any
extent. I began to dispose of the more portable articles of property
that very evening; and went out on a similar expedition almost every
morning, before I went to Murdstone and Grinby’s.

Mr. Micawber had a few books on a little chiffonier, which he called the
library; and those went first. I carried them, one after another, to
a bookstall in the City Road--one part of which, near our house, was
almost all bookstalls and bird shops then--and sold them for whatever
they would bring. The keeper of this bookstall, who lived in a little
house behind it, used to get tipsy every night, and to be violently
scolded by his wife every morning. More than once, when I went there
early, I had audience of him in a turn-up bedstead, with a cut in his
forehead or a black eye, bearing witness to his excesses over-night (I
am afraid he was quarrelsome in his drink), and he, with a shaking
hand, endeavouring to find the needful shillings in one or other of the
pockets of his clothes, which lay upon the floor, while his wife, with a
baby in her arms and her shoes down at heel, never left off rating him.
Sometimes he had lost his money, and then he would ask me to call again;
but his wife had always got some--had taken his, I dare say, while he
was drunk--and secretly completed the bargain on the stairs, as we went
down together. At the pawnbroker’s shop, too, I began to be very well
known. The principal gentleman who officiated behind the counter, took
a good deal of notice of me; and often got me, I recollect, to decline a
Latin noun or adjective, or to conjugate a Latin verb, in his ear, while
he transacted my business. After all these occasions Mrs. Micawber made
a little treat, which was generally a supper; and there was a peculiar
relish in these meals which I well remember.

At last Mr. Micawber’s difficulties came to a crisis, and he was
arrested early one morning, and carried over to the King’s Bench Prison
in the Borough. He told me, as he went out of the house, that the God
of day had now gone down upon him--and I really thought his heart was
broken and mine too. But I heard, afterwards, that he was seen to play a
lively game at skittles, before noon.

On the first Sunday after he was taken there, I was to go and see him,
and have dinner with him. I was to ask my way to such a place, and just
short of that place I should see such another place, and just short of
that I should see a yard, which I was to cross, and keep straight on
until I saw a turnkey. All this I did; and when at last I did see a
turnkey (poor little fellow that I was!), and thought how, when Roderick
Random was in a debtors’ prison, there was a man there with nothing
on him but an old rug, the turnkey swam before my dimmed eyes and my
beating heart.

Mr. Micawber was waiting for me within the gate, and we went up to his
room (top story but one), and cried very much. He solemnly conjured me,
I remember, to take warning by his fate; and to observe that if a man
had twenty pounds a-year for his income, and spent nineteen pounds
nineteen shillings and sixpence, he would be happy, but that if he
spent twenty pounds one he would be miserable. After which he borrowed a
shilling of me for porter, gave me a written order on Mrs. Micawber for
the amount, and put away his pocket-handkerchief, and cheered up.

We sat before a little fire, with two bricks put within the rusted
grate, one on each side, to prevent its burning too many coals; until
another debtor, who shared the room with Mr. Micawber, came in from the
bakehouse with the loin of mutton which was our joint-stock repast.
Then I was sent up to ‘Captain Hopkins’ in the room overhead, with Mr.
Micawber’s compliments, and I was his young friend, and would Captain
Hopkins lend me a knife and fork.

Captain Hopkins lent me the knife and fork, with his compliments to Mr.
Micawber. There was a very dirty lady in his little room, and two wan
girls, his daughters, with shock heads of hair. I thought it was better
to borrow Captain Hopkins’s knife and fork, than Captain Hopkins’s comb.
The Captain himself was in the last extremity of shabbiness, with large
whiskers, and an old, old brown great-coat with no other coat below it.
I saw his bed rolled up in a corner; and what plates and dishes and pots
he had, on a shelf; and I divined (God knows how) that though the two
girls with the shock heads of hair were Captain Hopkins’s children, the
dirty lady was not married to Captain Hopkins. My timid station on his
threshold was not occupied more than a couple of minutes at most; but
I came down again with all this in my knowledge, as surely as the knife
and fork were in my hand.

There was something gipsy-like and agreeable in the dinner, after all.
I took back Captain Hopkins’s knife and fork early in the afternoon,
and went home to comfort Mrs. Micawber with an account of my visit.
She fainted when she saw me return, and made a little jug of egg-hot
afterwards to console us while we talked it over.

I don’t know how the household furniture came to be sold for the family
benefit, or who sold it, except that I did not. Sold it was, however,
and carried away in a van; except the bed, a few chairs, and the kitchen
table. With these possessions we encamped, as it were, in the two
parlours of the emptied house in Windsor Terrace; Mrs. Micawber, the
children, the Orfling, and myself; and lived in those rooms night and
day. I have no idea for how long, though it seems to me for a long
time. At last Mrs. Micawber resolved to move into the prison, where Mr.
Micawber had now secured a room to himself. So I took the key of the
house to the landlord, who was very glad to get it; and the beds were
sent over to the King’s Bench, except mine, for which a little room was
hired outside the walls in the neighbourhood of that Institution, very
much to my satisfaction, since the Micawbers and I had become too used
to one another, in our troubles, to part. The Orfling was likewise
accommodated with an inexpensive lodging in the same neighbourhood.
Mine was a quiet back-garret with a sloping roof, commanding a pleasant
prospect of a timberyard; and when I took possession of it, with the
reflection that Mr. Micawber’s troubles had come to a crisis at last, I
thought it quite a paradise.

All this time I was working at Murdstone and Grinby’s in the same common
way, and with the same common companions, and with the same sense of
unmerited degradation as at first. But I never, happily for me no doubt,
made a single acquaintance, or spoke to any of the many boys whom I
saw daily in going to the warehouse, in coming from it, and in prowling
about the streets at meal-times. I led the same secretly unhappy life;
but I led it in the same lonely, self-reliant manner. The only changes
I am conscious of are, firstly, that I had grown more shabby, and
secondly, that I was now relieved of much of the weight of Mr. and Mrs.
Micawber’s cares; for some relatives or friends had engaged to help them
at their present pass, and they lived more comfortably in the prison
than they had lived for a long while out of it. I used to breakfast with
them now, in virtue of some arrangement, of which I have forgotten
the details. I forget, too, at what hour the gates were opened in the
morning, admitting of my going in; but I know that I was often up at six
o’clock, and that my favourite lounging-place in the interval was old
London Bridge, where I was wont to sit in one of the stone recesses,
watching the people going by, or to look over the balustrades at the sun
shining in the water, and lighting up the golden flame on the top of the
Monument. The Orfling met me here sometimes, to be told some astonishing
fictions respecting the wharves and the Tower; of which I can say no
more than that I hope I believed them myself. In the evening I used
to go back to the prison, and walk up and down the parade with Mr.
Micawber; or play casino with Mrs. Micawber, and hear reminiscences of
her papa and mama. Whether Mr. Murdstone knew where I was, I am unable
to say. I never told them at Murdstone and Grinby’s.

Mr. Micawber’s affairs, although past their crisis, were very much
involved by reason of a certain ‘Deed’, of which I used to hear a great
deal, and which I suppose, now, to have been some former composition
with his creditors, though I was so far from being clear about it
then, that I am conscious of having confounded it with those demoniacal
parchments which are held to have, once upon a time, obtained to a great
extent in Germany. At last this document appeared to be got out of the
way, somehow; at all events it ceased to be the rock-ahead it had been;
and Mrs. Micawber informed me that ‘her family’ had decided that Mr.
Micawber should apply for his release under the Insolvent Debtors Act,
which would set him free, she expected, in about six weeks.

‘And then,’ said Mr. Micawber, who was present, ‘I have no doubt I
shall, please Heaven, begin to be beforehand with the world, and to live
in a perfectly new manner, if--in short, if anything turns up.’

By way of going in for anything that might be on the cards, I call to
mind that Mr. Micawber, about this time, composed a petition to the
House of Commons, praying for an alteration in the law of imprisonment
for debt. I set down this remembrance here, because it is an instance to
myself of the manner in which I fitted my old books to my altered life,
and made stories for myself, out of the streets, and out of men and
women; and how some main points in the character I shall unconsciously
develop, I suppose, in writing my life, were gradually forming all this
while.

There was a club in the prison, in which Mr. Micawber, as a gentleman,
was a great authority. Mr. Micawber had stated his idea of this petition
to the club, and the club had strongly approved of the same. Wherefore
Mr. Micawber (who was a thoroughly good-natured man, and as active a
creature about everything but his own affairs as ever existed, and never
so happy as when he was busy about something that could never be of any
profit to him) set to work at the petition, invented it, engrossed it
on an immense sheet of paper, spread it out on a table, and appointed a
time for all the club, and all within the walls if they chose, to come
up to his room and sign it.

When I heard of this approaching ceremony, I was so anxious to see them
all come in, one after another, though I knew the greater part of
them already, and they me, that I got an hour’s leave of absence from
Murdstone and Grinby’s, and established myself in a corner for that
purpose. As many of the principal members of the club as could be got
into the small room without filling it, supported Mr. Micawber in front
of the petition, while my old friend Captain Hopkins (who had washed
himself, to do honour to so solemn an occasion) stationed himself close
to it, to read it to all who were unacquainted with its contents. The
door was then thrown open, and the general population began to come in,
in a long file: several waiting outside, while one entered, affixed his
signature, and went out. To everybody in succession, Captain Hopkins
said: ‘Have you read it?’--‘No.’---‘Would you like to hear it read?’ If
he weakly showed the least disposition to hear it, Captain Hopkins, in
a loud sonorous voice, gave him every word of it. The Captain would
have read it twenty thousand times, if twenty thousand people would have
heard him, one by one. I remember a certain luscious roll he gave to
such phrases as ‘The people’s representatives in Parliament assembled,’
‘Your petitioners therefore humbly approach your honourable house,’ ‘His
gracious Majesty’s unfortunate subjects,’ as if the words were something
real in his mouth, and delicious to taste; Mr. Micawber, meanwhile,
listening with a little of an author’s vanity, and contemplating (not
severely) the spikes on the opposite wall.

As I walked to and fro daily between Southwark and Blackfriars, and
lounged about at meal-times in obscure streets, the stones of which
may, for anything I know, be worn at this moment by my childish feet, I
wonder how many of these people were wanting in the crowd that used to
come filing before me in review again, to the echo of Captain Hopkins’s
voice! When my thoughts go back, now, to that slow agony of my youth, I
wonder how much of the histories I invented for such people hangs like a
mist of fancy over well-remembered facts! When I tread the old ground,
I do not wonder that I seem to see and pity, going on before me, an
innocent romantic boy, making his imaginative world out of such strange
experiences and sordid things!



CHAPTER 12. LIKING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT NO BETTER, I FORM A GREAT RESOLUTION


In due time, Mr. Micawber’s petition was ripe for hearing; and that
gentleman was ordered to be discharged under the Act, to my great joy.
His creditors were not implacable; and Mrs. Micawber informed me that
even the revengeful boot-maker had declared in open court that he bore
him no malice, but that when money was owing to him he liked to be paid.
He said he thought it was human nature.

Mr. Micawber returned to the King’s Bench when his case was over, as
some fees were to be settled, and some formalities observed, before he
could be actually released. The club received him with transport, and
held an harmonic meeting that evening in his honour; while Mrs. Micawber
and I had a lamb’s fry in private, surrounded by the sleeping family.

‘On such an occasion I will give you, Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, ‘in a little more flip,’ for we had been having some already,
‘the memory of my papa and mama.’

‘Are they dead, ma’am?’ I inquired, after drinking the toast in a
wine-glass.

‘My mama departed this life,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘before Mr. Micawber’s
difficulties commenced, or at least before they became pressing. My papa
lived to bail Mr. Micawber several times, and then expired, regretted by
a numerous circle.’

Mrs. Micawber shook her head, and dropped a pious tear upon the twin who
happened to be in hand.

As I could hardly hope for a more favourable opportunity of putting a
question in which I had a near interest, I said to Mrs. Micawber:

‘May I ask, ma’am, what you and Mr. Micawber intend to do, now that Mr.
Micawber is out of his difficulties, and at liberty? Have you settled
yet?’

‘My family,’ said Mrs. Micawber, who always said those two words with an
air, though I never could discover who came under the denomination, ‘my
family are of opinion that Mr. Micawber should quit London, and exert
his talents in the country. Mr. Micawber is a man of great talent,
Master Copperfield.’

I said I was sure of that.

‘Of great talent,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber. ‘My family are of opinion,
that, with a little interest, something might be done for a man of his
ability in the Custom House. The influence of my family being local, it
is their wish that Mr. Micawber should go down to Plymouth. They think
it indispensable that he should be upon the spot.’

‘That he may be ready?’ I suggested.

‘Exactly,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘That he may be ready--in case of
anything turning up.’

‘And do you go too, ma’am?’

The events of the day, in combination with the twins, if not with the
flip, had made Mrs. Micawber hysterical, and she shed tears as she
replied:

‘I never will desert Mr. Micawber. Mr. Micawber may have concealed his
difficulties from me in the first instance, but his sanguine temper may
have led him to expect that he would overcome them. The pearl necklace
and bracelets which I inherited from mama, have been disposed of for
less than half their value; and the set of coral, which was the wedding
gift of my papa, has been actually thrown away for nothing. But I never
will desert Mr. Micawber. No!’ cried Mrs. Micawber, more affected than
before, ‘I never will do it! It’s of no use asking me!’

I felt quite uncomfortable--as if Mrs. Micawber supposed I had asked her
to do anything of the sort!--and sat looking at her in alarm.

‘Mr. Micawber has his faults. I do not deny that he is improvident. I
do not deny that he has kept me in the dark as to his resources and his
liabilities both,’ she went on, looking at the wall; ‘but I never will
desert Mr. Micawber!’

Mrs. Micawber having now raised her voice into a perfect scream, I
was so frightened that I ran off to the club-room, and disturbed Mr.
Micawber in the act of presiding at a long table, and leading the chorus
of

     Gee up, Dobbin,
     Gee ho, Dobbin,
     Gee up, Dobbin,
     Gee up, and gee ho--o--o!

with the tidings that Mrs. Micawber was in an alarming state, upon
which he immediately burst into tears, and came away with me with his
waistcoat full of the heads and tails of shrimps, of which he had been
partaking.

‘Emma, my angel!’ cried Mr. Micawber, running into the room; ‘what is
the matter?’

‘I never will desert you, Micawber!’ she exclaimed.

‘My life!’ said Mr. Micawber, taking her in his arms. ‘I am perfectly
aware of it.’

‘He is the parent of my children! He is the father of my twins! He is
the husband of my affections,’ cried Mrs. Micawber, struggling; ‘and I
ne--ver--will--desert Mr. Micawber!’

Mr. Micawber was so deeply affected by this proof of her devotion (as
to me, I was dissolved in tears), that he hung over her in a passionate
manner, imploring her to look up, and to be calm. But the more he asked
Mrs. Micawber to look up, the more she fixed her eyes on nothing;
and the more he asked her to compose herself, the more she wouldn’t.
Consequently Mr. Micawber was soon so overcome, that he mingled his
tears with hers and mine; until he begged me to do him the favour of
taking a chair on the staircase, while he got her into bed. I would have
taken my leave for the night, but he would not hear of my doing that
until the strangers’ bell should ring. So I sat at the staircase window,
until he came out with another chair and joined me.

‘How is Mrs. Micawber now, sir?’ I said.

‘Very low,’ said Mr. Micawber, shaking his head; ‘reaction. Ah, this has
been a dreadful day! We stand alone now--everything is gone from us!’

Mr. Micawber pressed my hand, and groaned, and afterwards shed tears.
I was greatly touched, and disappointed too, for I had expected that we
should be quite gay on this happy and long-looked-for occasion. But Mr.
and Mrs. Micawber were so used to their old difficulties, I think, that
they felt quite shipwrecked when they came to consider that they were
released from them. All their elasticity was departed, and I never saw
them half so wretched as on this night; insomuch that when the bell
rang, and Mr. Micawber walked with me to the lodge, and parted from me
there with a blessing, I felt quite afraid to leave him by himself, he
was so profoundly miserable.

But through all the confusion and lowness of spirits in which we had
been, so unexpectedly to me, involved, I plainly discerned that Mr. and
Mrs. Micawber and their family were going away from London, and that a
parting between us was near at hand. It was in my walk home that night,
and in the sleepless hours which followed when I lay in bed, that the
thought first occurred to me--though I don’t know how it came into my
head--which afterwards shaped itself into a settled resolution.

I had grown to be so accustomed to the Micawbers, and had been so
intimate with them in their distresses, and was so utterly friendless
without them, that the prospect of being thrown upon some new shift for
a lodging, and going once more among unknown people, was like being that
moment turned adrift into my present life, with such a knowledge of it
ready made as experience had given me. All the sensitive feelings it
wounded so cruelly, all the shame and misery it kept alive within my
breast, became more poignant as I thought of this; and I determined that
the life was unendurable.

That there was no hope of escape from it, unless the escape was my own
act, I knew quite well. I rarely heard from Miss Murdstone, and never
from Mr. Murdstone: but two or three parcels of made or mended clothes
had come up for me, consigned to Mr. Quinion, and in each there was
a scrap of paper to the effect that J. M. trusted D. C. was applying
himself to business, and devoting himself wholly to his duties--not the
least hint of my ever being anything else than the common drudge into
which I was fast settling down.

The very next day showed me, while my mind was in the first agitation of
what it had conceived, that Mrs. Micawber had not spoken of their going
away without warrant. They took a lodging in the house where I lived,
for a week; at the expiration of which time they were to start for
Plymouth. Mr. Micawber himself came down to the counting-house, in the
afternoon, to tell Mr. Quinion that he must relinquish me on the day
of his departure, and to give me a high character, which I am sure I
deserved. And Mr. Quinion, calling in Tipp the carman, who was a married
man, and had a room to let, quartered me prospectively on him--by our
mutual consent, as he had every reason to think; for I said nothing,
though my resolution was now taken.

I passed my evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, during the remaining
term of our residence under the same roof; and I think we became fonder
of one another as the time went on. On the last Sunday, they invited me
to dinner; and we had a loin of pork and apple sauce, and a pudding. I
had bought a spotted wooden horse over-night as a parting gift to little
Wilkins Micawber--that was the boy--and a doll for little Emma. I had
also bestowed a shilling on the Orfling, who was about to be disbanded.

We had a very pleasant day, though we were all in a tender state about
our approaching separation.

‘I shall never, Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘revert to the
period when Mr. Micawber was in difficulties, without thinking of
you. Your conduct has always been of the most delicate and obliging
description. You have never been a lodger. You have been a friend.’

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber; ‘Copperfield,’ for so he had been
accustomed to call me, of late, ‘has a heart to feel for the distresses
of his fellow-creatures when they are behind a cloud, and a head to
plan, and a hand to--in short, a general ability to dispose of such
available property as could be made away with.’

I expressed my sense of this commendation, and said I was very sorry we
were going to lose one another.

‘My dear young friend,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I am older than you; a man
of some experience in life, and--and of some experience, in short, in
difficulties, generally speaking. At present, and until something turns
up (which I am, I may say, hourly expecting), I have nothing to bestow
but advice. Still my advice is so far worth taking, that--in short, that
I have never taken it myself, and am the’--here Mr. Micawber, who had
been beaming and smiling, all over his head and face, up to the present
moment, checked himself and frowned--‘the miserable wretch you behold.’

‘My dear Micawber!’ urged his wife.

‘I say,’ returned Mr. Micawber, quite forgetting himself, and smiling
again, ‘the miserable wretch you behold. My advice is, never do tomorrow
what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time. Collar
him!’

‘My poor papa’s maxim,’ Mrs. Micawber observed.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘your papa was very well in his way, and
Heaven forbid that I should disparage him. Take him for all in all, we
ne’er shall--in short, make the acquaintance, probably, of anybody else
possessing, at his time of life, the same legs for gaiters, and able to
read the same description of print, without spectacles. But he applied
that maxim to our marriage, my dear; and that was so far prematurely
entered into, in consequence, that I never recovered the expense.’ Mr.
Micawber looked aside at Mrs. Micawber, and added: ‘Not that I am sorry
for it. Quite the contrary, my love.’ After which, he was grave for a
minute or so.

‘My other piece of advice, Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘you know.
Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen and
six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure
twenty pounds ought and six, result misery. The blossom is blighted,
the leaf is withered, the god of day goes down upon the dreary scene,
and--and in short you are for ever floored. As I am!’

To make his example the more impressive, Mr. Micawber drank a glass of
punch with an air of great enjoyment and satisfaction, and whistled the
College Hornpipe.

I did not fail to assure him that I would store these precepts in my
mind, though indeed I had no need to do so, for, at the time, they
affected me visibly. Next morning I met the whole family at the coach
office, and saw them, with a desolate heart, take their places outside,
at the back.

‘Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘God bless you! I never can
forget all that, you know, and I never would if I could.’

‘Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘farewell! Every happiness and
prosperity! If, in the progress of revolving years, I could persuade
myself that my blighted destiny had been a warning to you, I should feel
that I had not occupied another man’s place in existence altogether in
vain. In case of anything turning up (of which I am rather confident),
I shall be extremely happy if it should be in my power to improve your
prospects.’

I think, as Mrs. Micawber sat at the back of the coach, with the
children, and I stood in the road looking wistfully at them, a mist
cleared from her eyes, and she saw what a little creature I really was.
I think so, because she beckoned to me to climb up, with quite a new and
motherly expression in her face, and put her arm round my neck, and gave
me just such a kiss as she might have given to her own boy. I had barely
time to get down again before the coach started, and I could hardly see
the family for the handkerchiefs they waved. It was gone in a minute.
The Orfling and I stood looking vacantly at each other in the middle
of the road, and then shook hands and said good-bye; she going back,
I suppose, to St. Luke’s workhouse, as I went to begin my weary day at
Murdstone and Grinby’s.

But with no intention of passing many more weary days there. No. I had
resolved to run away.---To go, by some means or other, down into the
country, to the only relation I had in the world, and tell my story to
my aunt, Miss Betsey. I have already observed that I don’t know how this
desperate idea came into my brain. But, once there, it remained there;
and hardened into a purpose than which I have never entertained a more
determined purpose in my life. I am far from sure that I believed there
was anything hopeful in it, but my mind was thoroughly made up that it
must be carried into execution.

Again, and again, and a hundred times again, since the night when the
thought had first occurred to me and banished sleep, I had gone over
that old story of my poor mother’s about my birth, which it had been one
of my great delights in the old time to hear her tell, and which I knew
by heart. My aunt walked into that story, and walked out of it, a dread
and awful personage; but there was one little trait in her behaviour
which I liked to dwell on, and which gave me some faint shadow of
encouragement. I could not forget how my mother had thought that she
felt her touch her pretty hair with no ungentle hand; and though it
might have been altogether my mother’s fancy, and might have had no
foundation whatever in fact, I made a little picture, out of it, of my
terrible aunt relenting towards the girlish beauty that I recollected so
well and loved so much, which softened the whole narrative. It is very
possible that it had been in my mind a long time, and had gradually
engendered my determination.

As I did not even know where Miss Betsey lived, I wrote a long letter
to Peggotty, and asked her, incidentally, if she remembered; pretending
that I had heard of such a lady living at a certain place I named at
random, and had a curiosity to know if it were the same. In the course
of that letter, I told Peggotty that I had a particular occasion for
half a guinea; and that if she could lend me that sum until I could
repay it, I should be very much obliged to her, and would tell her
afterwards what I had wanted it for.

Peggotty’s answer soon arrived, and was, as usual, full of affectionate
devotion. She enclosed the half guinea (I was afraid she must have had
a world of trouble to get it out of Mr. Barkis’s box), and told me that
Miss Betsey lived near Dover, but whether at Dover itself, at Hythe,
Sandgate, or Folkestone, she could not say. One of our men, however,
informing me on my asking him about these places, that they were all
close together, I deemed this enough for my object, and resolved to set
out at the end of that week.

Being a very honest little creature, and unwilling to disgrace the
memory I was going to leave behind me at Murdstone and Grinby’s, I
considered myself bound to remain until Saturday night; and, as I had
been paid a week’s wages in advance when I first came there, not to
present myself in the counting-house at the usual hour, to receive my
stipend. For this express reason, I had borrowed the half-guinea, that
I might not be without a fund for my travelling-expenses. Accordingly,
when the Saturday night came, and we were all waiting in the warehouse
to be paid, and Tipp the carman, who always took precedence, went in
first to draw his money, I shook Mick Walker by the hand; asked him,
when it came to his turn to be paid, to say to Mr. Quinion that I had
gone to move my box to Tipp’s; and, bidding a last good night to Mealy
Potatoes, ran away.

My box was at my old lodging, over the water, and I had written a
direction for it on the back of one of our address cards that we nailed
on the casks: ‘Master David, to be left till called for, at the Coach
Office, Dover.’ This I had in my pocket ready to put on the box, after I
should have got it out of the house; and as I went towards my lodging,
I looked about me for someone who would help me to carry it to the
booking-office.

There was a long-legged young man with a very little empty donkey-cart,
standing near the Obelisk, in the Blackfriars Road, whose eye I caught
as I was going by, and who, addressing me as ‘Sixpenn’orth of bad
ha’pence,’ hoped ‘I should know him agin to swear to’--in allusion, I
have no doubt, to my staring at him. I stopped to assure him that I had
not done so in bad manners, but uncertain whether he might or might not
like a job.

‘Wot job?’ said the long-legged young man.

‘To move a box,’ I answered.

‘Wot box?’ said the long-legged young man.

I told him mine, which was down that street there, and which I wanted
him to take to the Dover coach office for sixpence.

‘Done with you for a tanner!’ said the long-legged young man, and
directly got upon his cart, which was nothing but a large wooden tray on
wheels, and rattled away at such a rate, that it was as much as I could
do to keep pace with the donkey.

There was a defiant manner about this young man, and particularly about
the way in which he chewed straw as he spoke to me, that I did not much
like; as the bargain was made, however, I took him upstairs to the room
I was leaving, and we brought the box down, and put it on his cart.
Now, I was unwilling to put the direction-card on there, lest any of my
landlord’s family should fathom what I was doing, and detain me; so
I said to the young man that I would be glad if he would stop for a
minute, when he came to the dead-wall of the King’s Bench prison. The
words were no sooner out of my mouth, than he rattled away as if he, my
box, the cart, and the donkey, were all equally mad; and I was quite out
of breath with running and calling after him, when I caught him at the
place appointed.

Being much flushed and excited, I tumbled my half-guinea out of my
pocket in pulling the card out. I put it in my mouth for safety, and
though my hands trembled a good deal, had just tied the card on very
much to my satisfaction, when I felt myself violently chucked under the
chin by the long-legged young man, and saw my half-guinea fly out of my
mouth into his hand.

‘Wot!’ said the young man, seizing me by my jacket collar, with a
frightful grin. ‘This is a pollis case, is it? You’re a-going to bolt,
are you? Come to the pollis, you young warmin, come to the pollis!’

‘You give me my money back, if you please,’ said I, very much
frightened; ‘and leave me alone.’

‘Come to the pollis!’ said the young man. ‘You shall prove it yourn to
the pollis.’

‘Give me my box and money, will you,’ I cried, bursting into tears.

The young man still replied: ‘Come to the pollis!’ and was dragging me
against the donkey in a violent manner, as if there were any affinity
between that animal and a magistrate, when he changed his mind, jumped
into the cart, sat upon my box, and, exclaiming that he would drive to
the pollis straight, rattled away harder than ever.

I ran after him as fast as I could, but I had no breath to call out
with, and should not have dared to call out, now, if I had. I narrowly
escaped being run over, twenty times at least, in half a mile. Now I
lost him, now I saw him, now I lost him, now I was cut at with a whip,
now shouted at, now down in the mud, now up again, now running into
somebody’s arms, now running headlong at a post. At length, confused by
fright and heat, and doubting whether half London might not by this time
be turning out for my apprehension, I left the young man to go where
he would with my box and money; and, panting and crying, but never
stopping, faced about for Greenwich, which I had understood was on
the Dover Road: taking very little more out of the world, towards the
retreat of my aunt, Miss Betsey, than I had brought into it, on the
night when my arrival gave her so much umbrage.



CHAPTER 13. THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION


For anything I know, I may have had some wild idea of running all the
way to Dover, when I gave up the pursuit of the young man with the
donkey-cart, and started for Greenwich. My scattered senses were soon
collected as to that point, if I had; for I came to a stop in the Kent
Road, at a terrace with a piece of water before it, and a great foolish
image in the middle, blowing a dry shell. Here I sat down on a doorstep,
quite spent and exhausted with the efforts I had already made, and with
hardly breath enough to cry for the loss of my box and half-guinea.

It was by this time dark; I heard the clocks strike ten, as I sat
resting. But it was a summer night, fortunately, and fine weather. When
I had recovered my breath, and had got rid of a stifling sensation in
my throat, I rose up and went on. In the midst of my distress, I had no
notion of going back. I doubt if I should have had any, though there had
been a Swiss snow-drift in the Kent Road.

But my standing possessed of only three-halfpence in the world (and I
am sure I wonder how they came to be left in my pocket on a Saturday
night!) troubled me none the less because I went on. I began to picture
to myself, as a scrap of newspaper intelligence, my being found dead in
a day or two, under some hedge; and I trudged on miserably, though as
fast as I could, until I happened to pass a little shop, where it was
written up that ladies’ and gentlemen’s wardrobes were bought, and that
the best price was given for rags, bones, and kitchen-stuff. The master
of this shop was sitting at the door in his shirt-sleeves, smoking; and
as there were a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling from
the low ceiling, and only two feeble candles burning inside to show
what they were, I fancied that he looked like a man of a revengeful
disposition, who had hung all his enemies, and was enjoying himself.

My late experiences with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber suggested to me that here
might be a means of keeping off the wolf for a little while. I went up
the next by-street, took off my waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my
arm, and came back to the shop door.

‘If you please, sir,’ I said, ‘I am to sell this for a fair price.’

Mr. Dolloby--Dolloby was the name over the shop door, at least--took the
waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head, against the door-post, went into
the shop, followed by me, snuffed the two candles with his fingers,
spread the waistcoat on the counter, and looked at it there, held it up
against the light, and looked at it there, and ultimately said:

‘What do you call a price, now, for this here little weskit?’

‘Oh! you know best, sir,’ I returned modestly.

‘I can’t be buyer and seller too,’ said Mr. Dolloby. ‘Put a price on
this here little weskit.’

‘Would eighteenpence be?’--I hinted, after some hesitation.

Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again, and gave it me back. ‘I should rob my
family,’ he said, ‘if I was to offer ninepence for it.’

This was a disagreeable way of putting the business; because it imposed
upon me, a perfect stranger, the unpleasantness of asking Mr. Dolloby to
rob his family on my account. My circumstances being so very pressing,
however, I said I would take ninepence for it, if he pleased. Mr.
Dolloby, not without some grumbling, gave ninepence. I wished him good
night, and walked out of the shop the richer by that sum, and the
poorer by a waistcoat. But when I buttoned my jacket, that was not much.
Indeed, I foresaw pretty clearly that my jacket would go next, and that
I should have to make the best of my way to Dover in a shirt and a pair
of trousers, and might deem myself lucky if I got there even in that
trim. But my mind did not run so much on this as might be supposed.
Beyond a general impression of the distance before me, and of the young
man with the donkey-cart having used me cruelly, I think I had no
very urgent sense of my difficulties when I once again set off with my
ninepence in my pocket.

A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which I was going to
carry into execution. This was, to lie behind the wall at the back of my
old school, in a corner where there used to be a haystack. I imagined
it would be a kind of company to have the boys, and the bedroom where
I used to tell the stories, so near me: although the boys would know
nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield me no shelter.

I had had a hard day’s work, and was pretty well jaded when I came
climbing out, at last, upon the level of Blackheath. It cost me some
trouble to find out Salem House; but I found it, and I found a haystack
in the corner, and I lay down by it; having first walked round the wall,
and looked up at the windows, and seen that all was dark and silent
within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying down,
without a roof above my head!

Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against whom
house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night--and I
dreamed of lying on my old school-bed, talking to the boys in my room;
and found myself sitting upright, with Steerforth’s name upon my lips,
looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above
me. When I remembered where I was at that untimely hour, a feeling
stole upon me that made me get up, afraid of I don’t know what, and walk
about. But the fainter glimmering of the stars, and the pale light in
the sky where the day was coming, reassured me: and my eyes being very
heavy, I lay down again and slept--though with a knowledge in my sleep
that it was cold--until the warm beams of the sun, and the ringing of
the getting-up bell at Salem House, awoke me. If I could have hoped that
Steerforth was there, I would have lurked about until he came out
alone; but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still remained,
perhaps, but it was very doubtful; and I had not sufficient confidence
in his discretion or good luck, however strong my reliance was on his
good nature, to wish to trust him with my situation. So I crept away
from the wall as Mr. Creakle’s boys were getting up, and struck into the
long dusty track which I had first known to be the Dover Road when I was
one of them, and when I little expected that any eyes would ever see me
the wayfarer I was now, upon it.

What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday morning at Yarmouth!
In due time I heard the church-bells ringing, as I plodded on; and I met
people who were going to church; and I passed a church or two where the
congregation were inside, and the sound of singing came out into the
sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in the shade of the
porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with his hand to his forehead,
glowering at me going by. But the peace and rest of the old Sunday
morning were on everything, except me. That was the difference. I felt
quite wicked in my dirt and dust, with my tangled hair. But for the
quiet picture I had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and beauty,
weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I hardly think I
should have had the courage to go on until next day. But it always went
before me, and I followed.

I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on the straight
road, though not very easily, for I was new to that kind of toil. I
see myself, as evening closes in, coming over the bridge at Rochester,
footsore and tired, and eating bread that I had bought for supper.
One or two little houses, with the notice, ‘Lodgings for Travellers’,
hanging out, had tempted me; but I was afraid of spending the few pence
I had, and was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the trampers I
had met or overtaken. I sought no shelter, therefore, but the sky; and
toiling into Chatham,--which, in that night’s aspect, is a mere dream of
chalk, and drawbridges, and mastless ships in a muddy river, roofed
like Noah’s arks,--crept, at last, upon a sort of grass-grown battery
overhanging a lane, where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I
lay down, near a cannon; and, happy in the society of the sentry’s
footsteps, though he knew no more of my being above him than the boys
at Salem House had known of my lying by the wall, slept soundly until
morning.

Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and quite dazed by the
beating of drums and marching of troops, which seemed to hem me in on
every side when I went down towards the long narrow street. Feeling
that I could go but a very little way that day, if I were to reserve any
strength for getting to my journey’s end, I resolved to make the sale
of my jacket its principal business. Accordingly, I took the jacket off,
that I might learn to do without it; and carrying it under my arm, began
a tour of inspection of the various slop-shops.

It was a likely place to sell a jacket in; for the dealers in
second-hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally speaking, on the
look-out for customers at their shop doors. But as most of them had,
hanging up among their stock, an officer’s coat or two, epaulettes and
all, I was rendered timid by the costly nature of their dealings, and
walked about for a long time without offering my merchandise to anyone.

This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-store shops,
and such shops as Mr. Dolloby’s, in preference to the regular dealers.
At last I found one that I thought looked promising, at the corner of a
dirty lane, ending in an enclosure full of stinging-nettles, against the
palings of which some second-hand sailors’ clothes, that seemed to have
overflowed the shop, were fluttering among some cots, and rusty guns,
and oilskin hats, and certain trays full of so many old rusty keys of so
many sizes that they seemed various enough to open all the doors in the
world.

Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was darkened
rather than lighted by a little window, overhung with clothes, and was
descended into by some steps, I went with a palpitating heart; which was
not relieved when an ugly old man, with the lower part of his face all
covered with a stubbly grey beard, rushed out of a dirty den behind it,
and seized me by the hair of my head. He was a dreadful old man to look
at, in a filthy flannel waistcoat, and smelling terribly of rum. His
bedstead, covered with a tumbled and ragged piece of patchwork, was in
the den he had come from, where another little window showed a prospect
of more stinging-nettles, and a lame donkey.

‘Oh, what do you want?’ grinned this old man, in a fierce, monotonous
whine. ‘Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want? Oh, my lungs and liver,
what do you want? Oh, goroo, goroo!’

I was so much dismayed by these words, and particularly by the
repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind of rattle in his
throat, that I could make no answer; hereupon the old man, still holding
me by the hair, repeated:

‘Oh, what do you want? Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want? Oh, my
lungs and liver, what do you want? Oh, goroo!’--which he screwed out of
himself, with an energy that made his eyes start in his head.

‘I wanted to know,’ I said, trembling, ‘if you would buy a jacket.’

‘Oh, let’s see the jacket!’ cried the old man. ‘Oh, my heart on fire,
show the jacket to us! Oh, my eyes and limbs, bring the jacket out!’

With that he took his trembling hands, which were like the claws of a
great bird, out of my hair; and put on a pair of spectacles, not at all
ornamental to his inflamed eyes.

‘Oh, how much for the jacket?’ cried the old man, after examining it.
‘Oh--goroo!--how much for the jacket?’

‘Half-a-crown,’ I answered, recovering myself.

‘Oh, my lungs and liver,’ cried the old man, ‘no! Oh, my eyes, no! Oh,
my limbs, no! Eighteenpence. Goroo!’

Every time he uttered this ejaculation, his eyes seemed to be in danger
of starting out; and every sentence he spoke, he delivered in a sort
of tune, always exactly the same, and more like a gust of wind, which
begins low, mounts up high, and falls again, than any other comparison I
can find for it.

‘Well,’ said I, glad to have closed the bargain, ‘I’ll take
eighteenpence.’

‘Oh, my liver!’ cried the old man, throwing the jacket on a shelf. ‘Get
out of the shop! Oh, my lungs, get out of the shop! Oh, my eyes and
limbs--goroo!--don’t ask for money; make it an exchange.’ I never was
so frightened in my life, before or since; but I told him humbly that
I wanted money, and that nothing else was of any use to me, but that I
would wait for it, as he desired, outside, and had no wish to hurry
him. So I went outside, and sat down in the shade in a corner. And I sat
there so many hours, that the shade became sunlight, and the sunlight
became shade again, and still I sat there waiting for the money.

There never was such another drunken madman in that line of business,
I hope. That he was well known in the neighbourhood, and enjoyed the
reputation of having sold himself to the devil, I soon understood from
the visits he received from the boys, who continually came skirmishing
about the shop, shouting that legend, and calling to him to bring out
his gold. ‘You ain’t poor, you know, Charley, as you pretend. Bring out
your gold. Bring out some of the gold you sold yourself to the devil
for. Come! It’s in the lining of the mattress, Charley. Rip it open
and let’s have some!’ This, and many offers to lend him a knife for
the purpose, exasperated him to such a degree, that the whole day was a
succession of rushes on his part, and flights on the part of the boys.
Sometimes in his rage he would take me for one of them, and come at me,
mouthing as if he were going to tear me in pieces; then, remembering
me, just in time, would dive into the shop, and lie upon his bed, as I
thought from the sound of his voice, yelling in a frantic way, to his
own windy tune, the ‘Death of Nelson’; with an Oh! before every line,
and innumerable Goroos interspersed. As if this were not bad enough for
me, the boys, connecting me with the establishment, on account of the
patience and perseverance with which I sat outside, half-dressed, pelted
me, and used me very ill all day.

He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an exchange; at one
time coming out with a fishing-rod, at another with a fiddle, at another
with a cocked hat, at another with a flute. But I resisted all these
overtures, and sat there in desperation; each time asking him, with
tears in my eyes, for my money or my jacket. At last he began to pay me
in halfpence at a time; and was full two hours getting by easy stages to
a shilling.

‘Oh, my eyes and limbs!’ he then cried, peeping hideously out of the
shop, after a long pause, ‘will you go for twopence more?’

‘I can’t,’ I said; ‘I shall be starved.’

‘Oh, my lungs and liver, will you go for threepence?’

‘I would go for nothing, if I could,’ I said, ‘but I want the money
badly.’

‘Oh, go-roo!’ (it is really impossible to express how he twisted this
ejaculation out of himself, as he peeped round the door-post at me,
showing nothing but his crafty old head); ‘will you go for fourpence?’

I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer; and taking the
money out of his claw, not without trembling, went away more hungry and
thirsty than I had ever been, a little before sunset. But at an expense
of threepence I soon refreshed myself completely; and, being in better
spirits then, limped seven miles upon my road.

My bed at night was under another haystack, where I rested comfortably,
after having washed my blistered feet in a stream, and dressed them as
well as I was able, with some cool leaves. When I took the road again
next morning, I found that it lay through a succession of hop-grounds
and orchards. It was sufficiently late in the year for the orchards
to be ruddy with ripe apples; and in a few places the hop-pickers were
already at work. I thought it all extremely beautiful, and made up
my mind to sleep among the hops that night: imagining some cheerful
companionship in the long perspectives of poles, with the graceful
leaves twining round them.

The trampers were worse than ever that day, and inspired me with a
dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of them were most
ferocious-looking ruffians, who stared at me as I went by; and stopped,
perhaps, and called after me to come back and speak to them, and when I
took to my heels, stoned me. I recollect one young fellow--a tinker, I
suppose, from his wallet and brazier--who had a woman with him, and
who faced about and stared at me thus; and then roared to me in such a
tremendous voice to come back, that I halted and looked round.

‘Come here, when you’re called,’ said the tinker, ‘or I’ll rip your
young body open.’

I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to them, trying to
propitiate the tinker by my looks, I observed that the woman had a black
eye.

‘Where are you going?’ said the tinker, gripping the bosom of my shirt
with his blackened hand.

‘I am going to Dover,’ I said.

‘Where do you come from?’ asked the tinker, giving his hand another turn
in my shirt, to hold me more securely.

‘I come from London,’ I said.

‘What lay are you upon?’ asked the tinker. ‘Are you a prig?’

‘N-no,’ I said.

‘Ain’t you, by G--? If you make a brag of your honesty to me,’ said the
tinker, ‘I’ll knock your brains out.’

With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking me, and then
looked at me from head to foot.

‘Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you?’ said the tinker.
‘If you have, out with it, afore I take it away!’

I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the woman’s look,
and saw her very slightly shake her head, and form ‘No!’ with her lips.

‘I am very poor,’ I said, attempting to smile, ‘and have got no money.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ said the tinker, looking so sternly at me, that
I almost feared he saw the money in my pocket.

‘Sir!’ I stammered.

‘What do you mean,’ said the tinker, ‘by wearing my brother’s silk
handkerchief! Give it over here!’ And he had mine off my neck in a
moment, and tossed it to the woman.

The woman burst into a fit of laughter, as if she thought this a joke,
and tossed it back to me, nodded once, as slightly as before, and made
the word ‘Go!’ with her lips. Before I could obey, however, the tinker
seized the handkerchief out of my hand with a roughness that threw me
away like a feather, and putting it loosely round his own neck, turned
upon the woman with an oath, and knocked her down. I never shall forget
seeing her fall backward on the hard road, and lie there with her bonnet
tumbled off, and her hair all whitened in the dust; nor, when I looked
back from a distance, seeing her sitting on the pathway, which was a
bank by the roadside, wiping the blood from her face with a corner of
her shawl, while he went on ahead.

This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I saw any of
these people coming, I turned back until I could find a hiding-place,
where I remained until they had gone out of sight; which happened so
often, that I was very seriously delayed. But under this difficulty, as
under all the other difficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained
and led on by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth, before I
came into the world. It always kept me company. It was there, among
the hops, when I lay down to sleep; it was with me on my waking in the
morning; it went before me all day. I have associated it, ever since,
with the sunny street of Canterbury, dozing as it were in the hot light;
and with the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately,
grey Cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came,
at last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it relieved the solitary
aspect of the scene with hope; and not until I reached that first great
aim of my journey, and actually set foot in the town itself, on the
sixth day of my flight, did it desert me. But then, strange to say,
when I stood with my ragged shoes, and my dusty, sunburnt, half-clothed
figure, in the place so long desired, it seemed to vanish like a dream,
and to leave me helpless and dispirited.

I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first, and received various
answers. One said she lived in the South Foreland Light, and had singed
her whiskers by doing so; another, that she was made fast to the great
buoy outside the harbour, and could only be visited at half-tide; a
third, that she was locked up in Maidstone jail for child-stealing; a
fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom in the last high wind, and
make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among whom I inquired next,
were equally jocose and equally disrespectful; and the shopkeepers, not
liking my appearance, generally replied, without hearing what I had
to say, that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and
destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My money was
all gone, I had nothing left to dispose of; I was hungry, thirsty, and
worn out; and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in
London.

The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was sitting on
the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near the market-place,
deliberating upon wandering towards those other places which had been
mentioned, when a fly-driver, coming by with his carriage, dropped a
horsecloth. Something good-natured in the man’s face, as I handed it up,
encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trotwood lived;
though I had asked the question so often, that it almost died upon my
lips.

‘Trotwood,’ said he. ‘Let me see. I know the name, too. Old lady?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘rather.’

‘Pretty stiff in the back?’ said he, making himself upright.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should think it very likely.’

‘Carries a bag?’ said he--‘bag with a good deal of room in it--is
gruffish, and comes down upon you, sharp?’

My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the undoubted accuracy of this
description.

‘Why then, I tell you what,’ said he. ‘If you go up there,’ pointing
with his whip towards the heights, ‘and keep right on till you come to
some houses facing the sea, I think you’ll hear of her. My opinion is
she won’t stand anything, so here’s a penny for you.’

I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with it. Dispatching
this refreshment by the way, I went in the direction my friend had
indicated, and walked on a good distance without coming to the houses
he had mentioned. At length I saw some before me; and approaching them,
went into a little shop (it was what we used to call a general shop,
at home), and inquired if they could have the goodness to tell me where
Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself to a man behind the counter,
who was weighing some rice for a young woman; but the latter, taking the
inquiry to herself, turned round quickly.

‘My mistress?’ she said. ‘What do you want with her, boy?’

‘I want,’ I replied, ‘to speak to her, if you please.’

‘To beg of her, you mean,’ retorted the damsel.

‘No,’ I said, ‘indeed.’ But suddenly remembering that in truth I came
for no other purpose, I held my peace in confusion, and felt my face
burn.

My aunt’s handmaid, as I supposed she was from what she had said, put
her rice in a little basket and walked out of the shop; telling me that
I could follow her, if I wanted to know where Miss Trotwood lived. I
needed no second permission; though I was by this time in such a state
of consternation and agitation, that my legs shook under me. I followed
the young woman, and we soon came to a very neat little cottage with
cheerful bow-windows: in front of it, a small square gravelled court or
garden full of flowers, carefully tended, and smelling deliciously.

‘This is Miss Trotwood’s,’ said the young woman. ‘Now you know; and
that’s all I have got to say.’ With which words she hurried into the
house, as if to shake off the responsibility of my appearance; and left
me standing at the garden-gate, looking disconsolately over the top of
it towards the parlour window, where a muslin curtain partly undrawn
in the middle, a large round green screen or fan fastened on to the
windowsill, a small table, and a great chair, suggested to me that my
aunt might be at that moment seated in awful state.

My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. The soles had shed
themselves bit by bit, and the upper leathers had broken and burst until
the very shape and form of shoes had departed from them. My hat (which
had served me for a night-cap, too) was so crushed and bent, that no old
battered handleless saucepan on a dunghill need have been ashamed to vie
with it. My shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew, grass, and
the Kentish soil on which I had slept--and torn besides--might have
frightened the birds from my aunt’s garden, as I stood at the gate. My
hair had known no comb or brush since I left London. My face, neck, and
hands, from unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun, were burnt to a
berry-brown. From head to foot I was powdered almost as white with chalk
and dust, as if I had come out of a lime-kiln. In this plight, and with
a strong consciousness of it, I waited to introduce myself to, and make
my first impression on, my formidable aunt.

The unbroken stillness of the parlour window leading me to infer, after
a while, that she was not there, I lifted up my eyes to the window above
it, where I saw a florid, pleasant-looking gentleman, with a grey head,
who shut up one eye in a grotesque manner, nodded his head at me several
times, shook it at me as often, laughed, and went away.

I had been discomposed enough before; but I was so much the more
discomposed by this unexpected behaviour, that I was on the point of
slinking off, to think how I had best proceed, when there came out of
the house a lady with her handkerchief tied over her cap, and a pair
of gardening gloves on her hands, wearing a gardening pocket like a
toll-man’s apron, and carrying a great knife. I knew her immediately
to be Miss Betsey, for she came stalking out of the house exactly as
my poor mother had so often described her stalking up our garden at
Blunderstone Rookery.

‘Go away!’ said Miss Betsey, shaking her head, and making a distant chop
in the air with her knife. ‘Go along! No boys here!’

I watched her, with my heart at my lips, as she marched to a corner of
her garden, and stooped to dig up some little root there. Then, without
a scrap of courage, but with a great deal of desperation, I went softly
in and stood beside her, touching her with my finger.

‘If you please, ma’am,’ I began.

She started and looked up.

‘If you please, aunt.’

‘EH?’ exclaimed Miss Betsey, in a tone of amazement I have never heard
approached.

‘If you please, aunt, I am your nephew.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ said my aunt. And sat flat down in the garden-path.

‘I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk--where you came,
on the night when I was born, and saw my dear mama. I have been very
unhappy since she died. I have been slighted, and taught nothing, and
thrown upon myself, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away
to you. I was robbed at first setting out, and have walked all the
way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey.’ Here
my self-support gave way all at once; and with a movement of my hands,
intended to show her my ragged state, and call it to witness that I had
suffered something, I broke into a passion of crying, which I suppose
had been pent up within me all the week.

My aunt, with every sort of expression but wonder discharged from her
countenance, sat on the gravel, staring at me, until I began to cry;
when she got up in a great hurry, collared me, and took me into the
parlour. Her first proceeding there was to unlock a tall press, bring
out several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my
mouth. I think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure
I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. When she had
administered these restoratives, as I was still quite hysterical, and
unable to control my sobs, she put me on the sofa, with a shawl under
my head, and the handkerchief from her own head under my feet, lest I
should sully the cover; and then, sitting herself down behind the green
fan or screen I have already mentioned, so that I could not see her
face, ejaculated at intervals, ‘Mercy on us!’ letting those exclamations
off like minute guns.

After a time she rang the bell. ‘Janet,’ said my aunt, when her servant
came in. ‘Go upstairs, give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and say I wish
to speak to him.’

Janet looked a little surprised to see me lying stiffly on the sofa (I
was afraid to move lest it should be displeasing to my aunt), but went
on her errand. My aunt, with her hands behind her, walked up and down
the room, until the gentleman who had squinted at me from the upper
window came in laughing.

‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘don’t be a fool, because nobody can be more
discreet than you can, when you choose. We all know that. So don’t be a
fool, whatever you are.’

The gentleman was serious immediately, and looked at me, I thought, as
if he would entreat me to say nothing about the window.

‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘you have heard me mention David Copperfield?
Now don’t pretend not to have a memory, because you and I know better.’

‘David Copperfield?’ said Mr. Dick, who did not appear to me to
remember much about it. ‘David Copperfield? Oh yes, to be sure. David,
certainly.’

‘Well,’ said my aunt, ‘this is his boy--his son. He would be as like his
father as it’s possible to be, if he was not so like his mother, too.’

‘His son?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘David’s son? Indeed!’

‘Yes,’ pursued my aunt, ‘and he has done a pretty piece of business.
He has run away. Ah! His sister, Betsey Trotwood, never would have run
away.’ My aunt shook her head firmly, confident in the character and
behaviour of the girl who never was born.

‘Oh! you think she wouldn’t have run away?’ said Mr. Dick.

‘Bless and save the man,’ exclaimed my aunt, sharply, ‘how he talks!
Don’t I know she wouldn’t? She would have lived with her god-mother,
and we should have been devoted to one another. Where, in the name of
wonder, should his sister, Betsey Trotwood, have run from, or to?’

‘Nowhere,’ said Mr. Dick.

‘Well then,’ returned my aunt, softened by the reply, ‘how can you
pretend to be wool-gathering, Dick, when you are as sharp as a surgeon’s
lancet? Now, here you see young David Copperfield, and the question I
put to you is, what shall I do with him?’

‘What shall you do with him?’ said Mr. Dick, feebly, scratching his
head. ‘Oh! do with him?’

‘Yes,’ said my aunt, with a grave look, and her forefinger held up.
‘Come! I want some very sound advice.’

‘Why, if I was you,’ said Mr. Dick, considering, and looking vacantly
at me, ‘I should--’ The contemplation of me seemed to inspire him with a
sudden idea, and he added, briskly, ‘I should wash him!’

‘Janet,’ said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph, which I did
not then understand, ‘Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the bath!’

Although I was deeply interested in this dialogue, I could not help
observing my aunt, Mr. Dick, and Janet, while it was in progress, and
completing a survey I had already been engaged in making of the room.

My aunt was a tall, hard-featured lady, but by no means ill-looking.
There was an inflexibility in her face, in her voice, in her gait and
carriage, amply sufficient to account for the effect she had made upon
a gentle creature like my mother; but her features were rather handsome
than otherwise, though unbending and austere. I particularly noticed
that she had a very quick, bright eye. Her hair, which was grey, was
arranged in two plain divisions, under what I believe would be called a
mob-cap; I mean a cap, much more common then than now, with side-pieces
fastening under the chin. Her dress was of a lavender colour, and
perfectly neat; but scantily made, as if she desired to be as little
encumbered as possible. I remember that I thought it, in form, more like
a riding-habit with the superfluous skirt cut off, than anything else.
She wore at her side a gentleman’s gold watch, if I might judge from its
size and make, with an appropriate chain and seals; she had some linen
at her throat not unlike a shirt-collar, and things at her wrists like
little shirt-wristbands.

Mr. Dick, as I have already said, was grey-headed, and florid: I should
have said all about him, in saying so, had not his head been curiously
bowed--not by age; it reminded me of one of Mr. Creakle’s boys’ heads
after a beating--and his grey eyes prominent and large, with a strange
kind of watery brightness in them that made me, in combination with his
vacant manner, his submission to my aunt, and his childish delight when
she praised him, suspect him of being a little mad; though, if he were
mad, how he came to be there puzzled me extremely. He was dressed
like any other ordinary gentleman, in a loose grey morning coat and
waistcoat, and white trousers; and had his watch in his fob, and his
money in his pockets: which he rattled as if he were very proud of it.

Janet was a pretty blooming girl, of about nineteen or twenty, and a
perfect picture of neatness. Though I made no further observation of
her at the moment, I may mention here what I did not discover until
afterwards, namely, that she was one of a series of protegees whom my
aunt had taken into her service expressly to educate in a renouncement
of mankind, and who had generally completed their abjuration by marrying
the baker.

The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid down my pen, a
moment since, to think of it, the air from the sea came blowing
in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers; and I saw the
old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt’s
inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the
drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries,
the old china, the punchbowl full of dried rose-leaves, the tall press
guarding all sorts of bottles and pots, and, wonderfully out of keeping
with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.

Janet had gone away to get the bath ready, when my aunt, to my great
alarm, became in one moment rigid with indignation, and had hardly voice
to cry out, ‘Janet! Donkeys!’

Upon which, Janet came running up the stairs as if the house were in
flames, darted out on a little piece of green in front, and warned off
two saddle-donkeys, lady-ridden, that had presumed to set hoof upon it;
while my aunt, rushing out of the house, seized the bridle of a third
animal laden with a bestriding child, turned him, led him forth from
those sacred precincts, and boxed the ears of the unlucky urchin in
attendance who had dared to profane that hallowed ground.

To this hour I don’t know whether my aunt had any lawful right of way
over that patch of green; but she had settled it in her own mind that
she had, and it was all the same to her. The one great outrage of her
life, demanding to be constantly avenged, was the passage of a donkey
over that immaculate spot. In whatever occupation she was engaged,
however interesting to her the conversation in which she was taking
part, a donkey turned the current of her ideas in a moment, and she was
upon him straight. Jugs of water, and watering-pots, were kept in secret
places ready to be discharged on the offending boys; sticks were laid
in ambush behind the door; sallies were made at all hours; and
incessant war prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excitement to the
donkey-boys; or perhaps the more sagacious of the donkeys, understanding
how the case stood, delighted with constitutional obstinacy in coming
that way. I only know that there were three alarms before the bath was
ready; and that on the occasion of the last and most desperate of all,
I saw my aunt engage, single-handed, with a sandy-headed lad of fifteen,
and bump his sandy head against her own gate, before he seemed to
comprehend what was the matter. These interruptions were of the more
ridiculous to me, because she was giving me broth out of a table-spoon
at the time (having firmly persuaded herself that I was actually
starving, and must receive nourishment at first in very small
quantities), and, while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon, she
would put it back into the basin, cry ‘Janet! Donkeys!’ and go out to
the assault.

The bath was a great comfort. For I began to be sensible of acute pains
in my limbs from lying out in the fields, and was now so tired and low
that I could hardly keep myself awake for five minutes together. When I
had bathed, they (I mean my aunt and Janet) enrobed me in a shirt and a
pair of trousers belonging to Mr. Dick, and tied me up in two or three
great shawls. What sort of bundle I looked like, I don’t know, but I
felt a very hot one. Feeling also very faint and drowsy, I soon lay down
on the sofa again and fell asleep.

It might have been a dream, originating in the fancy which had occupied
my mind so long, but I awoke with the impression that my aunt had come
and bent over me, and had put my hair away from my face, and laid my
head more comfortably, and had then stood looking at me. The words,
‘Pretty fellow,’ or ‘Poor fellow,’ seemed to be in my ears, too; but
certainly there was nothing else, when I awoke, to lead me to believe
that they had been uttered by my aunt, who sat in the bow-window gazing
at the sea from behind the green fan, which was mounted on a kind of
swivel, and turned any way.

We dined soon after I awoke, off a roast fowl and a pudding; I sitting
at table, not unlike a trussed bird myself, and moving my arms with
considerable difficulty. But as my aunt had swathed me up, I made no
complaint of being inconvenienced. All this time I was deeply anxious
to know what she was going to do with me; but she took her dinner in
profound silence, except when she occasionally fixed her eyes on me
sitting opposite, and said, ‘Mercy upon us!’ which did not by any means
relieve my anxiety.

The cloth being drawn, and some sherry put upon the table (of which I
had a glass), my aunt sent up for Mr. Dick again, who joined us, and
looked as wise as he could when she requested him to attend to my story,
which she elicited from me, gradually, by a course of questions. During
my recital, she kept her eyes on Mr. Dick, who I thought would have gone
to sleep but for that, and who, whensoever he lapsed into a smile, was
checked by a frown from my aunt.

‘Whatever possessed that poor unfortunate Baby, that she must go and be
married again,’ said my aunt, when I had finished, ‘I can’t conceive.’

‘Perhaps she fell in love with her second husband,’ Mr. Dick suggested.

‘Fell in love!’ repeated my aunt. ‘What do you mean? What business had
she to do it?’

‘Perhaps,’ Mr. Dick simpered, after thinking a little, ‘she did it for
pleasure.’

‘Pleasure, indeed!’ replied my aunt. ‘A mighty pleasure for the poor
Baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of a fellow, certain to
ill-use her in some way or other. What did she propose to herself,
I should like to know! She had had one husband. She had seen David
Copperfield out of the world, who was always running after wax dolls
from his cradle. She had got a baby--oh, there were a pair of babies
when she gave birth to this child sitting here, that Friday night!--and
what more did she want?’

Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at me, as if he thought there was no
getting over this.

‘She couldn’t even have a baby like anybody else,’ said my aunt. ‘Where
was this child’s sister, Betsey Trotwood? Not forthcoming. Don’t tell
me!’

Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened.

‘That little man of a doctor, with his head on one side,’ said my aunt,
‘Jellips, or whatever his name was, what was he about? All he could do,
was to say to me, like a robin redbreast--as he is--“It’s a boy.” A boy!
Yah, the imbecility of the whole set of ‘em!’

The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick exceedingly; and me,
too, if I am to tell the truth.

‘And then, as if this was not enough, and she had not stood sufficiently
in the light of this child’s sister, Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt,
‘she marries a second time--goes and marries a Murderer--or a man with
a name like it--and stands in THIS child’s light! And the natural
consequence is, as anybody but a baby might have foreseen, that he
prowls and wanders. He’s as like Cain before he was grown up, as he can
be.’

Mr. Dick looked hard at me, as if to identify me in this character.

‘And then there’s that woman with the Pagan name,’ said my aunt, ‘that
Peggotty, she goes and gets married next. Because she has not seen
enough of the evil attending such things, she goes and gets married
next, as the child relates. I only hope,’ said my aunt, shaking her
head, ‘that her husband is one of those Poker husbands who abound in the
newspapers, and will beat her well with one.’

I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decried, and made the subject
of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed she was mistaken. That
Peggotty was the best, the truest, the most faithful, most devoted, and
most self-denying friend and servant in the world; who had ever loved
me dearly, who had ever loved my mother dearly; who had held my mother’s
dying head upon her arm, on whose face my mother had imprinted her last
grateful kiss. And my remembrance of them both, choking me, I broke down
as I was trying to say that her home was my home, and that all she had
was mine, and that I would have gone to her for shelter, but for her
humble station, which made me fear that I might bring some trouble on
her--I broke down, I say, as I was trying to say so, and laid my face in
my hands upon the table.

‘Well, well!’ said my aunt, ‘the child is right to stand by those who
have stood by him--Janet! Donkeys!’

I thoroughly believe that but for those unfortunate donkeys, we should
have come to a good understanding; for my aunt had laid her hand on my
shoulder, and the impulse was upon me, thus emboldened, to embrace her
and beseech her protection. But the interruption, and the disorder she
was thrown into by the struggle outside, put an end to all softer ideas
for the present, and kept my aunt indignantly declaiming to Mr. Dick
about her determination to appeal for redress to the laws of her
country, and to bring actions for trespass against the whole donkey
proprietorship of Dover, until tea-time.

After tea, we sat at the window--on the look-out, as I imagined, from
my aunt’s sharp expression of face, for more invaders--until dusk, when
Janet set candles, and a backgammon-board, on the table, and pulled down
the blinds.

‘Now, Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, with her grave look, and her forefinger
up as before, ‘I am going to ask you another question. Look at this
child.’

‘David’s son?’ said Mr. Dick, with an attentive, puzzled face.

‘Exactly so,’ returned my aunt. ‘What would you do with him, now?’

‘Do with David’s son?’ said Mr. Dick.

‘Ay,’ replied my aunt, ‘with David’s son.’

‘Oh!’ said Mr. Dick. ‘Yes. Do with--I should put him to bed.’

‘Janet!’ cried my aunt, with the same complacent triumph that I had
remarked before. ‘Mr. Dick sets us all right. If the bed is ready, we’ll
take him up to it.’

Janet reporting it to be quite ready, I was taken up to it; kindly, but
in some sort like a prisoner; my aunt going in front and Janet bringing
up the rear. The only circumstance which gave me any new hope, was my
aunt’s stopping on the stairs to inquire about a smell of fire that was
prevalent there; and janet’s replying that she had been making tinder
down in the kitchen, of my old shirt. But there were no other clothes in
my room than the odd heap of things I wore; and when I was left there,
with a little taper which my aunt forewarned me would burn exactly five
minutes, I heard them lock my door on the outside. Turning these things
over in my mind I deemed it possible that my aunt, who could know
nothing of me, might suspect I had a habit of running away, and took
precautions, on that account, to have me in safe keeping.

The room was a pleasant one, at the top of the house, overlooking the
sea, on which the moon was shining brilliantly. After I had said my
prayers, and the candle had burnt out, I remember how I still sat
looking at the moonlight on the water, as if I could hope to read my
fortune in it, as in a bright book; or to see my mother with her child,
coming from Heaven, along that shining path, to look upon me as she had
looked when I last saw her sweet face. I remember how the solemn feeling
with which at length I turned my eyes away, yielded to the sensation of
gratitude and rest which the sight of the white-curtained bed--and how
much more the lying softly down upon it, nestling in the snow-white
sheets!--inspired. I remember how I thought of all the solitary places
under the night sky where I had slept, and how I prayed that I never
might be houseless any more, and never might forget the houseless. I
remember how I seemed to float, then, down the melancholy glory of that
track upon the sea, away into the world of dreams.



CHAPTER 14. MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME


On going down in the morning, I found my aunt musing so profoundly over
the breakfast table, with her elbow on the tray, that the contents of
the urn had overflowed the teapot and were laying the whole table-cloth
under water, when my entrance put her meditations to flight. I felt sure
that I had been the subject of her reflections, and was more than ever
anxious to know her intentions towards me. Yet I dared not express my
anxiety, lest it should give her offence.

My eyes, however, not being so much under control as my tongue, were
attracted towards my aunt very often during breakfast. I never could
look at her for a few moments together but I found her looking at me--in
an odd thoughtful manner, as if I were an immense way off, instead of
being on the other side of the small round table. When she had finished
her breakfast, my aunt very deliberately leaned back in her chair,
knitted her brows, folded her arms, and contemplated me at her leisure,
with such a fixedness of attention that I was quite overpowered by
embarrassment. Not having as yet finished my own breakfast, I attempted
to hide my confusion by proceeding with it; but my knife tumbled over my
fork, my fork tripped up my knife, I chipped bits of bacon a surprising
height into the air instead of cutting them for my own eating, and
choked myself with my tea, which persisted in going the wrong way
instead of the right one, until I gave in altogether, and sat blushing
under my aunt’s close scrutiny.

‘Hallo!’ said my aunt, after a long time.

I looked up, and met her sharp bright glance respectfully.

‘I have written to him,’ said my aunt.

‘To--?’

‘To your father-in-law,’ said my aunt. ‘I have sent him a letter that
I’ll trouble him to attend to, or he and I will fall out, I can tell
him!’

‘Does he know where I am, aunt?’ I inquired, alarmed.

‘I have told him,’ said my aunt, with a nod.

‘Shall I--be--given up to him?’ I faltered.

‘I don’t know,’ said my aunt. ‘We shall see.’

‘Oh! I can’t think what I shall do,’ I exclaimed, ‘if I have to go back
to Mr. Murdstone!’

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said my aunt, shaking her head. ‘I
can’t say, I am sure. We shall see.’

My spirits sank under these words, and I became very downcast and heavy
of heart. My aunt, without appearing to take much heed of me, put on a
coarse apron with a bib, which she took out of the press; washed up the
teacups with her own hands; and, when everything was washed and set in
the tray again, and the cloth folded and put on the top of the whole,
rang for Janet to remove it. She next swept up the crumbs with a little
broom (putting on a pair of gloves first), until there did not appear
to be one microscopic speck left on the carpet; next dusted and arranged
the room, which was dusted and arranged to a hair’s breadth already.
When all these tasks were performed to her satisfaction, she took off
the gloves and apron, folded them up, put them in the particular corner
of the press from which they had been taken, brought out her work-box
to her own table in the open window, and sat down, with the green fan
between her and the light, to work.

‘I wish you’d go upstairs,’ said my aunt, as she threaded her needle,
‘and give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and I’ll be glad to know how he
gets on with his Memorial.’

I rose with all alacrity, to acquit myself of this commission.

‘I suppose,’ said my aunt, eyeing me as narrowly as she had eyed the
needle in threading it, ‘you think Mr. Dick a short name, eh?’

‘I thought it was rather a short name, yesterday,’ I confessed.

‘You are not to suppose that he hasn’t got a longer name, if he chose
to use it,’ said my aunt, with a loftier air. ‘Babley--Mr. Richard
Babley--that’s the gentleman’s true name.’

I was going to suggest, with a modest sense of my youth and the
familiarity I had been already guilty of, that I had better give him the
full benefit of that name, when my aunt went on to say:

‘But don’t you call him by it, whatever you do. He can’t bear his name.
That’s a peculiarity of his. Though I don’t know that it’s much of a
peculiarity, either; for he has been ill-used enough, by some that bear
it, to have a mortal antipathy for it, Heaven knows. Mr. Dick is his
name here, and everywhere else, now--if he ever went anywhere else,
which he don’t. So take care, child, you don’t call him anything BUT Mr.
Dick.’

I promised to obey, and went upstairs with my message; thinking, as I
went, that if Mr. Dick had been working at his Memorial long, at the
same rate as I had seen him working at it, through the open door, when
I came down, he was probably getting on very well indeed. I found him
still driving at it with a long pen, and his head almost laid upon the
paper. He was so intent upon it, that I had ample leisure to observe the
large paper kite in a corner, the confusion of bundles of manuscript,
the number of pens, and, above all, the quantity of ink (which he seemed
to have in, in half-gallon jars by the dozen), before he observed my
being present.

‘Ha! Phoebus!’ said Mr. Dick, laying down his pen. ‘How does the world
go? I’ll tell you what,’ he added, in a lower tone, ‘I shouldn’t wish it
to be mentioned, but it’s a--’ here he beckoned to me, and put his lips
close to my ear--‘it’s a mad world. Mad as Bedlam, boy!’ said Mr. Dick,
taking snuff from a round box on the table, and laughing heartily.

Without presuming to give my opinion on this question, I delivered my
message.

‘Well,’ said Mr. Dick, in answer, ‘my compliments to her, and I--I
believe I have made a start. I think I have made a start,’ said Mr.
Dick, passing his hand among his grey hair, and casting anything but a
confident look at his manuscript. ‘You have been to school?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I answered; ‘for a short time.’

‘Do you recollect the date,’ said Mr. Dick, looking earnestly at me, and
taking up his pen to note it down, ‘when King Charles the First had his
head cut off?’ I said I believed it happened in the year sixteen hundred
and forty-nine.

‘Well,’ returned Mr. Dick, scratching his ear with his pen, and looking
dubiously at me. ‘So the books say; but I don’t see how that can be.
Because, if it was so long ago, how could the people about him have made
that mistake of putting some of the trouble out of his head, after it
was taken off, into mine?’

I was very much surprised by the inquiry; but could give no information
on this point.

‘It’s very strange,’ said Mr. Dick, with a despondent look upon his
papers, and with his hand among his hair again, ‘that I never can get
that quite right. I never can make that perfectly clear. But no matter,
no matter!’ he said cheerfully, and rousing himself, ‘there’s time
enough! My compliments to Miss Trotwood, I am getting on very well
indeed.’

I was going away, when he directed my attention to the kite.

‘What do you think of that for a kite?’ he said.

I answered that it was a beautiful one. I should think it must have been
as much as seven feet high.

‘I made it. We’ll go and fly it, you and I,’ said Mr. Dick. ‘Do you see
this?’

He showed me that it was covered with manuscript, very closely and
laboriously written; but so plainly, that as I looked along the lines,
I thought I saw some allusion to King Charles the First’s head again, in
one or two places.

‘There’s plenty of string,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘and when it flies high, it
takes the facts a long way. That’s my manner of diffusing ‘em. I don’t
know where they may come down. It’s according to circumstances, and the
wind, and so forth; but I take my chance of that.’

His face was so very mild and pleasant, and had something so reverend in
it, though it was hale and hearty, that I was not sure but that he was
having a good-humoured jest with me. So I laughed, and he laughed, and
we parted the best friends possible.

‘Well, child,’ said my aunt, when I went downstairs. ‘And what of Mr.
Dick, this morning?’

I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was getting on very
well indeed.

‘What do you think of him?’ said my aunt.

I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the question, by
replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman; but my aunt was
not to be so put off, for she laid her work down in her lap, and said,
folding her hands upon it:

‘Come! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me what she thought
of anyone, directly. Be as like your sister as you can, and speak out!’

‘Is he--is Mr. Dick--I ask because I don’t know, aunt--is he at all out
of his mind, then?’ I stammered; for I felt I was on dangerous ground.

‘Not a morsel,’ said my aunt.

‘Oh, indeed!’ I observed faintly.

‘If there is anything in the world,’ said my aunt, with great decision
and force of manner, ‘that Mr. Dick is not, it’s that.’

I had nothing better to offer, than another timid, ‘Oh, indeed!’

‘He has been CALLED mad,’ said my aunt. ‘I have a selfish pleasure in
saying he has been called mad, or I should not have had the benefit of
his society and advice for these last ten years and upwards--in fact,
ever since your sister, Betsey Trotwood, disappointed me.’

‘So long as that?’ I said.

‘And nice people they were, who had the audacity to call him mad,’
pursued my aunt. ‘Mr. Dick is a sort of distant connexion of mine--it
doesn’t matter how; I needn’t enter into that. If it hadn’t been for me,
his own brother would have shut him up for life. That’s all.’

I am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my aunt felt
strongly on the subject, I tried to look as if I felt strongly too.

‘A proud fool!’ said my aunt. ‘Because his brother was a little
eccentric--though he is not half so eccentric as a good many people--he
didn’t like to have him visible about his house, and sent him away to
some private asylum-place: though he had been left to his particular
care by their deceased father, who thought him almost a natural. And a
wise man he must have been to think so! Mad himself, no doubt.’

Again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, I endeavoured to look quite
convinced also.

‘So I stepped in,’ said my aunt, ‘and made him an offer. I said, “Your
brother’s sane--a great deal more sane than you are, or ever will be, it
is to be hoped. Let him have his little income, and come and live with
me. I am not afraid of him, I am not proud, I am ready to take care
of him, and shall not ill-treat him as some people (besides the
asylum-folks) have done.” After a good deal of squabbling,’ said my
aunt, ‘I got him; and he has been here ever since. He is the most
friendly and amenable creature in existence; and as for advice!--But
nobody knows what that man’s mind is, except myself.’

My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her head, as if she smoothed
defiance of the whole world out of the one, and shook it out of the
other.

‘He had a favourite sister,’ said my aunt, ‘a good creature, and very
kind to him. But she did what they all do--took a husband. And HE did
what they all do--made her wretched. It had such an effect upon the mind
of Mr. Dick (that’s not madness, I hope!) that, combined with his fear
of his brother, and his sense of his unkindness, it threw him into a
fever. That was before he came to me, but the recollection of it is
oppressive to him even now. Did he say anything to you about King
Charles the First, child?’

‘Yes, aunt.’

‘Ah!’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a little vexed.
‘That’s his allegorical way of expressing it. He connects his illness
with great disturbance and agitation, naturally, and that’s the figure,
or the simile, or whatever it’s called, which he chooses to use. And why
shouldn’t he, if he thinks proper!’

I said: ‘Certainly, aunt.’

‘It’s not a business-like way of speaking,’ said my aunt, ‘nor a worldly
way. I am aware of that; and that’s the reason why I insist upon it,
that there shan’t be a word about it in his Memorial.’

‘Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writing, aunt?’

‘Yes, child,’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. ‘He is memorializing
the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody or other--one of those people,
at all events, who are paid to be memorialized--about his affairs. I
suppose it will go in, one of these days. He hasn’t been able to draw
it up yet, without introducing that mode of expressing himself; but it
don’t signify; it keeps him employed.’

In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for upwards
of ten years endeavouring to keep King Charles the First out of the
Memorial; but he had been constantly getting into it, and was there now.

‘I say again,’ said my aunt, ‘nobody knows what that man’s mind is
except myself; and he’s the most amenable and friendly creature in
existence. If he likes to fly a kite sometimes, what of that! Franklin
used to fly a kite. He was a Quaker, or something of that sort, if I
am not mistaken. And a Quaker flying a kite is a much more ridiculous
object than anybody else.’

If I could have supposed that my aunt had recounted these particulars
for my especial behoof, and as a piece of confidence in me, I should
have felt very much distinguished, and should have augured favourably
from such a mark of her good opinion. But I could hardly help observing
that she had launched into them, chiefly because the question was raised
in her own mind, and with very little reference to me, though she had
addressed herself to me in the absence of anybody else.

At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her championship
of poor harmless Mr. Dick, not only inspired my young breast with
some selfish hope for myself, but warmed it unselfishly towards her.
I believe that I began to know that there was something about my aunt,
notwithstanding her many eccentricities and odd humours, to be honoured
and trusted in. Though she was just as sharp that day as on the day
before, and was in and out about the donkeys just as often, and was
thrown into a tremendous state of indignation, when a young man, going
by, ogled Janet at a window (which was one of the gravest misdemeanours
that could be committed against my aunt’s dignity), she seemed to me to
command more of my respect, if not less of my fear.

The anxiety I underwent, in the interval which necessarily elapsed
before a reply could be received to her letter to Mr. Murdstone, was
extreme; but I made an endeavour to suppress it, and to be as agreeable
as I could in a quiet way, both to my aunt and Mr. Dick. The latter and
I would have gone out to fly the great kite; but that I had still no
other clothes than the anything but ornamental garments with which I
had been decorated on the first day, and which confined me to the house,
except for an hour after dark, when my aunt, for my health’s sake,
paraded me up and down on the cliff outside, before going to bed. At
length the reply from Mr. Murdstone came, and my aunt informed me, to my
infinite terror, that he was coming to speak to her herself on the next
day. On the next day, still bundled up in my curious habiliments, I sat
counting the time, flushed and heated by the conflict of sinking hopes
and rising fears within me; and waiting to be startled by the sight of
the gloomy face, whose non-arrival startled me every minute.

My aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usual, but I observed
no other token of her preparing herself to receive the visitor so much
dreaded by me. She sat at work in the window, and I sat by, with my
thoughts running astray on all possible and impossible results of Mr.
Murdstone’s visit, until pretty late in the afternoon. Our dinner had
been indefinitely postponed; but it was growing so late, that my aunt
had ordered it to be got ready, when she gave a sudden alarm of donkeys,
and to my consternation and amazement, I beheld Miss Murdstone, on a
side-saddle, ride deliberately over the sacred piece of green, and stop
in front of the house, looking about her.

‘Go along with you!’ cried my aunt, shaking her head and her fist at the
window. ‘You have no business there. How dare you trespass? Go along!
Oh! you bold-faced thing!’

My aunt was so exasperated by the coolness with which Miss Murdstone
looked about her, that I really believe she was motionless, and unable
for the moment to dart out according to custom. I seized the opportunity
to inform her who it was; and that the gentleman now coming near the
offender (for the way up was very steep, and he had dropped behind), was
Mr. Murdstone himself.

‘I don’t care who it is!’ cried my aunt, still shaking her head and
gesticulating anything but welcome from the bow-window. ‘I won’t be
trespassed upon. I won’t allow it. Go away! Janet, turn him round.
Lead him off!’ and I saw, from behind my aunt, a sort of hurried
battle-piece, in which the donkey stood resisting everybody, with all
his four legs planted different ways, while Janet tried to pull him
round by the bridle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead him on, Miss Murdstone
struck at Janet with a parasol, and several boys, who had come to see
the engagement, shouted vigorously. But my aunt, suddenly descrying
among them the young malefactor who was the donkey’s guardian, and who
was one of the most inveterate offenders against her, though hardly in
his teens, rushed out to the scene of action, pounced upon him, captured
him, dragged him, with his jacket over his head, and his heels grinding
the ground, into the garden, and, calling upon Janet to fetch the
constables and justices, that he might be taken, tried, and executed on
the spot, held him at bay there. This part of the business, however, did
not last long; for the young rascal, being expert at a variety of feints
and dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, soon went whooping away,
leaving some deep impressions of his nailed boots in the flower-beds,
and taking his donkey in triumph with him.

Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest, had
dismounted, and was now waiting with her brother at the bottom of the
steps, until my aunt should be at leisure to receive them. My aunt, a
little ruffled by the combat, marched past them into the house, with
great dignity, and took no notice of their presence, until they were
announced by Janet.

‘Shall I go away, aunt?’ I asked, trembling.

‘No, sir,’ said my aunt. ‘Certainly not!’ With which she pushed me into
a corner near her, and fenced Me in with a chair, as if it were a prison
or a bar of justice. This position I continued to occupy during the
whole interview, and from it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone enter the
room.

‘Oh!’ said my aunt, ‘I was not aware at first to whom I had the pleasure
of objecting. But I don’t allow anybody to ride over that turf. I make
no exceptions. I don’t allow anybody to do it.’

‘Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers,’ said Miss Murdstone.

‘Is it!’ said my aunt.

Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities, and interposing
began:

‘Miss Trotwood!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ observed my aunt with a keen look. ‘You are the Mr.
Murdstone who married the widow of my late nephew, David Copperfield, of
Blunderstone Rookery!--Though why Rookery, I don’t know!’

‘I am,’ said Mr. Murdstone.

‘You’ll excuse my saying, sir,’ returned my aunt, ‘that I think it would
have been a much better and happier thing if you had left that poor
child alone.’

‘I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,’ observed Miss
Murdstone, bridling, ‘that I consider our lamented Clara to have been,
in all essential respects, a mere child.’

‘It is a comfort to you and me, ma’am,’ said my aunt, ‘who are getting
on in life, and are not likely to be made unhappy by our personal
attractions, that nobody can say the same of us.’

‘No doubt!’ returned Miss Murdstone, though, I thought, not with a very
ready or gracious assent. ‘And it certainly might have been, as you say,
a better and happier thing for my brother if he had never entered into
such a marriage. I have always been of that opinion.’

‘I have no doubt you have,’ said my aunt. ‘Janet,’ ringing the bell, ‘my
compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to come down.’

Until he came, my aunt sat perfectly upright and stiff, frowning at the
wall. When he came, my aunt performed the ceremony of introduction.

‘Mr. Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judgement,’ said my
aunt, with emphasis, as an admonition to Mr. Dick, who was biting his
forefinger and looking rather foolish, ‘I rely.’

Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint, and stood among
the group, with a grave and attentive expression of face.

My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstone, who went on:

‘Miss Trotwood: on the receipt of your letter, I considered it an act of
greater justice to myself, and perhaps of more respect to you--’

‘Thank you,’ said my aunt, still eyeing him keenly. ‘You needn’t mind
me.’

‘To answer it in person, however inconvenient the journey,’ pursued Mr.
Murdstone, ‘rather than by letter. This unhappy boy who has run away
from his friends and his occupation--’

‘And whose appearance,’ interposed his sister, directing general
attention to me in my indefinable costume, ‘is perfectly scandalous and
disgraceful.’

‘Jane Murdstone,’ said her brother, ‘have the goodness not to interrupt
me. This unhappy boy, Miss Trotwood, has been the occasion of much
domestic trouble and uneasiness; both during the lifetime of my late
dear wife, and since. He has a sullen, rebellious spirit; a violent
temper; and an untoward, intractable disposition. Both my sister and
myself have endeavoured to correct his vices, but ineffectually. And
I have felt--we both have felt, I may say; my sister being fully in
my confidence--that it is right you should receive this grave and
dispassionate assurance from our lips.’

‘It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything stated by my
brother,’ said Miss Murdstone; ‘but I beg to observe, that, of all the
boys in the world, I believe this is the worst boy.’

‘Strong!’ said my aunt, shortly.

‘But not at all too strong for the facts,’ returned Miss Murdstone.

‘Ha!’ said my aunt. ‘Well, sir?’

‘I have my own opinions,’ resumed Mr. Murdstone, whose face darkened
more and more, the more he and my aunt observed each other, which they
did very narrowly, ‘as to the best mode of bringing him up; they are
founded, in part, on my knowledge of him, and in part on my knowledge of
my own means and resources. I am responsible for them to myself, I act
upon them, and I say no more about them. It is enough that I place this
boy under the eye of a friend of my own, in a respectable business;
that it does not please him; that he runs away from it; makes himself a
common vagabond about the country; and comes here, in rags, to appeal
to you, Miss Trotwood. I wish to set before you, honourably, the exact
consequences--so far as they are within my knowledge--of your abetting
him in this appeal.’

‘But about the respectable business first,’ said my aunt. ‘If he had
been your own boy, you would have put him to it, just the same, I
suppose?’

‘If he had been my brother’s own boy,’ returned Miss Murdstone, striking
in, ‘his character, I trust, would have been altogether different.’

‘Or if the poor child, his mother, had been alive, he would still have
gone into the respectable business, would he?’ said my aunt.

‘I believe,’ said Mr. Murdstone, with an inclination of his head,
‘that Clara would have disputed nothing which myself and my sister Jane
Murdstone were agreed was for the best.’

Miss Murdstone confirmed this with an audible murmur.

‘Humph!’ said my aunt. ‘Unfortunate baby!’

Mr. Dick, who had been rattling his money all this time, was rattling it
so loudly now, that my aunt felt it necessary to check him with a look,
before saying:

‘The poor child’s annuity died with her?’

‘Died with her,’ replied Mr. Murdstone.

‘And there was no settlement of the little property--the house and
garden--the what’s-its-name Rookery without any rooks in it--upon her
boy?’

‘It had been left to her, unconditionally, by her first husband,’
Mr. Murdstone began, when my aunt caught him up with the greatest
irascibility and impatience.

‘Good Lord, man, there’s no occasion to say that. Left to her
unconditionally! I think I see David Copperfield looking forward to any
condition of any sort or kind, though it stared him point-blank in the
face! Of course it was left to her unconditionally. But when she married
again--when she took that most disastrous step of marrying you, in
short,’ said my aunt, ‘to be plain--did no one put in a word for the boy
at that time?’

‘My late wife loved her second husband, ma’am,’ said Mr. Murdstone, ‘and
trusted implicitly in him.’

‘Your late wife, sir, was a most unworldly, most unhappy, most
unfortunate baby,’ returned my aunt, shaking her head at him. ‘That’s
what she was. And now, what have you got to say next?’

‘Merely this, Miss Trotwood,’ he returned. ‘I am here to take David
back--to take him back unconditionally, to dispose of him as I think
proper, and to deal with him as I think right. I am not here to make any
promise, or give any pledge to anybody. You may possibly have some
idea, Miss Trotwood, of abetting him in his running away, and in his
complaints to you. Your manner, which I must say does not seem intended
to propitiate, induces me to think it possible. Now I must caution you
that if you abet him once, you abet him for good and all; if you step
in between him and me, now, you must step in, Miss Trotwood, for ever.
I cannot trifle, or be trifled with. I am here, for the first and last
time, to take him away. Is he ready to go? If he is not--and you tell me
he is not; on any pretence; it is indifferent to me what--my doors are
shut against him henceforth, and yours, I take it for granted, are open
to him.’

To this address, my aunt had listened with the closest attention,
sitting perfectly upright, with her hands folded on one knee, and
looking grimly on the speaker. When he had finished, she turned her
eyes so as to command Miss Murdstone, without otherwise disturbing her
attitude, and said:

‘Well, ma’am, have YOU got anything to remark?’

‘Indeed, Miss Trotwood,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘all that I could say has
been so well said by my brother, and all that I know to be the fact
has been so plainly stated by him, that I have nothing to add except my
thanks for your politeness. For your very great politeness, I am sure,’
said Miss Murdstone; with an irony which no more affected my aunt, than
it discomposed the cannon I had slept by at Chatham.

‘And what does the boy say?’ said my aunt. ‘Are you ready to go, David?’

I answered no, and entreated her not to let me go. I said that neither
Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked me, or had ever been kind to me.
That they had made my mama, who always loved me dearly, unhappy about
me, and that I knew it well, and that Peggotty knew it. I said that I
had been more miserable than I thought anybody could believe, who only
knew how young I was. And I begged and prayed my aunt--I forget in
what terms now, but I remember that they affected me very much then--to
befriend and protect me, for my father’s sake.

‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘what shall I do with this child?’

Mr. Dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined, ‘Have him
measured for a suit of clothes directly.’

‘Mr. Dick,’ said my aunt triumphantly, ‘give me your hand, for your
common sense is invaluable.’ Having shaken it with great cordiality, she
pulled me towards her and said to Mr. Murdstone:

‘You can go when you like; I’ll take my chance with the boy. If he’s all
you say he is, at least I can do as much for him then, as you have done.
But I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘Miss Trotwood,’ rejoined Mr. Murdstone, shrugging his shoulders, as he
rose, ‘if you were a gentleman--’

‘Bah! Stuff and nonsense!’ said my aunt. ‘Don’t talk to me!’

‘How exquisitely polite!’ exclaimed Miss Murdstone, rising.
‘Overpowering, really!’

‘Do you think I don’t know,’ said my aunt, turning a deaf ear to the
sister, and continuing to address the brother, and to shake her head at
him with infinite expression, ‘what kind of life you must have led that
poor, unhappy, misdirected baby? Do you think I don’t know what a woeful
day it was for the soft little creature when you first came in her
way--smirking and making great eyes at her, I’ll be bound, as if you
couldn’t say boh! to a goose!’

‘I never heard anything so elegant!’ said Miss Murdstone.

‘Do you think I can’t understand you as well as if I had seen you,’
pursued my aunt, ‘now that I DO see and hear you--which, I tell you
candidly, is anything but a pleasure to me? Oh yes, bless us! who so
smooth and silky as Mr. Murdstone at first! The poor, benighted innocent
had never seen such a man. He was made of sweetness. He worshipped her.
He doted on her boy--tenderly doted on him! He was to be another father
to him, and they were all to live together in a garden of roses, weren’t
they? Ugh! Get along with you, do!’ said my aunt.

‘I never heard anything like this person in my life!’ exclaimed Miss
Murdstone.

‘And when you had made sure of the poor little fool,’ said my aunt--‘God
forgive me that I should call her so, and she gone where YOU won’t go in
a hurry--because you had not done wrong enough to her and hers, you
must begin to train her, must you? begin to break her, like a poor
caged bird, and wear her deluded life away, in teaching her to sing YOUR
notes?’

‘This is either insanity or intoxication,’ said Miss Murdstone, in a
perfect agony at not being able to turn the current of my aunt’s address
towards herself; ‘and my suspicion is that it’s intoxication.’

Miss Betsey, without taking the least notice of the interruption,
continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as if there had been no
such thing.

‘Mr. Murdstone,’ she said, shaking her finger at him, ‘you were a tyrant
to the simple baby, and you broke her heart. She was a loving baby--I
know that; I knew it, years before you ever saw her--and through the
best part of her weakness you gave her the wounds she died of. There
is the truth for your comfort, however you like it. And you and your
instruments may make the most of it.’

‘Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood,’ interposed Miss Murdstone,
‘whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of words in which I am not
experienced, my brother’s instruments?’

‘It was clear enough, as I have told you, years before YOU ever saw
her--and why, in the mysterious dispensations of Providence, you ever
did see her, is more than humanity can comprehend--it was clear enough
that the poor soft little thing would marry somebody, at some time or
other; but I did hope it wouldn’t have been as bad as it has turned out.
That was the time, Mr. Murdstone, when she gave birth to her boy here,’
said my aunt; ‘to the poor child you sometimes tormented her through
afterwards, which is a disagreeable remembrance and makes the sight of
him odious now. Aye, aye! you needn’t wince!’ said my aunt. ‘I know it’s
true without that.’

He had stood by the door, all this while, observant of her with a smile
upon his face, though his black eyebrows were heavily contracted. I
remarked now, that, though the smile was on his face still, his colour
had gone in a moment, and he seemed to breathe as if he had been
running.

‘Good day, sir,’ said my aunt, ‘and good-bye! Good day to you, too,
ma’am,’ said my aunt, turning suddenly upon his sister. ‘Let me see you
ride a donkey over my green again, and as sure as you have a head upon
your shoulders, I’ll knock your bonnet off, and tread upon it!’

It would require a painter, and no common painter too, to depict my
aunt’s face as she delivered herself of this very unexpected sentiment,
and Miss Murdstone’s face as she heard it. But the manner of the speech,
no less than the matter, was so fiery, that Miss Murdstone, without a
word in answer, discreetly put her arm through her brother’s, and walked
haughtily out of the cottage; my aunt remaining in the window looking
after them; prepared, I have no doubt, in case of the donkey’s
reappearance, to carry her threat into instant execution.

No attempt at defiance being made, however, her face gradually relaxed,
and became so pleasant, that I was emboldened to kiss and thank her;
which I did with great heartiness, and with both my arms clasped round
her neck. I then shook hands with Mr. Dick, who shook hands with me a
great many times, and hailed this happy close of the proceedings with
repeated bursts of laughter.

‘You’ll consider yourself guardian, jointly with me, of this child, Mr.
Dick,’ said my aunt.

‘I shall be delighted,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘to be the guardian of David’s
son.’

‘Very good,’ returned my aunt, ‘that’s settled. I have been thinking, do
you know, Mr. Dick, that I might call him Trotwood?’

‘Certainly, certainly. Call him Trotwood, certainly,’ said Mr. Dick.
‘David’s son’s Trotwood.’

‘Trotwood Copperfield, you mean,’ returned my aunt.

‘Yes, to be sure. Yes. Trotwood Copperfield,’ said Mr. Dick, a little
abashed.

My aunt took so kindly to the notion, that some ready-made clothes,
which were purchased for me that afternoon, were marked ‘Trotwood
Copperfield’, in her own handwriting, and in indelible marking-ink,
before I put them on; and it was settled that all the other clothes
which were ordered to be made for me (a complete outfit was bespoke that
afternoon) should be marked in the same way.

Thus I began my new life, in a new name, and with everything new about
me. Now that the state of doubt was over, I felt, for many days,
like one in a dream. I never thought that I had a curious couple of
guardians, in my aunt and Mr. Dick. I never thought of anything about
myself, distinctly. The two things clearest in my mind were, that a
remoteness had come upon the old Blunderstone life--which seemed to lie
in the haze of an immeasurable distance; and that a curtain had for ever
fallen on my life at Murdstone and Grinby’s. No one has ever raised that
curtain since. I have lifted it for a moment, even in this narrative,
with a reluctant hand, and dropped it gladly. The remembrance of that
life is fraught with so much pain to me, with so much mental suffering
and want of hope, that I have never had the courage even to examine how
long I was doomed to lead it. Whether it lasted for a year, or more, or
less, I do not know. I only know that it was, and ceased to be; and that
I have written, and there I leave it.



CHAPTER 15. I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING


Mr. Dick and I soon became the best of friends, and very often, when his
day’s work was done, went out together to fly the great kite. Every day
of his life he had a long sitting at the Memorial, which never made the
least progress, however hard he laboured, for King Charles the First
always strayed into it, sooner or later, and then it was thrown aside,
and another one begun. The patience and hope with which he bore these
perpetual disappointments, the mild perception he had that there was
something wrong about King Charles the First, the feeble efforts he made
to keep him out, and the certainty with which he came in, and tumbled
the Memorial out of all shape, made a deep impression on me. What Mr.
Dick supposed would come of the Memorial, if it were completed; where he
thought it was to go, or what he thought it was to do; he knew no more
than anybody else, I believe. Nor was it at all necessary that he should
trouble himself with such questions, for if anything were certain under
the sun, it was certain that the Memorial never would be finished. It
was quite an affecting sight, I used to think, to see him with the kite
when it was up a great height in the air. What he had told me, in his
room, about his belief in its disseminating the statements pasted on it,
which were nothing but old leaves of abortive Memorials, might have been
a fancy with him sometimes; but not when he was out, looking up at
the kite in the sky, and feeling it pull and tug at his hand. He never
looked so serene as he did then. I used to fancy, as I sat by him of an
evening, on a green slope, and saw him watch the kite high in the quiet
air, that it lifted his mind out of its confusion, and bore it (such was
my boyish thought) into the skies. As he wound the string in and it came
lower and lower down out of the beautiful light, until it fluttered to
the ground, and lay there like a dead thing, he seemed to wake gradually
out of a dream; and I remember to have seen him take it up, and look
about him in a lost way, as if they had both come down together, so that
I pitied him with all my heart.

While I advanced in friendship and intimacy with Mr. Dick, I did not
go backward in the favour of his staunch friend, my aunt. She took
so kindly to me, that, in the course of a few weeks, she shortened my
adopted name of Trotwood into Trot; and even encouraged me to hope, that
if I went on as I had begun, I might take equal rank in her affections
with my sister Betsey Trotwood.

‘Trot,’ said my aunt one evening, when the backgammon-board was placed
as usual for herself and Mr. Dick, ‘we must not forget your education.’

This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite delighted by her
referring to it.

‘Should you like to go to school at Canterbury?’ said my aunt.

I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so near her.

‘Good,’ said my aunt. ‘Should you like to go tomorrow?’

Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my aunt’s
evolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of the proposal, and
said: ‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ said my aunt again. ‘Janet, hire the grey pony and chaise
tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and pack up Master Trotwood’s clothes
tonight.’

I was greatly elated by these orders; but my heart smote me for my
selfishness, when I witnessed their effect on Mr. Dick, who was so
low-spirited at the prospect of our separation, and played so ill in
consequence, that my aunt, after giving him several admonitory raps on
the knuckles with her dice-box, shut up the board, and declined to play
with him any more. But, on hearing from my aunt that I should sometimes
come over on a Saturday, and that he could sometimes come and see me
on a Wednesday, he revived; and vowed to make another kite for those
occasions, of proportions greatly surpassing the present one. In the
morning he was downhearted again, and would have sustained himself by
giving me all the money he had in his possession, gold and silver too,
if my aunt had not interposed, and limited the gift to five shillings,
which, at his earnest petition, were afterwards increased to ten. We
parted at the garden-gate in a most affectionate manner, and Mr. Dick
did not go into the house until my aunt had driven me out of sight of
it.

My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to public opinion, drove the grey
pony through Dover in a masterly manner; sitting high and stiff like
a state coachman, keeping a steady eye upon him wherever he went, and
making a point of not letting him have his own way in any respect. When
we came into the country road, she permitted him to relax a little,
however; and looking at me down in a valley of cushion by her side,
asked me whether I was happy?

‘Very happy indeed, thank you, aunt,’ I said.

She was much gratified; and both her hands being occupied, patted me on
the head with her whip.

‘Is it a large school, aunt?’ I asked.

‘Why, I don’t know,’ said my aunt. ‘We are going to Mr. Wickfield’s
first.’

‘Does he keep a school?’ I asked.

‘No, Trot,’ said my aunt. ‘He keeps an office.’

I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as she offered
none, and we conversed on other subjects until we came to Canterbury,
where, as it was market-day, my aunt had a great opportunity of
insinuating the grey pony among carts, baskets, vegetables, and
huckster’s goods. The hair-breadth turns and twists we made, drew down
upon us a variety of speeches from the people standing about, which
were not always complimentary; but my aunt drove on with perfect
indifference, and I dare say would have taken her own way with as much
coolness through an enemy’s country.

At length we stopped before a very old house bulging out over the road;
a house with long low lattice-windows bulging out still farther, and
beams with carved heads on the ends bulging out too, so that I fancied
the whole house was leaning forward, trying to see who was passing on
the narrow pavement below. It was quite spotless in its cleanliness.
The old-fashioned brass knocker on the low arched door, ornamented with
carved garlands of fruit and flowers, twinkled like a star; the two
stone steps descending to the door were as white as if they had been
covered with fair linen; and all the angles and corners, and carvings
and mouldings, and quaint little panes of glass, and quainter little
windows, though as old as the hills, were as pure as any snow that ever
fell upon the hills.

When the pony-chaise stopped at the door, and my eyes were intent upon
the house, I saw a cadaverous face appear at a small window on the
ground floor (in a little round tower that formed one side of the
house), and quickly disappear. The low arched door then opened, and
the face came out. It was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the
window, though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red which is
sometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired people. It belonged
to a red-haired person--a youth of fifteen, as I take it now, but
looking much older--whose hair was cropped as close as the closest
stubble; who had hardly any eyebrows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a
red-brown, so unsheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he
went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black,
with a white wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a
long, lank, skeleton hand, which particularly attracted my attention, as
he stood at the pony’s head, rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at
us in the chaise.

‘Is Mr. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep?’ said my aunt.

‘Mr. Wickfield’s at home, ma’am,’ said Uriah Heep, ‘if you’ll please to
walk in there’--pointing with his long hand to the room he meant.

We got out; and leaving him to hold the pony, went into a long low
parlour looking towards the street, from the window of which I caught a
glimpse, as I went in, of Uriah Heep breathing into the pony’s nostrils,
and immediately covering them with his hand, as if he were putting
some spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney-piece were two
portraits: one of a gentleman with grey hair (though not by any means
an old man) and black eyebrows, who was looking over some papers tied
together with red tape; the other, of a lady, with a very placid and
sweet expression of face, who was looking at me.

I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah’s picture, when, a door
at the farther end of the room opening, a gentleman entered, at sight of
whom I turned to the first-mentioned portrait again, to make quite sure
that it had not come out of its frame. But it was stationary; and as the
gentleman advanced into the light, I saw that he was some years older
than when he had had his picture painted.

‘Miss Betsey Trotwood,’ said the gentleman, ‘pray walk in. I was engaged
for a moment, but you’ll excuse my being busy. You know my motive. I
have but one in life.’

Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his room, which was furnished
as an office, with books, papers, tin boxes, and so forth. It looked
into a garden, and had an iron safe let into the wall; so immediately
over the mantelshelf, that I wondered, as I sat down, how the sweeps got
round it when they swept the chimney.

‘Well, Miss Trotwood,’ said Mr. Wickfield; for I soon found that it
was he, and that he was a lawyer, and steward of the estates of a rich
gentleman of the county; ‘what wind blows you here? Not an ill wind, I
hope?’

‘No,’ replied my aunt. ‘I have not come for any law.’

‘That’s right, ma’am,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘You had better come for
anything else.’ His hair was quite white now, though his eyebrows were
still black. He had a very agreeable face, and, I thought, was handsome.
There was a certain richness in his complexion, which I had been long
accustomed, under Peggotty’s tuition, to connect with port wine; and I
fancied it was in his voice too, and referred his growing corpulency
to the same cause. He was very cleanly dressed, in a blue coat, striped
waistcoat, and nankeen trousers; and his fine frilled shirt and cambric
neckcloth looked unusually soft and white, reminding my strolling fancy
(I call to mind) of the plumage on the breast of a swan.

‘This is my nephew,’ said my aunt.

‘Wasn’t aware you had one, Miss Trotwood,’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘My grand-nephew, that is to say,’ observed my aunt.

‘Wasn’t aware you had a grand-nephew, I give you my word,’ said Mr.
Wickfield.

‘I have adopted him,’ said my aunt, with a wave of her hand, importing
that his knowledge and his ignorance were all one to her, ‘and I have
brought him here, to put to a school where he may be thoroughly well
taught, and well treated. Now tell me where that school is, and what it
is, and all about it.’

‘Before I can advise you properly,’ said Mr. Wickfield--‘the old
question, you know. What’s your motive in this?’

‘Deuce take the man!’ exclaimed my aunt. ‘Always fishing for motives,
when they’re on the surface! Why, to make the child happy and useful.’

‘It must be a mixed motive, I think,’ said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his
head and smiling incredulously.

‘A mixed fiddlestick,’ returned my aunt. ‘You claim to have one plain
motive in all you do yourself. You don’t suppose, I hope, that you are
the only plain dealer in the world?’

‘Ay, but I have only one motive in life, Miss Trotwood,’ he rejoined,
smiling. ‘Other people have dozens, scores, hundreds. I have only one.
There’s the difference. However, that’s beside the question. The best
school? Whatever the motive, you want the best?’

My aunt nodded assent.

‘At the best we have,’ said Mr. Wickfield, considering, ‘your nephew
couldn’t board just now.’

‘But he could board somewhere else, I suppose?’ suggested my aunt.

Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a little discussion, he proposed to
take my aunt to the school, that she might see it and judge for herself;
also, to take her, with the same object, to two or three houses where he
thought I could be boarded. My aunt embracing the proposal, we were all
three going out together, when he stopped and said:

‘Our little friend here might have some motive, perhaps, for objecting
to the arrangements. I think we had better leave him behind?’

My aunt seemed disposed to contest the point; but to facilitate matters
I said I would gladly remain behind, if they pleased; and returned into
Mr. Wickfield’s office, where I sat down again, in the chair I had first
occupied, to await their return.

It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow passage, which
ended in the little circular room where I had seen Uriah Heep’s pale
face looking out of the window. Uriah, having taken the pony to a
neighbouring stable, was at work at a desk in this room, which had a
brass frame on the top to hang paper upon, and on which the writing he
was making a copy of was then hanging. Though his face was towards me, I
thought, for some time, the writing being between us, that he could not
see me; but looking that way more attentively, it made me uncomfortable
to observe that, every now and then, his sleepless eyes would come below
the writing, like two red suns, and stealthily stare at me for I dare
say a whole minute at a time, during which his pen went, or pretended
to go, as cleverly as ever. I made several attempts to get out of their
way--such as standing on a chair to look at a map on the other side of
the room, and poring over the columns of a Kentish newspaper--but they
always attracted me back again; and whenever I looked towards those two
red suns, I was sure to find them, either just rising or just setting.

At length, much to my relief, my aunt and Mr. Wickfield came back,
after a pretty long absence. They were not so successful as I could have
wished; for though the advantages of the school were undeniable, my aunt
had not approved of any of the boarding-houses proposed for me.

‘It’s very unfortunate,’ said my aunt. ‘I don’t know what to do, Trot.’

‘It does happen unfortunately,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘But I’ll tell you
what you can do, Miss Trotwood.’

‘What’s that?’ inquired my aunt.

‘Leave your nephew here, for the present. He’s a quiet fellow. He
won’t disturb me at all. It’s a capital house for study. As quiet as a
monastery, and almost as roomy. Leave him here.’

My aunt evidently liked the offer, though she was delicate of accepting
it. So did I. ‘Come, Miss Trotwood,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘This is the
way out of the difficulty. It’s only a temporary arrangement, you know.
If it don’t act well, or don’t quite accord with our mutual convenience,
he can easily go to the right-about. There will be time to find some
better place for him in the meanwhile. You had better determine to leave
him here for the present!’

‘I am very much obliged to you,’ said my aunt; ‘and so is he, I see;
but--’

‘Come! I know what you mean,’ cried Mr. Wickfield. ‘You shall not be
oppressed by the receipt of favours, Miss Trotwood. You may pay for
him, if you like. We won’t be hard about terms, but you shall pay if you
will.’

‘On that understanding,’ said my aunt, ‘though it doesn’t lessen the
real obligation, I shall be very glad to leave him.’

‘Then come and see my little housekeeper,’ said Mr. Wickfield.

We accordingly went up a wonderful old staircase; with a balustrade
so broad that we might have gone up that, almost as easily; and into
a shady old drawing-room, lighted by some three or four of the quaint
windows I had looked up at from the street: which had old oak seats
in them, that seemed to have come of the same trees as the shining oak
floor, and the great beams in the ceiling. It was a prettily furnished
room, with a piano and some lively furniture in red and green, and some
flowers. It seemed to be all old nooks and corners; and in every nook
and corner there was some queer little table, or cupboard, or bookcase,
or seat, or something or other, that made me think there was not such
another good corner in the room; until I looked at the next one, and
found it equal to it, if not better. On everything there was the same
air of retirement and cleanliness that marked the house outside.

Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner of the panelled wall, and a
girl of about my own age came quickly out and kissed him. On her face,
I saw immediately the placid and sweet expression of the lady whose
picture had looked at me downstairs. It seemed to my imagination as
if the portrait had grown womanly, and the original remained a child.
Although her face was quite bright and happy, there was a tranquillity
about it, and about her--a quiet, good, calm spirit--that I never have
forgotten; that I shall never forget. This was his little housekeeper,
his daughter Agnes, Mr. Wickfield said. When I heard how he said it, and
saw how he held her hand, I guessed what the one motive of his life was.

She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her side, with keys in it; and
she looked as staid and as discreet a housekeeper as the old house
could have. She listened to her father as he told her about me, with a
pleasant face; and when he had concluded, proposed to my aunt that we
should go upstairs and see my room. We all went together, she before us:
and a glorious old room it was, with more oak beams, and diamond panes;
and the broad balustrade going all the way up to it.

I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I had seen a
stained glass window in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject. But
I know that when I saw her turn round, in the grave light of the old
staircase, and wait for us, above, I thought of that window; and I
associated something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfield
ever afterwards.

My aunt was as happy as I was, in the arrangement made for me; and we
went down to the drawing-room again, well pleased and gratified. As she
would not hear of staying to dinner, lest she should by any chance fail
to arrive at home with the grey pony before dark; and as I apprehend Mr.
Wickfield knew her too well to argue any point with her; some lunch was
provided for her there, and Agnes went back to her governess, and Mr.
Wickfield to his office. So we were left to take leave of one another
without any restraint.

She told me that everything would be arranged for me by Mr. Wickfield,
and that I should want for nothing, and gave me the kindest words and
the best advice.

‘Trot,’ said my aunt in conclusion, ‘be a credit to yourself, to me, and
Mr. Dick, and Heaven be with you!’

I was greatly overcome, and could only thank her, again and again, and
send my love to Mr. Dick.

‘Never,’ said my aunt, ‘be mean in anything; never be false; never be
cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I can always be hopeful of
you.’

I promised, as well as I could, that I would not abuse her kindness or
forget her admonition.

‘The pony’s at the door,’ said my aunt, ‘and I am off! Stay here.’ With
these words she embraced me hastily, and went out of the room, shutting
the door after her. At first I was startled by so abrupt a departure,
and almost feared I had displeased her; but when I looked into the
street, and saw how dejectedly she got into the chaise, and drove away
without looking up, I understood her better and did not do her that
injustice.

By five o’clock, which was Mr. Wickfield’s dinner-hour, I had mustered
up my spirits again, and was ready for my knife and fork. The cloth was
only laid for us two; but Agnes was waiting in the drawing-room before
dinner, went down with her father, and sat opposite to him at table. I
doubted whether he could have dined without her.

We did not stay there, after dinner, but came upstairs into the
drawing-room again: in one snug corner of which, Agnes set glasses for
her father, and a decanter of port wine. I thought he would have missed
its usual flavour, if it had been put there for him by any other hands.

There he sat, taking his wine, and taking a good deal of it, for two
hours; while Agnes played on the piano, worked, and talked to him and
me. He was, for the most part, gay and cheerful with us; but sometimes
his eyes rested on her, and he fell into a brooding state, and was
silent. She always observed this quickly, I thought, and always roused
him with a question or caress. Then he came out of his meditation, and
drank more wine.

Agnes made the tea, and presided over it; and the time passed away after
it, as after dinner, until she went to bed; when her father took her
in his arms and kissed her, and, she being gone, ordered candles in his
office. Then I went to bed too.

But in the course of the evening I had rambled down to the door, and a
little way along the street, that I might have another peep at the old
houses, and the grey Cathedral; and might think of my coming through
that old city on my journey, and of my passing the very house I lived
in, without knowing it. As I came back, I saw Uriah Heep shutting up
the office; and feeling friendly towards everybody, went in and spoke
to him, and at parting, gave him my hand. But oh, what a clammy hand his
was! as ghostly to the touch as to the sight! I rubbed mine afterwards,
to warm it, AND TO RUB HIS OFF.

It was such an uncomfortable hand, that, when I went to my room, it was
still cold and wet upon my memory. Leaning out of the window, and seeing
one of the faces on the beam-ends looking at me sideways, I fancied it
was Uriah Heep got up there somehow, and shut him out in a hurry.



CHAPTER 16. I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE


Next morning, after breakfast, I entered on school life again. I went,
accompanied by Mr. Wickfield, to the scene of my future studies--a grave
building in a courtyard, with a learned air about it that seemed very
well suited to the stray rooks and jackdaws who came down from the
Cathedral towers to walk with a clerkly bearing on the grass-plot--and
was introduced to my new master, Doctor Strong.

Doctor Strong looked almost as rusty, to my thinking, as the tall iron
rails and gates outside the house; and almost as stiff and heavy as the
great stone urns that flanked them, and were set up, on the top of
the red-brick wall, at regular distances all round the court, like
sublimated skittles, for Time to play at. He was in his library (I mean
Doctor Strong was), with his clothes not particularly well brushed, and
his hair not particularly well combed; his knee-smalls unbraced; his
long black gaiters unbuttoned; and his shoes yawning like two caverns on
the hearth-rug. Turning upon me a lustreless eye, that reminded me of
a long-forgotten blind old horse who once used to crop the grass, and
tumble over the graves, in Blunderstone churchyard, he said he was glad
to see me: and then he gave me his hand; which I didn’t know what to do
with, as it did nothing for itself.

But, sitting at work, not far from Doctor Strong, was a very pretty
young lady--whom he called Annie, and who was his daughter, I
supposed--who got me out of my difficulty by kneeling down to put Doctor
Strong’s shoes on, and button his gaiters, which she did with great
cheerfulness and quickness. When she had finished, and we were going
out to the schoolroom, I was much surprised to hear Mr. Wickfield,
in bidding her good morning, address her as ‘Mrs. Strong’; and I was
wondering could she be Doctor Strong’s son’s wife, or could she be Mrs.
Doctor Strong, when Doctor Strong himself unconsciously enlightened me.

‘By the by, Wickfield,’ he said, stopping in a passage with his hand on
my shoulder; ‘you have not found any suitable provision for my wife’s
cousin yet?’

‘No,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘No. Not yet.’

‘I could wish it done as soon as it can be done, Wickfield,’ said
Doctor Strong, ‘for Jack Maldon is needy, and idle; and of those two
bad things, worse things sometimes come. What does Doctor Watts say,’ he
added, looking at me, and moving his head to the time of his quotation,
‘“Satan finds some mischief still, for idle hands to do.”’

‘Egad, Doctor,’ returned Mr. Wickfield, ‘if Doctor Watts knew mankind,
he might have written, with as much truth, “Satan finds some mischief
still, for busy hands to do.” The busy people achieve their full share
of mischief in the world, you may rely upon it. What have the people
been about, who have been the busiest in getting money, and in getting
power, this century or two? No mischief?’

‘Jack Maldon will never be very busy in getting either, I expect,’ said
Doctor Strong, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Mr. Wickfield; ‘and you bring me back to the
question, with an apology for digressing. No, I have not been able
to dispose of Mr. Jack Maldon yet. I believe,’ he said this with some
hesitation, ‘I penetrate your motive, and it makes the thing more
difficult.’

‘My motive,’ returned Doctor Strong, ‘is to make some suitable provision
for a cousin, and an old playfellow, of Annie’s.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mr. Wickfield; ‘at home or abroad.’

‘Aye!’ replied the Doctor, apparently wondering why he emphasized those
words so much. ‘At home or abroad.’

‘Your own expression, you know,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Or abroad.’

‘Surely,’ the Doctor answered. ‘Surely. One or other.’

‘One or other? Have you no choice?’ asked Mr. Wickfield.

‘No,’ returned the Doctor.

‘No?’ with astonishment.

‘Not the least.’

‘No motive,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘for meaning abroad, and not at home?’

‘No,’ returned the Doctor.

‘I am bound to believe you, and of course I do believe you,’ said Mr.
Wickfield. ‘It might have simplified my office very much, if I had known
it before. But I confess I entertained another impression.’

Doctor Strong regarded him with a puzzled and doubting look,
which almost immediately subsided into a smile that gave me great
encouragement; for it was full of amiability and sweetness, and there
was a simplicity in it, and indeed in his whole manner, when the
studious, pondering frost upon it was got through, very attractive and
hopeful to a young scholar like me. Repeating ‘no’, and ‘not the least’,
and other short assurances to the same purport, Doctor Strong jogged
on before us, at a queer, uneven pace; and we followed: Mr. Wickfield,
looking grave, I observed, and shaking his head to himself, without
knowing that I saw him.

The schoolroom was a pretty large hall, on the quietest side of the
house, confronted by the stately stare of some half-dozen of the great
urns, and commanding a peep of an old secluded garden belonging to the
Doctor, where the peaches were ripening on the sunny south wall. There
were two great aloes, in tubs, on the turf outside the windows; the
broad hard leaves of which plant (looking as if they were made of
painted tin) have ever since, by association, been symbolical to me
of silence and retirement. About five-and-twenty boys were studiously
engaged at their books when we went in, but they rose to give the Doctor
good morning, and remained standing when they saw Mr. Wickfield and me.

‘A new boy, young gentlemen,’ said the Doctor; ‘Trotwood Copperfield.’

One Adams, who was the head-boy, then stepped out of his place and
welcomed me. He looked like a young clergyman, in his white cravat, but
he was very affable and good-humoured; and he showed me my place, and
presented me to the masters, in a gentlemanly way that would have put me
at my ease, if anything could.

It seemed to me so long, however, since I had been among such boys,
or among any companions of my own age, except Mick Walker and Mealy
Potatoes, that I felt as strange as ever I have done in my life. I was
so conscious of having passed through scenes of which they could have
no knowledge, and of having acquired experiences foreign to my age,
appearance, and condition as one of them, that I half believed it was an
imposture to come there as an ordinary little schoolboy. I had become,
in the Murdstone and Grinby time, however short or long it may have
been, so unused to the sports and games of boys, that I knew I was
awkward and inexperienced in the commonest things belonging to them.
Whatever I had learnt, had so slipped away from me in the sordid cares
of my life from day to night, that now, when I was examined about what
I knew, I knew nothing, and was put into the lowest form of the school.
But, troubled as I was, by my want of boyish skill, and of book-learning
too, I was made infinitely more uncomfortable by the consideration,
that, in what I did know, I was much farther removed from my companions
than in what I did not. My mind ran upon what they would think, if they
knew of my familiar acquaintance with the King’s Bench Prison? Was there
anything about me which would reveal my proceedings in connexion with
the Micawber family--all those pawnings, and sellings, and suppers--in
spite of myself? Suppose some of the boys had seen me coming through
Canterbury, wayworn and ragged, and should find me out? What would they
say, who made so light of money, if they could know how I had scraped my
halfpence together, for the purchase of my daily saveloy and beer, or
my slices of pudding? How would it affect them, who were so innocent of
London life, and London streets, to discover how knowing I was (and was
ashamed to be) in some of the meanest phases of both? All this ran in
my head so much, on that first day at Doctor Strong’s, that I felt
distrustful of my slightest look and gesture; shrunk within myself
whensoever I was approached by one of my new schoolfellows; and hurried
off the minute school was over, afraid of committing myself in my
response to any friendly notice or advance.

But there was such an influence in Mr. Wickfield’s old house, that when
I knocked at it, with my new school-books under my arm, I began to feel
my uneasiness softening away. As I went up to my airy old room, the
grave shadow of the staircase seemed to fall upon my doubts and fears,
and to make the past more indistinct. I sat there, sturdily conning my
books, until dinner-time (we were out of school for good at three); and
went down, hopeful of becoming a passable sort of boy yet.

Agnes was in the drawing-room, waiting for her father, who was detained
by someone in his office. She met me with her pleasant smile, and asked
me how I liked the school. I told her I should like it very much, I
hoped; but I was a little strange to it at first.

‘You have never been to school,’ I said, ‘have you?’ ‘Oh yes! Every
day.’

‘Ah, but you mean here, at your own home?’

‘Papa couldn’t spare me to go anywhere else,’ she answered, smiling and
shaking her head. ‘His housekeeper must be in his house, you know.’

‘He is very fond of you, I am sure,’ I said.

She nodded ‘Yes,’ and went to the door to listen for his coming up, that
she might meet him on the stairs. But, as he was not there, she came
back again.

‘Mama has been dead ever since I was born,’ she said, in her quiet way.
‘I only know her picture, downstairs. I saw you looking at it yesterday.
Did you think whose it was?’

I told her yes, because it was so like herself.

‘Papa says so, too,’ said Agnes, pleased. ‘Hark! That’s papa now!’

Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went to meet him,
and as they came in, hand in hand. He greeted me cordially; and told
me I should certainly be happy under Doctor Strong, who was one of the
gentlest of men.

‘There may be some, perhaps--I don’t know that there are--who abuse
his kindness,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Never be one of those, Trotwood, in
anything. He is the least suspicious of mankind; and whether that’s
a merit, or whether it’s a blemish, it deserves consideration in all
dealings with the Doctor, great or small.’

He spoke, I thought, as if he were weary, or dissatisfied with
something; but I did not pursue the question in my mind, for dinner was
just then announced, and we went down and took the same seats as before.

We had scarcely done so, when Uriah Heep put in his red head and his
lank hand at the door, and said:

‘Here’s Mr. Maldon begs the favour of a word, sir.’

‘I am but this moment quit of Mr. Maldon,’ said his master.

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Uriah; ‘but Mr. Maldon has come back, and he begs
the favour of a word.’

As he held the door open with his hand, Uriah looked at me, and looked
at Agnes, and looked at the dishes, and looked at the plates, and looked
at every object in the room, I thought,--yet seemed to look at nothing;
he made such an appearance all the while of keeping his red eyes
dutifully on his master. ‘I beg your pardon. It’s only to say, on
reflection,’ observed a voice behind Uriah, as Uriah’s head was
pushed away, and the speaker’s substituted--‘pray excuse me for this
intrusion--that as it seems I have no choice in the matter, the sooner
I go abroad the better. My cousin Annie did say, when we talked of it,
that she liked to have her friends within reach rather than to have them
banished, and the old Doctor--’

‘Doctor Strong, was that?’ Mr. Wickfield interposed, gravely.

‘Doctor Strong, of course,’ returned the other; ‘I call him the old
Doctor; it’s all the same, you know.’

‘I don’t know,’ returned Mr. Wickfield.

‘Well, Doctor Strong,’ said the other--‘Doctor Strong was of the same
mind, I believed. But as it appears from the course you take with me he
has changed his mind, why there’s no more to be said, except that the
sooner I am off, the better. Therefore, I thought I’d come back and say,
that the sooner I am off the better. When a plunge is to be made into
the water, it’s of no use lingering on the bank.’

‘There shall be as little lingering as possible, in your case, Mr.
Maldon, you may depend upon it,’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘Thank’ee,’ said the other. ‘Much obliged. I don’t want to look a
gift-horse in the mouth, which is not a gracious thing to do; otherwise,
I dare say, my cousin Annie could easily arrange it in her own way. I
suppose Annie would only have to say to the old Doctor--’

‘Meaning that Mrs. Strong would only have to say to her husband--do I
follow you?’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘Quite so,’ returned the other, ‘--would only have to say, that she
wanted such and such a thing to be so and so; and it would be so and so,
as a matter of course.’

‘And why as a matter of course, Mr. Maldon?’ asked Mr. Wickfield,
sedately eating his dinner.

‘Why, because Annie’s a charming young girl, and the old Doctor--Doctor
Strong, I mean--is not quite a charming young boy,’ said Mr. Jack
Maldon, laughing. ‘No offence to anybody, Mr. Wickfield. I only mean
that I suppose some compensation is fair and reasonable in that sort of
marriage.’

‘Compensation to the lady, sir?’ asked Mr. Wickfield gravely.

‘To the lady, sir,’ Mr. Jack Maldon answered, laughing. But appearing
to remark that Mr. Wickfield went on with his dinner in the same sedate,
immovable manner, and that there was no hope of making him relax a
muscle of his face, he added: ‘However, I have said what I came to say,
and, with another apology for this intrusion, I may take myself off. Of
course I shall observe your directions, in considering the matter as one
to be arranged between you and me solely, and not to be referred to, up
at the Doctor’s.’

‘Have you dined?’ asked Mr. Wickfield, with a motion of his hand towards
the table.

‘Thank’ee. I am going to dine,’ said Mr. Maldon, ‘with my cousin Annie.
Good-bye!’

Mr. Wickfield, without rising, looked after him thoughtfully as he went
out. He was rather a shallow sort of young gentleman, I thought, with
a handsome face, a rapid utterance, and a confident, bold air. And this
was the first I ever saw of Mr. Jack Maldon; whom I had not expected to
see so soon, when I heard the Doctor speak of him that morning.

When we had dined, we went upstairs again, where everything went on
exactly as on the previous day. Agnes set the glasses and decanters in
the same corner, and Mr. Wickfield sat down to drink, and drank a good
deal. Agnes played the piano to him, sat by him, and worked and talked,
and played some games at dominoes with me. In good time she made tea;
and afterwards, when I brought down my books, looked into them, and
showed me what she knew of them (which was no slight matter, though she
said it was), and what was the best way to learn and understand them.
I see her, with her modest, orderly, placid manner, and I hear her
beautiful calm voice, as I write these words. The influence for all
good, which she came to exercise over me at a later time, begins
already to descend upon my breast. I love little Em’ly, and I don’t love
Agnes--no, not at all in that way--but I feel that there are goodness,
peace, and truth, wherever Agnes is; and that the soft light of the
coloured window in the church, seen long ago, falls on her always, and
on me when I am near her, and on everything around.

The time having come for her withdrawal for the night, and she having
left us, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory to going away myself.
But he checked me and said: ‘Should you like to stay with us, Trotwood,
or to go elsewhere?’

‘To stay,’ I answered, quickly.

‘You are sure?’

‘If you please. If I may!’

‘Why, it’s but a dull life that we lead here, boy, I am afraid,’ he
said.

‘Not more dull for me than Agnes, sir. Not dull at all!’

‘Than Agnes,’ he repeated, walking slowly to the great chimney-piece,
and leaning against it. ‘Than Agnes!’

He had drank wine that evening (or I fancied it), until his eyes were
bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for they were cast down, and
shaded by his hand; but I had noticed them a little while before.

‘Now I wonder,’ he muttered, ‘whether my Agnes tires of me. When should
I ever tire of her! But that’s different, that’s quite different.’

He was musing, not speaking to me; so I remained quiet.

‘A dull old house,’ he said, ‘and a monotonous life; but I must have
her near me. I must keep her near me. If the thought that I may die and
leave my darling, or that my darling may die and leave me, comes like a
spectre, to distress my happiest hours, and is only to be drowned in--’

He did not supply the word; but pacing slowly to the place where he had
sat, and mechanically going through the action of pouring wine from the
empty decanter, set it down and paced back again.

‘If it is miserable to bear, when she is here,’ he said, ‘what would it
be, and she away? No, no, no. I cannot try that.’

He leaned against the chimney-piece, brooding so long that I could not
decide whether to run the risk of disturbing him by going, or to remain
quietly where I was, until he should come out of his reverie. At length
he aroused himself, and looked about the room until his eyes encountered
mine.

‘Stay with us, Trotwood, eh?’ he said in his usual manner, and as if
he were answering something I had just said. ‘I am glad of it. You are
company to us both. It is wholesome to have you here. Wholesome for me,
wholesome for Agnes, wholesome perhaps for all of us.’

‘I am sure it is for me, sir,’ I said. ‘I am so glad to be here.’

‘That’s a fine fellow!’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘As long as you are glad
to be here, you shall stay here.’ He shook hands with me upon it, and
clapped me on the back; and told me that when I had anything to do
at night after Agnes had left us, or when I wished to read for my own
pleasure, I was free to come down to his room, if he were there and if
I desired it for company’s sake, and to sit with him. I thanked him for
his consideration; and, as he went down soon afterwards, and I was
not tired, went down too, with a book in my hand, to avail myself, for
half-an-hour, of his permission.

But, seeing a light in the little round office, and immediately feeling
myself attracted towards Uriah Heep, who had a sort of fascination for
me, I went in there instead. I found Uriah reading a great fat book,
with such demonstrative attention, that his lank forefinger followed up
every line as he read, and made clammy tracks along the page (or so I
fully believed) like a snail.

‘You are working late tonight, Uriah,’ says I.

‘Yes, Master Copperfield,’ says Uriah.

As I was getting on the stool opposite, to talk to him more
conveniently, I observed that he had not such a thing as a smile about
him, and that he could only widen his mouth and make two hard creases
down his cheeks, one on each side, to stand for one.

‘I am not doing office-work, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah.

‘What work, then?’ I asked.

‘I am improving my legal knowledge, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah. ‘I
am going through Tidd’s Practice. Oh, what a writer Mr. Tidd is, Master
Copperfield!’

My stool was such a tower of observation, that as I watched him reading
on again, after this rapturous exclamation, and following up the lines
with his forefinger, I observed that his nostrils, which were thin and
pointed, with sharp dints in them, had a singular and most uncomfortable
way of expanding and contracting themselves--that they seemed to twinkle
instead of his eyes, which hardly ever twinkled at all.

‘I suppose you are quite a great lawyer?’ I said, after looking at him
for some time.

‘Me, Master Copperfield?’ said Uriah. ‘Oh, no! I’m a very umble person.’

It was no fancy of mine about his hands, I observed; for he frequently
ground the palms against each other as if to squeeze them dry and
warm, besides often wiping them, in a stealthy way, on his
pocket-handkerchief.

‘I am well aware that I am the umblest person going,’ said Uriah Heep,
modestly; ‘let the other be where he may. My mother is likewise a very
umble person. We live in a numble abode, Master Copperfield, but have
much to be thankful for. My father’s former calling was umble. He was a
sexton.’

‘What is he now?’ I asked.

‘He is a partaker of glory at present, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah
Heep. ‘But we have much to be thankful for. How much have I to be
thankful for in living with Mr. Wickfield!’

I asked Uriah if he had been with Mr. Wickfield long?

‘I have been with him, going on four year, Master Copperfield,’ said
Uriah; shutting up his book, after carefully marking the place where he
had left off. ‘Since a year after my father’s death. How much have I
to be thankful for, in that! How much have I to be thankful for, in Mr.
Wickfield’s kind intention to give me my articles, which would otherwise
not lay within the umble means of mother and self!’

‘Then, when your articled time is over, you’ll be a regular lawyer, I
suppose?’ said I.

‘With the blessing of Providence, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah.

‘Perhaps you’ll be a partner in Mr. Wickfield’s business, one of these
days,’ I said, to make myself agreeable; ‘and it will be Wickfield and
Heep, or Heep late Wickfield.’

‘Oh no, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, shaking his head, ‘I am
much too umble for that!’

He certainly did look uncommonly like the carved face on the beam
outside my window, as he sat, in his humility, eyeing me sideways, with
his mouth widened, and the creases in his cheeks.

‘Mr. Wickfield is a most excellent man, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah.
‘If you have known him long, you know it, I am sure, much better than I
can inform you.’

I replied that I was certain he was; but that I had not known him long
myself, though he was a friend of my aunt’s.

‘Oh, indeed, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah. ‘Your aunt is a sweet
lady, Master Copperfield!’

He had a way of writhing when he wanted to express enthusiasm, which was
very ugly; and which diverted my attention from the compliment he had
paid my relation, to the snaky twistings of his throat and body.

‘A sweet lady, Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah Heep. ‘She has a great
admiration for Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield, I believe?’

I said, ‘Yes,’ boldly; not that I knew anything about it, Heaven forgive
me!

‘I hope you have, too, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah. ‘But I am sure
you must have.’

‘Everybody must have,’ I returned.

‘Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah Heep, ‘for that remark!
It is so true! Umble as I am, I know it is so true! Oh, thank you,
Master Copperfield!’ He writhed himself quite off his stool in the
excitement of his feelings, and, being off, began to make arrangements
for going home.

‘Mother will be expecting me,’ he said, referring to a pale,
inexpressive-faced watch in his pocket, ‘and getting uneasy; for though
we are very umble, Master Copperfield, we are much attached to one
another. If you would come and see us, any afternoon, and take a cup of
tea at our lowly dwelling, mother would be as proud of your company as I
should be.’

I said I should be glad to come.

‘Thank you, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, putting his book
away upon the shelf--‘I suppose you stop here, some time, Master
Copperfield?’

I said I was going to be brought up there, I believed, as long as I
remained at school.

‘Oh, indeed!’ exclaimed Uriah. ‘I should think YOU would come into the
business at last, Master Copperfield!’

I protested that I had no views of that sort, and that no such scheme
was entertained in my behalf by anybody; but Uriah insisted on blandly
replying to all my assurances, ‘Oh, yes, Master Copperfield, I should
think you would, indeed!’ and, ‘Oh, indeed, Master Copperfield, I should
think you would, certainly!’ over and over again. Being, at last, ready
to leave the office for the night, he asked me if it would suit my
convenience to have the light put out; and on my answering ‘Yes,’
instantly extinguished it. After shaking hands with me--his hand felt
like a fish, in the dark--he opened the door into the street a very
little, and crept out, and shut it, leaving me to grope my way back into
the house: which cost me some trouble and a fall over his stool. This
was the proximate cause, I suppose, of my dreaming about him, for what
appeared to me to be half the night; and dreaming, among other things,
that he had launched Mr. Peggotty’s house on a piratical expedition,
with a black flag at the masthead, bearing the inscription ‘Tidd’s
Practice’, under which diabolical ensign he was carrying me and little
Em’ly to the Spanish Main, to be drowned.

I got a little the better of my uneasiness when I went to school
next day, and a good deal the better next day, and so shook it off by
degrees, that in less than a fortnight I was quite at home, and happy,
among my new companions. I was awkward enough in their games, and
backward enough in their studies; but custom would improve me in the
first respect, I hoped, and hard work in the second. Accordingly, I
went to work very hard, both in play and in earnest, and gained great
commendation. And, in a very little while, the Murdstone and Grinby life
became so strange to me that I hardly believed in it, while my present
life grew so familiar, that I seemed to have been leading it a long
time.

Doctor Strong’s was an excellent school; as different from Mr. Creakle’s
as good is from evil. It was very gravely and decorously ordered, and
on a sound system; with an appeal, in everything, to the honour and good
faith of the boys, and an avowed intention to rely on their possession
of those qualities unless they proved themselves unworthy of it, which
worked wonders. We all felt that we had a part in the management of
the place, and in sustaining its character and dignity. Hence, we soon
became warmly attached to it--I am sure I did for one, and I never knew,
in all my time, of any other boy being otherwise--and learnt with a good
will, desiring to do it credit. We had noble games out of hours, and
plenty of liberty; but even then, as I remember, we were well spoken of
in the town, and rarely did any disgrace, by our appearance or manner,
to the reputation of Doctor Strong and Doctor Strong’s boys.

Some of the higher scholars boarded in the Doctor’s house, and through
them I learned, at second hand, some particulars of the Doctor’s
history--as, how he had not yet been married twelve months to the
beautiful young lady I had seen in the study, whom he had married for
love; for she had not a sixpence, and had a world of poor relations (so
our fellows said) ready to swarm the Doctor out of house and home. Also,
how the Doctor’s cogitating manner was attributable to his being always
engaged in looking out for Greek roots; which, in my innocence and
ignorance, I supposed to be a botanical furor on the Doctor’s part,
especially as he always looked at the ground when he walked about,
until I understood that they were roots of words, with a view to a new
Dictionary which he had in contemplation. Adams, our head-boy, who had
a turn for mathematics, had made a calculation, I was informed, of the
time this Dictionary would take in completing, on the Doctor’s plan, and
at the Doctor’s rate of going. He considered that it might be done
in one thousand six hundred and forty-nine years, counting from the
Doctor’s last, or sixty-second, birthday.

But the Doctor himself was the idol of the whole school: and it must
have been a badly composed school if he had been anything else, for
he was the kindest of men; with a simple faith in him that might have
touched the stone hearts of the very urns upon the wall. As he walked up
and down that part of the courtyard which was at the side of the house,
with the stray rooks and jackdaws looking after him with their heads
cocked slyly, as if they knew how much more knowing they were in worldly
affairs than he, if any sort of vagabond could only get near enough to
his creaking shoes to attract his attention to one sentence of a tale
of distress, that vagabond was made for the next two days. It was so
notorious in the house, that the masters and head-boys took pains to cut
these marauders off at angles, and to get out of windows, and turn them
out of the courtyard, before they could make the Doctor aware of their
presence; which was sometimes happily effected within a few yards of
him, without his knowing anything of the matter, as he jogged to and
fro. Outside his own domain, and unprotected, he was a very sheep for
the shearers. He would have taken his gaiters off his legs, to give
away. In fact, there was a story current among us (I have no idea, and
never had, on what authority, but I have believed it for so many
years that I feel quite certain it is true), that on a frosty day, one
winter-time, he actually did bestow his gaiters on a beggar-woman, who
occasioned some scandal in the neighbourhood by exhibiting a fine infant
from door to door, wrapped in those garments, which were universally
recognized, being as well known in the vicinity as the Cathedral. The
legend added that the only person who did not identify them was the
Doctor himself, who, when they were shortly afterwards displayed at the
door of a little second-hand shop of no very good repute, where such
things were taken in exchange for gin, was more than once observed to
handle them approvingly, as if admiring some curious novelty in the
pattern, and considering them an improvement on his own.

It was very pleasant to see the Doctor with his pretty young wife. He
had a fatherly, benignant way of showing his fondness for her, which
seemed in itself to express a good man. I often saw them walking in the
garden where the peaches were, and I sometimes had a nearer observation
of them in the study or the parlour. She appeared to me to take great
care of the Doctor, and to like him very much, though I never thought
her vitally interested in the Dictionary: some cumbrous fragments of
which work the Doctor always carried in his pockets, and in the lining
of his hat, and generally seemed to be expounding to her as they walked
about.

I saw a good deal of Mrs. Strong, both because she had taken a liking
for me on the morning of my introduction to the Doctor, and was always
afterwards kind to me, and interested in me; and because she was very
fond of Agnes, and was often backwards and forwards at our house. There
was a curious constraint between her and Mr. Wickfield, I thought (of
whom she seemed to be afraid), that never wore off. When she came there
of an evening, she always shrunk from accepting his escort home, and ran
away with me instead. And sometimes, as we were running gaily across
the Cathedral yard together, expecting to meet nobody, we would meet Mr.
Jack Maldon, who was always surprised to see us.

Mrs. Strong’s mama was a lady I took great delight in. Her name was Mrs.
Markleham; but our boys used to call her the Old Soldier, on account of
her generalship, and the skill with which she marshalled great forces
of relations against the Doctor. She was a little, sharp-eyed woman,
who used to wear, when she was dressed, one unchangeable cap, ornamented
with some artificial flowers, and two artificial butterflies supposed
to be hovering above the flowers. There was a superstition among us
that this cap had come from France, and could only originate in the
workmanship of that ingenious nation: but all I certainly know about it,
is, that it always made its appearance of an evening, wheresoever Mrs.
Markleham made HER appearance; that it was carried about to friendly
meetings in a Hindoo basket; that the butterflies had the gift of
trembling constantly; and that they improved the shining hours at Doctor
Strong’s expense, like busy bees.

I observed the Old Soldier--not to adopt the name disrespectfully--to
pretty good advantage, on a night which is made memorable to me by
something else I shall relate. It was the night of a little party at the
Doctor’s, which was given on the occasion of Mr. Jack Maldon’s departure
for India, whither he was going as a cadet, or something of that kind:
Mr. Wickfield having at length arranged the business. It happened to be
the Doctor’s birthday, too. We had had a holiday, had made presents to
him in the morning, had made a speech to him through the head-boy, and
had cheered him until we were hoarse, and until he had shed tears. And
now, in the evening, Mr. Wickfield, Agnes, and I, went to have tea with
him in his private capacity.

Mr. Jack Maldon was there, before us. Mrs. Strong, dressed in white,
with cherry-coloured ribbons, was playing the piano, when we went in;
and he was leaning over her to turn the leaves. The clear red and
white of her complexion was not so blooming and flower-like as usual, I
thought, when she turned round; but she looked very pretty, Wonderfully
pretty.

‘I have forgotten, Doctor,’ said Mrs. Strong’s mama, when we were
seated, ‘to pay you the compliments of the day--though they are, as you
may suppose, very far from being mere compliments in my case. Allow me
to wish you many happy returns.’

‘I thank you, ma’am,’ replied the Doctor.

‘Many, many, many, happy returns,’ said the Old Soldier. ‘Not only
for your own sake, but for Annie’s, and John Maldon’s, and many other
people’s. It seems but yesterday to me, John, when you were a little
creature, a head shorter than Master Copperfield, making baby love to
Annie behind the gooseberry bushes in the back-garden.’

‘My dear mama,’ said Mrs. Strong, ‘never mind that now.’

‘Annie, don’t be absurd,’ returned her mother. ‘If you are to blush to
hear of such things now you are an old married woman, when are you not
to blush to hear of them?’

‘Old?’ exclaimed Mr. Jack Maldon. ‘Annie? Come!’

‘Yes, John,’ returned the Soldier. ‘Virtually, an old married woman.
Although not old by years--for when did you ever hear me say, or who has
ever heard me say, that a girl of twenty was old by years!--your cousin
is the wife of the Doctor, and, as such, what I have described her. It
is well for you, John, that your cousin is the wife of the Doctor. You
have found in him an influential and kind friend, who will be kinder
yet, I venture to predict, if you deserve it. I have no false pride.
I never hesitate to admit, frankly, that there are some members of our
family who want a friend. You were one yourself, before your cousin’s
influence raised up one for you.’

The Doctor, in the goodness of his heart, waved his hand as if to make
light of it, and save Mr. Jack Maldon from any further reminder. But
Mrs. Markleham changed her chair for one next the Doctor’s, and putting
her fan on his coat-sleeve, said:

‘No, really, my dear Doctor, you must excuse me if I appear to dwell
on this rather, because I feel so very strongly. I call it quite my
monomania, it is such a subject of mine. You are a blessing to us. You
really are a Boon, you know.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said the Doctor.

‘No, no, I beg your pardon,’ retorted the Old Soldier. ‘With nobody
present, but our dear and confidential friend Mr. Wickfield, I cannot
consent to be put down. I shall begin to assert the privileges of a
mother-in-law, if you go on like that, and scold you. I am perfectly
honest and outspoken. What I am saying, is what I said when you first
overpowered me with surprise--you remember how surprised I was?--by
proposing for Annie. Not that there was anything so very much out of
the way, in the mere fact of the proposal--it would be ridiculous to say
that!--but because, you having known her poor father, and having known
her from a baby six months old, I hadn’t thought of you in such a light
at all, or indeed as a marrying man in any way,--simply that, you know.’

‘Aye, aye,’ returned the Doctor, good-humouredly. ‘Never mind.’

‘But I DO mind,’ said the Old Soldier, laying her fan upon his lips. ‘I
mind very much. I recall these things that I may be contradicted if I am
wrong. Well! Then I spoke to Annie, and I told her what had happened.
I said, “My dear, here’s Doctor Strong has positively been and made you
the subject of a handsome declaration and an offer.” Did I press it in
the least? No. I said, “Now, Annie, tell me the truth this moment; is
your heart free?” “Mama,” she said crying, “I am extremely young”--which
was perfectly true--“and I hardly know if I have a heart at all.” “Then,
my dear,” I said, “you may rely upon it, it’s free. At all events, my
love,” said I, “Doctor Strong is in an agitated state of mind, and
must be answered. He cannot be kept in his present state of suspense.”
 “Mama,” said Annie, still crying, “would he be unhappy without me? If he
would, I honour and respect him so much, that I think I will have him.”
 So it was settled. And then, and not till then, I said to Annie, “Annie,
Doctor Strong will not only be your husband, but he will represent your
late father: he will represent the head of our family, he will represent
the wisdom and station, and I may say the means, of our family; and will
be, in short, a Boon to it.” I used the word at the time, and I have
used it again, today. If I have any merit it is consistency.’

The daughter had sat quite silent and still during this speech, with her
eyes fixed on the ground; her cousin standing near her, and looking on
the ground too. She now said very softly, in a trembling voice:

‘Mama, I hope you have finished?’ ‘No, my dear Annie,’ returned the Old
Soldier, ‘I have not quite finished. Since you ask me, my love, I reply
that I have not. I complain that you really are a little unnatural
towards your own family; and, as it is of no use complaining to you. I
mean to complain to your husband. Now, my dear Doctor, do look at that
silly wife of yours.’

As the Doctor turned his kind face, with its smile of simplicity and
gentleness, towards her, she drooped her head more. I noticed that Mr.
Wickfield looked at her steadily.

‘When I happened to say to that naughty thing, the other day,’ pursued
her mother, shaking her head and her fan at her, playfully, ‘that there
was a family circumstance she might mention to you--indeed, I think, was
bound to mention--she said, that to mention it was to ask a favour;
and that, as you were too generous, and as for her to ask was always to
have, she wouldn’t.’

‘Annie, my dear,’ said the Doctor. ‘That was wrong. It robbed me of a
pleasure.’

‘Almost the very words I said to her!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘Now
really, another time, when I know what she would tell you but for this
reason, and won’t, I have a great mind, my dear Doctor, to tell you
myself.’

‘I shall be glad if you will,’ returned the Doctor.

‘Shall I?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, then, I will!’ said the Old Soldier. ‘That’s a bargain.’ And
having, I suppose, carried her point, she tapped the Doctor’s hand
several times with her fan (which she kissed first), and returned
triumphantly to her former station.

Some more company coming in, among whom were the two masters and Adams,
the talk became general; and it naturally turned on Mr. Jack Maldon, and
his voyage, and the country he was going to, and his various plans and
prospects. He was to leave that night, after supper, in a post-chaise,
for Gravesend; where the ship, in which he was to make the voyage, lay;
and was to be gone--unless he came home on leave, or for his health--I
don’t know how many years. I recollect it was settled by general
consent that India was quite a misrepresented country, and had nothing
objectionable in it, but a tiger or two, and a little heat in the warm
part of the day. For my own part, I looked on Mr. Jack Maldon as a
modern Sindbad, and pictured him the bosom friend of all the Rajahs in
the East, sitting under canopies, smoking curly golden pipes--a mile
long, if they could be straightened out.

Mrs. Strong was a very pretty singer: as I knew, who often heard her
singing by herself. But, whether she was afraid of singing before
people, or was out of voice that evening, it was certain that she
couldn’t sing at all. She tried a duet, once, with her cousin Maldon,
but could not so much as begin; and afterwards, when she tried to sing
by herself, although she began sweetly, her voice died away on a sudden,
and left her quite distressed, with her head hanging down over the keys.
The good Doctor said she was nervous, and, to relieve her, proposed a
round game at cards; of which he knew as much as of the art of playing
the trombone. But I remarked that the Old Soldier took him into custody
directly, for her partner; and instructed him, as the first preliminary
of initiation, to give her all the silver he had in his pocket.

We had a merry game, not made the less merry by the Doctor’s mistakes,
of which he committed an innumerable quantity, in spite of the
watchfulness of the butterflies, and to their great aggravation. Mrs.
Strong had declined to play, on the ground of not feeling very well; and
her cousin Maldon had excused himself because he had some packing to
do. When he had done it, however, he returned, and they sat together,
talking, on the sofa. From time to time she came and looked over the
Doctor’s hand, and told him what to play. She was very pale, as she
bent over him, and I thought her finger trembled as she pointed out
the cards; but the Doctor was quite happy in her attention, and took no
notice of this, if it were so.

At supper, we were hardly so gay. Everyone appeared to feel that a
parting of that sort was an awkward thing, and that the nearer it
approached, the more awkward it was. Mr. Jack Maldon tried to be very
talkative, but was not at his ease, and made matters worse. And they
were not improved, as it appeared to me, by the Old Soldier: who
continually recalled passages of Mr. Jack Maldon’s youth.

The Doctor, however, who felt, I am sure, that he was making everybody
happy, was well pleased, and had no suspicion but that we were all at
the utmost height of enjoyment.

‘Annie, my dear,’ said he, looking at his watch, and filling his glass,
‘it is past your cousin Jack’s time, and we must not detain him, since
time and tide--both concerned in this case--wait for no man. Mr. Jack
Maldon, you have a long voyage, and a strange country, before you; but
many men have had both, and many men will have both, to the end of time.
The winds you are going to tempt, have wafted thousands upon thousands
to fortune, and brought thousands upon thousands happily back.’

‘It’s an affecting thing,’ said Mrs. Markleham--‘however it’s viewed,
it’s affecting, to see a fine young man one has known from an infant,
going away to the other end of the world, leaving all he knows behind,
and not knowing what’s before him. A young man really well deserves
constant support and patronage,’ looking at the Doctor, ‘who makes such
sacrifices.’

‘Time will go fast with you, Mr. Jack Maldon,’ pursued the Doctor,
‘and fast with all of us. Some of us can hardly expect, perhaps, in the
natural course of things, to greet you on your return. The next best
thing is to hope to do it, and that’s my case. I shall not weary you
with good advice. You have long had a good model before you, in your
cousin Annie. Imitate her virtues as nearly as you can.’

Mrs. Markleham fanned herself, and shook her head.

‘Farewell, Mr. Jack,’ said the Doctor, standing up; on which we all
stood up. ‘A prosperous voyage out, a thriving career abroad, and a
happy return home!’

We all drank the toast, and all shook hands with Mr. Jack Maldon; after
which he hastily took leave of the ladies who were there, and hurried
to the door, where he was received, as he got into the chaise, with a
tremendous broadside of cheers discharged by our boys, who had assembled
on the lawn for the purpose. Running in among them to swell the ranks,
I was very near the chaise when it rolled away; and I had a lively
impression made upon me, in the midst of the noise and dust, of having
seen Mr. Jack Maldon rattle past with an agitated face, and something
cherry-coloured in his hand.

After another broadside for the Doctor, and another for the Doctor’s
wife, the boys dispersed, and I went back into the house, where I found
the guests all standing in a group about the Doctor, discussing how Mr.
Jack Maldon had gone away, and how he had borne it, and how he had
felt it, and all the rest of it. In the midst of these remarks, Mrs.
Markleham cried: ‘Where’s Annie?’

No Annie was there; and when they called to her, no Annie replied. But
all pressing out of the room, in a crowd, to see what was the matter, we
found her lying on the hall floor. There was great alarm at first, until
it was found that she was in a swoon, and that the swoon was yielding
to the usual means of recovery; when the Doctor, who had lifted her
head upon his knee, put her curls aside with his hand, and said, looking
around:

‘Poor Annie! She’s so faithful and tender-hearted! It’s the parting from
her old playfellow and friend--her favourite cousin--that has done this.
Ah! It’s a pity! I am very sorry!’

When she opened her eyes, and saw where she was, and that we were all
standing about her, she arose with assistance: turning her head, as she
did so, to lay it on the Doctor’s shoulder--or to hide it, I don’t know
which. We went into the drawing-room, to leave her with the Doctor and
her mother; but she said, it seemed, that she was better than she had
been since morning, and that she would rather be brought among us; so
they brought her in, looking very white and weak, I thought, and sat her
on a sofa.

‘Annie, my dear,’ said her mother, doing something to her dress. ‘See
here! You have lost a bow. Will anybody be so good as find a ribbon; a
cherry-coloured ribbon?’

It was the one she had worn at her bosom. We all looked for it; I myself
looked everywhere, I am certain--but nobody could find it.

‘Do you recollect where you had it last, Annie?’ said her mother.

I wondered how I could have thought she looked white, or anything but
burning red, when she answered that she had had it safe, a little while
ago, she thought, but it was not worth looking for.

Nevertheless, it was looked for again, and still not found. She
entreated that there might be no more searching; but it was still sought
for, in a desultory way, until she was quite well, and the company took
their departure.

We walked very slowly home, Mr. Wickfield, Agnes, and I--Agnes and I
admiring the moonlight, and Mr. Wickfield scarcely raising his eyes from
the ground. When we, at last, reached our own door, Agnes discovered
that she had left her little reticule behind. Delighted to be of any
service to her, I ran back to fetch it.

I went into the supper-room where it had been left, which was deserted
and dark. But a door of communication between that and the Doctor’s
study, where there was a light, being open, I passed on there, to say
what I wanted, and to get a candle.

The Doctor was sitting in his easy-chair by the fireside, and his young
wife was on a stool at his feet. The Doctor, with a complacent smile,
was reading aloud some manuscript explanation or statement of a theory
out of that interminable Dictionary, and she was looking up at him. But
with such a face as I never saw. It was so beautiful in its form, it was
so ashy pale, it was so fixed in its abstraction, it was so full of a
wild, sleep-walking, dreamy horror of I don’t know what. The eyes
were wide open, and her brown hair fell in two rich clusters on her
shoulders, and on her white dress, disordered by the want of the lost
ribbon. Distinctly as I recollect her look, I cannot say of what it was
expressive, I cannot even say of what it is expressive to me now, rising
again before my older judgement. Penitence, humiliation, shame, pride,
love, and trustfulness--I see them all; and in them all, I see that
horror of I don’t know what.

My entrance, and my saying what I wanted, roused her. It disturbed the
Doctor too, for when I went back to replace the candle I had taken from
the table, he was patting her head, in his fatherly way, and saying he
was a merciless drone to let her tempt him into reading on; and he would
have her go to bed.

But she asked him, in a rapid, urgent manner, to let her stay--to let
her feel assured (I heard her murmur some broken words to this effect)
that she was in his confidence that night. And, as she turned again
towards him, after glancing at me as I left the room and went out at the
door, I saw her cross her hands upon his knee, and look up at him with
the same face, something quieted, as he resumed his reading.

It made a great impression on me, and I remembered it a long time
afterwards; as I shall have occasion to narrate when the time comes.



CHAPTER 17. SOMEBODY TURNS UP


It has not occurred to me to mention Peggotty since I ran away; but, of
course, I wrote her a letter almost as soon as I was housed at Dover,
and another, and a longer letter, containing all particulars fully
related, when my aunt took me formally under her protection. On my being
settled at Doctor Strong’s I wrote to her again, detailing my happy
condition and prospects. I never could have derived anything like the
pleasure from spending the money Mr. Dick had given me, that I felt in
sending a gold half-guinea to Peggotty, per post, enclosed in this last
letter, to discharge the sum I had borrowed of her: in which epistle,
not before, I mentioned about the young man with the donkey-cart.

To these communications Peggotty replied as promptly, if not as
concisely, as a merchant’s clerk. Her utmost powers of expression (which
were certainly not great in ink) were exhausted in the attempt to write
what she felt on the subject of my journey. Four sides of incoherent and
interjectional beginnings of sentences, that had no end, except blots,
were inadequate to afford her any relief. But the blots were more
expressive to me than the best composition; for they showed me that
Peggotty had been crying all over the paper, and what could I have
desired more?

I made out, without much difficulty, that she could not take quite
kindly to my aunt yet. The notice was too short after so long a
prepossession the other way. We never knew a person, she wrote; but to
think that Miss Betsey should seem to be so different from what she had
been thought to be, was a Moral!--that was her word. She was evidently
still afraid of Miss Betsey, for she sent her grateful duty to her but
timidly; and she was evidently afraid of me, too, and entertained the
probability of my running away again soon: if I might judge from the
repeated hints she threw out, that the coach-fare to Yarmouth was always
to be had of her for the asking.

She gave me one piece of intelligence which affected me very much,
namely, that there had been a sale of the furniture at our old home, and
that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were gone away, and the house was shut up,
to be let or sold. God knows I had no part in it while they remained
there, but it pained me to think of the dear old place as altogether
abandoned; of the weeds growing tall in the garden, and the fallen
leaves lying thick and wet upon the paths. I imagined how the winds
of winter would howl round it, how the cold rain would beat upon the
window-glass, how the moon would make ghosts on the walls of the empty
rooms, watching their solitude all night. I thought afresh of the grave
in the churchyard, underneath the tree: and it seemed as if the house
were dead too, now, and all connected with my father and mother were
faded away.

There was no other news in Peggotty’s letters. Mr. Barkis was an
excellent husband, she said, though still a little near; but we all had
our faults, and she had plenty (though I am sure I don’t know what they
were); and he sent his duty, and my little bedroom was always ready for
me. Mr. Peggotty was well, and Ham was well, and Mrs. Gummidge was but
poorly, and little Em’ly wouldn’t send her love, but said that Peggotty
might send it, if she liked.

All this intelligence I dutifully imparted to my aunt, only reserving
to myself the mention of little Em’ly, to whom I instinctively felt
that she would not very tenderly incline. While I was yet new at Doctor
Strong’s, she made several excursions over to Canterbury to see me, and
always at unseasonable hours: with the view, I suppose, of taking me by
surprise. But, finding me well employed, and bearing a good character,
and hearing on all hands that I rose fast in the school, she soon
discontinued these visits. I saw her on a Saturday, every third or
fourth week, when I went over to Dover for a treat; and I saw Mr. Dick
every alternate Wednesday, when he arrived by stage-coach at noon, to
stay until next morning.

On these occasions Mr. Dick never travelled without a leathern
writing-desk, containing a supply of stationery and the Memorial; in
relation to which document he had a notion that time was beginning to
press now, and that it really must be got out of hand.

Mr. Dick was very partial to gingerbread. To render his visits the more
agreeable, my aunt had instructed me to open a credit for him at a cake
shop, which was hampered with the stipulation that he should not be
served with more than one shilling’s-worth in the course of any one day.
This, and the reference of all his little bills at the county inn where
he slept, to my aunt, before they were paid, induced me to suspect that
he was only allowed to rattle his money, and not to spend it. I found
on further investigation that this was so, or at least there was an
agreement between him and my aunt that he should account to her for
all his disbursements. As he had no idea of deceiving her, and always
desired to please her, he was thus made chary of launching into expense.
On this point, as well as on all other possible points, Mr. Dick was
convinced that my aunt was the wisest and most wonderful of women; as he
repeatedly told me with infinite secrecy, and always in a whisper.

‘Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, with an air of mystery, after imparting this
confidence to me, one Wednesday; ‘who’s the man that hides near our
house and frightens her?’

‘Frightens my aunt, sir?’

Mr. Dick nodded. ‘I thought nothing would have frightened her,’ he said,
‘for she’s--’ here he whispered softly, ‘don’t mention it--the wisest
and most wonderful of women.’ Having said which, he drew back, to
observe the effect which this description of her made upon me.

‘The first time he came,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘was--let me see--sixteen
hundred and forty-nine was the date of King Charles’s execution. I think
you said sixteen hundred and forty-nine?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t know how it can be,’ said Mr. Dick, sorely puzzled and shaking
his head. ‘I don’t think I am as old as that.’

‘Was it in that year that the man appeared, sir?’ I asked.

‘Why, really’ said Mr. Dick, ‘I don’t see how it can have been in that
year, Trotwood. Did you get that date out of history?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I suppose history never lies, does it?’ said Mr. Dick, with a gleam of
hope.

‘Oh dear, no, sir!’ I replied, most decisively. I was ingenuous and
young, and I thought so.

‘I can’t make it out,’ said Mr. Dick, shaking his head. ‘There’s
something wrong, somewhere. However, it was very soon after the mistake
was made of putting some of the trouble out of King Charles’s head into
my head, that the man first came. I was walking out with Miss Trotwood
after tea, just at dark, and there he was, close to our house.’

‘Walking about?’ I inquired.

‘Walking about?’ repeated Mr. Dick. ‘Let me see, I must recollect a bit.
N-no, no; he was not walking about.’

I asked, as the shortest way to get at it, what he WAS doing.

‘Well, he wasn’t there at all,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘until he came up behind
her, and whispered. Then she turned round and fainted, and I stood still
and looked at him, and he walked away; but that he should have
been hiding ever since (in the ground or somewhere), is the most
extraordinary thing!’

‘HAS he been hiding ever since?’ I asked.

‘To be sure he has,’ retorted Mr. Dick, nodding his head gravely. ‘Never
came out, till last night! We were walking last night, and he came up
behind her again, and I knew him again.’

‘And did he frighten my aunt again?’

‘All of a shiver,’ said Mr. Dick, counterfeiting that affection and
making his teeth chatter. ‘Held by the palings. Cried. But, Trotwood,
come here,’ getting me close to him, that he might whisper very softly;
‘why did she give him money, boy, in the moonlight?’

‘He was a beggar, perhaps.’

Mr. Dick shook his head, as utterly renouncing the suggestion; and
having replied a great many times, and with great confidence, ‘No
beggar, no beggar, no beggar, sir!’ went on to say, that from his window
he had afterwards, and late at night, seen my aunt give this person
money outside the garden rails in the moonlight, who then slunk
away--into the ground again, as he thought probable--and was seen no
more: while my aunt came hurriedly and secretly back into the house, and
had, even that morning, been quite different from her usual self; which
preyed on Mr. Dick’s mind.

I had not the least belief, in the outset of this story, that the
unknown was anything but a delusion of Mr. Dick’s, and one of the line
of that ill-fated Prince who occasioned him so much difficulty; but
after some reflection I began to entertain the question whether an
attempt, or threat of an attempt, might have been twice made to take
poor Mr. Dick himself from under my aunt’s protection, and whether
my aunt, the strength of whose kind feeling towards him I knew from
herself, might have been induced to pay a price for his peace and quiet.
As I was already much attached to Mr. Dick, and very solicitous for his
welfare, my fears favoured this supposition; and for a long time his
Wednesday hardly ever came round, without my entertaining a misgiving
that he would not be on the coach-box as usual. There he always
appeared, however, grey-headed, laughing, and happy; and he never had
anything more to tell of the man who could frighten my aunt.

These Wednesdays were the happiest days of Mr. Dick’s life; they were
far from being the least happy of mine. He soon became known to every
boy in the school; and though he never took an active part in any game
but kite-flying, was as deeply interested in all our sports as anyone
among us. How often have I seen him, intent upon a match at marbles
or pegtop, looking on with a face of unutterable interest, and hardly
breathing at the critical times! How often, at hare and hounds, have
I seen him mounted on a little knoll, cheering the whole field on
to action, and waving his hat above his grey head, oblivious of King
Charles the Martyr’s head, and all belonging to it! How many a
summer hour have I known to be but blissful minutes to him in
the cricket-field! How many winter days have I seen him, standing
blue-nosed, in the snow and east wind, looking at the boys going down
the long slide, and clapping his worsted gloves in rapture!

He was an universal favourite, and his ingenuity in little things was
transcendent. He could cut oranges into such devices as none of us had
an idea of. He could make a boat out of anything, from a skewer upwards.
He could turn cramp-bones into chessmen; fashion Roman chariots from old
court cards; make spoked wheels out of cotton reels, and bird-cages of
old wire. But he was greatest of all, perhaps, in the articles of string
and straw; with which we were all persuaded he could do anything that
could be done by hands.

Mr. Dick’s renown was not long confined to us. After a few Wednesdays,
Doctor Strong himself made some inquiries of me about him, and I told
him all my aunt had told me; which interested the Doctor so much that
he requested, on the occasion of his next visit, to be presented to him.
This ceremony I performed; and the Doctor begging Mr. Dick, whensoever
he should not find me at the coach office, to come on there, and rest
himself until our morning’s work was over, it soon passed into a custom
for Mr. Dick to come on as a matter of course, and, if we were a little
late, as often happened on a Wednesday, to walk about the courtyard,
waiting for me. Here he made the acquaintance of the Doctor’s beautiful
young wife (paler than formerly, all this time; more rarely seen by
me or anyone, I think; and not so gay, but not less beautiful), and so
became more and more familiar by degrees, until, at last, he would come
into the school and wait. He always sat in a particular corner, on a
particular stool, which was called ‘Dick’, after him; here he would sit,
with his grey head bent forward, attentively listening to whatever might
be going on, with a profound veneration for the learning he had never
been able to acquire.

This veneration Mr. Dick extended to the Doctor, whom he thought the
most subtle and accomplished philosopher of any age. It was long before
Mr. Dick ever spoke to him otherwise than bareheaded; and even when he
and the Doctor had struck up quite a friendship, and would walk together
by the hour, on that side of the courtyard which was known among us as
The Doctor’s Walk, Mr. Dick would pull off his hat at intervals to show
his respect for wisdom and knowledge. How it ever came about that the
Doctor began to read out scraps of the famous Dictionary, in these
walks, I never knew; perhaps he felt it all the same, at first, as
reading to himself. However, it passed into a custom too; and Mr. Dick,
listening with a face shining with pride and pleasure, in his heart of
hearts believed the Dictionary to be the most delightful book in the
world.

As I think of them going up and down before those schoolroom
windows--the Doctor reading with his complacent smile, an occasional
flourish of the manuscript, or grave motion of his head; and Mr. Dick
listening, enchained by interest, with his poor wits calmly wandering
God knows where, upon the wings of hard words--I think of it as one of
the pleasantest things, in a quiet way, that I have ever seen. I feel
as if they might go walking to and fro for ever, and the world might
somehow be the better for it--as if a thousand things it makes a noise
about, were not one half so good for it, or me.

Agnes was one of Mr. Dick’s friends, very soon; and in often coming
to the house, he made acquaintance with Uriah. The friendship between
himself and me increased continually, and it was maintained on this odd
footing: that, while Mr. Dick came professedly to look after me as my
guardian, he always consulted me in any little matter of doubt that
arose, and invariably guided himself by my advice; not only having a
high respect for my native sagacity, but considering that I inherited a
good deal from my aunt.

One Thursday morning, when I was about to walk with Mr. Dick from the
hotel to the coach office before going back to school (for we had an
hour’s school before breakfast), I met Uriah in the street, who reminded
me of the promise I had made to take tea with himself and his mother:
adding, with a writhe, ‘But I didn’t expect you to keep it, Master
Copperfield, we’re so very umble.’

I really had not yet been able to make up my mind whether I liked Uriah
or detested him; and I was very doubtful about it still, as I stood
looking him in the face in the street. But I felt it quite an affront to
be supposed proud, and said I only wanted to be asked.

‘Oh, if that’s all, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah, ‘and it really
isn’t our umbleness that prevents you, will you come this evening?
But if it is our umbleness, I hope you won’t mind owning to it, Master
Copperfield; for we are well aware of our condition.’

I said I would mention it to Mr. Wickfield, and if he approved, as I had
no doubt he would, I would come with pleasure. So, at six o’clock that
evening, which was one of the early office evenings, I announced myself
as ready, to Uriah.

‘Mother will be proud, indeed,’ he said, as we walked away together. ‘Or
she would be proud, if it wasn’t sinful, Master Copperfield.’

‘Yet you didn’t mind supposing I was proud this morning,’ I returned.

‘Oh dear, no, Master Copperfield!’ returned Uriah. ‘Oh, believe me, no!
Such a thought never came into my head! I shouldn’t have deemed it at
all proud if you had thought US too umble for you. Because we are so
very umble.’

‘Have you been studying much law lately?’ I asked, to change the
subject.

‘Oh, Master Copperfield,’ he said, with an air of self-denial, ‘my
reading is hardly to be called study. I have passed an hour or two in
the evening, sometimes, with Mr. Tidd.’

‘Rather hard, I suppose?’ said I. ‘He is hard to me sometimes,’ returned
Uriah. ‘But I don’t know what he might be to a gifted person.’

After beating a little tune on his chin as he walked on, with the two
forefingers of his skeleton right hand, he added:

‘There are expressions, you see, Master Copperfield--Latin words
and terms--in Mr. Tidd, that are trying to a reader of my umble
attainments.’

‘Would you like to be taught Latin?’ I said briskly. ‘I will teach it
you with pleasure, as I learn it.’

‘Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘I
am sure it’s very kind of you to make the offer, but I am much too umble
to accept it.’

‘What nonsense, Uriah!’

‘Oh, indeed you must excuse me, Master Copperfield! I am greatly
obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure you; but I am far
too umble. There are people enough to tread upon me in my lowly state,
without my doing outrage to their feelings by possessing learning.
Learning ain’t for me. A person like myself had better not aspire. If he
is to get on in life, he must get on umbly, Master Copperfield!’

I never saw his mouth so wide, or the creases in his cheeks so deep, as
when he delivered himself of these sentiments: shaking his head all the
time, and writhing modestly.

‘I think you are wrong, Uriah,’ I said. ‘I dare say there are several
things that I could teach you, if you would like to learn them.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt that, Master Copperfield,’ he answered; ‘not in the
least. But not being umble yourself, you don’t judge well, perhaps, for
them that are. I won’t provoke my betters with knowledge, thank you. I’m
much too umble. Here is my umble dwelling, Master Copperfield!’

We entered a low, old-fashioned room, walked straight into from the
street, and found there Mrs. Heep, who was the dead image of Uriah, only
short. She received me with the utmost humility, and apologized to me
for giving her son a kiss, observing that, lowly as they were, they
had their natural affections, which they hoped would give no offence to
anyone. It was a perfectly decent room, half parlour and half kitchen,
but not at all a snug room. The tea-things were set upon the table, and
the kettle was boiling on the hob. There was a chest of drawers with an
escritoire top, for Uriah to read or write at of an evening; there was
Uriah’s blue bag lying down and vomiting papers; there was a company of
Uriah’s books commanded by Mr. Tidd; there was a corner cupboard: and
there were the usual articles of furniture. I don’t remember that any
individual object had a bare, pinched, spare look; but I do remember
that the whole place had.

It was perhaps a part of Mrs. Heep’s humility, that she still wore
weeds. Notwithstanding the lapse of time that had occurred since Mr.
Heep’s decease, she still wore weeds. I think there was some compromise
in the cap; but otherwise she was as weedy as in the early days of her
mourning.

‘This is a day to be remembered, my Uriah, I am sure,’ said Mrs. Heep,
making the tea, ‘when Master Copperfield pays us a visit.’

‘I said you’d think so, mother,’ said Uriah.

‘If I could have wished father to remain among us for any reason,’ said
Mrs. Heep, ‘it would have been, that he might have known his company
this afternoon.’

I felt embarrassed by these compliments; but I was sensible, too, of
being entertained as an honoured guest, and I thought Mrs. Heep an
agreeable woman.

‘My Uriah,’ said Mrs. Heep, ‘has looked forward to this, sir, a long
while. He had his fears that our umbleness stood in the way, and I
joined in them myself. Umble we are, umble we have been, umble we shall
ever be,’ said Mrs. Heep.

‘I am sure you have no occasion to be so, ma’am,’ I said, ‘unless you
like.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ retorted Mrs. Heep. ‘We know our station and are
thankful in it.’

I found that Mrs. Heep gradually got nearer to me, and that Uriah
gradually got opposite to me, and that they respectfully plied me
with the choicest of the eatables on the table. There was nothing
particularly choice there, to be sure; but I took the will for the deed,
and felt that they were very attentive. Presently they began to talk
about aunts, and then I told them about mine; and about fathers and
mothers, and then I told them about mine; and then Mrs. Heep began to
talk about fathers-in-law, and then I began to tell her about mine--but
stopped, because my aunt had advised me to observe a silence on that
subject. A tender young cork, however, would have had no more chance
against a pair of corkscrews, or a tender young tooth against a pair of
dentists, or a little shuttlecock against two battledores, than I had
against Uriah and Mrs. Heep. They did just what they liked with me; and
wormed things out of me that I had no desire to tell, with a certainty
I blush to think of, the more especially, as in my juvenile frankness, I
took some credit to myself for being so confidential and felt that I was
quite the patron of my two respectful entertainers.

They were very fond of one another: that was certain. I take it, that
had its effect upon me, as a touch of nature; but the skill with which
the one followed up whatever the other said, was a touch of art which I
was still less proof against. When there was nothing more to be got
out of me about myself (for on the Murdstone and Grinby life, and on my
journey, I was dumb), they began about Mr. Wickfield and Agnes. Uriah
threw the ball to Mrs. Heep, Mrs. Heep caught it and threw it back to
Uriah, Uriah kept it up a little while, then sent it back to Mrs. Heep,
and so they went on tossing it about until I had no idea who had got it,
and was quite bewildered. The ball itself was always changing too. Now
it was Mr. Wickfield, now Agnes, now the excellence of Mr. Wickfield,
now my admiration of Agnes; now the extent of Mr. Wickfield’s business
and resources, now our domestic life after dinner; now, the wine that
Mr. Wickfield took, the reason why he took it, and the pity that it was
he took so much; now one thing, now another, then everything at once;
and all the time, without appearing to speak very often, or to do
anything but sometimes encourage them a little, for fear they should be
overcome by their humility and the honour of my company, I found myself
perpetually letting out something or other that I had no business to
let out and seeing the effect of it in the twinkling of Uriah’s dinted
nostrils.

I had begun to be a little uncomfortable, and to wish myself well out
of the visit, when a figure coming down the street passed the door--it
stood open to air the room, which was warm, the weather being close for
the time of year--came back again, looked in, and walked in, exclaiming
loudly, ‘Copperfield! Is it possible?’

It was Mr. Micawber! It was Mr. Micawber, with his eye-glass, and
his walking-stick, and his shirt-collar, and his genteel air, and the
condescending roll in his voice, all complete!

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, putting out his hand, ‘this is
indeed a meeting which is calculated to impress the mind with a sense
of the instability and uncertainty of all human--in short, it is a most
extraordinary meeting. Walking along the street, reflecting upon the
probability of something turning up (of which I am at present rather
sanguine), I find a young but valued friend turn up, who is connected
with the most eventful period of my life; I may say, with the
turning-point of my existence. Copperfield, my dear fellow, how do you
do?’

I cannot say--I really cannot say--that I was glad to see Mr. Micawber
there; but I was glad to see him too, and shook hands with him,
heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Micawber was.

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of old, and settling
his chin in his shirt-collar. ‘She is tolerably convalescent. The twins
no longer derive their sustenance from Nature’s founts--in short,’ said
Mr. Micawber, in one of his bursts of confidence, ‘they are weaned--and
Mrs. Micawber is, at present, my travelling companion. She will be
rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaintance with one who has
proved himself in all respects a worthy minister at the sacred altar of
friendship.’

I said I should be delighted to see her.

‘You are very good,’ said Mr. Micawber.

Mr. Micawber then smiled, settled his chin again, and looked about him.

‘I have discovered my friend Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber genteelly,
and without addressing himself particularly to anyone, ‘not in solitude,
but partaking of a social meal in company with a widow lady, and one who
is apparently her offspring--in short,’ said Mr. Micawber, in another
of his bursts of confidence, ‘her son. I shall esteem it an honour to be
presented.’

I could do no less, under these circumstances, than make Mr. Micawber
known to Uriah Heep and his mother; which I accordingly did. As they
abased themselves before him, Mr. Micawber took a seat, and waved his
hand in his most courtly manner.

‘Any friend of my friend Copperfield’s,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘has a
personal claim upon myself.’

‘We are too umble, sir,’ said Mrs. Heep, ‘my son and me, to be the
friends of Master Copperfield. He has been so good as take his tea with
us, and we are thankful to him for his company, also to you, sir, for
your notice.’

‘Ma’am,’ returned Mr. Micawber, with a bow, ‘you are very obliging: and
what are you doing, Copperfield? Still in the wine trade?’

I was excessively anxious to get Mr. Micawber away; and replied, with my
hat in my hand, and a very red face, I have no doubt, that I was a pupil
at Doctor Strong’s.

‘A pupil?’ said Mr. Micawber, raising his eyebrows. ‘I am extremely
happy to hear it. Although a mind like my friend Copperfield’s’--to
Uriah and Mrs. Heep--‘does not require that cultivation which, without
his knowledge of men and things, it would require, still it is a rich
soil teeming with latent vegetation--in short,’ said Mr. Micawber,
smiling, in another burst of confidence, ‘it is an intellect capable of
getting up the classics to any extent.’

Uriah, with his long hands slowly twining over one another, made a
ghastly writhe from the waist upwards, to express his concurrence in
this estimation of me.

‘Shall we go and see Mrs. Micawber, sir?’ I said, to get Mr. Micawber
away.

‘If you will do her that favour, Copperfield,’ replied Mr. Micawber,
rising. ‘I have no scruple in saying, in the presence of our friends
here, that I am a man who has, for some years, contended against the
pressure of pecuniary difficulties.’ I knew he was certain to say
something of this kind; he always would be so boastful about his
difficulties. ‘Sometimes I have risen superior to my difficulties.
Sometimes my difficulties have--in short, have floored me. There have
been times when I have administered a succession of facers to them;
there have been times when they have been too many for me, and I have
given in, and said to Mrs. Micawber, in the words of Cato, “Plato, thou
reasonest well. It’s all up now. I can show fight no more.” But at no
time of my life,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘have I enjoyed a higher degree of
satisfaction than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difficulties,
chiefly arising out of warrants of attorney and promissory notes at two
and four months, by that word) into the bosom of my friend Copperfield.’

Mr. Micawber closed this handsome tribute by saying, ‘Mr. Heep! Good
evening. Mrs. Heep! Your servant,’ and then walking out with me in his
most fashionable manner, making a good deal of noise on the pavement
with his shoes, and humming a tune as we went.

It was a little inn where Mr. Micawber put up, and he occupied a little
room in it, partitioned off from the commercial room, and strongly
flavoured with tobacco-smoke. I think it was over the kitchen, because
a warm greasy smell appeared to come up through the chinks in the floor,
and there was a flabby perspiration on the walls. I know it was near the
bar, on account of the smell of spirits and jingling of glasses. Here,
recumbent on a small sofa, underneath a picture of a race-horse, with
her head close to the fire, and her feet pushing the mustard off the
dumb-waiter at the other end of the room, was Mrs. Micawber, to whom Mr.
Micawber entered first, saying, ‘My dear, allow me to introduce to you a
pupil of Doctor Strong’s.’

I noticed, by the by, that although Mr. Micawber was just as much
confused as ever about my age and standing, he always remembered, as a
genteel thing, that I was a pupil of Doctor Strong’s.

Mrs. Micawber was amazed, but very glad to see me. I was very glad to
see her too, and, after an affectionate greeting on both sides, sat down
on the small sofa near her.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘if you will mention to Copperfield what
our present position is, which I have no doubt he will like to know, I
will go and look at the paper the while, and see whether anything turns
up among the advertisements.’

‘I thought you were at Plymouth, ma’am,’ I said to Mrs. Micawber, as he
went out.

‘My dear Master Copperfield,’ she replied, ‘we went to Plymouth.’

‘To be on the spot,’ I hinted.

‘Just so,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘To be on the spot. But, the truth is,
talent is not wanted in the Custom House. The local influence of my
family was quite unavailing to obtain any employment in that department,
for a man of Mr. Micawber’s abilities. They would rather NOT have a man
of Mr. Micawber’s abilities. He would only show the deficiency of the
others. Apart from which,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I will not disguise
from you, my dear Master Copperfield, that when that branch of my
family which is settled in Plymouth, became aware that Mr. Micawber was
accompanied by myself, and by little Wilkins and his sister, and by the
twins, they did not receive him with that ardour which he might have
expected, being so newly released from captivity. In fact,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, lowering her voice,--‘this is between ourselves--our reception
was cool.’

‘Dear me!’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘It is truly painful to contemplate mankind
in such an aspect, Master Copperfield, but our reception was, decidedly,
cool. There is no doubt about it. In fact, that branch of my family
which is settled in Plymouth became quite personal to Mr. Micawber,
before we had been there a week.’

I said, and thought, that they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

‘Still, so it was,’ continued Mrs. Micawber. ‘Under such circumstances,
what could a man of Mr. Micawber’s spirit do? But one obvious course
was left. To borrow, of that branch of my family, the money to return to
London, and to return at any sacrifice.’

‘Then you all came back again, ma’am?’ I said.

‘We all came back again,’ replied Mrs. Micawber. ‘Since then, I have
consulted other branches of my family on the course which it is most
expedient for Mr. Micawber to take--for I maintain that he must take
some course, Master Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, argumentatively.
‘It is clear that a family of six, not including a domestic, cannot live
upon air.’

‘Certainly, ma’am,’ said I.

‘The opinion of those other branches of my family,’ pursued Mrs.
Micawber, ‘is, that Mr. Micawber should immediately turn his attention
to coals.’

‘To what, ma’am?’

‘To coals,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘To the coal trade. Mr. Micawber was
induced to think, on inquiry, that there might be an opening for a
man of his talent in the Medway Coal Trade. Then, as Mr. Micawber very
properly said, the first step to be taken clearly was, to come and see
the Medway. Which we came and saw. I say “we”, Master Copperfield; for
I never will,’ said Mrs. Micawber with emotion, ‘I never will desert Mr.
Micawber.’

I murmured my admiration and approbation.

‘We came,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber, ‘and saw the Medway. My opinion of
the coal trade on that river is, that it may require talent, but that
it certainly requires capital. Talent, Mr. Micawber has; capital, Mr.
Micawber has not. We saw, I think, the greater part of the Medway; and
that is my individual conclusion. Being so near here, Mr. Micawber was
of opinion that it would be rash not to come on, and see the Cathedral.
Firstly, on account of its being so well worth seeing, and our never
having seen it; and secondly, on account of the great probability of
something turning up in a cathedral town. We have been here,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, ‘three days. Nothing has, as yet, turned up; and it may
not surprise you, my dear Master Copperfield, so much as it would a
stranger, to know that we are at present waiting for a remittance from
London, to discharge our pecuniary obligations at this hotel. Until the
arrival of that remittance,’ said Mrs. Micawber with much feeling, ‘I am
cut off from my home (I allude to lodgings in Pentonville), from my boy
and girl, and from my twins.’

I felt the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in this anxious
extremity, and said as much to Mr. Micawber, who now returned: adding
that I only wished I had money enough, to lend them the amount they
needed. Mr. Micawber’s answer expressed the disturbance of his mind. He
said, shaking hands with me, ‘Copperfield, you are a true friend; but
when the worst comes to the worst, no man is without a friend who is
possessed of shaving materials.’ At this dreadful hint Mrs. Micawber
threw her arms round Mr. Micawber’s neck and entreated him to be calm.
He wept; but so far recovered, almost immediately, as to ring the bell
for the waiter, and bespeak a hot kidney pudding and a plate of shrimps
for breakfast in the morning.

When I took my leave of them, they both pressed me so much to come and
dine before they went away, that I could not refuse. But, as I knew I
could not come next day, when I should have a good deal to prepare in
the evening, Mr. Micawber arranged that he would call at Doctor Strong’s
in the course of the morning (having a presentiment that the remittance
would arrive by that post), and propose the day after, if it would suit
me better. Accordingly I was called out of school next forenoon, and
found Mr. Micawber in the parlour; who had called to say that the dinner
would take place as proposed. When I asked him if the remittance had
come, he pressed my hand and departed.

As I was looking out of window that same evening, it surprised me, and
made me rather uneasy, to see Mr. Micawber and Uriah Heep walk past, arm
in arm: Uriah humbly sensible of the honour that was done him, and Mr.
Micawber taking a bland delight in extending his patronage to Uriah. But
I was still more surprised, when I went to the little hotel next day at
the appointed dinner-hour, which was four o’clock, to find, from what
Mr. Micawber said, that he had gone home with Uriah, and had drunk
brandy-and-water at Mrs. Heep’s.

‘And I’ll tell you what, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘your
friend Heep is a young fellow who might be attorney-general. If I had
known that young man, at the period when my difficulties came to a
crisis, all I can say is, that I believe my creditors would have been a
great deal better managed than they were.’

I hardly understood how this could have been, seeing that Mr. Micawber
had paid them nothing at all as it was; but I did not like to
ask. Neither did I like to say, that I hoped he had not been too
communicative to Uriah; or to inquire if they had talked much about me.
I was afraid of hurting Mr. Micawber’s feelings, or, at all events, Mrs.
Micawber’s, she being very sensitive; but I was uncomfortable about it,
too, and often thought about it afterwards.

We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an elegant dish of fish; the
kidney-end of a loin of veal, roasted; fried sausage-meat; a partridge,
and a pudding. There was wine, and there was strong ale; and after
dinner Mrs. Micawber made us a bowl of hot punch with her own hands.

Mr. Micawber was uncommonly convivial. I never saw him such good
company. He made his face shine with the punch, so that it looked as if
it had been varnished all over. He got cheerfully sentimental about
the town, and proposed success to it; observing that Mrs. Micawber and
himself had been made extremely snug and comfortable there and that he
never should forget the agreeable hours they had passed in Canterbury.
He proposed me afterwards; and he, and Mrs. Micawber, and I, took a
review of our past acquaintance, in the course of which we sold the
property all over again. Then I proposed Mrs. Micawber: or, at least,
said, modestly, ‘If you’ll allow me, Mrs. Micawber, I shall now have
the pleasure of drinking your health, ma’am.’ On which Mr. Micawber
delivered an eulogium on Mrs. Micawber’s character, and said she
had ever been his guide, philosopher, and friend, and that he would
recommend me, when I came to a marrying time of life, to marry such
another woman, if such another woman could be found.

As the punch disappeared, Mr. Micawber became still more friendly and
convivial. Mrs. Micawber’s spirits becoming elevated, too, we sang ‘Auld
Lang Syne’. When we came to ‘Here’s a hand, my trusty frere’, we all
joined hands round the table; and when we declared we would ‘take a
right gude Willie Waught’, and hadn’t the least idea what it meant, we
were really affected.

In a word, I never saw anybody so thoroughly jovial as Mr. Micawber
was, down to the very last moment of the evening, when I took a hearty
farewell of himself and his amiable wife. Consequently, I was not
prepared, at seven o’clock next morning, to receive the following
communication, dated half past nine in the evening; a quarter of an hour
after I had left him:--

‘My DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,

‘The die is cast--all is over. Hiding the ravages of care with a sickly
mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this evening, that there is no
hope of the remittance! Under these circumstances, alike humiliating to
endure, humiliating to contemplate, and humiliating to relate, I have
discharged the pecuniary liability contracted at this establishment,
by giving a note of hand, made payable fourteen days after date, at
my residence, Pentonville, London. When it becomes due, it will not be
taken up. The result is destruction. The bolt is impending, and the tree
must fall.

‘Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my dear Copperfield, be a
beacon to you through life. He writes with that intention, and in that
hope. If he could think himself of so much use, one gleam of day might,
by possibility, penetrate into the cheerless dungeon of his remaining
existence--though his longevity is, at present (to say the least of it),
extremely problematical.

‘This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield, you will ever
receive

                         ‘From

                              ‘The

                                   ‘Beggared Outcast,

                                        ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’


I was so shocked by the contents of this heart-rending letter, that I
ran off directly towards the little hotel with the intention of taking
it on my way to Doctor Strong’s, and trying to soothe Mr. Micawber with
a word of comfort. But, half-way there, I met the London coach with Mr.
and Mrs. Micawber up behind; Mr. Micawber, the very picture of tranquil
enjoyment, smiling at Mrs. Micawber’s conversation, eating walnuts out
of a paper bag, with a bottle sticking out of his breast pocket. As they
did not see me, I thought it best, all things considered, not to
see them. So, with a great weight taken off my mind, I turned into a
by-street that was the nearest way to school, and felt, upon the whole,
relieved that they were gone; though I still liked them very much,
nevertheless.



CHAPTER 18. A RETROSPECT


My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence--the unseen,
unfelt progress of my life--from childhood up to youth! Let me think,
as I look back upon that flowing water, now a dry channel overgrown with
leaves, whether there are any marks along its course, by which I can
remember how it ran.

A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, where we all went
together, every Sunday morning, assembling first at school for that
purpose. The earthy smell, the sunless air, the sensation of the world
being shut out, the resounding of the organ through the black and white
arched galleries and aisles, are wings that take me back, and hold me
hovering above those days, in a half-sleeping and half-waking dream.

I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen in a few months, over
several heads. But the first boy seems to me a mighty creature, dwelling
afar off, whose giddy height is unattainable. Agnes says ‘No,’ but I say
‘Yes,’ and tell her that she little thinks what stores of knowledge have
been mastered by the wonderful Being, at whose place she thinks I, even
I, weak aspirant, may arrive in time. He is not my private friend
and public patron, as Steerforth was, but I hold him in a reverential
respect. I chiefly wonder what he’ll be, when he leaves Doctor Strong’s,
and what mankind will do to maintain any place against him.

But who is this that breaks upon me? This is Miss Shepherd, whom I love.

Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls’ establishment. I
adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girl, in a spencer, with a round
face and curly flaxen hair. The Misses Nettingalls’ young ladies come to
the Cathedral too. I cannot look upon my book, for I must look upon
Miss Shepherd. When the choristers chaunt, I hear Miss Shepherd. In the
service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd’s name--I put her in among the
Royal Family. At home, in my own room, I am sometimes moved to cry out,
‘Oh, Miss Shepherd!’ in a transport of love.

For some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd’s feelings, but, at
length, Fate being propitious, we meet at the dancing-school. I have
Miss Shepherd for my partner. I touch Miss Shepherd’s glove, and feel a
thrill go up the right arm of my jacket, and come out at my hair. I say
nothing to Miss Shepherd, but we understand each other. Miss Shepherd
and myself live but to be united.

Why do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts for a present, I
wonder? They are not expressive of affection, they are difficult to pack
into a parcel of any regular shape, they are hard to crack, even in
room doors, and they are oily when cracked; yet I feel that they are
appropriate to Miss Shepherd. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon
Miss Shepherd; and oranges innumerable. Once, I kiss Miss Shepherd in
the cloak-room. Ecstasy! What are my agony and indignation next day,
when I hear a flying rumour that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss
Shepherd in the stocks for turning in her toes!

Miss Shepherd being the one pervading theme and vision of my life, how
do I ever come to break with her? I can’t conceive. And yet a coolness
grows between Miss Shepherd and myself. Whispers reach me of Miss
Shepherd having said she wished I wouldn’t stare so, and having avowed a
preference for Master Jones--for Jones! a boy of no merit whatever! The
gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens. At last, one day, I meet the
Misses Nettingalls’ establishment out walking. Miss Shepherd makes
a face as she goes by, and laughs to her companion. All is over. The
devotion of a life--it seems a life, it is all the same--is at an end;
Miss Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal Family
know her no more.

I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace. I am not at all
polite, now, to the Misses Nettingalls’ young ladies, and shouldn’t
dote on any of them, if they were twice as many and twenty times as
beautiful. I think the dancing-school a tiresome affair, and wonder why
the girls can’t dance by themselves and leave us alone. I am growing
great in Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots. Doctor Strong
refers to me in public as a promising young scholar. Mr. Dick is wild
with joy, and my aunt remits me a guinea by the next post.

The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition of an armed head
in Macbeth. Who is this young butcher? He is the terror of the youth
of Canterbury. There is a vague belief abroad, that the beef suet with
which he anoints his hair gives him unnatural strength, and that he is
a match for a man. He is a broad-faced, bull-necked, young butcher, with
rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned mind, and an injurious tongue.
His main use of this tongue, is, to disparage Doctor Strong’s young
gentlemen. He says, publicly, that if they want anything he’ll give it
‘em. He names individuals among them (myself included), whom he could
undertake to settle with one hand, and the other tied behind him. He
waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads, and calls
challenges after me in the open streets. For these sufficient reasons I
resolve to fight the butcher.

It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the corner of a wall.
I meet the butcher by appointment. I am attended by a select body of our
boys; the butcher, by two other butchers, a young publican, and a sweep.
The preliminaries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand face to
face. In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand candles out of my left
eyebrow. In another moment, I don’t know where the wall is, or where
I am, or where anybody is. I hardly know which is myself and which the
butcher, we are always in such a tangle and tussle, knocking about upon
the trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but confident;
sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my second’s knee; sometimes
I go in at the butcher madly, and cut my knuckles open against his face,
without appearing to discompose him at all. At last I awake, very queer
about the head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking off,
congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep and publican, and
putting on his coat as he goes; from which I augur, justly, that the
victory is his.

I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks put to my eyes,
and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, and find a great puffy place
bursting out on my upper lip, which swells immoderately. For three or
four days I remain at home, a very ill-looking subject, with a green
shade over my eyes; and I should be very dull, but that Agnes is a
sister to me, and condoles with me, and reads to me, and makes the time
light and happy. Agnes has my confidence completely, always; I tell her
all about the butcher, and the wrongs he has heaped upon me; she thinks
I couldn’t have done otherwise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks
and trembles at my having fought him.

Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the head-boy in the days
that are come now, nor has he been this many and many a day. Adams has
left the school so long, that when he comes back, on a visit to Doctor
Strong, there are not many there, besides myself, who know him. Adams is
going to be called to the bar almost directly, and is to be an advocate,
and to wear a wig. I am surprised to find him a meeker man than I had
thought, and less imposing in appearance. He has not staggered the world
yet, either; for it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the
same as if he had never joined it.

A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and history march on in
stately hosts that seem to have no end--and what comes next! I am
the head-boy, now! I look down on the line of boys below me, with a
condescending interest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was
myself, when I first came there. That little fellow seems to be no part
of me; I remember him as something left behind upon the road of life--as
something I have passed, rather than have actually been--and almost
think of him as of someone else.

And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield’s, where
is she? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect likeness of the picture,
a child likeness no more, moves about the house; and Agnes--my sweet
sister, as I call her in my thoughts, my counsellor and friend, the
better angel of the lives of all who come within her calm, good,
self-denying influence--is quite a woman.

What other changes have come upon me, besides the changes in my growth
and looks, and in the knowledge I have garnered all this while? I wear
a gold watch and chain, a ring upon my little finger, and a long-tailed
coat; and I use a great deal of bear’s grease--which, taken in
conjunction with the ring, looks bad. Am I in love again? I am. I
worship the eldest Miss Larkins.

The eldest Miss Larkins is not a little girl. She is a tall, dark,
black-eyed, fine figure of a woman. The eldest Miss Larkins is not a
chicken; for the youngest Miss Larkins is not that, and the eldest must
be three or four years older. Perhaps the eldest Miss Larkins may be
about thirty. My passion for her is beyond all bounds.

The eldest Miss Larkins knows officers. It is an awful thing to bear. I
see them speaking to her in the street. I see them cross the way to meet
her, when her bonnet (she has a bright taste in bonnets) is seen coming
down the pavement, accompanied by her sister’s bonnet. She laughs and
talks, and seems to like it. I spend a good deal of my own spare time in
walking up and down to meet her. If I can bow to her once in the day (I
know her to bow to, knowing Mr. Larkins), I am happier. I deserve a bow
now and then. The raging agonies I suffer on the night of the Race Ball,
where I know the eldest Miss Larkins will be dancing with the military,
ought to have some compensation, if there be even-handed justice in the
world.

My passion takes away my appetite, and makes me wear my newest silk
neckerchief continually. I have no relief but in putting on my best
clothes, and having my boots cleaned over and over again. I seem, then,
to be worthier of the eldest Miss Larkins. Everything that belongs to
her, or is connected with her, is precious to me. Mr. Larkins (a gruff
old gentleman with a double chin, and one of his eyes immovable in his
head) is fraught with interest to me. When I can’t meet his daughter,
I go where I am likely to meet him. To say ‘How do you do, Mr. Larkins?
Are the young ladies and all the family quite well?’ seems so pointed,
that I blush.

I think continually about my age. Say I am seventeen, and say that
seventeen is young for the eldest Miss Larkins, what of that? Besides,
I shall be one-and-twenty in no time almost. I regularly take walks
outside Mr. Larkins’s house in the evening, though it cuts me to the
heart to see the officers go in, or to hear them up in the drawing-room,
where the eldest Miss Larkins plays the harp. I even walk, on two or
three occasions, in a sickly, spoony manner, round and round the house
after the family are gone to bed, wondering which is the eldest Miss
Larkins’s chamber (and pitching, I dare say now, on Mr. Larkins’s
instead); wishing that a fire would burst out; that the assembled crowd
would stand appalled; that I, dashing through them with a ladder, might
rear it against her window, save her in my arms, go back for something
she had left behind, and perish in the flames. For I am generally
disinterested in my love, and think I could be content to make a figure
before Miss Larkins, and expire.

Generally, but not always. Sometimes brighter visions rise before me.
When I dress (the occupation of two hours), for a great ball given at
the Larkins’s (the anticipation of three weeks), I indulge my fancy with
pleasing images. I picture myself taking courage to make a declaration
to Miss Larkins. I picture Miss Larkins sinking her head upon my
shoulder, and saying, ‘Oh, Mr. Copperfield, can I believe my ears!’ I
picture Mr. Larkins waiting on me next morning, and saying, ‘My dear
Copperfield, my daughter has told me all. Youth is no objection. Here
are twenty thousand pounds. Be happy!’ I picture my aunt relenting,
and blessing us; and Mr. Dick and Doctor Strong being present at the
marriage ceremony. I am a sensible fellow, I believe--I believe,
on looking back, I mean--and modest I am sure; but all this goes on
notwithstanding. I repair to the enchanted house, where there are
lights, chattering, music, flowers, officers (I am sorry to see), and
the eldest Miss Larkins, a blaze of beauty. She is dressed in blue, with
blue flowers in her hair--forget-me-nots--as if SHE had any need to wear
forget-me-nots. It is the first really grown-up party that I have ever
been invited to, and I am a little uncomfortable; for I appear not to
belong to anybody, and nobody appears to have anything to say to me,
except Mr. Larkins, who asks me how my schoolfellows are, which he
needn’t do, as I have not come there to be insulted.

But after I have stood in the doorway for some time, and feasted my eyes
upon the goddess of my heart, she approaches me--she, the eldest Miss
Larkins!--and asks me pleasantly, if I dance?

I stammer, with a bow, ‘With you, Miss Larkins.’

‘With no one else?’ inquires Miss Larkins.

‘I should have no pleasure in dancing with anyone else.’

Miss Larkins laughs and blushes (or I think she blushes), and says,
‘Next time but one, I shall be very glad.’

The time arrives. ‘It is a waltz, I think,’ Miss Larkins doubtfully
observes, when I present myself. ‘Do you waltz? If not, Captain
Bailey--’

But I do waltz (pretty well, too, as it happens), and I take Miss
Larkins out. I take her sternly from the side of Captain Bailey. He
is wretched, I have no doubt; but he is nothing to me. I have been
wretched, too. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins! I don’t know where,
among whom, or how long. I only know that I swim about in space, with a
blue angel, in a state of blissful delirium, until I find myself alone
with her in a little room, resting on a sofa. She admires a flower (pink
camellia japonica, price half-a-crown), in my button-hole. I give it
her, and say:

‘I ask an inestimable price for it, Miss Larkins.’

‘Indeed! What is that?’ returns Miss Larkins.

‘A flower of yours, that I may treasure it as a miser does gold.’

‘You’re a bold boy,’ says Miss Larkins. ‘There.’

She gives it me, not displeased; and I put it to my lips, and then into
my breast. Miss Larkins, laughing, draws her hand through my arm, and
says, ‘Now take me back to Captain Bailey.’

I am lost in the recollection of this delicious interview, and the
waltz, when she comes to me again, with a plain elderly gentleman who
has been playing whist all night, upon her arm, and says:

‘Oh! here is my bold friend! Mr. Chestle wants to know you, Mr.
Copperfield.’

I feel at once that he is a friend of the family, and am much gratified.

‘I admire your taste, sir,’ says Mr. Chestle. ‘It does you credit. I
suppose you don’t take much interest in hops; but I am a pretty
large grower myself; and if you ever like to come over to our
neighbourhood--neighbourhood of Ashford--and take a run about our
place,--we shall be glad for you to stop as long as you like.’

I thank Mr. Chestle warmly, and shake hands. I think I am in a happy
dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins once again. She says I
waltz so well! I go home in a state of unspeakable bliss, and waltz in
imagination, all night long, with my arm round the blue waist of my dear
divinity. For some days afterwards, I am lost in rapturous reflections;
but I neither see her in the street, nor when I call. I am imperfectly
consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge, the perished
flower.

‘Trotwood,’ says Agnes, one day after dinner. ‘Who do you think is going
to be married tomorrow? Someone you admire.’

‘Not you, I suppose, Agnes?’

‘Not me!’ raising her cheerful face from the music she is copying. ‘Do
you hear him, Papa?--The eldest Miss Larkins.’

‘To--to Captain Bailey?’ I have just enough power to ask.

‘No; to no Captain. To Mr. Chestle, a hop-grower.’

I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off my ring, I
wear my worst clothes, I use no bear’s grease, and I frequently lament
over the late Miss Larkins’s faded flower. Being, by that time, rather
tired of this kind of life, and having received new provocation from
the butcher, I throw the flower away, go out with the butcher, and
gloriously defeat him.

This, and the resumption of my ring, as well as of the bear’s grease
in moderation, are the last marks I can discern, now, in my progress to
seventeen.



CHAPTER 19. I LOOK ABOUT ME, AND MAKE A DISCOVERY


I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when my school-days
drew to an end, and the time came for my leaving Doctor Strong’s. I had
been very happy there, I had a great attachment for the Doctor, and I
was eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these reasons
I was sorry to go; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I
was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of
the importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of the
wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal, and the
wonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society, lured me away.
So powerful were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that
I seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left school
without natural regret. The separation has not made the impression on
me, that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt
about it, and what its circumstances were; but it is not momentous in my
recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know that my
juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then; and that life was
more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin to read,
than anything else.

My aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the calling to which
I should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to find a
satisfactory answer to her often-repeated question, ‘What I would like
to be?’ But I had no particular liking, that I could discover, for
anything. If I could have been inspired with a knowledge of the science
of navigation, taken the command of a fast-sailing expedition, and gone
round the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery, I think I might
have considered myself completely suited. But, in the absence of any
such miraculous provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit
that would not lie too heavily upon her purse; and to do my duty in it,
whatever it might be.

Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a meditative
and sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once; and on that
occasion (I don’t know what put it in his head), he suddenly proposed
that I should be ‘a Brazier’. My aunt received this proposal so very
ungraciously, that he never ventured on a second; but ever afterwards
confined himself to looking watchfully at her for her suggestions, and
rattling his money.

‘Trot, I tell you what, my dear,’ said my aunt, one morning in the
Christmas season when I left school: ‘as this knotty point is still
unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we can
help it, I think we had better take a little breathing-time. In the
meanwhile, you must try to look at it from a new point of view, and not
as a schoolboy.’

‘I will, aunt.’

‘It has occurred to me,’ pursued my aunt, ‘that a little change, and a
glimpse of life out of doors, may be useful in helping you to know your
own mind, and form a cooler judgement. Suppose you were to go down into
the old part of the country again, for instance, and see that--that
out-of-the-way woman with the savagest of names,’ said my aunt, rubbing
her nose, for she could never thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so
called.

‘Of all things in the world, aunt, I should like it best!’

‘Well,’ said my aunt, ‘that’s lucky, for I should like it too. But
it’s natural and rational that you should like it. And I am very
well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will always be natural and
rational.’

‘I hope so, aunt.’

‘Your sister, Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt, ‘would have been as
natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You’ll be worthy of her,
won’t you?’

‘I hope I shall be worthy of YOU, aunt. That will be enough for me.’

‘It’s a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn’t live,’
said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, ‘or she’d have been so vain
of her boy by this time, that her soft little head would have been
completely turned, if there was anything of it left to turn.’ (My aunt
always excused any weakness of her own in my behalf, by transferring it
in this way to my poor mother.) ‘Bless me, Trotwood, how you do remind
me of her!’

‘Pleasantly, I hope, aunt?’ said I.

‘He’s as like her, Dick,’ said my aunt, emphatically, ‘he’s as like her,
as she was that afternoon before she began to fret--bless my heart, he’s
as like her, as he can look at me out of his two eyes!’

‘Is he indeed?’ said Mr. Dick.

‘And he’s like David, too,’ said my aunt, decisively.

‘He is very like David!’ said Mr. Dick.

‘But what I want you to be, Trot,’ resumed my aunt, ‘--I don’t mean
physically, but morally; you are very well physically--is, a firm
fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolution,’
said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her hand. ‘With
determination. With character, Trot--with strength of character that is
not to be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody, or by anything.
That’s what I want you to be. That’s what your father and mother might
both have been, Heaven knows, and been the better for it.’

I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.

‘That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance upon yourself,
and to act for yourself,’ said my aunt, ‘I shall send you upon your
trip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr. Dick’s going with you; but, on
second thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me.’

Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed; until the honour
and dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful woman in the
world, restored the sunshine to his face.

‘Besides,’ said my aunt, ‘there’s the Memorial--’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, ‘I intend, Trotwood, to get
that done immediately--it really must be done immediately! And then it
will go in, you know--and then--’ said Mr. Dick, after checking himself,
and pausing a long time, ‘there’ll be a pretty kettle of fish!’

In pursuance of my aunt’s kind scheme, I was shortly afterwards fitted
out with a handsome purse of money, and a portmanteau, and tenderly
dismissed upon my expedition. At parting, my aunt gave me some good
advice, and a good many kisses; and said that as her object was that I
should look about me, and should think a little, she would recommend me
to stay a few days in London, if I liked it, either on my way down into
Suffolk, or in coming back. In a word, I was at liberty to do what I
would, for three weeks or a month; and no other conditions were imposed
upon my freedom than the before-mentioned thinking and looking about me,
and a pledge to write three times a week and faithfully report myself.

I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Agnes and Mr.
Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had not yet relinquished), and
also of the good Doctor. Agnes was very glad to see me, and told me that
the house had not been like itself since I had left it.

‘I am sure I am not like myself when I am away,’ said I. ‘I seem to
want my right hand, when I miss you. Though that’s not saying much; for
there’s no head in my right hand, and no heart. Everyone who knows you,
consults with you, and is guided by you, Agnes.’

‘Everyone who knows me, spoils me, I believe,’ she answered, smiling.

‘No. It’s because you are like no one else. You are so good, and so
sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you are always
right.’

‘You talk,’ said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as she sat at
work, ‘as if I were the late Miss Larkins.’

‘Come! It’s not fair to abuse my confidence,’ I answered, reddening at
the recollection of my blue enslaver. ‘But I shall confide in you, just
the same, Agnes. I can never grow out of that. Whenever I fall into
trouble, or fall in love, I shall always tell you, if you’ll let
me--even when I come to fall in love in earnest.’

‘Why, you have always been in earnest!’ said Agnes, laughing again.

‘Oh! that was as a child, or a schoolboy,’ said I, laughing in my turn,
not without being a little shame-faced. ‘Times are altering now, and I
suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness one day or other.
My wonder is, that you are not in earnest yourself, by this time,
Agnes.’

Agnes laughed again, and shook her head.

‘Oh, I know you are not!’ said I, ‘because if you had been you would
have told me. Or at least’--for I saw a faint blush in her face, ‘you
would have let me find it out for myself. But there is no one that I
know of, who deserves to love you, Agnes. Someone of a nobler character,
and more worthy altogether than anyone I have ever seen here, must rise
up, before I give my consent. In the time to come, I shall have a wary
eye on all admirers; and shall exact a great deal from the successful
one, I assure you.’

We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest and earnest,
that had long grown naturally out of our familiar relations, begun as
mere children. But Agnes, now suddenly lifting up her eyes to mine, and
speaking in a different manner, said:

‘Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and that I may not
have another opportunity of asking for a long time, perhaps--something
I would ask, I think, of no one else. Have you observed any gradual
alteration in Papa?’

I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too. I must
have shown as much, now, in my face; for her eyes were in a moment cast
down, and I saw tears in them.

‘Tell me what it is,’ she said, in a low voice.

‘I think--shall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so much?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased upon
him since I first came here. He is often very nervous--or I fancy so.’

‘It is not fancy,’ said Agnes, shaking her head.

‘His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes look wild. I
have remarked that at those times, and when he is least like himself, he
is most certain to be wanted on some business.’

‘By Uriah,’ said Agnes.

‘Yes; and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having understood
it, or of having shown his condition in spite of himself, seems to make
him so uneasy, that next day he is worse, and next day worse, and so he
becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but
in this state I saw him, only the other evening, lay down his head upon
his desk, and shed tears like a child.’

Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking, and in
a moment she had met her father at the door of the room, and was hanging
on his shoulder. The expression of her face, as they both looked towards
me, I felt to be very touching. There was such deep fondness for him,
and gratitude to him for all his love and care, in her beautiful look;
and there was such a fervent appeal to me to deal tenderly by him, even
in my inmost thoughts, and to let no harsh construction find any place
against him; she was, at once, so proud of him and devoted to him, yet
so compassionate and sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too; that
nothing she could have said would have expressed more to me, or moved me
more.

We were to drink tea at the Doctor’s. We went there at the usual hour;
and round the study fireside found the Doctor, and his young wife, and
her mother. The Doctor, who made as much of my going away as if I were
going to China, received me as an honoured guest; and called for a log
of wood to be thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of his old
pupil reddening in the blaze.

‘I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood’s stead, Wickfield,’
said the Doctor, warming his hands; ‘I am getting lazy, and want ease.
I shall relinquish all my young people in another six months, and lead a
quieter life.’

‘You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor,’ Mr. Wickfield
answered.

‘But now I mean to do it,’ returned the Doctor. ‘My first master will
succeed me--I am in earnest at last--so you’ll soon have to arrange our
contracts, and to bind us firmly to them, like a couple of knaves.’

‘And to take care,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘that you’re not imposed on, eh?
As you certainly would be, in any contract you should make for yourself.
Well! I am ready. There are worse tasks than that, in my calling.’

‘I shall have nothing to think of then,’ said the Doctor, with a smile,
‘but my Dictionary; and this other contract-bargain--Annie.’

As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea table by Agnes,
she seemed to me to avoid his look with such unwonted hesitation and
timidity, that his attention became fixed upon her, as if something were
suggested to his thoughts.

‘There is a post come in from India, I observe,’ he said, after a short
silence.

‘By the by! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon!’ said the Doctor.

‘Indeed!’ ‘Poor dear Jack!’ said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head. ‘That
trying climate!--like living, they tell me, on a sand-heap, underneath
a burning-glass! He looked strong, but he wasn’t. My dear Doctor, it was
his spirit, not his constitution, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie,
my dear, I am sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousin
never was strong--not what can be called ROBUST, you know,’ said Mrs.
Markleham, with emphasis, and looking round upon us generally, ‘--from
the time when my daughter and himself were children together, and
walking about, arm-in-arm, the livelong day.’

Annie, thus addressed, made no reply.

‘Do I gather from what you say, ma’am, that Mr. Maldon is ill?’ asked
Mr. Wickfield.

‘Ill!’ replied the Old Soldier. ‘My dear sir, he’s all sorts of things.’

‘Except well?’ said Mr. Wickfield.

‘Except well, indeed!’ said the Old Soldier. ‘He has had dreadful
strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues, and every
kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver,’ said the Old Soldier
resignedly, ‘that, of course, he gave up altogether, when he first went
out!’

‘Does he say all this?’ asked Mr. Wickfield.

‘Say? My dear sir,’ returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head and her
fan, ‘you little know my poor Jack Maldon when you ask that question.
Say? Not he. You might drag him at the heels of four wild horses first.’

‘Mama!’ said Mrs. Strong.

‘Annie, my dear,’ returned her mother, ‘once for all, I must really beg
that you will not interfere with me, unless it is to confirm what I say.
You know as well as I do that your cousin Maldon would be dragged at the
heels of any number of wild horses--why should I confine myself to four!
I WON’T confine myself to four--eight, sixteen, two-and-thirty, rather
than say anything calculated to overturn the Doctor’s plans.’

‘Wickfield’s plans,’ said the Doctor, stroking his face, and looking
penitently at his adviser. ‘That is to say, our joint plans for him. I
said myself, abroad or at home.’

‘And I said’ added Mr. Wickfield gravely, ‘abroad. I was the means of
sending him abroad. It’s my responsibility.’

‘Oh! Responsibility!’ said the Old Soldier. ‘Everything was done for
the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield; everything was done for the kindest and
best, we know. But if the dear fellow can’t live there, he can’t live
there. And if he can’t live there, he’ll die there, sooner than he’ll
overturn the Doctor’s plans. I know him,’ said the Old Soldier, fanning
herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony, ‘and I know he’ll die there,
sooner than he’ll overturn the Doctor’s plans.’

‘Well, well, ma’am,’ said the Doctor cheerfully, ‘I am not bigoted to
my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some other
plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill health, he must
not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to make some more
suitable and fortunate provision for him in this country.’

Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech--which, I need
not say, she had not at all expected or led up to--that she could only
tell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several times through that
operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his hand
with it. After which she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not being
more demonstrative when such kindnesses were showered, for her sake, on
her old playfellow; and entertained us with some particulars concerning
other deserving members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on
their deserving legs.

All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or lifted up her
eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as she sat
by his own daughter’s side. It appeared to me that he never thought of
being observed by anyone; but was so intent upon her, and upon his own
thoughts in connexion with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked
what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to himself, and
to whom he had written?

‘Why, here,’ said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-piece
above the Doctor’s head, ‘the dear fellow says to the Doctor
himself--where is it? Oh!--“I am sorry to inform you that my health is
suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity
of returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration.” That’s
pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie’s
letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again.’

‘Not now, mama,’ she pleaded in a low tone.

‘My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most
ridiculous persons in the world,’ returned her mother, ‘and perhaps the
most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have
heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself.
Do you call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am
surprised. You ought to know better.’

The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old lady,
I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it, trembled.

‘Now let us see,’ said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her eye,
‘where the passage is. “The remembrance of old times, my dearest
Annie”--and so forth--it’s not there. “The amiable old Proctor”--who’s
he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how
stupid I am! “Doctor,” of course. Ah! amiable indeed!’ Here she left
off, to kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was looking
at us in a state of placid satisfaction. ‘Now I have found it. “You may
not be surprised to hear, Annie,”--no, to be sure, knowing that he never
was really strong; what did I say just now?--“that I have undergone
so much in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all
hazards; on sick leave, if I can; on total resignation, if that is
not to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is
insupportable.” And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures,’
said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before, and refolding
the letter, ‘it would be insupportable to me to think of.’

Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as if
for his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely silent, with
his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject was dismissed,
and other topics occupied us, he remained so; seldom raising his eyes,
unless to rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful frown, upon the
Doctor, or his wife, or both.

The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness and
expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together, and played duets
together, and we had quite a little concert. But I remarked two things:
first, that though Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quite
herself, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which separated
them wholly from each other; secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed
to dislike the intimacy between her and Agnes, and to watch it with
uneasiness. And now, I must confess, the recollection of what I had seen
on that night when Mr. Maldon went away, first began to return upon me
with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent beauty
of her face was not as innocent to me as it had been; I mistrusted the
natural grace and charm of her manner; and when I looked at Agnes by her
side, and thought how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose within
me that it was an ill-assorted friendship.

She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so happy too,
that they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour. It closed
in an incident which I well remember. They were taking leave of each
other, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr.
Wickfield stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnes
quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening time had been
cancelled, and I were still standing in the doorway on the night of the
departure, the expression of that night in the face of Mrs. Strong, as
it confronted his.

I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible I
found it, when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from this
look, and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It haunted
me when I got home. I seemed to have left the Doctor’s roof with a dark
cloud lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his grey head, was
mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous
to him, and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending
shadow of a great affliction, and a great disgrace that had no distinct
form in it yet, fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had
worked and played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure
in thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees, which
remained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim
smooth grass-plot, and the stone urns, and the Doctor’s walk, and the
congenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as
if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face,
and its peace and honour given to the winds.

But morning brought with it my parting from the old house, which Agnes
had filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind sufficiently.
I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might sleep again--perhaps
often--in my old room; but the days of my inhabiting there were gone,
and the old time was past. I was heavier at heart when I packed up such
of my books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover,
than I cared to show to Uriah Heep; who was so officious to help me,
that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I was going.

I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an indifferent show
of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of the London coach.
I was so softened and forgiving, going through the town, that I had half
a mind to nod to my old enemy the butcher, and throw him five shillings
to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stood
scraping the great block in the shop, and moreover, his appearance was
so little improved by the loss of a front tooth which I had knocked out,
that I thought it best to make no advances.

The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road,
was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak extremely
gruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience; but
I stuck to it, because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.

‘You are going through, sir?’ said the coachman.

‘Yes, William,’ I said, condescendingly (I knew him); ‘I am going to
London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.’

‘Shooting, sir?’ said the coachman.

He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of
year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.

‘I don’t know,’ I said, pretending to be undecided, ‘whether I shall
take a shot or not.’ ‘Birds is got wery shy, I’m told,’ said William.

‘So I understand,’ said I.

‘Is Suffolk your county, sir?’ asked William.

‘Yes,’ I said, with some importance. ‘Suffolk’s my county.’

‘I’m told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,’ said William.

I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the
institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them; so I
shook my head, as much as to say, ‘I believe you!’

‘And the Punches,’ said William. ‘There’s cattle! A Suffolk Punch, when
he’s a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any
Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?’

‘N-no,’ I said, ‘not exactly.’

‘Here’s a gen’lm’n behind me, I’ll pound it,’ said William, ‘as has bred
‘em by wholesale.’

The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint,
and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat
brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way
up outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over
the coachman’s shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled
the back of my head; and as I looked at him, he leered at the leaders
with the eye with which he didn’t squint, in a very knowing manner.

‘Ain’t you?’ asked William.

‘Ain’t I what?’ said the gentleman behind.

‘Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?’

‘I should think so,’ said the gentleman. ‘There ain’t no sort of orse
that I ain’t bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some
men’s fancy. They’re wittles and drink to me--lodging, wife, and
children--reading, writing, and Arithmetic--snuff, tobacker, and sleep.’

‘That ain’t a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-box, is it
though?’ said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.

I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have
my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

‘Well, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said William, ‘I think it would be more
correct.’

I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I
booked my place at the coach office I had had ‘Box Seat’ written against
the entry, and had given the book-keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in
a special great-coat and shawl, expressly to do honour to that
distinguished eminence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal; and
had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first
stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other
merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across
me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a
canter!

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small
occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not
stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury
coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spoke
from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt
completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there
behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with plenty of
money in my pocket; and to look out for the places where I had slept on
my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every
conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the trampers
whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up,
I felt as if the tinker’s blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt
again. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I
caught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived
who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the
place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my
money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed the
veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy
hand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down
and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of
establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the
coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bedchamber,
which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault.
I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe
of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions
on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering
advice to my inexperience.

‘Well now,’ said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, ‘what would you
like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general: have a fowl!’

I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the humour for
a fowl.

‘Ain’t you?’ said the waiter. ‘Young gentlemen is generally tired of
beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!’

I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest
anything else.

‘Do you care for taters?’ said the waiter, with an insinuating smile,
and his head on one side. ‘Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed
with taters.’

I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and
potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if there
were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire--which I knew there
were not, and couldn’t be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.

He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much
surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the
fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it;
and on my replying ‘Half a pint of sherry,’ thought it a favourable
opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the
stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this
opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed him
behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very
busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemist
and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I
thought it flat; and it certainly had more English crumbs in it, than
were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, but
I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.

Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that
poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process), I
resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I chose;
and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the
new Pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and
walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern
taskmasters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful
effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, the
influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company, the
smooth stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so
dazzling, and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I
came out into the rainy street, at twelve o’clock at night, I felt as if
I had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic life
for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted, umbrella-struggling,
hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking, muddy, miserable world.

I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street for a little
while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth: but the unceremonious
pushing and hustling that I received, soon recalled me to myself, and
put me in the road back to the hotel; whither I went, revolving the
glorious vision all the way; and where, after some porter and oysters,
I sat revolving it still, at past one o’clock, with my eyes on the
coffee-room fire.

I was so filled with the play, and with the past--for it was, in a
manner, like a shining transparency, through which I saw my earlier
life moving along--that I don’t know when the figure of a handsome
well-formed young man dressed with a tasteful easy negligence which I
have reason to remember very well, became a real presence to me. But
I recollect being conscious of his company without having noticed his
coming in--and my still sitting, musing, over the coffee-room fire.

At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy waiter,
who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting them, and hitting
them, and putting them through all kinds of contortions in his small
pantry. In going towards the door, I passed the person who had come in,
and saw him plainly. I turned directly, came back, and looked again. He
did not know me, but I knew him in a moment.

At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision to
speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and might have
lost him. But, in the then condition of my mind, where the play was
still running high, his former protection of me appeared so deserving
of my gratitude, and my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly
and spontaneously, that I went up to him at once, with a fast-beating
heart, and said:

‘Steerforth! won’t you speak to me?’

He looked at me--just as he used to look, sometimes--but I saw no
recognition in his face.

‘You don’t remember me, I am afraid,’ said I.

‘My God!’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘It’s little Copperfield!’

I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. But for very
shame, and the fear that it might displease him, I could have held him
round the neck and cried.

‘I never, never, never was so glad! My dear Steerforth, I am so
overjoyed to see you!’

‘And I am rejoiced to see you, too!’ he said, shaking my hands heartily.
‘Why, Copperfield, old boy, don’t be overpowered!’ And yet he was glad,
too, I thought, to see how the delight I had in meeting him affected me.

I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had not been able to
keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat down together,
side by side.

‘Why, how do you come to be here?’ said Steerforth, clapping me on the
shoulder.

‘I came here by the Canterbury coach, today. I have been adopted by
an aunt down in that part of the country, and have just finished my
education there. How do YOU come to be here, Steerforth?’

‘Well, I am what they call an Oxford man,’ he returned; ‘that is to say,
I get bored to death down there, periodically--and I am on my way now to
my mother’s. You’re a devilish amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Just
what you used to be, now I look at you! Not altered in the least!’

‘I knew you immediately,’ I said; ‘but you are more easily remembered.’

He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his hair,
and said gaily:

‘Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way out of
town; and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house tedious
enough, I remained here tonight instead of going on. I have not been in
town half-a-dozen hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling away
at the play.’

‘I have been at the play, too,’ said I. ‘At Covent Garden. What a
delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth!’

Steerforth laughed heartily.

‘My dear young Davy,’ he said, clapping me on the shoulder again, ‘you
are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not fresher
than you are. I have been at Covent Garden, too, and there never was a
more miserable business. Holloa, you sir!’

This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to our
recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.

‘Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?’ said Steerforth.

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Where does he sleep? What’s his number? You know what I mean,’ said
Steerforth.

‘Well, sir,’ said the waiter, with an apologetic air. ‘Mr. Copperfield
is at present in forty-four, sir.’

‘And what the devil do you mean,’ retorted Steerforth, ‘by putting Mr.
Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?’

‘Why, you see we wasn’t aware, sir,’ returned the waiter, still
apologetically, ‘as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can give
Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir, if it would be preferred. Next you,
sir.’

‘Of course it would be preferred,’ said Steerforth. ‘And do it at once.’
The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth, very
much amused at my having been put into forty-four, laughed again, and
clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with him
next morning at ten o’clock--an invitation I was only too proud and
happy to accept. It being now pretty late, we took our candles and went
upstairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door, and
where I found my new room a great improvement on my old one, it not
being at all musty, and having an immense four-post bedstead in it,
which was quite a little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough for
six, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient
Rome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches,
rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the
gods.



CHAPTER 20. STEERFORTH’S HOME


When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o’clock, and informed
me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt severely the having no
occasion for it, and blushed in my bed. The suspicion that she laughed
too, when she said it, preyed upon my mind all the time I was dressing;
and gave me, I was conscious, a sneaking and guilty air when I passed
her on the staircase, as I was going down to breakfast. I was so
sensitively aware, indeed, of being younger than I could have wished,
that for some time I could not make up my mind to pass her at all, under
the ignoble circumstances of the case; but, hearing her there with
a broom, stood peeping out of window at King Charles on horseback,
surrounded by a maze of hackney-coaches, and looking anything but regal
in a drizzling rain and a dark-brown fog, until I was admonished by the
waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.

It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth expecting me, but
in a snug private apartment, red-curtained and Turkey-carpeted, where
the fire burnt bright, and a fine hot breakfast was set forth on a table
covered with a clean cloth; and a cheerful miniature of the room, the
fire, the breakfast, Steerforth, and all, was shining in the little
round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at first,
Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and superior to me in
all respects (age included); but his easy patronage soon put that to
rights, and made me quite at home. I could not enough admire the change
he had wrought in the Golden Cross; or compare the dull forlorn state
I had held yesterday, with this morning’s comfort and this morning’s
entertainment. As to the waiter’s familiarity, it was quenched as if it
had never been. He attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.

‘Now, Copperfield,’ said Steerforth, when we were alone, ‘I should like
to hear what you are doing, and where you are going, and all about you.
I feel as if you were my property.’ Glowing with pleasure to find that
he had still this interest in me, I told him how my aunt had proposed
the little expedition that I had before me, and whither it tended.

‘As you are in no hurry, then,’ said Steerforth, ‘come home with me to
Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will be pleased with my mother--she
is a little vain and prosy about me, but that you can forgive her--and
she will be pleased with you.’

‘I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough to say you
are,’ I answered, smiling.

‘Oh!’ said Steerforth, ‘everyone who likes me, has a claim on her that
is sure to be acknowledged.’

‘Then I think I shall be a favourite,’ said I.

‘Good!’ said Steerforth. ‘Come and prove it. We will go and see the
lions for an hour or two--it’s something to have a fresh fellow like you
to show them to, Copperfield--and then we’ll journey out to Highgate by
the coach.’

I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream, and that I should wake
presently in number forty-four, to the solitary box in the coffee-room
and the familiar waiter again. After I had written to my aunt and told
her of my fortunate meeting with my admired old schoolfellow, and my
acceptance of his invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot, and saw
a Panorama and some other sights, and took a walk through the Museum,
where I could not help observing how much Steerforth knew, on an
infinite variety of subjects, and of how little account he seemed to
make his knowledge.

‘You’ll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘if you have
not done so already; and they will have good reason to be proud of you.’

‘I take a degree!’ cried Steerforth. ‘Not I! my dear Daisy--will you
mind my calling you Daisy?’

‘Not at all!’ said I.

‘That’s a good fellow! My dear Daisy,’ said Steerforth, laughing. ‘I
have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself in that
way. I have done quite sufficient for my purpose. I find that I am heavy
company enough for myself as I am.’

‘But the fame--’ I was beginning.

‘You romantic Daisy!’ said Steerforth, laughing still more heartily:
‘why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may
gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There’s
fame for him, and he’s welcome to it.’

I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was glad to change
the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to do, for Steerforth
could always pass from one subject to another with a carelessness and
lightness that were his own.

Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short winter day wore away
so fast, that it was dusk when the stage-coach stopped with us at an
old brick house at Highgate on the summit of the hill. An elderly lady,
though not very far advanced in years, with a proud carriage and
a handsome face, was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting
Steerforth as ‘My dearest James,’ folded him in her arms. To this lady
he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately welcome.

It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly. From the
windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like a great
vapour, with here and there some lights twinkling through it. I had only
time, in dressing, to glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces
of work (done, I supposed, by Steerforth’s mother when she was a girl),
and some pictures in crayons of ladies with powdered hair and bodices,
coming and going on the walls, as the newly-kindled fire crackled and
sputtered, when I was called to dinner.

There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight short figure,
dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with some appearance of good
looks too, who attracted my attention: perhaps because I had not
expected to see her; perhaps because I found myself sitting opposite
to her; perhaps because of something really remarkable in her. She had
black hair and eager black eyes, and was thin, and had a scar upon her
lip. It was an old scar--I should rather call it seam, for it was not
discoloured, and had healed years ago--which had once cut through her
mouth, downward towards the chin, but was now barely visible across
the table, except above and on her upper lip, the shape of which it had
altered. I concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty years
of age, and that she wished to be married. She was a little
dilapidated--like a house--with having been so long to let; yet had, as
I have said, an appearance of good looks. Her thinness seemed to be the
effect of some wasting fire within her, which found a vent in her gaunt
eyes.

She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his mother
called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had been for a long
time Mrs. Steerforth’s companion. It appeared to me that she never said
anything she wanted to say, outright; but hinted it, and made a great
deal more of it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth
observed, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led but a
wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus:

‘Oh, really? You know how ignorant I am, and that I only ask for
information, but isn’t it always so? I thought that kind of life was
on all hands understood to be--eh?’ ‘It is education for a very grave
profession, if you mean that, Rosa,’ Mrs. Steerforth answered with some
coldness.

‘Oh! Yes! That’s very true,’ returned Miss Dartle. ‘But isn’t it,
though?--I want to be put right, if I am wrong--isn’t it, really?’

‘Really what?’ said Mrs. Steerforth.

‘Oh! You mean it’s not!’ returned Miss Dartle. ‘Well, I’m very glad to
hear it! Now, I know what to do! That’s the advantage of asking. I shall
never allow people to talk before me about wastefulness and profligacy,
and so forth, in connexion with that life, any more.’

‘And you will be right,’ said Mrs. Steerforth. ‘My son’s tutor is a
conscientious gentleman; and if I had not implicit reliance on my son, I
should have reliance on him.’

‘Should you?’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Dear me! Conscientious, is he? Really
conscientious, now?’

‘Yes, I am convinced of it,’ said Mrs. Steerforth.

‘How very nice!’ exclaimed Miss Dartle. ‘What a comfort! Really
conscientious? Then he’s not--but of course he can’t be, if he’s really
conscientious. Well, I shall be quite happy in my opinion of him, from
this time. You can’t think how it elevates him in my opinion, to know
for certain that he’s really conscientious!’

Her own views of every question, and her correction of everything that
was said to which she was opposed, Miss Dartle insinuated in the same
way: sometimes, I could not conceal from myself, with great power,
though in contradiction even of Steerforth. An instance happened before
dinner was done. Mrs. Steerforth speaking to me about my intention
of going down into Suffolk, I said at hazard how glad I should be, if
Steerforth would only go there with me; and explaining to him that I was
going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peggotty’s family, I reminded him of
the boatman whom he had seen at school.

‘Oh! That bluff fellow!’ said Steerforth. ‘He had a son with him, hadn’t
he?’

‘No. That was his nephew,’ I replied; ‘whom he adopted, though, as
a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he adopted as a
daughter. In short, his house--or rather his boat, for he lives in one,
on dry land--is full of people who are objects of his generosity and
kindness. You would be delighted to see that household.’

‘Should I?’ said Steerforth. ‘Well, I think I should. I must see what
can be done. It would be worth a journey (not to mention the pleasure of
a journey with you, Daisy), to see that sort of people together, and to
make one of ‘em.’

My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was in reference
to the tone in which he had spoken of ‘that sort of people’, that Miss
Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of us, now broke in
again.

‘Oh, but, really? Do tell me. Are they, though?’ she said.

‘Are they what? And are who what?’ said Steerforth.

‘That sort of people.---Are they really animals and clods, and beings of
another order? I want to know SO much.’

‘Why, there’s a pretty wide separation between them and us,’ said
Steerforth, with indifference. ‘They are not to be expected to be
as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to be shocked, or hurt
easily. They are wonderfully virtuous, I dare say--some people contend
for that, at least; and I am sure I don’t want to contradict them--but
they have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like
their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.’

‘Really!’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Well, I don’t know, now, when I have been
better pleased than to hear that. It’s so consoling! It’s such a delight
to know that, when they suffer, they don’t feel! Sometimes I have been
quite uneasy for that sort of people; but now I shall just dismiss the
idea of them, altogether. Live and learn. I had my doubts, I confess,
but now they’re cleared up. I didn’t know, and now I do know, and that
shows the advantage of asking--don’t it?’

I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to draw
Miss Dartle out; and I expected him to say as much when she was gone,
and we two were sitting before the fire. But he merely asked me what I
thought of her.

‘She is very clever, is she not?’ I asked.

‘Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone,’ said Steerforth, and
sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own face and figure these years
past. She has worn herself away by constant sharpening. She is all
edge.’

‘What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip!’ I said.

Steerforth’s face fell, and he paused a moment.

‘Why, the fact is,’ he returned, ‘I did that.’

‘By an unfortunate accident!’

‘No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I threw a hammer at
her. A promising young angel I must have been!’ I was deeply sorry to
have touched on such a painful theme, but that was useless now.

‘She has borne the mark ever since, as you see,’ said Steerforth; ‘and
she’ll bear it to her grave, if she ever rests in one--though I can
hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere. She was the motherless child
of a sort of cousin of my father’s. He died one day. My mother, who was
then a widow, brought her here to be company to her. She has a couple of
thousand pounds of her own, and saves the interest of it every year, to
add to the principal. There’s the history of Miss Rosa Dartle for you.’

‘And I have no doubt she loves you like a brother?’ said I.

‘Humph!’ retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. ‘Some brothers are
not loved over much; and some love--but help yourself, Copperfield!
We’ll drink the daisies of the field, in compliment to you; and the
lilies of the valley that toil not, neither do they spin, in compliment
to me--the more shame for me!’ A moody smile that had overspread his
features cleared off as he said this merrily, and he was his own frank,
winning self again.

I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful interest when we
went in to tea. It was not long before I observed that it was the most
susceptible part of her face, and that, when she turned pale, that mark
altered first, and became a dull, lead-coloured streak, lengthening out
to its full extent, like a mark in invisible ink brought to the fire.
There was a little altercation between her and Steerforth about a cast
of the dice at backgammon--when I thought her, for one moment, in a
storm of rage; and then I saw it start forth like the old writing on the
wall.

It was no matter of wonder to me to find Mrs. Steerforth devoted to her
son. She seemed to be able to speak or think about nothing else. She
showed me his picture as an infant, in a locket, with some of his
baby-hair in it; she showed me his picture as he had been when I first
knew him; and she wore at her breast his picture as he was now. All the
letters he had ever written to her, she kept in a cabinet near her own
chair by the fire; and she would have read me some of them, and I should
have been very glad to hear them too, if he had not interposed, and
coaxed her out of the design.

‘It was at Mr. Creakle’s, my son tells me, that you first became
acquainted,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, as she and I were talking at one
table, while they played backgammon at another. ‘Indeed, I recollect his
speaking, at that time, of a pupil younger than himself who had taken
his fancy there; but your name, as you may suppose, has not lived in my
memory.’

‘He was very generous and noble to me in those days, I assure you,
ma’am,’ said I, ‘and I stood in need of such a friend. I should have
been quite crushed without him.’

‘He is always generous and noble,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, proudly.

I subscribed to this with all my heart, God knows. She knew I did; for
the stateliness of her manner already abated towards me, except when she
spoke in praise of him, and then her air was always lofty.

‘It was not a fit school generally for my son,’ said she; ‘far from it;
but there were particular circumstances to be considered at the time, of
more importance even than that selection. My son’s high spirit made
it desirable that he should be placed with some man who felt its
superiority, and would be content to bow himself before it; and we found
such a man there.’

I knew that, knowing the fellow. And yet I did not despise him the more
for it, but thought it a redeeming quality in him if he could be allowed
any grace for not resisting one so irresistible as Steerforth.

‘My son’s great capacity was tempted on, there, by a feeling of
voluntary emulation and conscious pride,’ the fond lady went on to say.
‘He would have risen against all constraint; but he found himself the
monarch of the place, and he haughtily determined to be worthy of his
station. It was like himself.’

I echoed, with all my heart and soul, that it was like himself.

‘So my son took, of his own will, and on no compulsion, to the course
in which he can always, when it is his pleasure, outstrip every
competitor,’ she pursued. ‘My son informs me, Mr. Copperfield, that
you were quite devoted to him, and that when you met yesterday you made
yourself known to him with tears of joy. I should be an affected woman
if I made any pretence of being surprised by my son’s inspiring such
emotions; but I cannot be indifferent to anyone who is so sensible of
his merit, and I am very glad to see you here, and can assure you that
he feels an unusual friendship for you, and that you may rely on his
protection.’

Miss Dartle played backgammon as eagerly as she did everything else.
If I had seen her, first, at the board, I should have fancied that her
figure had got thin, and her eyes had got large, over that pursuit, and
no other in the world. But I am very much mistaken if she missed a
word of this, or lost a look of mine as I received it with the utmost
pleasure, and honoured by Mrs. Steerforth’s confidence, felt older than
I had done since I left Canterbury.

When the evening was pretty far spent, and a tray of glasses and
decanters came in, Steerforth promised, over the fire, that he would
seriously think of going down into the country with me. There was no
hurry, he said; a week hence would do; and his mother hospitably said
the same. While we were talking, he more than once called me Daisy;
which brought Miss Dartle out again.

‘But really, Mr. Copperfield,’ she asked, ‘is it a nickname? And
why does he give it you? Is it--eh?--because he thinks you young and
innocent? I am so stupid in these things.’

I coloured in replying that I believed it was.

‘Oh!’ said Miss Dartle. ‘Now I am glad to know that! I ask for
information, and I am glad to know it. He thinks you young and innocent;
and so you are his friend. Well, that’s quite delightful!’

She went to bed soon after this, and Mrs. Steerforth retired too.
Steerforth and I, after lingering for half-an-hour over the fire,
talking about Traddles and all the rest of them at old Salem House, went
upstairs together. Steerforth’s room was next to mine, and I went in to
look at it. It was a picture of comfort, full of easy-chairs, cushions
and footstools, worked by his mother’s hand, and with no sort of thing
omitted that could help to render it complete. Finally, her handsome
features looked down on her darling from a portrait on the wall, as if
it were even something to her that her likeness should watch him while
he slept.

I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this time, and the
curtains drawn before the windows and round the bed, giving it a very
snug appearance. I sat down in a great chair upon the hearth to meditate
on my happiness; and had enjoyed the contemplation of it for some time,
when I found a likeness of Miss Dartle looking eagerly at me from above
the chimney-piece.

It was a startling likeness, and necessarily had a startling look. The
painter hadn’t made the scar, but I made it; and there it was, coming
and going; now confined to the upper lip as I had seen it at dinner, and
now showing the whole extent of the wound inflicted by the hammer, as I
had seen it when she was passionate.

I wondered peevishly why they couldn’t put her anywhere else instead
of quartering her on me. To get rid of her, I undressed quickly,
extinguished my light, and went to bed. But, as I fell asleep, I could
not forget that she was still there looking, ‘Is it really, though?
I want to know’; and when I awoke in the night, I found that I was
uneasily asking all sorts of people in my dreams whether it really was
or not--without knowing what I meant.



CHAPTER 21. LITTLE EM’LY


There was a servant in that house, a man who, I understood, was usually
with Steerforth, and had come into his service at the University, who
was in appearance a pattern of respectability. I believe there never
existed in his station a more respectable-looking man. He was taciturn,
soft-footed, very quiet in his manner, deferential, observant, always at
hand when wanted, and never near when not wanted; but his great claim to
consideration was his respectability. He had not a pliant face, he had
rather a stiff neck, rather a tight smooth head with short hair clinging
to it at the sides, a soft way of speaking, with a peculiar habit of
whispering the letter S so distinctly, that he seemed to use it
oftener than any other man; but every peculiarity that he had he made
respectable. If his nose had been upside-down, he would have made that
respectable. He surrounded himself with an atmosphere of respectability,
and walked secure in it. It would have been next to impossible to
suspect him of anything wrong, he was so thoroughly respectable.
Nobody could have thought of putting him in a livery, he was so highly
respectable. To have imposed any derogatory work upon him, would have
been to inflict a wanton insult on the feelings of a most respectable
man. And of this, I noticed--the women-servants in the household were
so intuitively conscious, that they always did such work themselves, and
generally while he read the paper by the pantry fire.

Such a self-contained man I never saw. But in that quality, as in every
other he possessed, he only seemed to be the more respectable. Even the
fact that no one knew his Christian name, seemed to form a part of his
respectability. Nothing could be objected against his surname, Littimer,
by which he was known. Peter might have been hanged, or Tom transported;
but Littimer was perfectly respectable.

It was occasioned, I suppose, by the reverend nature of respectability
in the abstract, but I felt particularly young in this man’s presence.
How old he was himself, I could not guess--and that again went to his
credit on the same score; for in the calmness of respectability he might
have numbered fifty years as well as thirty.

Littimer was in my room in the morning before I was up, to bring me that
reproachful shaving-water, and to put out my clothes. When I undrew the
curtains and looked out of bed, I saw him, in an equable temperature
of respectability, unaffected by the east wind of January, and not
even breathing frostily, standing my boots right and left in the first
dancing position, and blowing specks of dust off my coat as he laid it
down like a baby.

I gave him good morning, and asked him what o’clock it was. He took
out of his pocket the most respectable hunting-watch I ever saw, and
preventing the spring with his thumb from opening far, looked in at the
face as if he were consulting an oracular oyster, shut it up again, and
said, if I pleased, it was half past eight.

‘Mr. Steerforth will be glad to hear how you have rested, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ said I, ‘very well indeed. Is Mr. Steerforth quite well?’

‘Thank you, sir, Mr. Steerforth is tolerably well.’ Another of his
characteristics--no use of superlatives. A cool calm medium always.

‘Is there anything more I can have the honour of doing for you, sir? The
warning-bell will ring at nine; the family take breakfast at half past
nine.’

‘Nothing, I thank you.’

‘I thank YOU, sir, if you please’; and with that, and with a little
inclination of his head when he passed the bed-side, as an apology for
correcting me, he went out, shutting the door as delicately as if I had
just fallen into a sweet sleep on which my life depended.

Every morning we held exactly this conversation: never any more, and
never any less: and yet, invariably, however far I might have been
lifted out of myself over-night, and advanced towards maturer years,
by Steerforth’s companionship, or Mrs. Steerforth’s confidence, or Miss
Dartle’s conversation, in the presence of this most respectable man I
became, as our smaller poets sing, ‘a boy again’.

He got horses for us; and Steerforth, who knew everything, gave me
lessons in riding. He provided foils for us, and Steerforth gave me
lessons in fencing--gloves, and I began, of the same master, to improve
in boxing. It gave me no manner of concern that Steerforth should find
me a novice in these sciences, but I never could bear to show my want of
skill before the respectable Littimer. I had no reason to believe
that Littimer understood such arts himself; he never led me to suppose
anything of the kind, by so much as the vibration of one of his
respectable eyelashes; yet whenever he was by, while we were practising,
I felt myself the greenest and most inexperienced of mortals.

I am particular about this man, because he made a particular effect on
me at that time, and because of what took place thereafter.

The week passed away in a most delightful manner. It passed rapidly, as
may be supposed, to one entranced as I was; and yet it gave me so many
occasions for knowing Steerforth better, and admiring him more in a
thousand respects, that at its close I seemed to have been with him
for a much longer time. A dashing way he had of treating me like a
plaything, was more agreeable to me than any behaviour he could have
adopted. It reminded me of our old acquaintance; it seemed the natural
sequel of it; it showed me that he was unchanged; it relieved me of
any uneasiness I might have felt, in comparing my merits with his, and
measuring my claims upon his friendship by any equal standard; above
all, it was a familiar, unrestrained, affectionate demeanour that he
used towards no one else. As he had treated me at school differently
from all the rest, I joyfully believed that he treated me in life unlike
any other friend he had. I believed that I was nearer to his heart than
any other friend, and my own heart warmed with attachment to him. He
made up his mind to go with me into the country, and the day arrived for
our departure. He had been doubtful at first whether to take Littimer
or not, but decided to leave him at home. The respectable creature,
satisfied with his lot whatever it was, arranged our portmanteaux on
the little carriage that was to take us into London, as if they were
intended to defy the shocks of ages, and received my modestly proffered
donation with perfect tranquillity.

We bade adieu to Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle, with many thanks on
my part, and much kindness on the devoted mother’s. The last thing I
saw was Littimer’s unruffled eye; fraught, as I fancied, with the silent
conviction that I was very young indeed.

What I felt, in returning so auspiciously to the old familiar places,
I shall not endeavour to describe. We went down by the Mail. I was
so concerned, I recollect, even for the honour of Yarmouth, that when
Steerforth said, as we drove through its dark streets to the inn, that,
as well as he could make out, it was a good, queer, out-of-the-way kind
of hole, I was highly pleased. We went to bed on our arrival (I observed
a pair of dirty shoes and gaiters in connexion with my old friend the
Dolphin as we passed that door), and breakfasted late in the morning.
Steerforth, who was in great spirits, had been strolling about the
beach before I was up, and had made acquaintance, he said, with half the
boatmen in the place. Moreover, he had seen, in the distance, what he
was sure must be the identical house of Mr. Peggotty, with smoke coming
out of the chimney; and had had a great mind, he told me, to walk in and
swear he was myself grown out of knowledge.

‘When do you propose to introduce me there, Daisy?’ he said. ‘I am at
your disposal. Make your own arrangements.’

‘Why, I was thinking that this evening would be a good time, Steerforth,
when they are all sitting round the fire. I should like you to see it
when it’s snug, it’s such a curious place.’

‘So be it!’ returned Steerforth. ‘This evening.’

‘I shall not give them any notice that we are here, you know,’ said I,
delighted. ‘We must take them by surprise.’

‘Oh, of course! It’s no fun,’ said Steerforth, ‘unless we take them by
surprise. Let us see the natives in their aboriginal condition.’

‘Though they ARE that sort of people that you mentioned,’ I returned.

‘Aha! What! you recollect my skirmishes with Rosa, do you?’ he exclaimed
with a quick look. ‘Confound the girl, I am half afraid of her. She’s
like a goblin to me. But never mind her. Now what are you going to do?
You are going to see your nurse, I suppose?’

‘Why, yes,’ I said, ‘I must see Peggotty first of all.’

‘Well,’ replied Steerforth, looking at his watch. ‘Suppose I deliver you
up to be cried over for a couple of hours. Is that long enough?’

I answered, laughing, that I thought we might get through it in that
time, but that he must come also; for he would find that his renown had
preceded him, and that he was almost as great a personage as I was.

‘I’ll come anywhere you like,’ said Steerforth, ‘or do anything you
like. Tell me where to come to; and in two hours I’ll produce myself in
any state you please, sentimental or comical.’

I gave him minute directions for finding the residence of Mr. Barkis,
carrier to Blunderstone and elsewhere; and, on this understanding, went
out alone. There was a sharp bracing air; the ground was dry; the sea
was crisp and clear; the sun was diffusing abundance of light, if not
much warmth; and everything was fresh and lively. I was so fresh and
lively myself, in the pleasure of being there, that I could have stopped
the people in the streets and shaken hands with them.

The streets looked small, of course. The streets that we have only seen
as children always do, I believe, when we go back to them. But I had
forgotten nothing in them, and found nothing changed, until I came to
Mr. Omer’s shop. OMER AND Joram was now written up, where OMER used to
be; but the inscription, DRAPER, TAILOR, HABERDASHER, FUNERAL FURNISHER,
&c., remained as it was.

My footsteps seemed to tend so naturally to the shop door, after I had
read these words from over the way, that I went across the road and
looked in. There was a pretty woman at the back of the shop, dancing
a little child in her arms, while another little fellow clung to her
apron. I had no difficulty in recognizing either Minnie or Minnie’s
children. The glass door of the parlour was not open; but in the
workshop across the yard I could faintly hear the old tune playing, as
if it had never left off.

‘Is Mr. Omer at home?’ said I, entering. ‘I should like to see him, for
a moment, if he is.’

‘Oh yes, sir, he is at home,’ said Minnie; ‘the weather don’t suit his
asthma out of doors. Joe, call your grandfather!’

The little fellow, who was holding her apron, gave such a lusty shout,
that the sound of it made him bashful, and he buried his face in her
skirts, to her great admiration. I heard a heavy puffing and blowing
coming towards us, and soon Mr. Omer, shorter-winded than of yore, but
not much older-looking, stood before me.

‘Servant, sir,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ ‘You can
shake hands with me, Mr. Omer, if you please,’ said I, putting out my
own. ‘You were very good-natured to me once, when I am afraid I didn’t
show that I thought so.’

‘Was I though?’ returned the old man. ‘I’m glad to hear it, but I don’t
remember when. Are you sure it was me?’

‘Quite.’

‘I think my memory has got as short as my breath,’ said Mr. Omer,
looking at me and shaking his head; ‘for I don’t remember you.’

‘Don’t you remember your coming to the coach to meet me, and my having
breakfast here, and our riding out to Blunderstone together: you, and I,
and Mrs. Joram, and Mr. Joram too--who wasn’t her husband then?’

‘Why, Lord bless my soul!’ exclaimed Mr. Omer, after being thrown by his
surprise into a fit of coughing, ‘you don’t say so! Minnie, my dear, you
recollect? Dear me, yes; the party was a lady, I think?’

‘My mother,’ I rejoined.

‘To--be--sure,’ said Mr. Omer, touching my waistcoat with his
forefinger, ‘and there was a little child too! There was two parties.
The little party was laid along with the other party. Over at
Blunderstone it was, of course. Dear me! And how have you been since?’

Very well, I thanked him, as I hoped he had been too.

‘Oh! nothing to grumble at, you know,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘I find my breath
gets short, but it seldom gets longer as a man gets older. I take it as
it comes, and make the most of it. That’s the best way, ain’t it?’

Mr. Omer coughed again, in consequence of laughing, and was assisted out
of his fit by his daughter, who now stood close beside us, dancing her
smallest child on the counter.

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Yes, to be sure. Two parties! Why, in that
very ride, if you’ll believe me, the day was named for my Minnie to
marry Joram. “Do name it, sir,” says Joram. “Yes, do, father,” says
Minnie. And now he’s come into the business. And look here! The
youngest!’

Minnie laughed, and stroked her banded hair upon her temples, as her
father put one of his fat fingers into the hand of the child she was
dancing on the counter.

‘Two parties, of course!’ said Mr. Omer, nodding his head
retrospectively. ‘Ex-actly so! And Joram’s at work, at this minute, on
a grey one with silver nails, not this measurement’--the measurement of
the dancing child upon the counter--‘by a good two inches.---Will you
take something?’

I thanked him, but declined.

‘Let me see,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Barkis’s the carrier’s wife--Peggotty’s
the boatman’s sister--she had something to do with your family? She was
in service there, sure?’

My answering in the affirmative gave him great satisfaction.

‘I believe my breath will get long next, my memory’s getting so much
so,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir, we’ve got a young relation of hers here,
under articles to us, that has as elegant a taste in the dress-making
business--I assure you I don’t believe there’s a Duchess in England can
touch her.’

‘Not little Em’ly?’ said I, involuntarily.

‘Em’ly’s her name,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘and she’s little too. But if you’ll
believe me, she has such a face of her own that half the women in this
town are mad against her.’

‘Nonsense, father!’ cried Minnie.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘I don’t say it’s the case with you,’ winking
at me, ‘but I say that half the women in Yarmouth--ah! and in five mile
round--are mad against that girl.’

‘Then she should have kept to her own station in life, father,’ said
Minnie, ‘and not have given them any hold to talk about her, and then
they couldn’t have done it.’

‘Couldn’t have done it, my dear!’ retorted Mr. Omer. ‘Couldn’t have
done it! Is that YOUR knowledge of life? What is there that any woman
couldn’t do, that she shouldn’t do--especially on the subject of another
woman’s good looks?’

I really thought it was all over with Mr. Omer, after he had uttered
this libellous pleasantry. He coughed to that extent, and his breath
eluded all his attempts to recover it with that obstinacy, that I fully
expected to see his head go down behind the counter, and his little
black breeches, with the rusty little bunches of ribbons at the knees,
come quivering up in a last ineffectual struggle. At length, however,
he got better, though he still panted hard, and was so exhausted that he
was obliged to sit on the stool of the shop-desk.

‘You see,’ he said, wiping his head, and breathing with difficulty, ‘she
hasn’t taken much to any companions here; she hasn’t taken kindly to
any particular acquaintances and friends, not to mention sweethearts. In
consequence, an ill-natured story got about, that Em’ly wanted to be a
lady. Now my opinion is, that it came into circulation principally on
account of her sometimes saying, at the school, that if she was a lady
she would like to do so-and-so for her uncle--don’t you see?--and buy
him such-and-such fine things.’

‘I assure you, Mr. Omer, she has said so to me,’ I returned eagerly,
‘when we were both children.’

Mr. Omer nodded his head and rubbed his chin. ‘Just so. Then out of a
very little, she could dress herself, you see, better than most others
could out of a deal, and that made things unpleasant. Moreover, she was
rather what might be called wayward--I’ll go so far as to say what I
should call wayward myself,’ said Mr. Omer; ‘--didn’t know her own mind
quite--a little spoiled--and couldn’t, at first, exactly bind herself
down. No more than that was ever said against her, Minnie?’

‘No, father,’ said Mrs. Joram. ‘That’s the worst, I believe.’

‘So when she got a situation,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘to keep a fractious old
lady company, they didn’t very well agree, and she didn’t stop. At last
she came here, apprenticed for three years. Nearly two of ‘em are over,
and she has been as good a girl as ever was. Worth any six! Minnie, is
she worth any six, now?’

‘Yes, father,’ replied Minnie. ‘Never say I detracted from her!’

‘Very good,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘That’s right. And so, young gentleman,’ he
added, after a few moments’ further rubbing of his chin, ‘that you may
not consider me long-winded as well as short-breathed, I believe that’s
all about it.’

As they had spoken in a subdued tone, while speaking of Em’ly, I had no
doubt that she was near. On my asking now, if that were not so, Mr.
Omer nodded yes, and nodded towards the door of the parlour. My hurried
inquiry if I might peep in, was answered with a free permission; and,
looking through the glass, I saw her sitting at her work. I saw her, a
most beautiful little creature, with the cloudless blue eyes, that had
looked into my childish heart, turned laughingly upon another child
of Minnie’s who was playing near her; with enough of wilfulness in her
bright face to justify what I had heard; with much of the old capricious
coyness lurking in it; but with nothing in her pretty looks, I am sure,
but what was meant for goodness and for happiness, and what was on a
good and happy course.

The tune across the yard that seemed as if it never had left off--alas!
it was the tune that never DOES leave off--was beating, softly, all the
while.

‘Wouldn’t you like to step in,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘and speak to her? Walk
in and speak to her, sir! Make yourself at home!’

I was too bashful to do so then--I was afraid of confusing her, and I
was no less afraid of confusing myself.--but I informed myself of the
hour at which she left of an evening, in order that our visit might
be timed accordingly; and taking leave of Mr. Omer, and his pretty
daughter, and her little children, went away to my dear old Peggotty’s.

Here she was, in the tiled kitchen, cooking dinner! The moment I knocked
at the door she opened it, and asked me what I pleased to want. I looked
at her with a smile, but she gave me no smile in return. I had never
ceased to write to her, but it must have been seven years since we had
met.

‘Is Mr. Barkis at home, ma’am?’ I said, feigning to speak roughly to
her.

‘He’s at home, sir,’ returned Peggotty, ‘but he’s bad abed with the
rheumatics.’

‘Don’t he go over to Blunderstone now?’ I asked.

‘When he’s well he do,’ she answered.

‘Do YOU ever go there, Mrs. Barkis?’

She looked at me more attentively, and I noticed a quick movement of her
hands towards each other.

‘Because I want to ask a question about a house there, that they call
the--what is it?--the Rookery,’ said I.

She took a step backward, and put out her hands in an undecided
frightened way, as if to keep me off.

‘Peggotty!’ I cried to her.

She cried, ‘My darling boy!’ and we both burst into tears, and were
locked in one another’s arms.

What extravagances she committed; what laughing and crying over me; what
pride she showed, what joy, what sorrow that she whose pride and joy I
might have been, could never hold me in a fond embrace; I have not the
heart to tell. I was troubled with no misgiving that it was young in
me to respond to her emotions. I had never laughed and cried in all my
life, I dare say--not even to her--more freely than I did that morning.

‘Barkis will be so glad,’ said Peggotty, wiping her eyes with her apron,
‘that it’ll do him more good than pints of liniment. May I go and tell
him you are here? Will you come up and see him, my dear?’

Of course I would. But Peggotty could not get out of the room as easily
as she meant to, for as often as she got to the door and looked round
at me, she came back again to have another laugh and another cry upon my
shoulder. At last, to make the matter easier, I went upstairs with
her; and having waited outside for a minute, while she said a word of
preparation to Mr. Barkis, presented myself before that invalid.

He received me with absolute enthusiasm. He was too rheumatic to be
shaken hands with, but he begged me to shake the tassel on the top of
his nightcap, which I did most cordially. When I sat down by the side
of the bed, he said that it did him a world of good to feel as if he
was driving me on the Blunderstone road again. As he lay in bed, face
upward, and so covered, with that exception, that he seemed to be
nothing but a face--like a conventional cherubim--he looked the queerest
object I ever beheld.

‘What name was it, as I wrote up in the cart, sir?’ said Mr. Barkis,
with a slow rheumatic smile.

‘Ah! Mr. Barkis, we had some grave talks about that matter, hadn’t we?’

‘I was willin’ a long time, sir?’ said Mr. Barkis.

‘A long time,’ said I.

‘And I don’t regret it,’ said Mr. Barkis. ‘Do you remember what you
told me once, about her making all the apple parsties and doing all the
cooking?’

‘Yes, very well,’ I returned.

‘It was as true,’ said Mr. Barkis, ‘as turnips is. It was as true,’ said
Mr. Barkis, nodding his nightcap, which was his only means of emphasis,
‘as taxes is. And nothing’s truer than them.’

Mr. Barkis turned his eyes upon me, as if for my assent to this result
of his reflections in bed; and I gave it.

‘Nothing’s truer than them,’ repeated Mr. Barkis; ‘a man as poor as I
am, finds that out in his mind when he’s laid up. I’m a very poor man,
sir!’

‘I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Barkis.’

‘A very poor man, indeed I am,’ said Mr. Barkis.

Here his right hand came slowly and feebly from under the bedclothes,
and with a purposeless uncertain grasp took hold of a stick which was
loosely tied to the side of the bed. After some poking about with
this instrument, in the course of which his face assumed a variety of
distracted expressions, Mr. Barkis poked it against a box, an end
of which had been visible to me all the time. Then his face became
composed.

‘Old clothes,’ said Mr. Barkis.

‘Oh!’ said I.

‘I wish it was Money, sir,’ said Mr. Barkis.

‘I wish it was, indeed,’ said I.

‘But it AIN’T,’ said Mr. Barkis, opening both his eyes as wide as he
possibly could.

I expressed myself quite sure of that, and Mr. Barkis, turning his eyes
more gently to his wife, said:

‘She’s the usefullest and best of women, C. P. Barkis. All the praise
that anyone can give to C. P. Barkis, she deserves, and more! My dear,
you’ll get a dinner today, for company; something good to eat and drink,
will you?’

I should have protested against this unnecessary demonstration in
my honour, but that I saw Peggotty, on the opposite side of the bed,
extremely anxious I should not. So I held my peace.

‘I have got a trifle of money somewhere about me, my dear,’ said Mr.
Barkis, ‘but I’m a little tired. If you and Mr. David will leave me for
a short nap, I’ll try and find it when I wake.’

We left the room, in compliance with this request. When we got outside
the door, Peggotty informed me that Mr. Barkis, being now ‘a little
nearer’ than he used to be, always resorted to this same device before
producing a single coin from his store; and that he endured unheard-of
agonies in crawling out of bed alone, and taking it from that unlucky
box. In effect, we presently heard him uttering suppressed groans of the
most dismal nature, as this magpie proceeding racked him in every joint;
but while Peggotty’s eyes were full of compassion for him, she said his
generous impulse would do him good, and it was better not to check it.
So he groaned on, until he had got into bed again, suffering, I have no
doubt, a martyrdom; and then called us in, pretending to have just
woke up from a refreshing sleep, and to produce a guinea from under his
pillow. His satisfaction in which happy imposition on us, and in
having preserved the impenetrable secret of the box, appeared to be a
sufficient compensation to him for all his tortures.

I prepared Peggotty for Steerforth’s arrival and it was not long before
he came. I am persuaded she knew no difference between his having been a
personal benefactor of hers, and a kind friend to me, and that she would
have received him with the utmost gratitude and devotion in any case.
But his easy, spirited good humour; his genial manner, his handsome
looks, his natural gift of adapting himself to whomsoever he pleased,
and making direct, when he cared to do it, to the main point of interest
in anybody’s heart; bound her to him wholly in five minutes. His
manner to me, alone, would have won her. But, through all these causes
combined, I sincerely believe she had a kind of adoration for him before
he left the house that night.

He stayed there with me to dinner--if I were to say willingly, I should
not half express how readily and gaily. He went into Mr. Barkis’s room
like light and air, brightening and refreshing it as if he were healthy
weather. There was no noise, no effort, no consciousness, in anything
he did; but in everything an indescribable lightness, a seeming
impossibility of doing anything else, or doing anything better, which
was so graceful, so natural, and agreeable, that it overcomes me, even
now, in the remembrance.

We made merry in the little parlour, where the Book of Martyrs,
unthumbed since my time, was laid out upon the desk as of old, and where
I now turned over its terrific pictures, remembering the old sensations
they had awakened, but not feeling them. When Peggotty spoke of what
she called my room, and of its being ready for me at night, and of her
hoping I would occupy it, before I could so much as look at Steerforth,
hesitating, he was possessed of the whole case.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’ll sleep here, while we stay, and I shall
sleep at the hotel.’

‘But to bring you so far,’ I returned, ‘and to separate, seems bad
companionship, Steerforth.’

‘Why, in the name of Heaven, where do you naturally belong?’ he said.
‘What is “seems”, compared to that?’ It was settled at once.

He maintained all his delightful qualities to the last, until we started
forth, at eight o’clock, for Mr. Peggotty’s boat. Indeed, they were more
and more brightly exhibited as the hours went on; for I thought even
then, and I have no doubt now, that the consciousness of success in his
determination to please, inspired him with a new delicacy of perception,
and made it, subtle as it was, more easy to him. If anyone had told me,
then, that all this was a brilliant game, played for the excitement of
the moment, for the employment of high spirits, in the thoughtless love
of superiority, in a mere wasteful careless course of winning what was
worthless to him, and next minute thrown away--I say, if anyone had told
me such a lie that night, I wonder in what manner of receiving it my
indignation would have found a vent! Probably only in an increase, had
that been possible, of the romantic feelings of fidelity and friendship
with which I walked beside him, over the dark wintry sands towards the
old boat; the wind sighing around us even more mournfully, than it had
sighed and moaned upon the night when I first darkened Mr. Peggotty’s
door.

‘This is a wild kind of place, Steerforth, is it not?’

‘Dismal enough in the dark,’ he said: ‘and the sea roars as if it were
hungry for us. Is that the boat, where I see a light yonder?’ ‘That’s
the boat,’ said I.

‘And it’s the same I saw this morning,’ he returned. ‘I came straight to
it, by instinct, I suppose.’

We said no more as we approached the light, but made softly for the
door. I laid my hand upon the latch; and whispering Steerforth to keep
close to me, went in.

A murmur of voices had been audible on the outside, and, at the
moment of our entrance, a clapping of hands: which latter noise, I
was surprised to see, proceeded from the generally disconsolate Mrs.
Gummidge. But Mrs. Gummidge was not the only person there who was
unusually excited. Mr. Peggotty, his face lighted up with uncommon
satisfaction, and laughing with all his might, held his rough arms
wide open, as if for little Em’ly to run into them; Ham, with a mixed
expression in his face of admiration, exultation, and a lumbering sort
of bashfulness that sat upon him very well, held little Em’ly by
the hand, as if he were presenting her to Mr. Peggotty; little Em’ly
herself, blushing and shy, but delighted with Mr. Peggotty’s delight, as
her joyous eyes expressed, was stopped by our entrance (for she saw us
first) in the very act of springing from Ham to nestle in Mr. Peggotty’s
embrace. In the first glimpse we had of them all, and at the moment of
our passing from the dark cold night into the warm light room, this
was the way in which they were all employed: Mrs. Gummidge in the
background, clapping her hands like a madwoman.

The little picture was so instantaneously dissolved by our going in,
that one might have doubted whether it had ever been. I was in the midst
of the astonished family, face to face with Mr. Peggotty, and holding
out my hand to him, when Ham shouted:

‘Mas’r Davy! It’s Mas’r Davy!’

In a moment we were all shaking hands with one another, and asking one
another how we did, and telling one another how glad we were to meet,
and all talking at once. Mr. Peggotty was so proud and overjoyed to see
us, that he did not know what to say or do, but kept over and over again
shaking hands with me, and then with Steerforth, and then with me, and
then ruffling his shaggy hair all over his head, and laughing with such
glee and triumph, that it was a treat to see him.

‘Why, that you two gent’lmen--gent’lmen growed--should come to this here
roof tonight, of all nights in my life,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘is such a
thing as never happened afore, I do rightly believe! Em’ly, my darling,
come here! Come here, my little witch! There’s Mas’r Davy’s friend, my
dear! There’s the gent’lman as you’ve heerd on, Em’ly. He comes to see
you, along with Mas’r Davy, on the brightest night of your uncle’s life
as ever was or will be, Gorm the t’other one, and horroar for it!’

After delivering this speech all in a breath, and with extraordinary
animation and pleasure, Mr. Peggotty put one of his large hands
rapturously on each side of his niece’s face, and kissing it a dozen
times, laid it with a gentle pride and love upon his broad chest, and
patted it as if his hand had been a lady’s. Then he let her go; and as
she ran into the little chamber where I used to sleep, looked round upon
us, quite hot and out of breath with his uncommon satisfaction.

‘If you two gent’lmen--gent’lmen growed now, and such gent’lmen--’ said
Mr. Peggotty.

‘So th’ are, so th’ are!’ cried Ham. ‘Well said! So th’ are. Mas’r Davy
bor’--gent’lmen growed--so th’ are!’

‘If you two gent’lmen, gent’lmen growed,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘don’t
ex-cuse me for being in a state of mind, when you understand matters,
I’ll arks your pardon. Em’ly, my dear!--She knows I’m a going to tell,’
here his delight broke out again, ‘and has made off. Would you be so
good as look arter her, Mawther, for a minute?’

Mrs. Gummidge nodded and disappeared.

‘If this ain’t,’ said Mr. Peggotty, sitting down among us by the fire,
‘the brightest night o’ my life, I’m a shellfish--biled too--and more I
can’t say. This here little Em’ly, sir,’ in a low voice to Steerforth,
‘--her as you see a blushing here just now--’

Steerforth only nodded; but with such a pleased expression of interest,
and of participation in Mr. Peggotty’s feelings, that the latter
answered him as if he had spoken.

‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘That’s her, and so she is. Thankee,
sir.’

Ham nodded to me several times, as if he would have said so too.

‘This here little Em’ly of ours,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘has been, in our
house, what I suppose (I’m a ignorant man, but that’s my belief) no one
but a little bright-eyed creetur can be in a house. She ain’t my
child; I never had one; but I couldn’t love her more. You understand! I
couldn’t do it!’

‘I quite understand,’ said Steerforth.

‘I know you do, sir,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘and thankee again. Mas’r
Davy, he can remember what she was; you may judge for your own self what
she is; but neither of you can’t fully know what she has been, is, and
will be, to my loving art. I am rough, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I am as
rough as a Sea Porkypine; but no one, unless, mayhap, it is a woman, can
know, I think, what our little Em’ly is to me. And betwixt ourselves,’
sinking his voice lower yet, ‘that woman’s name ain’t Missis Gummidge
neither, though she has a world of merits.’ Mr. Peggotty ruffled his
hair again, with both hands, as a further preparation for what he was
going to say, and went on, with a hand upon each of his knees:

‘There was a certain person as had know’d our Em’ly, from the time when
her father was drownded; as had seen her constant; when a babby, when
a young gal, when a woman. Not much of a person to look at, he warn’t,’
said Mr. Peggotty, ‘something o’ my own build--rough--a good deal o’
the sou’-wester in him--wery salt--but, on the whole, a honest sort of a
chap, with his art in the right place.’

I thought I had never seen Ham grin to anything like the extent to which
he sat grinning at us now.

‘What does this here blessed tarpaulin go and do,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
with his face one high noon of enjoyment, ‘but he loses that there art
of his to our little Em’ly. He follers her about, he makes hisself a
sort o’ servant to her, he loses in a great measure his relish for his
wittles, and in the long-run he makes it clear to me wot’s amiss. Now I
could wish myself, you see, that our little Em’ly was in a fair way of
being married. I could wish to see her, at all ewents, under articles to
a honest man as had a right to defend her. I don’t know how long I may
live, or how soon I may die; but I know that if I was capsized, any
night, in a gale of wind in Yarmouth Roads here, and was to see the
town-lights shining for the last time over the rollers as I couldn’t
make no head against, I could go down quieter for thinking “There’s a
man ashore there, iron-true to my little Em’ly, God bless her, and no
wrong can touch my Em’ly while so be as that man lives.”’

Mr. Peggotty, in simple earnestness, waved his right arm, as if he were
waving it at the town-lights for the last time, and then, exchanging a
nod with Ham, whose eye he caught, proceeded as before.

‘Well! I counsels him to speak to Em’ly. He’s big enough, but he’s
bashfuller than a little un, and he don’t like. So I speak. “What! Him!”
 says Em’ly. “Him that I’ve know’d so intimate so many years, and like so
much. Oh, Uncle! I never can have him. He’s such a good fellow!” I gives
her a kiss, and I says no more to her than, “My dear, you’re right to
speak out, you’re to choose for yourself, you’re as free as a little
bird.” Then I aways to him, and I says, “I wish it could have been so,
but it can’t. But you can both be as you was, and wot I say to you is,
Be as you was with her, like a man.” He says to me, a-shaking of my
hand, “I will!” he says. And he was--honourable and manful--for two year
going on, and we was just the same at home here as afore.’

Mr. Peggotty’s face, which had varied in its expression with the various
stages of his narrative, now resumed all its former triumphant delight,
as he laid a hand upon my knee and a hand upon Steerforth’s (previously
wetting them both, for the greater emphasis of the action), and divided
the following speech between us:

‘All of a sudden, one evening--as it might be tonight--comes little
Em’ly from her work, and him with her! There ain’t so much in that,
you’ll say. No, because he takes care on her, like a brother, arter
dark, and indeed afore dark, and at all times. But this tarpaulin chap,
he takes hold of her hand, and he cries out to me, joyful, “Look here!
This is to be my little wife!” And she says, half bold and half shy, and
half a laughing and half a crying, “Yes, Uncle! If you please.”--If I
please!’ cried Mr. Peggotty, rolling his head in an ecstasy at the idea;
‘Lord, as if I should do anythink else!--“If you please, I am steadier
now, and I have thought better of it, and I’ll be as good a little wife
as I can to him, for he’s a dear, good fellow!” Then Missis Gummidge,
she claps her hands like a play, and you come in. Theer! the murder’s
out!’ said Mr. Peggotty--‘You come in! It took place this here present
hour; and here’s the man that’ll marry her, the minute she’s out of her
time.’

Ham staggered, as well he might, under the blow Mr. Peggotty dealt
him in his unbounded joy, as a mark of confidence and friendship; but
feeling called upon to say something to us, he said, with much faltering
and great difficulty:

‘She warn’t no higher than you was, Mas’r Davy--when you first
come--when I thought what she’d grow up to be. I see her grown
up--gent’lmen--like a flower. I’d lay down my life for
her--Mas’r Davy--Oh! most content and cheerful! She’s more to
me--gent’lmen--than--she’s all to me that ever I can want, and more
than ever I--than ever I could say. I--I love her true. There ain’t a
gent’lman in all the land--nor yet sailing upon all the sea--that
can love his lady more than I love her, though there’s many a common
man--would say better--what he meant.’

I thought it affecting to see such a sturdy fellow as Ham was now,
trembling in the strength of what he felt for the pretty little creature
who had won his heart. I thought the simple confidence reposed in us by
Mr. Peggotty and by himself, was, in itself, affecting. I was affected
by the story altogether. How far my emotions were influenced by the
recollections of my childhood, I don’t know. Whether I had come there
with any lingering fancy that I was still to love little Em’ly, I don’t
know. I know that I was filled with pleasure by all this; but, at first,
with an indescribably sensitive pleasure, that a very little would have
changed to pain.

Therefore, if it had depended upon me to touch the prevailing chord
among them with any skill, I should have made a poor hand of it. But it
depended upon Steerforth; and he did it with such address, that in a few
minutes we were all as easy and as happy as it was possible to be.

‘Mr. Peggotty,’ he said, ‘you are a thoroughly good fellow, and deserve
to be as happy as you are tonight. My hand upon it! Ham, I give you
joy, my boy. My hand upon that, too! Daisy, stir the fire, and make it a
brisk one! and Mr. Peggotty, unless you can induce your gentle niece to
come back (for whom I vacate this seat in the corner), I shall go.
Any gap at your fireside on such a night--such a gap least of all--I
wouldn’t make, for the wealth of the Indies!’

So Mr. Peggotty went into my old room to fetch little Em’ly. At first
little Em’ly didn’t like to come, and then Ham went. Presently they
brought her to the fireside, very much confused, and very shy,--but
she soon became more assured when she found how gently and respectfully
Steerforth spoke to her; how skilfully he avoided anything that would
embarrass her; how he talked to Mr. Peggotty of boats, and ships, and
tides, and fish; how he referred to me about the time when he had seen
Mr. Peggotty at Salem House; how delighted he was with the boat and all
belonging to it; how lightly and easily he carried on, until he brought
us, by degrees, into a charmed circle, and we were all talking away
without any reserve.

Em’ly, indeed, said little all the evening; but she looked, and
listened, and her face got animated, and she was charming. Steerforth
told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which arose out of his talk with Mr.
Peggotty), as if he saw it all before him--and little Em’ly’s eyes were
fastened on him all the time, as if she saw it too. He told us a merry
adventure of his own, as a relief to that, with as much gaiety as if the
narrative were as fresh to him as it was to us--and little Em’ly
laughed until the boat rang with the musical sounds, and we all laughed
(Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy with what was so pleasant and
light-hearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to sing, or rather to roar, ‘When
the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow’; and he sang a sailor’s
song himself, so pathetically and beautifully, that I could have almost
fancied that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the house, and
murmuring low through our unbroken silence, was there to listen.

As to Mrs. Gummidge, he roused that victim of despondency with a success
never attained by anyone else (so Mr. Peggotty informed me), since
the decease of the old one. He left her so little leisure for being
miserable, that she said next day she thought she must have been
bewitched.

But he set up no monopoly of the general attention, or the conversation.
When little Em’ly grew more courageous, and talked (but still bashfully)
across the fire to me, of our old wanderings upon the beach, to pick up
shells and pebbles; and when I asked her if she recollected how I used
to be devoted to her; and when we both laughed and reddened, casting
these looks back on the pleasant old times, so unreal to look at now; he
was silent and attentive, and observed us thoughtfully. She sat, at this
time, and all the evening, on the old locker in her old little corner
by the fire--Ham beside her, where I used to sit. I could not satisfy
myself whether it was in her own little tormenting way, or in a maidenly
reserve before us, that she kept quite close to the wall, and away from
him; but I observed that she did so, all the evening.

As I remember, it was almost midnight when we took our leave. We had had
some biscuit and dried fish for supper, and Steerforth had produced from
his pocket a full flask of Hollands, which we men (I may say we men,
now, without a blush) had emptied. We parted merrily; and as they all
stood crowded round the door to light us as far as they could upon our
road, I saw the sweet blue eyes of little Em’ly peeping after us, from
behind Ham, and heard her soft voice calling to us to be careful how we
went.

‘A most engaging little Beauty!’ said Steerforth, taking my arm. ‘Well!
It’s a quaint place, and they are quaint company, and it’s quite a new
sensation to mix with them.’

‘How fortunate we are, too,’ I returned, ‘to have arrived to witness
their happiness in that intended marriage! I never saw people so happy.
How delightful to see it, and to be made the sharers in their honest
joy, as we have been!’

‘That’s rather a chuckle-headed fellow for the girl; isn’t he?’ said
Steerforth.

He had been so hearty with him, and with them all, that I felt a shock
in this unexpected and cold reply. But turning quickly upon him, and
seeing a laugh in his eyes, I answered, much relieved:

‘Ah, Steerforth! It’s well for you to joke about the poor! You may
skirmish with Miss Dartle, or try to hide your sympathies in jest from
me, but I know better. When I see how perfectly you understand them, how
exquisitely you can enter into happiness like this plain fisherman’s,
or humour a love like my old nurse’s, I know that there is not a joy or
sorrow, not an emotion, of such people, that can be indifferent to you.
And I admire and love you for it, Steerforth, twenty times the more!’

He stopped, and, looking in my face, said, ‘Daisy, I believe you are
in earnest, and are good. I wish we all were!’ Next moment he was
gaily singing Mr. Peggotty’s song, as we walked at a round pace back to
Yarmouth.



CHAPTER 22. SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE


Steerforth and I stayed for more than a fortnight in that part of the
country. We were very much together, I need not say; but occasionally we
were asunder for some hours at a time. He was a good sailor, and I was
but an indifferent one; and when he went out boating with Mr. Peggotty,
which was a favourite amusement of his, I generally remained ashore. My
occupation of Peggotty’s spare-room put a constraint upon me, from which
he was free: for, knowing how assiduously she attended on Mr. Barkis
all day, I did not like to remain out late at night; whereas Steerforth,
lying at the Inn, had nothing to consult but his own humour. Thus it
came about, that I heard of his making little treats for the fishermen
at Mr. Peggotty’s house of call, ‘The Willing Mind’, after I was in bed,
and of his being afloat, wrapped in fishermen’s clothes, whole moonlight
nights, and coming back when the morning tide was at flood. By this
time, however, I knew that his restless nature and bold spirits
delighted to find a vent in rough toil and hard weather, as in any other
means of excitement that presented itself freshly to him; so none of his
proceedings surprised me.

Another cause of our being sometimes apart, was, that I had naturally an
interest in going over to Blunderstone, and revisiting the old familiar
scenes of my childhood; while Steerforth, after being there once, had
naturally no great interest in going there again. Hence, on three or
four days that I can at once recall, we went our several ways after an
early breakfast, and met again at a late dinner. I had no idea how he
employed his time in the interval, beyond a general knowledge that
he was very popular in the place, and had twenty means of actively
diverting himself where another man might not have found one.

For my own part, my occupation in my solitary pilgrimages was to recall
every yard of the old road as I went along it, and to haunt the old
spots, of which I never tired. I haunted them, as my memory had often
done, and lingered among them as my younger thoughts had lingered when I
was far away. The grave beneath the tree, where both my parents lay--on
which I had looked out, when it was my father’s only, with such curious
feelings of compassion, and by which I had stood, so desolate, when it
was opened to receive my pretty mother and her baby--the grave which
Peggotty’s own faithful care had ever since kept neat, and made a garden
of, I walked near, by the hour. It lay a little off the churchyard path,
in a quiet corner, not so far removed but I could read the names
upon the stone as I walked to and fro, startled by the sound of the
church-bell when it struck the hour, for it was like a departed voice to
me. My reflections at these times were always associated with the figure
I was to make in life, and the distinguished things I was to do. My
echoing footsteps went to no other tune, but were as constant to that as
if I had come home to build my castles in the air at a living mother’s
side.

There were great changes in my old home. The ragged nests, so long
deserted by the rooks, were gone; and the trees were lopped and topped
out of their remembered shapes. The garden had run wild, and half the
windows of the house were shut up. It was occupied, but only by a poor
lunatic gentleman, and the people who took care of him. He was always
sitting at my little window, looking out into the churchyard; and I
wondered whether his rambling thoughts ever went upon any of the fancies
that used to occupy mine, on the rosy mornings when I peeped out of
that same little window in my night-clothes, and saw the sheep quietly
feeding in the light of the rising sun.

Our old neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Grayper, were gone to South America,
and the rain had made its way through the roof of their empty house,
and stained the outer walls. Mr. Chillip was married again to a tall,
raw-boned, high-nosed wife; and they had a weazen little baby, with a
heavy head that it couldn’t hold up, and two weak staring eyes, with
which it seemed to be always wondering why it had ever been born.

It was with a singular jumble of sadness and pleasure that I used to
linger about my native place, until the reddening winter sun admonished
me that it was time to start on my returning walk. But, when the place
was left behind, and especially when Steerforth and I were happily
seated over our dinner by a blazing fire, it was delicious to think of
having been there. So it was, though in a softened degree, when I
went to my neat room at night; and, turning over the leaves of the
crocodile-book (which was always there, upon a little table), remembered
with a grateful heart how blest I was in having such a friend as
Steerforth, such a friend as Peggotty, and such a substitute for what I
had lost as my excellent and generous aunt.

MY nearest way to Yarmouth, in coming back from these long walks, was by
a ferry. It landed me on the flat between the town and the sea, which I
could make straight across, and so save myself a considerable circuit by
the high road. Mr. Peggotty’s house being on that waste-place, and not
a hundred yards out of my track, I always looked in as I went by.
Steerforth was pretty sure to be there expecting me, and we went on
together through the frosty air and gathering fog towards the twinkling
lights of the town.

One dark evening, when I was later than usual--for I had, that day, been
making my parting visit to Blunderstone, as we were now about to return
home--I found him alone in Mr. Peggotty’s house, sitting thoughtfully
before the fire. He was so intent upon his own reflections that he was
quite unconscious of my approach. This, indeed, he might easily have
been if he had been less absorbed, for footsteps fell noiselessly on the
sandy ground outside; but even my entrance failed to rouse him. I was
standing close to him, looking at him; and still, with a heavy brow, he
was lost in his meditations.

He gave such a start when I put my hand upon his shoulder, that he made
me start too.

‘You come upon me,’ he said, almost angrily, ‘like a reproachful ghost!’

‘I was obliged to announce myself, somehow,’ I replied. ‘Have I called
you down from the stars?’

‘No,’ he answered. ‘No.’

‘Up from anywhere, then?’ said I, taking my seat near him.

‘I was looking at the pictures in the fire,’ he returned.

‘But you are spoiling them for me,’ said I, as he stirred it quickly
with a piece of burning wood, striking out of it a train of red-hot
sparks that went careering up the little chimney, and roaring out into
the air.

‘You would not have seen them,’ he returned. ‘I detest this mongrel
time, neither day nor night. How late you are! Where have you been?’

‘I have been taking leave of my usual walk,’ said I.

‘And I have been sitting here,’ said Steerforth, glancing round the
room, ‘thinking that all the people we found so glad on the night of
our coming down, might--to judge from the present wasted air of the
place--be dispersed, or dead, or come to I don’t know what harm. David,
I wish to God I had had a judicious father these last twenty years!’

‘My dear Steerforth, what is the matter?’

‘I wish with all my soul I had been better guided!’ he exclaimed. ‘I
wish with all my soul I could guide myself better!’

There was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite amazed me. He
was more unlike himself than I could have supposed possible.

‘It would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or his lout of a nephew,’
he said, getting up and leaning moodily against the chimney-piece, with
his face towards the fire, ‘than to be myself, twenty times richer and
twenty times wiser, and be the torment to myself that I have been, in
this Devil’s bark of a boat, within the last half-hour!’

I was so confounded by the alteration in him, that at first I could only
observe him in silence, as he stood leaning his head upon his hand, and
looking gloomily down at the fire. At length I begged him, with all
the earnestness I felt, to tell me what had occurred to cross him so
unusually, and to let me sympathize with him, if I could not hope to
advise him. Before I had well concluded, he began to laugh--fretfully at
first, but soon with returning gaiety.

‘Tut, it’s nothing, Daisy! nothing!’ he replied. ‘I told you at the
inn in London, I am heavy company for myself, sometimes. I have been a
nightmare to myself, just now--must have had one, I think. At odd dull
times, nursery tales come up into the memory, unrecognized for what
they are. I believe I have been confounding myself with the bad boy who
“didn’t care”, and became food for lions--a grander kind of going to
the dogs, I suppose. What old women call the horrors, have been creeping
over me from head to foot. I have been afraid of myself.’

‘You are afraid of nothing else, I think,’ said I.

‘Perhaps not, and yet may have enough to be afraid of too,’ he answered.
‘Well! So it goes by! I am not about to be hipped again, David; but I
tell you, my good fellow, once more, that it would have been well for me
(and for more than me) if I had had a steadfast and judicious father!’

His face was always full of expression, but I never saw it express such
a dark kind of earnestness as when he said these words, with his glance
bent on the fire.

‘So much for that!’ he said, making as if he tossed something light
into the air, with his hand. “‘Why, being gone, I am a man again,” like
Macbeth. And now for dinner! If I have not (Macbeth-like) broken up the
feast with most admired disorder, Daisy.’

‘But where are they all, I wonder!’ said I.

‘God knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘After strolling to the ferry looking
for you, I strolled in here and found the place deserted. That set me
thinking, and you found me thinking.’

The advent of Mrs. Gummidge with a basket, explained how the house had
happened to be empty. She had hurried out to buy something that was
needed, against Mr. Peggotty’s return with the tide; and had left the
door open in the meanwhile, lest Ham and little Em’ly, with whom it was
an early night, should come home while she was gone. Steerforth, after
very much improving Mrs. Gummidge’s spirits by a cheerful salutation and
a jocose embrace, took my arm, and hurried me away.

He had improved his own spirits, no less than Mrs. Gummidge’s, for
they were again at their usual flow, and he was full of vivacious
conversation as we went along.

‘And so,’ he said, gaily, ‘we abandon this buccaneer life tomorrow, do
we?’

‘So we agreed,’ I returned. ‘And our places by the coach are taken, you
know.’

‘Ay! there’s no help for it, I suppose,’ said Steerforth. ‘I have
almost forgotten that there is anything to do in the world but to go out
tossing on the sea here. I wish there was not.’

‘As long as the novelty should last,’ said I, laughing.

‘Like enough,’ he returned; ‘though there’s a sarcastic meaning in that
observation for an amiable piece of innocence like my young friend.
Well! I dare say I am a capricious fellow, David. I know I am; but
while the iron is hot, I can strike it vigorously too. I could pass
a reasonably good examination already, as a pilot in these waters, I
think.’

‘Mr. Peggotty says you are a wonder,’ I returned.

‘A nautical phenomenon, eh?’ laughed Steerforth.

‘Indeed he does, and you know how truly; I know how ardent you are
in any pursuit you follow, and how easily you can master it. And that
amazes me most in you, Steerforth--that you should be contented with
such fitful uses of your powers.’

‘Contented?’ he answered, merrily. ‘I am never contented, except with
your freshness, my gentle Daisy. As to fitfulness, I have never learnt
the art of binding myself to any of the wheels on which the Ixions of
these days are turning round and round. I missed it somehow in a bad
apprenticeship, and now don’t care about it.---You know I have bought a
boat down here?’

‘What an extraordinary fellow you are, Steerforth!’ I exclaimed,
stopping--for this was the first I had heard of it. ‘When you may never
care to come near the place again!’

‘I don’t know that,’ he returned. ‘I have taken a fancy to the place. At
all events,’ walking me briskly on, ‘I have bought a boat that was for
sale--a clipper, Mr. Peggotty says; and so she is--and Mr. Peggotty will
be master of her in my absence.’

‘Now I understand you, Steerforth!’ said I, exultingly. ‘You pretend
to have bought it for yourself, but you have really done so to confer
a benefit on him. I might have known as much at first, knowing you.
My dear kind Steerforth, how can I tell you what I think of your
generosity?’

‘Tush!’ he answered, turning red. ‘The less said, the better.’

‘Didn’t I know?’ cried I, ‘didn’t I say that there was not a joy, or
sorrow, or any emotion of such honest hearts that was indifferent to
you?’

‘Aye, aye,’ he answered, ‘you told me all that. There let it rest. We
have said enough!’

Afraid of offending him by pursuing the subject when he made so light
of it, I only pursued it in my thoughts as we went on at even a quicker
pace than before.

‘She must be newly rigged,’ said Steerforth, ‘and I shall leave Littimer
behind to see it done, that I may know she is quite complete. Did I tell
you Littimer had come down?’

‘No.’

‘Oh yes! came down this morning, with a letter from my mother.’

As our looks met, I observed that he was pale even to his lips, though
he looked very steadily at me. I feared that some difference between him
and his mother might have led to his being in the frame of mind in which
I had found him at the solitary fireside. I hinted so.

‘Oh no!’ he said, shaking his head, and giving a slight laugh. ‘Nothing
of the sort! Yes. He is come down, that man of mine.’

‘The same as ever?’ said I.

‘The same as ever,’ said Steerforth. ‘Distant and quiet as the North
Pole. He shall see to the boat being fresh named. She’s the “Stormy
Petrel” now. What does Mr. Peggotty care for Stormy Petrels! I’ll have
her christened again.’

‘By what name?’ I asked.

‘The “Little Em’ly”.’

As he had continued to look steadily at me, I took it as a reminder that
he objected to being extolled for his consideration. I could not help
showing in my face how much it pleased me, but I said little, and he
resumed his usual smile, and seemed relieved.

‘But see here,’ he said, looking before us, ‘where the original little
Em’ly comes! And that fellow with her, eh? Upon my soul, he’s a true
knight. He never leaves her!’

Ham was a boat-builder in these days, having improved a natural
ingenuity in that handicraft, until he had become a skilled workman. He
was in his working-dress, and looked rugged enough, but manly withal,
and a very fit protector for the blooming little creature at his
side. Indeed, there was a frankness in his face, an honesty, and an
undisguised show of his pride in her, and his love for her, which were,
to me, the best of good looks. I thought, as they came towards us, that
they were well matched even in that particular.

She withdrew her hand timidly from his arm as we stopped to speak to
them, and blushed as she gave it to Steerforth and to me. When they
passed on, after we had exchanged a few words, she did not like to
replace that hand, but, still appearing timid and constrained, walked
by herself. I thought all this very pretty and engaging, and Steerforth
seemed to think so too, as we looked after them fading away in the light
of a young moon.

Suddenly there passed us--evidently following them--a young woman whose
approach we had not observed, but whose face I saw as she went by, and
thought I had a faint remembrance of. She was lightly dressed; looked
bold, and haggard, and flaunting, and poor; but seemed, for the time, to
have given all that to the wind which was blowing, and to have nothing
in her mind but going after them. As the dark distant level, absorbing
their figures into itself, left but itself visible between us and the
sea and clouds, her figure disappeared in like manner, still no nearer
to them than before.

‘That is a black shadow to be following the girl,’ said Steerforth,
standing still; ‘what does it mean?’

He spoke in a low voice that sounded almost strange to Me.

‘She must have it in her mind to beg of them, I think,’ said I.

‘A beggar would be no novelty,’ said Steerforth; ‘but it is a strange
thing that the beggar should take that shape tonight.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘For no better reason, truly, than because I was thinking,’ he said,
after a pause, ‘of something like it, when it came by. Where the Devil
did it come from, I wonder!’

‘From the shadow of this wall, I think,’ said I, as we emerged upon a
road on which a wall abutted.

‘It’s gone!’ he returned, looking over his shoulder. ‘And all ill go
with it. Now for our dinner!’

But he looked again over his shoulder towards the sea-line glimmering
afar off, and yet again. And he wondered about it, in some broken
expressions, several times, in the short remainder of our walk; and only
seemed to forget it when the light of fire and candle shone upon us,
seated warm and merry, at table.

Littimer was there, and had his usual effect upon me. When I said to
him that I hoped Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle were well, he answered
respectfully (and of course respectably), that they were tolerably well,
he thanked me, and had sent their compliments. This was all, and yet he
seemed to me to say as plainly as a man could say: ‘You are very young,
sir; you are exceedingly young.’

We had almost finished dinner, when taking a step or two towards the
table, from the corner where he kept watch upon us, or rather upon me,
as I felt, he said to his master:

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Miss Mowcher is down here.’

‘Who?’ cried Steerforth, much astonished.

‘Miss Mowcher, sir.’

‘Why, what on earth does she do here?’ said Steerforth.

‘It appears to be her native part of the country, sir. She informs me
that she makes one of her professional visits here, every year, sir.
I met her in the street this afternoon, and she wished to know if she
might have the honour of waiting on you after dinner, sir.’

‘Do you know the Giantess in question, Daisy?’ inquired Steerforth.

I was obliged to confess--I felt ashamed, even of being at this
disadvantage before Littimer--that Miss Mowcher and I were wholly
unacquainted.

‘Then you shall know her,’ said Steerforth, ‘for she is one of the seven
wonders of the world. When Miss Mowcher comes, show her in.’

I felt some curiosity and excitement about this lady, especially as
Steerforth burst into a fit of laughing when I referred to her, and
positively refused to answer any question of which I made her the
subject. I remained, therefore, in a state of considerable expectation
until the cloth had been removed some half an hour, and we were sitting
over our decanter of wine before the fire, when the door opened, and
Littimer, with his habitual serenity quite undisturbed, announced:

‘Miss Mowcher!’

I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still looking at
the doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a long while making her
appearance, when, to my infinite astonishment, there came waddling round
a sofa which stood between me and it, a pursy dwarf, of about forty
or forty-five, with a very large head and face, a pair of roguish grey
eyes, and such extremely little arms, that, to enable herself to lay a
finger archly against her snub nose, as she ogled Steerforth, she was
obliged to meet the finger half-way, and lay her nose against it.
Her chin, which was what is called a double chin, was so fat that it
entirely swallowed up the strings of her bonnet, bow and all. Throat she
had none; waist she had none; legs she had none, worth mentioning; for
though she was more than full-sized down to where her waist would have
been, if she had had any, and though she terminated, as human beings
generally do, in a pair of feet, she was so short that she stood at a
common-sized chair as at a table, resting a bag she carried on the seat.
This lady--dressed in an off-hand, easy style; bringing her nose and her
forefinger together, with the difficulty I have described; standing with
her head necessarily on one side, and, with one of her sharp eyes shut
up, making an uncommonly knowing face--after ogling Steerforth for a few
moments, broke into a torrent of words.

‘What! My flower!’ she pleasantly began, shaking her large head at him.
‘You’re there, are you! Oh, you naughty boy, fie for shame, what do you
do so far away from home? Up to mischief, I’ll be bound. Oh, you’re a
downy fellow, Steerforth, so you are, and I’m another, ain’t I? Ha, ha,
ha! You’d have betted a hundred pound to five, now, that you wouldn’t
have seen me here, wouldn’t you? Bless you, man alive, I’m everywhere.
I’m here and there, and where not, like the conjurer’s half-crown in the
lady’s handkercher. Talking of handkerchers--and talking of ladies--what
a comfort you are to your blessed mother, ain’t you, my dear boy, over
one of my shoulders, and I don’t say which!’

Miss Mowcher untied her bonnet, at this passage of her discourse, threw
back the strings, and sat down, panting, on a footstool in front of
the fire--making a kind of arbour of the dining table, which spread its
mahogany shelter above her head.

‘Oh my stars and what’s-their-names!’ she went on, clapping a hand on
each of her little knees, and glancing shrewdly at me, ‘I’m of too full
a habit, that’s the fact, Steerforth. After a flight of stairs, it gives
me as much trouble to draw every breath I want, as if it was a bucket of
water. If you saw me looking out of an upper window, you’d think I was a
fine woman, wouldn’t you?’

‘I should think that, wherever I saw you,’ replied Steerforth.

‘Go along, you dog, do!’ cried the little creature, making a whisk at
him with the handkerchief with which she was wiping her face, ‘and don’t
be impudent! But I give you my word and honour I was at Lady Mithers’s
last week--THERE’S a woman! How SHE wears!--and Mithers himself came
into the room where I was waiting for her--THERE’S a man! How HE wears!
and his wig too, for he’s had it these ten years--and he went on at
that rate in the complimentary line, that I began to think I should be
obliged to ring the bell. Ha! ha! ha! He’s a pleasant wretch, but he
wants principle.’

‘What were you doing for Lady Mithers?’ asked Steerforth.

‘That’s tellings, my blessed infant,’ she retorted, tapping her nose
again, screwing up her face, and twinkling her eyes like an imp of
supernatural intelligence. ‘Never YOU mind! You’d like to know whether
I stop her hair from falling off, or dye it, or touch up her
complexion, or improve her eyebrows, wouldn’t you? And so you shall, my
darling--when I tell you! Do you know what my great grandfather’s name
was?’

‘No,’ said Steerforth.

‘It was Walker, my sweet pet,’ replied Miss Mowcher, ‘and he came of a
long line of Walkers, that I inherit all the Hookey estates from.’

I never beheld anything approaching to Miss Mowcher’s wink except Miss
Mowcher’s self-possession. She had a wonderful way too, when listening
to what was said to her, or when waiting for an answer to what she had
said herself, of pausing with her head cunningly on one side, and one
eye turned up like a magpie’s. Altogether I was lost in amazement,
and sat staring at her, quite oblivious, I am afraid, of the laws of
politeness.

She had by this time drawn the chair to her side, and was busily engaged
in producing from the bag (plunging in her short arm to the shoulder, at
every dive) a number of small bottles, sponges, combs, brushes, bits of
flannel, little pairs of curling-irons, and other instruments, which
she tumbled in a heap upon the chair. From this employment she suddenly
desisted, and said to Steerforth, much to my confusion:

‘Who’s your friend?’

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Steerforth; ‘he wants to know you.’

‘Well, then, he shall! I thought he looked as if he did!’ returned Miss
Mowcher, waddling up to me, bag in hand, and laughing on me as she came.
‘Face like a peach!’ standing on tiptoe to pinch my cheek as I
sat. ‘Quite tempting! I’m very fond of peaches. Happy to make your
acquaintance, Mr. Copperfield, I’m sure.’

I said that I congratulated myself on having the honour to make hers,
and that the happiness was mutual.

‘Oh, my goodness, how polite we are!’ exclaimed Miss Mowcher, making a
preposterous attempt to cover her large face with her morsel of a hand.
‘What a world of gammon and spinnage it is, though, ain’t it!’

This was addressed confidentially to both of us, as the morsel of a
hand came away from the face, and buried itself, arm and all, in the bag
again.

‘What do you mean, Miss Mowcher?’ said Steerforth.

‘Ha! ha! ha! What a refreshing set of humbugs we are, to be sure, ain’t
we, my sweet child?’ replied that morsel of a woman, feeling in the bag
with her head on one side and her eye in the air. ‘Look here!’ taking
something out. ‘Scraps of the Russian Prince’s nails. Prince Alphabet
turned topsy-turvy, I call him, for his name’s got all the letters in
it, higgledy-piggledy.’

‘The Russian Prince is a client of yours, is he?’ said Steerforth.

‘I believe you, my pet,’ replied Miss Mowcher. ‘I keep his nails in
order for him. Twice a week! Fingers and toes.’

‘He pays well, I hope?’ said Steerforth.

‘Pays, as he speaks, my dear child--through the nose,’ replied Miss
Mowcher. ‘None of your close shavers the Prince ain’t. You’d say so, if
you saw his moustachios. Red by nature, black by art.’

‘By your art, of course,’ said Steerforth.

Miss Mowcher winked assent. ‘Forced to send for me. Couldn’t help it.
The climate affected his dye; it did very well in Russia, but it was no
go here. You never saw such a rusty Prince in all your born days as he
was. Like old iron!’ ‘Is that why you called him a humbug, just now?’
inquired Steerforth.

‘Oh, you’re a broth of a boy, ain’t you?’ returned Miss Mowcher, shaking
her head violently. ‘I said, what a set of humbugs we were in general,
and I showed you the scraps of the Prince’s nails to prove it. The
Prince’s nails do more for me in private families of the genteel sort,
than all my talents put together. I always carry ‘em about. They’re the
best introduction. If Miss Mowcher cuts the Prince’s nails, she must be
all right. I give ‘em away to the young ladies. They put ‘em in albums,
I believe. Ha! ha! ha! Upon my life, “the whole social system” (as
the men call it when they make speeches in Parliament) is a system of
Prince’s nails!’ said this least of women, trying to fold her short
arms, and nodding her large head.

Steerforth laughed heartily, and I laughed too. Miss Mowcher continuing
all the time to shake her head (which was very much on one side), and to
look into the air with one eye, and to wink with the other.

‘Well, well!’ she said, smiting her small knees, and rising, ‘this is
not business. Come, Steerforth, let’s explore the polar regions, and
have it over.’

She then selected two or three of the little instruments, and a
little bottle, and asked (to my surprise) if the table would bear. On
Steerforth’s replying in the affirmative, she pushed a chair against it,
and begging the assistance of my hand, mounted up, pretty nimbly, to the
top, as if it were a stage.

‘If either of you saw my ankles,’ she said, when she was safely
elevated, ‘say so, and I’ll go home and destroy myself!’

‘I did not,’ said Steerforth.

‘I did not,’ said I.

‘Well then,’ cried Miss Mowcher, ‘I’ll consent to live. Now, ducky,
ducky, ducky, come to Mrs. Bond and be killed.’

This was an invocation to Steerforth to place himself under her hands;
who, accordingly, sat himself down, with his back to the table, and
his laughing face towards me, and submitted his head to her inspection,
evidently for no other purpose than our entertainment. To see Miss
Mowcher standing over him, looking at his rich profusion of brown
hair through a large round magnifying glass, which she took out of her
pocket, was a most amazing spectacle.

‘You’re a pretty fellow!’ said Miss Mowcher, after a brief inspection.
‘You’d be as bald as a friar on the top of your head in twelve months,
but for me. Just half a minute, my young friend, and we’ll give you a
polishing that shall keep your curls on for the next ten years!’

With this, she tilted some of the contents of the little bottle on to
one of the little bits of flannel, and, again imparting some of the
virtues of that preparation to one of the little brushes, began rubbing
and scraping away with both on the crown of Steerforth’s head in the
busiest manner I ever witnessed, talking all the time.

‘There’s Charley Pyegrave, the duke’s son,’ she said. ‘You know
Charley?’ peeping round into his face.

‘A little,’ said Steerforth.

‘What a man HE is! THERE’S a whisker! As to Charley’s legs, if they
were only a pair (which they ain’t), they’d defy competition. Would you
believe he tried to do without me--in the Life-Guards, too?’

‘Mad!’ said Steerforth.

‘It looks like it. However, mad or sane, he tried,’ returned Miss
Mowcher. ‘What does he do, but, lo and behold you, he goes into a
perfumer’s shop, and wants to buy a bottle of the Madagascar Liquid.’

‘Charley does?’ said Steerforth.

‘Charley does. But they haven’t got any of the Madagascar Liquid.’

‘What is it? Something to drink?’ asked Steerforth.

‘To drink?’ returned Miss Mowcher, stopping to slap his cheek. ‘To
doctor his own moustachios with, you know. There was a woman in the
shop--elderly female--quite a Griffin--who had never even heard of it
by name. “Begging pardon, sir,” said the Griffin to Charley, “it’s
not--not--not ROUGE, is it?” “Rouge,” said Charley to the Griffin. “What
the unmentionable to ears polite, do you think I want with rouge?” “No
offence, sir,” said the Griffin; “we have it asked for by so many names,
I thought it might be.” Now that, my child,’ continued Miss Mowcher,
rubbing all the time as busily as ever, ‘is another instance of
the refreshing humbug I was speaking of. I do something in that way
myself--perhaps a good deal--perhaps a little--sharp’s the word, my dear
boy--never mind!’

‘In what way do you mean? In the rouge way?’ said Steerforth.

‘Put this and that together, my tender pupil,’ returned the wary
Mowcher, touching her nose, ‘work it by the rule of Secrets in all
trades, and the product will give you the desired result. I say I do a
little in that way myself. One Dowager, SHE calls it lip-salve. Another,
SHE calls it gloves. Another, SHE calls it tucker-edging. Another, SHE
calls it a fan. I call it whatever THEY call it. I supply it for ‘em,
but we keep up the trick so, to one another, and make believe with
such a face, that they’d as soon think of laying it on, before a whole
drawing-room, as before me. And when I wait upon ‘em, they’ll say to
me sometimes--WITH IT ON--thick, and no mistake--“How am I looking,
Mowcher? Am I pale?” Ha! ha! ha! ha! Isn’t THAT refreshing, my young
friend!’

I never did in my days behold anything like Mowcher as she stood upon
the dining table, intensely enjoying this refreshment, rubbing busily at
Steerforth’s head, and winking at me over it.

‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Such things are not much in demand hereabouts. That
sets me off again! I haven’t seen a pretty woman since I’ve been here,
jemmy.’

‘No?’ said Steerforth.

‘Not the ghost of one,’ replied Miss Mowcher.

‘We could show her the substance of one, I think?’ said Steerforth,
addressing his eyes to mine. ‘Eh, Daisy?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said I.

‘Aha?’ cried the little creature, glancing sharply at my face, and then
peeping round at Steerforth’s. ‘Umph?’

The first exclamation sounded like a question put to both of us, and the
second like a question put to Steerforth only. She seemed to have found
no answer to either, but continued to rub, with her head on one side and
her eye turned up, as if she were looking for an answer in the air and
were confident of its appearing presently.

‘A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield?’ she cried, after a pause, and
still keeping the same look-out. ‘Aye, aye?’

‘No,’ said Steerforth, before I could reply. ‘Nothing of the sort. On
the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used--or I am much mistaken--to have a
great admiration for her.’

‘Why, hasn’t he now?’ returned Miss Mowcher. ‘Is he fickle? Oh, for
shame! Did he sip every flower, and change every hour, until Polly his
passion requited?--Is her name Polly?’

The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me with this question,
and a searching look, quite disconcerted me for a moment.

‘No, Miss Mowcher,’ I replied. ‘Her name is Emily.’

‘Aha?’ she cried exactly as before. ‘Umph? What a rattle I am! Mr.
Copperfield, ain’t I volatile?’

Her tone and look implied something that was not agreeable to me in
connexion with the subject. So I said, in a graver manner than any of us
had yet assumed: ‘She is as virtuous as she is pretty. She is engaged
to be married to a most worthy and deserving man in her own station of
life. I esteem her for her good sense, as much as I admire her for her
good looks.’

‘Well said!’ cried Steerforth. ‘Hear, hear, hear! Now I’ll quench the
curiosity of this little Fatima, my dear Daisy, by leaving her nothing
to guess at. She is at present apprenticed, Miss Mowcher, or articled,
or whatever it may be, to Omer and Joram, Haberdashers, Milliners, and
so forth, in this town. Do you observe? Omer and Joram. The promise of
which my friend has spoken, is made and entered into with her cousin;
Christian name, Ham; surname, Peggotty; occupation, boat-builder;
also of this town. She lives with a relative; Christian name, unknown;
surname, Peggotty; occupation, seafaring; also of this town. She is the
prettiest and most engaging little fairy in the world. I admire her--as
my friend does--exceedingly. If it were not that I might appear to
disparage her Intended, which I know my friend would not like, I would
add, that to me she seems to be throwing herself away; that I am sure
she might do better; and that I swear she was born to be a lady.’

Miss Mowcher listened to these words, which were very slowly and
distinctly spoken, with her head on one side, and her eye in the air
as if she were still looking for that answer. When he ceased she became
brisk again in an instant, and rattled away with surprising volubility.

‘Oh! And that’s all about it, is it?’ she exclaimed, trimming his
whiskers with a little restless pair of scissors, that went glancing
round his head in all directions. ‘Very well: very well! Quite a long
story. Ought to end “and they lived happy ever afterwards”; oughtn’t
it? Ah! What’s that game at forfeits? I love my love with an E, because
she’s enticing; I hate her with an E, because she’s engaged. I took her
to the sign of the exquisite, and treated her with an elopement, her
name’s Emily, and she lives in the east? Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Copperfield,
ain’t I volatile?’

Merely looking at me with extravagant slyness, and not waiting for any
reply, she continued, without drawing breath:

‘There! If ever any scapegrace was trimmed and touched up to perfection,
you are, Steerforth. If I understand any noddle in the world, I
understand yours. Do you hear me when I tell you that, my darling? I
understand yours,’ peeping down into his face. ‘Now you may mizzle,
jemmy (as we say at Court), and if Mr. Copperfield will take the chair
I’ll operate on him.’

‘What do you say, Daisy?’ inquired Steerforth, laughing, and resigning
his seat. ‘Will you be improved?’

‘Thank you, Miss Mowcher, not this evening.’

‘Don’t say no,’ returned the little woman, looking at me with the aspect
of a connoisseur; ‘a little bit more eyebrow?’

‘Thank you,’ I returned, ‘some other time.’

‘Have it carried half a quarter of an inch towards the temple,’ said
Miss Mowcher. ‘We can do it in a fortnight.’

‘No, I thank you. Not at present.’

‘Go in for a tip,’ she urged. ‘No? Let’s get the scaffolding up, then,
for a pair of whiskers. Come!’

I could not help blushing as I declined, for I felt we were on my weak
point, now. But Miss Mowcher, finding that I was not at present disposed
for any decoration within the range of her art, and that I was, for the
time being, proof against the blandishments of the small bottle which
she held up before one eye to enforce her persuasions, said we would
make a beginning on an early day, and requested the aid of my hand to
descend from her elevated station. Thus assisted, she skipped down with
much agility, and began to tie her double chin into her bonnet.

‘The fee,’ said Steerforth, ‘is--’

‘Five bob,’ replied Miss Mowcher, ‘and dirt cheap, my chicken. Ain’t I
volatile, Mr. Copperfield?’

I replied politely: ‘Not at all.’ But I thought she was rather so, when
she tossed up his two half-crowns like a goblin pieman, caught them,
dropped them in her pocket, and gave it a loud slap.

‘That’s the Till!’ observed Miss Mowcher, standing at the chair again,
and replacing in the bag a miscellaneous collection of little objects
she had emptied out of it. ‘Have I got all my traps? It seems so. It
won’t do to be like long Ned Beadwood, when they took him to church “to
marry him to somebody”, as he says, and left the bride behind. Ha! ha!
ha! A wicked rascal, Ned, but droll! Now, I know I’m going to break
your hearts, but I am forced to leave you. You must call up all your
fortitude, and try to bear it. Good-bye, Mr. Copperfield! Take care of
yourself, jockey of Norfolk! How I have been rattling on! It’s all
the fault of you two wretches. I forgive you! “Bob swore!”--as the
Englishman said for “Good night”, when he first learnt French, and
thought it so like English. “Bob swore,” my ducks!’

With the bag slung over her arm, and rattling as she waddled away, she
waddled to the door, where she stopped to inquire if she should leave
us a lock of her hair. ‘Ain’t I volatile?’ she added, as a commentary on
this offer, and, with her finger on her nose, departed.

Steerforth laughed to that degree, that it was impossible for me to help
laughing too; though I am not sure I should have done so, but for this
inducement. When we had had our laugh quite out, which was after some
time, he told me that Miss Mowcher had quite an extensive connexion, and
made herself useful to a variety of people in a variety of ways. Some
people trifled with her as a mere oddity, he said; but she was as
shrewdly and sharply observant as anyone he knew, and as long-headed as
she was short-armed. He told me that what she had said of being here,
and there, and everywhere, was true enough; for she made little darts
into the provinces, and seemed to pick up customers everywhere, and to
know everybody. I asked him what her disposition was: whether it was at
all mischievous, and if her sympathies were generally on the right side
of things: but, not succeeding in attracting his attention to these
questions after two or three attempts, I forbore or forgot to repeat
them. He told me instead, with much rapidity, a good deal about her
skill, and her profits; and about her being a scientific cupper, if I
should ever have occasion for her service in that capacity.

She was the principal theme of our conversation during the evening:
and when we parted for the night Steerforth called after me over the
banisters, ‘Bob swore!’ as I went downstairs.

I was surprised, when I came to Mr. Barkis’s house, to find Ham walking
up and down in front of it, and still more surprised to learn from him
that little Em’ly was inside. I naturally inquired why he was not there
too, instead of pacing the streets by himself?

‘Why, you see, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined, in a hesitating manner, ‘Em’ly,
she’s talking to some ‘un in here.’

‘I should have thought,’ said I, smiling, ‘that that was a reason for
your being in here too, Ham.’

‘Well, Mas’r Davy, in a general way, so ‘t would be,’ he returned;
‘but look’ee here, Mas’r Davy,’ lowering his voice, and speaking very
gravely. ‘It’s a young woman, sir--a young woman, that Em’ly knowed
once, and doen’t ought to know no more.’

When I heard these words, a light began to fall upon the figure I had
seen following them, some hours ago.

‘It’s a poor wurem, Mas’r Davy,’ said Ham, ‘as is trod under foot by all
the town. Up street and down street. The mowld o’ the churchyard don’t
hold any that the folk shrink away from, more.’

‘Did I see her tonight, Ham, on the sand, after we met you?’

‘Keeping us in sight?’ said Ham. ‘It’s like you did, Mas’r Davy. Not
that I know’d then, she was theer, sir, but along of her creeping soon
arterwards under Em’ly’s little winder, when she see the light come,
and whispering “Em’ly, Em’ly, for Christ’s sake, have a woman’s heart
towards me. I was once like you!” Those was solemn words, Mas’r Davy,
fur to hear!’

‘They were indeed, Ham. What did Em’ly do?’ ‘Says Em’ly, “Martha, is
it you? Oh, Martha, can it be you?”--for they had sat at work together,
many a day, at Mr. Omer’s.’

‘I recollect her now!’ cried I, recalling one of the two girls I had
seen when I first went there. ‘I recollect her quite well!’

‘Martha Endell,’ said Ham. ‘Two or three year older than Em’ly, but was
at the school with her.’

‘I never heard her name,’ said I. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you.’

‘For the matter o’ that, Mas’r Davy,’ replied Ham, ‘all’s told a’most
in them words, “Em’ly, Em’ly, for Christ’s sake, have a woman’s heart
towards me. I was once like you!” She wanted to speak to Em’ly. Em’ly
couldn’t speak to her theer, for her loving uncle was come home, and
he wouldn’t--no, Mas’r Davy,’ said Ham, with great earnestness, ‘he
couldn’t, kind-natur’d, tender-hearted as he is, see them two together,
side by side, for all the treasures that’s wrecked in the sea.’

I felt how true this was. I knew it, on the instant, quite as well as
Ham.

‘So Em’ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper,’ he pursued, ‘and gives it
to her out o’ winder to bring here. “Show that,” she says, “to my aunt,
Mrs. Barkis, and she’ll set you down by her fire, for the love of me,
till uncle is gone out, and I can come.” By and by she tells me what
I tell you, Mas’r Davy, and asks me to bring her. What can I do? She
doen’t ought to know any such, but I can’t deny her, when the tears is
on her face.’

He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacket, and took out with
great care a pretty little purse.

‘And if I could deny her when the tears was on her face, Mas’r Davy,’
said Ham, tenderly adjusting it on the rough palm of his hand, ‘how
could I deny her when she give me this to carry for her--knowing what
she brought it for? Such a toy as it is!’ said Ham, thoughtfully looking
on it. ‘With such a little money in it, Em’ly my dear.’

I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away again--for that
was more satisfactory to me than saying anything--and we walked up
and down, for a minute or two, in silence. The door opened then, and
Peggotty appeared, beckoning to Ham to come in. I would have kept away,
but she came after me, entreating me to come in too. Even then, I
would have avoided the room where they all were, but for its being the
neat-tiled kitchen I have mentioned more than once. The door opening
immediately into it, I found myself among them before I considered
whither I was going.

The girl--the same I had seen upon the sands--was near the fire. She
was sitting on the ground, with her head and one arm lying on a chair.
I fancied, from the disposition of her figure, that Em’ly had but newly
risen from the chair, and that the forlorn head might perhaps have been
lying on her lap. I saw but little of the girl’s face, over which her
hair fell loose and scattered, as if she had been disordering it with
her own hands; but I saw that she was young, and of a fair complexion.
Peggotty had been crying. So had little Em’ly. Not a word was spoken
when we first went in; and the Dutch clock by the dresser seemed, in the
silence, to tick twice as loud as usual. Em’ly spoke first.

‘Martha wants,’ she said to Ham, ‘to go to London.’

‘Why to London?’ returned Ham.

He stood between them, looking on the prostrate girl with a mixture of
compassion for her, and of jealousy of her holding any companionship
with her whom he loved so well, which I have always remembered
distinctly. They both spoke as if she were ill; in a soft, suppressed
tone that was plainly heard, although it hardly rose above a whisper.

‘Better there than here,’ said a third voice aloud--Martha’s, though she
did not move. ‘No one knows me there. Everybody knows me here.’

‘What will she do there?’ inquired Ham.

She lifted up her head, and looked darkly round at him for a moment;
then laid it down again, and curved her right arm about her neck, as
a woman in a fever, or in an agony of pain from a shot, might twist
herself.

‘She will try to do well,’ said little Em’ly. ‘You don’t know what she
has said to us. Does he--do they--aunt?’

Peggotty shook her head compassionately.

‘I’ll try,’ said Martha, ‘if you’ll help me away. I never can do worse
than I have done here. I may do better. Oh!’ with a dreadful shiver,
‘take me out of these streets, where the whole town knows me from a
child!’

As Em’ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in it a little canvas
bag. She took it, as if she thought it were her purse, and made a step
or two forward; but finding her mistake, came back to where he had
retired near me, and showed it to him.

‘It’s all yourn, Em’ly,’ I could hear him say. ‘I haven’t nowt in all
the wureld that ain’t yourn, my dear. It ain’t of no delight to me,
except for you!’

The tears rose freshly in her eyes, but she turned away and went to
Martha. What she gave her, I don’t know. I saw her stooping over her,
and putting money in her bosom. She whispered something, as she asked
was that enough? ‘More than enough,’ the other said, and took her hand
and kissed it.

Then Martha arose, and gathering her shawl about her, covering her
face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly to the door. She stopped
a moment before going out, as if she would have uttered something or
turned back; but no word passed her lips. Making the same low, dreary,
wretched moaning in her shawl, she went away.

As the door closed, little Em’ly looked at us three in a hurried manner
and then hid her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing.

‘Doen’t, Em’ly!’ said Ham, tapping her gently on the shoulder. ‘Doen’t,
my dear! You doen’t ought to cry so, pretty!’

‘Oh, Ham!’ she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully, ‘I am not so good a
girl as I ought to be! I know I have not the thankful heart, sometimes,
I ought to have!’

‘Yes, yes, you have, I’m sure,’ said Ham.

‘No! no! no!’ cried little Em’ly, sobbing, and shaking her head. ‘I am
not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not near! not near!’ And still she
cried, as if her heart would break.

‘I try your love too much. I know I do!’ she sobbed. ‘I’m often cross to
you, and changeable with you, when I ought to be far different. You are
never so to me. Why am I ever so to you, when I should think of nothing
but how to be grateful, and to make you happy!’

‘You always make me so,’ said Ham, ‘my dear! I am happy in the sight of
you. I am happy, all day long, in the thoughts of you.’

‘Ah! that’s not enough!’ she cried. ‘That is because you are good; not
because I am! Oh, my dear, it might have been a better fortune for
you, if you had been fond of someone else--of someone steadier and
much worthier than me, who was all bound up in you, and never vain and
changeable like me!’

‘Poor little tender-heart,’ said Ham, in a low voice. ‘Martha has
overset her, altogether.’

‘Please, aunt,’ sobbed Em’ly, ‘come here, and let me lay my head upon
you. Oh, I am very miserable tonight, aunt! Oh, I am not as good a girl
as I ought to be. I am not, I know!’

Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em’ly, with her
arms around her neck, kneeled by her, looking up most earnestly into her
face.

‘Oh, pray, aunt, try to help me! Ham, dear, try to help me! Mr. David,
for the sake of old times, do, please, try to help me! I want to be a
better girl than I am. I want to feel a hundred times more thankful than
I do. I want to feel more, what a blessed thing it is to be the wife of
a good man, and to lead a peaceful life. Oh me, oh me! Oh my heart, my
heart!’

She dropped her face on my old nurse’s breast, and, ceasing this
supplication, which in its agony and grief was half a woman’s, half a
child’s, as all her manner was (being, in that, more natural, and better
suited to her beauty, as I thought, than any other manner could have
been), wept silently, while my old nurse hushed her like an infant.

She got calmer by degrees, and then we soothed her; now talking
encouragingly, and now jesting a little with her, until she began to
raise her head and speak to us. So we got on, until she was able to
smile, and then to laugh, and then to sit up, half ashamed; while
Peggotty recalled her stray ringlets, dried her eyes, and made her neat
again, lest her uncle should wonder, when she got home, why his darling
had been crying.

I saw her do, that night, what I had never seen her do before. I saw her
innocently kiss her chosen husband on the cheek, and creep close to his
bluff form as if it were her best support. When they went away together,
in the waning moonlight, and I looked after them, comparing their
departure in my mind with Martha’s, I saw that she held his arm with
both her hands, and still kept close to him.



CHAPTER 23. I CORROBORATE Mr. DICK, AND CHOOSE A PROFESSION


When I awoke in the morning I thought very much of little Em’ly, and her
emotion last night, after Martha had left. I felt as if I had come into
the knowledge of those domestic weaknesses and tendernesses in a sacred
confidence, and that to disclose them, even to Steerforth, would be
wrong. I had no gentler feeling towards anyone than towards the
pretty creature who had been my playmate, and whom I have always been
persuaded, and shall always be persuaded, to my dying day, I then
devotedly loved. The repetition to any ears--even to Steerforth’s--of
what she had been unable to repress when her heart lay open to me by an
accident, I felt would be a rough deed, unworthy of myself, unworthy of
the light of our pure childhood, which I always saw encircling her head.
I made a resolution, therefore, to keep it in my own breast; and there
it gave her image a new grace.

While we were at breakfast, a letter was delivered to me from my aunt.
As it contained matter on which I thought Steerforth could advise me
as well as anyone, and on which I knew I should be delighted to consult
him, I resolved to make it a subject of discussion on our journey home.
For the present we had enough to do, in taking leave of all our friends.
Mr. Barkis was far from being the last among them, in his regret at
our departure; and I believe would even have opened the box again, and
sacrificed another guinea, if it would have kept us eight-and-forty
hours in Yarmouth. Peggotty and all her family were full of grief at our
going. The whole house of Omer and Joram turned out to bid us good-bye;
and there were so many seafaring volunteers in attendance on Steerforth,
when our portmanteaux went to the coach, that if we had had the baggage
of a regiment with us, we should hardly have wanted porters to carry it.
In a word, we departed to the regret and admiration of all concerned,
and left a great many people very sorry behind US.

‘Do you stay long here, Littimer?’ said I, as he stood waiting to see the
coach start.

‘No, sir,’ he replied; ‘probably not very long, sir.’

‘He can hardly say, just now,’ observed Steerforth, carelessly. ‘He
knows what he has to do, and he’ll do it.’

‘That I am sure he will,’ said I.

Littimer touched his hat in acknowledgement of my good opinion, and I
felt about eight years old. He touched it once more, wishing us a good
journey; and we left him standing on the pavement, as respectable a
mystery as any pyramid in Egypt.

For some little time we held no conversation, Steerforth being unusually
silent, and I being sufficiently engaged in wondering, within myself,
when I should see the old places again, and what new changes might
happen to me or them in the meanwhile. At length Steerforth, becoming
gay and talkative in a moment, as he could become anything he liked at
any moment, pulled me by the arm:

‘Find a voice, David. What about that letter you were speaking of at
breakfast?’

‘Oh!’ said I, taking it out of my pocket. ‘It’s from my aunt.’

‘And what does she say, requiring consideration?’

‘Why, she reminds me, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘that I came out on this
expedition to look about me, and to think a little.’

‘Which, of course, you have done?’

‘Indeed I can’t say I have, particularly. To tell you the truth, I am
afraid I have forgotten it.’

‘Well! look about you now, and make up for your negligence,’ said
Steerforth. ‘Look to the right, and you’ll see a flat country, with a
good deal of marsh in it; look to the left, and you’ll see the same.
Look to the front, and you’ll find no difference; look to the rear,
and there it is still.’ I laughed, and replied that I saw no suitable
profession in the whole prospect; which was perhaps to be attributed to
its flatness.

‘What says our aunt on the subject?’ inquired Steerforth, glancing at
the letter in my hand. ‘Does she suggest anything?’

‘Why, yes,’ said I. ‘She asks me, here, if I think I should like to be a
proctor? What do you think of it?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ replied Steerforth, coolly. ‘You may as well do
that as anything else, I suppose?’

I could not help laughing again, at his balancing all callings and
professions so equally; and I told him so.

‘What is a proctor, Steerforth?’ said I.

‘Why, he is a sort of monkish attorney,’ replied Steerforth. ‘He is, to
some faded courts held in Doctors’ Commons,--a lazy old nook near St.
Paul’s Churchyard--what solicitors are to the courts of law and equity.
He is a functionary whose existence, in the natural course of things,
would have terminated about two hundred years ago. I can tell you best
what he is, by telling you what Doctors’ Commons is. It’s a
little out-of-the-way place, where they administer what is called
ecclesiastical law, and play all kinds of tricks with obsolete old
monsters of acts of Parliament, which three-fourths of the world know
nothing about, and the other fourth supposes to have been dug up, in
a fossil state, in the days of the Edwards. It’s a place that has an
ancient monopoly in suits about people’s wills and people’s marriages,
and disputes among ships and boats.’

‘Nonsense, Steerforth!’ I exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean to say that there
is any affinity between nautical matters and ecclesiastical matters?’

‘I don’t, indeed, my dear boy,’ he returned; ‘but I mean to say that
they are managed and decided by the same set of people, down in that
same Doctors’ Commons. You shall go there one day, and find them
blundering through half the nautical terms in Young’s Dictionary,
apropos of the “Nancy” having run down the “Sarah Jane”, or Mr. Peggotty
and the Yarmouth boatmen having put off in a gale of wind with an anchor
and cable to the “Nelson” Indiaman in distress; and you shall go there
another day, and find them deep in the evidence, pro and con, respecting
a clergyman who has misbehaved himself; and you shall find the judge
in the nautical case, the advocate in the clergyman’s case, or
contrariwise. They are like actors: now a man’s a judge, and now he is
not a judge; now he’s one thing, now he’s another; now he’s something
else, change and change about; but it’s always a very pleasant,
profitable little affair of private theatricals, presented to an
uncommonly select audience.’

‘But advocates and proctors are not one and the same?’ said I, a little
puzzled. ‘Are they?’

‘No,’ returned Steerforth, ‘the advocates are civilians--men who have
taken a doctor’s degree at college--which is the first reason of my
knowing anything about it. The proctors employ the advocates. Both get
very comfortable fees, and altogether they make a mighty snug little
party. On the whole, I would recommend you to take to Doctors’ Commons
kindly, David. They plume themselves on their gentility there, I can
tell you, if that’s any satisfaction.’

I made allowance for Steerforth’s light way of treating the subject,
and, considering it with reference to the staid air of gravity and
antiquity which I associated with that ‘lazy old nook near St. Paul’s
Churchyard’, did not feel indisposed towards my aunt’s suggestion; which
she left to my free decision, making no scruple of telling me that it
had occurred to her, on her lately visiting her own proctor in Doctors’
Commons for the purpose of settling her will in my favour.

‘That’s a laudable proceeding on the part of our aunt, at all events,’
said Steerforth, when I mentioned it; ‘and one deserving of all
encouragement. Daisy, my advice is that you take kindly to Doctors’
Commons.’

I quite made up my mind to do so. I then told Steerforth that my aunt
was in town awaiting me (as I found from her letter), and that she had
taken lodgings for a week at a kind of private hotel at Lincoln’s Inn
Fields, where there was a stone staircase, and a convenient door in
the roof; my aunt being firmly persuaded that every house in London was
going to be burnt down every night.

We achieved the rest of our journey pleasantly, sometimes recurring to
Doctors’ Commons, and anticipating the distant days when I should be a
proctor there, which Steerforth pictured in a variety of humorous and
whimsical lights, that made us both merry. When we came to our journey’s
end, he went home, engaging to call upon me next day but one; and I
drove to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where I found my aunt up, and waiting
supper.

If I had been round the world since we parted, we could hardly have been
better pleased to meet again. My aunt cried outright as she embraced me;
and said, pretending to laugh, that if my poor mother had been alive,
that silly little creature would have shed tears, she had no doubt.

‘So you have left Mr. Dick behind, aunt?’ said I. ‘I am sorry for that.
Ah, Janet, how do you do?’

As Janet curtsied, hoping I was well, I observed my aunt’s visage
lengthen very much.

‘I am sorry for it, too,’ said my aunt, rubbing her nose. ‘I have had
no peace of mind, Trot, since I have been here.’ Before I could ask why,
she told me.

‘I am convinced,’ said my aunt, laying her hand with melancholy firmness
on the table, ‘that Dick’s character is not a character to keep the
donkeys off. I am confident he wants strength of purpose. I ought to
have left Janet at home, instead, and then my mind might perhaps have
been at ease. If ever there was a donkey trespassing on my green,’ said
my aunt, with emphasis, ‘there was one this afternoon at four o’clock.
A cold feeling came over me from head to foot, and I know it was a
donkey!’

I tried to comfort her on this point, but she rejected consolation.

‘It was a donkey,’ said my aunt; ‘and it was the one with the stumpy
tail which that Murdering sister of a woman rode, when she came to my
house.’ This had been, ever since, the only name my aunt knew for Miss
Murdstone. ‘If there is any Donkey in Dover, whose audacity it is harder
to me to bear than another’s, that,’ said my aunt, striking the table,
‘is the animal!’

Janet ventured to suggest that my aunt might be disturbing herself
unnecessarily, and that she believed the donkey in question was then
engaged in the sand-and-gravel line of business, and was not available
for purposes of trespass. But my aunt wouldn’t hear of it.

Supper was comfortably served and hot, though my aunt’s rooms were very
high up--whether that she might have more stone stairs for her money, or
might be nearer to the door in the roof, I don’t know--and consisted of
a roast fowl, a steak, and some vegetables, to all of which I did ample
justice, and which were all excellent. But my aunt had her own ideas
concerning London provision, and ate but little.

‘I suppose this unfortunate fowl was born and brought up in a cellar,’
said my aunt, ‘and never took the air except on a hackney coach-stand. I
hope the steak may be beef, but I don’t believe it. Nothing’s genuine in
the place, in my opinion, but the dirt.’

‘Don’t you think the fowl may have come out of the country, aunt?’ I
hinted.

‘Certainly not,’ returned my aunt. ‘It would be no pleasure to a London
tradesman to sell anything which was what he pretended it was.’

I did not venture to controvert this opinion, but I made a good supper,
which it greatly satisfied her to see me do. When the table was cleared,
Janet assisted her to arrange her hair, to put on her nightcap, which
was of a smarter construction than usual [‘in case of fire’, my aunt
said), and to fold her gown back over her knees, these being her usual
preparations for warming herself before going to bed. I then made her,
according to certain established regulations from which no deviation,
however slight, could ever be permitted, a glass of hot wine and
water, and a slice of toast cut into long thin strips. With these
accompaniments we were left alone to finish the evening, my aunt sitting
opposite to me drinking her wine and water; soaking her strips of toast
in it, one by one, before eating them; and looking benignantly on me,
from among the borders of her nightcap.

‘Well, Trot,’ she began, ‘what do you think of the proctor plan? Or have
you not begun to think about it yet?’

‘I have thought a good deal about it, my dear aunt, and I have talked a
good deal about it with Steerforth. I like it very much indeed. I like
it exceedingly.’

‘Come!’ said my aunt. ‘That’s cheering!’

‘I have only one difficulty, aunt.’

‘Say what it is, Trot,’ she returned.

‘Why, I want to ask, aunt, as this seems, from what I understand, to
be a limited profession, whether my entrance into it would not be very
expensive?’

‘It will cost,’ returned my aunt, ‘to article you, just a thousand
pounds.’

‘Now, my dear aunt,’ said I, drawing my chair nearer, ‘I am uneasy in
my mind about that. It’s a large sum of money. You have expended a
great deal on my education, and have always been as liberal to me in all
things as it was possible to be. You have been the soul of generosity.
Surely there are some ways in which I might begin life with hardly any
outlay, and yet begin with a good hope of getting on by resolution and
exertion. Are you sure that it would not be better to try that course?
Are you certain that you can afford to part with so much money, and that
it is right that it should be so expended? I only ask you, my second
mother, to consider. Are you certain?’

My aunt finished eating the piece of toast on which she was then
engaged, looking me full in the face all the while; and then setting
her glass on the chimney-piece, and folding her hands upon her folded
skirts, replied as follows:

‘Trot, my child, if I have any object in life, it is to provide for
your being a good, a sensible, and a happy man. I am bent upon it--so is
Dick. I should like some people that I know to hear Dick’s conversation
on the subject. Its sagacity is wonderful. But no one knows the
resources of that man’s intellect, except myself!’

She stopped for a moment to take my hand between hers, and went on:

‘It’s in vain, Trot, to recall the past, unless it works some influence
upon the present. Perhaps I might have been better friends with your
poor father. Perhaps I might have been better friends with that poor
child your mother, even after your sister Betsey Trotwood disappointed
me. When you came to me, a little runaway boy, all dusty and way-worn,
perhaps I thought so. From that time until now, Trot, you have ever been
a credit to me and a pride and a pleasure. I have no other claim upon
my means; at least’--here to my surprise she hesitated, and was
confused--‘no, I have no other claim upon my means--and you are my
adopted child. Only be a loving child to me in my age, and bear with my
whims and fancies; and you will do more for an old woman whose prime of
life was not so happy or conciliating as it might have been, than ever
that old woman did for you.’

It was the first time I had heard my aunt refer to her past history.
There was a magnanimity in her quiet way of doing so, and of dismissing
it, which would have exalted her in my respect and affection, if
anything could.

‘All is agreed and understood between us, now, Trot,’ said my aunt,
‘and we need talk of this no more. Give me a kiss, and we’ll go to the
Commons after breakfast tomorrow.’

We had a long chat by the fire before we went to bed. I slept in a room
on the same floor with my aunt’s, and was a little disturbed in the
course of the night by her knocking at my door as often as she was
agitated by a distant sound of hackney-coaches or market-carts, and
inquiring, ‘if I heard the engines?’ But towards morning she slept
better, and suffered me to do so too.

At about mid-day, we set out for the office of Messrs Spenlow and
Jorkins, in Doctors’ Commons. My aunt, who had this other general
opinion in reference to London, that every man she saw was a pickpocket,
gave me her purse to carry for her, which had ten guineas in it and some
silver.

We made a pause at the toy shop in Fleet Street, to see the giants of
Saint Dunstan’s strike upon the bells--we had timed our going, so as to
catch them at it, at twelve o’clock--and then went on towards Ludgate
Hill, and St. Paul’s Churchyard. We were crossing to the former place,
when I found that my aunt greatly accelerated her speed, and looked
frightened. I observed, at the same time, that a lowering ill-dressed
man who had stopped and stared at us in passing, a little before, was
coming so close after us as to brush against her.

‘Trot! My dear Trot!’ cried my aunt, in a terrified whisper, and
pressing my arm. ‘I don’t know what I am to do.’

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said I. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Step into
a shop, and I’ll soon get rid of this fellow.’

‘No, no, child!’ she returned. ‘Don’t speak to him for the world. I
entreat, I order you!’

‘Good Heaven, aunt!’ said I. ‘He is nothing but a sturdy beggar.’

‘You don’t know what he is!’ replied my aunt. ‘You don’t know who he is!
You don’t know what you say!’

We had stopped in an empty door-way, while this was passing, and he had
stopped too.

‘Don’t look at him!’ said my aunt, as I turned my head indignantly, ‘but
get me a coach, my dear, and wait for me in St. Paul’s Churchyard.’

‘Wait for you?’ I replied.

‘Yes,’ rejoined my aunt. ‘I must go alone. I must go with him.’

‘With him, aunt? This man?’

‘I am in my senses,’ she replied, ‘and I tell you I must. Get me a
coach!’

However much astonished I might be, I was sensible that I had no right
to refuse compliance with such a peremptory command. I hurried away a
few paces, and called a hackney-chariot which was passing empty. Almost
before I could let down the steps, my aunt sprang in, I don’t know how,
and the man followed. She waved her hand to me to go away, so earnestly,
that, all confounded as I was, I turned from them at once. In doing so,
I heard her say to the coachman, ‘Drive anywhere! Drive straight on!’
and presently the chariot passed me, going up the hill.

What Mr. Dick had told me, and what I had supposed to be a delusion of
his, now came into my mind. I could not doubt that this person was the
person of whom he had made such mysterious mention, though what the
nature of his hold upon my aunt could possibly be, I was quite unable
to imagine. After half an hour’s cooling in the churchyard, I saw the
chariot coming back. The driver stopped beside me, and my aunt was
sitting in it alone.

She had not yet sufficiently recovered from her agitation to be quite
prepared for the visit we had to make. She desired me to get into the
chariot, and to tell the coachman to drive slowly up and down a little
while. She said no more, except, ‘My dear child, never ask me what
it was, and don’t refer to it,’ until she had perfectly regained her
composure, when she told me she was quite herself now, and we might get
out. On her giving me her purse to pay the driver, I found that all the
guineas were gone, and only the loose silver remained.

Doctors’ Commons was approached by a little low archway. Before we had
taken many paces down the street beyond it, the noise of the city seemed
to melt, as if by magic, into a softened distance. A few dull courts
and narrow ways brought us to the sky-lighted offices of Spenlow and
Jorkins; in the vestibule of which temple, accessible to pilgrims
without the ceremony of knocking, three or four clerks were at work as
copyists. One of these, a little dry man, sitting by himself, who wore
a stiff brown wig that looked as if it were made of gingerbread, rose to
receive my aunt, and show us into Mr. Spenlow’s room.

‘Mr. Spenlow’s in Court, ma’am,’ said the dry man; ‘it’s an Arches day;
but it’s close by, and I’ll send for him directly.’

As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was fetched, I
availed myself of the opportunity. The furniture of the room was
old-fashioned and dusty; and the green baize on the top of the
writing-table had lost all its colour, and was as withered and pale as
an old pauper. There were a great many bundles of papers on it, some
endorsed as Allegations, and some (to my surprise) as Libels, and some
as being in the Consistory Court, and some in the Arches Court, and some
in the Prerogative Court, and some in the Admiralty Court, and some in
the Delegates’ Court; giving me occasion to wonder much, how many Courts
there might be in the gross, and how long it would take to understand
them all. Besides these, there were sundry immense manuscript Books
of Evidence taken on affidavit, strongly bound, and tied together in
massive sets, a set to each cause, as if every cause were a history in
ten or twenty volumes. All this looked tolerably expensive, I thought,
and gave me an agreeable notion of a proctor’s business. I was casting
my eyes with increasing complacency over these and many similar objects,
when hasty footsteps were heard in the room outside, and Mr. Spenlow,
in a black gown trimmed with white fur, came hurrying in, taking off his
hat as he came.

He was a little light-haired gentleman, with undeniable boots, and the
stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He was buttoned up, mighty
trim and tight, and must have taken a great deal of pains with his
whiskers, which were accurately curled. His gold watch-chain was so
massive, that a fancy came across me, that he ought to have a sinewy
golden arm, to draw it out with, like those which are put up over the
goldbeaters’ shops. He was got up with such care, and was so stiff, that
he could hardly bend himself; being obliged, when he glanced at some
papers on his desk, after sitting down in his chair, to move his whole
body, from the bottom of his spine, like Punch.

I had previously been presented by my aunt, and had been courteously
received. He now said:

‘And so, Mr. Copperfield, you think of entering into our profession?
I casually mentioned to Miss Trotwood, when I had the pleasure of an
interview with her the other day,’--with another inclination of his
body--Punch again--‘that there was a vacancy here. Miss Trotwood was
good enough to mention that she had a nephew who was her peculiar care,
and for whom she was seeking to provide genteelly in life. That
nephew, I believe, I have now the pleasure of’--Punch again. I bowed my
acknowledgements, and said, my aunt had mentioned to me that there was
that opening, and that I believed I should like it very much. That I was
strongly inclined to like it, and had taken immediately to the proposal.
That I could not absolutely pledge myself to like it, until I knew
something more about it. That although it was little else than a matter
of form, I presumed I should have an opportunity of trying how I liked
it, before I bound myself to it irrevocably.

‘Oh surely! surely!’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘We always, in this house,
propose a month--an initiatory month. I should be happy, myself, to
propose two months--three--an indefinite period, in fact--but I have a
partner. Mr. Jorkins.’

‘And the premium, sir,’ I returned, ‘is a thousand pounds?’

‘And the premium, Stamp included, is a thousand pounds,’ said Mr.
Spenlow. ‘As I have mentioned to Miss Trotwood, I am actuated by no
mercenary considerations; few men are less so, I believe; but Mr.
Jorkins has his opinions on these subjects, and I am bound to respect
Mr. Jorkins’s opinions. Mr. Jorkins thinks a thousand pounds too little,
in short.’

‘I suppose, sir,’ said I, still desiring to spare my aunt, ‘that it is
not the custom here, if an articled clerk were particularly useful,
and made himself a perfect master of his profession’--I could not help
blushing, this looked so like praising myself--‘I suppose it is not the
custom, in the later years of his time, to allow him any--’

Mr. Spenlow, by a great effort, just lifted his head far enough out of
his cravat to shake it, and answered, anticipating the word ‘salary’:

‘No. I will not say what consideration I might give to that point
myself, Mr. Copperfield, if I were unfettered. Mr. Jorkins is
immovable.’

I was quite dismayed by the idea of this terrible Jorkins. But I found
out afterwards that he was a mild man of a heavy temperament, whose
place in the business was to keep himself in the background, and be
constantly exhibited by name as the most obdurate and ruthless of men.
If a clerk wanted his salary raised, Mr. Jorkins wouldn’t listen to such
a proposition. If a client were slow to settle his bill of costs, Mr.
Jorkins was resolved to have it paid; and however painful these things
might be (and always were) to the feelings of Mr. Spenlow, Mr. Jorkins
would have his bond. The heart and hand of the good angel Spenlow would
have been always open, but for the restraining demon Jorkins. As I have
grown older, I think I have had experience of some other houses doing
business on the principle of Spenlow and Jorkins!

It was settled that I should begin my month’s probation as soon as I
pleased, and that my aunt need neither remain in town nor return at
its expiration, as the articles of agreement, of which I was to be the
subject, could easily be sent to her at home for her signature. When
we had got so far, Mr. Spenlow offered to take me into Court then and
there, and show me what sort of place it was. As I was willing enough
to know, we went out with this object, leaving my aunt behind; who would
trust herself, she said, in no such place, and who, I think, regarded
all Courts of Law as a sort of powder-mills that might blow up at any
time.

Mr. Spenlow conducted me through a paved courtyard formed of grave brick
houses, which I inferred, from the Doctors’ names upon the doors, to be
the official abiding-places of the learned advocates of whom Steerforth
had told me; and into a large dull room, not unlike a chapel to my
thinking, on the left hand. The upper part of this room was fenced off
from the rest; and there, on the two sides of a raised platform of the
horse-shoe form, sitting on easy old-fashioned dining-room chairs, were
sundry gentlemen in red gowns and grey wigs, whom I found to be the
Doctors aforesaid. Blinking over a little desk like a pulpit-desk, in
the curve of the horse-shoe, was an old gentleman, whom, if I had seen
him in an aviary, I should certainly have taken for an owl, but who, I
learned, was the presiding judge. In the space within the horse-shoe,
lower than these, that is to say, on about the level of the floor, were
sundry other gentlemen, of Mr. Spenlow’s rank, and dressed like him in
black gowns with white fur upon them, sitting at a long green table.
Their cravats were in general stiff, I thought, and their looks haughty;
but in this last respect I presently conceived I had done them an
injustice, for when two or three of them had to rise and answer a
question of the presiding dignitary, I never saw anything more sheepish.
The public, represented by a boy with a comforter, and a shabby-genteel
man secretly eating crumbs out of his coat pockets, was warming itself
at a stove in the centre of the Court. The languid stillness of the
place was only broken by the chirping of this fire and by the voice of
one of the Doctors, who was wandering slowly through a perfect library
of evidence, and stopping to put up, from time to time, at little
roadside inns of argument on the journey. Altogether, I have never,
on any occasion, made one at such a cosey, dosey, old-fashioned,
time-forgotten, sleepy-headed little family-party in all my life; and
I felt it would be quite a soothing opiate to belong to it in any
character--except perhaps as a suitor.

Very well satisfied with the dreamy nature of this retreat, I informed
Mr. Spenlow that I had seen enough for that time, and we rejoined
my aunt; in company with whom I presently departed from the Commons,
feeling very young when I went out of Spenlow and Jorkins’s, on account
of the clerks poking one another with their pens to point me out.

We arrived at Lincoln’s Inn Fields without any new adventures, except
encountering an unlucky donkey in a costermonger’s cart, who suggested
painful associations to my aunt. We had another long talk about my
plans, when we were safely housed; and as I knew she was anxious to
get home, and, between fire, food, and pickpockets, could never be
considered at her ease for half-an-hour in London, I urged her not to be
uncomfortable on my account, but to leave me to take care of myself.

‘I have not been here a week tomorrow, without considering that too, my
dear,’ she returned. ‘There is a furnished little set of chambers to be
let in the Adelphi, Trot, which ought to suit you to a marvel.’

With this brief introduction, she produced from her pocket an
advertisement, carefully cut out of a newspaper, setting forth that in
Buckingham Street in the Adelphi there was to be let furnished, with a
view of the river, a singularly desirable, and compact set of chambers,
forming a genteel residence for a young gentleman, a member of one
of the Inns of Court, or otherwise, with immediate possession. Terms
moderate, and could be taken for a month only, if required.

‘Why, this is the very thing, aunt!’ said I, flushed with the possible
dignity of living in chambers.

‘Then come,’ replied my aunt, immediately resuming the bonnet she had a
minute before laid aside. ‘We’ll go and look at ‘em.’

Away we went. The advertisement directed us to apply to Mrs. Crupp
on the premises, and we rung the area bell, which we supposed to
communicate with Mrs. Crupp. It was not until we had rung three or four
times that we could prevail on Mrs. Crupp to communicate with us, but
at last she appeared, being a stout lady with a flounce of flannel
petticoat below a nankeen gown.

‘Let us see these chambers of yours, if you please, ma’am,’ said my
aunt.

‘For this gentleman?’ said Mrs. Crupp, feeling in her pocket for her
keys.

‘Yes, for my nephew,’ said my aunt.

‘And a sweet set they is for sich!’ said Mrs. Crupp.

So we went upstairs.

They were on the top of the house--a great point with my aunt, being
near the fire-escape--and consisted of a little half-blind entry where
you could see hardly anything, a little stone-blind pantry where you
could see nothing at all, a sitting-room, and a bedroom. The furniture
was rather faded, but quite good enough for me; and, sure enough, the
river was outside the windows.

As I was delighted with the place, my aunt and Mrs. Crupp withdrew into
the pantry to discuss the terms, while I remained on the sitting-room
sofa, hardly daring to think it possible that I could be destined to
live in such a noble residence. After a single combat of some duration
they returned, and I saw, to my joy, both in Mrs. Crupp’s countenance
and in my aunt’s, that the deed was done.

‘Is it the last occupant’s furniture?’ inquired my aunt.

‘Yes, it is, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Crupp.

‘What’s become of him?’ asked my aunt.

Mrs. Crupp was taken with a troublesome cough, in the midst of which
she articulated with much difficulty. ‘He was took ill here, ma’am,
and--ugh! ugh! ugh! dear me!--and he died!’

‘Hey! What did he die of?’ asked my aunt.

‘Well, ma’am, he died of drink,’ said Mrs. Crupp, in confidence. ‘And
smoke.’

‘Smoke? You don’t mean chimneys?’ said my aunt.

‘No, ma’am,’ returned Mrs. Crupp. ‘Cigars and pipes.’

‘That’s not catching, Trot, at any rate,’ remarked my aunt, turning to
me.

‘No, indeed,’ said I.

In short, my aunt, seeing how enraptured I was with the premises, took
them for a month, with leave to remain for twelve months when that
time was out. Mrs. Crupp was to find linen, and to cook; every other
necessary was already provided; and Mrs. Crupp expressly intimated that
she should always yearn towards me as a son. I was to take possession
the day after tomorrow, and Mrs. Crupp said, thank Heaven she had now
found summun she could care for!

On our way back, my aunt informed me how she confidently trusted that
the life I was now to lead would make me firm and self-reliant, which
was all I wanted. She repeated this several times next day, in the
intervals of our arranging for the transmission of my clothes and books
from Mr. Wickfield’s; relative to which, and to all my late holiday, I
wrote a long letter to Agnes, of which my aunt took charge, as she was
to leave on the succeeding day. Not to lengthen these particulars, I
need only add, that she made a handsome provision for all my
possible wants during my month of trial; that Steerforth, to my great
disappointment and hers too, did not make his appearance before she went
away; that I saw her safely seated in the Dover coach, exulting in the
coming discomfiture of the vagrant donkeys, with Janet at her side; and
that when the coach was gone, I turned my face to the Adelphi, pondering
on the old days when I used to roam about its subterranean arches, and
on the happy changes which had brought me to the surface.



CHAPTER 24. MY FIRST DISSIPATION


It was a wonderfully fine thing to have that lofty castle to myself, and
to feel, when I shut my outer door, like Robinson Crusoe, when he had
got into his fortification, and pulled his ladder up after him. It was a
wonderfully fine thing to walk about town with the key of my house in my
pocket, and to know that I could ask any fellow to come home, and make
quite sure of its being inconvenient to nobody, if it were not so to me.
It was a wonderfully fine thing to let myself in and out, and to come
and go without a word to anyone, and to ring Mrs. Crupp up, gasping,
from the depths of the earth, when I wanted her--and when she was
disposed to come. All this, I say, was wonderfully fine; but I must say,
too, that there were times when it was very dreary.

It was fine in the morning, particularly in the fine mornings. It looked
a very fresh, free life, by daylight: still fresher, and more free, by
sunlight. But as the day declined, the life seemed to go down too. I
don’t know how it was; it seldom looked well by candle-light. I wanted
somebody to talk to, then. I missed Agnes. I found a tremendous blank,
in the place of that smiling repository of my confidence. Mrs. Crupp
appeared to be a long way off. I thought about my predecessor, who had
died of drink and smoke; and I could have wished he had been so good as
to live, and not bother me with his decease.

After two days and nights, I felt as if I had lived there for a year,
and yet I was not an hour older, but was quite as much tormented by my
own youthfulness as ever.

Steerforth not yet appearing, which induced me to apprehend that he must
be ill, I left the Commons early on the third day, and walked out to
Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth was very glad to see me, and said that he had
gone away with one of his Oxford friends to see another who lived near
St. Albans, but that she expected him to return tomorrow. I was so fond
of him, that I felt quite jealous of his Oxford friends.

As she pressed me to stay to dinner, I remained, and I believe we talked
about nothing but him all day. I told her how much the people liked him
at Yarmouth, and what a delightful companion he had been. Miss Dartle
was full of hints and mysterious questions, but took a great interest
in all our proceedings there, and said, ‘Was it really though?’ and so
forth, so often, that she got everything out of me she wanted to know.
Her appearance was exactly what I have described it, when I first saw
her; but the society of the two ladies was so agreeable, and came so
natural to me, that I felt myself falling a little in love with her. I
could not help thinking, several times in the course of the evening, and
particularly when I walked home at night, what delightful company she
would be in Buckingham Street.

I was taking my coffee and roll in the morning, before going to the
Commons--and I may observe in this place that it is surprising how
much coffee Mrs. Crupp used, and how weak it was, considering--when
Steerforth himself walked in, to my unbounded joy.

‘My dear Steerforth,’ cried I, ‘I began to think I should never see you
again!’

‘I was carried off, by force of arms,’ said Steerforth, ‘the very next
morning after I got home. Why, Daisy, what a rare old bachelor you are
here!’

I showed him over the establishment, not omitting the pantry, with no
little pride, and he commended it highly. ‘I tell you what, old boy,’ he
added, ‘I shall make quite a town-house of this place, unless you give
me notice to quit.’

This was a delightful hearing. I told him if he waited for that, he
would have to wait till doomsday.

‘But you shall have some breakfast!’ said I, with my hand on the
bell-rope, ‘and Mrs. Crupp shall make you some fresh coffee, and I’ll
toast you some bacon in a bachelor’s Dutch-oven, that I have got here.’

‘No, no!’ said Steerforth. ‘Don’t ring! I can’t! I am going to breakfast
with one of these fellows who is at the Piazza Hotel, in Covent Garden.’

‘But you’ll come back to dinner?’ said I.

‘I can’t, upon my life. There’s nothing I should like better, but I must
remain with these two fellows. We are all three off together tomorrow
morning.’

‘Then bring them here to dinner,’ I returned. ‘Do you think they would
come?’

‘Oh! they would come fast enough,’ said Steerforth; ‘but we should
inconvenience you. You had better come and dine with us somewhere.’

I would not by any means consent to this, for it occurred to me that I
really ought to have a little house-warming, and that there never
could be a better opportunity. I had a new pride in my rooms after
his approval of them, and burned with a desire to develop their utmost
resources. I therefore made him promise positively in the names of his
two friends, and we appointed six o’clock as the dinner-hour.

When he was gone, I rang for Mrs. Crupp, and acquainted her with my
desperate design. Mrs. Crupp said, in the first place, of course it was
well known she couldn’t be expected to wait, but she knew a handy young
man, who she thought could be prevailed upon to do it, and whose terms
would be five shillings, and what I pleased. I said, certainly we would
have him. Next Mrs. Crupp said it was clear she couldn’t be in two
places at once (which I felt to be reasonable), and that ‘a young gal’
stationed in the pantry with a bedroom candle, there never to desist
from washing plates, would be indispensable. I said, what would be
the expense of this young female? and Mrs. Crupp said she supposed
eighteenpence would neither make me nor break me. I said I supposed not;
and THAT was settled. Then Mrs. Crupp said, Now about the dinner.

It was a remarkable instance of want of forethought on the part of the
ironmonger who had made Mrs. Crupp’s kitchen fireplace, that it was
capable of cooking nothing but chops and mashed potatoes. As to a
fish-kittle, Mrs. Crupp said, well! would I only come and look at the
range? She couldn’t say fairer than that. Would I come and look at
it? As I should not have been much the wiser if I HAD looked at it, I
declined, and said, ‘Never mind fish.’ But Mrs. Crupp said, Don’t say
that; oysters was in, why not them? So THAT was settled. Mrs. Crupp
then said what she would recommend would be this. A pair of hot
roast fowls--from the pastry-cook’s; a dish of stewed beef, with
vegetables--from the pastry-cook’s; two little corner things, as a
raised pie and a dish of kidneys--from the pastrycook’s; a tart, and (if
I liked) a shape of jelly--from the pastrycook’s. This, Mrs. Crupp said,
would leave her at full liberty to concentrate her mind on the potatoes,
and to serve up the cheese and celery as she could wish to see it done.

I acted on Mrs. Crupp’s opinion, and gave the order at the pastry-cook’s
myself. Walking along the Strand, afterwards, and observing a hard
mottled substance in the window of a ham and beef shop, which resembled
marble, but was labelled ‘Mock Turtle’, I went in and bought a slab of
it, which I have since seen reason to believe would have sufficed for
fifteen people. This preparation, Mrs. Crupp, after some difficulty,
consented to warm up; and it shrunk so much in a liquid state, that we
found it what Steerforth called ‘rather a tight fit’ for four.

These preparations happily completed, I bought a little dessert in
Covent Garden Market, and gave a rather extensive order at a retail
wine-merchant’s in that vicinity. When I came home in the afternoon, and
saw the bottles drawn up in a square on the pantry floor, they looked
so numerous (though there were two missing, which made Mrs. Crupp very
uncomfortable), that I was absolutely frightened at them.

One of Steerforth’s friends was named Grainger, and the other Markham.
They were both very gay and lively fellows; Grainger, something older
than Steerforth; Markham, youthful-looking, and I should say not
more than twenty. I observed that the latter always spoke of himself
indefinitely, as ‘a man’, and seldom or never in the first person
singular.

‘A man might get on very well here, Mr. Copperfield,’ said
Markham--meaning himself.

‘It’s not a bad situation,’ said I, ‘and the rooms are really
commodious.’

‘I hope you have both brought appetites with you?’ said Steerforth.

‘Upon my honour,’ returned Markham, ‘town seems to sharpen a man’s
appetite. A man is hungry all day long. A man is perpetually eating.’

Being a little embarrassed at first, and feeling much too young to
preside, I made Steerforth take the head of the table when dinner was
announced, and seated myself opposite to him. Everything was very good;
we did not spare the wine; and he exerted himself so brilliantly to make
the thing pass off well, that there was no pause in our festivity. I was
not quite such good company during dinner as I could have wished to be,
for my chair was opposite the door, and my attention was distracted by
observing that the handy young man went out of the room very often, and
that his shadow always presented itself, immediately afterwards, on the
wall of the entry, with a bottle at its mouth. The ‘young gal’ likewise
occasioned me some uneasiness: not so much by neglecting to wash the
plates, as by breaking them. For being of an inquisitive disposition,
and unable to confine herself (as her positive instructions were) to the
pantry, she was constantly peering in at us, and constantly imagining
herself detected; in which belief, she several times retired upon the
plates (with which she had carefully paved the floor), and did a great
deal of destruction.

These, however, were small drawbacks, and easily forgotten when the
cloth was cleared, and the dessert put on the table; at which period of
the entertainment the handy young man was discovered to be speechless.
Giving him private directions to seek the society of Mrs. Crupp, and
to remove the ‘young gal’ to the basement also, I abandoned myself to
enjoyment.

I began, by being singularly cheerful and light-hearted; all sorts of
half-forgotten things to talk about, came rushing into my mind, and made
me hold forth in a most unwonted manner. I laughed heartily at my own
jokes, and everybody else’s; called Steerforth to order for not passing
the wine; made several engagements to go to Oxford; announced that
I meant to have a dinner-party exactly like that, once a week, until
further notice; and madly took so much snuff out of Grainger’s box, that
I was obliged to go into the pantry, and have a private fit of sneezing
ten minutes long.

I went on, by passing the wine faster and faster yet, and continually
starting up with a corkscrew to open more wine, long before any was
needed. I proposed Steerforth’s health. I said he was my dearest friend,
the protector of my boyhood, and the companion of my prime. I said I was
delighted to propose his health. I said I owed him more obligations than
I could ever repay, and held him in a higher admiration than I could
ever express. I finished by saying, ‘I’ll give you Steerforth! God bless
him! Hurrah!’ We gave him three times three, and another, and a good one
to finish with. I broke my glass in going round the table to shake
hands with him, and I said (in two words)

‘Steerforth--you’retheguidingstarofmyexistence.’

I went on, by finding suddenly that somebody was in the middle of a
song. Markham was the singer, and he sang ‘When the heart of a man is
depressed with care’. He said, when he had sung it, he would give us
‘Woman!’ I took objection to that, and I couldn’t allow it. I said
it was not a respectful way of proposing the toast, and I would never
permit that toast to be drunk in my house otherwise than as ‘The
Ladies!’ I was very high with him, mainly I think because I saw
Steerforth and Grainger laughing at me--or at him--or at both of us. He
said a man was not to be dictated to. I said a man was. He said a man
was not to be insulted, then. I said he was right there--never under
my roof, where the Lares were sacred, and the laws of hospitality
paramount. He said it was no derogation from a man’s dignity to confess
that I was a devilish good fellow. I instantly proposed his health.

Somebody was smoking. We were all smoking. I was smoking, and trying
to suppress a rising tendency to shudder. Steerforth had made a speech
about me, in the course of which I had been affected almost to tears.
I returned thanks, and hoped the present company would dine with me
tomorrow, and the day after--each day at five o’clock, that we might
enjoy the pleasures of conversation and society through a long evening.
I felt called upon to propose an individual. I would give them my aunt.
Miss Betsey Trotwood, the best of her sex!

Somebody was leaning out of my bedroom window, refreshing his forehead
against the cool stone of the parapet, and feeling the air upon his
face. It was myself. I was addressing myself as ‘Copperfield’, and
saying, ‘Why did you try to smoke? You might have known you couldn’t
do it.’ Now, somebody was unsteadily contemplating his features in the
looking-glass. That was I too. I was very pale in the looking-glass;
my eyes had a vacant appearance; and my hair--only my hair, nothing
else--looked drunk.

Somebody said to me, ‘Let us go to the theatre, Copperfield!’ There was
no bedroom before me, but again the jingling table covered with glasses;
the lamp; Grainger on my right hand, Markham on my left, and Steerforth
opposite--all sitting in a mist, and a long way off. The theatre? To
be sure. The very thing. Come along! But they must excuse me if I saw
everybody out first, and turned the lamp off--in case of fire.

Owing to some confusion in the dark, the door was gone. I was feeling
for it in the window-curtains, when Steerforth, laughing, took me by
the arm and led me out. We went downstairs, one behind another. Near
the bottom, somebody fell, and rolled down. Somebody else said it was
Copperfield. I was angry at that false report, until, finding myself on
my back in the passage, I began to think there might be some foundation
for it.

A very foggy night, with great rings round the lamps in the streets!
There was an indistinct talk of its being wet. I considered it frosty.
Steerforth dusted me under a lamp-post, and put my hat into shape, which
somebody produced from somewhere in a most extraordinary manner, for
I hadn’t had it on before. Steerforth then said, ‘You are all right,
Copperfield, are you not?’ and I told him, ‘Neverberrer.’

A man, sitting in a pigeon-hole-place, looked out of the fog, and took
money from somebody, inquiring if I was one of the gentlemen paid for,
and appearing rather doubtful (as I remember in the glimpse I had of
him) whether to take the money for me or not. Shortly afterwards, we
were very high up in a very hot theatre, looking down into a large pit,
that seemed to me to smoke; the people with whom it was crammed were so
indistinct. There was a great stage, too, looking very clean and
smooth after the streets; and there were people upon it, talking about
something or other, but not at all intelligibly. There was an abundance
of bright lights, and there was music, and there were ladies down in the
boxes, and I don’t know what more. The whole building looked to me as if
it were learning to swim; it conducted itself in such an unaccountable
manner, when I tried to steady it.

On somebody’s motion, we resolved to go downstairs to the dress-boxes,
where the ladies were. A gentleman lounging, full dressed, on a sofa,
with an opera-glass in his hand, passed before my view, and also my own
figure at full length in a glass. Then I was being ushered into one of
these boxes, and found myself saying something as I sat down, and people
about me crying ‘Silence!’ to somebody, and ladies casting indignant
glances at me, and--what! yes!--Agnes, sitting on the seat before me, in
the same box, with a lady and gentleman beside her, whom I didn’t
know. I see her face now, better than I did then, I dare say, with its
indelible look of regret and wonder turned upon me.

‘Agnes!’ I said, thickly, ‘Lorblessmer! Agnes!’

‘Hush! Pray!’ she answered, I could not conceive why. ‘You disturb the
company. Look at the stage!’

I tried, on her injunction, to fix it, and to hear something of what was
going on there, but quite in vain. I looked at her again by and by, and
saw her shrink into her corner, and put her gloved hand to her forehead.

‘Agnes!’ I said. ‘I’mafraidyou’renorwell.’

‘Yes, yes. Do not mind me, Trotwood,’ she returned. ‘Listen! Are you
going away soon?’

‘Amigoarawaysoo?’ I repeated.

‘Yes.’

I had a stupid intention of replying that I was going to wait, to hand
her downstairs. I suppose I expressed it, somehow; for after she had
looked at me attentively for a little while, she appeared to understand,
and replied in a low tone:

‘I know you will do as I ask you, if I tell you I am very earnest in
it. Go away now, Trotwood, for my sake, and ask your friends to take you
home.’

She had so far improved me, for the time, that though I was angry with
her, I felt ashamed, and with a short ‘Goori!’ (which I intended for
‘Good night!’) got up and went away. They followed, and I stepped at
once out of the box-door into my bedroom, where only Steerforth was with
me, helping me to undress, and where I was by turns telling him that
Agnes was my sister, and adjuring him to bring the corkscrew, that I
might open another bottle of wine.

How somebody, lying in my bed, lay saying and doing all this over again,
at cross purposes, in a feverish dream all night--the bed a rocking sea
that was never still! How, as that somebody slowly settled down into
myself, did I begin to parch, and feel as if my outer covering of skin
were a hard board; my tongue the bottom of an empty kettle, furred with
long service, and burning up over a slow fire; the palms of my hands,
hot plates of metal which no ice could cool!

But the agony of mind, the remorse, and shame I felt when I became
conscious next day! My horror of having committed a thousand offences I
had forgotten, and which nothing could ever expiate--my recollection
of that indelible look which Agnes had given me--the torturing
impossibility of communicating with her, not knowing, Beast that I was,
how she came to be in London, or where she stayed--my disgust of
the very sight of the room where the revel had been held--my racking
head--the smell of smoke, the sight of glasses, the impossibility of
going out, or even getting up! Oh, what a day it was!

Oh, what an evening, when I sat down by my fire to a basin of mutton
broth, dimpled all over with fat, and thought I was going the way of my
predecessor, and should succeed to his dismal story as well as to his
chambers, and had half a mind to rush express to Dover and reveal
all! What an evening, when Mrs. Crupp, coming in to take away the
broth-basin, produced one kidney on a cheese-plate as the entire remains
of yesterday’s feast, and I was really inclined to fall upon her nankeen
breast and say, in heartfelt penitence, ‘Oh, Mrs. Crupp, Mrs. Crupp,
never mind the broken meats! I am very miserable!’--only that I doubted,
even at that pass, if Mrs. Crupp were quite the sort of woman to confide
in!


CHAPTER 25. GOOD AND BAD ANGELS


I was going out at my door on the morning after that deplorable day of
headache, sickness, and repentance, with an odd confusion in my mind
relative to the date of my dinner-party, as if a body of Titans had
taken an enormous lever and pushed the day before yesterday some months
back, when I saw a ticket-porter coming upstairs, with a letter in his
hand. He was taking his time about his errand, then; but when he saw me
on the top of the staircase, looking at him over the banisters, he swung
into a trot, and came up panting as if he had run himself into a state
of exhaustion.

‘T. Copperfield, Esquire,’ said the ticket-porter, touching his hat with
his little cane.

I could scarcely lay claim to the name: I was so disturbed by the
conviction that the letter came from Agnes. However, I told him I was T.
Copperfield, Esquire, and he believed it, and gave me the letter, which
he said required an answer. I shut him out on the landing to wait for
the answer, and went into my chambers again, in such a nervous state
that I was fain to lay the letter down on my breakfast table, and
familiarize myself with the outside of it a little, before I could
resolve to break the seal.

I found, when I did open it, that it was a very kind note, containing
no reference to my condition at the theatre. All it said was, ‘My dear
Trotwood. I am staying at the house of papa’s agent, Mr. Waterbrook, in
Ely Place, Holborn. Will you come and see me today, at any time you like
to appoint? Ever yours affectionately, AGNES.’

It took me such a long time to write an answer at all to my
satisfaction, that I don’t know what the ticket-porter can have
thought, unless he thought I was learning to write. I must have written
half-a-dozen answers at least. I began one, ‘How can I ever hope,
my dear Agnes, to efface from your remembrance the disgusting
impression’--there I didn’t like it, and then I tore it up. I began
another, ‘Shakespeare has observed, my dear Agnes, how strange it is
that a man should put an enemy into his mouth’--that reminded me of
Markham, and it got no farther. I even tried poetry. I began one note,
in a six-syllable line, ‘Oh, do not remember’--but that associated
itself with the fifth of November, and became an absurdity. After many
attempts, I wrote, ‘My dear Agnes. Your letter is like you, and what
could I say of it that would be higher praise than that? I will come at
four o’clock. Affectionately and sorrowfully, T.C.’ With this missive
(which I was in twenty minds at once about recalling, as soon as it was
out of my hands), the ticket-porter at last departed.

If the day were half as tremendous to any other professional gentleman
in Doctors’ Commons as it was to me, I sincerely believe he made some
expiation for his share in that rotten old ecclesiastical cheese.
Although I left the office at half past three, and was prowling about
the place of appointment within a few minutes afterwards, the appointed
time was exceeded by a full quarter of an hour, according to the
clock of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, before I could muster up sufficient
desperation to pull the private bell-handle let into the left-hand
door-post of Mr. Waterbrook’s house.

The professional business of Mr. Waterbrook’s establishment was done on
the ground-floor, and the genteel business (of which there was a good
deal) in the upper part of the building. I was shown into a pretty but
rather close drawing-room, and there sat Agnes, netting a purse.

She looked so quiet and good, and reminded me so strongly of my airy
fresh school days at Canterbury, and the sodden, smoky, stupid wretch
I had been the other night, that, nobody being by, I yielded to my
self-reproach and shame, and--in short, made a fool of myself. I cannot
deny that I shed tears. To this hour I am undecided whether it was upon
the whole the wisest thing I could have done, or the most ridiculous.

‘If it had been anyone but you, Agnes,’ said I, turning away my head, ‘I
should not have minded it half so much. But that it should have been you
who saw me! I almost wish I had been dead, first.’

She put her hand--its touch was like no other hand--upon my arm for a
moment; and I felt so befriended and comforted, that I could not help
moving it to my lips, and gratefully kissing it.

‘Sit down,’ said Agnes, cheerfully. ‘Don’t be unhappy, Trotwood. If you
cannot confidently trust me, whom will you trust?’

‘Ah, Agnes!’ I returned. ‘You are my good Angel!’

She smiled rather sadly, I thought, and shook her head.

‘Yes, Agnes, my good Angel! Always my good Angel!’

‘If I were, indeed, Trotwood,’ she returned, ‘there is one thing that I
should set my heart on very much.’

I looked at her inquiringly; but already with a foreknowledge of her
meaning.

‘On warning you,’ said Agnes, with a steady glance, ‘against your bad
Angel.’

‘My dear Agnes,’ I began, ‘if you mean Steerforth--’

‘I do, Trotwood,’ she returned. ‘Then, Agnes, you wrong him very much.
He my bad Angel, or anyone’s! He, anything but a guide, a support, and
a friend to me! My dear Agnes! Now, is it not unjust, and unlike you, to
judge him from what you saw of me the other night?’

‘I do not judge him from what I saw of you the other night,’ she quietly
replied.

‘From what, then?’

‘From many things--trifles in themselves, but they do not seem to me to
be so, when they are put together. I judge him, partly from your account
of him, Trotwood, and your character, and the influence he has over
you.’

There was always something in her modest voice that seemed to touch a
chord within me, answering to that sound alone. It was always earnest;
but when it was very earnest, as it was now, there was a thrill in it
that quite subdued me. I sat looking at her as she cast her eyes down on
her work; I sat seeming still to listen to her; and Steerforth, in spite
of all my attachment to him, darkened in that tone.

‘It is very bold in me,’ said Agnes, looking up again, ‘who have lived
in such seclusion, and can know so little of the world, to give you my
advice so confidently, or even to have this strong opinion. But I know
in what it is engendered, Trotwood,--in how true a remembrance of our
having grown up together, and in how true an interest in all relating
to you. It is that which makes me bold. I am certain that what I say is
right. I am quite sure it is. I feel as if it were someone else speaking
to you, and not I, when I caution you that you have made a dangerous
friend.’

Again I looked at her, again I listened to her after she was silent, and
again his image, though it was still fixed in my heart, darkened.

‘I am not so unreasonable as to expect,’ said Agnes, resuming her usual
tone, after a little while, ‘that you will, or that you can, at once,
change any sentiment that has become a conviction to you; least of all
a sentiment that is rooted in your trusting disposition. You ought not
hastily to do that. I only ask you, Trotwood, if you ever think of me--I
mean,’ with a quiet smile, for I was going to interrupt her, and she
knew why, ‘as often as you think of me--to think of what I have said. Do
you forgive me for all this?’

‘I will forgive you, Agnes,’ I replied, ‘when you come to do Steerforth
justice, and to like him as well as I do.’

‘Not until then?’ said Agnes.

I saw a passing shadow on her face when I made this mention of him, but
she returned my smile, and we were again as unreserved in our mutual
confidence as of old.

‘And when, Agnes,’ said I, ‘will you forgive me the other night?’

‘When I recall it,’ said Agnes.

She would have dismissed the subject so, but I was too full of it to
allow that, and insisted on telling her how it happened that I had
disgraced myself, and what chain of accidental circumstances had had the
theatre for its final link. It was a great relief to me to do this, and
to enlarge on the obligation that I owed to Steerforth for his care of
me when I was unable to take care of myself.

‘You must not forget,’ said Agnes, calmly changing the conversation as
soon as I had concluded, ‘that you are always to tell me, not only when
you fall into trouble, but when you fall in love. Who has succeeded to
Miss Larkins, Trotwood?’

‘No one, Agnes.’

‘Someone, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, laughing, and holding up her finger.

‘No, Agnes, upon my word! There is a lady, certainly, at Mrs.
Steerforth’s house, who is very clever, and whom I like to talk to--Miss
Dartle--but I don’t adore her.’

Agnes laughed again at her own penetration, and told me that if I were
faithful to her in my confidence she thought she should keep a little
register of my violent attachments, with the date, duration, and
termination of each, like the table of the reigns of the kings and
queens, in the History of England. Then she asked me if I had seen
Uriah.

‘Uriah Heep?’ said I. ‘No. Is he in London?’

‘He comes to the office downstairs, every day,’ returned Agnes. ‘He
was in London a week before me. I am afraid on disagreeable business,
Trotwood.’

‘On some business that makes you uneasy, Agnes, I see,’ said I. ‘What
can that be?’

Agnes laid aside her work, and replied, folding her hands upon one
another, and looking pensively at me out of those beautiful soft eyes of
hers:

‘I believe he is going to enter into partnership with papa.’

‘What? Uriah? That mean, fawning fellow, worm himself into such
promotion!’ I cried, indignantly. ‘Have you made no remonstrance about
it, Agnes? Consider what a connexion it is likely to be. You must speak
out. You must not allow your father to take such a mad step. You must
prevent it, Agnes, while there’s time.’

Still looking at me, Agnes shook her head while I was speaking, with a
faint smile at my warmth: and then replied:

‘You remember our last conversation about papa? It was not long after
that--not more than two or three days--when he gave me the first
intimation of what I tell you. It was sad to see him struggling between
his desire to represent it to me as a matter of choice on his part,
and his inability to conceal that it was forced upon him. I felt very
sorry.’

‘Forced upon him, Agnes! Who forces it upon him?’

‘Uriah,’ she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘has made himself
indispensable to papa. He is subtle and watchful. He has mastered papa’s
weaknesses, fostered them, and taken advantage of them, until--to say
all that I mean in a word, Trotwood,--until papa is afraid of him.’

There was more that she might have said; more that she knew, or that she
suspected; I clearly saw. I could not give her pain by asking what it
was, for I knew that she withheld it from me, to spare her father. It
had long been going on to this, I was sensible: yes, I could not but
feel, on the least reflection, that it had been going on to this for a
long time. I remained silent.

‘His ascendancy over papa,’ said Agnes, ‘is very great. He professes
humility and gratitude--with truth, perhaps: I hope so--but his position
is really one of power, and I fear he makes a hard use of his power.’

I said he was a hound, which, at the moment, was a great satisfaction to
me.

‘At the time I speak of, as the time when papa spoke to me,’ pursued
Agnes, ‘he had told papa that he was going away; that he was very sorry,
and unwilling to leave, but that he had better prospects. Papa was very
much depressed then, and more bowed down by care than ever you or I have
seen him; but he seemed relieved by this expedient of the partnership,
though at the same time he seemed hurt by it and ashamed of it.’

‘And how did you receive it, Agnes?’

‘I did, Trotwood,’ she replied, ‘what I hope was right. Feeling sure
that it was necessary for papa’s peace that the sacrifice should be
made, I entreated him to make it. I said it would lighten the load
of his life--I hope it will!--and that it would give me increased
opportunities of being his companion. Oh, Trotwood!’ cried Agnes,
putting her hands before her face, as her tears started on it, ‘I almost
feel as if I had been papa’s enemy, instead of his loving child. For
I know how he has altered, in his devotion to me. I know how he has
narrowed the circle of his sympathies and duties, in the concentration
of his whole mind upon me. I know what a multitude of things he has shut
out for my sake, and how his anxious thoughts of me have shadowed his
life, and weakened his strength and energy, by turning them always upon
one idea. If I could ever set this right! If I could ever work out his
restoration, as I have so innocently been the cause of his decline!’

I had never before seen Agnes cry. I had seen tears in her eyes when I
had brought new honours home from school, and I had seen them there when
we last spoke about her father, and I had seen her turn her gentle head
aside when we took leave of one another; but I had never seen her grieve
like this. It made me so sorry that I could only say, in a foolish,
helpless manner, ‘Pray, Agnes, don’t! Don’t, my dear sister!’

But Agnes was too superior to me in character and purpose, as I know
well now, whatever I might know or not know then, to be long in need of
my entreaties. The beautiful, calm manner, which makes her so different
in my remembrance from everybody else, came back again, as if a cloud
had passed from a serene sky.

‘We are not likely to remain alone much longer,’ said Agnes, ‘and while
I have an opportunity, let me earnestly entreat you, Trotwood, to be
friendly to Uriah. Don’t repel him. Don’t resent (as I think you have a
general disposition to do) what may be uncongenial to you in him. He may
not deserve it, for we know no certain ill of him. In any case, think
first of papa and me!’

Agnes had no time to say more, for the room door opened, and Mrs.
Waterbrook, who was a large lady--or who wore a large dress: I don’t
exactly know which, for I don’t know which was dress and which was
lady--came sailing in. I had a dim recollection of having seen her
at the theatre, as if I had seen her in a pale magic lantern; but she
appeared to remember me perfectly, and still to suspect me of being in a
state of intoxication.

Finding by degrees, however, that I was sober, and (I hope) that I was
a modest young gentleman, Mrs. Waterbrook softened towards me
considerably, and inquired, firstly, if I went much into the parks,
and secondly, if I went much into society. On my replying to both these
questions in the negative, it occurred to me that I fell again in her
good opinion; but she concealed the fact gracefully, and invited me to
dinner next day. I accepted the invitation, and took my leave, making a
call on Uriah in the office as I went out, and leaving a card for him in
his absence.

When I went to dinner next day, and on the street door being opened,
plunged into a vapour-bath of haunch of mutton, I divined that I was
not the only guest, for I immediately identified the ticket-porter in
disguise, assisting the family servant, and waiting at the foot of the
stairs to carry up my name. He looked, to the best of his ability, when
he asked me for it confidentially, as if he had never seen me before;
but well did I know him, and well did he know me. Conscience made
cowards of us both.

I found Mr. Waterbrook to be a middle-aged gentleman, with a short
throat, and a good deal of shirt-collar, who only wanted a black nose to
be the portrait of a pug-dog. He told me he was happy to have the
honour of making my acquaintance; and when I had paid my homage to Mrs.
Waterbrook, presented me, with much ceremony, to a very awful lady in
a black velvet dress, and a great black velvet hat, whom I remember as
looking like a near relation of Hamlet’s--say his aunt.

Mrs. Henry Spiker was this lady’s name; and her husband was there
too: so cold a man, that his head, instead of being grey, seemed to
be sprinkled with hoar-frost. Immense deference was shown to the Henry
Spikers, male and female; which Agnes told me was on account of Mr.
Henry Spiker being solicitor to something or to somebody, I forget what
or which, remotely connected with the Treasury.

I found Uriah Heep among the company, in a suit of black, and in deep
humility. He told me, when I shook hands with him, that he was proud
to be noticed by me, and that he really felt obliged to me for my
condescension. I could have wished he had been less obliged to me, for
he hovered about me in his gratitude all the rest of the evening; and
whenever I said a word to Agnes, was sure, with his shadowless eyes and
cadaverous face, to be looking gauntly down upon us from behind.

There were other guests--all iced for the occasion, as it struck me,
like the wine. But there was one who attracted my attention before he
came in, on account of my hearing him announced as Mr. Traddles! My mind
flew back to Salem House; and could it be Tommy, I thought, who used to
draw the skeletons!

I looked for Mr. Traddles with unusual interest. He was a sober,
steady-looking young man of retiring manners, with a comic head of hair,
and eyes that were rather wide open; and he got into an obscure corner
so soon, that I had some difficulty in making him out. At length I had
a good view of him, and either my vision deceived me, or it was the old
unfortunate Tommy.

I made my way to Mr. Waterbrook, and said, that I believed I had the
pleasure of seeing an old schoolfellow there.

‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Waterbrook, surprised. ‘You are too young to have
been at school with Mr. Henry Spiker?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean him!’ I returned. ‘I mean the gentleman named
Traddles.’

‘Oh! Aye, aye! Indeed!’ said my host, with much diminished interest.
‘Possibly.’

‘If it’s really the same person,’ said I, glancing towards him, ‘it
was at a place called Salem House where we were together, and he was an
excellent fellow.’

‘Oh yes. Traddles is a good fellow,’ returned my host nodding his head
with an air of toleration. ‘Traddles is quite a good fellow.’

‘It’s a curious coincidence,’ said I.

‘It is really,’ returned my host, ‘quite a coincidence, that Traddles
should be here at all: as Traddles was only invited this morning, when
the place at table, intended to be occupied by Mrs. Henry Spiker’s
brother, became vacant, in consequence of his indisposition. A very
gentlemanly man, Mrs. Henry Spiker’s brother, Mr. Copperfield.’

I murmured an assent, which was full of feeling, considering that I
knew nothing at all about him; and I inquired what Mr. Traddles was by
profession.

‘Traddles,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, ‘is a young man reading for the
bar. Yes. He is quite a good fellow--nobody’s enemy but his own.’

‘Is he his own enemy?’ said I, sorry to hear this.

‘Well,’ returned Mr. Waterbrook, pursing up his mouth, and playing with
his watch-chain, in a comfortable, prosperous sort of way. ‘I should say
he was one of those men who stand in their own light. Yes, I should say
he would never, for example, be worth five hundred pound. Traddles was
recommended to me by a professional friend. Oh yes. Yes. He has a kind
of talent for drawing briefs, and stating a case in writing, plainly. I
am able to throw something in Traddles’s way, in the course of the year;
something--for him--considerable. Oh yes. Yes.’

I was much impressed by the extremely comfortable and satisfied manner
in which Mr. Waterbrook delivered himself of this little word ‘Yes’,
every now and then. There was wonderful expression in it. It completely
conveyed the idea of a man who had been born, not to say with a silver
spoon, but with a scaling-ladder, and had gone on mounting all the
heights of life one after another, until now he looked, from the top of
the fortifications, with the eye of a philosopher and a patron, on the
people down in the trenches.

My reflections on this theme were still in progress when dinner was
announced. Mr. Waterbrook went down with Hamlet’s aunt. Mr. Henry Spiker
took Mrs. Waterbrook. Agnes, whom I should have liked to take myself,
was given to a simpering fellow with weak legs. Uriah, Traddles, and I,
as the junior part of the company, went down last, how we could. I was
not so vexed at losing Agnes as I might have been, since it gave me
an opportunity of making myself known to Traddles on the stairs, who
greeted me with great fervour; while Uriah writhed with such obtrusive
satisfaction and self-abasement, that I could gladly have pitched
him over the banisters. Traddles and I were separated at table, being
billeted in two remote corners: he in the glare of a red velvet lady;
I, in the gloom of Hamlet’s aunt. The dinner was very long, and the
conversation was about the Aristocracy--and Blood. Mrs. Waterbrook
repeatedly told us, that if she had a weakness, it was Blood.

It occurred to me several times that we should have got on better, if we
had not been quite so genteel. We were so exceedingly genteel, that our
scope was very limited. A Mr. and Mrs. Gulpidge were of the party, who
had something to do at second-hand (at least, Mr. Gulpidge had) with
the law business of the Bank; and what with the Bank, and what with
the Treasury, we were as exclusive as the Court Circular. To mend the
matter, Hamlet’s aunt had the family failing of indulging in soliloquy,
and held forth in a desultory manner, by herself, on every topic that
was introduced. These were few enough, to be sure; but as we always fell
back upon Blood, she had as wide a field for abstract speculation as her
nephew himself.

We might have been a party of Ogres, the conversation assumed such a
sanguine complexion.

‘I confess I am of Mrs. Waterbrook’s opinion,’ said Mr. Waterbrook, with
his wine-glass at his eye. ‘Other things are all very well in their way,
but give me Blood!’

‘Oh! There is nothing,’ observed Hamlet’s aunt, ‘so satisfactory to one!
There is nothing that is so much one’s beau-ideal of--of all that sort
of thing, speaking generally. There are some low minds (not many, I am
happy to believe, but there are some) that would prefer to do what I
should call bow down before idols. Positively Idols! Before service,
intellect, and so on. But these are intangible points. Blood is not so.
We see Blood in a nose, and we know it. We meet with it in a chin, and
we say, “There it is! That’s Blood!” It is an actual matter of fact. We
point it out. It admits of no doubt.’

The simpering fellow with the weak legs, who had taken Agnes down,
stated the question more decisively yet, I thought.

‘Oh, you know, deuce take it,’ said this gentleman, looking round the
board with an imbecile smile, ‘we can’t forego Blood, you know. We must
have Blood, you know. Some young fellows, you know, may be a little
behind their station, perhaps, in point of education and behaviour, and
may go a little wrong, you know, and get themselves and other people
into a variety of fixes--and all that--but deuce take it, it’s
delightful to reflect that they’ve got Blood in ‘em! Myself, I’d rather
at any time be knocked down by a man who had got Blood in him, than I’d
be picked up by a man who hadn’t!’

This sentiment, as compressing the general question into a nutshell,
gave the utmost satisfaction, and brought the gentleman into great
notice until the ladies retired. After that, I observed that Mr.
Gulpidge and Mr. Henry Spiker, who had hitherto been very distant,
entered into a defensive alliance against us, the common enemy, and
exchanged a mysterious dialogue across the table for our defeat and
overthrow.

‘That affair of the first bond for four thousand five hundred pounds has
not taken the course that was expected, Spiker,’ said Mr. Gulpidge.

‘Do you mean the D. of A.’s?’ said Mr. Spiker.

‘The C. of B.’s!’ said Mr. Gulpidge.

Mr. Spiker raised his eyebrows, and looked much concerned.

‘When the question was referred to Lord--I needn’t name him,’ said Mr.
Gulpidge, checking himself--

‘I understand,’ said Mr. Spiker, ‘N.’

Mr. Gulpidge darkly nodded--‘was referred to him, his answer was,
“Money, or no release.”’

‘Lord bless my soul!’ cried Mr. Spiker.

“‘Money, or no release,”’ repeated Mr. Gulpidge, firmly. ‘The next in
reversion--you understand me?’

‘K.,’ said Mr. Spiker, with an ominous look.

‘--K. then positively refused to sign. He was attended at Newmarket for
that purpose, and he point-blank refused to do it.’

Mr. Spiker was so interested, that he became quite stony.

‘So the matter rests at this hour,’ said Mr. Gulpidge, throwing himself
back in his chair. ‘Our friend Waterbrook will excuse me if I forbear to
explain myself generally, on account of the magnitude of the interests
involved.’

Mr. Waterbrook was only too happy, as it appeared to me, to have such
interests, and such names, even hinted at, across his table. He assumed
an expression of gloomy intelligence (though I am persuaded he knew
no more about the discussion than I did), and highly approved of the
discretion that had been observed. Mr. Spiker, after the receipt of such
a confidence, naturally desired to favour his friend with a confidence
of his own; therefore the foregoing dialogue was succeeded by another,
in which it was Mr. Gulpidge’s turn to be surprised, and that by another
in which the surprise came round to Mr. Spiker’s turn again, and so on,
turn and turn about. All this time we, the outsiders, remained oppressed
by the tremendous interests involved in the conversation; and our
host regarded us with pride, as the victims of a salutary awe and
astonishment. I was very glad indeed to get upstairs to Agnes, and to
talk with her in a corner, and to introduce Traddles to her, who was
shy, but agreeable, and the same good-natured creature still. As he
was obliged to leave early, on account of going away next morning for
a month, I had not nearly so much conversation with him as I could have
wished; but we exchanged addresses, and promised ourselves the pleasure
of another meeting when he should come back to town. He was greatly
interested to hear that I knew Steerforth, and spoke of him with such
warmth that I made him tell Agnes what he thought of him. But Agnes only
looked at me the while, and very slightly shook her head when only I
observed her.

As she was not among people with whom I believed she could be very much
at home, I was almost glad to hear that she was going away within a few
days, though I was sorry at the prospect of parting from her again
so soon. This caused me to remain until all the company were gone.
Conversing with her, and hearing her sing, was such a delightful
reminder to me of my happy life in the grave old house she had made so
beautiful, that I could have remained there half the night; but, having
no excuse for staying any longer, when the lights of Mr. Waterbrook’s
society were all snuffed out, I took my leave very much against my
inclination. I felt then, more than ever, that she was my better Angel;
and if I thought of her sweet face and placid smile, as though they had
shone on me from some removed being, like an Angel, I hope I thought no
harm.

I have said that the company were all gone; but I ought to have excepted
Uriah, whom I don’t include in that denomination, and who had never
ceased to hover near us. He was close behind me when I went downstairs.
He was close beside me, when I walked away from the house, slowly
fitting his long skeleton fingers into the still longer fingers of a
great Guy Fawkes pair of gloves.

It was in no disposition for Uriah’s company, but in remembrance of the
entreaty Agnes had made to me, that I asked him if he would come home to
my rooms, and have some coffee.

‘Oh, really, Master Copperfield,’ he rejoined--‘I beg your pardon,
Mister Copperfield, but the other comes so natural, I don’t like that
you should put a constraint upon yourself to ask a numble person like me
to your ouse.’

‘There is no constraint in the case,’ said I. ‘Will you come?’

‘I should like to, very much,’ replied Uriah, with a writhe.

‘Well, then, come along!’ said I.

I could not help being rather short with him, but he appeared not to
mind it. We went the nearest way, without conversing much upon the road;
and he was so humble in respect of those scarecrow gloves, that he
was still putting them on, and seemed to have made no advance in that
labour, when we got to my place.

I led him up the dark stairs, to prevent his knocking his head against
anything, and really his damp cold hand felt so like a frog in mine,
that I was tempted to drop it and run away. Agnes and hospitality
prevailed, however, and I conducted him to my fireside. When I lighted
my candles, he fell into meek transports with the room that was revealed
to him; and when I heated the coffee in an unassuming block-tin vessel
in which Mrs. Crupp delighted to prepare it (chiefly, I believe, because
it was not intended for the purpose, being a shaving-pot, and because
there was a patent invention of great price mouldering away in the
pantry), he professed so much emotion, that I could joyfully have
scalded him.

‘Oh, really, Master Copperfield,--I mean Mister Copperfield,’ said
Uriah, ‘to see you waiting upon me is what I never could have expected!
But, one way and another, so many things happen to me which I never
could have expected, I am sure, in my umble station, that it seems
to rain blessings on my ed. You have heard something, I des-say, of a
change in my expectations, Master Copperfield,--I should say, Mister
Copperfield?’

As he sat on my sofa, with his long knees drawn up under his coffee-cup,
his hat and gloves upon the ground close to him, his spoon going softly
round and round, his shadowless red eyes, which looked as if they had
scorched their lashes off, turned towards me without looking at me, the
disagreeable dints I have formerly described in his nostrils coming and
going with his breath, and a snaky undulation pervading his frame from
his chin to his boots, I decided in my own mind that I disliked him
intensely. It made me very uncomfortable to have him for a guest, for I
was young then, and unused to disguise what I so strongly felt.

‘You have heard something, I des-say, of a change in my expectations,
Master Copperfield,--I should say, Mister Copperfield?’ observed Uriah.

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘something.’

‘Ah! I thought Miss Agnes would know of it!’ he quietly returned. ‘I’m
glad to find Miss Agnes knows of it. Oh, thank you, Master--Mister
Copperfield!’

I could have thrown my bootjack at him (it lay ready on the rug), for
having entrapped me into the disclosure of anything concerning Agnes,
however immaterial. But I only drank my coffee.

‘What a prophet you have shown yourself, Mister Copperfield!’ pursued
Uriah. ‘Dear me, what a prophet you have proved yourself to be! Don’t
you remember saying to me once, that perhaps I should be a partner in
Mr. Wickfield’s business, and perhaps it might be Wickfield and
Heep? You may not recollect it; but when a person is umble, Master
Copperfield, a person treasures such things up!’

‘I recollect talking about it,’ said I, ‘though I certainly did not
think it very likely then.’ ‘Oh! who would have thought it likely,
Mister Copperfield!’ returned Uriah, enthusiastically. ‘I am sure I
didn’t myself. I recollect saying with my own lips that I was much too
umble. So I considered myself really and truly.’

He sat, with that carved grin on his face, looking at the fire, as I
looked at him.

‘But the umblest persons, Master Copperfield,’ he presently resumed,
‘may be the instruments of good. I am glad to think I have been the
instrument of good to Mr. Wickfield, and that I may be more so. Oh what
a worthy man he is, Mister Copperfield, but how imprudent he has been!’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ said I. I could not help adding, rather
pointedly, ‘on all accounts.’

‘Decidedly so, Mister Copperfield,’ replied Uriah. ‘On all accounts.
Miss Agnes’s above all! You don’t remember your own eloquent
expressions, Master Copperfield; but I remember how you said one day
that everybody must admire her, and how I thanked you for it! You have
forgot that, I have no doubt, Master Copperfield?’

‘No,’ said I, drily.

‘Oh how glad I am you have not!’ exclaimed Uriah. ‘To think that you
should be the first to kindle the sparks of ambition in my umble breast,
and that you’ve not forgot it! Oh!--Would you excuse me asking for a cup
more coffee?’

Something in the emphasis he laid upon the kindling of those sparks,
and something in the glance he directed at me as he said it, had made me
start as if I had seen him illuminated by a blaze of light. Recalled by
his request, preferred in quite another tone of voice, I did the honours
of the shaving-pot; but I did them with an unsteadiness of hand, a
sudden sense of being no match for him, and a perplexed suspicious
anxiety as to what he might be going to say next, which I felt could not
escape his observation.

He said nothing at all. He stirred his coffee round and round, he sipped
it, he felt his chin softly with his grisly hand, he looked at the fire,
he looked about the room, he gasped rather than smiled at me, he writhed
and undulated about, in his deferential servility, he stirred and sipped
again, but he left the renewal of the conversation to me.

‘So, Mr. Wickfield,’ said I, at last, ‘who is worth five hundred of
you--or me’; for my life, I think, I could not have helped dividing that
part of the sentence with an awkward jerk; ‘has been imprudent, has he,
Mr. Heep?’

‘Oh, very imprudent indeed, Master Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, sighing
modestly. ‘Oh, very much so! But I wish you’d call me Uriah, if you
please. It’s like old times.’

‘Well! Uriah,’ said I, bolting it out with some difficulty.

‘Thank you,’ he returned, with fervour. ‘Thank you, Master Copperfield!
It’s like the blowing of old breezes or the ringing of old bellses to
hear YOU say Uriah. I beg your pardon. Was I making any observation?’

‘About Mr. Wickfield,’ I suggested.

‘Oh! Yes, truly,’ said Uriah. ‘Ah! Great imprudence, Master Copperfield.
It’s a topic that I wouldn’t touch upon, to any soul but you. Even to
you I can only touch upon it, and no more. If anyone else had been in
my place during the last few years, by this time he would have had Mr.
Wickfield (oh, what a worthy man he is, Master Copperfield, too!) under
his thumb. Un--der--his thumb,’ said Uriah, very slowly, as he stretched
out his cruel-looking hand above my table, and pressed his own thumb
upon it, until it shook, and shook the room.

If I had been obliged to look at him with him splay foot on Mr.
Wickfield’s head, I think I could scarcely have hated him more.

‘Oh, dear, yes, Master Copperfield,’ he proceeded, in a soft voice,
most remarkably contrasting with the action of his thumb, which did not
diminish its hard pressure in the least degree, ‘there’s no doubt of
it. There would have been loss, disgrace, I don’t know what at all. Mr.
Wickfield knows it. I am the umble instrument of umbly serving him,
and he puts me on an eminence I hardly could have hoped to reach. How
thankful should I be!’ With his face turned towards me, as he finished,
but without looking at me, he took his crooked thumb off the spot where
he had planted it, and slowly and thoughtfully scraped his lank jaw with
it, as if he were shaving himself.

I recollect well how indignantly my heart beat, as I saw his crafty
face, with the appropriately red light of the fire upon it, preparing
for something else.

‘Master Copperfield,’ he began--‘but am I keeping you up?’

‘You are not keeping me up. I generally go to bed late.’

‘Thank you, Master Copperfield! I have risen from my umble station since
first you used to address me, it is true; but I am umble still. I hope I
never shall be otherwise than umble. You will not think the worse of
my umbleness, if I make a little confidence to you, Master Copperfield?
Will you?’

‘Oh no,’ said I, with an effort.

‘Thank you!’ He took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began wiping the
palms of his hands. ‘Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield--’ ‘Well, Uriah?’

‘Oh, how pleasant to be called Uriah, spontaneously!’ he cried; and gave
himself a jerk, like a convulsive fish. ‘You thought her looking very
beautiful tonight, Master Copperfield?’

‘I thought her looking as she always does: superior, in all respects, to
everyone around her,’ I returned.

‘Oh, thank you! It’s so true!’ he cried. ‘Oh, thank you very much for
that!’

‘Not at all,’ I said, loftily. ‘There is no reason why you should thank
me.’

‘Why that, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah, ‘is, in fact, the confidence
that I am going to take the liberty of reposing. Umble as I am,’ he
wiped his hands harder, and looked at them and at the fire by turns,
‘umble as my mother is, and lowly as our poor but honest roof has ever
been, the image of Miss Agnes (I don’t mind trusting you with my secret,
Master Copperfield, for I have always overflowed towards you since the
first moment I had the pleasure of beholding you in a pony-shay) has
been in my breast for years. Oh, Master Copperfield, with what a pure
affection do I love the ground my Agnes walks on!’

I believe I had a delirious idea of seizing the red-hot poker out of
the fire, and running him through with it. It went from me with a shock,
like a ball fired from a rifle: but the image of Agnes, outraged by so
much as a thought of this red-headed animal’s, remained in my mind when
I looked at him, sitting all awry as if his mean soul griped his body,
and made me giddy. He seemed to swell and grow before my eyes; the room
seemed full of the echoes of his voice; and the strange feeling (to
which, perhaps, no one is quite a stranger) that all this had occurred
before, at some indefinite time, and that I knew what he was going to
say next, took possession of me.

A timely observation of the sense of power that there was in his face,
did more to bring back to my remembrance the entreaty of Agnes, in
its full force, than any effort I could have made. I asked him, with
a better appearance of composure than I could have thought possible a
minute before, whether he had made his feelings known to Agnes.

‘Oh no, Master Copperfield!’ he returned; ‘oh dear, no! Not to anyone
but you. You see I am only just emerging from my lowly station. I rest a
good deal of hope on her observing how useful I am to her father (for
I trust to be very useful to him indeed, Master Copperfield), and how I
smooth the way for him, and keep him straight. She’s so much attached
to her father, Master Copperfield (oh, what a lovely thing it is in a
daughter!), that I think she may come, on his account, to be kind to
me.’

I fathomed the depth of the rascal’s whole scheme, and understood why he
laid it bare.

‘If you’ll have the goodness to keep my secret, Master Copperfield,’ he
pursued, ‘and not, in general, to go against me, I shall take it as a
particular favour. You wouldn’t wish to make unpleasantness. I know
what a friendly heart you’ve got; but having only known me on my umble
footing (on my umblest I should say, for I am very umble still), you
might, unbeknown, go against me rather, with my Agnes. I call her mine,
you see, Master Copperfield. There’s a song that says, “I’d crowns
resign, to call her mine!” I hope to do it, one of these days.’

Dear Agnes! So much too loving and too good for anyone that I could
think of, was it possible that she was reserved to be the wife of such a
wretch as this!

‘There’s no hurry at present, you know, Master Copperfield,’ Uriah
proceeded, in his slimy way, as I sat gazing at him, with this thought
in my mind. ‘My Agnes is very young still; and mother and me will have
to work our way upwards, and make a good many new arrangements, before
it would be quite convenient. So I shall have time gradually to make her
familiar with my hopes, as opportunities offer. Oh, I’m so much obliged
to you for this confidence! Oh, it’s such a relief, you can’t think, to
know that you understand our situation, and are certain (as you wouldn’t
wish to make unpleasantness in the family) not to go against me!’

He took the hand which I dared not withhold, and having given it a damp
squeeze, referred to his pale-faced watch.

‘Dear me!’ he said, ‘it’s past one. The moments slip away so, in the
confidence of old times, Master Copperfield, that it’s almost half past
one!’

I answered that I had thought it was later. Not that I had really
thought so, but because my conversational powers were effectually
scattered.

‘Dear me!’ he said, considering. ‘The ouse that I am stopping at--a sort
of a private hotel and boarding ouse, Master Copperfield, near the New
River ed--will have gone to bed these two hours.’

‘I am sorry,’ I returned, ‘that there is only one bed here, and that
I--’

‘Oh, don’t think of mentioning beds, Master Copperfield!’ he rejoined
ecstatically, drawing up one leg. ‘But would you have any objections to
my laying down before the fire?’

‘If it comes to that,’ I said, ‘pray take my bed, and I’ll lie down
before the fire.’

His repudiation of this offer was almost shrill enough, in the excess of
its surprise and humility, to have penetrated to the ears of Mrs. Crupp,
then sleeping, I suppose, in a distant chamber, situated at about the
level of low-water mark, soothed in her slumbers by the ticking of an
incorrigible clock, to which she always referred me when we had any
little difference on the score of punctuality, and which was never less
than three-quarters of an hour too slow, and had always been put right
in the morning by the best authorities. As no arguments I could urge,
in my bewildered condition, had the least effect upon his modesty
in inducing him to accept my bedroom, I was obliged to make the best
arrangements I could, for his repose before the fire. The mattress of
the sofa (which was a great deal too short for his lank figure), the
sofa pillows, a blanket, the table-cover, a clean breakfast-cloth, and
a great-coat, made him a bed and covering, for which he was more than
thankful. Having lent him a night-cap, which he put on at once, and in
which he made such an awful figure, that I have never worn one since, I
left him to his rest.

I never shall forget that night. I never shall forget how I turned
and tumbled; how I wearied myself with thinking about Agnes and this
creature; how I considered what could I do, and what ought I to do; how
I could come to no other conclusion than that the best course for her
peace was to do nothing, and to keep to myself what I had heard. If
I went to sleep for a few moments, the image of Agnes with her tender
eyes, and of her father looking fondly on her, as I had so often seen
him look, arose before me with appealing faces, and filled me with vague
terrors. When I awoke, the recollection that Uriah was lying in the next
room, sat heavy on me like a waking nightmare; and oppressed me with a
leaden dread, as if I had had some meaner quality of devil for a lodger.

The poker got into my dozing thoughts besides, and wouldn’t come out. I
thought, between sleeping and waking, that it was still red hot, and I
had snatched it out of the fire, and run him through the body. I was so
haunted at last by the idea, though I knew there was nothing in it, that
I stole into the next room to look at him. There I saw him, lying on his
back, with his legs extending to I don’t know where, gurglings taking
place in his throat, stoppages in his nose, and his mouth open like
a post-office. He was so much worse in reality than in my distempered
fancy, that afterwards I was attracted to him in very repulsion, and
could not help wandering in and out every half-hour or so, and taking
another look at him. Still, the long, long night seemed heavy and
hopeless as ever, and no promise of day was in the murky sky.

When I saw him going downstairs early in the morning (for, thank Heaven!
he would not stay to breakfast), it appeared to me as if the night was
going away in his person. When I went out to the Commons, I charged
Mrs. Crupp with particular directions to leave the windows open, that my
sitting-room might be aired, and purged of his presence.



CHAPTER 26. I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY


I saw no more of Uriah Heep, until the day when Agnes left town. I was
at the coach office to take leave of her and see her go; and there was
he, returning to Canterbury by the same conveyance. It was some small
satisfaction to me to observe his spare, short-waisted, high-shouldered,
mulberry-coloured great-coat perched up, in company with an umbrella
like a small tent, on the edge of the back seat on the roof, while
Agnes was, of course, inside; but what I underwent in my efforts to be
friendly with him, while Agnes looked on, perhaps deserved that little
recompense. At the coach window, as at the dinner-party, he hovered
about us without a moment’s intermission, like a great vulture: gorging
himself on every syllable that I said to Agnes, or Agnes said to me.

In the state of trouble into which his disclosure by my fire had thrown
me, I had thought very much of the words Agnes had used in reference to
the partnership. ‘I did what I hope was right. Feeling sure that it
was necessary for papa’s peace that the sacrifice should be made, I
entreated him to make it.’ A miserable foreboding that she would
yield to, and sustain herself by, the same feeling in reference to any
sacrifice for his sake, had oppressed me ever since. I knew how she
loved him. I knew what the devotion of her nature was. I knew from her
own lips that she regarded herself as the innocent cause of his errors,
and as owing him a great debt she ardently desired to pay. I had no
consolation in seeing how different she was from this detestable Rufus
with the mulberry-coloured great-coat, for I felt that in the very
difference between them, in the self-denial of her pure soul and the
sordid baseness of his, the greatest danger lay. All this, doubtless, he
knew thoroughly, and had, in his cunning, considered well.

Yet I was so certain that the prospect of such a sacrifice afar off,
must destroy the happiness of Agnes; and I was so sure, from her manner,
of its being unseen by her then, and having cast no shadow on her yet;
that I could as soon have injured her, as given her any warning of what
impended. Thus it was that we parted without explanation: she waving
her hand and smiling farewell from the coach window; her evil genius
writhing on the roof, as if he had her in his clutches and triumphed.

I could not get over this farewell glimpse of them for a long time. When
Agnes wrote to tell me of her safe arrival, I was as miserable as when
I saw her going away. Whenever I fell into a thoughtful state, this
subject was sure to present itself, and all my uneasiness was sure to be
redoubled. Hardly a night passed without my dreaming of it. It became a
part of my life, and as inseparable from my life as my own head.

I had ample leisure to refine upon my uneasiness: for Steerforth was at
Oxford, as he wrote to me, and when I was not at the Commons, I was
very much alone. I believe I had at this time some lurking distrust of
Steerforth. I wrote to him most affectionately in reply to his, but I
think I was glad, upon the whole, that he could not come to London just
then. I suspect the truth to be, that the influence of Agnes was upon
me, undisturbed by the sight of him; and that it was the more powerful
with me, because she had so large a share in my thoughts and interest.

In the meantime, days and weeks slipped away. I was articled to Spenlow
and Jorkins. I had ninety pounds a year (exclusive of my house-rent
and sundry collateral matters) from my aunt. My rooms were engaged
for twelve months certain: and though I still found them dreary of an
evening, and the evenings long, I could settle down into a state of
equable low spirits, and resign myself to coffee; which I seem, on
looking back, to have taken by the gallon at about this period of my
existence. At about this time, too, I made three discoveries: first,
that Mrs. Crupp was a martyr to a curious disorder called ‘the
spazzums’, which was generally accompanied with inflammation of the
nose, and required to be constantly treated with peppermint; secondly,
that something peculiar in the temperature of my pantry, made the
brandy-bottles burst; thirdly, that I was alone in the world, and much
given to record that circumstance in fragments of English versification.

On the day when I was articled, no festivity took place, beyond my
having sandwiches and sherry into the office for the clerks, and going
alone to the theatre at night. I went to see The Stranger, as a Doctors’
Commons sort of play, and was so dreadfully cut up, that I hardly knew
myself in my own glass when I got home. Mr. Spenlow remarked, on this
occasion, when we concluded our business, that he should have been
happy to have seen me at his house at Norwood to celebrate our becoming
connected, but for his domestic arrangements being in some disorder,
on account of the expected return of his daughter from finishing her
education at Paris. But, he intimated that when she came home he should
hope to have the pleasure of entertaining me. I knew that he was a
widower with one daughter, and expressed my acknowledgements.

Mr. Spenlow was as good as his word. In a week or two, he referred to
this engagement, and said, that if I would do him the favour to come
down next Saturday, and stay till Monday, he would be extremely happy.
Of course I said I would do him the favour; and he was to drive me down
in his phaeton, and to bring me back.

When the day arrived, my very carpet-bag was an object of veneration
to the stipendiary clerks, to whom the house at Norwood was a sacred
mystery. One of them informed me that he had heard that Mr. Spenlow
ate entirely off plate and china; and another hinted at champagne being
constantly on draught, after the usual custom of table-beer. The old
clerk with the wig, whose name was Mr. Tiffey, had been down on business
several times in the course of his career, and had on each occasion
penetrated to the breakfast-parlour. He described it as an apartment of
the most sumptuous nature, and said that he had drunk brown East India
sherry there, of a quality so precious as to make a man wink. We had
an adjourned cause in the Consistory that day--about excommunicating a
baker who had been objecting in a vestry to a paving-rate--and as the
evidence was just twice the length of Robinson Crusoe, according to a
calculation I made, it was rather late in the day before we finished.
However, we got him excommunicated for six weeks, and sentenced in
no end of costs; and then the baker’s proctor, and the judge, and the
advocates on both sides (who were all nearly related), went out of town
together, and Mr. Spenlow and I drove away in the phaeton.

The phaeton was a very handsome affair; the horses arched their necks
and lifted up their legs as if they knew they belonged to Doctors’
Commons. There was a good deal of competition in the Commons on all
points of display, and it turned out some very choice equipages then;
though I always have considered, and always shall consider, that in my
time the great article of competition there was starch: which I think
was worn among the proctors to as great an extent as it is in the nature
of man to bear.

We were very pleasant, going down, and Mr. Spenlow gave me some hints in
reference to my profession. He said it was the genteelest profession in
the world, and must on no account be confounded with the profession of a
solicitor: being quite another sort of thing, infinitely more exclusive,
less mechanical, and more profitable. We took things much more easily
in the Commons than they could be taken anywhere else, he observed, and
that set us, as a privileged class, apart. He said it was impossible
to conceal the disagreeable fact, that we were chiefly employed by
solicitors; but he gave me to understand that they were an inferior race
of men, universally looked down upon by all proctors of any pretensions.

I asked Mr. Spenlow what he considered the best sort of professional
business? He replied, that a good case of a disputed will, where there
was a neat little estate of thirty or forty thousand pounds, was,
perhaps, the best of all. In such a case, he said, not only were there
very pretty pickings, in the way of arguments at every stage of the
proceedings, and mountains upon mountains of evidence on interrogatory
and counter-interrogatory (to say nothing of an appeal lying, first to
the Delegates, and then to the Lords), but, the costs being pretty sure
to come out of the estate at last, both sides went at it in a lively
and spirited manner, and expense was no consideration. Then, he launched
into a general eulogium on the Commons. What was to be particularly
admired (he said) in the Commons, was its compactness. It was the most
conveniently organized place in the world. It was the complete idea of
snugness. It lay in a nutshell. For example: You brought a divorce case,
or a restitution case, into the Consistory. Very good. You tried it in
the Consistory. You made a quiet little round game of it, among a family
group, and you played it out at leisure. Suppose you were not satisfied
with the Consistory, what did you do then? Why, you went into the
Arches. What was the Arches? The same court, in the same room, with the
same bar, and the same practitioners, but another judge, for there the
Consistory judge could plead any court-day as an advocate. Well, you
played your round game out again. Still you were not satisfied. Very
good. What did you do then? Why, you went to the Delegates. Who were the
Delegates? Why, the Ecclesiastical Delegates were the advocates without
any business, who had looked on at the round game when it was playing in
both courts, and had seen the cards shuffled, and cut, and played, and
had talked to all the players about it, and now came fresh, as judges,
to settle the matter to the satisfaction of everybody! Discontented
people might talk of corruption in the Commons, closeness in the
Commons, and the necessity of reforming the Commons, said Mr. Spenlow
solemnly, in conclusion; but when the price of wheat per bushel had been
highest, the Commons had been busiest; and a man might lay his hand upon
his heart, and say this to the whole world,--‘Touch the Commons, and
down comes the country!’

I listened to all this with attention; and though, I must say, I had my
doubts whether the country was quite as much obliged to the Commons as
Mr. Spenlow made out, I respectfully deferred to his opinion. That
about the price of wheat per bushel, I modestly felt was too much for
my strength, and quite settled the question. I have never, to this hour,
got the better of that bushel of wheat. It has reappeared to annihilate
me, all through my life, in connexion with all kinds of subjects. I
don’t know now, exactly, what it has to do with me, or what right it has
to crush me, on an infinite variety of occasions; but whenever I see my
old friend the bushel brought in by the head and shoulders (as he always
is, I observe), I give up a subject for lost.

This is a digression. I was not the man to touch the Commons, and
bring down the country. I submissively expressed, by my silence, my
acquiescence in all I had heard from my superior in years and knowledge;
and we talked about The Stranger and the Drama, and the pairs of horses,
until we came to Mr. Spenlow’s gate.

There was a lovely garden to Mr. Spenlow’s house; and though that was
not the best time of the year for seeing a garden, it was so beautifully
kept, that I was quite enchanted. There was a charming lawn, there were
clusters of trees, and there were perspective walks that I could just
distinguish in the dark, arched over with trellis-work, on which shrubs
and flowers grew in the growing season. ‘Here Miss Spenlow walks by
herself,’ I thought. ‘Dear me!’

We went into the house, which was cheerfully lighted up, and into a hall
where there were all sorts of hats, caps, great-coats, plaids, gloves,
whips, and walking-sticks. ‘Where is Miss Dora?’ said Mr. Spenlow to the
servant. ‘Dora!’ I thought. ‘What a beautiful name!’

We turned into a room near at hand (I think it was the identical
breakfast-room, made memorable by the brown East Indian sherry), and I
heard a voice say, ‘Mr. Copperfield, my daughter Dora, and my daughter
Dora’s confidential friend!’ It was, no doubt, Mr. Spenlow’s voice,
but I didn’t know it, and I didn’t care whose it was. All was over in a
moment. I had fulfilled my destiny. I was a captive and a slave. I loved
Dora Spenlow to distraction!

She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t
know what she was--anything that no one ever saw, and everything that
everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an
instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking
back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.

‘I,’ observed a well-remembered voice, when I had bowed and murmured
something, ‘have seen Mr. Copperfield before.’

The speaker was not Dora. No; the confidential friend, Miss Murdstone!

I don’t think I was much astonished. To the best of my judgement,
no capacity of astonishment was left in me. There was nothing worth
mentioning in the material world, but Dora Spenlow, to be astonished
about. I said, ‘How do you do, Miss Murdstone? I hope you are well.’ She
answered, ‘Very well.’ I said, ‘How is Mr. Murdstone?’ She replied, ‘My
brother is robust, I am obliged to you.’

Mr. Spenlow, who, I suppose, had been surprised to see us recognize each
other, then put in his word.

‘I am glad to find,’ he said, ‘Copperfield, that you and Miss Murdstone
are already acquainted.’

‘Mr. Copperfield and myself,’ said Miss Murdstone, with severe
composure, ‘are connexions. We were once slightly acquainted. It was in
his childish days. Circumstances have separated us since. I should not
have known him.’

I replied that I should have known her, anywhere. Which was true enough.

‘Miss Murdstone has had the goodness,’ said Mr. Spenlow to me, ‘to
accept the office--if I may so describe it--of my daughter Dora’s
confidential friend. My daughter Dora having, unhappily, no mother, Miss
Murdstone is obliging enough to become her companion and protector.’

A passing thought occurred to me that Miss Murdstone, like the pocket
instrument called a life-preserver, was not so much designed for
purposes of protection as of assault. But as I had none but passing
thoughts for any subject save Dora, I glanced at her, directly
afterwards, and was thinking that I saw, in her prettily pettish manner,
that she was not very much inclined to be particularly confidential to
her companion and protector, when a bell rang, which Mr. Spenlow said
was the first dinner-bell, and so carried me off to dress.

The idea of dressing one’s self, or doing anything in the way of action,
in that state of love, was a little too ridiculous. I could only sit
down before my fire, biting the key of my carpet-bag, and think of the
captivating, girlish, bright-eyed lovely Dora. What a form she had, what
a face she had, what a graceful, variable, enchanting manner!

The bell rang again so soon that I made a mere scramble of my dressing,
instead of the careful operation I could have wished under the
circumstances, and went downstairs. There was some company. Dora was
talking to an old gentleman with a grey head. Grey as he was--and a
great-grandfather into the bargain, for he said so--I was madly jealous
of him.

What a state of mind I was in! I was jealous of everybody. I couldn’t
bear the idea of anybody knowing Mr. Spenlow better than I did. It was
torturing to me to hear them talk of occurrences in which I had had no
share. When a most amiable person, with a highly polished bald head,
asked me across the dinner table, if that were the first occasion of my
seeing the grounds, I could have done anything to him that was savage
and revengeful.

I don’t remember who was there, except Dora. I have not the least idea
what we had for dinner, besides Dora. My impression is, that I dined off
Dora, entirely, and sent away half-a-dozen plates untouched. I sat next
to her. I talked to her. She had the most delightful little voice, the
gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little
ways, that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. She was rather
diminutive altogether. So much the more precious, I thought.

When she went out of the room with Miss Murdstone (no other ladies
were of the party), I fell into a reverie, only disturbed by the cruel
apprehension that Miss Murdstone would disparage me to her. The amiable
creature with the polished head told me a long story, which I think was
about gardening. I think I heard him say, ‘my gardener’, several times.
I seemed to pay the deepest attention to him, but I was wandering in a
garden of Eden all the while, with Dora.

My apprehensions of being disparaged to the object of my engrossing
affection were revived when we went into the drawing-room, by the grim
and distant aspect of Miss Murdstone. But I was relieved of them in an
unexpected manner.

‘David Copperfield,’ said Miss Murdstone, beckoning me aside into a
window. ‘A word.’

I confronted Miss Murdstone alone.

‘David Copperfield,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘I need not enlarge upon
family circumstances. They are not a tempting subject.’ ‘Far from it,
ma’am,’ I returned.

‘Far from it,’ assented Miss Murdstone. ‘I do not wish to revive
the memory of past differences, or of past outrages. I have received
outrages from a person--a female I am sorry to say, for the credit of my
sex--who is not to be mentioned without scorn and disgust; and therefore
I would rather not mention her.’

I felt very fiery on my aunt’s account; but I said it would certainly be
better, if Miss Murdstone pleased, not to mention her. I could not hear
her disrespectfully mentioned, I added, without expressing my opinion in
a decided tone.

Miss Murdstone shut her eyes, and disdainfully inclined her head; then,
slowly opening her eyes, resumed:

‘David Copperfield, I shall not attempt to disguise the fact, that I
formed an unfavourable opinion of you in your childhood. It may have
been a mistaken one, or you may have ceased to justify it. That is not
in question between us now. I belong to a family remarkable, I believe,
for some firmness; and I am not the creature of circumstance or change.
I may have my opinion of you. You may have your opinion of me.’

I inclined my head, in my turn.

‘But it is not necessary,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘that these opinions
should come into collision here. Under existing circumstances, it is as
well on all accounts that they should not. As the chances of life have
brought us together again, and may bring us together on other occasions,
I would say, let us meet here as distant acquaintances. Family
circumstances are a sufficient reason for our only meeting on that
footing, and it is quite unnecessary that either of us should make the
other the subject of remark. Do you approve of this?’

‘Miss Murdstone,’ I returned, ‘I think you and Mr. Murdstone used me
very cruelly, and treated my mother with great unkindness. I shall
always think so, as long as I live. But I quite agree in what you
propose.’

Miss Murdstone shut her eyes again, and bent her head. Then, just
touching the back of my hand with the tips of her cold, stiff fingers,
she walked away, arranging the little fetters on her wrists and round
her neck; which seemed to be the same set, in exactly the same state,
as when I had seen her last. These reminded me, in reference to Miss
Murdstone’s nature, of the fetters over a jail door; suggesting on the
outside, to all beholders, what was to be expected within.

All I know of the rest of the evening is, that I heard the empress of
my heart sing enchanted ballads in the French language, generally to the
effect that, whatever was the matter, we ought always to dance, Ta ra
la, Ta ra la! accompanying herself on a glorified instrument, resembling
a guitar. That I was lost in blissful delirium. That I refused
refreshment. That my soul recoiled from punch particularly. That when
Miss Murdstone took her into custody and led her away, she smiled and
gave me her delicious hand. That I caught a view of myself in a mirror,
looking perfectly imbecile and idiotic. That I retired to bed in a most
maudlin state of mind, and got up in a crisis of feeble infatuation.

It was a fine morning, and early, and I thought I would go and take a
stroll down one of those wire-arched walks, and indulge my passion by
dwelling on her image. On my way through the hall, I encountered her
little dog, who was called Jip--short for Gipsy. I approached him
tenderly, for I loved even him; but he showed his whole set of teeth,
got under a chair expressly to snarl, and wouldn’t hear of the least
familiarity.

The garden was cool and solitary. I walked about, wondering what my
feelings of happiness would be, if I could ever become engaged to this
dear wonder. As to marriage, and fortune, and all that, I believe I was
almost as innocently undesigning then, as when I loved little Em’ly. To
be allowed to call her ‘Dora’, to write to her, to dote upon and worship
her, to have reason to think that when she was with other people she was
yet mindful of me, seemed to me the summit of human ambition--I am
sure it was the summit of mine. There is no doubt whatever that I was
a lackadaisical young spooney; but there was a purity of heart in all
this, that prevents my having quite a contemptuous recollection of it,
let me laugh as I may.

I had not been walking long, when I turned a corner, and met her. I
tingle again from head to foot as my recollection turns that corner, and
my pen shakes in my hand.

‘You--are--out early, Miss Spenlow,’ said I.

‘It’s so stupid at home,’ she replied, ‘and Miss Murdstone is so absurd!
She talks such nonsense about its being necessary for the day to be
aired, before I come out. Aired!’ (She laughed, here, in the most
melodious manner.) ‘On a Sunday morning, when I don’t practise, I must
do something. So I told papa last night I must come out. Besides, it’s
the brightest time of the whole day. Don’t you think so?’

I hazarded a bold flight, and said (not without stammering) that it
was very bright to me then, though it had been very dark to me a minute
before.

‘Do you mean a compliment?’ said Dora, ‘or that the weather has really
changed?’

I stammered worse than before, in replying that I meant no compliment,
but the plain truth; though I was not aware of any change having taken
place in the weather. It was in the state of my own feelings, I added
bashfully: to clench the explanation.

I never saw such curls--how could I, for there never were such
curls!--as those she shook out to hide her blushes. As to the straw hat
and blue ribbons which was on the top of the curls, if I could only have
hung it up in my room in Buckingham Street, what a priceless possession
it would have been!

‘You have just come home from Paris,’ said I.

‘Yes,’ said she. ‘Have you ever been there?’

‘No.’

‘Oh! I hope you’ll go soon! You would like it so much!’

Traces of deep-seated anguish appeared in my countenance. That she
should hope I would go, that she should think it possible I could go,
was insupportable. I depreciated Paris; I depreciated France. I said I
wouldn’t leave England, under existing circumstances, for any earthly
consideration. Nothing should induce me. In short, she was shaking the
curls again, when the little dog came running along the walk to our
relief.

He was mortally jealous of me, and persisted in barking at me. She took
him up in her arms--oh my goodness!--and caressed him, but he persisted
upon barking still. He wouldn’t let me touch him, when I tried; and then
she beat him. It increased my sufferings greatly to see the pats she
gave him for punishment on the bridge of his blunt nose, while he winked
his eyes, and licked her hand, and still growled within himself like a
little double-bass. At length he was quiet--well he might be with her
dimpled chin upon his head!--and we walked away to look at a greenhouse.

‘You are not very intimate with Miss Murdstone, are you?’ said Dora.
--‘My pet.’

(The two last words were to the dog. Oh, if they had only been to me!)

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not at all so.’

‘She is a tiresome creature,’ said Dora, pouting. ‘I can’t think what
papa can have been about, when he chose such a vexatious thing to be my
companion. Who wants a protector? I am sure I don’t want a protector.
Jip can protect me a great deal better than Miss Murdstone,--can’t you,
Jip, dear?’

He only winked lazily, when she kissed his ball of a head.

‘Papa calls her my confidential friend, but I am sure she is no such
thing--is she, Jip? We are not going to confide in any such cross
people, Jip and I. We mean to bestow our confidence where we like,
and to find out our own friends, instead of having them found out for
us--don’t we, Jip?’

Jip made a comfortable noise, in answer, a little like a tea-kettle when
it sings. As for me, every word was a new heap of fetters, riveted above
the last.

‘It is very hard, because we have not a kind Mama, that we are to have,
instead, a sulky, gloomy old thing like Miss Murdstone, always following
us about--isn’t it, Jip? Never mind, Jip. We won’t be confidential, and
we’ll make ourselves as happy as we can in spite of her, and we’ll tease
her, and not please her--won’t we, Jip?’

If it had lasted any longer, I think I must have gone down on my knees
on the gravel, with the probability before me of grazing them, and of
being presently ejected from the premises besides. But, by good fortune
the greenhouse was not far off, and these words brought us to it.

It contained quite a show of beautiful geraniums. We loitered along in
front of them, and Dora often stopped to admire this one or that one,
and I stopped to admire the same one, and Dora, laughing, held the dog
up childishly, to smell the flowers; and if we were not all three in
Fairyland, certainly I was. The scent of a geranium leaf, at this day,
strikes me with a half comical half serious wonder as to what change has
come over me in a moment; and then I see a straw hat and blue ribbons,
and a quantity of curls, and a little black dog being held up, in two
slender arms, against a bank of blossoms and bright leaves.

Miss Murdstone had been looking for us. She found us here; and presented
her uncongenial cheek, the little wrinkles in it filled with hair
powder, to Dora to be kissed. Then she took Dora’s arm in hers, and
marched us into breakfast as if it were a soldier’s funeral.

How many cups of tea I drank, because Dora made it, I don’t know. But,
I perfectly remember that I sat swilling tea until my whole nervous
system, if I had had any in those days, must have gone by the board. By
and by we went to church. Miss Murdstone was between Dora and me in the
pew; but I heard her sing, and the congregation vanished. A sermon was
delivered--about Dora, of course--and I am afraid that is all I know of
the service.

We had a quiet day. No company, a walk, a family dinner of four, and an
evening of looking over books and pictures; Miss Murdstone with a homily
before her, and her eye upon us, keeping guard vigilantly. Ah! little
did Mr. Spenlow imagine, when he sat opposite to me after dinner that
day, with his pocket-handkerchief over his head, how fervently I was
embracing him, in my fancy, as his son-in-law! Little did he think, when
I took leave of him at night, that he had just given his full consent to
my being engaged to Dora, and that I was invoking blessings on his head!

We departed early in the morning, for we had a Salvage case coming on in
the Admiralty Court, requiring a rather accurate knowledge of the whole
science of navigation, in which (as we couldn’t be expected to know
much about those matters in the Commons) the judge had entreated two old
Trinity Masters, for charity’s sake, to come and help him out. Dora was
at the breakfast-table to make the tea again, however; and I had the
melancholy pleasure of taking off my hat to her in the phaeton, as she
stood on the door-step with Jip in her arms.

What the Admiralty was to me that day; what nonsense I made of our case
in my mind, as I listened to it; how I saw ‘DORA’ engraved upon the
blade of the silver oar which they lay upon the table, as the emblem
of that high jurisdiction; and how I felt when Mr. Spenlow went home
without me (I had had an insane hope that he might take me back again),
as if I were a mariner myself, and the ship to which I belonged had
sailed away and left me on a desert island; I shall make no fruitless
effort to describe. If that sleepy old court could rouse itself, and
present in any visible form the daydreams I have had in it about Dora,
it would reveal my truth.

I don’t mean the dreams that I dreamed on that day alone, but day after
day, from week to week, and term to term. I went there, not to attend to
what was going on, but to think about Dora. If ever I bestowed a thought
upon the cases, as they dragged their slow length before me, it was only
to wonder, in the matrimonial cases (remembering Dora), how it was
that married people could ever be otherwise than happy; and, in the
Prerogative cases, to consider, if the money in question had been left
to me, what were the foremost steps I should immediately have taken
in regard to Dora. Within the first week of my passion, I bought four
sumptuous waistcoats--not for myself; I had no pride in them; for
Dora--and took to wearing straw-coloured kid gloves in the streets, and
laid the foundations of all the corns I have ever had. If the boots I
wore at that period could only be produced and compared with the natural
size of my feet, they would show what the state of my heart was, in a
most affecting manner.

And yet, wretched cripple as I made myself by this act of homage to
Dora, I walked miles upon miles daily in the hope of seeing her. Not
only was I soon as well known on the Norwood Road as the postmen on that
beat, but I pervaded London likewise. I walked about the streets where
the best shops for ladies were, I haunted the Bazaar like an unquiet
spirit, I fagged through the Park again and again, long after I was
quite knocked up. Sometimes, at long intervals and on rare occasions, I
saw her. Perhaps I saw her glove waved in a carriage window; perhaps I
met her, walked with her and Miss Murdstone a little way, and spoke to
her. In the latter case I was always very miserable afterwards, to think
that I had said nothing to the purpose; or that she had no idea of the
extent of my devotion, or that she cared nothing about me. I was always
looking out, as may be supposed, for another invitation to Mr. Spenlow’s
house. I was always being disappointed, for I got none.

Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of penetration; for when this
attachment was but a few weeks old, and I had not had the courage
to write more explicitly even to Agnes, than that I had been to Mr.
Spenlow’s house, ‘whose family,’ I added, ‘consists of one daughter’;--I
say Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of penetration, for, even in that
early stage, she found it out. She came up to me one evening, when I
was very low, to ask (she being then afflicted with the disorder I have
mentioned) if I could oblige her with a little tincture of cardamums
mixed with rhubarb, and flavoured with seven drops of the essence of
cloves, which was the best remedy for her complaint;--or, if I had not
such a thing by me, with a little brandy, which was the next best. It
was not, she remarked, so palatable to her, but it was the next best. As
I had never even heard of the first remedy, and always had the second in
the closet, I gave Mrs. Crupp a glass of the second, which (that I might
have no suspicion of its being devoted to any improper use) she began to
take in my presence.

‘Cheer up, sir,’ said Mrs. Crupp. ‘I can’t abear to see you so, sir: I’m
a mother myself.’

I did not quite perceive the application of this fact to myself, but I
smiled on Mrs. Crupp, as benignly as was in my power.

‘Come, sir,’ said Mrs. Crupp. ‘Excuse me. I know what it is, sir.
There’s a lady in the case.’

‘Mrs. Crupp?’ I returned, reddening.

‘Oh, bless you! Keep a good heart, sir!’ said Mrs. Crupp, nodding
encouragement. ‘Never say die, sir! If She don’t smile upon you,
there’s a many as will. You are a young gentleman to be smiled on, Mr.
Copperfull, and you must learn your walue, sir.’

Mrs. Crupp always called me Mr. Copperfull: firstly, no doubt, because
it was not my name; and secondly, I am inclined to think, in some
indistinct association with a washing-day.

‘What makes you suppose there is any young lady in the case, Mrs.
Crupp?’ said I.

‘Mr. Copperfull,’ said Mrs. Crupp, with a great deal of feeling, ‘I’m a
mother myself.’

For some time Mrs. Crupp could only lay her hand upon her nankeen bosom,
and fortify herself against returning pain with sips of her medicine. At
length she spoke again.

‘When the present set were took for you by your dear aunt, Mr.
Copperfull,’ said Mrs. Crupp, ‘my remark were, I had now found summun
I could care for. “Thank Ev’in!” were the expression, “I have now found
summun I can care for!”--You don’t eat enough, sir, nor yet drink.’

‘Is that what you found your supposition on, Mrs. Crupp?’ said I.

‘Sir,’ said Mrs. Crupp, in a tone approaching to severity, ‘I’ve
laundressed other young gentlemen besides yourself. A young gentleman
may be over-careful of himself, or he may be under-careful of himself.
He may brush his hair too regular, or too un-regular. He may wear his
boots much too large for him, or much too small. That is according as
the young gentleman has his original character formed. But let him go to
which extreme he may, sir, there’s a young lady in both of ‘em.’

Mrs. Crupp shook her head in such a determined manner, that I had not an
inch of vantage-ground left.

‘It was but the gentleman which died here before yourself,’ said Mrs.
Crupp, ‘that fell in love--with a barmaid--and had his waistcoats took
in directly, though much swelled by drinking.’

‘Mrs. Crupp,’ said I, ‘I must beg you not to connect the young lady in
my case with a barmaid, or anything of that sort, if you please.’

‘Mr. Copperfull,’ returned Mrs. Crupp, ‘I’m a mother myself, and not
likely. I ask your pardon, sir, if I intrude. I should never wish to
intrude where I were not welcome. But you are a young gentleman, Mr.
Copperfull, and my adwice to you is, to cheer up, sir, to keep a good
heart, and to know your own walue. If you was to take to something,
sir,’ said Mrs. Crupp, ‘if you was to take to skittles, now, which is
healthy, you might find it divert your mind, and do you good.’

With these words, Mrs. Crupp, affecting to be very careful of the
brandy--which was all gone--thanked me with a majestic curtsey, and
retired. As her figure disappeared into the gloom of the entry, this
counsel certainly presented itself to my mind in the light of a slight
liberty on Mrs. Crupp’s part; but, at the same time, I was content
to receive it, in another point of view, as a word to the wise, and a
warning in future to keep my secret better.



CHAPTER 27. TOMMY TRADDLES


It may have been in consequence of Mrs. Crupp’s advice, and, perhaps,
for no better reason than because there was a certain similarity in the
sound of the word skittles and Traddles, that it came into my head, next
day, to go and look after Traddles. The time he had mentioned was more
than out, and he lived in a little street near the Veterinary College
at Camden Town, which was principally tenanted, as one of our clerks who
lived in that direction informed me, by gentlemen students, who bought
live donkeys, and made experiments on those quadrupeds in their private
apartments. Having obtained from this clerk a direction to the academic
grove in question, I set out, the same afternoon, to visit my old
schoolfellow.

I found that the street was not as desirable a one as I could have
wished it to be, for the sake of Traddles. The inhabitants appeared to
have a propensity to throw any little trifles they were not in want of,
into the road: which not only made it rank and sloppy, but untidy too,
on account of the cabbage-leaves. The refuse was not wholly vegetable
either, for I myself saw a shoe, a doubled-up saucepan, a black bonnet,
and an umbrella, in various stages of decomposition, as I was looking
out for the number I wanted.

The general air of the place reminded me forcibly of the days when I
lived with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. An indescribable character of faded
gentility that attached to the house I sought, and made it unlike
all the other houses in the street--though they were all built on one
monotonous pattern, and looked like the early copies of a blundering boy
who was learning to make houses, and had not yet got out of his cramped
brick-and-mortar pothooks--reminded me still more of Mr. and Mrs.
Micawber. Happening to arrive at the door as it was opened to the
afternoon milkman, I was reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber more forcibly
yet.

‘Now,’ said the milkman to a very youthful servant girl. ‘Has that there
little bill of mine been heerd on?’

‘Oh, master says he’ll attend to it immediate,’ was the reply.

‘Because,’ said the milkman, going on as if he had received no answer,
and speaking, as I judged from his tone, rather for the edification of
somebody within the house, than of the youthful servant--an
impression which was strengthened by his manner of glaring down the
passage--‘because that there little bill has been running so long, that
I begin to believe it’s run away altogether, and never won’t be heerd
of. Now, I’m not a going to stand it, you know!’ said the milkman, still
throwing his voice into the house, and glaring down the passage.

As to his dealing in the mild article of milk, by the by, there never
was a greater anomaly. His deportment would have been fierce in a
butcher or a brandy-merchant.

The voice of the youthful servant became faint, but she seemed to me,
from the action of her lips, again to murmur that it would be attended
to immediate.

‘I tell you what,’ said the milkman, looking hard at her for the first
time, and taking her by the chin, ‘are you fond of milk?’

‘Yes, I likes it,’ she replied. ‘Good,’ said the milkman. ‘Then you
won’t have none tomorrow. D’ye hear? Not a fragment of milk you won’t
have tomorrow.’

I thought she seemed, upon the whole, relieved by the prospect of having
any today. The milkman, after shaking his head at her darkly, released
her chin, and with anything rather than good-will opened his can, and
deposited the usual quantity in the family jug. This done, he went away,
muttering, and uttered the cry of his trade next door, in a vindictive
shriek.

‘Does Mr. Traddles live here?’ I then inquired.

A mysterious voice from the end of the passage replied ‘Yes.’ Upon which
the youthful servant replied ‘Yes.’

‘Is he at home?’ said I.

Again the mysterious voice replied in the affirmative, and again the
servant echoed it. Upon this, I walked in, and in pursuance of the
servant’s directions walked upstairs; conscious, as I passed the
back parlour-door, that I was surveyed by a mysterious eye, probably
belonging to the mysterious voice.

When I got to the top of the stairs--the house was only a story high
above the ground floor--Traddles was on the landing to meet me. He was
delighted to see me, and gave me welcome, with great heartiness, to
his little room. It was in the front of the house, and extremely neat,
though sparely furnished. It was his only room, I saw; for there was a
sofa-bedstead in it, and his blacking-brushes and blacking were among
his books--on the top shelf, behind a dictionary. His table was covered
with papers, and he was hard at work in an old coat. I looked at
nothing, that I know of, but I saw everything, even to the prospect of
a church upon his china inkstand, as I sat down--and this, too, was a
faculty confirmed in me in the old Micawber times. Various ingenious
arrangements he had made, for the disguise of his chest of drawers,
and the accommodation of his boots, his shaving-glass, and so forth,
particularly impressed themselves upon me, as evidences of the same
Traddles who used to make models of elephants’ dens in writing-paper to
put flies in; and to comfort himself under ill usage, with the memorable
works of art I have so often mentioned.

In a corner of the room was something neatly covered up with a large
white cloth. I could not make out what that was.

‘Traddles,’ said I, shaking hands with him again, after I had sat down,
‘I am delighted to see you.’

‘I am delighted to see YOU, Copperfield,’ he returned. ‘I am very glad
indeed to see you. It was because I was thoroughly glad to see you when
we met in Ely Place, and was sure you were thoroughly glad to see me,
that I gave you this address instead of my address at chambers.’ ‘Oh!
You have chambers?’ said I.

‘Why, I have the fourth of a room and a passage, and the fourth of a
clerk,’ returned Traddles. ‘Three others and myself unite to have a
set of chambers--to look business-like--and we quarter the clerk too.
Half-a-crown a week he costs me.’

His old simple character and good temper, and something of his old
unlucky fortune also, I thought, smiled at me in the smile with which he
made this explanation.

‘It’s not because I have the least pride, Copperfield, you understand,’
said Traddles, ‘that I don’t usually give my address here. It’s only on
account of those who come to me, who might not like to come here. For
myself, I am fighting my way on in the world against difficulties, and
it would be ridiculous if I made a pretence of doing anything else.’

‘You are reading for the bar, Mr. Waterbrook informed me?’ said I.

‘Why, yes,’ said Traddles, rubbing his hands slowly over one another. ‘I
am reading for the bar. The fact is, I have just begun to keep my terms,
after rather a long delay. It’s some time since I was articled, but the
payment of that hundred pounds was a great pull. A great pull!’ said
Traddles, with a wince, as if he had had a tooth out.

‘Do you know what I can’t help thinking of, Traddles, as I sit here
looking at you?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ said he.

‘That sky-blue suit you used to wear.’

‘Lord, to be sure!’ cried Traddles, laughing. ‘Tight in the arms and
legs, you know? Dear me! Well! Those were happy times, weren’t they?’

‘I think our schoolmaster might have made them happier, without doing
any harm to any of us, I acknowledge,’ I returned.

‘Perhaps he might,’ said Traddles. ‘But dear me, there was a good deal
of fun going on. Do you remember the nights in the bedroom? When we used
to have the suppers? And when you used to tell the stories? Ha, ha,
ha! And do you remember when I got caned for crying about Mr. Mell? Old
Creakle! I should like to see him again, too!’

‘He was a brute to you, Traddles,’ said I, indignantly; for his good
humour made me feel as if I had seen him beaten but yesterday.

‘Do you think so?’ returned Traddles. ‘Really? Perhaps he was rather.
But it’s all over, a long while. Old Creakle!’

‘You were brought up by an uncle, then?’ said I.

‘Of course I was!’ said Traddles. ‘The one I was always going to write
to. And always didn’t, eh! Ha, ha, ha! Yes, I had an uncle then. He died
soon after I left school.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Yes. He was a retired--what do you call
it!--draper--cloth-merchant--and had made me his heir. But he didn’t
like me when I grew up.’

‘Do you really mean that?’ said I. He was so composed, that I fancied he
must have some other meaning.

‘Oh dear, yes, Copperfield! I mean it,’ replied Traddles. ‘It was an
unfortunate thing, but he didn’t like me at all. He said I wasn’t at all
what he expected, and so he married his housekeeper.’

‘And what did you do?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t do anything in particular,’ said Traddles. ‘I lived with them,
waiting to be put out in the world, until his gout unfortunately flew
to his stomach--and so he died, and so she married a young man, and so I
wasn’t provided for.’

‘Did you get nothing, Traddles, after all?’

‘Oh dear, yes!’ said Traddles. ‘I got fifty pounds. I had never been
brought up to any profession, and at first I was at a loss what to
do for myself. However, I began, with the assistance of the son of a
professional man, who had been to Salem House--Yawler, with his nose on
one side. Do you recollect him?’

No. He had not been there with me; all the noses were straight in my
day.

‘It don’t matter,’ said Traddles. ‘I began, by means of his assistance,
to copy law writings. That didn’t answer very well; and then I began to
state cases for them, and make abstracts, and that sort of work. For
I am a plodding kind of fellow, Copperfield, and had learnt the way of
doing such things pithily. Well! That put it in my head to enter myself
as a law student; and that ran away with all that was left of the fifty
pounds. Yawler recommended me to one or two other offices, however--Mr.
Waterbrook’s for one--and I got a good many jobs. I was fortunate
enough, too, to become acquainted with a person in the publishing way,
who was getting up an Encyclopaedia, and he set me to work; and, indeed’
(glancing at his table), ‘I am at work for him at this minute. I am not
a bad compiler, Copperfield,’ said Traddles, preserving the same air of
cheerful confidence in all he said, ‘but I have no invention at all; not
a particle. I suppose there never was a young man with less originality
than I have.’

As Traddles seemed to expect that I should assent to this as a matter
of course, I nodded; and he went on, with the same sprightly patience--I
can find no better expression--as before.

‘So, by little and little, and not living high, I managed to scrape up
the hundred pounds at last,’ said Traddles; ‘and thank Heaven that’s
paid--though it was--though it certainly was,’ said Traddles, wincing
again as if he had had another tooth out, ‘a pull. I am living by the
sort of work I have mentioned, still, and I hope, one of these days, to
get connected with some newspaper: which would almost be the making of
my fortune. Now, Copperfield, you are so exactly what you used to
be, with that agreeable face, and it’s so pleasant to see you, that I
sha’n’t conceal anything. Therefore you must know that I am engaged.’

Engaged! Oh, Dora!

‘She is a curate’s daughter,’ said Traddles; ‘one of ten, down in
Devonshire. Yes!’ For he saw me glance, involuntarily, at the prospect
on the inkstand. ‘That’s the church! You come round here to the left,
out of this gate,’ tracing his finger along the inkstand, ‘and exactly
where I hold this pen, there stands the house--facing, you understand,
towards the church.’

The delight with which he entered into these particulars, did not fully
present itself to me until afterwards; for my selfish thoughts were
making a ground-plan of Mr. Spenlow’s house and garden at the same
moment.

‘She is such a dear girl!’ said Traddles; ‘a little older than me, but
the dearest girl! I told you I was going out of town? I have been down
there. I walked there, and I walked back, and I had the most delightful
time! I dare say ours is likely to be a rather long engagement, but our
motto is “Wait and hope!” We always say that. “Wait and hope,” we always
say. And she would wait, Copperfield, till she was sixty--any age you
can mention--for me!’

Traddles rose from his chair, and, with a triumphant smile, put his hand
upon the white cloth I had observed.

‘However,’ he said, ‘it’s not that we haven’t made a beginning towards
housekeeping. No, no; we have begun. We must get on by degrees, but we
have begun. Here,’ drawing the cloth off with great pride and care, ‘are
two pieces of furniture to commence with. This flower-pot and stand,
she bought herself. You put that in a parlour window,’ said Traddles,
falling a little back from it to survey it with the greater admiration,
‘with a plant in it, and--and there you are! This little round table
with the marble top (it’s two feet ten in circumference), I bought. You
want to lay a book down, you know, or somebody comes to see you or your
wife, and wants a place to stand a cup of tea upon, and--and there you
are again!’ said Traddles. ‘It’s an admirable piece of workmanship--firm
as a rock!’ I praised them both, highly, and Traddles replaced the
covering as carefully as he had removed it.

‘It’s not a great deal towards the furnishing,’ said Traddles, ‘but
it’s something. The table-cloths, and pillow-cases, and articles of
that kind, are what discourage me most, Copperfield. So does
the ironmongery--candle-boxes, and gridirons, and that sort of
necessaries--because those things tell, and mount up. However, “wait and
hope!” And I assure you she’s the dearest girl!’

‘I am quite certain of it,’ said I.

‘In the meantime,’ said Traddles, coming back to his chair; ‘and this is
the end of my prosing about myself, I get on as well as I can. I don’t
make much, but I don’t spend much. In general, I board with the people
downstairs, who are very agreeable people indeed. Both Mr. and Mrs.
Micawber have seen a good deal of life, and are excellent company.’

‘My dear Traddles!’ I quickly exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about?’

Traddles looked at me, as if he wondered what I was talking about.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!’ I repeated. ‘Why, I am intimately acquainted
with them!’

An opportune double knock at the door, which I knew well from old
experience in Windsor Terrace, and which nobody but Mr. Micawber could
ever have knocked at that door, resolved any doubt in my mind as to
their being my old friends. I begged Traddles to ask his landlord
to walk up. Traddles accordingly did so, over the banister; and Mr.
Micawber, not a bit changed--his tights, his stick, his shirt-collar,
and his eye-glass, all the same as ever--came into the room with a
genteel and youthful air.

‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Traddles,’ said Mr. Micawber, with the old roll
in his voice, as he checked himself in humming a soft tune. ‘I was not
aware that there was any individual, alien to this tenement, in your
sanctum.’

Mr. Micawber slightly bowed to me, and pulled up his shirt-collar.

‘How do you do, Mr. Micawber?’ said I.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘you are exceedingly obliging. I am in statu
quo.’

‘And Mrs. Micawber?’ I pursued.

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘she is also, thank God, in statu quo.’

‘And the children, Mr. Micawber?’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I rejoice to reply that they are, likewise,
in the enjoyment of salubrity.’

All this time, Mr. Micawber had not known me in the least, though he
had stood face to face with me. But now, seeing me smile, he examined my
features with more attention, fell back, cried, ‘Is it possible! Have I
the pleasure of again beholding Copperfield!’ and shook me by both hands
with the utmost fervour.

‘Good Heaven, Mr. Traddles!’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘to think that I should
find you acquainted with the friend of my youth, the companion of
earlier days! My dear!’ calling over the banisters to Mrs. Micawber,
while Traddles looked (with reason) not a little amazed at this
description of me. ‘Here is a gentleman in Mr. Traddles’s apartment,
whom he wishes to have the pleasure of presenting to you, my love!’

Mr. Micawber immediately reappeared, and shook hands with me again.

‘And how is our good friend the Doctor, Copperfield?’ said Mr. Micawber,
‘and all the circle at Canterbury?’

‘I have none but good accounts of them,’ said I.

‘I am most delighted to hear it,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘It was at
Canterbury where we last met. Within the shadow, I may figuratively say,
of that religious edifice immortalized by Chaucer, which was anciently
the resort of Pilgrims from the remotest corners of--in short,’ said Mr.
Micawber, ‘in the immediate neighbourhood of the Cathedral.’

I replied that it was. Mr. Micawber continued talking as volubly as he
could; but not, I thought, without showing, by some marks of concern in
his countenance, that he was sensible of sounds in the next room, as
of Mrs. Micawber washing her hands, and hurriedly opening and shutting
drawers that were uneasy in their action.

‘You find us, Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, with one eye on Traddles,
‘at present established, on what may be designated as a small and
unassuming scale; but, you are aware that I have, in the course of my
career, surmounted difficulties, and conquered obstacles. You are no
stranger to the fact, that there have been periods of my life, when it
has been requisite that I should pause, until certain expected events
should turn up; when it has been necessary that I should fall back,
before making what I trust I shall not be accused of presumption in
terming--a spring. The present is one of those momentous stages in the
life of man. You find me, fallen back, FOR a spring; and I have every
reason to believe that a vigorous leap will shortly be the result.’

I was expressing my satisfaction, when Mrs. Micawber came in; a little
more slatternly than she used to be, or so she seemed now, to my
unaccustomed eyes, but still with some preparation of herself for
company, and with a pair of brown gloves on.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, leading her towards me, ‘here is
a gentleman of the name of Copperfield, who wishes to renew his
acquaintance with you.’

It would have been better, as it turned out, to have led gently up
to this announcement, for Mrs. Micawber, being in a delicate state of
health, was overcome by it, and was taken so unwell, that Mr. Micawber
was obliged, in great trepidation, to run down to the water-butt in
the backyard, and draw a basinful to lave her brow with. She
presently revived, however, and was really pleased to see me. We had
half-an-hour’s talk, all together; and I asked her about the twins,
who, she said, were ‘grown great creatures’; and after Master and Miss
Micawber, whom she described as ‘absolute giants’, but they were not
produced on that occasion.

Mr. Micawber was very anxious that I should stay to dinner. I should not
have been averse to do so, but that I imagined I detected trouble, and
calculation relative to the extent of the cold meat, in Mrs. Micawber’s
eye. I therefore pleaded another engagement; and observing that Mrs.
Micawber’s spirits were immediately lightened, I resisted all persuasion
to forego it.

But I told Traddles, and Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, that before I could
think of leaving, they must appoint a day when they would come and dine
with me. The occupations to which Traddles stood pledged, rendered it
necessary to fix a somewhat distant one; but an appointment was made for
the purpose, that suited us all, and then I took my leave.

Mr. Micawber, under pretence of showing me a nearer way than that by
which I had come, accompanied me to the corner of the street; being
anxious (he explained to me) to say a few words to an old friend, in
confidence.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I need hardly tell you that
to have beneath our roof, under existing circumstances, a mind like that
which gleams--if I may be allowed the expression--which gleams--in your
friend Traddles, is an unspeakable comfort. With a washerwoman, who
exposes hard-bake for sale in her parlour-window, dwelling next door,
and a Bow-street officer residing over the way, you may imagine that his
society is a source of consolation to myself and to Mrs. Micawber. I
am at present, my dear Copperfield, engaged in the sale of corn upon
commission. It is not an avocation of a remunerative description--in
other words, it does not pay--and some temporary embarrassments of a
pecuniary nature have been the consequence. I am, however, delighted to
add that I have now an immediate prospect of something turning up (I am
not at liberty to say in what direction), which I trust will enable me
to provide, permanently, both for myself and for your friend Traddles,
in whom I have an unaffected interest. You may, perhaps, be prepared
to hear that Mrs. Micawber is in a state of health which renders it
not wholly improbable that an addition may be ultimately made to those
pledges of affection which--in short, to the infantine group. Mrs.
Micawber’s family have been so good as to express their dissatisfaction
at this state of things. I have merely to observe, that I am not aware
that it is any business of theirs, and that I repel that exhibition of
feeling with scorn, and with defiance!’

Mr. Micawber then shook hands with me again, and left me.



CHAPTER 28. Mr. MICAWBER’S GAUNTLET


Until the day arrived on which I was to entertain my newly-found
old friends, I lived principally on Dora and coffee. In my love-lorn
condition, my appetite languished; and I was glad of it, for I felt
as though it would have been an act of perfidy towards Dora to have a
natural relish for my dinner. The quantity of walking exercise I took,
was not in this respect attended with its usual consequence, as the
disappointment counteracted the fresh air. I have my doubts, too,
founded on the acute experience acquired at this period of my life,
whether a sound enjoyment of animal food can develop itself freely in
any human subject who is always in torment from tight boots. I think
the extremities require to be at peace before the stomach will conduct
itself with vigour.

On the occasion of this domestic little party, I did not repeat my
former extensive preparations. I merely provided a pair of soles,
a small leg of mutton, and a pigeon-pie. Mrs. Crupp broke out into
rebellion on my first bashful hint in reference to the cooking of the
fish and joint, and said, with a dignified sense of injury, ‘No! No,
sir! You will not ask me sich a thing, for you are better acquainted
with me than to suppose me capable of doing what I cannot do with ampial
satisfaction to my own feelings!’ But, in the end, a compromise was
effected; and Mrs. Crupp consented to achieve this feat, on condition
that I dined from home for a fortnight afterwards.

And here I may remark, that what I underwent from Mrs. Crupp, in
consequence of the tyranny she established over me, was dreadful. I
never was so much afraid of anyone. We made a compromise of everything.
If I hesitated, she was taken with that wonderful disorder which was
always lying in ambush in her system, ready, at the shortest notice, to
prey upon her vitals. If I rang the bell impatiently, after half-a-dozen
unavailing modest pulls, and she appeared at last--which was not by any
means to be relied upon--she would appear with a reproachful aspect,
sink breathless on a chair near the door, lay her hand upon her nankeen
bosom, and become so ill, that I was glad, at any sacrifice of brandy or
anything else, to get rid of her. If I objected to having my bed made at
five o’clock in the afternoon--which I do still think an uncomfortable
arrangement--one motion of her hand towards the same nankeen region of
wounded sensibility was enough to make me falter an apology. In short,
I would have done anything in an honourable way rather than give Mrs.
Crupp offence; and she was the terror of my life.

I bought a second-hand dumb-waiter for this dinner-party, in preference
to re-engaging the handy young man; against whom I had conceived a
prejudice, in consequence of meeting him in the Strand, one Sunday
morning, in a waistcoat remarkably like one of mine, which had been
missing since the former occasion. The ‘young gal’ was re-engaged; but
on the stipulation that she should only bring in the dishes, and then
withdraw to the landing-place, beyond the outer door; where a habit of
sniffing she had contracted would be lost upon the guests, and where her
retiring on the plates would be a physical impossibility.

Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punch, to be compounded
by Mr. Micawber; having provided a bottle of lavender-water, two
wax-candles, a paper of mixed pins, and a pincushion, to assist Mrs.
Micawber in her toilette at my dressing-table; having also caused the
fire in my bedroom to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber’s convenience; and
having laid the cloth with my own hands, I awaited the result with
composure.

At the appointed time, my three visitors arrived together. Mr. Micawber
with more shirt-collar than usual, and a new ribbon to his eye-glass;
Mrs. Micawber with her cap in a whitey-brown paper parcel; Traddles
carrying the parcel, and supporting Mrs. Micawber on his arm. They were
all delighted with my residence. When I conducted Mrs. Micawber to my
dressing-table, and she saw the scale on which it was prepared for her,
she was in such raptures, that she called Mr. Micawber to come in and
look.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘this is luxurious. This is a
way of life which reminds me of the period when I was myself in a state
of celibacy, and Mrs. Micawber had not yet been solicited to plight her
faith at the Hymeneal altar.’

‘He means, solicited by him, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber,
archly. ‘He cannot answer for others.’

‘My dear,’ returned Mr. Micawber with sudden seriousness, ‘I have no
desire to answer for others. I am too well aware that when, in the
inscrutable decrees of Fate, you were reserved for me, it is possible
you may have been reserved for one, destined, after a protracted
struggle, at length to fall a victim to pecuniary involvements of a
complicated nature. I understand your allusion, my love. I regret it,
but I can bear it.’

‘Micawber!’ exclaimed Mrs. Micawber, in tears. ‘Have I deserved this! I,
who never have deserted you; who never WILL desert you, Micawber!’ ‘My
love,’ said Mr. Micawber, much affected, ‘you will forgive, and our old
and tried friend Copperfield will, I am sure, forgive, the momentary
laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent collision
with the Minion of Power--in other words, with a ribald Turncock
attached to the water-works--and will pity, not condemn, its excesses.’

Mr. Micawber then embraced Mrs. Micawber, and pressed my hand; leaving
me to infer from this broken allusion that his domestic supply of
water had been cut off that afternoon, in consequence of default in the
payment of the company’s rates.

To divert his thoughts from this melancholy subject, I informed Mr.
Micawber that I relied upon him for a bowl of punch, and led him to
the lemons. His recent despondency, not to say despair, was gone in a
moment. I never saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance
of lemon-peel and sugar, the odour of burning rum, and the steam of
boiling water, as Mr. Micawber did that afternoon. It was wonderful to
see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud of these delicate fumes,
as he stirred, and mixed, and tasted, and looked as if he were making,
instead of punch, a fortune for his family down to the latest posterity.
As to Mrs. Micawber, I don’t know whether it was the effect of the cap,
or the lavender-water, or the pins, or the fire, or the wax-candles, but
she came out of my room, comparatively speaking, lovely. And the lark
was never gayer than that excellent woman.

I suppose--I never ventured to inquire, but I suppose--that Mrs. Crupp,
after frying the soles, was taken ill. Because we broke down at that
point. The leg of mutton came up very red within, and very pale without:
besides having a foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over
it, as if if had had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen
fireplace. But we were not in condition to judge of this fact from the
appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as the ‘young gal’ had dropped it all
upon the stairs--where it remained, by the by, in a long train, until it
was worn out. The pigeon-pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie: the
crust being like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full
of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath. In short, the
banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite unhappy--about
the failure, I mean, for I was always unhappy about Dora--if I had not
been relieved by the great good humour of my company, and by a bright
suggestion from Mr. Micawber.

‘My dear friend Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘accidents will occur
in the best-regulated families; and in families not regulated by that
pervading influence which sanctifies while it enhances the--a--I would
say, in short, by the influence of Woman, in the lofty character of
Wife, they may be expected with confidence, and must be borne with
philosophy. If you will allow me to take the liberty of remarking that
there are few comestibles better, in their way, than a Devil, and that
I believe, with a little division of labour, we could accomplish a good
one if the young person in attendance could produce a gridiron, I would
put it to you, that this little misfortune may be easily repaired.’

There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my morning rasher of
bacon was cooked. We had it in, in a twinkling, and immediately applied
ourselves to carrying Mr. Micawber’s idea into effect. The division of
labour to which he had referred was this:--Traddles cut the mutton into
slices; Mr. Micawber (who could do anything of this sort to perfection)
covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne; I put them on
the gridiron, turned them with a fork, and took them off, under Mr.
Micawber’s direction; and Mrs. Micawber heated, and continually stirred,
some mushroom ketchup in a little saucepan. When we had slices enough
done to begin upon, we fell-to, with our sleeves still tucked up at the
wrist, more slices sputtering and blazing on the fire, and our attention
divided between the mutton on our plates, and the mutton then preparing.

What with the novelty of this cookery, the excellence of it, the bustle
of it, the frequent starting up to look after it, the frequent sitting
down to dispose of it as the crisp slices came off the gridiron hot and
hot, the being so busy, so flushed with the fire, so amused, and in the
midst of such a tempting noise and savour, we reduced the leg of mutton
to the bone. My own appetite came back miraculously. I am ashamed to
record it, but I really believe I forgot Dora for a little while. I am
satisfied that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber could not have enjoyed the
feast more, if they had sold a bed to provide it. Traddles laughed as
heartily, almost the whole time, as he ate and worked. Indeed we all
did, all at once; and I dare say there was never a greater success.

We were at the height of our enjoyment, and were all busily engaged, in
our several departments, endeavouring to bring the last batch of slices
to a state of perfection that should crown the feast, when I was aware
of a strange presence in the room, and my eyes encountered those of the
staid Littimer, standing hat in hand before me.

‘What’s the matter?’ I involuntarily asked.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, I was directed to come in. Is my master not
here, sir?’

‘No.’

‘Have you not seen him, sir?’

‘No; don’t you come from him?’

‘Not immediately so, sir.’

‘Did he tell you you would find him here?’

‘Not exactly so, sir. But I should think he might be here tomorrow, as
he has not been here today.’ ‘Is he coming up from Oxford?’

‘I beg, sir,’ he returned respectfully, ‘that you will be seated, and
allow me to do this.’ With which he took the fork from my unresisting
hand, and bent over the gridiron, as if his whole attention were
concentrated on it.

We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say, by the appearance
of Steerforth himself, but we became in a moment the meekest of the meek
before his respectable serving-man. Mr. Micawber, humming a tune, to
show that he was quite at ease, subsided into his chair, with the handle
of a hastily concealed fork sticking out of the bosom of his coat, as
if he had stabbed himself. Mrs. Micawber put on her brown gloves, and
assumed a genteel languor. Traddles ran his greasy hands through
his hair, and stood it bolt upright, and stared in confusion on the
table-cloth. As for me, I was a mere infant at the head of my own table;
and hardly ventured to glance at the respectable phenomenon, who had
come from Heaven knows where, to put my establishment to rights.

Meanwhile he took the mutton off the gridiron, and gravely handed it
round. We all took some, but our appreciation of it was gone, and we
merely made a show of eating it. As we severally pushed away our plates,
he noiselessly removed them, and set on the cheese. He took that off,
too, when it was done with; cleared the table; piled everything on the
dumb-waiter; gave us our wine-glasses; and, of his own accord, wheeled
the dumb-waiter into the pantry. All this was done in a perfect manner,
and he never raised his eyes from what he was about. Yet his very
elbows, when he had his back towards me, seemed to teem with the
expression of his fixed opinion that I was extremely young.

‘Can I do anything more, sir?’

I thanked him and said, No; but would he take no dinner himself?

‘None, I am obliged to you, sir.’

‘Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?’

‘I should imagine that he might be here tomorrow, sir. I rather thought
he might have been here today, sir. The mistake is mine, no doubt, sir.’

‘If you should see him first--’ said I.

‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I don’t think I shall see him first.’

‘In case you do,’ said I, ‘pray say that I am sorry he was not here
today, as an old schoolfellow of his was here.’

‘Indeed, sir!’ and he divided a bow between me and Traddles, with a
glance at the latter.

He was moving softly to the door, when, in a forlorn hope of saying
something naturally--which I never could, to this man--I said:

‘Oh! Littimer!’

‘Sir!’

‘Did you remain long at Yarmouth, that time?’

‘Not particularly so, sir.’

‘You saw the boat completed?’

‘Yes, sir. I remained behind on purpose to see the boat completed.’

‘I know!’ He raised his eyes to mine respectfully.

‘Mr. Steerforth has not seen it yet, I suppose?’

‘I really can’t say, sir. I think--but I really can’t say, sir. I wish
you good night, sir.’

He comprehended everybody present, in the respectful bow with which he
followed these words, and disappeared. My visitors seemed to breathe
more freely when he was gone; but my own relief was very great, for
besides the constraint, arising from that extraordinary sense of
being at a disadvantage which I always had in this man’s presence, my
conscience had embarrassed me with whispers that I had mistrusted his
master, and I could not repress a vague uneasy dread that he might
find it out. How was it, having so little in reality to conceal, that I
always DID feel as if this man were finding me out?

Mr. Micawber roused me from this reflection, which was blended with
a certain remorseful apprehension of seeing Steerforth himself, by
bestowing many encomiums on the absent Littimer as a most respectable
fellow, and a thoroughly admirable servant. Mr. Micawber, I may remark,
had taken his full share of the general bow, and had received it with
infinite condescension.

‘But punch, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, tasting it, ‘like
time and tide, waits for no man. Ah! it is at the present moment in high
flavour. My love, will you give me your opinion?’

Mrs. Micawber pronounced it excellent.

‘Then I will drink,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘if my friend Copperfield
will permit me to take that social liberty, to the days when my friend
Copperfield and myself were younger, and fought our way in the world
side by side. I may say, of myself and Copperfield, in words we have
sung together before now, that

    We twa hae run about the braes
    And pu’d the gowans’ fine
--in a figurative point of view--on several occasions. I am not exactly
aware,’ said Mr. Micawber, with the old roll in his voice, and the old
indescribable air of saying something genteel, ‘what gowans may be, but
I have no doubt that Copperfield and myself would frequently have taken
a pull at them, if it had been feasible.’

Mr. Micawber, at the then present moment, took a pull at his punch. So
we all did: Traddles evidently lost in wondering at what distant time
Mr. Micawber and I could have been comrades in the battle of the world.

‘Ahem!’ said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat, and warming with the
punch and with the fire. ‘My dear, another glass?’

Mrs. Micawber said it must be very little; but we couldn’t allow that,
so it was a glassful.

‘As we are quite confidential here, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, sipping her punch, ‘Mr. Traddles being a part of our
domesticity, I should much like to have your opinion on Mr. Micawber’s
prospects. For corn,’ said Mrs. Micawber argumentatively, ‘as I have
repeatedly said to Mr. Micawber, may be gentlemanly, but it is not
remunerative. Commission to the extent of two and ninepence in
a fortnight cannot, however limited our ideas, be considered
remunerative.’

We were all agreed upon that.

‘Then,’ said Mrs. Micawber, who prided herself on taking a clear view of
things, and keeping Mr. Micawber straight by her woman’s wisdom, when he
might otherwise go a little crooked, ‘then I ask myself this question.
If corn is not to be relied upon, what is? Are coals to be relied upon?
Not at all. We have turned our attention to that experiment, on the
suggestion of my family, and we find it fallacious.’

Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets,
eyed us aside, and nodded his head, as much as to say that the case was
very clearly put.

‘The articles of corn and coals,’ said Mrs. Micawber, still more
argumentatively, ‘being equally out of the question, Mr. Copperfield,
I naturally look round the world, and say, “What is there in which a
person of Mr. Micawber’s talent is likely to succeed?” And I exclude
the doing anything on commission, because commission is not a certainty.
What is best suited to a person of Mr. Micawber’s peculiar temperament
is, I am convinced, a certainty.’

Traddles and I both expressed, by a feeling murmur, that this great
discovery was no doubt true of Mr. Micawber, and that it did him much
credit.

‘I will not conceal from you, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, ‘that I have long felt the Brewing business to be particularly
adapted to Mr. Micawber. Look at Barclay and Perkins! Look at Truman,
Hanbury, and Buxton! It is on that extensive footing that Mr. Micawber,
I know from my own knowledge of him, is calculated to shine; and the
profits, I am told, are e-NOR-MOUS! But if Mr. Micawber cannot get into
those firms--which decline to answer his letters, when he offers his
services even in an inferior capacity--what is the use of dwelling upon
that idea? None. I may have a conviction that Mr. Micawber’s manners--’

‘Hem! Really, my dear,’ interposed Mr. Micawber.

‘My love, be silent,’ said Mrs. Micawber, laying her brown glove on his
hand. ‘I may have a conviction, Mr. Copperfield, that Mr. Micawber’s
manners peculiarly qualify him for the Banking business. I may argue
within myself, that if I had a deposit at a banking-house, the manners
of Mr. Micawber, as representing that banking-house, would inspire
confidence, and must extend the connexion. But if the various
banking-houses refuse to avail themselves of Mr. Micawber’s abilities,
or receive the offer of them with contumely, what is the use of dwelling
upon THAT idea? None. As to originating a banking-business, I may know
that there are members of my family who, if they chose to place their
money in Mr. Micawber’s hands, might found an establishment of that
description. But if they do NOT choose to place their money in Mr.
Micawber’s hands--which they don’t--what is the use of that? Again I
contend that we are no farther advanced than we were before.’

I shook my head, and said, ‘Not a bit.’ Traddles also shook his head,
and said, ‘Not a bit.’

‘What do I deduce from this?’ Mrs. Micawber went on to say, still with
the same air of putting a case lucidly. ‘What is the conclusion, my
dear Mr. Copperfield, to which I am irresistibly brought? Am I wrong in
saying, it is clear that we must live?’

I answered ‘Not at all!’ and Traddles answered ‘Not at all!’ and I found
myself afterwards sagely adding, alone, that a person must either live
or die.

‘Just so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, ‘It is precisely that. And the fact
is, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that we can not live without something
widely different from existing circumstances shortly turning up. Now
I am convinced, myself, and this I have pointed out to Mr. Micawber
several times of late, that things cannot be expected to turn up of
themselves. We must, in a measure, assist to turn them up. I may be
wrong, but I have formed that opinion.’

Both Traddles and I applauded it highly.

‘Very well,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘Then what do I recommend? Here is Mr.
Micawber with a variety of qualifications--with great talent--’

‘Really, my love,’ said Mr. Micawber.

‘Pray, my dear, allow me to conclude. Here is Mr. Micawber, with a
variety of qualifications, with great talent--I should say, with genius,
but that may be the partiality of a wife--’

Traddles and I both murmured ‘No.’

‘And here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable position or employment.
Where does that responsibility rest? Clearly on society. Then I would
make a fact so disgraceful known, and boldly challenge society to set it
right. It appears to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber,
forcibly, ‘that what Mr. Micawber has to do, is to throw down the
gauntlet to society, and say, in effect, “Show me who will take that up.
Let the party immediately step forward.”’

I ventured to ask Mrs. Micawber how this was to be done.

‘By advertising,’ said Mrs. Micawber--‘in all the papers. It appears to
me, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, in justice to himself, in justice
to his family, and I will even go so far as to say in justice to
society, by which he has been hitherto overlooked, is to advertise in
all the papers; to describe himself plainly as so-and-so, with such and
such qualifications and to put it thus: “Now employ me, on remunerative
terms, and address, post-paid, to W. M., Post Office, Camden Town.”’

‘This idea of Mrs. Micawber’s, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber,
making his shirt-collar meet in front of his chin, and glancing at me
sideways, ‘is, in fact, the Leap to which I alluded, when I last had the
pleasure of seeing you.’

‘Advertising is rather expensive,’ I remarked, dubiously.

‘Exactly so!’ said Mrs. Micawber, preserving the same logical air.
‘Quite true, my dear Mr. Copperfield! I have made the identical
observation to Mr. Micawber. It is for that reason especially, that I
think Mr. Micawber ought (as I have already said, in justice to himself,
in justice to his family, and in justice to society) to raise a certain
sum of money--on a bill.’

Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair, trifled with his eye-glass
and cast his eyes up at the ceiling; but I thought him observant of
Traddles, too, who was looking at the fire.

‘If no member of my family,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘is possessed of
sufficient natural feeling to negotiate that bill--I believe there is a
better business-term to express what I mean--’

Mr. Micawber, with his eyes still cast up at the ceiling, suggested
‘Discount.’

‘To discount that bill,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘then my opinion is, that
Mr. Micawber should go into the City, should take that bill into the
Money Market, and should dispose of it for what he can get. If the
individuals in the Money Market oblige Mr. Micawber to sustain a great
sacrifice, that is between themselves and their consciences. I view
it, steadily, as an investment. I recommend Mr. Micawber, my dear Mr.
Copperfield, to do the same; to regard it as an investment which is sure
of return, and to make up his mind to any sacrifice.’

I felt, but I am sure I don’t know why, that this was self-denying
and devoted in Mrs. Micawber, and I uttered a murmur to that effect.
Traddles, who took his tone from me, did likewise, still looking at the
fire.

‘I will not,’ said Mrs. Micawber, finishing her punch, and gathering her
scarf about her shoulders, preparatory to her withdrawal to my bedroom:
‘I will not protract these remarks on the subject of Mr. Micawber’s
pecuniary affairs. At your fireside, my dear Mr. Copperfield, and in the
presence of Mr. Traddles, who, though not so old a friend, is quite one
of ourselves, I could not refrain from making you acquainted with the
course I advise Mr. Micawber to take. I feel that the time is arrived
when Mr. Micawber should exert himself and--I will add--assert himself,
and it appears to me that these are the means. I am aware that I am
merely a female, and that a masculine judgement is usually considered
more competent to the discussion of such questions; still I must not
forget that, when I lived at home with my papa and mama, my papa was in
the habit of saying, “Emma’s form is fragile, but her grasp of a subject
is inferior to none.” That my papa was too partial, I well know; but
that he was an observer of character in some degree, my duty and my
reason equally forbid me to doubt.’

With these words, and resisting our entreaties that she would grace
the remaining circulation of the punch with her presence, Mrs. Micawber
retired to my bedroom. And really I felt that she was a noble woman--the
sort of woman who might have been a Roman matron, and done all manner of
heroic things, in times of public trouble.

In the fervour of this impression, I congratulated Mr. Micawber on the
treasure he possessed. So did Traddles. Mr. Micawber extended his
hand to each of us in succession, and then covered his face with his
pocket-handkerchief, which I think had more snuff upon it than he
was aware of. He then returned to the punch, in the highest state of
exhilaration.

He was full of eloquence. He gave us to understand that in our children
we lived again, and that, under the pressure of pecuniary difficulties,
any accession to their number was doubly welcome. He said that Mrs.
Micawber had latterly had her doubts on this point, but that he had
dispelled them, and reassured her. As to her family, they were totally
unworthy of her, and their sentiments were utterly indifferent to him,
and they might--I quote his own expression--go to the Devil.

Mr. Micawber then delivered a warm eulogy on Traddles. He said
Traddles’s was a character, to the steady virtues of which he (Mr.
Micawber) could lay no claim, but which, he thanked Heaven, he could
admire. He feelingly alluded to the young lady, unknown, whom Traddles
had honoured with his affection, and who had reciprocated that affection
by honouring and blessing Traddles with her affection. Mr. Micawber
pledged her. So did I. Traddles thanked us both, by saying, with a
simplicity and honesty I had sense enough to be quite charmed with,
‘I am very much obliged to you indeed. And I do assure you, she’s the
dearest girl!--’

Mr. Micawber took an early opportunity, after that, of hinting, with the
utmost delicacy and ceremony, at the state of my affections. Nothing
but the serious assurance of his friend Copperfield to the contrary,
he observed, could deprive him of the impression that his friend
Copperfield loved and was beloved. After feeling very hot and
uncomfortable for some time, and after a good deal of blushing,
stammering, and denying, I said, having my glass in my hand, ‘Well! I
would give them D.!’ which so excited and gratified Mr. Micawber,
that he ran with a glass of punch into my bedroom, in order that Mrs.
Micawber might drink D., who drank it with enthusiasm, crying from
within, in a shrill voice, ‘Hear, hear! My dear Mr. Copperfield, I am
delighted. Hear!’ and tapping at the wall, by way of applause.

Our conversation, afterwards, took a more worldly turn; Mr. Micawber
telling us that he found Camden Town inconvenient, and that the first
thing he contemplated doing, when the advertisement should have been the
cause of something satisfactory turning up, was to move. He mentioned
a terrace at the western end of Oxford Street, fronting Hyde Park, on
which he had always had his eye, but which he did not expect to attain
immediately, as it would require a large establishment. There would
probably be an interval, he explained, in which he should content
himself with the upper part of a house, over some respectable place of
business--say in Piccadilly,--which would be a cheerful situation for
Mrs. Micawber; and where, by throwing out a bow-window, or carrying up
the roof another story, or making some little alteration of that sort,
they might live, comfortably and reputably, for a few years. Whatever
was reserved for him, he expressly said, or wherever his abode might be,
we might rely on this--there would always be a room for Traddles, and a
knife and fork for me. We acknowledged his kindness; and he begged us
to forgive his having launched into these practical and business-like
details, and to excuse it as natural in one who was making entirely new
arrangements in life.

Mrs. Micawber, tapping at the wall again to know if tea were ready,
broke up this particular phase of our friendly conversation. She made
tea for us in a most agreeable manner; and, whenever I went near her, in
handing about the tea-cups and bread-and-butter, asked me, in a whisper,
whether D. was fair, or dark, or whether she was short, or tall: or
something of that kind; which I think I liked. After tea, we discussed a
variety of topics before the fire; and Mrs. Micawber was good enough
to sing us (in a small, thin, flat voice, which I remembered to have
considered, when I first knew her, the very table-beer of acoustics) the
favourite ballads of ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’, and ‘Little Tafflin’.
For both of these songs Mrs. Micawber had been famous when she lived at
home with her papa and mama. Mr. Micawber told us, that when he heard
her sing the first one, on the first occasion of his seeing her beneath
the parental roof, she had attracted his attention in an extraordinary
degree; but that when it came to Little Tafflin, he had resolved to win
that woman or perish in the attempt.

It was between ten and eleven o’clock when Mrs. Micawber rose to replace
her cap in the whitey-brown paper parcel, and to put on her bonnet. Mr.
Micawber took the opportunity of Traddles putting on his great-coat, to
slip a letter into my hand, with a whispered request that I would read
it at my leisure. I also took the opportunity of my holding a candle
over the banisters to light them down, when Mr. Micawber was going
first, leading Mrs. Micawber, and Traddles was following with the cap,
to detain Traddles for a moment on the top of the stairs.

‘Traddles,’ said I, ‘Mr. Micawber don’t mean any harm, poor fellow: but,
if I were you, I wouldn’t lend him anything.’

‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Traddles, smiling, ‘I haven’t got
anything to lend.’

‘You have got a name, you know,’ said I.

‘Oh! You call THAT something to lend?’ returned Traddles, with a
thoughtful look.

‘Certainly.’

‘Oh!’ said Traddles. ‘Yes, to be sure! I am very much obliged to you,
Copperfield; but--I am afraid I have lent him that already.’

‘For the bill that is to be a certain investment?’ I inquired.

‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Not for that one. This is the first I have heard
of that one. I have been thinking that he will most likely propose that
one, on the way home. Mine’s another.’

‘I hope there will be nothing wrong about it,’ said I. ‘I hope not,’
said Traddles. ‘I should think not, though, because he told me, only the
other day, that it was provided for. That was Mr. Micawber’s expression,
“Provided for.”’

Mr. Micawber looking up at this juncture to where we were standing, I
had only time to repeat my caution. Traddles thanked me, and descended.
But I was much afraid, when I observed the good-natured manner in which
he went down with the cap in his hand, and gave Mrs. Micawber his arm,
that he would be carried into the Money Market neck and heels.

I returned to my fireside, and was musing, half gravely and half
laughing, on the character of Mr. Micawber and the old relations between
us, when I heard a quick step ascending the stairs. At first, I thought
it was Traddles coming back for something Mrs. Micawber had left behind;
but as the step approached, I knew it, and felt my heart beat high, and
the blood rush to my face, for it was Steerforth’s.

I was never unmindful of Agnes, and she never left that sanctuary in my
thoughts--if I may call it so--where I had placed her from the first.
But when he entered, and stood before me with his hand out, the darkness
that had fallen on him changed to light, and I felt confounded and
ashamed of having doubted one I loved so heartily. I loved her none the
less; I thought of her as the same benignant, gentle angel in my life; I
reproached myself, not her, with having done him an injury; and I would
have made him any atonement if I had known what to make, and how to make
it.

‘Why, Daisy, old boy, dumb-foundered!’ laughed Steerforth, shaking
my hand heartily, and throwing it gaily away. ‘Have I detected you in
another feast, you Sybarite! These Doctors’ Commons fellows are the
gayest men in town, I believe, and beat us sober Oxford people all to
nothing!’ His bright glance went merrily round the room, as he took
the seat on the sofa opposite to me, which Mrs. Micawber had recently
vacated, and stirred the fire into a blaze.

‘I was so surprised at first,’ said I, giving him welcome with all
the cordiality I felt, ‘that I had hardly breath to greet you with,
Steerforth.’

‘Well, the sight of me is good for sore eyes, as the Scotch say,’
replied Steerforth, ‘and so is the sight of you, Daisy, in full bloom.
How are you, my Bacchanal?’

‘I am very well,’ said I; ‘and not at all Bacchanalian tonight, though I
confess to another party of three.’

‘All of whom I met in the street, talking loud in your praise,’ returned
Steerforth. ‘Who’s our friend in the tights?’

I gave him the best idea I could, in a few words, of Mr. Micawber. He
laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of that gentleman, and said he
was a man to know, and he must know him. ‘But who do you suppose our
other friend is?’ said I, in my turn.

‘Heaven knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘Not a bore, I hope? I thought he
looked a little like one.’

‘Traddles!’ I replied, triumphantly.

‘Who’s he?’ asked Steerforth, in his careless way.

‘Don’t you remember Traddles? Traddles in our room at Salem House?’

‘Oh! That fellow!’ said Steerforth, beating a lump of coal on the top
of the fire, with the poker. ‘Is he as soft as ever? And where the deuce
did you pick him up?’

I extolled Traddles in reply, as highly as I could; for I felt that
Steerforth rather slighted him. Steerforth, dismissing the subject with
a light nod, and a smile, and the remark that he would be glad to see
the old fellow too, for he had always been an odd fish, inquired if I
could give him anything to eat? During most of this short dialogue, when
he had not been speaking in a wild vivacious manner, he had sat idly
beating on the lump of coal with the poker. I observed that he did the
same thing while I was getting out the remains of the pigeon-pie, and so
forth.

‘Why, Daisy, here’s a supper for a king!’ he exclaimed, starting out of
his silence with a burst, and taking his seat at the table. ‘I shall do
it justice, for I have come from Yarmouth.’

‘I thought you came from Oxford?’ I returned.

‘Not I,’ said Steerforth. ‘I have been seafaring--better employed.’

‘Littimer was here today, to inquire for you,’ I remarked, ‘and I
understood him that you were at Oxford; though, now I think of it, he
certainly did not say so.’

‘Littimer is a greater fool than I thought him, to have been inquiring
for me at all,’ said Steerforth, jovially pouring out a glass of wine,
and drinking to me. ‘As to understanding him, you are a cleverer fellow
than most of us, Daisy, if you can do that.’

‘That’s true, indeed,’ said I, moving my chair to the table. ‘So you
have been at Yarmouth, Steerforth!’ interested to know all about it.
‘Have you been there long?’

‘No,’ he returned. ‘An escapade of a week or so.’

‘And how are they all? Of course, little Emily is not married yet?’

‘Not yet. Going to be, I believe--in so many weeks, or months, or
something or other. I have not seen much of ‘em. By the by’; he laid
down his knife and fork, which he had been using with great diligence,
and began feeling in his pockets; ‘I have a letter for you.’

‘From whom?’

‘Why, from your old nurse,’ he returned, taking some papers out of his
breast pocket. “‘J. Steerforth, Esquire, debtor, to The Willing
Mind”; that’s not it. Patience, and we’ll find it presently. Old
what’s-his-name’s in a bad way, and it’s about that, I believe.’

‘Barkis, do you mean?’

‘Yes!’ still feeling in his pockets, and looking over their contents:
‘it’s all over with poor Barkis, I am afraid. I saw a little apothecary
there--surgeon, or whatever he is--who brought your worship into the
world. He was mighty learned about the case, to me; but the upshot of
his opinion was, that the carrier was making his last journey rather
fast.---Put your hand into the breast pocket of my great-coat on the
chair yonder, and I think you’ll find the letter. Is it there?’

‘Here it is!’ said I.

‘That’s right!’

It was from Peggotty; something less legible than usual, and brief. It
informed me of her husband’s hopeless state, and hinted at his being
‘a little nearer’ than heretofore, and consequently more difficult
to manage for his own comfort. It said nothing of her weariness
and watching, and praised him highly. It was written with a plain,
unaffected, homely piety that I knew to be genuine, and ended with ‘my
duty to my ever darling’--meaning myself.

While I deciphered it, Steerforth continued to eat and drink.

‘It’s a bad job,’ he said, when I had done; ‘but the sun sets every day,
and people die every minute, and we mustn’t be scared by the common lot.
If we failed to hold our own, because that equal foot at all men’s doors
was heard knocking somewhere, every object in this world would slip from
us. No! Ride on! Rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that will do, but
ride on! Ride on over all obstacles, and win the race!’

‘And win what race?’ said I.

‘The race that one has started in,’ said he. ‘Ride on!’

I noticed, I remember, as he paused, looking at me with his handsome
head a little thrown back, and his glass raised in his hand, that,
though the freshness of the sea-wind was on his face, and it was ruddy,
there were traces in it, made since I last saw it, as if he had applied
himself to some habitual strain of the fervent energy which, when
roused, was so passionately roused within him. I had it in my thoughts
to remonstrate with him upon his desperate way of pursuing any fancy
that he took--such as this buffeting of rough seas, and braving of hard
weather, for example--when my mind glanced off to the immediate subject
of our conversation again, and pursued that instead.

‘I tell you what, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘if your high spirits will listen
to me--’

‘They are potent spirits, and will do whatever you like,’ he answered,
moving from the table to the fireside again.

‘Then I tell you what, Steerforth. I think I will go down and see my
old nurse. It is not that I can do her any good, or render her any real
service; but she is so attached to me that my visit will have as much
effect on her, as if I could do both. She will take it so kindly that it
will be a comfort and support to her. It is no great effort to make,
I am sure, for such a friend as she has been to me. Wouldn’t you go a
day’s journey, if you were in my place?’

His face was thoughtful, and he sat considering a little before he
answered, in a low voice, ‘Well! Go. You can do no harm.’

‘You have just come back,’ said I, ‘and it would be in vain to ask you
to go with me?’

‘Quite,’ he returned. ‘I am for Highgate tonight. I have not seen
my mother this long time, and it lies upon my conscience, for
it’s something to be loved as she loves her prodigal son.---Bah!
Nonsense!--You mean to go tomorrow, I suppose?’ he said, holding me out
at arm’s length, with a hand on each of my shoulders.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Well, then, don’t go till next day. I wanted you to come and stay a
few days with us. Here I am, on purpose to bid you, and you fly off to
Yarmouth!’

‘You are a nice fellow to talk of flying off, Steerforth, who are always
running wild on some unknown expedition or other!’

He looked at me for a moment without speaking, and then rejoined, still
holding me as before, and giving me a shake:

‘Come! Say the next day, and pass as much of tomorrow as you can with
us! Who knows when we may meet again, else? Come! Say the next day! I
want you to stand between Rosa Dartle and me, and keep us asunder.’

‘Would you love each other too much, without me?’

‘Yes; or hate,’ laughed Steerforth; ‘no matter which. Come! Say the next
day!’

I said the next day; and he put on his great-coat and lighted his cigar,
and set off to walk home. Finding him in this intention, I put on my own
great-coat (but did not light my own cigar, having had enough of that
for one while) and walked with him as far as the open road: a dull road,
then, at night. He was in great spirits all the way; and when we parted,
and I looked after him going so gallantly and airily homeward, I thought
of his saying, ‘Ride on over all obstacles, and win the race!’ and
wished, for the first time, that he had some worthy race to run.

I was undressing in my own room, when Mr. Micawber’s letter tumbled on
the floor. Thus reminded of it, I broke the seal and read as follows. It
was dated an hour and a half before dinner. I am not sure whether I
have mentioned that, when Mr. Micawber was at any particularly desperate
crisis, he used a sort of legal phraseology, which he seemed to think
equivalent to winding up his affairs.


‘SIR--for I dare not say my dear Copperfield,

‘It is expedient that I should inform you that the undersigned is
Crushed. Some flickering efforts to spare you the premature knowledge of
his calamitous position, you may observe in him this day; but hope has
sunk beneath the horizon, and the undersigned is Crushed.

‘The present communication is penned within the personal range (I cannot
call it the society) of an individual, in a state closely bordering
on intoxication, employed by a broker. That individual is in legal
possession of the premises, under a distress for rent. His inventory
includes, not only the chattels and effects of every description
belonging to the undersigned, as yearly tenant of this habitation, but
also those appertaining to Mr. Thomas Traddles, lodger, a member of the
Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.

‘If any drop of gloom were wanting in the overflowing cup, which is now
“commended” (in the language of an immortal Writer) to the lips of the
undersigned, it would be found in the fact, that a friendly acceptance
granted to the undersigned, by the before-mentioned Mr. Thomas Traddles,
for the sum Of 23l 4s 9 1/2d is over due, and is NOT provided for. Also,
in the fact that the living responsibilities clinging to the undersigned
will, in the course of nature, be increased by the sum of one more
helpless victim; whose miserable appearance may be looked for--in round
numbers--at the expiration of a period not exceeding six lunar months
from the present date.

‘After premising thus much, it would be a work of supererogation to add,
that dust and ashes are for ever scattered

               ‘On
                    ‘The
                         ‘Head
                              ‘Of
                                   ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’


Poor Traddles! I knew enough of Mr. Micawber by this time, to foresee
that he might be expected to recover the blow; but my night’s rest was
sorely distressed by thoughts of Traddles, and of the curate’s daughter,
who was one of ten, down in Devonshire, and who was such a dear girl,
and who would wait for Traddles (ominous praise!) until she was sixty,
or any age that could be mentioned.



CHAPTER 29. I VISIT STEERFORTH AT HIS HOME, AGAIN


I mentioned to Mr. Spenlow in the morning, that I wanted leave of
absence for a short time; and as I was not in the receipt of any salary,
and consequently was not obnoxious to the implacable Jorkins, there was
no difficulty about it. I took that opportunity, with my voice sticking
in my throat, and my sight failing as I uttered the words, to express
my hope that Miss Spenlow was quite well; to which Mr. Spenlow replied,
with no more emotion than if he had been speaking of an ordinary human
being, that he was much obliged to me, and she was very well.

We articled clerks, as germs of the patrician order of proctors, were
treated with so much consideration, that I was almost my own master at
all times. As I did not care, however, to get to Highgate before one
or two o’clock in the day, and as we had another little excommunication
case in court that morning, which was called The office of the judge
promoted by Tipkins against Bullock for his soul’s correction, I passed
an hour or two in attendance on it with Mr. Spenlow very agreeably.
It arose out of a scuffle between two churchwardens, one of whom was
alleged to have pushed the other against a pump; the handle of which
pump projecting into a school-house, which school-house was under a
gable of the church-roof, made the push an ecclesiastical offence.
It was an amusing case; and sent me up to Highgate, on the box of the
stage-coach, thinking about the Commons, and what Mr. Spenlow had said
about touching the Commons and bringing down the country.

Mrs. Steerforth was pleased to see me, and so was Rosa Dartle. I was
agreeably surprised to find that Littimer was not there, and that we
were attended by a modest little parlour-maid, with blue ribbons in her
cap, whose eye it was much more pleasant, and much less disconcerting,
to catch by accident, than the eye of that respectable man. But what I
particularly observed, before I had been half-an-hour in the house, was
the close and attentive watch Miss Dartle kept upon me; and the lurking
manner in which she seemed to compare my face with Steerforth’s, and
Steerforth’s with mine, and to lie in wait for something to come out
between the two. So surely as I looked towards her, did I see that eager
visage, with its gaunt black eyes and searching brow, intent on mine; or
passing suddenly from mine to Steerforth’s; or comprehending both of us
at once. In this lynx-like scrutiny she was so far from faltering when
she saw I observed it, that at such a time she only fixed her piercing
look upon me with a more intent expression still. Blameless as I was,
and knew that I was, in reference to any wrong she could possibly
suspect me of, I shrunk before her strange eyes, quite unable to endure
their hungry lustre.

All day, she seemed to pervade the whole house. If I talked to
Steerforth in his room, I heard her dress rustle in the little gallery
outside. When he and I engaged in some of our old exercises on the lawn
behind the house, I saw her face pass from window to window, like a
wandering light, until it fixed itself in one, and watched us. When we
all four went out walking in the afternoon, she closed her thin hand on
my arm like a spring, to keep me back, while Steerforth and his mother
went on out of hearing: and then spoke to me.

‘You have been a long time,’ she said, ‘without coming here. Is your
profession really so engaging and interesting as to absorb your whole
attention? I ask because I always want to be informed, when I am
ignorant. Is it really, though?’

I replied that I liked it well enough, but that I certainly could not
claim so much for it.

‘Oh! I am glad to know that, because I always like to be put right when
I am wrong,’ said Rosa Dartle. ‘You mean it is a little dry, perhaps?’

‘Well,’ I replied; ‘perhaps it was a little dry.’

‘Oh! and that’s a reason why you want relief and change--excitement and
all that?’ said she. ‘Ah! very true! But isn’t it a little--Eh?--for
him; I don’t mean you?’

A quick glance of her eye towards the spot where Steerforth was walking,
with his mother leaning on his arm, showed me whom she meant; but beyond
that, I was quite lost. And I looked so, I have no doubt.

‘Don’t it--I don’t say that it does, mind I want to know--don’t it
rather engross him? Don’t it make him, perhaps, a little more remiss
than usual in his visits to his blindly-doting--eh?’ With another
quick glance at them, and such a glance at me as seemed to look into my
innermost thoughts.

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘pray do not think--’

‘I don’t!’ she said. ‘Oh dear me, don’t suppose that I think anything!
I am not suspicious. I only ask a question. I don’t state any opinion. I
want to found an opinion on what you tell me. Then, it’s not so? Well! I
am very glad to know it.’

‘It certainly is not the fact,’ said I, perplexed, ‘that I am
accountable for Steerforth’s having been away from home longer than
usual--if he has been: which I really don’t know at this moment, unless
I understand it from you. I have not seen him this long while, until
last night.’

‘No?’

‘Indeed, Miss Dartle, no!’

As she looked full at me, I saw her face grow sharper and paler, and the
marks of the old wound lengthen out until it cut through the disfigured
lip, and deep into the nether lip, and slanted down the face. There was
something positively awful to me in this, and in the brightness of her
eyes, as she said, looking fixedly at me:

‘What is he doing?’

I repeated the words, more to myself than her, being so amazed.

‘What is he doing?’ she said, with an eagerness that seemed enough to
consume her like a fire. ‘In what is that man assisting him, who never
looks at me without an inscrutable falsehood in his eyes? If you are
honourable and faithful, I don’t ask you to betray your friend. I ask
you only to tell me, is it anger, is it hatred, is it pride, is it
restlessness, is it some wild fancy, is it love, what is it, that is
leading him?’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘how shall I tell you, so that you will
believe me, that I know of nothing in Steerforth different from what
there was when I first came here? I can think of nothing. I firmly
believe there is nothing. I hardly understand even what you mean.’

As she still stood looking fixedly at me, a twitching or throbbing,
from which I could not dissociate the idea of pain, came into that cruel
mark; and lifted up the corner of her lip as if with scorn, or with a
pity that despised its object. She put her hand upon it hurriedly--a
hand so thin and delicate, that when I had seen her hold it up before
the fire to shade her face, I had compared it in my thoughts to fine
porcelain--and saying, in a quick, fierce, passionate way, ‘I swear you
to secrecy about this!’ said not a word more.

Mrs. Steerforth was particularly happy in her son’s society, and
Steerforth was, on this occasion, particularly attentive and respectful
to her. It was very interesting to me to see them together, not only on
account of their mutual affection, but because of the strong personal
resemblance between them, and the manner in which what was haughty or
impetuous in him was softened by age and sex, in her, to a gracious
dignity. I thought, more than once, that it was well no serious cause of
division had ever come between them; or two such natures--I ought rather
to express it, two such shades of the same nature--might have been
harder to reconcile than the two extremest opposites in creation. The
idea did not originate in my own discernment, I am bound to confess, but
in a speech of Rosa Dartle’s.

She said at dinner:

‘Oh, but do tell me, though, somebody, because I have been thinking
about it all day, and I want to know.’

‘You want to know what, Rosa?’ returned Mrs. Steerforth. ‘Pray, pray,
Rosa, do not be mysterious.’

‘Mysterious!’ she cried. ‘Oh! really? Do you consider me so?’

‘Do I constantly entreat you,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, ‘to speak plainly,
in your own natural manner?’

‘Oh! then this is not my natural manner?’ she rejoined. ‘Now you must
really bear with me, because I ask for information. We never know
ourselves.’

‘It has become a second nature,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, without any
displeasure; ‘but I remember,--and so must you, I think,--when your
manner was different, Rosa; when it was not so guarded, and was more
trustful.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ she returned; ‘and so it is that bad habits
grow upon one! Really? Less guarded and more trustful? How can I,
imperceptibly, have changed, I wonder! Well, that’s very odd! I must
study to regain my former self.’

‘I wish you would,’ said Mrs. Steerforth, with a smile.

‘Oh! I really will, you know!’ she answered. ‘I will learn frankness
from--let me see--from James.’

‘You cannot learn frankness, Rosa,’ said Mrs. Steerforth quickly--for
there was always some effect of sarcasm in what Rosa Dartle said,
though it was said, as this was, in the most unconscious manner in the
world--‘in a better school.’

‘That I am sure of,’ she answered, with uncommon fervour. ‘If I am sure
of anything, of course, you know, I am sure of that.’

Mrs. Steerforth appeared to me to regret having been a little nettled;
for she presently said, in a kind tone:

‘Well, my dear Rosa, we have not heard what it is that you want to be
satisfied about?’

‘That I want to be satisfied about?’ she replied, with provoking
coldness. ‘Oh! It was only whether people, who are like each other in
their moral constitution--is that the phrase?’

‘It’s as good a phrase as another,’ said Steerforth.

‘Thank you:--whether people, who are like each other in their moral
constitution, are in greater danger than people not so circumstanced,
supposing any serious cause of variance to arise between them, of being
divided angrily and deeply?’

‘I should say yes,’ said Steerforth.

‘Should you?’ she retorted. ‘Dear me! Supposing then, for instance--any
unlikely thing will do for a supposition--that you and your mother were
to have a serious quarrel.’

‘My dear Rosa,’ interposed Mrs. Steerforth, laughing good-naturedly,
‘suggest some other supposition! James and I know our duty to each other
better, I pray Heaven!’

‘Oh!’ said Miss Dartle, nodding her head thoughtfully. ‘To be sure. That
would prevent it? Why, of course it would. Exactly. Now, I am glad I
have been so foolish as to put the case, for it is so very good to know
that your duty to each other would prevent it! Thank you very much.’

One other little circumstance connected with Miss Dartle I must
not omit; for I had reason to remember it thereafter, when all the
irremediable past was rendered plain. During the whole of this day, but
especially from this period of it, Steerforth exerted himself with his
utmost skill, and that was with his utmost ease, to charm this singular
creature into a pleasant and pleased companion. That he should succeed,
was no matter of surprise to me. That she should struggle against the
fascinating influence of his delightful art--delightful nature I thought
it then--did not surprise me either; for I knew that she was sometimes
jaundiced and perverse. I saw her features and her manner slowly change;
I saw her look at him with growing admiration; I saw her try, more and
more faintly, but always angrily, as if she condemned a weakness in
herself, to resist the captivating power that he possessed; and finally,
I saw her sharp glance soften, and her smile become quite gentle, and I
ceased to be afraid of her as I had really been all day, and we all sat
about the fire, talking and laughing together, with as little reserve as
if we had been children.

Whether it was because we had sat there so long, or because Steerforth
was resolved not to lose the advantage he had gained, I do not know; but
we did not remain in the dining-room more than five minutes after her
departure. ‘She is playing her harp,’ said Steerforth, softly, at the
drawing-room door, ‘and nobody but my mother has heard her do that, I
believe, these three years.’ He said it with a curious smile, which was
gone directly; and we went into the room and found her alone.

‘Don’t get up,’ said Steerforth (which she had already done)’ my dear
Rosa, don’t! Be kind for once, and sing us an Irish song.’

‘What do you care for an Irish song?’ she returned.

‘Much!’ said Steerforth. ‘Much more than for any other. Here is Daisy,
too, loves music from his soul. Sing us an Irish song, Rosa! and let me
sit and listen as I used to do.’

He did not touch her, or the chair from which she had risen, but sat
himself near the harp. She stood beside it for some little while, in a
curious way, going through the motion of playing it with her right hand,
but not sounding it. At length she sat down, and drew it to her with one
sudden action, and played and sang.

I don’t know what it was, in her touch or voice, that made that song the
most unearthly I have ever heard in my life, or can imagine. There was
something fearful in the reality of it. It was as if it had never been
written, or set to music, but sprung out of passion within her; which
found imperfect utterance in the low sounds of her voice, and crouched
again when all was still. I was dumb when she leaned beside the harp
again, playing it, but not sounding it, with her right hand.

A minute more, and this had roused me from my trance:--Steerforth had
left his seat, and gone to her, and had put his arm laughingly about
her, and had said, ‘Come, Rosa, for the future we will love each other
very much!’ And she had struck him, and had thrown him off with the fury
of a wild cat, and had burst out of the room.

‘What is the matter with Rosa?’ said Mrs. Steerforth, coming in.

‘She has been an angel, mother,’ returned Steerforth, ‘for a little
while; and has run into the opposite extreme, since, by way of
compensation.’

‘You should be careful not to irritate her, James. Her temper has been
soured, remember, and ought not to be tried.’

Rosa did not come back; and no other mention was made of her, until I
went with Steerforth into his room to say Good night. Then he laughed
about her, and asked me if I had ever seen such a fierce little piece of
incomprehensibility.

I expressed as much of my astonishment as was then capable of
expression, and asked if he could guess what it was that she had taken
so much amiss, so suddenly.

‘Oh, Heaven knows,’ said Steerforth. ‘Anything you like--or nothing!
I told you she took everything, herself included, to a grindstone, and
sharpened it. She is an edge-tool, and requires great care in dealing
with. She is always dangerous. Good night!’

‘Good night!’ said I, ‘my dear Steerforth! I shall be gone before you
wake in the morning. Good night!’

He was unwilling to let me go; and stood, holding me out, with a hand on
each of my shoulders, as he had done in my own room.

‘Daisy,’ he said, with a smile--‘for though that’s not the name your
godfathers and godmothers gave you, it’s the name I like best to call
you by--and I wish, I wish, I wish, you could give it to me!’

‘Why so I can, if I choose,’ said I.

‘Daisy, if anything should ever separate us, you must think of me at my
best, old boy. Come! Let us make that bargain. Think of me at my best,
if circumstances should ever part us!’

‘You have no best to me, Steerforth,’ said I, ‘and no worst. You are
always equally loved, and cherished in my heart.’

So much compunction for having ever wronged him, even by a shapeless
thought, did I feel within me, that the confession of having done so was
rising to my lips. But for the reluctance I had to betray the confidence
of Agnes, but for my uncertainty how to approach the subject with no
risk of doing so, it would have reached them before he said, ‘God bless
you, Daisy, and good night!’ In my doubt, it did NOT reach them; and we
shook hands, and we parted.

I was up with the dull dawn, and, having dressed as quietly as I could,
looked into his room. He was fast asleep; lying, easily, with his head
upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.

The time came in its season, and that was very soon, when I almost
wondered that nothing troubled his repose, as I looked at him. But he
slept--let me think of him so again--as I had often seen him sleep at
school; and thus, in this silent hour, I left him. --Never more, oh
God forgive you, Steerforth! to touch that passive hand in love and
friendship. Never, never more!



CHAPTER 30. A LOSS


I got down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the inn. I knew that
Peggotty’s spare room--my room--was likely to have occupation enough
in a little while, if that great Visitor, before whose presence all
the living must give place, were not already in the house; so I betook
myself to the inn, and dined there, and engaged my bed.

It was ten o’clock when I went out. Many of the shops were shut, and the
town was dull. When I came to Omer and Joram’s, I found the shutters up,
but the shop door standing open. As I could obtain a perspective view
of Mr. Omer inside, smoking his pipe by the parlour door, I entered, and
asked him how he was.

‘Why, bless my life and soul!’ said Mr. Omer, ‘how do you find yourself?
Take a seat.---Smoke not disagreeable, I hope?’

‘By no means,’ said I. ‘I like it--in somebody else’s pipe.’

‘What, not in your own, eh?’ Mr. Omer returned, laughing. ‘All the
better, sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke, myself,
for the asthma.’

Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat down again
very much out of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply
of that necessary, without which he must perish.

‘I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,’ said I.

Mr. Omer looked at me, with a steady countenance, and shook his head.

‘Do you know how he is tonight?’ I asked.

‘The very question I should have put to you, sir,’ returned Mr. Omer,
‘but on account of delicacy. It’s one of the drawbacks of our line of
business. When a party’s ill, we can’t ask how the party is.’

The difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had my apprehensions
too, when I went in, of hearing the old tune. On its being mentioned, I
recognized it, however, and said as much.

‘Yes, yes, you understand,’ said Mr. Omer, nodding his head. ‘We dursn’t
do it. Bless you, it would be a shock that the generality of parties
mightn’t recover, to say “Omer and Joram’s compliments, and how do you
find yourself this morning?”--or this afternoon--as it may be.’

Mr. Omer and I nodded at each other, and Mr. Omer recruited his wind by
the aid of his pipe.

‘It’s one of the things that cut the trade off from attentions they
could often wish to show,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Take myself. If I have known
Barkis a year, to move to as he went by, I have known him forty years.
But I can’t go and say, “how is he?”’

I felt it was rather hard on Mr. Omer, and I told him so.

‘I’m not more self-interested, I hope, than another man,’ said Mr. Omer.
‘Look at me! My wind may fail me at any moment, and it ain’t
likely that, to my own knowledge, I’d be self-interested under such
circumstances. I say it ain’t likely, in a man who knows his wind will
go, when it DOES go, as if a pair of bellows was cut open; and that man
a grandfather,’ said Mr. Omer.

I said, ‘Not at all.’

‘It ain’t that I complain of my line of business,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘It
ain’t that. Some good and some bad goes, no doubt, to all callings. What
I wish is, that parties was brought up stronger-minded.’

Mr. Omer, with a very complacent and amiable face, took several puffs in
silence; and then said, resuming his first point:

‘Accordingly we’re obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis goes on, to
limit ourselves to Em’ly. She knows what our real objects are, and she
don’t have any more alarms or suspicions about us, than if we was so
many lambs. Minnie and Joram have just stepped down to the house, in
fact (she’s there, after hours, helping her aunt a bit), to ask her how
he is tonight; and if you was to please to wait till they come back,
they’d give you full partic’lers. Will you take something? A glass of
srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and water, myself,’ said Mr. Omer,
taking up his glass, ‘because it’s considered softening to the passages,
by which this troublesome breath of mine gets into action. But, Lord
bless you,’ said Mr. Omer, huskily, ‘it ain’t the passages that’s out of
order! “Give me breath enough,” said I to my daughter Minnie, “and I’ll
find passages, my dear.”’

He really had no breath to spare, and it was very alarming to see him
laugh. When he was again in a condition to be talked to, I thanked
him for the proffered refreshment, which I declined, as I had just had
dinner; and, observing that I would wait, since he was so good as to
invite me, until his daughter and his son-in-law came back, I inquired
how little Emily was?

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he might rub his
chin: ‘I tell you truly, I shall be glad when her marriage has taken
place.’

‘Why so?’ I inquired.

‘Well, she’s unsettled at present,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘It ain’t that she’s
not as pretty as ever, for she’s prettier--I do assure you, she is
prettier. It ain’t that she don’t work as well as ever, for she does.
She WAS worth any six, and she IS worth any six. But somehow she wants
heart. If you understand,’ said Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again,
and smoking a little, ‘what I mean in a general way by the expression,
“A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, my hearties,
hurrah!” I should say to you, that that was--in a general way--what I
miss in Em’ly.’

Mr. Omer’s face and manner went for so much, that I could
conscientiously nod my head, as divining his meaning. My quickness of
apprehension seemed to please him, and he went on: ‘Now I consider this
is principally on account of her being in an unsettled state, you
see. We have talked it over a good deal, her uncle and myself, and her
sweetheart and myself, after business; and I consider it is principally
on account of her being unsettled. You must always recollect of Em’ly,’
said Mr. Omer, shaking his head gently, ‘that she’s a most extraordinary
affectionate little thing. The proverb says, “You can’t make a silk
purse out of a sow’s ear.” Well, I don’t know about that. I rather think
you may, if you begin early in life. She has made a home out of that old
boat, sir, that stone and marble couldn’t beat.’

‘I am sure she has!’ said I.

‘To see the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle,’ said
Mr. Omer; ‘to see the way she holds on to him, tighter and tighter, and
closer and closer, every day, is to see a sight. Now, you know, there’s
a struggle going on when that’s the case. Why should it be made a longer
one than is needful?’

I listened attentively to the good old fellow, and acquiesced, with all
my heart, in what he said.

‘Therefore, I mentioned to them,’ said Mr. Omer, in a comfortable,
easy-going tone, ‘this. I said, “Now, don’t consider Em’ly nailed down
in point of time, at all. Make it your own time. Her services have been
more valuable than was supposed; her learning has been quicker than was
supposed; Omer and Joram can run their pen through what remains; and
she’s free when you wish. If she likes to make any little arrangement,
afterwards, in the way of doing any little thing for us at home,
very well. If she don’t, very well still. We’re no losers, anyhow.”
 For--don’t you see,’ said Mr. Omer, touching me with his pipe, ‘it ain’t
likely that a man so short of breath as myself, and a grandfather too,
would go and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossom,
like her?’

‘Not at all, I am certain,’ said I.

‘Not at all! You’re right!’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir, her cousin--you
know it’s a cousin she’s going to be married to?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘I know him well.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Well, sir! Her cousin being, as it
appears, in good work, and well to do, thanked me in a very manly sort
of manner for this (conducting himself altogether, I must say, in a way
that gives me a high opinion of him), and went and took as comfortable
a little house as you or I could wish to clap eyes on. That little
house is now furnished right through, as neat and complete as a doll’s
parlour; and but for Barkis’s illness having taken this bad turn, poor
fellow, they would have been man and wife--I dare say, by this time. As
it is, there’s a postponement.’

‘And Emily, Mr. Omer?’ I inquired. ‘Has she become more settled?’

‘Why that, you know,’ he returned, rubbing his double chin again, ‘can’t
naturally be expected. The prospect of the change and separation, and
all that, is, as one may say, close to her and far away from her, both
at once. Barkis’s death needn’t put it off much, but his lingering
might. Anyway, it’s an uncertain state of matters, you see.’

‘I see,’ said I.

‘Consequently,’ pursued Mr. Omer, ‘Em’ly’s still a little down, and a
little fluttered; perhaps, upon the whole, she’s more so than she was.
Every day she seems to get fonder and fonder of her uncle, and more loth
to part from all of us. A kind word from me brings the tears into her
eyes; and if you was to see her with my daughter Minnie’s little girl,
you’d never forget it. Bless my heart alive!’ said Mr. Omer, pondering,
‘how she loves that child!’

Having so favourable an opportunity, it occurred to me to ask Mr. Omer,
before our conversation should be interrupted by the return of his
daughter and her husband, whether he knew anything of Martha.

‘Ah!’ he rejoined, shaking his head, and looking very much dejected.
‘No good. A sad story, sir, however you come to know it. I never thought
there was harm in the girl. I wouldn’t wish to mention it before my
daughter Minnie--for she’d take me up directly--but I never did. None of
us ever did.’

Mr. Omer, hearing his daughter’s footstep before I heard it, touched me
with his pipe, and shut up one eye, as a caution. She and her husband
came in immediately afterwards.

Their report was, that Mr. Barkis was ‘as bad as bad could be’; that he
was quite unconscious; and that Mr. Chillip had mournfully said in the
kitchen, on going away just now, that the College of Physicians, the
College of Surgeons, and Apothecaries’ Hall, if they were all called
in together, couldn’t help him. He was past both Colleges, Mr. Chillip
said, and the Hall could only poison him.

Hearing this, and learning that Mr. Peggotty was there, I determined to
go to the house at once. I bade good night to Mr. Omer, and to Mr. and
Mrs. Joram; and directed my steps thither, with a solemn feeling, which
made Mr. Barkis quite a new and different creature.

My low tap at the door was answered by Mr. Peggotty. He was not so much
surprised to see me as I had expected. I remarked this in Peggotty,
too, when she came down; and I have seen it since; and I think, in the
expectation of that dread surprise, all other changes and surprises
dwindle into nothing.

I shook hands with Mr. Peggotty, and passed into the kitchen, while he
softly closed the door. Little Emily was sitting by the fire, with her
hands before her face. Ham was standing near her.

We spoke in whispers; listening, between whiles, for any sound in the
room above. I had not thought of it on the occasion of my last visit,
but how strange it was to me, now, to miss Mr. Barkis out of the
kitchen!

‘This is very kind of you, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘It’s oncommon kind,’ said Ham.

‘Em’ly, my dear,’ cried Mr. Peggotty. ‘See here! Here’s Mas’r Davy come!
What, cheer up, pretty! Not a wured to Mas’r Davy?’

There was a trembling upon her, that I can see now. The coldness of her
hand when I touched it, I can feel yet. Its only sign of animation was
to shrink from mine; and then she glided from the chair, and creeping
to the other side of her uncle, bowed herself, silently and trembling
still, upon his breast.

‘It’s such a loving art,’ said Mr. Peggotty, smoothing her rich hair
with his great hard hand, ‘that it can’t abear the sorrer of this.
It’s nat’ral in young folk, Mas’r Davy, when they’re new to these here
trials, and timid, like my little bird,--it’s nat’ral.’

She clung the closer to him, but neither lifted up her face, nor spoke a
word.

‘It’s getting late, my dear,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and here’s Ham come
fur to take you home. Theer! Go along with t’other loving art! What’
Em’ly? Eh, my pretty?’

The sound of her voice had not reached me, but he bent his head as if he
listened to her, and then said:

‘Let you stay with your uncle? Why, you doen’t mean to ask me that! Stay
with your uncle, Moppet? When your husband that’ll be so soon, is here
fur to take you home? Now a person wouldn’t think it, fur to see this
little thing alongside a rough-weather chap like me,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
looking round at both of us, with infinite pride; ‘but the sea ain’t
more salt in it than she has fondness in her for her uncle--a foolish
little Em’ly!’

‘Em’ly’s in the right in that, Mas’r Davy!’ said Ham. ‘Lookee here! As
Em’ly wishes of it, and as she’s hurried and frightened, like, besides,
I’ll leave her till morning. Let me stay too!’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘You doen’t ought--a married man like
you--or what’s as good--to take and hull away a day’s work. And you
doen’t ought to watch and work both. That won’t do. You go home and turn
in. You ain’t afeerd of Em’ly not being took good care on, I know.’

Ham yielded to this persuasion, and took his hat to go. Even when he
kissed her--and I never saw him approach her, but I felt that nature
had given him the soul of a gentleman--she seemed to cling closer to
her uncle, even to the avoidance of her chosen husband. I shut the
door after him, that it might cause no disturbance of the quiet that
prevailed; and when I turned back, I found Mr. Peggotty still talking to
her.

‘Now, I’m a going upstairs to tell your aunt as Mas’r Davy’s here, and
that’ll cheer her up a bit,’ he said. ‘Sit ye down by the fire, the
while, my dear, and warm those mortal cold hands. You doen’t need to be
so fearsome, and take on so much. What? You’ll go along with me?--Well!
come along with me--come! If her uncle was turned out of house and home,
and forced to lay down in a dyke, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty, with
no less pride than before, ‘it’s my belief she’d go along with him, now!
But there’ll be someone else, soon,--someone else, soon, Em’ly!’

Afterwards, when I went upstairs, as I passed the door of my little
chamber, which was dark, I had an indistinct impression of her being
within it, cast down upon the floor. But, whether it was really she, or
whether it was a confusion of the shadows in the room, I don’t know now.

I had leisure to think, before the kitchen fire, of pretty little
Emily’s dread of death--which, added to what Mr. Omer had told me, I
took to be the cause of her being so unlike herself--and I had leisure,
before Peggotty came down, even to think more leniently of the weakness
of it: as I sat counting the ticking of the clock, and deepening my
sense of the solemn hush around me. Peggotty took me in her arms, and
blessed and thanked me over and over again for being such a comfort to
her (that was what she said) in her distress. She then entreated me to
come upstairs, sobbing that Mr. Barkis had always liked me and admired
me; that he had often talked of me, before he fell into a stupor; and
that she believed, in case of his coming to himself again, he would
brighten up at sight of me, if he could brighten up at any earthly
thing.

The probability of his ever doing so, appeared to me, when I saw him, to
be very small. He was lying with his head and shoulders out of bed, in
an uncomfortable attitude, half resting on the box which had cost him so
much pain and trouble. I learned, that, when he was past creeping out of
bed to open it, and past assuring himself of its safety by means of the
divining rod I had seen him use, he had required to have it placed on
the chair at the bed-side, where he had ever since embraced it, night
and day. His arm lay on it now. Time and the world were slipping from
beneath him, but the box was there; and the last words he had uttered
were (in an explanatory tone) ‘Old clothes!’

‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty, almost cheerfully: bending over him,
while her brother and I stood at the bed’s foot. ‘Here’s my dear boy--my
dear boy, Master Davy, who brought us together, Barkis! That you sent
messages by, you know! Won’t you speak to Master Davy?’

He was as mute and senseless as the box, from which his form derived the
only expression it had.

‘He’s a going out with the tide,’ said Mr. Peggotty to me, behind his
hand.

My eyes were dim and so were Mr. Peggotty’s; but I repeated in a
whisper, ‘With the tide?’

‘People can’t die, along the coast,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘except when
the tide’s pretty nigh out. They can’t be born, unless it’s pretty nigh
in--not properly born, till flood. He’s a going out with the tide. It’s
ebb at half-arter three, slack water half an hour. If he lives till it
turns, he’ll hold his own till past the flood, and go out with the next
tide.’

We remained there, watching him, a long time--hours. What mysterious
influence my presence had upon him in that state of his senses, I shall
not pretend to say; but when he at last began to wander feebly, it is
certain he was muttering about driving me to school.

‘He’s coming to himself,’ said Peggotty.

Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with much awe and reverence.
‘They are both a-going out fast.’

‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty.

‘C. P. Barkis,’ he cried faintly. ‘No better woman anywhere!’

‘Look! Here’s Master Davy!’ said Peggotty. For he now opened his eyes.

I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to stretch
out his arm, and said to me, distinctly, with a pleasant smile:

‘Barkis is willin’!’

And, it being low water, he went out with the tide.



CHAPTER 31. A GREATER LOSS


It was not difficult for me, on Peggotty’s solicitation, to resolve to
stay where I was, until after the remains of the poor carrier should
have made their last journey to Blunderstone. She had long ago bought,
out of her own savings, a little piece of ground in our old churchyard
near the grave of ‘her sweet girl’, as she always called my mother; and
there they were to rest.

In keeping Peggotty company, and doing all I could for her (little
enough at the utmost), I was as grateful, I rejoice to think, as even
now I could wish myself to have been. But I am afraid I had a supreme
satisfaction, of a personal and professional nature, in taking charge of
Mr. Barkis’s will, and expounding its contents.

I may claim the merit of having originated the suggestion that the will
should be looked for in the box. After some search, it was found in the
box, at the bottom of a horse’s nose-bag; wherein (besides hay) there
was discovered an old gold watch, with chain and seals, which Mr. Barkis
had worn on his wedding-day, and which had never been seen before or
since; a silver tobacco-stopper, in the form of a leg; an imitation
lemon, full of minute cups and saucers, which I have some idea Mr.
Barkis must have purchased to present to me when I was a child, and
afterwards found himself unable to part with; eighty-seven guineas and
a half, in guineas and half-guineas; two hundred and ten pounds, in
perfectly clean Bank notes; certain receipts for Bank of England
stock; an old horseshoe, a bad shilling, a piece of camphor, and an
oyster-shell. From the circumstance of the latter article having
been much polished, and displaying prismatic colours on the inside,
I conclude that Mr. Barkis had some general ideas about pearls, which
never resolved themselves into anything definite.

For years and years, Mr. Barkis had carried this box, on all his
journeys, every day. That it might the better escape notice, he had
invented a fiction that it belonged to ‘Mr. Blackboy’, and was ‘to be
left with Barkis till called for’; a fable he had elaborately written on
the lid, in characters now scarcely legible.

He had hoarded, all these years, I found, to good purpose. His property
in money amounted to nearly three thousand pounds. Of this he bequeathed
the interest of one thousand to Mr. Peggotty for his life; on his
decease, the principal to be equally divided between Peggotty, little
Emily, and me, or the survivor or survivors of us, share and share
alike. All the rest he died possessed of, he bequeathed to Peggotty;
whom he left residuary legatee, and sole executrix of that his last will
and testament.

I felt myself quite a proctor when I read this document aloud with all
possible ceremony, and set forth its provisions, any number of times,
to those whom they concerned. I began to think there was more in the
Commons than I had supposed. I examined the will with the deepest
attention, pronounced it perfectly formal in all respects, made a
pencil-mark or so in the margin, and thought it rather extraordinary
that I knew so much.

In this abstruse pursuit; in making an account for Peggotty, of all the
property into which she had come; in arranging all the affairs in an
orderly manner; and in being her referee and adviser on every point, to
our joint delight; I passed the week before the funeral. I did not see
little Emily in that interval, but they told me she was to be quietly
married in a fortnight.

I did not attend the funeral in character, if I may venture to say so.
I mean I was not dressed up in a black coat and a streamer, to frighten
the birds; but I walked over to Blunderstone early in the morning, and
was in the churchyard when it came, attended only by Peggotty and her
brother. The mad gentleman looked on, out of my little window; Mr.
Chillip’s baby wagged its heavy head, and rolled its goggle eyes, at
the clergyman, over its nurse’s shoulder; Mr. Omer breathed short in
the background; no one else was there; and it was very quiet. We walked
about the churchyard for an hour, after all was over; and pulled some
young leaves from the tree above my mother’s grave.

A dread falls on me here. A cloud is lowering on the distant town,
towards which I retraced my solitary steps. I fear to approach it. I
cannot bear to think of what did come, upon that memorable night; of
what must come again, if I go on.

It is no worse, because I write of it. It would be no better, if I
stopped my most unwilling hand. It is done. Nothing can undo it; nothing
can make it otherwise than as it was.

My old nurse was to go to London with me next day, on the business of
the will. Little Emily was passing that day at Mr. Omer’s. We were all
to meet in the old boathouse that night. Ham would bring Emily at the
usual hour. I would walk back at my leisure. The brother and sister
would return as they had come, and be expecting us, when the day closed
in, at the fireside.

I parted from them at the wicket-gate, where visionary Strap had rested
with Roderick Random’s knapsack in the days of yore; and, instead of
going straight back, walked a little distance on the road to Lowestoft.
Then I turned, and walked back towards Yarmouth. I stayed to dine at
a decent alehouse, some mile or two from the Ferry I have mentioned
before; and thus the day wore away, and it was evening when I reached
it. Rain was falling heavily by that time, and it was a wild night; but
there was a moon behind the clouds, and it was not dark.

I was soon within sight of Mr. Peggotty’s house, and of the light within
it shining through the window. A little floundering across the sand,
which was heavy, brought me to the door, and I went in.

It looked very comfortable indeed. Mr. Peggotty had smoked his evening
pipe and there were preparations for some supper by and by. The fire was
bright, the ashes were thrown up, the locker was ready for little Emily
in her old place. In her own old place sat Peggotty, once more, looking
(but for her dress) as if she had never left it. She had fallen back,
already, on the society of the work-box with St. Paul’s upon the lid,
the yard-measure in the cottage, and the bit of wax-candle; and there
they all were, just as if they had never been disturbed. Mrs. Gummidge
appeared to be fretting a little, in her old corner; and consequently
looked quite natural, too.

‘You’re first of the lot, Mas’r Davy!’ said Mr. Peggotty with a happy
face. ‘Doen’t keep in that coat, sir, if it’s wet.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, giving him my outer coat to hang up.
‘It’s quite dry.’

‘So ‘tis!’ said Mr. Peggotty, feeling my shoulders. ‘As a chip! Sit ye
down, sir. It ain’t o’ no use saying welcome to you, but you’re welcome,
kind and hearty.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. Well, Peggotty!’ said I,
giving her a kiss. ‘And how are you, old woman?’

‘Ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. Peggotty, sitting down beside us, and rubbing his
hands in his sense of relief from recent trouble, and in the genuine
heartiness of his nature; ‘there’s not a woman in the wureld, sir--as I
tell her--that need to feel more easy in her mind than her! She done her
dooty by the departed, and the departed know’d it; and the departed
done what was right by her, as she done what was right by the
departed;--and--and--and it’s all right!’

Mrs. Gummidge groaned.

‘Cheer up, my pritty mawther!’ said Mr. Peggotty. (But he shook his head
aside at us, evidently sensible of the tendency of the late occurrences
to recall the memory of the old one.) ‘Doen’t be down! Cheer up, for
your own self, on’y a little bit, and see if a good deal more doen’t
come nat’ral!’

‘Not to me, Dan’l,’ returned Mrs. Gummidge. ‘Nothink’s nat’ral to me but
to be lone and lorn.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Peggotty, soothing her sorrows.

‘Yes, yes, Dan’l!’ said Mrs. Gummidge. ‘I ain’t a person to live with
them as has had money left. Things go too contrary with me. I had better
be a riddance.’

‘Why, how should I ever spend it without you?’ said Mr. Peggotty, with
an air of serious remonstrance. ‘What are you a talking on? Doen’t I
want you more now, than ever I did?’

‘I know’d I was never wanted before!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, with a
pitiable whimper, ‘and now I’m told so! How could I expect to be wanted,
being so lone and lorn, and so contrary!’

Mr. Peggotty seemed very much shocked at himself for having made a
speech capable of this unfeeling construction, but was prevented from
replying, by Peggotty’s pulling his sleeve, and shaking her head. After
looking at Mrs. Gummidge for some moments, in sore distress of mind, he
glanced at the Dutch clock, rose, snuffed the candle, and put it in the
window.

‘Theer!’ said Mr. Peggotty, cheerily. ‘Theer we are, Missis Gummidge!’
Mrs. Gummidge slightly groaned. ‘Lighted up, accordin’ to custom! You’re
a wonderin’ what that’s fur, sir! Well, it’s fur our little Em’ly. You
see, the path ain’t over light or cheerful arter dark; and when I’m
here at the hour as she’s a comin’ home, I puts the light in the winder.
That, you see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, bending over me with great glee,
‘meets two objects. She says, says Em’ly, “Theer’s home!” she says. And
likewise, says Em’ly, “My uncle’s theer!” Fur if I ain’t theer, I never
have no light showed.’

‘You’re a baby!’ said Peggotty; very fond of him for it, if she thought
so.

‘Well,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, standing with his legs pretty wide apart,
and rubbing his hands up and down them in his comfortable satisfaction,
as he looked alternately at us and at the fire. ‘I doen’t know but I am.
Not, you see, to look at.’

‘Not azackly,’ observed Peggotty.

‘No,’ laughed Mr. Peggotty, ‘not to look at, but to--to consider on, you
know. I doen’t care, bless you! Now I tell you. When I go a looking and
looking about that theer pritty house of our Em’ly’s, I’m--I’m Gormed,’
said Mr. Peggotty, with sudden emphasis--‘theer! I can’t say more--if
I doen’t feel as if the littlest things was her, a’most. I takes ‘em up
and I put ‘em down, and I touches of ‘em as delicate as if they was our
Em’ly. So ‘tis with her little bonnets and that. I couldn’t see one on
‘em rough used a purpose--not fur the whole wureld. There’s a babby fur
you, in the form of a great Sea Porkypine!’ said Mr. Peggotty, relieving
his earnestness with a roar of laughter.

Peggotty and I both laughed, but not so loud.

‘It’s my opinion, you see,’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a delighted face,
after some further rubbing of his legs, ‘as this is along of my havin’
played with her so much, and made believe as we was Turks, and French,
and sharks, and every wariety of forinners--bless you, yes; and lions
and whales, and I doen’t know what all!--when she warn’t no higher than
my knee. I’ve got into the way on it, you know. Why, this here candle,
now!’ said Mr. Peggotty, gleefully holding out his hand towards it,
‘I know wery well that arter she’s married and gone, I shall put that
candle theer, just the same as now. I know wery well that when I’m
here o’ nights (and where else should I live, bless your arts, whatever
fortun’ I come into!) and she ain’t here or I ain’t theer, I shall
put the candle in the winder, and sit afore the fire, pretending I’m
expecting of her, like I’m a doing now. THERE’S a babby for you,’ said
Mr. Peggotty, with another roar, ‘in the form of a Sea Porkypine! Why,
at the present minute, when I see the candle sparkle up, I says to
myself, “She’s a looking at it! Em’ly’s a coming!” THERE’S a babby
for you, in the form of a Sea Porkypine! Right for all that,’ said Mr.
Peggotty, stopping in his roar, and smiting his hands together; ‘fur
here she is!’

It was only Ham. The night should have turned more wet since I came in,
for he had a large sou’wester hat on, slouched over his face.

‘Wheer’s Em’ly?’ said Mr. Peggotty.

Ham made a motion with his head, as if she were outside. Mr. Peggotty
took the light from the window, trimmed it, put it on the table, and was
busily stirring the fire, when Ham, who had not moved, said:

‘Mas’r Davy, will you come out a minute, and see what Em’ly and me has
got to show you?’

We went out. As I passed him at the door, I saw, to my astonishment and
fright, that he was deadly pale. He pushed me hastily into the open air,
and closed the door upon us. Only upon us two.

‘Ham! what’s the matter?’

‘Mas’r Davy!--’ Oh, for his broken heart, how dreadfully he wept!

I was paralysed by the sight of such grief. I don’t know what I thought,
or what I dreaded. I could only look at him.

‘Ham! Poor good fellow! For Heaven’s sake, tell me what’s the matter!’

‘My love, Mas’r Davy--the pride and hope of my art--her that I’d have
died for, and would die for now--she’s gone!’

‘Gone!’

‘Em’ly’s run away! Oh, Mas’r Davy, think HOW she’s run away, when I
pray my good and gracious God to kill her (her that is so dear above all
things) sooner than let her come to ruin and disgrace!’

The face he turned up to the troubled sky, the quivering of his clasped
hands, the agony of his figure, remain associated with the lonely waste,
in my remembrance, to this hour. It is always night there, and he is the
only object in the scene.

‘You’re a scholar,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘and know what’s right and
best. What am I to say, indoors? How am I ever to break it to him, Mas’r
Davy?’

I saw the door move, and instinctively tried to hold the latch on the
outside, to gain a moment’s time. It was too late. Mr. Peggotty thrust
forth his face; and never could I forget the change that came upon it
when he saw us, if I were to live five hundred years.

I remember a great wail and cry, and the women hanging about him, and we
all standing in the room; I with a paper in my hand, which Ham had given
me; Mr. Peggotty, with his vest torn open, his hair wild, his face and
lips quite white, and blood trickling down his bosom (it had sprung from
his mouth, I think), looking fixedly at me.

‘Read it, sir,’ he said, in a low shivering voice. ‘Slow, please. I
doen’t know as I can understand.’

In the midst of the silence of death, I read thus, from a blotted
letter:


‘“When you, who love me so much better than I ever have deserved, even
when my mind was innocent, see this, I shall be far away.”’


‘I shall be fur away,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Stop! Em’ly fur away. Well!’


‘“When I leave my dear home--my dear home--oh, my dear home!--in the
morning,”’

the letter bore date on the previous night:


’”--it will be never to come back, unless he brings me back a lady. This
will be found at night, many hours after, instead of me. Oh, if you knew
how my heart is torn. If even you, that I have wronged so much, that
never can forgive me, could only know what I suffer! I am too wicked to
write about myself! Oh, take comfort in thinking that I am so bad. Oh,
for mercy’s sake, tell uncle that I never loved him half so dear as
now. Oh, don’t remember how affectionate and kind you have all been to
me--don’t remember we were ever to be married--but try to think as if I
died when I was little, and was buried somewhere. Pray Heaven that I
am going away from, have compassion on my uncle! Tell him that I never
loved him half so dear. Be his comfort. Love some good girl that will
be what I was once to uncle, and be true to you, and worthy of you, and
know no shame but me. God bless all! I’ll pray for all, often, on my
knees. If he don’t bring me back a lady, and I don’t pray for my own
self, I’ll pray for all. My parting love to uncle. My last tears, and my
last thanks, for uncle!”’

That was all.

He stood, long after I had ceased to read, still looking at me. At
length I ventured to take his hand, and to entreat him, as well as
I could, to endeavour to get some command of himself. He replied, ‘I
thankee, sir, I thankee!’ without moving.

Ham spoke to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far sensible of HIS affliction,
that he wrung his hand; but, otherwise, he remained in the same state,
and no one dared to disturb him.

Slowly, at last, he moved his eyes from my face, as if he were waking
from a vision, and cast them round the room. Then he said, in a low
voice:

‘Who’s the man? I want to know his name.’

Ham glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock that struck me back.

‘There’s a man suspected,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mas’r Davy!’ implored Ham. ‘Go out a bit, and let me tell him what I
must. You doen’t ought to hear it, sir.’

I felt the shock again. I sank down in a chair, and tried to utter some
reply; but my tongue was fettered, and my sight was weak.

‘I want to know his name!’ I heard said once more.

‘For some time past,’ Ham faltered, ‘there’s been a servant about here,
at odd times. There’s been a gen’lm’n too. Both of ‘em belonged to one
another.’

Mr. Peggotty stood fixed as before, but now looking at him.

‘The servant,’ pursued Ham, ‘was seen along with--our poor girl--last
night. He’s been in hiding about here, this week or over. He was thought
to have gone, but he was hiding. Doen’t stay, Mas’r Davy, doen’t!’

I felt Peggotty’s arm round my neck, but I could not have moved if the
house had been about to fall upon me.

‘A strange chay and hosses was outside town, this morning, on the
Norwich road, a’most afore the day broke,’ Ham went on. ‘The servant
went to it, and come from it, and went to it again. When he went to it
again, Em’ly was nigh him. The t’other was inside. He’s the man.’

‘For the Lord’s love,’ said Mr. Peggotty, falling back, and putting out
his hand, as if to keep off what he dreaded. ‘Doen’t tell me his name’s
Steerforth!’

‘Mas’r Davy,’ exclaimed Ham, in a broken voice, ‘it ain’t no fault
of yourn--and I am far from laying of it to you--but his name is
Steerforth, and he’s a damned villain!’

Mr. Peggotty uttered no cry, and shed no tear, and moved no more, until
he seemed to wake again, all at once, and pulled down his rough coat
from its peg in a corner.

‘Bear a hand with this! I’m struck of a heap, and can’t do it,’ he said,
impatiently. ‘Bear a hand and help me. Well!’ when somebody had done so.
‘Now give me that theer hat!’

Ham asked him whither he was going.

‘I’m a going to seek my niece. I’m a going to seek my Em’ly. I’m a
going, first, to stave in that theer boat, and sink it where I would
have drownded him, as I’m a living soul, if I had had one thought of
what was in him! As he sat afore me,’ he said, wildly, holding out his
clenched right hand, ‘as he sat afore me, face to face, strike me down
dead, but I’d have drownded him, and thought it right!--I’m a going to
seek my niece.’

‘Where?’ cried Ham, interposing himself before the door.

‘Anywhere! I’m a going to seek my niece through the wureld. I’m a going
to find my poor niece in her shame, and bring her back. No one stop me!
I tell you I’m a going to seek my niece!’

‘No, no!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, coming between them, in a fit of crying.
‘No, no, Dan’l, not as you are now. Seek her in a little while, my lone
lorn Dan’l, and that’ll be but right! but not as you are now. Sit ye
down, and give me your forgiveness for having ever been a worrit to you,
Dan’l--what have my contraries ever been to this!--and let us speak a
word about them times when she was first an orphan, and when Ham was
too, and when I was a poor widder woman, and you took me in. It’ll
soften your poor heart, Dan’l,’ laying her head upon his shoulder, ‘and
you’ll bear your sorrow better; for you know the promise, Dan’l, “As
you have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto
me”,--and that can never fail under this roof, that’s been our shelter
for so many, many year!’

He was quite passive now; and when I heard him crying, the impulse that
had been upon me to go down upon my knees, and ask their pardon for the
desolation I had caused, and curse Steerforth, yielded to a better
feeling. My overcharged heart found the same relief, and I cried too.



CHAPTER 32. THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY


What is natural in me, is natural in many other men, I infer, and so
I am not afraid to write that I never had loved Steerforth better than
when the ties that bound me to him were broken. In the keen distress
of the discovery of his unworthiness, I thought more of all that was
brilliant in him, I softened more towards all that was good in him, I
did more justice to the qualities that might have made him a man of a
noble nature and a great name, than ever I had done in the height of
my devotion to him. Deeply as I felt my own unconscious part in his
pollution of an honest home, I believed that if I had been brought face
to face with him, I could not have uttered one reproach. I should have
loved him so well still--though he fascinated me no longer--I should
have held in so much tenderness the memory of my affection for him, that
I think I should have been as weak as a spirit-wounded child, in all
but the entertainment of a thought that we could ever be re-united.
That thought I never had. I felt, as he had felt, that all was at an end
between us. What his remembrances of me were, I have never known--they
were light enough, perhaps, and easily dismissed--but mine of him were
as the remembrances of a cherished friend, who was dead.

Yes, Steerforth, long removed from the scenes of this poor history! My
sorrow may bear involuntary witness against you at the judgement Throne;
but my angry thoughts or my reproaches never will, I know!

The news of what had happened soon spread through the town; insomuch
that as I passed along the streets next morning, I overheard the people
speaking of it at their doors. Many were hard upon her, some few were
hard upon him, but towards her second father and her lover there was
but one sentiment. Among all kinds of people a respect for them in
their distress prevailed, which was full of gentleness and delicacy. The
seafaring men kept apart, when those two were seen early, walking with
slow steps on the beach; and stood in knots, talking compassionately
among themselves.

It was on the beach, close down by the sea, that I found them. It would
have been easy to perceive that they had not slept all last night, even
if Peggotty had failed to tell me of their still sitting just as I
left them, when it was broad day. They looked worn; and I thought Mr.
Peggotty’s head was bowed in one night more than in all the years I had
known him. But they were both as grave and steady as the sea itself,
then lying beneath a dark sky, waveless--yet with a heavy roll upon it,
as if it breathed in its rest--and touched, on the horizon, with a strip
of silvery light from the unseen sun.

‘We have had a mort of talk, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty to me, when we had
all three walked a little while in silence, ‘of what we ought and doen’t
ought to do. But we see our course now.’

I happened to glance at Ham, then looking out to sea upon the distant
light, and a frightful thought came into my mind--not that his face
was angry, for it was not; I recall nothing but an expression of stern
determination in it--that if ever he encountered Steerforth, he would
kill him.

‘My dooty here, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘is done. I’m a going to seek
my--’ he stopped, and went on in a firmer voice: ‘I’m a going to seek
her. That’s my dooty evermore.’

He shook his head when I asked him where he would seek her, and inquired
if I were going to London tomorrow? I told him I had not gone today,
fearing to lose the chance of being of any service to him; but that I
was ready to go when he would.

‘I’ll go along with you, sir,’ he rejoined, ‘if you’re agreeable,
tomorrow.’

We walked again, for a while, in silence.

‘Ham,’ he presently resumed, ‘he’ll hold to his present work, and go and
live along with my sister. The old boat yonder--’

‘Will you desert the old boat, Mr. Peggotty?’ I gently interposed.

‘My station, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned, ‘ain’t there no longer; and if
ever a boat foundered, since there was darkness on the face of the deep,
that one’s gone down. But no, sir, no; I doen’t mean as it should be
deserted. Fur from that.’

We walked again for a while, as before, until he explained:

‘My wishes is, sir, as it shall look, day and night, winter and summer,
as it has always looked, since she fust know’d it. If ever she should
come a wandering back, I wouldn’t have the old place seem to cast her
off, you understand, but seem to tempt her to draw nigher to ‘t, and to
peep in, maybe, like a ghost, out of the wind and rain, through the old
winder, at the old seat by the fire. Then, maybe, Mas’r Davy, seein’
none but Missis Gummidge there, she might take heart to creep in,
trembling; and might come to be laid down in her old bed, and rest her
weary head where it was once so gay.’

I could not speak to him in reply, though I tried.

‘Every night,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘as reg’lar as the night comes, the
candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that if ever she should
see it, it may seem to say “Come back, my child, come back!” If ever
there’s a knock, Ham (partic’ler a soft knock), arter dark, at your
aunt’s door, doen’t you go nigh it. Let it be her--not you--that sees my
fallen child!’

He walked a little in front of us, and kept before us for some minutes.
During this interval, I glanced at Ham again, and observing the same
expression on his face, and his eyes still directed to the distant
light, I touched his arm.

Twice I called him by his name, in the tone in which I might have tried
to rouse a sleeper, before he heeded me. When I at last inquired on what
his thoughts were so bent, he replied:

‘On what’s afore me, Mas’r Davy; and over yon.’ ‘On the life before you,
do you mean?’ He had pointed confusedly out to sea.

‘Ay, Mas’r Davy. I doen’t rightly know how ‘tis, but from over yon there
seemed to me to come--the end of it like,’ looking at me as if he were
waking, but with the same determined face.

‘What end?’ I asked, possessed by my former fear.

‘I doen’t know,’ he said, thoughtfully; ‘I was calling to mind that the
beginning of it all did take place here--and then the end come. But it’s
gone! Mas’r Davy,’ he added; answering, as I think, my look; ‘you han’t
no call to be afeerd of me: but I’m kiender muddled; I don’t fare to
feel no matters,’--which was as much as to say that he was not himself,
and quite confounded.

Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did so, and said no more.
The remembrance of this, in connexion with my former thought, however,
haunted me at intervals, even until the inexorable end came at its
appointed time.

We insensibly approached the old boat, and entered. Mrs. Gummidge, no
longer moping in her especial corner, was busy preparing breakfast.
She took Mr. Peggotty’s hat, and placed his seat for him, and spoke so
comfortably and softly, that I hardly knew her.

‘Dan’l, my good man,’ said she, ‘you must eat and drink, and keep up
your strength, for without it you’ll do nowt. Try, that’s a dear soul!
An if I disturb you with my clicketten,’ she meant her chattering, ‘tell
me so, Dan’l, and I won’t.’

When she had served us all, she withdrew to the window, where she
sedulously employed herself in repairing some shirts and other clothes
belonging to Mr. Peggotty, and neatly folding and packing them in an old
oilskin bag, such as sailors carry. Meanwhile, she continued talking, in
the same quiet manner:

‘All times and seasons, you know, Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, ‘I shall
be allus here, and everythink will look accordin’ to your wishes. I’m a
poor scholar, but I shall write to you, odd times, when you’re away, and
send my letters to Mas’r Davy. Maybe you’ll write to me too, Dan’l, odd
times, and tell me how you fare to feel upon your lone lorn journies.’

‘You’ll be a solitary woman heer, I’m afeerd!’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘No, no, Dan’l,’ she returned, ‘I shan’t be that. Doen’t you mind me. I
shall have enough to do to keep a Beein for you’ (Mrs. Gummidge meant a
home), ‘again you come back--to keep a Beein here for any that may hap
to come back, Dan’l. In the fine time, I shall set outside the door as I
used to do. If any should come nigh, they shall see the old widder woman
true to ‘em, a long way off.’

What a change in Mrs. Gummidge in a little time! She was another woman.
She was so devoted, she had such a quick perception of what it would
be well to say, and what it would be well to leave unsaid; she was so
forgetful of herself, and so regardful of the sorrow about her, that I
held her in a sort of veneration. The work she did that day! There
were many things to be brought up from the beach and stored in the
outhouse--as oars, nets, sails, cordage, spars, lobster-pots, bags of
ballast, and the like; and though there was abundance of assistance
rendered, there being not a pair of working hands on all that shore but
would have laboured hard for Mr. Peggotty, and been well paid in being
asked to do it, yet she persisted, all day long, in toiling under
weights that she was quite unequal to, and fagging to and fro on all
sorts of unnecessary errands. As to deploring her misfortunes, she
appeared to have entirely lost the recollection of ever having had any.
She preserved an equable cheerfulness in the midst of her sympathy,
which was not the least astonishing part of the change that had come
over her. Querulousness was out of the question. I did not even observe
her voice to falter, or a tear to escape from her eyes, the whole day
through, until twilight; when she and I and Mr. Peggotty being alone
together, and he having fallen asleep in perfect exhaustion, she broke
into a half-suppressed fit of sobbing and crying, and taking me to the
door, said, ‘Ever bless you, Mas’r Davy, be a friend to him, poor dear!’
Then, she immediately ran out of the house to wash her face, in order
that she might sit quietly beside him, and be found at work there, when
he should awake. In short I left her, when I went away at night, the
prop and staff of Mr. Peggotty’s affliction; and I could not meditate
enough upon the lesson that I read in Mrs. Gummidge, and the new
experience she unfolded to me.

It was between nine and ten o’clock when, strolling in a melancholy
manner through the town, I stopped at Mr. Omer’s door. Mr. Omer had
taken it so much to heart, his daughter told me, that he had been very
low and poorly all day, and had gone to bed without his pipe.

‘A deceitful, bad-hearted girl,’ said Mrs. Joram. ‘There was no good in
her, ever!’

‘Don’t say so,’ I returned. ‘You don’t think so.’

‘Yes, I do!’ cried Mrs. Joram, angrily.

‘No, no,’ said I.

Mrs. Joram tossed her head, endeavouring to be very stern and cross; but
she could not command her softer self, and began to cry. I was young,
to be sure; but I thought much the better of her for this sympathy, and
fancied it became her, as a virtuous wife and mother, very well indeed.

‘What will she ever do!’ sobbed Minnie. ‘Where will she go! What will
become of her! Oh, how could she be so cruel, to herself and him!’

I remembered the time when Minnie was a young and pretty girl; and I was
glad she remembered it too, so feelingly.

‘My little Minnie,’ said Mrs. Joram, ‘has only just now been got to
sleep. Even in her sleep she is sobbing for Em’ly. All day long, little
Minnie has cried for her, and asked me, over and over again, whether
Em’ly was wicked? What can I say to her, when Em’ly tied a ribbon off
her own neck round little Minnie’s the last night she was here, and laid
her head down on the pillow beside her till she was fast asleep! The
ribbon’s round my little Minnie’s neck now. It ought not to be, perhaps,
but what can I do? Em’ly is very bad, but they were fond of one another.
And the child knows nothing!’

Mrs. Joram was so unhappy that her husband came out to take care of
her. Leaving them together, I went home to Peggotty’s; more melancholy
myself, if possible, than I had been yet.

That good creature--I mean Peggotty--all untired by her late anxieties
and sleepless nights, was at her brother’s, where she meant to stay till
morning. An old woman, who had been employed about the house for some
weeks past, while Peggotty had been unable to attend to it, was the
house’s only other occupant besides myself. As I had no occasion for her
services, I sent her to bed, by no means against her will, and sat down
before the kitchen fire a little while, to think about all this.

I was blending it with the deathbed of the late Mr. Barkis, and was
driving out with the tide towards the distance at which Ham had looked
so singularly in the morning, when I was recalled from my wanderings by
a knock at the door. There was a knocker upon the door, but it was not
that which made the sound. The tap was from a hand, and low down upon
the door, as if it were given by a child.

It made me start as much as if it had been the knock of a footman to a
person of distinction. I opened the door; and at first looked down,
to my amazement, on nothing but a great umbrella that appeared to be
walking about of itself. But presently I discovered underneath it, Miss
Mowcher.

I might not have been prepared to give the little creature a very kind
reception, if, on her removing the umbrella, which her utmost efforts
were unable to shut up, she had shown me the ‘volatile’ expression of
face which had made so great an impression on me at our first and last
meeting. But her face, as she turned it up to mine, was so earnest;
and when I relieved her of the umbrella (which would have been an
inconvenient one for the Irish Giant), she wrung her little hands in
such an afflicted manner; that I rather inclined towards her.

‘Miss Mowcher!’ said I, after glancing up and down the empty street,
without distinctly knowing what I expected to see besides; ‘how do you
come here? What is the matter?’ She motioned to me with her short right
arm, to shut the umbrella for her; and passing me hurriedly, went into
the kitchen. When I had closed the door, and followed, with the umbrella
in my hand, I found her sitting on the corner of the fender--it was a
low iron one, with two flat bars at top to stand plates upon--in the
shadow of the boiler, swaying herself backwards and forwards, and
chafing her hands upon her knees like a person in pain.

Quite alarmed at being the only recipient of this untimely visit, and
the only spectator of this portentous behaviour, I exclaimed again,
‘Pray tell me, Miss Mowcher, what is the matter! are you ill?’

‘My dear young soul,’ returned Miss Mowcher, squeezing her hands upon
her heart one over the other. ‘I am ill here, I am very ill. To think
that it should come to this, when I might have known it and perhaps
prevented it, if I hadn’t been a thoughtless fool!’

Again her large bonnet (very disproportionate to the figure) went
backwards and forwards, in her swaying of her little body to and fro;
while a most gigantic bonnet rocked, in unison with it, upon the wall.

‘I am surprised,’ I began, ‘to see you so distressed and serious’--when
she interrupted me.

‘Yes, it’s always so!’ she said. ‘They are all surprised, these
inconsiderate young people, fairly and full grown, to see any natural
feeling in a little thing like me! They make a plaything of me, use me
for their amusement, throw me away when they are tired, and wonder that
I feel more than a toy horse or a wooden soldier! Yes, yes, that’s the
way. The old way!’

‘It may be, with others,’ I returned, ‘but I do assure you it is not
with me. Perhaps I ought not to be at all surprised to see you as you
are now: I know so little of you. I said, without consideration, what I
thought.’

‘What can I do?’ returned the little woman, standing up, and holding out
her arms to show herself. ‘See! What I am, my father was; and my sister
is; and my brother is. I have worked for sister and brother these many
years--hard, Mr. Copperfield--all day. I must live. I do no harm. If
there are people so unreflecting or so cruel, as to make a jest of
me, what is left for me to do but to make a jest of myself, them, and
everything? If I do so, for the time, whose fault is that? Mine?’

No. Not Miss Mowcher’s, I perceived.

‘If I had shown myself a sensitive dwarf to your false friend,’ pursued
the little woman, shaking her head at me, with reproachful earnestness,
‘how much of his help or good will do you think I should ever have had?
If little Mowcher (who had no hand, young gentleman, in the making of
herself) addressed herself to him, or the like of him, because of her
misfortunes, when do you suppose her small voice would have been heard?
Little Mowcher would have as much need to live, if she was the bitterest
and dullest of pigmies; but she couldn’t do it. No. She might whistle
for her bread and butter till she died of Air.’

Miss Mowcher sat down on the fender again, and took out her
handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

‘Be thankful for me, if you have a kind heart, as I think you have,’ she
said, ‘that while I know well what I am, I can be cheerful and endure it
all. I am thankful for myself, at any rate, that I can find my tiny way
through the world, without being beholden to anyone; and that in return
for all that is thrown at me, in folly or vanity, as I go along, I can
throw bubbles back. If I don’t brood over all I want, it is the better
for me, and not the worse for anyone. If I am a plaything for you
giants, be gentle with me.’

Miss Mowcher replaced her handkerchief in her pocket, looking at me with
very intent expression all the while, and pursued:

‘I saw you in the street just now. You may suppose I am not able to
walk as fast as you, with my short legs and short breath, and I couldn’t
overtake you; but I guessed where you came, and came after you. I have
been here before, today, but the good woman wasn’t at home.’

‘Do you know her?’ I demanded.

‘I know of her, and about her,’ she replied, ‘from Omer and Joram. I
was there at seven o’clock this morning. Do you remember what Steerforth
said to me about this unfortunate girl, that time when I saw you both at
the inn?’

The great bonnet on Miss Mowcher’s head, and the greater bonnet on
the wall, began to go backwards and forwards again when she asked this
question.

I remembered very well what she referred to, having had it in my
thoughts many times that day. I told her so.

‘May the Father of all Evil confound him,’ said the little woman,
holding up her forefinger between me and her sparkling eyes, ‘and ten
times more confound that wicked servant; but I believed it was YOU who
had a boyish passion for her!’

‘I?’ I repeated.

‘Child, child! In the name of blind ill-fortune,’ cried Miss Mowcher,
wringing her hands impatiently, as she went to and fro again upon the
fender, ‘why did you praise her so, and blush, and look disturbed?’

I could not conceal from myself that I had done this, though for a
reason very different from her supposition.

‘What did I know?’ said Miss Mowcher, taking out her handkerchief again,
and giving one little stamp on the ground whenever, at short intervals,
she applied it to her eyes with both hands at once. ‘He was crossing you
and wheedling you, I saw; and you were soft wax in his hands, I saw. Had
I left the room a minute, when his man told me that “Young Innocence”
 (so he called you, and you may call him “Old Guilt” all the days of your
life) had set his heart upon her, and she was giddy and liked him, but
his master was resolved that no harm should come of it--more for your
sake than for hers--and that that was their business here? How could I
BUT believe him? I saw Steerforth soothe and please you by his praise
of her! You were the first to mention her name. You owned to an old
admiration of her. You were hot and cold, and red and white, all at once
when I spoke to you of her. What could I think--what DID I think--but
that you were a young libertine in everything but experience, and had
fallen into hands that had experience enough, and could manage you
(having the fancy) for your own good? Oh! oh! oh! They were afraid of my
finding out the truth,’ exclaimed Miss Mowcher, getting off the
fender, and trotting up and down the kitchen with her two short arms
distressfully lifted up, ‘because I am a sharp little thing--I need be,
to get through the world at all!--and they deceived me altogether, and
I gave the poor unfortunate girl a letter, which I fully believe was
the beginning of her ever speaking to Littimer, who was left behind on
purpose!’

I stood amazed at the revelation of all this perfidy, looking at Miss
Mowcher as she walked up and down the kitchen until she was out of
breath: when she sat upon the fender again, and, drying her face with
her handkerchief, shook her head for a long time, without otherwise
moving, and without breaking silence.

‘My country rounds,’ she added at length, ‘brought me to Norwich, Mr.
Copperfield, the night before last. What I happened to find there,
about their secret way of coming and going, without you--which was
strange--led to my suspecting something wrong. I got into the coach
from London last night, as it came through Norwich, and was here this
morning. Oh, oh, oh! too late!’

Poor little Mowcher turned so chilly after all her crying and fretting,
that she turned round on the fender, putting her poor little wet feet in
among the ashes to warm them, and sat looking at the fire, like a large
doll. I sat in a chair on the other side of the hearth, lost in unhappy
reflections, and looking at the fire too, and sometimes at her.

‘I must go,’ she said at last, rising as she spoke. ‘It’s late. You
don’t mistrust me?’

Meeting her sharp glance, which was as sharp as ever when she asked me,
I could not on that short challenge answer no, quite frankly.

‘Come!’ said she, accepting the offer of my hand to help her over the
fender, and looking wistfully up into my face, ‘you know you wouldn’t
mistrust me, if I was a full-sized woman!’

I felt that there was much truth in this; and I felt rather ashamed of
myself.

‘You are a young man,’ she said, nodding. ‘Take a word of advice,
even from three foot nothing. Try not to associate bodily defects with
mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason.’

She had got over the fender now, and I had got over my suspicion. I told
her that I believed she had given me a faithful account of herself,
and that we had both been hapless instruments in designing hands. She
thanked me, and said I was a good fellow.

‘Now, mind!’ she exclaimed, turning back on her way to the door, and
looking shrewdly at me, with her forefinger up again.--‘I have some
reason to suspect, from what I have heard--my ears are always open; I
can’t afford to spare what powers I have--that they are gone abroad. But
if ever they return, if ever any one of them returns, while I am alive,
I am more likely than another, going about as I do, to find it out soon.
Whatever I know, you shall know. If ever I can do anything to serve the
poor betrayed girl, I will do it faithfully, please Heaven! And Littimer
had better have a bloodhound at his back, than little Mowcher!’

I placed implicit faith in this last statement, when I marked the look
with which it was accompanied.

‘Trust me no more, but trust me no less, than you would trust a
full-sized woman,’ said the little creature, touching me appealingly
on the wrist. ‘If ever you see me again, unlike what I am now, and like
what I was when you first saw me, observe what company I am in. Call to
mind that I am a very helpless and defenceless little thing. Think of
me at home with my brother like myself and sister like myself, when my
day’s work is done. Perhaps you won’t, then, be very hard upon me, or
surprised if I can be distressed and serious. Good night!’

I gave Miss Mowcher my hand, with a very different opinion of her from
that which I had hitherto entertained, and opened the door to let her
out. It was not a trifling business to get the great umbrella up, and
properly balanced in her grasp; but at last I successfully accomplished
this, and saw it go bobbing down the street through the rain, without
the least appearance of having anybody underneath it, except when a
heavier fall than usual from some over-charged water-spout sent it
toppling over, on one side, and discovered Miss Mowcher struggling
violently to get it right. After making one or two sallies to her
relief, which were rendered futile by the umbrella’s hopping on again,
like an immense bird, before I could reach it, I came in, went to bed,
and slept till morning.

In the morning I was joined by Mr. Peggotty and by my old nurse, and we
went at an early hour to the coach office, where Mrs. Gummidge and Ham
were waiting to take leave of us.

‘Mas’r Davy,’ Ham whispered, drawing me aside, while Mr. Peggotty was
stowing his bag among the luggage, ‘his life is quite broke up. He
doen’t know wheer he’s going; he doen’t know--what’s afore him; he’s
bound upon a voyage that’ll last, on and off, all the rest of his days,
take my wured for ‘t, unless he finds what he’s a seeking of. I am sure
you’ll be a friend to him, Mas’r Davy?’

‘Trust me, I will indeed,’ said I, shaking hands with Ham earnestly.

‘Thankee. Thankee, very kind, sir. One thing furder. I’m in good employ,
you know, Mas’r Davy, and I han’t no way now of spending what I gets.
Money’s of no use to me no more, except to live. If you can lay it out
for him, I shall do my work with a better art. Though as to that, sir,’
and he spoke very steadily and mildly, ‘you’re not to think but I shall
work at all times, like a man, and act the best that lays in my power!’

I told him I was well convinced of it; and I hinted that I hoped the
time might even come, when he would cease to lead the lonely life he
naturally contemplated now.

‘No, sir,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘all that’s past and over with me,
sir. No one can never fill the place that’s empty. But you’ll bear in
mind about the money, as theer’s at all times some laying by for him?’

Reminding him of the fact, that Mr. Peggotty derived a steady,
though certainly a very moderate income from the bequest of his late
brother-in-law, I promised to do so. We then took leave of each other. I
cannot leave him even now, without remembering with a pang, at once his
modest fortitude and his great sorrow.

As to Mrs. Gummidge, if I were to endeavour to describe how she ran down
the street by the side of the coach, seeing nothing but Mr. Peggotty on
the roof, through the tears she tried to repress, and dashing herself
against the people who were coming in the opposite direction, I should
enter on a task of some difficulty. Therefore I had better leave her
sitting on a baker’s door-step, out of breath, with no shape at all
remaining in her bonnet, and one of her shoes off, lying on the pavement
at a considerable distance.

When we got to our journey’s end, our first pursuit was to look about
for a little lodging for Peggotty, where her brother could have a
bed. We were so fortunate as to find one, of a very clean and cheap
description, over a chandler’s shop, only two streets removed from
me. When we had engaged this domicile, I bought some cold meat at an
eating-house, and took my fellow-travellers home to tea; a proceeding,
I regret to state, which did not meet with Mrs. Crupp’s approval, but
quite the contrary. I ought to observe, however, in explanation of that
lady’s state of mind, that she was much offended by Peggotty’s tucking
up her widow’s gown before she had been ten minutes in the place, and
setting to work to dust my bedroom. This Mrs. Crupp regarded in the
light of a liberty, and a liberty, she said, was a thing she never
allowed.

Mr. Peggotty had made a communication to me on the way to London for
which I was not unprepared. It was, that he purposed first seeing Mrs.
Steerforth. As I felt bound to assist him in this, and also to mediate
between them; with the view of sparing the mother’s feelings as much
as possible, I wrote to her that night. I told her as mildly as I could
what his wrong was, and what my own share in his injury. I said he was a
man in very common life, but of a most gentle and upright character; and
that I ventured to express a hope that she would not refuse to see him
in his heavy trouble. I mentioned two o’clock in the afternoon as the
hour of our coming, and I sent the letter myself by the first coach in
the morning.

At the appointed time, we stood at the door--the door of that house
where I had been, a few days since, so happy: where my youthful
confidence and warmth of heart had been yielded up so freely: which was
closed against me henceforth: which was now a waste, a ruin.

No Littimer appeared. The pleasanter face which had replaced his, on the
occasion of my last visit, answered to our summons, and went before
us to the drawing-room. Mrs. Steerforth was sitting there. Rosa Dartle
glided, as we went in, from another part of the room and stood behind
her chair.

I saw, directly, in his mother’s face, that she knew from himself what
he had done. It was very pale; and bore the traces of deeper emotion
than my letter alone, weakened by the doubts her fondness would have
raised upon it, would have been likely to create. I thought her more
like him than ever I had thought her; and I felt, rather than saw, that
the resemblance was not lost on my companion.

She sat upright in her arm-chair, with a stately, immovable, passionless
air, that it seemed as if nothing could disturb. She looked very
steadfastly at Mr. Peggotty when he stood before her; and he looked
quite as steadfastly at her. Rosa Dartle’s keen glance comprehended all
of us. For some moments not a word was spoken.

She motioned to Mr. Peggotty to be seated. He said, in a low voice, ‘I
shouldn’t feel it nat’ral, ma’am, to sit down in this house. I’d sooner
stand.’ And this was succeeded by another silence, which she broke thus:

‘I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. What do you want
of me? What do you ask me to do?’

He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast for Emily’s
letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her. ‘Please to read
that, ma’am. That’s my niece’s hand!’

She read it, in the same stately and impassive way,--untouched by its
contents, as far as I could see,--and returned it to him.

‘“Unless he brings me back a lady,”’ said Mr. Peggotty, tracing out that
part with his finger. ‘I come to know, ma’am, whether he will keep his
wured?’

‘No,’ she returned.

‘Why not?’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to know
that she is far below him.’

‘Raise her up!’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘She is uneducated and ignorant.’

‘Maybe she’s not; maybe she is,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I think not, ma’am;
but I’m no judge of them things. Teach her better!’

‘Since you oblige me to speak more plainly, which I am very unwilling
to do, her humble connexions would render such a thing impossible, if
nothing else did.’

‘Hark to this, ma’am,’ he returned, slowly and quietly. ‘You know what
it is to love your child. So do I. If she was a hundred times my child,
I couldn’t love her more. You doen’t know what it is to lose your child.
I do. All the heaps of riches in the wureld would be nowt to me (if they
was mine) to buy her back! But, save her from this disgrace, and she
shall never be disgraced by us. Not one of us that she’s growed up
among, not one of us that’s lived along with her and had her for their
all in all, these many year, will ever look upon her pritty face again.
We’ll be content to let her be; we’ll be content to think of her, far
off, as if she was underneath another sun and sky; we’ll be content to
trust her to her husband,--to her little children, p’raps,--and bide the
time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our God!’

The rugged eloquence with which he spoke, was not devoid of all effect.
She still preserved her proud manner, but there was a touch of softness
in her voice, as she answered:

‘I justify nothing. I make no counter-accusations. But I am sorry to
repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would irretrievably blight my
son’s career, and ruin his prospects. Nothing is more certain than
that it never can take place, and never will. If there is any other
compensation--’

‘I am looking at the likeness of the face,’ interrupted Mr. Peggotty,
with a steady but a kindling eye, ‘that has looked at me, in my home, at
my fireside, in my boat--wheer not?---smiling and friendly, when it was
so treacherous, that I go half wild when I think of it. If the likeness
of that face don’t turn to burning fire, at the thought of offering
money to me for my child’s blight and ruin, it’s as bad. I doen’t know,
being a lady’s, but what it’s worse.’

She changed now, in a moment. An angry flush overspread her features;
and she said, in an intolerant manner, grasping the arm-chair tightly
with her hands:

‘What compensation can you make to ME for opening such a pit between me
and my son? What is your love to mine? What is your separation to ours?’

Miss Dartle softly touched her, and bent down her head to whisper, but
she would not hear a word.

‘No, Rosa, not a word! Let the man listen to what I say! My son, who has
been the object of my life, to whom its every thought has been devoted,
whom I have gratified from a child in every wish, from whom I have had
no separate existence since his birth,--to take up in a moment with a
miserable girl, and avoid me! To repay my confidence with systematic
deception, for her sake, and quit me for her! To set this wretched
fancy, against his mother’s claims upon his duty, love, respect,
gratitude--claims that every day and hour of his life should have
strengthened into ties that nothing could be proof against! Is this no
injury?’

Again Rosa Dartle tried to soothe her; again ineffectually.

‘I say, Rosa, not a word! If he can stake his all upon the lightest
object, I can stake my all upon a greater purpose. Let him go where he
will, with the means that my love has secured to him! Does he think to
reduce me by long absence? He knows his mother very little if he does.
Let him put away his whim now, and he is welcome back. Let him not put
her away now, and he never shall come near me, living or dying, while
I can raise my hand to make a sign against it, unless, being rid of her
for ever, he comes humbly to me and begs for my forgiveness. This is my
right. This is the acknowledgement I WILL HAVE. This is the separation
that there is between us! And is this,’ she added, looking at her
visitor with the proud intolerant air with which she had begun, ‘no
injury?’

While I heard and saw the mother as she said these words, I seemed to
hear and see the son, defying them. All that I had ever seen in him of
an unyielding, wilful spirit, I saw in her. All the understanding that
I had now of his misdirected energy, became an understanding of her
character too, and a perception that it was, in its strongest springs,
the same.

She now observed to me, aloud, resuming her former restraint, that it
was useless to hear more, or to say more, and that she begged to put an
end to the interview. She rose with an air of dignity to leave the room,
when Mr. Peggotty signified that it was needless.

‘Doen’t fear me being any hindrance to you, I have no more to say,
ma’am,’ he remarked, as he moved towards the door. ‘I come heer with no
hope, and I take away no hope. I have done what I thowt should be done,
but I never looked fur any good to come of my stan’ning where I do.
This has been too evil a house fur me and mine, fur me to be in my right
senses and expect it.’

With this, we departed; leaving her standing by her elbow-chair, a
picture of a noble presence and a handsome face.

We had, on our way out, to cross a paved hall, with glass sides and
roof, over which a vine was trained. Its leaves and shoots were green
then, and the day being sunny, a pair of glass doors leading to the
garden were thrown open. Rosa Dartle, entering this way with a noiseless
step, when we were close to them, addressed herself to me:

‘You do well,’ she said, ‘indeed, to bring this fellow here!’

Such a concentration of rage and scorn as darkened her face, and flashed
in her jet-black eyes, I could not have thought compressible even into
that face. The scar made by the hammer was, as usual in this excited
state of her features, strongly marked. When the throbbing I had seen
before, came into it as I looked at her, she absolutely lifted up her
hand, and struck it.

‘This is a fellow,’ she said, ‘to champion and bring here, is he not?
You are a true man!’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘you are surely not so unjust as to condemn
ME!’

‘Why do you bring division between these two mad creatures?’ she
returned. ‘Don’t you know that they are both mad with their own
self-will and pride?’

‘Is it my doing?’ I returned.

‘Is it your doing!’ she retorted. ‘Why do you bring this man here?’

‘He is a deeply-injured man, Miss Dartle,’ I replied. ‘You may not know
it.’

‘I know that James Steerforth,’ she said, with her hand on her bosom, as
if to prevent the storm that was raging there, from being loud, ‘has
a false, corrupt heart, and is a traitor. But what need I know or care
about this fellow, and his common niece?’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I returned, ‘you deepen the injury. It is sufficient
already. I will only say, at parting, that you do him a great wrong.’

‘I do him no wrong,’ she returned. ‘They are a depraved, worthless set.
I would have her whipped!’

Mr. Peggotty passed on, without a word, and went out at the door.

‘Oh, shame, Miss Dartle! shame!’ I said indignantly. ‘How can you bear
to trample on his undeserved affliction!’

‘I would trample on them all,’ she answered. ‘I would have his house
pulled down. I would have her branded on the face, dressed in rags,
and cast out in the streets to starve. If I had the power to sit in
judgement on her, I would see it done. See it done? I would do it! I
detest her. If I ever could reproach her with her infamous condition, I
would go anywhere to do so. If I could hunt her to her grave, I would.
If there was any word of comfort that would be a solace to her in her
dying hour, and only I possessed it, I wouldn’t part with it for Life
itself.’

The mere vehemence of her words can convey, I am sensible, but a weak
impression of the passion by which she was possessed, and which made
itself articulate in her whole figure, though her voice, instead of
being raised, was lower than usual. No description I could give of her
would do justice to my recollection of her, or to her entire deliverance
of herself to her anger. I have seen passion in many forms, but I have
never seen it in such a form as that.

When I joined Mr. Peggotty, he was walking slowly and thoughtfully down
the hill. He told me, as soon as I came up with him, that having now
discharged his mind of what he had purposed doing in London, he meant
‘to set out on his travels’, that night. I asked him where he meant to
go? He only answered, ‘I’m a going, sir, to seek my niece.’

We went back to the little lodging over the chandler’s shop, and there
I found an opportunity of repeating to Peggotty what he had said to
me. She informed me, in return, that he had said the same to her that
morning. She knew no more than I did, where he was going, but she
thought he had some project shaped out in his mind.

I did not like to leave him, under such circumstances, and we all three
dined together off a beefsteak pie--which was one of the many good
things for which Peggotty was famous--and which was curiously flavoured
on this occasion, I recollect well, by a miscellaneous taste of tea,
coffee, butter, bacon, cheese, new loaves, firewood, candles, and walnut
ketchup, continually ascending from the shop. After dinner we sat for an
hour or so near the window, without talking much; and then Mr. Peggotty
got up, and brought his oilskin bag and his stout stick, and laid them
on the table.

He accepted, from his sister’s stock of ready money, a small sum on
account of his legacy; barely enough, I should have thought, to keep him
for a month. He promised to communicate with me, when anything befell
him; and he slung his bag about him, took his hat and stick, and bade us
both ‘Good-bye!’

‘All good attend you, dear old woman,’ he said, embracing Peggotty, ‘and
you too, Mas’r Davy!’ shaking hands with me. ‘I’m a-going to seek her,
fur and wide. If she should come home while I’m away--but ah, that ain’t
like to be!--or if I should bring her back, my meaning is, that she
and me shall live and die where no one can’t reproach her. If any hurt
should come to me, remember that the last words I left for her was, “My
unchanged love is with my darling child, and I forgive her!”’

He said this solemnly, bare-headed; then, putting on his hat, he went
down the stairs, and away. We followed to the door. It was a warm, dusty
evening, just the time when, in the great main thoroughfare out of which
that by-way turned, there was a temporary lull in the eternal tread of
feet upon the pavement, and a strong red sunshine. He turned, alone, at
the corner of our shady street, into a glow of light, in which we lost
him.

Rarely did that hour of the evening come, rarely did I wake at night,
rarely did I look up at the moon, or stars, or watch the falling rain,
or hear the wind, but I thought of his solitary figure toiling on, poor
pilgrim, and recalled the words:

‘I’m a going to seek her, fur and wide. If any hurt should come to me,
remember that the last words I left for her was, “My unchanged love is
with my darling child, and I forgive her!”’



CHAPTER 33. BLISSFUL


All this time, I had gone on loving Dora, harder than ever. Her idea was
my refuge in disappointment and distress, and made some amends to me,
even for the loss of my friend. The more I pitied myself, or pitied
others, the more I sought for consolation in the image of Dora. The
greater the accumulation of deceit and trouble in the world, the
brighter and the purer shone the star of Dora high above the world. I
don’t think I had any definite idea where Dora came from, or in what
degree she was related to a higher order of beings; but I am quite sure
I should have scouted the notion of her being simply human, like any
other young lady, with indignation and contempt.

If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over
head and ears in love with her, but I was saturated through and through.
Enough love might have been wrung out of me, metaphorically speaking,
to drown anybody in; and yet there would have remained enough within me,
and all over me, to pervade my entire existence.

The first thing I did, on my own account, when I came back, was to take
a night-walk to Norwood, and, like the subject of a venerable riddle of
my childhood, to go ‘round and round the house, without ever
touching the house’, thinking about Dora. I believe the theme of this
incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No matter what it was, I, the
moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round and round the house and
garden for two hours, looking through crevices in the palings, getting
my chin by dint of violent exertion above the rusty nails on the top,
blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling
on the night, at intervals, to shield my Dora--I don’t exactly know what
from, I suppose from fire. Perhaps from mice, to which she had a great
objection.

My love was so much in my mind and it was so natural to me to confide in
Peggotty, when I found her again by my side of an evening with the old
set of industrial implements, busily making the tour of my wardrobe,
that I imparted to her, in a sufficiently roundabout way, my great
secret. Peggotty was strongly interested, but I could not get her into
my view of the case at all. She was audaciously prejudiced in my favour,
and quite unable to understand why I should have any misgivings, or be
low-spirited about it. ‘The young lady might think herself well off,’
she observed, ‘to have such a beau. And as to her Pa,’ she said, ‘what
did the gentleman expect, for gracious sake!’

I observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow’s proctorial gown and stiff cravat
took Peggotty down a little, and inspired her with a greater reverence
for the man who was gradually becoming more and more etherealized in my
eyes every day, and about whom a reflected radiance seemed to me to beam
when he sat erect in Court among his papers, like a little lighthouse in
a sea of stationery. And by the by, it used to be uncommonly strange
to me to consider, I remember, as I sat in Court too, how those dim old
judges and doctors wouldn’t have cared for Dora, if they had known
her; how they wouldn’t have gone out of their senses with rapture, if
marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora might have sung,
and played upon that glorified guitar, until she led me to the verge of
madness, yet not have tempted one of those slow-goers an inch out of his
road!

I despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the flower-beds
of the heart, I took a personal offence against them all. The Bench
was nothing to me but an insensible blunderer. The Bar had no more
tenderness or poetry in it, than the bar of a public-house.

Taking the management of Peggotty’s affairs into my own hands, with
no little pride, I proved the will, and came to a settlement with the
Legacy Duty-office, and took her to the Bank, and soon got everything
into an orderly train. We varied the legal character of these
proceedings by going to see some perspiring Wax-work, in Fleet Street
(melted, I should hope, these twenty years); and by visiting Miss
Linwood’s Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum of needlework,
favourable to self-examination and repentance; and by inspecting the
Tower of London; and going to the top of St. Paul’s. All these wonders
afforded Peggotty as much pleasure as she was able to enjoy, under
existing circumstances: except, I think, St. Paul’s, which, from her
long attachment to her work-box, became a rival of the picture on the
lid, and was, in some particulars, vanquished, she considered, by that
work of art.

Peggotty’s business, which was what we used to call ‘common-form
business’ in the Commons (and very light and lucrative the common-form
business was), being settled, I took her down to the office one morning
to pay her bill. Mr. Spenlow had stepped out, old Tiffey said, to get a
gentleman sworn for a marriage licence; but as I knew he would be
back directly, our place lying close to the Surrogate’s, and to the
Vicar-General’s office too, I told Peggotty to wait.

We were a little like undertakers, in the Commons, as regarded Probate
transactions; generally making it a rule to look more or less cut up,
when we had to deal with clients in mourning. In a similar feeling
of delicacy, we were always blithe and light-hearted with the licence
clients. Therefore I hinted to Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow
much recovered from the shock of Mr. Barkis’s decease; and indeed he
came in like a bridegroom.

But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we saw, in company
with him, Mr. Murdstone. He was very little changed. His hair looked as
thick, and was certainly as black, as ever; and his glance was as little
to be trusted as of old.

‘Ah, Copperfield?’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘You know this gentleman, I
believe?’

I made my gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely recognized him.
He was, at first, somewhat disconcerted to meet us two together; but
quickly decided what to do, and came up to me.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you are doing well?’

‘It can hardly be interesting to you,’ said I. ‘Yes, if you wish to
know.’

We looked at each other, and he addressed himself to Peggotty.

‘And you,’ said he. ‘I am sorry to observe that you have lost your
husband.’

‘It’s not the first loss I have had in my life, Mr. Murdstone,’ replied
Peggotty, trembling from head to foot. ‘I am glad to hope that there is
nobody to blame for this one,--nobody to answer for it.’

‘Ha!’ said he; ‘that’s a comfortable reflection. You have done your
duty?’

‘I have not worn anybody’s life away,’ said Peggotty, ‘I am thankful to
think! No, Mr. Murdstone, I have not worrited and frightened any sweet
creetur to an early grave!’

He eyed her gloomily--remorsefully I thought--for an instant; and said,
turning his head towards me, but looking at my feet instead of my face:

‘We are not likely to encounter soon again;--a source of satisfaction to
us both, no doubt, for such meetings as this can never be agreeable. I
do not expect that you, who always rebelled against my just authority,
exerted for your benefit and reformation, should owe me any good-will
now. There is an antipathy between us--’

‘An old one, I believe?’ said I, interrupting him.

He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come from his dark
eyes.

‘It rankled in your baby breast,’ he said. ‘It embittered the life of
your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may do better, yet; I hope
you may correct yourself.’

Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in a low voice,
in a corner of the outer office, by passing into Mr. Spenlow’s room, and
saying aloud, in his smoothest manner:

‘Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow’s profession are accustomed to family
differences, and know how complicated and difficult they always are!’
With that, he paid the money for his licence; and, receiving it neatly
folded from Mr. Spenlow, together with a shake of the hand, and a polite
wish for his happiness and the lady’s, went out of the office.

I might have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be silent
under his words, if I had had less difficulty in impressing upon
Peggotty (who was only angry on my account, good creature!) that we were
not in a place for recrimination, and that I besought her to hold her
peace. She was so unusually roused, that I was glad to compound for
an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival in her mind of our old
injuries, and to make the best I could of it, before Mr. Spenlow and the
clerks.

Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion between Mr.
Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad of, for I could not bear to
acknowledge him, even in my own breast, remembering what I did of the
history of my poor mother. Mr. Spenlow seemed to think, if he thought
anything about the matter, that my aunt was the leader of the state
party in our family, and that there was a rebel party commanded by
somebody else--so I gathered at least from what he said, while we were
waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make out Peggotty’s bill of costs.

‘Miss Trotwood,’ he remarked, ‘is very firm, no doubt, and not likely
to give way to opposition. I have an admiration for her character, and
I may congratulate you, Copperfield, on being on the right side.
Differences between relations are much to be deplored--but they are
extremely general--and the great thing is, to be on the right side’:
meaning, I take it, on the side of the moneyed interest.

‘Rather a good marriage this, I believe?’ said Mr. Spenlow.

I explained that I knew nothing about it.

‘Indeed!’ he said. ‘Speaking from the few words Mr. Murdstone
dropped--as a man frequently does on these occasions--and from what Miss
Murdstone let fall, I should say it was rather a good marriage.’

‘Do you mean that there is money, sir?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I understand there’s money. Beauty too, I am
told.’

‘Indeed! Is his new wife young?’

‘Just of age,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘So lately, that I should think they
had been waiting for that.’

‘Lord deliver her!’ said Peggotty. So very emphatically and
unexpectedly, that we were all three discomposed; until Tiffey came in
with the bill.

Old Tiffey soon appeared, however, and handed it to Mr. Spenlow, to
look over. Mr. Spenlow, settling his chin in his cravat and rubbing it
softly, went over the items with a deprecatory air--as if it were all
Jorkins’s doing--and handed it back to Tiffey with a bland sigh.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Quite right. I should have been extremely
happy, Copperfield, to have limited these charges to the actual
expenditure out of pocket, but it is an irksome incident in my
professional life, that I am not at liberty to consult my own wishes. I
have a partner--Mr. Jorkins.’

As he said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the next thing to
making no charge at all, I expressed my acknowledgements on Peggotty’s
behalf, and paid Tiffey in banknotes. Peggotty then retired to
her lodging, and Mr. Spenlow and I went into Court, where we had a
divorce-suit coming on, under an ingenious little statute (repealed
now, I believe, but in virtue of which I have seen several marriages
annulled), of which the merits were these. The husband, whose name was
Thomas Benjamin, had taken out his marriage licence as Thomas only;
suppressing the Benjamin, in case he should not find himself as
comfortable as he expected. NOT finding himself as comfortable as he
expected, or being a little fatigued with his wife, poor fellow, he
now came forward, by a friend, after being married a year or two, and
declared that his name was Thomas Benjamin, and therefore he was not
married at all. Which the Court confirmed, to his great satisfaction.

I must say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of this,
and was not even frightened out of them by the bushel of wheat which
reconciles all anomalies. But Mr. Spenlow argued the matter with me. He
said, Look at the world, there was good and evil in that; look at the
ecclesiastical law, there was good and evil in THAT. It was all part of
a system. Very good. There you were!

I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora’s father that possibly
we might even improve the world a little, if we got up early in the
morning, and took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that I
thought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that he would
particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind, as not being
worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would be glad to hear
from me of what improvement I thought the Commons susceptible?

Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us--for
our man was unmarried by this time, and we were out of Court, and
strolling past the Prerogative Office--I submitted that I thought the
Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow
inquired in what respect? I replied, with all due deference to his
experience (but with more deference, I am afraid, to his being Dora’s
father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Registry of
that Court, containing the original wills of all persons leaving effects
within the immense province of Canterbury, for three whole centuries,
should be an accidental building, never designed for the purpose, leased
by the registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not even
ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the important documents
it held, and positively, from the roof to the basement, a mercenary
speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the public, and
crammed the public’s wills away anyhow and anywhere, having no other
object than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it was a little
unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of profits amounting
to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say nothing of the profits
of the deputy registrars, and clerks of seats), should not be obliged to
spend a little of that money, in finding a reasonably safe place for the
important documents which all classes of people were compelled to hand
over to them, whether they would or no. That, perhaps, it was a little
unjust, that all the great offices in this great office should be
magnificent sinecures, while the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold
dark room upstairs were the worst rewarded, and the least considered
men, doing important services, in London. That perhaps it was a little
indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it was to
find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all needful
accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue of that post
(and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the holder of a
staff in a cathedral, and what not),--while the public was put to the
inconvenience of which we had a specimen every afternoon when the office
was busy, and which we knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps,
in short, this Prerogative Office of the diocese of Canterbury was
altogether such a pestilent job, and such a pernicious absurdity, that
but for its being squeezed away in a corner of St. Paul’s Churchyard,
which few people knew, it must have been turned completely inside out,
and upside down, long ago.

Mr. Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the subject, and then
argued this question with me as he had argued the other. He said, what
was it after all? It was a question of feeling. If the public felt
that their wills were in safe keeping, and took it for granted that the
office was not to be made better, who was the worse for it? Nobody. Who
was the better for it? All the Sinecurists. Very well. Then the good
predominated. It might not be a perfect system; nothing was perfect;
but what he objected to, was, the insertion of the wedge. Under the
Prerogative Office, the country had been glorious. Insert the wedge into
the Prerogative Office, and the country would cease to be glorious. He
considered it the principle of a gentleman to take things as he found
them; and he had no doubt the Prerogative Office would last our time. I
deferred to his opinion, though I had great doubts of it myself. I find
he was right, however; for it has not only lasted to the present moment,
but has done so in the teeth of a great parliamentary report made (not
too willingly) eighteen years ago, when all these objections of mine
were set forth in detail, and when the existing stowage for wills was
described as equal to the accumulation of only two years and a half
more. What they have done with them since; whether they have lost many,
or whether they sell any, now and then, to the butter shops; I don’t
know. I am glad mine is not there, and I hope it may not go there, yet
awhile.

I have set all this down, in my present blissful chapter, because here
it comes into its natural place. Mr. Spenlow and I falling into this
conversation, prolonged it and our saunter to and fro, until we diverged
into general topics. And so it came about, in the end, that Mr. Spenlow
told me this day week was Dora’s birthday, and he would be glad if I
would come down and join a little picnic on the occasion. I went out of
my senses immediately; became a mere driveller next day, on receipt of
a little lace-edged sheet of note-paper, ‘Favoured by papa. To remind’;
and passed the intervening period in a state of dotage.

I think I committed every possible absurdity in the way of preparation
for this blessed event. I turn hot when I remember the cravat I bought.
My boots might be placed in any collection of instruments of torture.
I provided, and sent down by the Norwood coach the night before, a
delicate little hamper, amounting in itself, I thought, almost to a
declaration. There were crackers in it with the tenderest mottoes that
could be got for money. At six in the morning, I was in Covent Garden
Market, buying a bouquet for Dora. At ten I was on horseback (I hired a
gallant grey, for the occasion), with the bouquet in my hat, to keep it
fresh, trotting down to Norwood.

I suppose that when I saw Dora in the garden and pretended not to see
her, and rode past the house pretending to be anxiously looking for
it, I committed two small fooleries which other young gentlemen in my
circumstances might have committed--because they came so very natural
to me. But oh! when I DID find the house, and DID dismount at the
garden-gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots across the lawn to Dora
sitting on a garden-seat under a lilac tree, what a spectacle she was,
upon that beautiful morning, among the butterflies, in a white chip
bonnet and a dress of celestial blue! There was a young lady with
her--comparatively stricken in years--almost twenty, I should say. Her
name was Miss Mills. And Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend
of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!

Jip was there, and Jip WOULD bark at me again. When I presented my
bouquet, he gnashed his teeth with jealousy. Well he might. If he had
the least idea how I adored his mistress, well he might!

‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!’ said Dora.

I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying the best form of
words for three miles) that I thought them beautiful before I saw them
so near HER. But I couldn’t manage it. She was too bewildering. To see
her lay the flowers against her little dimpled chin, was to lose all
presence of mind and power of language in a feeble ecstasy. I wonder I
didn’t say, ‘Kill me, if you have a heart, Miss Mills. Let me die here!’

Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growled, and
wouldn’t smell them. Then Dora laughed, and held them a little closer
to Jip, to make him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of geranium with his
teeth, and worried imaginary cats in it. Then Dora beat him, and pouted,
and said, ‘My poor beautiful flowers!’ as compassionately, I thought, as
if Jip had laid hold of me. I wished he had!

‘You’ll be so glad to hear, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Dora, ‘that that
cross Miss Murdstone is not here. She has gone to her brother’s
marriage, and will be away at least three weeks. Isn’t that delightful?’

I said I was sure it must be delightful to her, and all that was
delightful to her was delightful to me. Miss Mills, with an air of
superior wisdom and benevolence, smiled upon us.

‘She is the most disagreeable thing I ever saw,’ said Dora. ‘You can’t
believe how ill-tempered and shocking she is, Julia.’

‘Yes, I can, my dear!’ said Julia.

‘YOU can, perhaps, love,’ returned Dora, with her hand on Julia’s.
‘Forgive my not excepting you, my dear, at first.’

I learnt, from this, that Miss Mills had had her trials in the course
of a chequered existence; and that to these, perhaps, I might refer that
wise benignity of manner which I had already noticed. I found, in
the course of the day, that this was the case: Miss Mills having been
unhappy in a misplaced affection, and being understood to have retired
from the world on her awful stock of experience, but still to take a
calm interest in the unblighted hopes and loves of youth.

But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora went to him,
saying, ‘Look, papa, what beautiful flowers!’ And Miss Mills smiled
thoughtfully, as who should say, ‘Ye Mayflies, enjoy your brief
existence in the bright morning of life!’ And we all walked from the
lawn towards the carriage, which was getting ready.

I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had such another.
There were only those three, their hamper, my hamper, and the
guitar-case, in the phaeton; and, of course, the phaeton was open; and
I rode behind it, and Dora sat with her back to the horses, looking
towards me. She kept the bouquet close to her on the cushion, and
wouldn’t allow Jip to sit on that side of her at all, for fear he should
crush it. She often carried it in her hand, often refreshed herself
with its fragrance. Our eyes at those times often met; and my great
astonishment is that I didn’t go over the head of my gallant grey into
the carriage.

There was dust, I believe. There was a good deal of dust, I believe. I
have a faint impression that Mr. Spenlow remonstrated with me for riding
in it; but I knew of none. I was sensible of a mist of love and beauty
about Dora, but of nothing else. He stood up sometimes, and asked me
what I thought of the prospect. I said it was delightful, and I dare
say it was; but it was all Dora to me. The sun shone Dora, and the birds
sang Dora. The south wind blew Dora, and the wild flowers in the hedges
were all Doras, to a bud. My comfort is, Miss Mills understood me. Miss
Mills alone could enter into my feelings thoroughly.

I don’t know how long we were going, and to this hour I know as little
where we went. Perhaps it was near Guildford. Perhaps some Arabian-night
magician, opened up the place for the day, and shut it up for ever when
we came away. It was a green spot, on a hill, carpeted with soft turf.
There were shady trees, and heather, and, as far as the eye could see, a
rich landscape.

It was a trying thing to find people here, waiting for us; and my
jealousy, even of the ladies, knew no bounds. But all of my own
sex--especially one impostor, three or four years my elder, with a red
whisker, on which he established an amount of presumption not to be
endured--were my mortal foes.

We all unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves in getting dinner
ready. Red Whisker pretended he could make a salad (which I don’t
believe), and obtruded himself on public notice. Some of the young
ladies washed the lettuces for him, and sliced them under his
directions. Dora was among these. I felt that fate had pitted me against
this man, and one of us must fall.

Red Whisker made his salad (I wondered how they could eat it. Nothing
should have induced ME to touch it!) and voted himself into the charge
of the wine-cellar, which he constructed, being an ingenious beast, in
the hollow trunk of a tree. By and by, I saw him, with the majority of a
lobster on his plate, eating his dinner at the feet of Dora!

I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time after this
baleful object presented itself to my view. I was very merry, I know;
but it was hollow merriment. I attached myself to a young creature in
pink, with little eyes, and flirted with her desperately. She received
my attentions with favour; but whether on my account solely, or because
she had any designs on Red Whisker, I can’t say. Dora’s health was
drunk. When I drank it, I affected to interrupt my conversation for that
purpose, and to resume it immediately afterwards. I caught Dora’s eye as
I bowed to her, and I thought it looked appealing. But it looked at me
over the head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant.

The young creature in pink had a mother in green; and I rather think the
latter separated us from motives of policy. Howbeit, there was a general
breaking up of the party, while the remnants of the dinner were being
put away; and I strolled off by myself among the trees, in a raging and
remorseful state. I was debating whether I should pretend that I was not
well, and fly--I don’t know where--upon my gallant grey, when Dora and
Miss Mills met me.

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘you are dull.’

I begged her pardon. Not at all.

‘And Dora,’ said Miss Mills, ‘YOU are dull.’

Oh dear no! Not in the least.

‘Mr. Copperfield and Dora,’ said Miss Mills, with an almost venerable
air. ‘Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither
the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted, cannot be
renewed. I speak,’ said Miss Mills, ‘from experience of the past--the
remote, irrevocable past. The gushing fountains which sparkle in the
sun, must not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis in the desert of
Sahara must not be plucked up idly.’

I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary
extent; but I took Dora’s little hand and kissed it--and she let me!
I kissed Miss Mills’s hand; and we all seemed, to my thinking, to go
straight up to the seventh heaven. We did not come down again. We stayed
up there all the evening. At first we strayed to and fro among the
trees: I with Dora’s shy arm drawn through mine: and Heaven knows,
folly as it all was, it would have been a happy fate to have been struck
immortal with those foolish feelings, and have stayed among the trees
for ever!

But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking, and
calling ‘where’s Dora?’ So we went back, and they wanted Dora to sing.
Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the carriage, but Dora
told him nobody knew where it was, but I. So Red Whisker was done for
in a moment; and I got it, and I unlocked it, and I took the guitar out,
and I sat by her, and I held her handkerchief and gloves, and I drank in
every note of her dear voice, and she sang to ME who loved her, and all
the others might applaud as much as they liked, but they had nothing to
do with it!

I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real,
and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hear Mrs.
Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready. But Dora sang,
and others sang, and Miss Mills sang--about the slumbering echoes in the
caverns of Memory; as if she were a hundred years old--and the evening
came on; and we had tea, with the kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I
was still as happy as ever.

I was happier than ever when the party broke up, and the other people,
defeated Red Whisker and all, went their several ways, and we went ours
through the still evening and the dying light, with sweet scents
rising up around us. Mr. Spenlow being a little drowsy after the
champagne--honour to the soil that grew the grape, to the grape that
made the wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to the merchant who
adulterated it!--and being fast asleep in a corner of the carriage, I
rode by the side and talked to Dora. She admired my horse and patted
him--oh, what a dear little hand it looked upon a horse!--and her shawl
would not keep right, and now and then I drew it round her with my arm;
and I even fancied that Jip began to see how it was, and to understand
that he must make up his mind to be friends with me.

That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up,
recluse; that little patriarch of something less than twenty, who had
done with the world, and mustn’t on any account have the slumbering
echoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind thing she did!

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘come to this side of the carriage a
moment--if you can spare a moment. I want to speak to you.’

Behold me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of Miss Mills, with
my hand upon the carriage door!

‘Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me the day
after tomorrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would be
happy to see you.’ What could I do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss
Mills’s head, and store Miss Mills’s address in the securest corner of
my memory! What could I do but tell Miss Mills, with grateful looks
and fervent words, how much I appreciated her good offices, and what an
inestimable value I set upon her friendship!

Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, ‘Go back to Dora!’ and
I went; and Dora leaned out of the carriage to talk to me, and we talked
all the rest of the way; and I rode my gallant grey so close to the
wheel that I grazed his near fore leg against it, and ‘took the bark
off’, as his owner told me, ‘to the tune of three pun’ sivin’--which I
paid, and thought extremely cheap for so much joy. What time Miss Mills
sat looking at the moon, murmuring verses--and recalling, I suppose, the
ancient days when she and earth had anything in common.

Norwood was many miles too near, and we reached it many hours too soon;
but Mr. Spenlow came to himself a little short of it, and said,
‘You must come in, Copperfield, and rest!’ and I consenting, we had
sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light room, Dora blushing looked
so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but sat there staring, in
a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow inspired me with sufficient
consciousness to take my leave. So we parted; I riding all the way
to London with the farewell touch of Dora’s hand still light on mine,
recalling every incident and word ten thousand times; lying down in my
own bed at last, as enraptured a young noodle as ever was carried out of
his five wits by love.

When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to Dora,
and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the question. There was no
other question that I knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the
answer to it. I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness, torturing
myself by putting every conceivable variety of discouraging construction
on all that ever had taken place between Dora and me. At last, arrayed
for the purpose at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills’s, fraught with
a declaration.

How many times I went up and down the street, and round the
square--painfully aware of being a much better answer to the old riddle
than the original one--before I could persuade myself to go up the steps
and knock, is no matter now. Even when, at last, I had knocked, and was
waiting at the door, I had some flurried thought of asking if that
were Mr. Blackboy’s (in imitation of poor Barkis), begging pardon, and
retreating. But I kept my ground.

Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be. Nobody wanted
HIM. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.

I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Jip
was there. Miss Mills was copying music (I recollect, it was a new song,
called ‘Affection’s Dirge’), and Dora was painting flowers. What were my
feelings, when I recognized my own flowers; the identical Covent Garden
Market purchase! I cannot say that they were very like, or that
they particularly resembled any flowers that have ever come under my
observation; but I knew from the paper round them which was accurately
copied, what the composition was.

Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at
home: though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was
conversational for a few minutes, and then, laying down her pen upon
‘Affection’s Dirge’, got up, and left the room.

I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.

‘I hope your poor horse was not tired, when he got home at night,’ said
Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. ‘It was a long way for him.’

I began to think I would do it today.

‘It was a long way for him,’ said I, ‘for he had nothing to uphold him
on the journey.’

‘Wasn’t he fed, poor thing?’ asked Dora.

I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.

‘Ye-yes,’ I said, ‘he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the
unutterable happiness that I had in being so near you.’

Dora bent her head over her drawing and said, after a little while--I
had sat, in the interval, in a burning fever, and with my legs in a very
rigid state--

‘You didn’t seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, at one time
of the day.’

I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.

‘You didn’t care for that happiness in the least,’ said Dora, slightly
raising her eyebrows, and shaking her head, ‘when you were sitting by
Miss Kitt.’

Kitt, I should observe, was the name of the creature in pink, with the
little eyes.

‘Though certainly I don’t know why you should,’ said Dora, ‘or why you
should call it a happiness at all. But of course you don’t mean what you
say. And I am sure no one doubts your being at liberty to do whatever
you like. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!’

I don’t know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip.
I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a
word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her.
I told her that I idolized and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the
time.

When Dora hung her head and cried, and trembled, my eloquence increased
so much the more. If she would like me to die for her, she had but to
say the word, and I was ready. Life without Dora’s love was not a thing
to have on any terms. I couldn’t bear it, and I wouldn’t. I had loved
her every minute, day and night, since I first saw her. I loved her at
that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to
distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love again; but
no lover had loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved
Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way,
got more mad every moment.

Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet enough,
and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off my
mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.

I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We must
have had some, because Dora stipulated that we were never to be married
without her papa’s consent. But, in our youthful ecstasy, I don’t think
that we really looked before us or behind us; or had any aspiration
beyond the ignorant present. We were to keep our secret from Mr.
Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never entered my head, then, that there
was anything dishonourable in that.

Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora, going to find her,
brought her back;--I apprehend, because there was a tendency in what had
passed to awaken the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory. But she
gave us her blessing, and the assurance of her lasting friendship, and
spoke to us, generally, as became a Voice from the Cloister.

What an idle time it was! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time it
was!

When I measured Dora’s finger for a ring that was to be made of
Forget-me-nots, and when the jeweller, to whom I took the measure, found
me out, and laughed over his order-book, and charged me anything he
liked for the pretty little toy, with its blue stones--so associated
in my remembrance with Dora’s hand, that yesterday, when I saw such
another, by chance, on the finger of my own daughter, there was a
momentary stirring in my heart, like pain!

When I walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of my own
interest, and felt the dignity of loving Dora, and of being beloved, so
much, that if I had walked the air, I could not have been more above the
people not so situated, who were creeping on the earth!

When we had those meetings in the garden of the square, and sat within
the dingy summer-house, so happy, that I love the London sparrows to
this hour, for nothing else, and see the plumage of the tropics in their
smoky feathers! When we had our first great quarrel (within a week
of our betrothal), and when Dora sent me back the ring, enclosed in a
despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she used the terrible expression
that ‘our love had begun in folly, and ended in madness!’ which dreadful
words occasioned me to tear my hair, and cry that all was over!

When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills, whom I saw by
stealth in a back kitchen where there was a mangle, and implored Miss
Mills to interpose between us and avert insanity. When Miss Mills
undertook the office and returned with Dora, exhorting us, from the
pulpit of her own bitter youth, to mutual concession, and the avoidance
of the Desert of Sahara!

When we cried, and made it up, and were so blest again, that the back
kitchen, mangle and all, changed to Love’s own temple, where we arranged
a plan of correspondence through Miss Mills, always to comprehend at
least one letter on each side every day!

What an idle time! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time! Of all
the times of mine that Time has in his grip, there is none that in one
retrospect I can smile at half so much, and think of half so tenderly.



CHAPTER 34. MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME


I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her a long
letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I was, and
what a darling Dora was. I entreated Agnes not to regard this as a
thoughtless passion which could ever yield to any other, or had the
least resemblance to the boyish fancies that we used to joke about. I
assured her that its profundity was quite unfathomable, and expressed my
belief that nothing like it had ever been known.

Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my open window, and
the remembrance of her clear calm eyes and gentle face came stealing
over me, it shed such a peaceful influence upon the hurry and agitation
in which I had been living lately, and of which my very happiness
partook in some degree, that it soothed me into tears. I remember that
I sat resting my head upon my hand, when the letter was half done,
cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes were one of the elements of my
natural home. As if, in the retirement of the house made almost sacred
to me by her presence, Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As if,
in love, joy, sorrow, hope, or disappointment; in all emotions; my heart
turned naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend.

Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had been sad grief
at Yarmouth, on account of Emily’s flight; and that on me it made a
double wound, by reason of the circumstances attending it. I knew how
quick she always was to divine the truth, and that she would never be
the first to breathe his name.

To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As I read it, I
seemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like her cordial voice in my
ears. What can I say more!

While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had called twice or
thrice. Finding Peggotty within, and being informed by Peggotty (who
always volunteered that information to whomsoever would receive
it), that she was my old nurse, he had established a good-humoured
acquaintance with her, and had stayed to have a little chat with her
about me. So Peggotty said; but I am afraid the chat was all on her
own side, and of immoderate length, as she was very difficult indeed to
stop, God bless her! when she had me for her theme.

This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on a certain
afternoon of his own appointing, which was now come, but that Mrs. Crupp
had resigned everything appertaining to her office (the salary excepted)
until Peggotty should cease to present herself. Mrs. Crupp, after
holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty, in a very high-pitched
voice, on the staircase--with some invisible Familiar it would appear,
for corporeally speaking she was quite alone at those times--addressed a
letter to me, developing her views. Beginning it with that statement
of universal application, which fitted every occurrence of her life,
namely, that she was a mother herself, she went on to inform me that
she had once seen very different days, but that at all periods of her
existence she had had a constitutional objection to spies, intruders,
and informers. She named no names, she said; let them the cap fitted,
wear it; but spies, intruders, and informers, especially in widders’
weeds (this clause was underlined), she had ever accustomed herself to
look down upon. If a gentleman was the victim of spies, intruders, and
informers (but still naming no names), that was his own pleasure. He
had a right to please himself; so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp,
stipulated for, was, that she should not be ‘brought in contract’
with such persons. Therefore she begged to be excused from any further
attendance on the top set, until things were as they formerly was, and
as they could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her little
book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Saturday morning,
when she requested an immediate settlement of the same, with the
benevolent view of saving trouble ‘and an ill-conwenience’ to all
parties.

After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls on the
stairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavouring to delude Peggotty
into breaking her legs. I found it rather harassing to live in this
state of siege, but was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp to see any way out
of it.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my door,
in spite of all these obstacles, ‘how do you do?’

‘My dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘I am delighted to see you at last, and very
sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much engaged--’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Traddles, ‘of course. Yours lives in London, I
think.’

‘What did you say?’

‘She--excuse me--Miss D., you know,’ said Traddles, colouring in his
great delicacy, ‘lives in London, I believe?’

‘Oh yes. Near London.’

‘Mine, perhaps you recollect,’ said Traddles, with a serious look,
‘lives down in Devonshire--one of ten. Consequently, I am not so much
engaged as you--in that sense.’

‘I wonder you can bear,’ I returned, ‘to see her so seldom.’

‘Hah!’ said Traddles, thoughtfully. ‘It does seem a wonder. I suppose it
is, Copperfield, because there is no help for it?’

‘I suppose so,’ I replied with a smile, and not without a blush. ‘And
because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles.’

‘Dear me!’ said Traddles, considering about it, ‘do I strike you in that
way, Copperfield? Really I didn’t know that I had. But she is such
an extraordinarily dear girl herself, that it’s possible she may
have imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you mention it,
Copperfield, I shouldn’t wonder at all. I assure you she is always
forgetting herself, and taking care of the other nine.’

‘Is she the eldest?’ I inquired.

‘Oh dear, no,’ said Traddles. ‘The eldest is a Beauty.’

He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the simplicity of
this reply; and added, with a smile upon his own ingenuous face:

‘Not, of course, but that my Sophy--pretty name, Copperfield, I always
think?’

‘Very pretty!’ said I.

‘Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyes, and would
be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in anybody’s eyes (I should
think). But when I say the eldest is a Beauty, I mean she really is
a--’ he seemed to be describing clouds about himself, with both hands:
‘Splendid, you know,’ said Traddles, energetically. ‘Indeed!’ said I.

‘Oh, I assure you,’ said Traddles, ‘something very uncommon, indeed!
Then, you know, being formed for society and admiration, and not being
able to enjoy much of it in consequence of their limited means, she
naturally gets a little irritable and exacting, sometimes. Sophy puts
her in good humour!’

‘Is Sophy the youngest?’ I hazarded.

‘Oh dear, no!’ said Traddles, stroking his chin. ‘The two youngest are
only nine and ten. Sophy educates ‘em.’

‘The second daughter, perhaps?’ I hazarded.

‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Sarah’s the second. Sarah has something the matter
with her spine, poor girl. The malady will wear out by and by, the
doctors say, but in the meantime she has to lie down for a twelvemonth.
Sophy nurses her. Sophy’s the fourth.’

‘Is the mother living?’ I inquired.

‘Oh yes,’ said Traddles, ‘she is alive. She is a very superior woman
indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to her constitution, and--in
fact, she has lost the use of her limbs.’

‘Dear me!’ said I.

‘Very sad, is it not?’ returned Traddles. ‘But in a merely domestic view
it is not so bad as it might be, because Sophy takes her place. She is
quite as much a mother to her mother, as she is to the other nine.’

I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady; and,
honestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the good-nature
of Traddles from being imposed upon, to the detriment of their joint
prospects in life, inquired how Mr. Micawber was?

‘He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,’ said Traddles. ‘I am not
living with him at present.’

‘No?’

‘No. You see the truth is,’ said Traddles, in a whisper, ‘he had changed
his name to Mortimer, in consequence of his temporary embarrassments;
and he don’t come out till after dark--and then in spectacles. There was
an execution put into our house, for rent. Mrs. Micawber was in such
a dreadful state that I really couldn’t resist giving my name to that
second bill we spoke of here. You may imagine how delightful it was to
my feelings, Copperfield, to see the matter settled with it, and Mrs.
Micawber recover her spirits.’

‘Hum!’ said I. ‘Not that her happiness was of long duration,’ pursued
Traddles, ‘for, unfortunately, within a week another execution came
in. It broke up the establishment. I have been living in a furnished
apartment since then, and the Mortimers have been very private indeed.
I hope you won’t think it selfish, Copperfield, if I mention that
the broker carried off my little round table with the marble top, and
Sophy’s flower-pot and stand?’

‘What a hard thing!’ I exclaimed indignantly.

‘It was a--it was a pull,’ said Traddles, with his usual wince at that
expression. ‘I don’t mention it reproachfully, however, but with a
motive. The fact is, Copperfield, I was unable to repurchase them at the
time of their seizure; in the first place, because the broker, having an
idea that I wanted them, ran the price up to an extravagant extent; and,
in the second place, because I--hadn’t any money. Now, I have kept
my eye since, upon the broker’s shop,’ said Traddles, with a great
enjoyment of his mystery, ‘which is up at the top of Tottenham Court
Road, and, at last, today I find them put out for sale. I have only
noticed them from over the way, because if the broker saw me, bless you,
he’d ask any price for them! What has occurred to me, having now the
money, is, that perhaps you wouldn’t object to ask that good nurse of
yours to come with me to the shop--I can show it her from round the
corner of the next street--and make the best bargain for them, as if
they were for herself, that she can!’

The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan to me, and the
sense he had of its uncommon artfulness, are among the freshest things
in my remembrance.

I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist him, and that
we would all three take the field together, but on one condition. That
condition was, that he should make a solemn resolution to grant no more
loans of his name, or anything else, to Mr. Micawber.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, ‘I have already done so, because
I begin to feel that I have not only been inconsiderate, but that I have
been positively unjust to Sophy. My word being passed to myself, there
is no longer any apprehension; but I pledge it to you, too, with the
greatest readiness. That first unlucky obligation, I have paid. I have
no doubt Mr. Micawber would have paid it if he could, but he could not.
One thing I ought to mention, which I like very much in Mr. Micawber,
Copperfield. It refers to the second obligation, which is not yet due.
He don’t tell me that it is provided for, but he says it WILL BE. Now, I
think there is something very fair and honest about that!’

I was unwilling to damp my good friend’s confidence, and therefore
assented. After a little further conversation, we went round to the
chandler’s shop, to enlist Peggotty; Traddles declining to pass the
evening with me, both because he endured the liveliest apprehensions
that his property would be bought by somebody else before he could
re-purchase it, and because it was the evening he always devoted to
writing to the dearest girl in the world.

I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the street in
Tottenham Court Road, while Peggotty was bargaining for the precious
articles; or his agitation when she came slowly towards us after vainly
offering a price, and was hailed by the relenting broker, and went back
again. The end of the negotiation was, that she bought the property on
tolerably easy terms, and Traddles was transported with pleasure.

‘I am very much obliged to you, indeed,’ said Traddles, on hearing it
was to be sent to where he lived, that night. ‘If I might ask one other
favour, I hope you would not think it absurd, Copperfield?’

I said beforehand, certainly not.

‘Then if you WOULD be good enough,’ said Traddles to Peggotty, ‘to
get the flower-pot now, I think I should like (it being Sophy’s,
Copperfield) to carry it home myself!’

Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed her with thanks,
and went his way up Tottenham Court Road, carrying the flower-pot
affectionately in his arms, with one of the most delighted expressions
of countenance I ever saw.

We then turned back towards my chambers. As the shops had charms for
Peggotty which I never knew them possess in the same degree for anybody
else, I sauntered easily along, amused by her staring in at the windows,
and waiting for her as often as she chose. We were thus a good while in
getting to the Adelphi.

On our way upstairs, I called her attention to the sudden disappearance
of Mrs. Crupp’s pitfalls, and also to the prints of recent footsteps. We
were both very much surprised, coming higher up, to find my outer door
standing open (which I had shut) and to hear voices inside.

We looked at one another, without knowing what to make of this, and went
into the sitting-room. What was my amazement to find, of all people upon
earth, my aunt there, and Mr. Dick! My aunt sitting on a quantity of
luggage, with her two birds before her, and her cat on her knee, like a
female Robinson Crusoe, drinking tea. Mr. Dick leaning thoughtfully on
a great kite, such as we had often been out together to fly, with more
luggage piled about him!

‘My dear aunt!’ cried I. ‘Why, what an unexpected pleasure!’

We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordially shook hands; and
Mrs. Crupp, who was busy making tea, and could not be too attentive,
cordially said she had knowed well as Mr. Copperfull would have his
heart in his mouth, when he see his dear relations.

‘Holloa!’ said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before her awful
presence. ‘How are YOU?’

‘You remember my aunt, Peggotty?’ said I.

‘For the love of goodness, child,’ exclaimed my aunt, ‘don’t call the
woman by that South Sea Island name! If she married and got rid of
it, which was the best thing she could do, why don’t you give her the
benefit of the change? What’s your name now,--P?’ said my aunt, as a
compromise for the obnoxious appellation.

‘Barkis, ma’am,’ said Peggotty, with a curtsey.

‘Well! That’s human,’ said my aunt. ‘It sounds less as if you wanted a
missionary. How d’ye do, Barkis? I hope you’re well?’

Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt’s extending her
hand, Barkis came forward, and took the hand, and curtseyed her
acknowledgements.

‘We are older than we were, I see,’ said my aunt. ‘We have only met each
other once before, you know. A nice business we made of it then! Trot,
my dear, another cup.’

I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual inflexible state
of figure; and ventured a remonstrance with her on the subject of her
sitting on a box.

‘Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy-chair, aunt,’ said I. ‘Why
should you be so uncomfortable?’

‘Thank you, Trot,’ replied my aunt, ‘I prefer to sit upon my property.’
Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp, and observed, ‘We needn’t
trouble you to wait, ma’am.’

‘Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, ma’am?’ said Mrs.
Crupp.

‘No, I thank you, ma’am,’ replied my aunt.

‘Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, ma’am?’ said Mrs. Crupp.
‘Or would you be persuaded to try a new-laid hegg? or should I brile
a rasher? Ain’t there nothing I could do for your dear aunt, Mr.
Copperfull?’

‘Nothing, ma’am,’ returned my aunt. ‘I shall do very well, I thank you.’

Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express sweet temper,
and incessantly holding her head on one side, to express a general
feebleness of constitution, and incessantly rubbing her hands, to
express a desire to be of service to all deserving objects, gradually
smiled herself, one-sided herself, and rubbed herself, out of the room.
‘Dick!’ said my aunt. ‘You know what I told you about time-servers and
wealth-worshippers?’

Mr. Dick--with rather a scared look, as if he had forgotten it--returned
a hasty answer in the affirmative.

‘Mrs. Crupp is one of them,’ said my aunt. ‘Barkis, I’ll trouble you to
look after the tea, and let me have another cup, for I don’t fancy that
woman’s pouring-out!’

I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had something of
importance on her mind, and that there was far more matter in this
arrival than a stranger might have supposed. I noticed how her eye
lighted on me, when she thought my attention otherwise occupied; and
what a curious process of hesitation appeared to be going on within
her, while she preserved her outward stiffness and composure. I began
to reflect whether I had done anything to offend her; and my conscience
whispered me that I had not yet told her about Dora. Could it by any
means be that, I wondered!

As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I sat down near
her, and spoke to the birds, and played with the cat, and was as easy
as I could be. But I was very far from being really easy; and I should
still have been so, even if Mr. Dick, leaning over the great kite behind
my aunt, had not taken every secret opportunity of shaking his head
darkly at me, and pointing at her.

‘Trot,’ said my aunt at last, when she had finished her tea, and
carefully smoothed down her dress, and wiped her lips--‘you needn’t go,
Barkis!--Trot, have you got to be firm and self-reliant?’

‘I hope so, aunt.’

‘What do you think?’ inquired Miss Betsey.

‘I think so, aunt.’

‘Then why, my love,’ said my aunt, looking earnestly at me, ‘why do you
think I prefer to sit upon this property of mine tonight?’

I shook my head, unable to guess.

‘Because,’ said my aunt, ‘it’s all I have. Because I’m ruined, my dear!’

If the house, and every one of us, had tumbled out into the river
together, I could hardly have received a greater shock.

‘Dick knows it,’ said my aunt, laying her hand calmly on my shoulder. ‘I
am ruined, my dear Trot! All I have in the world is in this room, except
the cottage; and that I have left Janet to let. Barkis, I want to get a
bed for this gentleman tonight. To save expense, perhaps you can make
up something here for myself. Anything will do. It’s only for tonight.
We’ll talk about this, more, tomorrow.’

I was roused from my amazement, and concern for her--I am sure, for
her--by her falling on my neck, for a moment, and crying that she only
grieved for me. In another moment she suppressed this emotion; and said
with an aspect more triumphant than dejected:

‘We must meet reverses boldly, and not suffer them to frighten us, my
dear. We must learn to act the play out. We must live misfortune down,
Trot!’



CHAPTER 35. DEPRESSION


As soon as I could recover my presence of mind, which quite deserted me
in the first overpowering shock of my aunt’s intelligence, I proposed
to Mr. Dick to come round to the chandler’s shop, and take possession of
the bed which Mr. Peggotty had lately vacated. The chandler’s shop being
in Hungerford Market, and Hungerford Market being a very different place
in those days, there was a low wooden colonnade before the door (not
very unlike that before the house where the little man and woman used
to live, in the old weather-glass), which pleased Mr. Dick mightily. The
glory of lodging over this structure would have compensated him, I dare
say, for many inconveniences; but, as there were really few to bear,
beyond the compound of flavours I have already mentioned, and perhaps
the want of a little more elbow-room, he was perfectly charmed with his
accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn’t
room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me,
sitting down on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg, ‘You know,
Trotwood, I don’t want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat.
Therefore, what does that signify to ME!’

I tried to ascertain whether Mr. Dick had any understanding of the
causes of this sudden and great change in my aunt’s affairs. As I might
have expected, he had none at all. The only account he could give of it
was, that my aunt had said to him, the day before yesterday, ‘Now, Dick,
are you really and truly the philosopher I take you for?’ That then
he had said, Yes, he hoped so. That then my aunt had said, ‘Dick, I
am ruined.’ That then he had said, ‘Oh, indeed!’ That then my aunt had
praised him highly, which he was glad of. And that then they had come to
me, and had had bottled porter and sandwiches on the road.

Mr. Dick was so very complacent, sitting on the foot of the bed, nursing
his leg, and telling me this, with his eyes wide open and a surprised
smile, that I am sorry to say I was provoked into explaining to him
that ruin meant distress, want, and starvation; but I was soon bitterly
reproved for this harshness, by seeing his face turn pale, and tears
course down his lengthened cheeks, while he fixed upon me a look of such
unutterable woe, that it might have softened a far harder heart than
mine. I took infinitely greater pains to cheer him up again than I had
taken to depress him; and I soon understood (as I ought to have known at
first) that he had been so confident, merely because of his faith in
the wisest and most wonderful of women, and his unbounded reliance on my
intellectual resources. The latter, I believe, he considered a match for
any kind of disaster not absolutely mortal.

‘What can we do, Trotwood?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘There’s the Memorial-’

‘To be sure there is,’ said I. ‘But all we can do just now, Mr. Dick,
is to keep a cheerful countenance, and not let my aunt see that we are
thinking about it.’

He assented to this in the most earnest manner; and implored me, if I
should see him wandering an inch out of the right course, to recall him
by some of those superior methods which were always at my command. But I
regret to state that the fright I had given him proved too much for his
best attempts at concealment. All the evening his eyes wandered to my
aunt’s face, with an expression of the most dismal apprehension, as if
he saw her growing thin on the spot. He was conscious of this, and put
a constraint upon his head; but his keeping that immovable, and sitting
rolling his eyes like a piece of machinery, did not mend the matter at
all. I saw him look at the loaf at supper (which happened to be a small
one), as if nothing else stood between us and famine; and when my aunt
insisted on his making his customary repast, I detected him in the act
of pocketing fragments of his bread and cheese; I have no doubt for the
purpose of reviving us with those savings, when we should have reached
an advanced stage of attenuation.

My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of mind, which was
a lesson to all of us--to me, I am sure. She was extremely gracious
to Peggotty, except when I inadvertently called her by that name; and,
strange as I knew she felt in London, appeared quite at home. She was
to have my bed, and I was to lie in the sitting-room, to keep guard over
her. She made a great point of being so near the river, in case of a
conflagration; and I suppose really did find some satisfaction in that
circumstance.

‘Trot, my dear,’ said my aunt, when she saw me making preparations for
compounding her usual night-draught, ‘No!’

‘Nothing, aunt?’

‘Not wine, my dear. Ale.’

‘But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of wine.’

‘Keep that, in case of sickness,’ said my aunt. ‘We mustn’t use it
carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.’

I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My aunt being
resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing late,
Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to the
chandler’s shop together. I parted from him, poor fellow, at the corner
of the street, with his great kite at his back, a very monument of human
misery.

My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returned, crimping the
borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed the ale and made the
toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was ready for her, she
was ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt of her gown turned
back on her knees.

‘My dear,’ said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; ‘it’s a great
deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.’

I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:

‘Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, we are well
off.’

‘I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,’ said I.

‘Well, then, why DON’T you think so?’ said my aunt.

‘Because you and I are very different people,’ I returned.

‘Stuff and nonsense, Trot!’ replied my aunt.

My aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there was very little
affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale with a tea-spoon, and soaking
her strips of toast in it.

‘Trot,’ said she, ‘I don’t care for strange faces in general, but I
rather like that Barkis of yours, do you know!’

‘It’s better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!’ said I.

‘It’s a most extraordinary world,’ observed my aunt, rubbing her nose;
‘how that woman ever got into it with that name, is unaccountable to me.
It would be much more easy to be born a Jackson, or something of that
sort, one would think.’

‘Perhaps she thinks so, too; it’s not her fault,’ said I.

‘I suppose not,’ returned my aunt, rather grudging the admission; ‘but
it’s very aggravating. However, she’s Barkis now. That’s some comfort.
Barkis is uncommonly fond of you, Trot.’

‘There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,’ said I.

‘Nothing, I believe,’ returned my aunt. ‘Here, the poor fool has been
begging and praying about handing over some of her money--because she
has got too much of it. A simpleton!’

My aunt’s tears of pleasure were positively trickling down into the warm
ale.

‘She’s the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,’ said my aunt.
‘I knew, from the first moment when I saw her with that poor dear
blessed baby of a mother of yours, that she was the most ridiculous of
mortals. But there are good points in Barkis!’

Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her hand to
her eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed her toast and her
discourse together.

‘Ah! Mercy upon us!’ sighed my aunt. ‘I know all about it, Trot! Barkis
and myself had quite a gossip while you were out with Dick. I know all
about it. I don’t know where these wretched girls expect to go to, for
my part. I wonder they don’t knock out their brains against--against
mantelpieces,’ said my aunt; an idea which was probably suggested to her
by her contemplation of mine.

‘Poor Emily!’ said I.

‘Oh, don’t talk to me about poor,’ returned my aunt. ‘She should have
thought of that, before she caused so much misery! Give me a kiss, Trot.
I am sorry for your early experience.’

As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me, and
said:

‘Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?’

‘Fancy, aunt!’ I exclaimed, as red as I could be. ‘I adore her with my
whole soul!’

‘Dora, indeed!’ returned my aunt. ‘And you mean to say the little thing
is very fascinating, I suppose?’

‘My dear aunt,’ I replied, ‘no one can form the least idea what she is!’

‘Ah! And not silly?’ said my aunt.

‘Silly, aunt!’

I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single
moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea, of
course; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one altogether.

‘Not light-headed?’ said my aunt.

‘Light-headed, aunt!’ I could only repeat this daring speculation
with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the preceding
question.

‘Well, well!’ said my aunt. ‘I only ask. I don’t depreciate her. Poor
little couple! And so you think you were formed for one another, and are
to go through a party-supper-table kind of life, like two pretty pieces
of confectionery, do you, Trot?’

She asked me this so kindly, and with such a gentle air, half playful
and half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.

‘We are young and inexperienced, aunt, I know,’ I replied; ‘and I dare
say we say and think a good deal that is rather foolish. But we love
one another truly, I am sure. If I thought Dora could ever love anybody
else, or cease to love me; or that I could ever love anybody else, or
cease to love her; I don’t know what I should do--go out of my mind, I
think!’

‘Ah, Trot!’ said my aunt, shaking her head, and smiling gravely; ‘blind,
blind, blind!’

‘Someone that I know, Trot,’ my aunt pursued, after a pause, ‘though of
a very pliant disposition, has an earnestness of affection in him that
reminds me of poor Baby. Earnestness is what that Somebody must look
for, to sustain him and improve him, Trot. Deep, downright, faithful
earnestness.’

‘If you only knew the earnestness of Dora, aunt!’ I cried.

‘Oh, Trot!’ she said again; ‘blind, blind!’ and without knowing why,
I felt a vague unhappy loss or want of something overshadow me like a
cloud.

‘However,’ said my aunt, ‘I don’t want to put two young creatures out
of conceit with themselves, or to make them unhappy; so, though it is a
girl and boy attachment, and girl and boy attachments very often--mind!
I don’t say always!--come to nothing, still we’ll be serious about it,
and hope for a prosperous issue one of these days. There’s time enough
for it to come to anything!’

This was not upon the whole very comforting to a rapturous lover; but
I was glad to have my aunt in my confidence, and I was mindful of
her being fatigued. So I thanked her ardently for this mark of her
affection, and for all her other kindnesses towards me; and after a
tender good night, she took her nightcap into my bedroom.

How miserable I was, when I lay down! How I thought and thought about my
being poor, in Mr. Spenlow’s eyes; about my not being what I thought I
was, when I proposed to Dora; about the chivalrous necessity of
telling Dora what my worldly condition was, and releasing her from her
engagement if she thought fit; about how I should contrive to live,
during the long term of my articles, when I was earning nothing; about
doing something to assist my aunt, and seeing no way of doing anything;
about coming down to have no money in my pocket, and to wear a shabby
coat, and to be able to carry Dora no little presents, and to ride no
gallant greys, and to show myself in no agreeable light! Sordid and
selfish as I knew it was, and as I tortured myself by knowing that it
was, to let my mind run on my own distress so much, I was so devoted
to Dora that I could not help it. I knew that it was base in me not to
think more of my aunt, and less of myself; but, so far, selfishness
was inseparable from Dora, and I could not put Dora on one side for any
mortal creature. How exceedingly miserable I was, that night!

As to sleep, I had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapes, but I
seemed to dream without the previous ceremony of going to sleep. Now I
was ragged, wanting to sell Dora matches, six bundles for a halfpenny;
now I was at the office in a nightgown and boots, remonstrated with by
Mr. Spenlow on appearing before the clients in that airy attire; now
I was hungrily picking up the crumbs that fell from old Tiffey’s
daily biscuit, regularly eaten when St. Paul’s struck one; now I was
hopelessly endeavouring to get a licence to marry Dora, having nothing
but one of Uriah Heep’s gloves to offer in exchange, which the whole
Commons rejected; and still, more or less conscious of my own room, I
was always tossing about like a distressed ship in a sea of bed-clothes.

My aunt was restless, too, for I frequently heard her walking to and
fro. Two or three times in the course of the night, attired in a long
flannel wrapper in which she looked seven feet high, she appeared, like
a disturbed ghost, in my room, and came to the side of the sofa on which
I lay. On the first occasion I started up in alarm, to learn that she
inferred from a particular light in the sky, that Westminster Abbey
was on fire; and to be consulted in reference to the probability of its
igniting Buckingham Street, in case the wind changed. Lying still, after
that, I found that she sat down near me, whispering to herself ‘Poor
boy!’ And then it made me twenty times more wretched, to know how
unselfishly mindful she was of me, and how selfishly mindful I was of
myself.

It was difficult to believe that a night so long to me, could be short
to anybody else. This consideration set me thinking and thinking of an
imaginary party where people were dancing the hours away, until that
became a dream too, and I heard the music incessantly playing one tune,
and saw Dora incessantly dancing one dance, without taking the least
notice of me. The man who had been playing the harp all night, was
trying in vain to cover it with an ordinary-sized nightcap, when I
awoke; or I should rather say, when I left off trying to go to sleep,
and saw the sun shining in through the window at last.

There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bottom of one of the
streets out of the Strand--it may be there still--in which I have had
many a cold plunge. Dressing myself as quietly as I could, and leaving
Peggotty to look after my aunt, I tumbled head foremost into it,
and then went for a walk to Hampstead. I had a hope that this brisk
treatment might freshen my wits a little; and I think it did them good,
for I soon came to the conclusion that the first step I ought to take
was, to try if my articles could be cancelled and the premium recovered.
I got some breakfast on the Heath, and walked back to Doctors’ Commons,
along the watered roads and through a pleasant smell of summer flowers,
growing in gardens and carried into town on hucksters’ heads, intent on
this first effort to meet our altered circumstances.

I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half an hour’s
loitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who was always first,
appeared with his key. Then I sat down in my shady corner, looking up
at the sunlight on the opposite chimney-pots, and thinking about Dora;
until Mr. Spenlow came in, crisp and curly.

‘How are you, Copperfield?’ said he. ‘Fine morning!’

‘Beautiful morning, sir,’ said I. ‘Could I say a word to you before you
go into Court?’

‘By all means,’ said he. ‘Come into my room.’

I followed him into his room, and he began putting on his gown, and
touching himself up before a little glass he had, hanging inside a
closet door.

‘I am sorry to say,’ said I, ‘that I have some rather disheartening
intelligence from my aunt.’

‘No!’ said he. ‘Dear me! Not paralysis, I hope?’

‘It has no reference to her health, sir,’ I replied. ‘She has met with
some large losses. In fact, she has very little left, indeed.’

‘You as-tound me, Copperfield!’ cried Mr. Spenlow.

I shook my head. ‘Indeed, sir,’ said I, ‘her affairs are so changed,
that I wished to ask you whether it would be possible--at a sacrifice on
our part of some portion of the premium, of course,’ I put in this, on
the spur of the moment, warned by the blank expression of his face--‘to
cancel my articles?’

What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It was like asking,
as a favour, to be sentenced to transportation from Dora.

‘To cancel your articles, Copperfield? Cancel?’

I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not know where
my means of subsistence were to come from, unless I could earn them for
myself. I had no fear for the future, I said--and I laid great emphasis
on that, as if to imply that I should still be decidedly eligible for a
son-in-law one of these days--but, for the present, I was thrown upon
my own resources. ‘I am extremely sorry to hear this, Copperfield,’ said
Mr. Spenlow. ‘Extremely sorry. It is not usual to cancel articles for
any such reason. It is not a professional course of proceeding. It is
not a convenient precedent at all. Far from it. At the same time--’

‘You are very good, sir,’ I murmured, anticipating a concession.

‘Not at all. Don’t mention it,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘At the same time, I
was going to say, if it had been my lot to have my hands unfettered--if
I had not a partner--Mr. Jorkins--’

My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another effort.

‘Do you think, sir,’ said I, ‘if I were to mention it to Mr. Jorkins--’

Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. ‘Heaven forbid, Copperfield,’
he replied, ‘that I should do any man an injustice: still less, Mr.
Jorkins. But I know my partner, Copperfield. Mr. Jorkins is not a man
to respond to a proposition of this peculiar nature. Mr. Jorkins is very
difficult to move from the beaten track. You know what he is!’

I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had originally been
alone in the business, and now lived by himself in a house near Montagu
Square, which was fearfully in want of painting; that he came very
late of a day, and went away very early; that he never appeared to be
consulted about anything; and that he had a dingy little black-hole of
his own upstairs, where no business was ever done, and where there was
a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his desk, unsoiled by ink, and
reported to be twenty years of age.

‘Would you object to my mentioning it to him, sir?’ I asked.

‘By no means,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘But I have some experience of Mr.
Jorkins, Copperfield. I wish it were otherwise, for I should be happy
to meet your views in any respect. I cannot have the objection to your
mentioning it to Mr. Jorkins, Copperfield, if you think it worth while.’

Availing myself of this permission, which was given with a warm shake
of the hand, I sat thinking about Dora, and looking at the sunlight
stealing from the chimney-pots down the wall of the opposite house,
until Mr. Jorkins came. I then went up to Mr. Jorkins’s room, and
evidently astonished Mr. Jorkins very much by making my appearance
there.

‘Come in, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Jorkins. ‘Come in!’

I went in, and sat down; and stated my case to Mr. Jorkins pretty much
as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jorkins was not by any means the
awful creature one might have expected, but a large, mild, smooth-faced
man of sixty, who took so much snuff that there was a tradition in the
Commons that he lived principally on that stimulant, having little room
in his system for any other article of diet.

‘You have mentioned this to Mr. Spenlow, I suppose?’ said Mr. Jorkins;
when he had heard me, very restlessly, to an end.

I answered Yes, and told him that Mr. Spenlow had introduced his name.

‘He said I should object?’ asked Mr. Jorkins.

I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered it probable.

‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Copperfield, I can’t advance your object,’ said
Mr. Jorkins, nervously. ‘The fact is--but I have an appointment at the
Bank, if you’ll have the goodness to excuse me.’

With that he rose in a great hurry, and was going out of the room, when
I made bold to say that I feared, then, there was no way of arranging
the matter?

‘No!’ said Mr. Jorkins, stopping at the door to shake his head. ‘Oh, no!
I object, you know,’ which he said very rapidly, and went out. ‘You must
be aware, Mr. Copperfield,’ he added, looking restlessly in at the door
again, ‘if Mr. Spenlow objects--’

‘Personally, he does not object, sir,’ said I.

‘Oh! Personally!’ repeated Mr. Jorkins, in an impatient manner. ‘I
assure you there’s an objection, Mr. Copperfield. Hopeless! What you
wish to be done, can’t be done. I--I really have got an appointment
at the Bank.’ With that he fairly ran away; and to the best of my
knowledge, it was three days before he showed himself in the Commons
again.

Being very anxious to leave no stone unturned, I waited until Mr.
Spenlow came in, and then described what had passed; giving him to
understand that I was not hopeless of his being able to soften the
adamantine Jorkins, if he would undertake the task.

‘Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Spenlow, with a gracious smile, ‘you have
not known my partner, Mr. Jorkins, as long as I have. Nothing is
farther from my thoughts than to attribute any degree of artifice to Mr.
Jorkins. But Mr. Jorkins has a way of stating his objections which often
deceives people. No, Copperfield!’ shaking his head. ‘Mr. Jorkins is not
to be moved, believe me!’

I was completely bewildered between Mr. Spenlow and Mr. Jorkins, as
to which of them really was the objecting partner; but I saw with
sufficient clearness that there was obduracy somewhere in the firm, and
that the recovery of my aunt’s thousand pounds was out of the
question. In a state of despondency, which I remember with anything
but satisfaction, for I know it still had too much reference to myself
(though always in connexion with Dora), I left the office, and went
homeward.

I was trying to familiarize my mind with the worst, and to present to
myself the arrangements we should have to make for the future in their
sternest aspect, when a hackney-chariot coming after me, and stopping at
my very feet, occasioned me to look up. A fair hand was stretched forth
to me from the window; and the face I had never seen without a feeling
of serenity and happiness, from the moment when it first turned back
on the old oak staircase with the great broad balustrade, and when I
associated its softened beauty with the stained-glass window in the
church, was smiling on me.

‘Agnes!’ I joyfully exclaimed. ‘Oh, my dear Agnes, of all people in the
world, what a pleasure to see you!’

‘Is it, indeed?’ she said, in her cordial voice.

‘I want to talk to you so much!’ said I. ‘It’s such a lightening of my
heart, only to look at you! If I had had a conjuror’s cap, there is no
one I should have wished for but you!’

‘What?’ returned Agnes.

‘Well! perhaps Dora first,’ I admitted, with a blush.

‘Certainly, Dora first, I hope,’ said Agnes, laughing.

‘But you next!’ said I. ‘Where are you going?’

She was going to my rooms to see my aunt. The day being very fine, she
was glad to come out of the chariot, which smelt (I had my head in it
all this time) like a stable put under a cucumber-frame. I dismissed the
coachman, and she took my arm, and we walked on together. She was like
Hope embodied, to me. How different I felt in one short minute, having
Agnes at my side!

My aunt had written her one of the odd, abrupt notes--very little longer
than a Bank note--to which her epistolary efforts were usually limited.
She had stated therein that she had fallen into adversity, and was
leaving Dover for good, but had quite made up her mind to it, and was
so well that nobody need be uncomfortable about her. Agnes had come to
London to see my aunt, between whom and herself there had been a mutual
liking these many years: indeed, it dated from the time of my taking up
my residence in Mr. Wickfield’s house. She was not alone, she said. Her
papa was with her--and Uriah Heep.

‘And now they are partners,’ said I. ‘Confound him!’

‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘They have some business here; and I took advantage
of their coming, to come too. You must not think my visit all friendly
and disinterested, Trotwood, for--I am afraid I may be cruelly
prejudiced--I do not like to let papa go away alone, with him.’ ‘Does he
exercise the same influence over Mr. Wickfield still, Agnes?’

Agnes shook her head. ‘There is such a change at home,’ said she, ‘that
you would scarcely know the dear old house. They live with us now.’

‘They?’ said I.

‘Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room,’ said Agnes,
looking up into my face.

‘I wish I had the ordering of his dreams,’ said I. ‘He wouldn’t sleep
there long.’

‘I keep my own little room,’ said Agnes, ‘where I used to learn my
lessons. How the time goes! You remember? The little panelled room that
opens from the drawing-room?’

‘Remember, Agnes? When I saw you, for the first time, coming out at the
door, with your quaint little basket of keys hanging at your side?’

‘It is just the same,’ said Agnes, smiling. ‘I am glad you think of it
so pleasantly. We were very happy.’

‘We were, indeed,’ said I.

‘I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always desert Mrs. Heep,
you know. And so,’ said Agnes, quietly, ‘I feel obliged to bear her
company, when I might prefer to be alone. But I have no other reason to
complain of her. If she tires me, sometimes, by her praises of her son,
it is only natural in a mother. He is a very good son to her.’

I looked at Agnes when she said these words, without detecting in her
any consciousness of Uriah’s design. Her mild but earnest eyes met
mine with their own beautiful frankness, and there was no change in her
gentle face.

‘The chief evil of their presence in the house,’ said Agnes, ‘is that I
cannot be as near papa as I could wish--Uriah Heep being so much between
us--and cannot watch over him, if that is not too bold a thing to say,
as closely as I would. But if any fraud or treachery is practising
against him, I hope that simple love and truth will be strong in the
end. I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any
evil or misfortune in the world.’

A certain bright smile, which I never saw on any other face, died away,
even while I thought how good it was, and how familiar it had once been
to me; and she asked me, with a quick change of expression (we were
drawing very near my street), if I knew how the reverse in my aunt’s
circumstances had been brought about. On my replying no, she had not
told me yet, Agnes became thoughtful, and I fancied I felt her arm
tremble in mine.

We found my aunt alone, in a state of some excitement. A difference
of opinion had arisen between herself and Mrs. Crupp, on an abstract
question (the propriety of chambers being inhabited by the gentler sex);
and my aunt, utterly indifferent to spasms on the part of Mrs. Crupp,
had cut the dispute short, by informing that lady that she smelt of
my brandy, and that she would trouble her to walk out. Both of these
expressions Mrs. Crupp considered actionable, and had expressed her
intention of bringing before a ‘British Judy’--meaning, it was supposed,
the bulwark of our national liberties.

My aunt, however, having had time to cool, while Peggotty was out
showing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse Guards--and being, besides,
greatly pleased to see Agnes--rather plumed herself on the affair than
otherwise, and received us with unimpaired good humour. When Agnes laid
her bonnet on the table, and sat down beside her, I could not but think,
looking on her mild eyes and her radiant forehead, how natural it
seemed to have her there; how trustfully, although she was so young and
inexperienced, my aunt confided in her; how strong she was, indeed, in
simple love and truth.

We began to talk about my aunt’s losses, and I told them what I had
tried to do that morning.

‘Which was injudicious, Trot,’ said my aunt, ‘but well meant. You are
a generous boy--I suppose I must say, young man, now--and I am proud of
you, my dear. So far, so good. Now, Trot and Agnes, let us look the case
of Betsey Trotwood in the face, and see how it stands.’

I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked very attentively at my aunt.
My aunt, patting her cat, looked very attentively at Agnes.

‘Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt, who had always kept her money matters
to herself. ‘--I don’t mean your sister, Trot, my dear, but myself--had
a certain property. It don’t matter how much; enough to live on. More;
for she had saved a little, and added to it. Betsey funded her property
for some time, and then, by the advice of her man of business, laid
it out on landed security. That did very well, and returned very good
interest, till Betsey was paid off. I am talking of Betsey as if she
was a man-of-war. Well! Then, Betsey had to look about her, for a new
investment. She thought she was wiser, now, than her man of business,
who was not such a good man of business by this time, as he used to
be--I am alluding to your father, Agnes--and she took it into her head
to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,’ said my aunt, ‘to a
foreign market; and a very bad market it turned out to be. First, she
lost in the mining way, and then she lost in the diving way--fishing up
treasure, or some such Tom Tiddler nonsense,’ explained my aunt, rubbing
her nose; ‘and then she lost in the mining way again, and, last of all,
to set the thing entirely to rights, she lost in the banking way. I
don’t know what the Bank shares were worth for a little while,’ said my
aunt; ‘cent per cent was the lowest of it, I believe; but the Bank was
at the other end of the world, and tumbled into space, for what I know;
anyhow, it fell to pieces, and never will and never can pay sixpence;
and Betsey’s sixpences were all there, and there’s an end of them. Least
said, soonest mended!’

My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fixing her eyes with a
kind of triumph on Agnes, whose colour was gradually returning.

‘Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?’ said Agnes.

‘I hope it’s enough, child,’ said my aunt. ‘If there had been more
money to lose, it wouldn’t have been all, I dare say. Betsey would have
contrived to throw that after the rest, and make another chapter, I have
little doubt. But there was no more money, and there’s no more story.’

Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her colour still came
and went, but she breathed more freely. I thought I knew why. I thought
she had had some fear that her unhappy father might be in some way to
blame for what had happened. My aunt took her hand in hers, and laughed.

‘Is that all?’ repeated my aunt. ‘Why, yes, that’s all, except, “And she
lived happy ever afterwards.” Perhaps I may add that of Betsey yet, one
of these days. Now, Agnes, you have a wise head. So have you, Trot, in
some things, though I can’t compliment you always’; and here my aunt
shook her own at me, with an energy peculiar to herself. ‘What’s to be
done? Here’s the cottage, taking one time with another, will produce
say seventy pounds a year. I think we may safely put it down at
that. Well!--That’s all we’ve got,’ said my aunt; with whom it was an
idiosyncrasy, as it is with some horses, to stop very short when she
appeared to be in a fair way of going on for a long while.

‘Then,’ said my aunt, after a rest, ‘there’s Dick. He’s good for a
hundred a-year, but of course that must be expended on himself. I would
sooner send him away, though I know I am the only person who appreciates
him, than have him, and not spend his money on himself. How can Trot and
I do best, upon our means? What do you say, Agnes?’

‘I say, aunt,’ I interposed, ‘that I must do something!’

‘Go for a soldier, do you mean?’ returned my aunt, alarmed; ‘or go to
sea? I won’t hear of it. You are to be a proctor. We’re not going to
have any knockings on the head in THIS family, if you please, sir.’

I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing that mode
of provision into the family, when Agnes inquired if my rooms were held
for any long term?

‘You come to the point, my dear,’ said my aunt. ‘They are not to be got
rid of, for six months at least, unless they could be underlet, and that
I don’t believe. The last man died here. Five people out of six would
die--of course--of that woman in nankeen with the flannel petticoat. I
have a little ready money; and I agree with you, the best thing we can
do, is, to live the term out here, and get a bedroom hard by.’

I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would sustain,
from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs. Crupp;
but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaring that, on the
first demonstration of hostilities, she was prepared to astonish Mrs.
Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life.

‘I have been thinking, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, diffidently, ‘that if you
had time--’

‘I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disengaged after four
or five o’clock, and I have time early in the morning. In one way and
another,’ said I, conscious of reddening a little as I thought of the
hours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town, and to and fro upon
the Norwood Road, ‘I have abundance of time.’

‘I know you would not mind,’ said Agnes, coming to me, and speaking in
a low voice, so full of sweet and hopeful consideration that I hear it
now, ‘the duties of a secretary.’

‘Mind, my dear Agnes?’

‘Because,’ continued Agnes, ‘Doctor Strong has acted on his intention of
retiring, and has come to live in London; and he asked papa, I know,
if he could recommend him one. Don’t you think he would rather have his
favourite old pupil near him, than anybody else?’

‘Dear Agnes!’ said I. ‘What should I do without you! You are always my
good angel. I told you so. I never think of you in any other light.’

Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh, that one good Angel (meaning
Dora) was enough; and went on to remind me that the Doctor had been
used to occupy himself in his study, early in the morning, and in the
evening--and that probably my leisure would suit his requirements very
well. I was scarcely more delighted with the prospect of earning my own
bread, than with the hope of earning it under my old master; in short,
acting on the advice of Agnes, I sat down and wrote a letter to the
Doctor, stating my object, and appointing to call on him next day at
ten in the forenoon. This I addressed to Highgate--for in that place, so
memorable to me, he lived--and went and posted, myself, without losing a
minute.

Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noiseless presence
seemed inseparable from the place. When I came back, I found my aunt’s
birds hanging, just as they had hung so long in the parlour window of
the cottage; and my easy-chair imitating my aunt’s much easier chair in
its position at the open window; and even the round green fan, which my
aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to the window-sill. I knew
who had done all this, by its seeming to have quietly done itself; and I
should have known in a moment who had arranged my neglected books in the
old order of my school days, even if I had supposed Agnes to be miles
away, instead of seeing her busy with them, and smiling at the disorder
into which they had fallen.

My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it really did
look very well with the sun upon it, though not like the sea before the
cottage), but she could not relent towards the London smoke, which, she
said, ‘peppered everything’. A complete revolution, in which Peggotty
bore a prominent part, was being effected in every corner of my rooms,
in regard of this pepper; and I was looking on, thinking how little even
Peggotty seemed to do with a good deal of bustle, and how much Agnes did
without any bustle at all, when a knock came at the door.

‘I think,’ said Agnes, turning pale, ‘it’s papa. He promised me that he
would come.’

I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield, but Uriah Heep.
I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. I was prepared for a great
change in him, after what I had heard from Agnes, but his appearance
shocked me.

It was not that he looked many years older, though still dressed
with the old scrupulous cleanliness; or that there was an unwholesome
ruddiness upon his face; or that his eyes were full and bloodshot; or
that there was a nervous trembling in his hand, the cause of which I
knew, and had for some years seen at work. It was not that he had lost
his good looks, or his old bearing of a gentleman--for that he had
not--but the thing that struck me most, was, that with the evidences of
his native superiority still upon him, he should submit himself to that
crawling impersonation of meanness, Uriah Heep. The reversal of the
two natures, in their relative positions, Uriah’s of power and Mr.
Wickfield’s of dependence, was a sight more painful to me than I can
express. If I had seen an Ape taking command of a Man, I should hardly
have thought it a more degrading spectacle.

He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When he came in, he
stood still; and with his head bowed, as if he felt it. This was
only for a moment; for Agnes softly said to him, ‘Papa! Here is Miss
Trotwood--and Trotwood, whom you have not seen for a long while!’ and
then he approached, and constrainedly gave my aunt his hand, and shook
hands more cordially with me. In the moment’s pause I speak of, I saw
Uriah’s countenance form itself into a most ill-favoured smile. Agnes
saw it too, I think, for she shrank from him.

What my aunt saw, or did not see, I defy the science of physiognomy
to have made out, without her own consent. I believe there never was
anybody with such an imperturbable countenance when she chose. Her face
might have been a dead-wall on the occasion in question, for any light
it threw upon her thoughts; until she broke silence with her usual
abruptness.

‘Well, Wickfield!’ said my aunt; and he looked up at her for the first
time. ‘I have been telling your daughter how well I have been disposing
of my money for myself, because I couldn’t trust it to you, as you were
growing rusty in business matters. We have been taking counsel together,
and getting on very well, all things considered. Agnes is worth the
whole firm, in my opinion.’

‘If I may umbly make the remark,’ said Uriah Heep, with a writhe, ‘I
fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and should be only too appy if
Miss Agnes was a partner.’

‘You’re a partner yourself, you know,’ returned my aunt, ‘and that’s
about enough for you, I expect. How do you find yourself, sir?’

In acknowledgement of this question, addressed to him with extraordinary
curtness, Mr. Heep, uncomfortably clutching the blue bag he carried,
replied that he was pretty well, he thanked my aunt, and hoped she was
the same.

‘And you, Master--I should say, Mister Copperfield,’ pursued Uriah. ‘I
hope I see you well! I am rejoiced to see you, Mister Copperfield, even
under present circumstances.’ I believed that; for he seemed to relish
them very much. ‘Present circumstances is not what your friends would
wish for you, Mister Copperfield, but it isn’t money makes the man:
it’s--I am really unequal with my umble powers to express what it is,’
said Uriah, with a fawning jerk, ‘but it isn’t money!’

Here he shook hands with me: not in the common way, but standing at
a good distance from me, and lifting my hand up and down like a pump
handle, that he was a little afraid of.

‘And how do you think we are looking, Master Copperfield,--I should
say, Mister?’ fawned Uriah. ‘Don’t you find Mr. Wickfield blooming, sir?
Years don’t tell much in our firm, Master Copperfield, except in raising
up the umble, namely, mother and self--and in developing,’ he added, as
an afterthought, ‘the beautiful, namely, Miss Agnes.’

He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such an intolerable
manner, that my aunt, who had sat looking straight at him, lost all
patience.

‘Deuce take the man!’ said my aunt, sternly, ‘what’s he about? Don’t be
galvanic, sir!’

‘I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood,’ returned Uriah; ‘I’m aware you’re
nervous.’

‘Go along with you, sir!’ said my aunt, anything but appeased. ‘Don’t
presume to say so! I am nothing of the sort. If you’re an eel, sir,
conduct yourself like one. If you’re a man, control your limbs, sir!
Good God!’ said my aunt, with great indignation, ‘I am not going to be
serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses!’

Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have been, by this
explosion; which derived great additional force from the indignant
manner in which my aunt afterwards moved in her chair, and shook her
head as if she were making snaps or bounces at him. But he said to me
aside in a meek voice:

‘I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood, though an
excellent lady, has a quick temper (indeed I think I had the pleasure
of knowing her, when I was a numble clerk, before you did, Master
Copperfield), and it’s only natural, I am sure, that it should be made
quicker by present circumstances. The wonder is, that it isn’t much
worse! I only called to say that if there was anything we could do, in
present circumstances, mother or self, or Wickfield and Heep,--we should
be really glad. I may go so far?’ said Uriah, with a sickly smile at his
partner.

‘Uriah Heep,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous forced way, ‘is active
in the business, Trotwood. What he says, I quite concur in. You know
I had an old interest in you. Apart from that, what Uriah says I quite
concur in!’

‘Oh, what a reward it is,’ said Uriah, drawing up one leg, at the risk
of bringing down upon himself another visitation from my aunt, ‘to be so
trusted in! But I hope I am able to do something to relieve him from the
fatigues of business, Master Copperfield!’

‘Uriah Heep is a great relief to me,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in the same
dull voice. ‘It’s a load off my mind, Trotwood, to have such a partner.’

The red fox made him say all this, I knew, to exhibit him to me in the
light he had indicated on the night when he poisoned my rest. I saw the
same ill-favoured smile upon his face again, and saw how he watched me.

‘You are not going, papa?’ said Agnes, anxiously. ‘Will you not walk
back with Trotwood and me?’

He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before replying, if that
worthy had not anticipated him.

‘I am bespoke myself,’ said Uriah, ‘on business; otherwise I should
have been appy to have kept with my friends. But I leave my partner to
represent the firm. Miss Agnes, ever yours! I wish you good-day, Master
Copperfield, and leave my umble respects for Miss Betsey Trotwood.’

With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and leering at us
like a mask.

We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury days, an hour
or two. Mr. Wickfield, left to Agnes, soon became more like his former
self; though there was a settled depression upon him, which he never
shook off. For all that, he brightened; and had an evident pleasure in
hearing us recall the little incidents of our old life, many of which he
remembered very well. He said it was like those times, to be alone with
Agnes and me again; and he wished to Heaven they had never changed. I am
sure there was an influence in the placid face of Agnes, and in the very
touch of her hand upon his arm, that did wonders for him.

My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peggotty, in the inner
room) would not accompany us to the place where they were staying, but
insisted on my going; and I went. We dined together. After dinner, Agnes
sat beside him, as of old, and poured out his wine. He took what she
gave him, and no more--like a child--and we all three sat together at a
window as the evening gathered in. When it was almost dark, he lay down
on a sofa, Agnes pillowing his head and bending over him a little while;
and when she came back to the window, it was not so dark but I could see
tears glittering in her eyes.

I pray Heaven that I never may forget the dear girl in her love and
truth, at that time of my life; for if I should, I must be drawing near
the end, and then I would desire to remember her best! She filled my
heart with such good resolutions, strengthened my weakness so, by her
example, so directed--I know not how, she was too modest and gentle
to advise me in many words--the wandering ardour and unsettled purpose
within me, that all the little good I have done, and all the harm I have
forborne, I solemnly believe I may refer to her.

And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window in the dark;
listened to my praises of her; praised again; and round the little
fairy-figure shed some glimpses of her own pure light, that made it yet
more precious and more innocent to me! Oh, Agnes, sister of my boyhood,
if I had known then, what I knew long afterwards--!

There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and as I turned my
head towards the window, thinking of her calm seraphic eyes, he made me
start by muttering, as if he were an echo of the morning: ‘Blind! Blind!
Blind!’



CHAPTER 36. ENTHUSIASM

I began the next day with another dive into the Roman bath, and then
started for Highgate. I was not dispirited now. I was not afraid of the
shabby coat, and had no yearnings after gallant greys. My whole manner
of thinking of our late misfortune was changed. What I had to do, was,
to show my aunt that her past goodness to me had not been thrown away
on an insensible, ungrateful object. What I had to do, was, to turn the
painful discipline of my younger days to account, by going to work with
a resolute and steady heart. What I had to do, was, to take my woodman’s
axe in my hand, and clear my own way through the forest of difficulty,
by cutting down the trees until I came to Dora. And I went on at a
mighty rate, as if it could be done by walking.

When I found myself on the familiar Highgate road, pursuing such a
different errand from that old one of pleasure, with which it was
associated, it seemed as if a complete change had come on my whole life.
But that did not discourage me. With the new life, came new purpose,
new intention. Great was the labour; priceless the reward. Dora was the
reward, and Dora must be won.

I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat was not
a little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at those trees in the
forest of difficulty, under circumstances that should prove my strength.
I had a good mind to ask an old man, in wire spectacles, who was
breaking stones upon the road, to lend me his hammer for a little while,
and let me begin to beat a path to Dora out of granite. I stimulated
myself into such a heat, and got so out of breath, that I felt as if I
had been earning I don’t know how much.

In this state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, and examined
it narrowly,--for I felt it necessary to be practical. It would do for
me and Dora admirably: with a little front garden for Jip to run about
in, and bark at the tradespeople through the railings, and a capital
room upstairs for my aunt. I came out again, hotter and faster than
ever, and dashed up to Highgate, at such a rate that I was there an
hour too early; and, though I had not been, should have been obliged to
stroll about to cool myself, before I was at all presentable.

My first care, after putting myself under this necessary course of
preparation, was to find the Doctor’s house. It was not in that part of
Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived, but quite on the opposite side
of the little town. When I had made this discovery, I went back, in
an attraction I could not resist, to a lane by Mrs. Steerforth’s, and
looked over the corner of the garden wall. His room was shut up close.
The conservatory doors were standing open, and Rosa Dartle was walking,
bareheaded, with a quick, impetuous step, up and down a gravel walk on
one side of the lawn. She gave me the idea of some fierce thing, that
was dragging the length of its chain to and fro upon a beaten track, and
wearing its heart out.

I came softly away from my place of observation, and avoiding that part
of the neighbourhood, and wishing I had not gone near it, strolled about
until it was ten o’clock. The church with the slender spire, that stands
on the top of the hill now, was not there then to tell me the time. An
old red-brick mansion, used as a school, was in its place; and a fine
old house it must have been to go to school at, as I recollect it.

When I approached the Doctor’s cottage--a pretty old place, on which
he seemed to have expended some money, if I might judge from the
embellishments and repairs that had the look of being just completed--I
saw him walking in the garden at the side, gaiters and all, as if he
had never left off walking since the days of my pupilage. He had his old
companions about him, too; for there were plenty of high trees in the
neighbourhood, and two or three rooks were on the grass, looking after
him, as if they had been written to about him by the Canterbury rooks,
and were observing him closely in consequence.

Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention from that
distance, I made bold to open the gate, and walk after him, so as to
meet him when he should turn round. When he did, and came towards me, he
looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, evidently without thinking
about me at all; and then his benevolent face expressed extraordinary
pleasure, and he took me by both hands.

‘Why, my dear Copperfield,’ said the Doctor, ‘you are a man! How do you
do? I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfield, how very much you
have improved! You are quite--yes--dear me!’

I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too.

‘Oh dear, yes!’ said the Doctor; ‘Annie’s quite well, and she’ll be
delighted to see you. You were always her favourite. She said so,
last night, when I showed her your letter. And--yes, to be sure--you
recollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Copperfield?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

‘Of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘To be sure. He’s pretty well, too.’

‘Has he come home, sir?’ I inquired.

‘From India?’ said the Doctor. ‘Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn’t bear
the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham--you have not forgotten Mrs.
Markleham?’

Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time!

‘Mrs. Markleham,’ said the Doctor, ‘was quite vexed about him, poor
thing; so we have got him at home again; and we have bought him a little
Patent place, which agrees with him much better.’ I knew enough of Mr.
Jack Maldon to suspect from this account that it was a place where there
was not much to do, and which was pretty well paid. The Doctor, walking
up and down with his hand on my shoulder, and his kind face turned
encouragingly to mine, went on:

‘Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this proposal of yours. It’s
very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am sure; but don’t you think you
could do better? You achieved distinction, you know, when you were with
us. You are qualified for many good things. You have laid a foundation
that any edifice may be raised upon; and is it not a pity that you
should devote the spring-time of your life to such a poor pursuit as I
can offer?’

I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in a rhapsodical
style, I am afraid, urged my request strongly; reminding the Doctor that
I had already a profession.

‘Well, well,’ said the Doctor, ‘that’s true. Certainly, your having
a profession, and being actually engaged in studying it, makes a
difference. But, my good young friend, what’s seventy pounds a year?’

‘It doubles our income, Doctor Strong,’ said I.

‘Dear me!’ replied the Doctor. ‘To think of that! Not that I mean to
say it’s rigidly limited to seventy pounds a-year, because I have always
contemplated making any young friend I might thus employ, a present too.
Undoubtedly,’ said the Doctor, still walking me up and down with
his hand on my shoulder. ‘I have always taken an annual present into
account.’

‘My dear tutor,’ said I (now, really, without any nonsense), ‘to whom I
owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge--’

‘No, no,’ interposed the Doctor. ‘Pardon me!’

‘If you will take such time as I have, and that is my mornings and
evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds a year, you will do me
such a service as I cannot express.’

‘Dear me!’ said the Doctor, innocently. ‘To think that so little should
go for so much! Dear, dear! And when you can do better, you will? On
your word, now?’ said the Doctor,--which he had always made a very grave
appeal to the honour of us boys.

‘On my word, sir!’ I returned, answering in our old school manner.

‘Then be it so,’ said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoulder, and still
keeping his hand there, as we still walked up and down.

‘And I shall be twenty times happier, sir,’ said I, with a little--I
hope innocent--flattery, ‘if my employment is to be on the Dictionary.’

The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder again, and
exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful to behold, as if I had
penetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity, ‘My dear young
friend, you have hit it. It IS the Dictionary!’

How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full of it as his
head. It was sticking out of him in all directions. He told me that
since his retirement from scholastic life, he had been advancing with
it wonderfully; and that nothing could suit him better than the proposed
arrangements for morning and evening work, as it was his custom to walk
about in the daytime with his considering cap on. His papers were in
a little confusion, in consequence of Mr. Jack Maldon having lately
proffered his occasional services as an amanuensis, and not being
accustomed to that occupation; but we should soon put right what was
amiss, and go on swimmingly. Afterwards, when we were fairly at our
work, I found Mr. Jack Maldon’s efforts more troublesome to me than
I had expected, as he had not confined himself to making numerous
mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers, and ladies’ heads, over
the Doctor’s manuscript, that I often became involved in labyrinths of
obscurity.

The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to work together
on that wonderful performance, and we settled to begin next morning at
seven o’clock. We were to work two hours every morning, and two or three
hours every night, except on Saturdays, when I was to rest. On Sundays,
of course, I was to rest also, and I considered these very easy terms.

Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction, the Doctor
took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strong, whom we found in
the Doctor’s new study, dusting his books,--a freedom which he never
permitted anybody else to take with those sacred favourites.

They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and we sat down to
table together. We had not been seated long, when I saw an approaching
arrival in Mrs. Strong’s face, before I heard any sound of it. A
gentleman on horseback came to the gate, and leading his horse into the
little court, with the bridle over his arm, as if he were quite at home,
tied him to a ring in the empty coach-house wall, and came into the
breakfast parlour, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Maldon; and Mr. Jack
Maldon was not at all improved by India, I thought. I was in a state
of ferocious virtue, however, as to young men who were not cutting down
trees in the forest of difficulty; and my impression must be received
with due allowance.

‘Mr. Jack!’ said the Doctor. ‘Copperfield!’

Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmly, I believed;
and with an air of languid patronage, at which I secretly took great
umbrage. But his languor altogether was quite a wonderful sight; except
when he addressed himself to his cousin Annie. ‘Have you breakfasted
this morning, Mr. Jack?’ said the Doctor.

‘I hardly ever take breakfast, sir,’ he replied, with his head thrown
back in an easy-chair. ‘I find it bores me.’

‘Is there any news today?’ inquired the Doctor.

‘Nothing at all, sir,’ replied Mr. Maldon. ‘There’s an account about
the people being hungry and discontented down in the North, but they are
always being hungry and discontented somewhere.’

The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished to change the
subject, ‘Then there’s no news at all; and no news, they say, is good
news.’

‘There’s a long statement in the papers, sir, about a murder,’ observed
Mr. Maldon. ‘But somebody is always being murdered, and I didn’t read
it.’

A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of mankind was
not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at that time, I think,
as I have observed it to be considered since. I have known it very
fashionable indeed. I have seen it displayed with such success, that I
have encountered some fine ladies and gentlemen who might as well have
been born caterpillars. Perhaps it impressed me the more then, because
it was new to me, but it certainly did not tend to exalt my opinion of,
or to strengthen my confidence in, Mr. Jack Maldon.

‘I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera
tonight,’ said Mr. Maldon, turning to her. ‘It’s the last good night
there will be, this season; and there’s a singer there, whom she really
ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides which, she is so
charmingly ugly,’ relapsing into languor.

The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please his young wife,
turned to her and said:

‘You must go, Annie. You must go.’

‘I would rather not,’ she said to the Doctor. ‘I prefer to remain at
home. I would much rather remain at home.’

Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and asked me about
Agnes, and whether she should see her, and whether she was not likely to
come that day; and was so much disturbed, that I wondered how even the
Doctor, buttering his toast, could be blind to what was so obvious.

But he saw nothing. He told her, good-naturedly, that she was young and
ought to be amused and entertained, and must not allow herself to be
made dull by a dull old fellow. Moreover, he said, he wanted to hear her
sing all the new singer’s songs to him; and how could she do that well,
unless she went? So the Doctor persisted in making the engagement for
her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was to come back to dinner. This concluded, he
went to his Patent place, I suppose; but at all events went away on his
horse, looking very idle.

I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had been. She had
not, but had sent into London to put her cousin off; and had gone out in
the afternoon to see Agnes, and had prevailed upon the Doctor to go with
her; and they had walked home by the fields, the Doctor told me, the
evening being delightful. I wondered then, whether she would have gone
if Agnes had not been in town, and whether Agnes had some good influence
over her too!

She did not look very happy, I thought; but it was a good face, or a
very false one. I often glanced at it, for she sat in the window all the
time we were at work; and made our breakfast, which we took by snatches
as we were employed. When I left, at nine o’clock, she was kneeling on
the ground at the Doctor’s feet, putting on his shoes and gaiters for
him. There was a softened shade upon her face, thrown from some green
leaves overhanging the open window of the low room; and I thought all
the way to Doctors’ Commons, of the night when I had seen it looking at
him as he read.

I was pretty busy now; up at five in the morning, and home at nine
or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction in being so
closely engaged, and never walked slowly on any account, and felt
enthusiastically that the more I tired myself, the more I was doing to
deserve Dora. I had not revealed myself in my altered character to
Dora yet, because she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few days, and
I deferred all I had to tell her until then; merely informing her in
my letters (all our communications were secretly forwarded through Miss
Mills), that I had much to tell her. In the meantime, I put myself on
a short allowance of bear’s grease, wholly abandoned scented soap and
lavender water, and sold off three waistcoats at a prodigious sacrifice,
as being too luxurious for my stern career.

Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burning with impatience
to do something more, I went to see Traddles, now lodging up behind the
parapet of a house in Castle Street, Holborn. Mr. Dick, who had been
with me to Highgate twice already, and had resumed his companionship
with the Doctor, I took with me.

I took Mr. Dick with me, because, acutely sensitive to my aunt’s
reverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave or convict worked
as I did, he had begun to fret and worry himself out of spirits and
appetite, as having nothing useful to do. In this condition, he felt
more incapable of finishing the Memorial than ever; and the harder he
worked at it, the oftener that unlucky head of King Charles the First
got into it. Seriously apprehending that his malady would increase,
unless we put some innocent deception upon him and caused him to believe
that he was useful, or unless we could put him in the way of being
really useful (which would be better), I made up my mind to try
if Traddles could help us. Before we went, I wrote Traddles a full
statement of all that had happened, and Traddles wrote me back a capital
answer, expressive of his sympathy and friendship.

We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papers, refreshed by the
sight of the flower-pot stand and the little round table in a corner of
the small apartment. He received us cordially, and made friends with
Mr. Dick in a moment. Mr. Dick professed an absolute certainty of having
seen him before, and we both said, ‘Very likely.’

The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was this,--I had
heard that many men distinguished in various pursuits had begun life
by reporting the debates in Parliament. Traddles having mentioned
newspapers to me, as one of his hopes, I had put the two things
together, and told Traddles in my letter that I wished to know how I
could qualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now informed me, as the
result of his inquiries, that the mere mechanical acquisition necessary,
except in rare cases, for thorough excellence in it, that is to say,
a perfect and entire command of the mystery of short-hand writing and
reading, was about equal in difficulty to the mastery of six languages;
and that it might perhaps be attained, by dint of perseverance, in the
course of a few years. Traddles reasonably supposed that this would
settle the business; but I, only feeling that here indeed were a few
tall trees to be hewn down, immediately resolved to work my way on to
Dora through this thicket, axe in hand.

‘I am very much obliged to you, my dear Traddles!’ said I. ‘I’ll begin
tomorrow.’

Traddles looked astonished, as he well might; but he had no notion as
yet of my rapturous condition.

‘I’ll buy a book,’ said I, ‘with a good scheme of this art in it; I’ll
work at it at the Commons, where I haven’t half enough to do; I’ll take
down the speeches in our court for practice--Traddles, my dear fellow,
I’ll master it!’

‘Dear me,’ said Traddles, opening his eyes, ‘I had no idea you were such
a determined character, Copperfield!’

I don’t know how he should have had, for it was new enough to me. I
passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on the carpet.

‘You see,’ said Mr. Dick, wistfully, ‘if I could exert myself, Mr.
Traddles--if I could beat a drum--or blow anything!’

Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such an
employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who would not have
smiled for the world, replied composedly:

‘But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so, Copperfield?’
‘Excellent!’ said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with extraordinary
neatness.

‘Don’t you think,’ said Traddles, ‘you could copy writings, sir, if I
got them for you?’

Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. ‘Eh, Trotwood?’

I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. ‘Tell him about the
Memorial,’ said Mr. Dick.

I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King
Charles the First out of Mr. Dick’s manuscripts; Mr. Dick in the
meanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddles, and
sucking his thumb.

‘But these writings, you know, that I speak of, are already drawn up
and finished,’ said Traddles after a little consideration. ‘Mr. Dick has
nothing to do with them. Wouldn’t that make a difference, Copperfield?
At all events, wouldn’t it be well to try?’

This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads together apart,
while Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from his chair, we concocted a
scheme in virtue of which we got him to work next day, with triumphant
success.

On a table by the window in Buckingham Street, we set out the work
Traddles procured for him--which was to make, I forget how many copies
of a legal document about some right of way--and on another table
we spread the last unfinished original of the great Memorial. Our
instructions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy exactly what he had
before him, without the least departure from the original; and that when
he felt it necessary to make the slightest allusion to King Charles the
First, he should fly to the Memorial. We exhorted him to be resolute
in this, and left my aunt to observe him. My aunt reported to us,
afterwards, that, at first, he was like a man playing the kettle-drums,
and constantly divided his attentions between the two; but that, finding
this confuse and fatigue him, and having his copy there, plainly before
his eyes, he soon sat at it in an orderly business-like manner, and
postponed the Memorial to a more convenient time. In a word, although we
took great care that he should have no more to do than was good for him,
and although he did not begin with the beginning of a week, he earned
by the following Saturday night ten shillings and nine-pence; and never,
while I live, shall I forget his going about to all the shops in the
neighbourhood to change this treasure into sixpences, or his bringing
them to my aunt arranged in the form of a heart upon a waiter, with
tears of joy and pride in his eyes. He was like one under the propitious
influence of a charm, from the moment of his being usefully employed;
and if there were a happy man in the world, that Saturday night, it was
the grateful creature who thought my aunt the most wonderful woman in
existence, and me the most wonderful young man.

‘No starving now, Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, shaking hands with me in a
corner. ‘I’ll provide for her, Sir!’ and he flourished his ten fingers
in the air, as if they were ten banks.

I hardly know which was the better pleased, Traddles or I. ‘It really,’
said Traddles, suddenly, taking a letter out of his pocket, and giving
it to me, ‘put Mr. Micawber quite out of my head!’

The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible opportunity of
writing a letter) was addressed to me, ‘By the kindness of T. Traddles,
Esquire, of the Inner Temple.’ It ran thus:--


‘MY DEAR COPPERFIELD,

‘You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the intimation that
something has turned up. I may have mentioned to you on a former
occasion that I was in expectation of such an event.

‘I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial towns of our
favoured island (where the society may be described as a happy admixture
of the agricultural and the clerical), in immediate connexion with
one of the learned professions. Mrs. Micawber and our offspring will
accompany me. Our ashes, at a future period, will probably be found
commingled in the cemetery attached to a venerable pile, for which the
spot to which I refer has acquired a reputation, shall I say from China
to Peru?

‘In bidding adieu to the modern Babylon, where we have undergone many
vicissitudes, I trust not ignobly, Mrs. Micawber and myself cannot
disguise from our minds that we part, it may be for years and it may be
for ever, with an individual linked by strong associations to the altar
of our domestic life. If, on the eve of such a departure, you will
accompany our mutual friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles, to our present abode,
and there reciprocate the wishes natural to the occasion, you will
confer a Boon

               ‘On
                    ‘One
                         ‘Who
                              ‘Is
                                   ‘Ever yours,
                                        ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’


I was glad to find that Mr. Micawber had got rid of his dust and ashes,
and that something really had turned up at last. Learning from Traddles
that the invitation referred to the evening then wearing away, I
expressed my readiness to do honour to it; and we went off together to
the lodging which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr. Mortimer, and which was
situated near the top of the Gray’s Inn Road.

The resources of this lodging were so limited, that we found the twins,
now some eight or nine years old, reposing in a turn-up bedstead in
the family sitting-room, where Mr. Micawber had prepared, in a
wash-hand-stand jug, what he called ‘a Brew’ of the agreeable beverage
for which he was famous. I had the pleasure, on this occasion, of
renewing the acquaintance of Master Micawber, whom I found a promising
boy of about twelve or thirteen, very subject to that restlessness of
limb which is not an unfrequent phenomenon in youths of his age. I also
became once more known to his sister, Miss Micawber, in whom, as Mr.
Micawber told us, ‘her mother renewed her youth, like the Phoenix’.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘yourself and Mr. Traddles
find us on the brink of migration, and will excuse any little
discomforts incidental to that position.’

Glancing round as I made a suitable reply, I observed that the family
effects were already packed, and that the amount of luggage was by no
means overwhelming. I congratulated Mrs. Micawber on the approaching
change.

‘My dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘of your friendly
interest in all our affairs, I am well assured. My family may consider
it banishment, if they please; but I am a wife and mother, and I never
will desert Mr. Micawber.’

Traddles, appealed to by Mrs. Micawber’s eye, feelingly acquiesced.

‘That,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that, at least, is my view, my dear Mr.
Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of the obligation which I took upon myself
when I repeated the irrevocable words, “I, Emma, take thee, Wilkins.” I
read the service over with a flat-candle on the previous night, and
the conclusion I derived from it was, that I never could desert Mr.
Micawber. And,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘though it is possible I may be
mistaken in my view of the ceremony, I never will!’

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, a little impatiently, ‘I am not conscious
that you are expected to do anything of the sort.’

‘I am aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ pursued Mrs. Micawber, ‘that I am
now about to cast my lot among strangers; and I am also aware that the
various members of my family, to whom Mr. Micawber has written in the
most gentlemanly terms, announcing that fact, have not taken the least
notice of Mr. Micawber’s communication. Indeed I may be superstitious,’
said Mrs. Micawber, ‘but it appears to me that Mr. Micawber is destined
never to receive any answers whatever to the great majority of the
communications he writes. I may augur, from the silence of my family,
that they object to the resolution I have taken; but I should not allow
myself to be swerved from the path of duty, Mr. Copperfield, even by my
papa and mama, were they still living.’

I expressed my opinion that this was going in the right direction. ‘It
may be a sacrifice,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘to immure one’s-self in a
Cathedral town; but surely, Mr. Copperfield, if it is a sacrifice in me,
it is much more a sacrifice in a man of Mr. Micawber’s abilities.’

‘Oh! You are going to a Cathedral town?’ said I.

Mr. Micawber, who had been helping us all, out of the wash-hand-stand
jug, replied:

‘To Canterbury. In fact, my dear Copperfield, I have entered into
arrangements, by virtue of which I stand pledged and contracted to our
friend Heep, to assist and serve him in the capacity of--and to be--his
confidential clerk.’

I stared at Mr. Micawber, who greatly enjoyed my surprise.

‘I am bound to state to you,’ he said, with an official air, ‘that the
business habits, and the prudent suggestions, of Mrs. Micawber, have
in a great measure conduced to this result. The gauntlet, to which Mrs.
Micawber referred upon a former occasion, being thrown down in the form
of an advertisement, was taken up by my friend Heep, and led to a mutual
recognition. Of my friend Heep,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘who is a man of
remarkable shrewdness, I desire to speak with all possible respect.
My friend Heep has not fixed the positive remuneration at too high a
figure, but he has made a great deal, in the way of extrication from
the pressure of pecuniary difficulties, contingent on the value of
my services; and on the value of those services I pin my faith. Such
address and intelligence as I chance to possess,’ said Mr. Micawber,
boastfully disparaging himself, with the old genteel air, ‘will be
devoted to my friend Heep’s service. I have already some acquaintance
with the law--as a defendant on civil process--and I shall immediately
apply myself to the Commentaries of one of the most eminent and
remarkable of our English jurists. I believe it is unnecessary to add
that I allude to Mr. justice Blackstone.’

These observations, and indeed the greater part of the observations
made that evening, were interrupted by Mrs. Micawber’s discovering that
Master Micawber was sitting on his boots, or holding his head on with
both arms as if he felt it loose, or accidentally kicking Traddles under
the table, or shuffling his feet over one another, or producing them
at distances from himself apparently outrageous to nature, or lying
sideways with his hair among the wine-glasses, or developing his
restlessness of limb in some other form incompatible with the general
interests of society; and by Master Micawber’s receiving those
discoveries in a resentful spirit. I sat all the while, amazed by Mr.
Micawber’s disclosure, and wondering what it meant; until Mrs. Micawber
resumed the thread of the discourse, and claimed my attention.

‘What I particularly request Mr. Micawber to be careful of, is,’ said
Mrs. Micawber, ‘that he does not, my dear Mr. Copperfield, in applying
himself to this subordinate branch of the law, place it out of his power
to rise, ultimately, to the top of the tree. I am convinced that Mr.
Micawber, giving his mind to a profession so adapted to his fertile
resources, and his flow of language, must distinguish himself. Now, for
example, Mr. Traddles,’ said Mrs. Micawber, assuming a profound air, ‘a
judge, or even say a Chancellor. Does an individual place himself beyond
the pale of those preferments by entering on such an office as Mr.
Micawber has accepted?’

‘My dear,’ observed Mr. Micawber--but glancing inquisitively at
Traddles, too; ‘we have time enough before us, for the consideration of
those questions.’

‘Micawber,’ she returned, ‘no! Your mistake in life is, that you do not
look forward far enough. You are bound, in justice to your family, if
not to yourself, to take in at a comprehensive glance the extremest
point in the horizon to which your abilities may lead you.’

Mr. Micawber coughed, and drank his punch with an air of exceeding
satisfaction--still glancing at Traddles, as if he desired to have his
opinion.

‘Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,’ said Traddles, mildly
breaking the truth to her. ‘I mean the real prosaic fact, you know--’

‘Just so,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘my dear Mr. Traddles, I wish to be as
prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much importance.’

‘--Is,’ said Traddles, ‘that this branch of the law, even if Mr.
Micawber were a regular solicitor--’

‘Exactly so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. [‘Wilkins, you are squinting, and
will not be able to get your eyes back.’)

‘--Has nothing,’ pursued Traddles, ‘to do with that. Only a barrister
is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could not be a
barrister, without being entered at an inn of court as a student, for
five years.’

‘Do I follow you?’ said Mrs. Micawber, with her most affable air
of business. ‘Do I understand, my dear Mr. Traddles, that, at the
expiration of that period, Mr. Micawber would be eligible as a Judge or
Chancellor?’

‘He would be ELIGIBLE,’ returned Traddles, with a strong emphasis on
that word.

‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Micawber. ‘That is quite sufficient. If such is
the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by entering on these
duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘as a
female, necessarily; but I have always been of opinion that Mr. Micawber
possesses what I have heard my papa call, when I lived at home, the
judicial mind; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now entering on a field where
that mind will develop itself, and take a commanding station.’

I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial mind’s
eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over his bald
head, and said with ostentatious resignation:

‘My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am
reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,’ in allusion
to his baldness, ‘for that distinction. I do not,’ said Mr. Micawber,
‘regret my hair, and I may have been deprived of it for a specific
purpose. I cannot say. It is my intention, my dear Copperfield, to
educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that I should be happy,
on his account, to attain to eminence.’

‘For the Church?’ said I, still pondering, between whiles, on Uriah
Heep.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘He has a remarkable head-voice, and will
commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and our local
connexion, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of any vacancy
that may arise in the Cathedral corps.’

On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certain
expression of face, as if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where it
presently appeared to be, on his singing us (as an alternative between
that and bed) ‘The Wood-Pecker tapping’. After many compliments on this
performance, we fell into some general conversation; and as I was too
full of my desperate intentions to keep my altered circumstances to
myself, I made them known to Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. I cannot express how
extremely delighted they both were, by the idea of my aunt’s being in
difficulties; and how comfortable and friendly it made them.

When we were nearly come to the last round of the punch, I addressed
myself to Traddles, and reminded him that we must not separate, without
wishing our friends health, happiness, and success in their new career.
I begged Mr. Micawber to fill us bumpers, and proposed the toast in
due form: shaking hands with him across the table, and kissing Mrs.
Micawber, to commemorate that eventful occasion. Traddles imitated me
in the first particular, but did not consider himself a sufficiently old
friend to venture on the second.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, rising with one of his thumbs
in each of his waistcoat pockets, ‘the companion of my youth: if I may
be allowed the expression--and my esteemed friend Traddles: if I may be
permitted to call him so--will allow me, on the part of Mrs. Micawber,
myself, and our offspring, to thank them in the warmest and most
uncompromising terms for their good wishes. It may be expected that
on the eve of a migration which will consign us to a perfectly new
existence,’ Mr. Micawber spoke as if they were going five hundred
thousand miles, ‘I should offer a few valedictory remarks to two such
friends as I see before me. But all that I have to say in this way, I
have said. Whatever station in society I may attain, through the medium
of the learned profession of which I am about to become an unworthy
member, I shall endeavour not to disgrace, and Mrs. Micawber will be
safe to adorn. Under the temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities,
contracted with a view to their immediate liquidation, but remaining
unliquidated through a combination of circumstances, I have been
under the necessity of assuming a garb from which my natural instincts
recoil--I allude to spectacles--and possessing myself of a cognomen, to
which I can establish no legitimate pretensions. All I have to say on
that score is, that the cloud has passed from the dreary scene, and the
God of Day is once more high upon the mountain tops. On Monday next, on
the arrival of the four o’clock afternoon coach at Canterbury, my foot
will be on my native heath--my name, Micawber!’

Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these remarks, and
drank two glasses of punch in grave succession. He then said with much
solemnity:

‘One thing more I have to do, before this separation is complete, and
that is to perform an act of justice. My friend Mr. Thomas Traddles
has, on two several occasions, “put his name”, if I may use a common
expression, to bills of exchange for my accommodation. On the first
occasion Mr. Thomas Traddles was left--let me say, in short, in the
lurch. The fulfilment of the second has not yet arrived. The amount of
the first obligation,’ here Mr. Micawber carefully referred to papers,
‘was, I believe, twenty-three, four, nine and a half, of the second,
according to my entry of that transaction, eighteen, six, two. These
sums, united, make a total, if my calculation is correct, amounting to
forty-one, ten, eleven and a half. My friend Copperfield will perhaps do
me the favour to check that total?’

I did so and found it correct.

‘To leave this metropolis,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘and my friend Mr.
Thomas Traddles, without acquitting myself of the pecuniary part of this
obligation, would weigh upon my mind to an insupportable extent. I have,
therefore, prepared for my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, and I now hold
in my hand, a document, which accomplishes the desired object. I beg
to hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles my I.O.U. for forty-one, ten,
eleven and a half, and I am happy to recover my moral dignity, and to
know that I can once more walk erect before my fellow man!’

With this introduction (which greatly affected him), Mr. Micawber placed
his I.O.U. in the hands of Traddles, and said he wished him well in
every relation of life. I am persuaded, not only that this was quite
the same to Mr. Micawber as paying the money, but that Traddles himself
hardly knew the difference until he had had time to think about it. Mr.
Micawber walked so erect before his fellow man, on the strength of
this virtuous action, that his chest looked half as broad again when he
lighted us downstairs. We parted with great heartiness on both sides;
and when I had seen Traddles to his own door, and was going home alone,
I thought, among the other odd and contradictory things I mused upon,
that, slippery as Mr. Micawber was, I was probably indebted to some
compassionate recollection he retained of me as his boy-lodger, for
never having been asked by him for money. I certainly should not have
had the moral courage to refuse it; and I have no doubt he knew that (to
his credit be it written), quite as well as I did.



CHAPTER 37. A LITTLE COLD WATER


My new life had lasted for more than a week, and I was stronger than
ever in those tremendous practical resolutions that I felt the crisis
required. I continued to walk extremely fast, and to have a general idea
that I was getting on. I made it a rule to take as much out of myself
as I possibly could, in my way of doing everything to which I applied
my energies. I made a perfect victim of myself. I even entertained some
idea of putting myself on a vegetable diet, vaguely conceiving that, in
becoming a graminivorous animal, I should sacrifice to Dora.

As yet, little Dora was quite unconscious of my desperate firmness,
otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed it forth. But another
Saturday came, and on that Saturday evening she was to be at Miss
Mills’s; and when Mr. Mills had gone to his whist-club (telegraphed to
me in the street, by a bird-cage in the drawing-room middle window), I
was to go there to tea.

By this time, we were quite settled down in Buckingham Street, where Mr.
Dick continued his copying in a state of absolute felicity. My aunt had
obtained a signal victory over Mrs. Crupp, by paying her off, throwing
the first pitcher she planted on the stairs out of window, and
protecting in person, up and down the staircase, a supernumerary whom
she engaged from the outer world. These vigorous measures struck such
terror to the breast of Mrs. Crupp, that she subsided into her own
kitchen, under the impression that my aunt was mad. My aunt being
supremely indifferent to Mrs. Crupp’s opinion and everybody else’s, and
rather favouring than discouraging the idea, Mrs. Crupp, of late the
bold, became within a few days so faint-hearted, that rather than
encounter my aunt upon the staircase, she would endeavour to hide her
portly form behind doors--leaving visible, however, a wide margin of
flannel petticoat--or would shrink into dark corners. This gave my aunt
such unspeakable satisfaction, that I believe she took a delight in
prowling up and down, with her bonnet insanely perched on the top of her
head, at times when Mrs. Crupp was likely to be in the way.

My aunt, being uncommonly neat and ingenious, made so many little
improvements in our domestic arrangements, that I seemed to be richer
instead of poorer. Among the rest, she converted the pantry into a
dressing-room for me; and purchased and embellished a bedstead for my
occupation, which looked as like a bookcase in the daytime as a bedstead
could. I was the object of her constant solicitude; and my poor mother
herself could not have loved me better, or studied more how to make me
happy.

Peggotty had considered herself highly privileged in being allowed to
participate in these labours; and, although she still retained something
of her old sentiment of awe in reference to my aunt, had received so
many marks of encouragement and confidence, that they were the best
friends possible. But the time had now come (I am speaking of the
Saturday when I was to take tea at Miss Mills’s) when it was necessary
for her to return home, and enter on the discharge of the duties she had
undertaken in behalf of Ham. ‘So good-bye, Barkis,’ said my aunt, ‘and
take care of yourself! I am sure I never thought I could be sorry to
lose you!’

I took Peggotty to the coach office and saw her off. She cried at
parting, and confided her brother to my friendship as Ham had done. We
had heard nothing of him since he went away, that sunny afternoon.

‘And now, my own dear Davy,’ said Peggotty, ‘if, while you’re a
prentice, you should want any money to spend; or if, when you’re out of
your time, my dear, you should want any to set you up (and you must do
one or other, or both, my darling); who has such a good right to ask
leave to lend it you, as my sweet girl’s own old stupid me!’

I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in reply, but that
if ever I borrowed money of anyone, I would borrow it of her. Next to
accepting a large sum on the spot, I believe this gave Peggotty more
comfort than anything I could have done.

‘And, my dear!’ whispered Peggotty, ‘tell the pretty little angel that
I should so have liked to see her, only for a minute! And tell her that
before she marries my boy, I’ll come and make your house so beautiful
for you, if you’ll let me!’

I declared that nobody else should touch it; and this gave Peggotty such
delight that she went away in good spirits.

I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Commons all day, by
a variety of devices, and at the appointed time in the evening repaired
to Mr. Mills’s street. Mr. Mills, who was a terrible fellow to fall
asleep after dinner, had not yet gone out, and there was no bird-cage in
the middle window.

He kept me waiting so long, that I fervently hoped the Club would fine
him for being late. At last he came out; and then I saw my own Dora hang
up the bird-cage, and peep into the balcony to look for me, and run
in again when she saw I was there, while Jip remained behind, to bark
injuriously at an immense butcher’s dog in the street, who could have
taken him like a pill.

Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and Jip came scrambling
out, tumbling over his own growls, under the impression that I was a
Bandit; and we all three went in, as happy and loving as could be. I
soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to
do it, but that I was so full of the subject--by asking Dora, without
the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar?

My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association with the word was
a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a wooden leg, or
a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or something of that kind; and
she stared at me with the most delightful wonder.

‘How can you ask me anything so foolish?’ pouted Dora. ‘Love a beggar!’

‘Dora, my own dearest!’ said I. ‘I am a beggar!’

‘How can you be such a silly thing,’ replied Dora, slapping my hand, ‘as
to sit there, telling such stories? I’ll make Jip bite you!’

Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to me, but it
was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly repeated:

‘Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!’

‘I declare I’ll make Jip bite you!’ said Dora, shaking her curls, ‘if
you are so ridiculous.’

But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her curls, and laid
her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, and first looked scared
and anxious, then began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell upon my knees
before the sofa, caressing her, and imploring her not to rend my heart;
but, for some time, poor little Dora did nothing but exclaim Oh dear! Oh
dear! And oh, she was so frightened! And where was Julia Mills! And oh,
take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost beside
myself.

At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got Dora
to look at me, with a horrified expression of face, which I gradually
soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lying
against mine. Then I told her, with my arms clasped round her, how I
loved her, so dearly, and so dearly; how I felt it right to offer to
release her from her engagement, because now I was poor; how I never
could bear it, or recover it, if I lost her; how I had no fears of
poverty, if she had none, my arm being nerved and my heart inspired by
her; how I was already working with a courage such as none but lovers
knew; how I had begun to be practical, and look into the future; how a
crust well earned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much
more to the same purpose, which I delivered in a burst of passionate
eloquence quite surprising to myself, though I had been thinking about
it, day and night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.

‘Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?’ said I, rapturously, for I knew
by her clinging to me that it was.

‘Oh, yes!’ cried Dora. ‘Oh, yes, it’s all yours. Oh, don’t be dreadful!’

I dreadful! To Dora!

‘Don’t talk about being poor, and working hard!’ said Dora, nestling
closer to me. ‘Oh, don’t, don’t!’

‘My dearest love,’ said I, ‘the crust well-earned--’

‘Oh, yes; but I don’t want to hear any more about crusts!’ said Dora.
‘And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or he’ll die.’

I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly explained to Dora
that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomed regularity.
I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent by my
labour--sketching in the little house I had seen at Highgate, and my
aunt in her room upstairs.

‘I am not dreadful now, Dora?’ said I, tenderly.

‘Oh, no, no!’ cried Dora. ‘But I hope your aunt will keep in her own
room a good deal. And I hope she’s not a scolding old thing!’

If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever, I am sure I did.
But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my new-born ardour,
to find that ardour so difficult of communication to her. I made another
trial. When she was quite herself again, and was curling Jip’s ears, as
he lay upon her lap, I became grave, and said:

‘My own! May I mention something?’

‘Oh, please don’t be practical!’ said Dora, coaxingly. ‘Because it
frightens me so!’

‘Sweetheart!’ I returned; ‘there is nothing to alarm you in all this. I
want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make it nerve you,
and inspire you, Dora!’

‘Oh, but that’s so shocking!’ cried Dora.

‘My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will enable us to
bear much worse things.’ ‘But I haven’t got any strength at all,’
said Dora, shaking her curls. ‘Have I, Jip? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be
agreeable!’

It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me for
that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into kissing
form, as she directed the operation, which she insisted should be
performed symmetrically, on the centre of his nose. I did as she bade
me--rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience--and she charmed me out
of my graver character for I don’t know how long.

‘But, Dora, my beloved!’ said I, at last resuming it; ‘I was going to
mention something.’

The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love with her,
to see her fold her little hands and hold them up, begging and praying
me not to be dreadful any more.

‘Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!’ I assured her. ‘But, Dora, my
love, if you will sometimes think,--not despondingly, you know; far from
that!--but if you will sometimes think--just to encourage yourself--that
you are engaged to a poor man--’

‘Don’t, don’t! Pray don’t!’ cried Dora. ‘It’s so very dreadful!’

‘My soul, not at all!’ said I, cheerfully. ‘If you will sometimes think
of that, and look about now and then at your papa’s housekeeping, and
endeavour to acquire a little habit--of accounts, for instance--’

Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was half a
sob and half a scream.

‘--It would be so useful to us afterwards,’ I went on. ‘And if you would
promise me to read a little--a little Cookery Book that I would send
you, it would be so excellent for both of us. For our path in life, my
Dora,’ said I, warming with the subject, ‘is stony and rugged now, and
it rests with us to smooth it. We must fight our way onward. We must be
brave. There are obstacles to be met, and we must meet, and crush them!’

I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and a most
enthusiastic countenance; but it was quite unnecessary to proceed. I had
said enough. I had done it again. Oh, she was so frightened! Oh, where
was Julia Mills! Oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please!
So that, in short, I was quite distracted, and raved about the
drawing-room.

I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water on her face.
I went down on my knees. I plucked at my hair. I denounced myself as a
remorseless brute and a ruthless beast. I implored her forgiveness.
I besought her to look up. I ravaged Miss Mills’s work-box for a
smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind applied an ivory needle-case
instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora. I shook my fists at Jip,
who was as frantic as myself. I did every wild extravagance that could
be done, and was a long way beyond the end of my wits when Miss Mills
came into the room.

‘Who has done this?’ exclaimed Miss Mills, succouring her friend.

I replied, ‘I, Miss Mills! I have done it! Behold the destroyer!’--or
words to that effect--and hid my face from the light, in the sofa
cushion.

At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we were verging
on the Desert of Sahara; but she soon found out how matters stood, for
my dear affectionate little Dora, embracing her, began exclaiming that I
was ‘a poor labourer’; and then cried for me, and embraced me, and asked
me would I let her give me all her money to keep, and then fell on Miss
Mills’s neck, sobbing as if her tender heart were broken.

Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us. She ascertained
from me in a few words what it was all about, comforted Dora, and
gradually convinced her that I was not a labourer--from my manner of
stating the case I believe Dora concluded that I was a navigator,
and went balancing myself up and down a plank all day with a
wheelbarrow--and so brought us together in peace. When we were quite
composed, and Dora had gone up-stairs to put some rose-water to her
eyes, Miss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing interval, I told Miss
Mills that she was evermore my friend, and that my heart must cease to
vibrate ere I could forget her sympathy.

I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavoured, so very
unsuccessfully, to expound to Dora. Miss Mills replied, on general
principles, that the Cottage of content was better than the Palace of
cold splendour, and that where love was, all was.

I said to Miss Mills that this was very true, and who should know
it better than I, who loved Dora with a love that never mortal had
experienced yet? But on Miss Mills observing, with despondency, that
it were well indeed for some hearts if this were so, I explained that
I begged leave to restrict the observation to mortals of the masculine
gender.

I then put it to Miss Mills, to say whether she considered that there
was or was not any practical merit in the suggestion I had been anxious
to make, concerning the accounts, the housekeeping, and the Cookery
Book?

Miss Mills, after some consideration, thus replied:

‘Mr. Copperfield, I will be plain with you. Mental suffering and trial
supply, in some natures, the place of years, and I will be as plain with
you as if I were a Lady Abbess. No. The suggestion is not appropriate
to our Dora. Our dearest Dora is a favourite child of nature. She is a
thing of light, and airiness, and joy. I am free to confess that if it
could be done, it might be well, but--’ And Miss Mills shook her head.

I was encouraged by this closing admission on the part of Miss Mills to
ask her, whether, for Dora’s sake, if she had any opportunity of luring
her attention to such preparations for an earnest life, she would avail
herself of it? Miss Mills replied in the affirmative so readily, that I
further asked her if she would take charge of the Cookery Book; and, if
she ever could insinuate it upon Dora’s acceptance, without frightening
her, undertake to do me that crowning service. Miss Mills accepted this
trust, too; but was not sanguine.

And Dora returned, looking such a lovely little creature, that I really
doubted whether she ought to be troubled with anything so ordinary. And
she loved me so much, and was so captivating (particularly when she made
Jip stand on his hind legs for toast, and when she pretended to hold
that nose of his against the hot teapot for punishment because he
wouldn’t), that I felt like a sort of Monster who had got into a Fairy’s
bower, when I thought of having frightened her, and made her cry.

After tea we had the guitar; and Dora sang those same dear old French
songs about the impossibility of ever on any account leaving off
dancing, La ra la, La ra la, until I felt a much greater Monster than
before.

We had only one check to our pleasure, and that happened a little while
before I took my leave, when, Miss Mills chancing to make some allusion
to tomorrow morning, I unluckily let out that, being obliged to exert
myself now, I got up at five o’clock. Whether Dora had any idea that
I was a Private Watchman, I am unable to say; but it made a great
impression on her, and she neither played nor sang any more.

It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu; and she said to me, in
her pretty coaxing way--as if I were a doll, I used to think:

‘Now don’t get up at five o’clock, you naughty boy. It’s so
nonsensical!’

‘My love,’ said I, ‘I have work to do.’

‘But don’t do it!’ returned Dora. ‘Why should you?’

It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face, otherwise
than lightly and playfully, that we must work to live.

‘Oh! How ridiculous!’ cried Dora.

‘How shall we live without, Dora?’ said I.

‘How? Any how!’ said Dora.

She seemed to think she had quite settled the question, and gave me such
a triumphant little kiss, direct from her innocent heart, that I would
hardly have put her out of conceit with her answer, for a fortune.

Well! I loved her, and I went on loving her, most absorbingly, entirely,
and completely. But going on, too, working pretty hard, and busily
keeping red-hot all the irons I now had in the fire, I would sit
sometimes of a night, opposite my aunt, thinking how I had frightened
Dora that time, and how I could best make my way with a guitar-case
through the forest of difficulty, until I used to fancy that my head was
turning quite grey.



CHAPTER 38. A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP


I did not allow my resolution, with respect to the Parliamentary
Debates, to cool. It was one of the irons I began to heat immediately,
and one of the irons I kept hot, and hammered at, with a perseverance
I may honestly admire. I bought an approved scheme of the noble art and
mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and sixpence); and plunged
into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, to the
confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots, which
in such a position meant such a thing, and in such another position
something else, entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were
played by circles; the unaccountable consequences that resulted from
marks like flies’ legs; the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong
place; not only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in
my sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly, through these difficulties,
and had mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Temple in itself,
there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbitrary
characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; who
insisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a cobweb,
meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood for
disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind, I found
that they had driven everything else out of it; then, beginning again, I
forgot them; while I was picking them up, I dropped the other fragments
of the system; in short, it was almost heart-breaking.

It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora, who was the stay
and anchor of my tempest-driven bark. Every scratch in the scheme was
a gnarled oak in the forest of difficulty, and I went on cutting them
down, one after another, with such vigour, that in three or four months
I was in a condition to make an experiment on one of our crack speakers
in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how the crack speaker walked off
from me before I began, and left my imbecile pencil staggering about the
paper as if it were in a fit!

This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too high, and should
never get on, so. I resorted to Traddles for advice; who suggested
that he should dictate speeches to me, at a pace, and with occasional
stoppages, adapted to my weakness. Very grateful for this friendly aid,
I accepted the proposal; and night after night, almost every night, for
a long time, we had a sort of Private Parliament in Buckingham Street,
after I came home from the Doctor’s.

I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else! My aunt and Mr.
Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as the case might
be), and Traddles, with the assistance of Enfield’s Speakers, or a
volume of parliamentary orations, thundered astonishing invectives
against them. Standing by the table, with his finger in the page to keep
the place, and his right arm flourishing above his head, Traddles, as
Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, Lord Castlereagh, Viscount
Sidmouth, or Mr. Canning, would work himself into the most violent
heats, and deliver the most withering denunciations of the profligacy
and corruption of my aunt and Mr. Dick; while I used to sit, at a little
distance, with my notebook on my knee, fagging after him with all my
might and main. The inconsistency and recklessness of Traddles were not
to be exceeded by any real politician. He was for any description of
policy, in the compass of a week; and nailed all sorts of colours to
every denomination of mast. My aunt, looking very like an immovable
Chancellor of the Exchequer, would occasionally throw in an interruption
or two, as ‘Hear!’ or ‘No!’ or ‘Oh!’ when the text seemed to require it:
which was always a signal to Mr. Dick (a perfect country gentleman)
to follow lustily with the same cry. But Mr. Dick got taxed with
such things in the course of his Parliamentary career, and was made
responsible for such awful consequences, that he became uncomfortable in
his mind sometimes. I believe he actually began to be afraid he really
had been doing something, tending to the annihilation of the British
constitution, and the ruin of the country.

Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed to
midnight, and the candles were burning down. The result of so much good
practice was, that by and by I began to keep pace with Traddles pretty
well, and should have been quite triumphant if I had had the least idea
what my notes were about. But, as to reading them after I had got them,
I might as well have copied the Chinese inscriptions of an immense
collection of tea-chests, or the golden characters on all the great red
and green bottles in the chemists’ shops!

There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all over again. It
was very hard, but I turned back, though with a heavy heart, and began
laboriously and methodically to plod over the same tedious ground at a
snail’s pace; stopping to examine minutely every speck in the way, on
all sides, and making the most desperate efforts to know these elusive
characters by sight wherever I met them. I was always punctual at
the office; at the Doctor’s too: and I really did work, as the common
expression is, like a cart-horse. One day, when I went to the Commons as
usual, I found Mr. Spenlow in the doorway looking extremely grave, and
talking to himself. As he was in the habit of complaining of pains in
his head--he had naturally a short throat, and I do seriously believe
he over-starched himself--I was at first alarmed by the idea that he was
not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my uneasiness.

Instead of returning my ‘Good morning’ with his usual affability, he
looked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner, and coldly requested me
to accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which, in those days, had
a door opening into the Commons, just within the little archway in St.
Paul’s Churchyard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and with a
warm shooting all over me, as if my apprehensions were breaking out into
buds. When I allowed him to go on a little before, on account of the
narrowness of the way, I observed that he carried his head with a lofty
air that was particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he
had found out about my darling Dora.

If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, I could
hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him
into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by
a background of sideboard, on which were several inverted tumblers
sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all corners and
flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for mankind,
are now obsolete.

Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severely rigid.
Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and stood on the
hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.

‘Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow, what you
have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.’

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my
childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in sympathy
with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it--opening her mouth a little
at the same time--and produced my last letter to Dora, teeming with
expressions of devoted affection.

‘I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?’ said Mr. Spenlow.

I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I said,
‘It is, sir!’

‘If I am not mistaken,’ said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone brought a
parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round with the dearest bit
of blue ribbon, ‘those are also from your pen, Mr. Copperfield?’

I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and, glancing at
such phrases at the top, as ‘My ever dearest and own Dora,’ ‘My best
beloved angel,’ ‘My blessed one for ever,’ and the like, blushed deeply,
and inclined my head.

‘No, thank you!’ said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechanically offered
them back to him. ‘I will not deprive you of them. Miss Murdstone, be so
good as to proceed!’

That gentle creature, after a moment’s thoughtful survey of the carpet,
delivered herself with much dry unction as follows.

‘I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in
reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I observed Miss Spenlow
and David Copperfield, when they first met; and the impression made upon
me then was not agreeable. The depravity of the human heart is such--’

‘You will oblige me, ma’am,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, ‘by confining
yourself to facts.’

Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if protesting
against this unseemly interruption, and with frowning dignity resumed:

‘Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as dryly as I
can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of proceeding.
I have already said, sir, that I have had my suspicions of Miss Spenlow,
in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I have frequently
endeavoured to find decisive corroboration of those suspicions, but
without effect. I have therefore forborne to mention them to Miss
Spenlow’s father’; looking severely at him--‘knowing how little
disposition there usually is in such cases, to acknowledge the
conscientious discharge of duty.’

Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss
Murdstone’s manner, and deprecated her severity with a conciliatory
little wave of his hand.

‘On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasioned by my
brother’s marriage,’ pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful voice, ‘and
on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her friend Miss Mills,
I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave me greater occasion for
suspicion than before. Therefore I watched Miss Spenlow closely.’

Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon’s eye!

‘Still,’ resumed Miss Murdstone, ‘I found no proof until last night.
It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many letters from her
friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend with her father’s
full concurrence,’ another telling blow at Mr. Spenlow, ‘it was not
for me to interfere. If I may not be permitted to allude to the natural
depravity of the human heart, at least I may--I must--be permitted, so
far to refer to misplaced confidence.’

Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.

‘Last evening after tea,’ pursued Miss Murdstone, ‘I observed the little
dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing-room, worrying
something. I said to Miss Spenlow, “Dora, what is that the dog has in
his mouth? It’s paper.” Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her
frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I interposed, and said,
“Dora, my love, you must permit me.”’

Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!

‘Miss Spenlow endeavoured,’ said Miss Murdstone, ‘to bribe me with
kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewellery--that, of course,
I pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my approaching
him, and was with great difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even
when dislodged, he still kept the letter in his mouth; and on my
endeavouring to take it from him, at the imminent risk of being bitten,
he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suffer himself
to be held suspended in the air by means of the document. At length I
obtained possession of it. After perusing it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with
having many such letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from
her the packet which is now in David Copperfield’s hand.’

Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting her
mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent.

‘You have heard Miss Murdstone,’ said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me. ‘I beg
to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything to say in reply?’

The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of my
heart, sobbing and crying all night--of her being alone, frightened,
and wretched, then--of her having so piteously begged and prayed that
stony-hearted woman to forgive her--of her having vainly offered her
those kisses, work-boxes, and trinkets--of her being in such grievous
distress, and all for me--very much impaired the little dignity I had
been able to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulous state for a minute
or so, though I did my best to disguise it.

‘There is nothing I can say, sir,’ I returned, ‘except that all the
blame is mine. Dora--’

‘Miss Spenlow, if you please,’ said her father, majestically.

‘--was induced and persuaded by me,’ I went on, swallowing that colder
designation, ‘to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly regret it.’

‘You are very much to blame, sir,’ said Mr. Spenlow, walking to and fro
upon the hearth-rug, and emphasizing what he said with his whole body
instead of his head, on account of the stiffness of his cravat and
spine. ‘You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action, Mr. Copperfield.
When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter whether he is nineteen,
twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in a spirit of confidence.
If he abuses my confidence, he commits a dishonourable action, Mr.
Copperfield.’

‘I feel it, sir, I assure you,’ I returned. ‘But I never thought so,
before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never thought so,
before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent--’

‘Pooh! nonsense!’ said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. ‘Pray don’t tell me to my
face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!’

‘Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?’ I returned, with all
humility.

‘Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?’ said Mr. Spenlow, stopping
short upon the hearth-rug. ‘Have you considered your years, and my
daughter’s years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you considered what it is to
undermine the confidence that should subsist between my daughter and
myself? Have you considered my daughter’s station in life, the projects
I may contemplate for her advancement, the testamentary intentions I
may have with reference to her? Have you considered anything, Mr.
Copperfield?’

‘Very little, sir, I am afraid;’ I answered, speaking to him as
respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; ‘but pray believe me, I have
considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to you, we were
already engaged--’

‘I BEG,’ said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seen him,
as he energetically struck one hand upon the other--I could not help
noticing that even in my despair; ‘that YOU Will NOT talk to me of
engagements, Mr. Copperfield!’

The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in one
short syllable.

‘When I explained my altered position to you, sir,’ I began again,
substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable to
him, ‘this concealment, into which I am so unhappy as to have led Miss
Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered position, I have
strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am
sure I shall improve it in time. Will you grant me time--any length of
time? We are both so young, sir,--’

‘You are right,’ interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great
many times, and frowning very much, ‘you are both very young. It’s all
nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away those letters,
and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow’s letters to throw in
the fire; and although our future intercourse must, you are aware, be
restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make no further mention
of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don’t want sense; and this is
the sensible course.’

No. I couldn’t think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but there
was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthly
considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. I
didn’t exactly say so; I softened it down as much as I could; but I
implied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don’t think I made myself very
ridiculous, but I know I was resolute.

‘Very well, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I must try my influence
with my daughter.’

Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration, which
was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave it as her opinion
that he should have done this at first.

‘I must try,’ said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, ‘my
influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters, Mr.
Copperfield?’ For I had laid them on the table.

Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I couldn’t
possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.

‘Nor from me?’ said Mr. Spenlow.

No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.

‘Very well!’ said Mr. Spenlow.

A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay. At length
I was moving quietly towards the door, with the intention of saying that
perhaps I should consult his feelings best by withdrawing: when he said,
with his hands in his coat pockets, into which it was as much as he
could do to get them; and with what I should call, upon the whole, a
decidedly pious air:

‘You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogether
destitute of worldly possessions, and that my daughter is my nearest and
dearest relative?’

I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped the error into
which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love, did not
induce him to think me mercenary too?

‘I don’t allude to the matter in that light,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘It
would be better for yourself, and all of us, if you WERE mercenary, Mr.
Copperfield--I mean, if you were more discreet and less influenced by
all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say, with quite another view,
you are probably aware I have some property to bequeath to my child?’

I certainly supposed so.

‘And you can hardly think,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘having experience of what
we see, in the Commons here, every day, of the various unaccountable
and negligent proceedings of men, in respect of their testamentary
arrangements--of all subjects, the one on which perhaps the strangest
revelations of human inconsistency are to be met with--but that mine are
made?’

I inclined my head in acquiescence.

‘I should not allow,’ said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident increase of
pious sentiment, and slowly shaking his head as he poised himself upon
his toes and heels alternately, ‘my suitable provision for my child to
be influenced by a piece of youthful folly like the present. It is mere
folly. Mere nonsense. In a little while, it will weigh lighter than
any feather. But I might--I might--if this silly business were not
completely relinquished altogether, be induced in some anxious moment
to guard her from, and surround her with protections against, the
consequences of any foolish step in the way of marriage. Now, Mr.
Copperfield, I hope that you will not render it necessary for me to
open, even for a quarter of an hour, that closed page in the book of
life, and unsettle, even for a quarter of an hour, grave affairs long
since composed.’

There was a serenity, a tranquillity, a calm sunset air about him, which
quite affected me. He was so peaceful and resigned--clearly had his
affairs in such perfect train, and so systematically wound up--that he
was a man to feel touched in the contemplation of. I really think I saw
tears rise to his eyes, from the depth of his own feeling of all this.

But what could I do? I could not deny Dora and my own heart. When he
told me I had better take a week to consider of what he had said, how
could I say I wouldn’t take a week, yet how could I fail to know that no
amount of weeks could influence such love as mine?

‘In the meantime, confer with Miss Trotwood, or with any person with
any knowledge of life,’ said Mr. Spenlow, adjusting his cravat with both
hands. ‘Take a week, Mr. Copperfield.’

I submitted; and, with a countenance as expressive as I was able to
make it of dejected and despairing constancy, came out of the room. Miss
Murdstone’s heavy eyebrows followed me to the door--I say her eyebrows
rather than her eyes, because they were much more important in her
face--and she looked so exactly as she used to look, at about that
hour of the morning, in our parlour at Blunderstone, that I could have
fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons again, and that the
dead weight on my mind was that horrible old spelling-book, with
oval woodcuts, shaped, to my youthful fancy, like the glasses out of
spectacles.

When I got to the office, and, shutting out old Tiffey and the rest of
them with my hands, sat at my desk, in my own particular nook, thinking
of this earthquake that had taken place so unexpectedly, and in the
bitterness of my spirit cursing Jip, I fell into such a state of torment
about Dora, that I wonder I did not take up my hat and rush insanely to
Norwood. The idea of their frightening her, and making her cry, and of
my not being there to comfort her, was so excruciating, that it impelled
me to write a wild letter to Mr. Spenlow, beseeching him not to visit
upon her the consequences of my awful destiny. I implored him to spare
her gentle nature--not to crush a fragile flower--and addressed him
generally, to the best of my remembrance, as if, instead of being her
father, he had been an Ogre, or the Dragon of Wantley. This letter I
sealed and laid upon his desk before he returned; and when he came in,
I saw him, through the half-opened door of his room, take it up and read
it.

He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he went away in the
afternoon he called me in, and told me that I need not make myself at
all uneasy about his daughter’s happiness. He had assured her, he said,
that it was all nonsense; and he had nothing more to say to her. He
believed he was an indulgent father (as indeed he was), and I might
spare myself any solicitude on her account.

‘You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or obstinate, Mr.
Copperfield,’ he observed, ‘for me to send my daughter abroad again,
for a term; but I have a better opinion of you. I hope you will be wiser
than that, in a few days. As to Miss Murdstone,’ for I had alluded to
her in the letter, ‘I respect that lady’s vigilance, and feel obliged to
her; but she has strict charge to avoid the subject. All I desire, Mr.
Copperfield, is, that it should be forgotten. All you have got to do,
Mr. Copperfield, is to forget it.’

All! In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted this
sentiment. All I had to do, I said, with gloomy sarcasm, was to forget
Dora. That was all, and what was that! I entreated Miss Mills to see
me, that evening. If it could not be done with Mr. Mills’s sanction
and concurrence, I besought a clandestine interview in the back kitchen
where the Mangle was. I informed her that my reason was tottering on
its throne, and only she, Miss Mills, could prevent its being deposed.
I signed myself, hers distractedly; and I couldn’t help feeling, while
I read this composition over, before sending it by a porter, that it was
something in the style of Mr. Micawber.

However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills’s street, and
walked up and down, until I was stealthily fetched in by Miss Mills’s
maid, and taken the area way to the back kitchen. I have since seen
reason to believe that there was nothing on earth to prevent my going in
at the front door, and being shown up into the drawing-room, except Miss
Mills’s love of the romantic and mysterious.

In the back kitchen, I raved as became me. I went there, I suppose,
to make a fool of myself, and I am quite sure I did it. Miss Mills had
received a hasty note from Dora, telling her that all was discovered,
and saying. ‘Oh pray come to me, Julia, do, do!’ But Miss Mills,
mistrusting the acceptability of her presence to the higher powers, had
not yet gone; and we were all benighted in the Desert of Sahara.

Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to pour them out. I
could not help feeling, though she mingled her tears with mine, that she
had a dreadful luxury in our afflictions. She petted them, as I may say,
and made the most of them. A deep gulf, she observed, had opened between
Dora and me, and Love could only span it with its rainbow. Love must
suffer in this stern world; it ever had been so, it ever would be so. No
matter, Miss Mills remarked. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at
last, and then Love was avenged.

This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn’t encourage fallacious
hopes. She made me much more wretched than I was before, and I felt (and
told her with the deepest gratitude) that she was indeed a friend. We
resolved that she should go to Dora the first thing in the morning,
and find some means of assuring her, either by looks or words, of my
devotion and misery. We parted, overwhelmed with grief; and I think Miss
Mills enjoyed herself completely.

I confided all to my aunt when I got home; and in spite of all she could
say to me, went to bed despairing. I got up despairing, and went out
despairing. It was Saturday morning, and I went straight to the Commons.

I was surprised, when I came within sight of our office-door, to see the
ticket-porters standing outside talking together, and some half-dozen
stragglers gazing at the windows which were shut up. I quickened my
pace, and, passing among them, wondering at their looks, went hurriedly
in.

The clerks were there, but nobody was doing anything. Old Tiffey, for
the first time in his life I should think, was sitting on somebody
else’s stool, and had not hung up his hat.

‘This is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Copperfield,’ said he, as I entered.

‘What is?’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Don’t you know?’ cried Tiffey, and all the rest of them, coming round
me.

‘No!’ said I, looking from face to face.

‘Mr. Spenlow,’ said Tiffey.

‘What about him!’

‘Dead!’ I thought it was the office reeling, and not I, as one of
the clerks caught hold of me. They sat me down in a chair, untied my
neck-cloth, and brought me some water. I have no idea whether this took
any time.

‘Dead?’ said I.

‘He dined in town yesterday, and drove down in the phaeton by himself,’
said Tiffey, ‘having sent his own groom home by the coach, as he
sometimes did, you know--’

‘Well?’

‘The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped at the
stable-gate. The man went out with a lantern. Nobody in the carriage.’

‘Had they run away?’

‘They were not hot,’ said Tiffey, putting on his glasses; ‘no hotter, I
understand, than they would have been, going down at the usual pace. The
reins were broken, but they had been dragging on the ground. The house
was roused up directly, and three of them went out along the road. They
found him a mile off.’

‘More than a mile off, Mr. Tiffey,’ interposed a junior.

‘Was it? I believe you are right,’ said Tiffey,--‘more than a mile
off--not far from the church--lying partly on the roadside, and partly
on the path, upon his face. Whether he fell out in a fit, or got out,
feeling ill before the fit came on--or even whether he was quite dead
then, though there is no doubt he was quite insensible--no one appears
to know. If he breathed, certainly he never spoke. Medical assistance
was got as soon as possible, but it was quite useless.’

I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was thrown by this
intelligence. The shock of such an event happening so suddenly, and
happening to one with whom I had been in any respect at variance--the
appalling vacancy in the room he had occupied so lately, where his chair
and table seemed to wait for him, and his handwriting of yesterday was
like a ghost--the indefinable impossibility of separating him from the
place, and feeling, when the door opened, as if he might come in--the
lazy hush and rest there was in the office, and the insatiable relish
with which our people talked about it, and other people came in and
out all day, and gorged themselves with the subject--this is easily
intelligible to anyone. What I cannot describe is, how, in the innermost
recesses of my own heart, I had a lurking jealousy even of Death. How
I felt as if its might would push me from my ground in Dora’s thoughts.
How I was, in a grudging way I have no words for, envious of her grief.
How it made me restless to think of her weeping to others, or being
consoled by others. How I had a grasping, avaricious wish to shut out
everybody from her but myself, and to be all in all to her, at that
unseasonable time of all times.

In the trouble of this state of mind--not exclusively my own, I hope,
but known to others--I went down to Norwood that night; and finding from
one of the servants, when I made my inquiries at the door, that Miss
Mills was there, got my aunt to direct a letter to her, which I wrote.
I deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow, most sincerely, and shed
tears in doing so. I entreated her to tell Dora, if Dora were in a
state to hear it, that he had spoken to me with the utmost kindness and
consideration; and had coupled nothing but tenderness, not a single or
reproachful word, with her name. I know I did this selfishly, to have my
name brought before her; but I tried to believe it was an act of justice
to his memory. Perhaps I did believe it.

My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressed, outside, to
her; within, to me. Dora was overcome by grief; and when her friend had
asked her should she send her love to me, had only cried, as she was
always crying, ‘Oh, dear papa! oh, poor papa!’ But she had not said No,
and that I made the most of.

Mr. Jorkins, who had been at Norwood since the occurrence, came to the
office a few days afterwards. He and Tiffey were closeted together for
some few moments, and then Tiffey looked out at the door and beckoned me
in.

‘Oh!’ said Mr. Jorkins. ‘Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr. Copperfield, are
about to examine the desks, the drawers, and other such repositories
of the deceased, with the view of sealing up his private papers, and
searching for a Will. There is no trace of any, elsewhere. It may be as
well for you to assist us, if you please.’

I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the circumstances
in which my Dora would be placed--as, in whose guardianship, and so
forth--and this was something towards it. We began the search at once;
Mr. Jorkins unlocking the drawers and desks, and we all taking out the
papers. The office-papers we placed on one side, and the private papers
(which were not numerous) on the other. We were very grave; and when we
came to a stray seal, or pencil-case, or ring, or any little article of
that kind which we associated personally with him, we spoke very low.

We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on dustily and
quietly, when Mr. Jorkins said to us, applying exactly the same words to
his late partner as his late partner had applied to him:

‘Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten track. You know
what he was! I am disposed to think he had made no will.’

‘Oh, I know he had!’ said I.

They both stopped and looked at me. ‘On the very day when I last saw
him,’ said I, ‘he told me that he had, and that his affairs were long
since settled.’

Mr. Jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one accord.

‘That looks unpromising,’ said Tiffey.

‘Very unpromising,’ said Mr. Jorkins.

‘Surely you don’t doubt--’ I began.

‘My good Mr. Copperfield!’ said Tiffey, laying his hand upon my arm, and
shutting up both his eyes as he shook his head: ‘if you had been in the
Commons as long as I have, you would know that there is no subject on
which men are so inconsistent, and so little to be trusted.’

‘Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark!’ I replied persistently.

‘I should call that almost final,’ observed Tiffey. ‘My opinion is--no
will.’

It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out that there was
no will. He had never so much as thought of making one, so far as his
papers afforded any evidence; for there was no kind of hint, sketch, or
memorandum, of any testamentary intention whatever. What was scarcely
less astonishing to me, was, that his affairs were in a most disordered
state. It was extremely difficult, I heard, to make out what he owed, or
what he had paid, or of what he died possessed. It was considered likely
that for years he could have had no clear opinion on these subjects
himself. By little and little it came out, that, in the competition on
all points of appearance and gentility then running high in the Commons,
he had spent more than his professional income, which was not a very
large one, and had reduced his private means, if they ever had been
great (which was exceedingly doubtful), to a very low ebb indeed. There
was a sale of the furniture and lease, at Norwood; and Tiffey told me,
little thinking how interested I was in the story, that, paying all the
just debts of the deceased, and deducting his share of outstanding bad
and doubtful debts due to the firm, he wouldn’t give a thousand pounds
for all the assets remaining.

This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suffered tortures
all the time; and thought I really must have laid violent hands upon
myself, when Miss Mills still reported to me, that my broken-hearted
little Dora would say nothing, when I was mentioned, but ‘Oh, poor papa!
Oh, dear papa!’ Also, that she had no other relations than two aunts,
maiden sisters of Mr. Spenlow, who lived at Putney, and who had not held
any other than chance communication with their brother for many years.
Not that they had ever quarrelled (Miss Mills informed me); but that
having been, on the occasion of Dora’s christening, invited to tea, when
they considered themselves privileged to be invited to dinner, they
had expressed their opinion in writing, that it was ‘better for the
happiness of all parties’ that they should stay away. Since which they
had gone their road, and their brother had gone his.

These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, and proposed to
take Dora to live at Putney. Dora, clinging to them both, and weeping,
exclaimed, ‘O yes, aunts! Please take Julia Mills and me and Jip to
Putney!’ So they went, very soon after the funeral.

How I found time to haunt Putney, I am sure I don’t know; but I
contrived, by some means or other, to prowl about the neighbourhood
pretty often. Miss Mills, for the more exact discharge of the duties of
friendship, kept a journal; and she used to meet me sometimes, on the
Common, and read it, or (if she had not time to do that) lend it to me.
How I treasured up the entries, of which I subjoin a sample--!

‘Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. Called attention to
J. as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled J. Associations thus awakened,
opened floodgates of sorrow. Rush of grief admitted. (Are tears the
dewdrops of the heart? J. M.)

‘Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor. (Do we not remark
this in moon likewise? J. M.) D., J. M. and J. took airing in carriage.
J. looking out of window, and barking violently at dustman, occasioned
smile to overspread features of D. (Of such slight links is chain of
life composed! J. M.)

‘Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her, as congenial melody,
“Evening Bells”. Effect not soothing, but reverse. D. inexpressibly
affected. Found sobbing afterwards, in own room. Quoted verses
respecting self and young Gazelle. Ineffectually. Also referred to
Patience on Monument. (Qy. Why on monument? J. M.)

‘Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight tinge of damask
revisiting cheek. Resolved to mention name of D. C. Introduced same,
cautiously, in course of airing. D. immediately overcome. “Oh, dear,
dear Julia! Oh, I have been a naughty and undutiful child!” Soothed
and caressed. Drew ideal picture of D. C. on verge of tomb. D. again
overcome. “Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do? Oh, take me somewhere!”
 Much alarmed. Fainting of D. and glass of water from public-house.
(Poetical affinity. Chequered sign on door-post; chequered human life.
Alas! J. M.)

‘Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchen, with blue bag, “for
lady’s boots left out to heel”. Cook replies, “No such orders.” Man
argues point. Cook withdraws to inquire, leaving man alone with J. On
Cook’s return, man still argues point, but ultimately goes. J. missing.
D. distracted. Information sent to police. Man to be identified by
broad nose, and legs like balustrades of bridge. Search made in
every direction. No J. D. weeping bitterly, and inconsolable. Renewed
reference to young Gazelle. Appropriate, but unavailing. Towards
evening, strange boy calls. Brought into parlour. Broad nose, but no
balustrades. Says he wants a pound, and knows a dog. Declines to explain
further, though much pressed. Pound being produced by D. takes Cook
to little house, where J. alone tied up to leg of table. Joy of D.
who dances round J. while he eats his supper. Emboldened by this happy
change, mention D. C. upstairs. D. weeps afresh, cries piteously, “Oh,
don’t, don’t, don’t! It is so wicked to think of anything but poor
papa!”--embraces J. and sobs herself to sleep. (Must not D. C. confine
himself to the broad pinions of Time? J. M.)’

Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at this period.
To see her, who had seen Dora but a little while before--to trace the
initial letter of Dora’s name through her sympathetic pages--to be made
more and more miserable by her--were my only comforts. I felt as if I
had been living in a palace of cards, which had tumbled down, leaving
only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; I felt as if some grim enchanter
had drawn a magic circle round the innocent goddess of my heart, which
nothing indeed but those same strong pinions, capable of carrying so
many people over so much, would enable me to enter!



CHAPTER 39. WICKFIELD AND HEEP


My aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfortable by my
prolonged dejection, made a pretence of being anxious that I should go
to Dover, to see that all was working well at the cottage, which was
let; and to conclude an agreement, with the same tenant, for a longer
term of occupation. Janet was drafted into the service of Mrs. Strong,
where I saw her every day. She had been undecided, on leaving Dover,
whether or no to give the finishing touch to that renunciation of
mankind in which she had been educated, by marrying a pilot; but she
decided against that venture. Not so much for the sake of principle, I
believe, as because she happened not to like him.

Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell rather
willingly into my aunt’s pretence, as a means of enabling me to pass a
few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good Doctor relative
to an absence of three days; and the Doctor wishing me to take that
relaxation,--he wished me to take more; but my energy could not bear
that,--I made up my mind to go.

As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be particular about my
duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we were getting in no very
good odour among the tip-top proctors, and were rapidly sliding down
to but a doubtful position. The business had been indifferent under Mr.
Jorkins, before Mr. Spenlow’s time; and although it had been quickened
by the infusion of new blood, and by the display which Mr. Spenlow made,
still it was not established on a sufficiently strong basis to bear,
without being shaken, such a blow as the sudden loss of its active
manager. It fell off very much. Mr. Jorkins, notwithstanding his
reputation in the firm, was an easy-going, incapable sort of man, whose
reputation out of doors was not calculated to back it up. I was turned
over to him now, and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business
go, I regretted my aunt’s thousand pounds more than ever.

But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers-on and
outsiders about the Commons, who, without being proctors themselves,
dabbled in common-form business, and got it done by real proctors, who
lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil;--and there
were a good many of these too. As our house now wanted business on any
terms, we joined this noble band; and threw out lures to the hangers-on
and outsiders, to bring their business to us. Marriage licences and
small probates were what we all looked for, and what paid us best;
and the competition for these ran very high indeed. Kidnappers and
inveiglers were planted in all the avenues of entrance to the Commons,
with instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning,
and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearance, and entice
them to the offices in which their respective employers were interested;
which instructions were so well observed, that I myself, before I was
known by sight, was twice hustled into the premises of our principal
opponent. The conflicting interests of these touting gentlemen being of
a nature to irritate their feelings, personal collisions took place;
and the Commons was even scandalized by our principal inveigler (who
had formerly been in the wine trade, and afterwards in the sworn brokery
line) walking about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these
scouts used to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in
black out of a vehicle, killing any proctor whom she inquired for,
representing his employer as the lawful successor and representative of
that proctor, and bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected)
to his employer’s office. Many captives were brought to me in this way.
As to marriage licences, the competition rose to such a pitch, that a
shy gentleman in want of one, had nothing to do but submit himself
to the first inveigler, or be fought for, and become the prey of the
strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider, used, in the height
of this contest, to sit with his hat on, that he might be ready to rush
out and swear before a surrogate any victim who was brought in. The
system of inveigling continues, I believe, to this day. The last time I
was in the Commons, a civil able-bodied person in a white apron pounced
out upon me from a doorway, and whispering the word ‘Marriage-licence’
in my ear, was with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in
his arms and lifting me into a proctor’s. From this digression, let me
proceed to Dover.

I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage; and was
enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenant
inherited her feud, and waged incessant war against donkeys. Having
settled the little business I had to transact there, and slept there one
night, I walked on to Canterbury early in the morning. It was now
winter again; and the fresh, cold windy day, and the sweeping downland,
brightened up my hopes a little.

Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a sober
pleasure that calmed my spirits, and eased my heart. There were the old
signs, the old names over the shops, the old people serving in them. It
appeared so long, since I had been a schoolboy there, that I wondered
the place was so little changed, until I reflected how little I
was changed myself. Strange to say, that quiet influence which was
inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed to pervade even the city where
she dwelt. The venerable cathedral towers, and the old jackdaws and
rooks whose airy voices made them more retired than perfect silence
would have done; the battered gateways, one stuck full with statues,
long thrown down, and crumbled away, like the reverential pilgrims
who had gazed upon them; the still nooks, where the ivied growth of
centuries crept over gabled ends and ruined walls; the ancient houses,
the pastoral landscape of field, orchard, and garden; everywhere--on
everything--I felt the same serener air, the same calm, thoughtful,
softening spirit.

Arrived at Mr. Wickfield’s house, I found, in the little lower room on
the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to sit,
Mr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He was dressed in a
legal-looking suit of black, and loomed, burly and large, in that small
office.

Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused too.
He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of Uriah, but I
declined.

‘I know the house of old, you recollect,’ said I, ‘and will find my way
upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber?’

‘My dear Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘To a man possessed of the higher
imaginative powers, the objection to legal studies is the amount of
detail which they involve. Even in our professional correspondence,’
said Mr. Micawber, glancing at some letters he was writing, ‘the mind is
not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of expression. Still, it is a
great pursuit. A great pursuit!’

He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep’s old house;
and that Mrs. Micawber would be delighted to receive me, once more,
under her own roof.

‘It is humble,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘--to quote a favourite expression
of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-stone to more ambitious
domiciliary accommodation.’

I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satisfied with his
friend Heep’s treatment of him? He got up to ascertain if the door were
close shut, before he replied, in a lower voice:

‘My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the pressure of pecuniary
embarrassments, is, with the generality of people, at a disadvantage.
That disadvantage is not diminished, when that pressure necessitates the
drawing of stipendiary emoluments, before those emoluments are strictly
due and payable. All I can say is, that my friend Heep has responded
to appeals to which I need not more particularly refer, in a manner
calculated to redound equally to the honour of his head, and of his
heart.’

‘I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money either,’
I observed.

‘Pardon me!’ said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, ‘I speak of
my friend Heep as I have experience.’

‘I am glad your experience is so favourable,’ I returned.

‘You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber; and
hummed a tune.

‘Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?’ I asked, to change the subject.

‘Not much,’ said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. ‘Mr. Wickfield is, I dare
say, a man of very excellent intentions; but he is--in short, he is
obsolete.’

‘I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,’ said I.

‘My dear Copperfield!’ returned Mr. Micawber, after some uneasy
evolutions on his stool, ‘allow me to offer a remark! I am here, in
a capacity of confidence. I am here, in a position of trust. The
discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself (so long the
partner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a remarkable lucidity
of intellect), is, I am led to consider, incompatible with the functions
now devolving on me. I would therefore take the liberty of suggesting
that in our friendly intercourse--which I trust will never be
disturbed!--we draw a line. On one side of this line,’ said Mr.
Micawber, representing it on the desk with the office ruler, ‘is the
whole range of the human intellect, with a trifling exception; on
the other, IS that exception; that is to say, the affairs of Messrs
Wickfield and Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I
trust I give no offence to the companion of my youth, in submitting this
proposition to his cooler judgement?’

Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightly on
him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right to be
offended. My telling him so, appeared to relieve him; and he shook hands
with me.

‘I am charmed, Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘let me assure you, with
Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady, of very remarkable
attractions, graces, and virtues. Upon my honour,’ said Mr. Micawber,
indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his genteelest air, ‘I do
Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!’ ‘I am glad of that, at least,’ said I.

‘If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion of that
agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing with you, that D.
was your favourite letter,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘I should unquestionably
have supposed that A. had been so.’

We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us
occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and done
before, in a remote time--of our having been surrounded, dim ages ago,
by the same faces, objects, and circumstances--of our knowing perfectly
what will be said next, as if we suddenly remembered it! I never had
this mysterious impression more strongly in my life, than before he
uttered those words.

I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging him with my best
remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his stool and his
pen, and rolling his head in his stock, to get it into easier writing
order, I clearly perceived that there was something interposed between
him and me, since he had come into his new functions, which prevented
our getting at each other as we used to do, and quite altered the
character of our intercourse.

There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though it presented
tokens of Mrs. Heep’s whereabouts. I looked into the room still
belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the fire, at a pretty
old-fashioned desk she had, writing.

My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the cause
of that bright change in her attentive face, and the object of that
sweet regard and welcome!

‘Ah, Agnes!’ said I, when we were sitting together, side by side; ‘I
have missed you so much, lately!’

‘Indeed?’ she replied. ‘Again! And so soon?’

I shook my head.

‘I don’t know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some faculty of mind that
I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking for me, in
the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you for counsel and
support, that I really think I have missed acquiring it.’

‘And what is it?’ said Agnes, cheerfully.

‘I don’t know what to call it,’ I replied. ‘I think I am earnest and
persevering?’

‘I am sure of it,’ said Agnes.

‘And patient, Agnes?’ I inquired, with a little hesitation.

‘Yes,’ returned Agnes, laughing. ‘Pretty well.’

‘And yet,’ said I, ‘I get so miserable and worried, and am so unsteady
and irresolute in my power of assuring myself, that I know I must
want--shall I call it--reliance, of some kind?’

‘Call it so, if you will,’ said Agnes.

‘Well!’ I returned. ‘See here! You come to London, I rely on you, and I
have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it, I come
here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The circumstances that
distressed me are not changed, since I came into this room; but an
influence comes over me in that short interval that alters me, oh, how
much for the better! What is it? What is your secret, Agnes?’

Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.

‘It’s the old story,’ said I. ‘Don’t laugh, when I say it was always
the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old troubles were
nonsense, and now they are serious; but whenever I have gone away from
my adopted sister--’

Agnes looked up--with such a Heavenly face!--and gave me her hand, which
I kissed.

‘Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in the
beginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get into all sorts of
difficulty. When I have come to you, at last (as I have always done),
I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like a tired
traveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest!’

I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, that my voice
failed, and I covered my face with my hand, and broke into tears. I
write the truth. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies there were
within me, as there are within so many of us; whatever might have been
so different, and so much better; whatever I had done, in which I had
perversely wandered away from the voice of my own heart; I knew nothing
of. I only knew that I was fervently in earnest, when I felt the rest
and peace of having Agnes near me.

In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with her tender
voice; and with that sweet composure, which had long ago made the house
that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon won me from this
weakness, and led me on to tell all that had happened since our last
meeting.

‘And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,’ said I, when I had made
an end of my confidence. ‘Now, my reliance is on you.’

‘But it must not be on me, Trotwood,’ returned Agnes, with a pleasant
smile. ‘It must be on someone else.’

‘On Dora?’ said I.

‘Assuredly.’

‘Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,’ said I, a little embarrassed, ‘that
Dora is rather difficult to--I would not, for the world, say, to rely
upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth--but rather difficult
to--I hardly know how to express it, really, Agnes. She is a timid
little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened. Some time ago, before
her father’s death, when I thought it right to mention to her--but I’ll
tell you, if you will bear with me, how it was.’

Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about the
cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of it.

‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she remonstrated, with a smile. ‘Just your old headlong
way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on in the world,
without being so very sudden with a timid, loving, inexperienced girl.
Poor Dora!’

I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice,
as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her
admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me, by
her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering that little
heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating artlessness,
caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly appealing against me,
and loving me with all her childish innocence.

I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those two
together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends, each
adorning the other so much!

‘What ought I to do then, Agnes?’ I inquired, after looking at the fire
a little while. ‘What would it be right to do?’

‘I think,’ said Agnes, ‘that the honourable course to take, would be to
write to those two ladies. Don’t you think that any secret course is an
unworthy one?’

‘Yes. If YOU think so,’ said I.

‘I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,’ replied Agnes, with
a modest hesitation, ‘but I certainly feel--in short, I feel that your
being secret and clandestine, is not being like yourself.’

‘Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes, I am
afraid,’ said I.

‘Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,’ she returned; ‘and
therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate, as plainly
and as openly as possible, all that has taken place; and I would ask
their permission to visit sometimes, at their house. Considering that
you are young, and striving for a place in life, I think it would be
well to say that you would readily abide by any conditions they might
impose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your request,
without a reference to Dora; and to discuss it with her when they should
think the time suitable. I would not be too vehement,’ said Agnes,
gently, ‘or propose too much. I would trust to my fidelity and
perseverance--and to Dora.’

‘But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking to her,’
said I. ‘And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing about me!’

‘Is that likely?’ inquired Agnes, with the same sweet consideration in
her face.

‘God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,’ said I. ‘It might
be! Or if the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that sort are odd
characters sometimes) should not be likely persons to address in that
way!’

‘I don’t think, Trotwood,’ returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes
to mine, ‘I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only to
consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.’

I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart, though
with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task, I devoted
the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of this letter; for
which great purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk to me. But first I went
downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep.

I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling office, built out
in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean, in the midst of a quantity
of books and papers. He received me in his usual fawning way, and
pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr. Micawber; a
pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr.
Wickfield’s room, which was the shadow of its former self--having been
divested of a variety of conveniences, for the accommodation of the new
partner--and stood before the fire, warming his back, and shaving his
chin with his bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings.

‘You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury?’ said Mr.
Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval.

‘Is there room for me?’ said I.

‘I am sure, Master Copperfield--I should say Mister, but the other
comes so natural,’ said Uriah,--‘I would turn out of your old room with
pleasure, if it would be agreeable.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘Why should you be inconvenienced? There’s
another room. There’s another room.’ ‘Oh, but you know,’ returned Uriah,
with a grin, ‘I should really be delighted!’

To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room or none at
all; so it was settled that I should have the other room; and, taking my
leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again.

I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs. Heep had
asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the fire, in
that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more favourable for
her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing-room or
dining-parlour. Though I could almost have consigned her to the mercies
of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, without remorse, I
made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation.

‘I’m umbly thankful to you, sir,’ said Mrs. Heep, in acknowledgement of
my inquiries concerning her health, ‘but I’m only pretty well. I haven’t
much to boast of. If I could see my Uriah well settled in life, I
couldn’t expect much more I think. How do you think my Ury looking,
sir?’

I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I saw no
change in him.

‘Oh, don’t you think he’s changed?’ said Mrs. Heep. ‘There I must umbly
beg leave to differ from you. Don’t you see a thinness in him?’

‘Not more than usual,’ I replied.

‘Don’t you though!’ said Mrs. Heep. ‘But you don’t take notice of him
with a mother’s eye!’

His mother’s eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I thought as
it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and I believe she and her
son were devoted to one another. It passed me, and went on to Agnes.

‘Don’t YOU see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield?’ inquired
Mrs. Heep.

‘No,’ said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she was engaged.
‘You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.’

Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting.

She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early in the
day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner; but she sat
there, plying her knitting-needles as monotonously as an hour-glass
might have poured out its sands. She sat on one side of the fire; I sat
at the desk in front of it; a little beyond me, on the other side, sat
Agnes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over my letter, I lifted up my
eyes, and meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw it clear, and beam
encouragement upon me, with its own angelic expression, I was conscious
presently of the evil eye passing me, and going on to her, and coming
back to me again, and dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the
knitting was, I don’t know, not being learned in that art; but it looked
like a net; and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of
knitting-needles, she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking
enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but
getting ready for a cast of her net by and by.

At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same unwinking eyes. After
dinner, her son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield, himself, and I
were left alone together, leered at me, and writhed until I could hardly
bear it. In the drawing-room, there was the mother knitting and watching
again. All the time that Agnes sang and played, the mother sat at the
piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, which she said her Ury
(who was yawning in a great chair) doted on; and at intervals she looked
round at him, and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the
music. But she hardly ever spoke--I question if she ever did--without
making some mention of him. It was evident to me that this was the duty
assigned to her.

This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, like two
great bats hanging over the whole house, and darkening it with their
ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable, that I would rather have remained
downstairs, knitting and all, than gone to bed. I hardly got any sleep.
Next day the knitting and watching began again, and lasted all day.

I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten minutes. I could
barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out with me; but
Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse, Agnes charitably
remained within, to bear her company. Towards the twilight I went out
by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and whether I was justified
in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what Uriah Heep had told me in
London; for that began to trouble me again, very much.

I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town, upon the
Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, when I was hailed, through
the dust, by somebody behind me. The shambling figure, and the scanty
great-coat, were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and Uriah Heep came up.

‘Well?’ said I.

‘How fast you walk!’ said he. ‘My legs are pretty long, but you’ve given
‘em quite a job.’

‘Where are you going?’ said I.

‘I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you’ll allow me the
pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.’ Saying this, with a jerk
of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or derisive, he
fell into step beside me.

‘Uriah!’ said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence.

‘Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah.

‘To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended), I came Out
to walk alone, because I have had so much company.’

He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, ‘You mean
mother.’

‘Why yes, I do,’ said I.

‘Ah! But you know we’re so very umble,’ he returned. ‘And having such a
knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take care that we’re not
pushed to the wall by them as isn’t umble. All stratagems are fair in
love, sir.’

Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed them
softly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon, I
thought, as anything human could look.

‘You see,’ he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way,
and shaking his head at me, ‘you’re quite a dangerous rival, Master
Copperfield. You always was, you know.’

‘Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her home no home,
because of me?’ said I.

‘Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,’ he replied.

‘Put my meaning into any words you like,’ said I. ‘You know what it is,
Uriah, as well as I do.’

‘Oh no! You must put it into words,’ he said. ‘Oh, really! I couldn’t
myself.’

‘Do you suppose,’ said I, constraining myself to be very temperate
and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, ‘that I regard Miss Wickfield
otherwise than as a very dear sister?’

‘Well, Master Copperfield,’ he replied, ‘you perceive I am not bound
to answer that question. You may not, you know. But then, you see, you
may!’

Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of his shadowless
eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw.

‘Come then!’ said I. ‘For the sake of Miss Wickfield--’

‘My Agnes!’ he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contortion of himself.
‘Would you be so good as call her Agnes, Master Copperfield!’

‘For the sake of Agnes Wickfield--Heaven bless her!’

‘Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!’ he interposed.

‘I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, as soon
have thought of telling to--Jack Ketch.’

‘To who, sir?’ said Uriah, stretching out his neck, and shading his ear
with his hand.

‘To the hangman,’ I returned. ‘The most unlikely person I could think
of,’--though his own face had suggested the allusion quite as a natural
sequence. ‘I am engaged to another young lady. I hope that contents
you.’

‘Upon your soul?’ said Uriah.

I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation he
required, when he caught hold of my hand, and gave it a squeeze.

‘Oh, Master Copperfield!’ he said. ‘If you had only had the
condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness of
my art, the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping before
your sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As it is, I’m
sure I’ll take off mother directly, and only too appy. I know you’ll
excuse the precautions of affection, won’t you? What a pity, Master
Copperfield, that you didn’t condescend to return my confidence! I’m
sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never have condescended to
me, as much as I could have wished. I know you have never liked me, as I
have liked you!’

All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fingers,
while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I was
quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured
great-coat, and I walked on, almost upon compulsion, arm-in-arm with
him.

‘Shall we turn?’ said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face about towards
the town, on which the early moon was now shining, silvering the distant
windows.

‘Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,’ said I, breaking
a pretty long silence, ‘that I believe Agnes Wickfield to be as far
above you, and as far removed from all your aspirations, as that moon
herself!’

‘Peaceful! Ain’t she!’ said Uriah. ‘Very! Now confess, Master
Copperfield, that you haven’t liked me quite as I have liked you. All
along you’ve thought me too umble now, I shouldn’t wonder?’

‘I am not fond of professions of humility,’ I returned, ‘or professions
of anything else.’ ‘There now!’ said Uriah, looking flabby and
lead-coloured in the moonlight. ‘Didn’t I know it! But how little
you think of the rightful umbleness of a person in my station, Master
Copperfield! Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school
for boys; and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort of
charitable, establishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness--not
much else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to be umble to
this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our caps here, and
to make bows there; and always to know our place, and abase ourselves
before our betters. And we had such a lot of betters! Father got the
monitor-medal by being umble. So did I. Father got made a sexton by
being umble. He had the character, among the gentlefolks, of being
such a well-behaved man, that they were determined to bring him in. “Be
umble, Uriah,” says father to me, “and you’ll get on. It was what was
always being dinned into you and me at school; it’s what goes down best.
Be umble,” says father, “and you’ll do!” And really it ain’t done bad!’

It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this detestable
cant of false humility might have originated out of the Heep family. I
had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the seed.

‘When I was quite a young boy,’ said Uriah, ‘I got to know what
umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite. I
stopped at the umble point of my learning, and says I, “Hold hard!” When
you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. “People like to be above
you,” says father, “keep yourself down.” I am very umble to the present
moment, Master Copperfield, but I’ve got a little power!’

And he said all this--I knew, as I saw his face in the moonlight--that
I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself by using his
power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft and malice; but I
fully comprehended now, for the first time, what a base, unrelenting,
and revengeful spirit, must have been engendered by this early, and this
long, suppression.

His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable result,
that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he might have
another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from him, I was
determined to keep apart; and we walked back, side by side, saying
very little more by the way. Whether his spirits were elevated by the
communication I had made to him, or by his having indulged in this
retrospect, I don’t know; but they were raised by some influence. He
talked more at dinner than was usual with him; asked his mother (off
duty, from the moment of our re-entering the house) whether he was not
growing too old for a bachelor; and once looked at Agnes so, that I
would have given all I had, for leave to knock him down.

When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got into a more
adventurous state. He had taken little or no wine; and I presume it was
the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him, flushed perhaps by the
temptation my presence furnished to its exhibition.

I had observed yesterday, that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to
drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she went
out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that we should
follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriah was too quick
for me.

‘We seldom see our present visitor, sir,’ he said, addressing Mr.
Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the table,
‘and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass or two
of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your elth and
appiness!’

I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across
to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of the
broken gentleman, his partner.

‘Come, fellow-partner,’ said Uriah, ‘if I may take the liberty,--now,
suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield!’

I pass over Mr. Wickfield’s proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr. Dick,
his proposing Doctors’ Commons, his proposing Uriah, his drinking
everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual
effort that he made against it; the struggle between his shame in
Uriah’s deportment, and his desire to conciliate him; the manifest
exultation with which Uriah twisted and turned, and held him up before
me. It made me sick at heart to see, and my hand recoils from writing
it.

‘Come, fellow-partner!’ said Uriah, at last, ‘I’ll give you another one,
and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the divinest of
her sex.’

Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down, look
at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead, and shrink
back in his elbow-chair.

‘I’m an umble individual to give you her elth,’ proceeded Uriah, ‘but I
admire--adore her.’

No physical pain that her father’s grey head could have borne, I think,
could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endurance I saw
compressed now within both his hands.

‘Agnes,’ said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing what the
nature of his action was, ‘Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, the
divinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends? To be her father is
a proud distinction, but to be her usband--’

Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which her
father rose up from the table! ‘What’s the matter?’ said Uriah, turning
of a deadly colour. ‘You are not gone mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield, I
hope? If I say I’ve an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as
good a right to it as another man. I have a better right to it than any
other man!’

I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I
could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself
a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair, beating his
head, trying to force me from him, and to force himself from me, not
answering a word, not looking at or seeing anyone; blindly striving
for he knew not what, his face all staring and distorted--a frightful
spectacle.

I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner, not
to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I besought him to
think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I
had grown up together, how I honoured her and loved her, how she was his
pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in any form; I even
reproached him with not having firmness to spare her the knowledge of
such a scene as this. I may have effected something, or his wildness may
have spent itself; but by degrees he struggled less, and began to look
at me--strangely at first, then with recognition in his eyes. At length
he said, ‘I know, Trotwood! My darling child and you--I know! But look
at him!’

He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidently very much
out in his calculations, and taken by surprise.

‘Look at my torturer,’ he replied. ‘Before him I have step by step
abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home.’

‘I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace and
quiet, and your house and home too,’ said Uriah, with a sulky, hurried,
defeated air of compromise. ‘Don’t be foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I
have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can go back, I
suppose? There’s no harm done.’

‘I looked for single motives in everyone,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘and I was
satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But see what he
is--oh, see what he is!’

‘You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,’ cried Uriah,
with his long forefinger pointing towards me. ‘He’ll say something
presently--mind you!--he’ll be sorry to have said afterwards, and you’ll
be sorry to have heard!’

‘I’ll say anything!’ cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air. ‘Why
should I not be in all the world’s power if I am in yours?’

‘Mind! I tell you!’ said Uriah, continuing to warn me. ‘If you don’t
stop his mouth, you’re not his friend! Why shouldn’t you be in all the
world’s power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a daughter. You and
me know what we know, don’t we? Let sleeping dogs lie--who wants to
rouse ‘em? I don’t. Can’t you see I am as umble as I can be? I tell you,
if I’ve gone too far, I’m sorry. What would you have, sir?’

‘Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!’ exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his hands.
‘What I have come down to be, since I first saw you in this house! I was
on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary road I have traversed
since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence in remembrance, and
indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief for my child’s mother
turned to disease; my natural love for my child turned to disease. I
have infected everything I touched. I have brought misery on what I
dearly love, I know--you know! I thought it possible that I could truly
love one creature in the world, and not love the rest; I thought it
possible that I could truly mourn for one creature gone out of the
world, and not have some part in the grief of all who mourned. Thus the
lessons of my life have been perverted! I have preyed on my own morbid
coward heart, and it has preyed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my
love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both, oh see
the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me!’

He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excitement into which he
had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his corner.

‘I don’t know all I have done, in my fatuity,’ said Mr. Wickfield,
putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my condemnation. ‘He knows
best,’ meaning Uriah Heep, ‘for he has always been at my elbow,
whispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You
find him in my house, you find him in my business. You heard him, but a
little time ago. What need have I to say more!’

‘You haven’t need to say so much, nor half so much, nor anything at
all,’ observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. ‘You wouldn’t have
took it up so, if it hadn’t been for the wine. You’ll think better of
it tomorrow, sir. If I have said too much, or more than I meant, what of
it? I haven’t stood by it!’

The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of colour in
her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said, ‘Papa, you are
not well. Come with me!’

He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with heavy
shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an instant, yet
I saw how much she knew of what had passed.

‘I didn’t expect he’d cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah.
‘But it’s nothing. I’ll be friends with him tomorrow. It’s for his good.
I’m umbly anxious for his good.’

I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet room where Agnes
had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me until late
at night. I took up a book, and tried to read. I heard the clocks strike
twelve, and was still reading, without knowing what I read, when Agnes
touched me.

‘You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let us say good-bye,
now!’

She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful!

‘Heaven bless you!’ she said, giving me her hand.

‘Dearest Agnes!’ I returned, ‘I see you ask me not to speak of
tonight--but is there nothing to be done?’

‘There is God to trust in!’ she replied.

‘Can I do nothing--I, who come to you with my poor sorrows?’

‘And make mine so much lighter,’ she replied. ‘Dear Trotwood, no!’

‘Dear Agnes,’ I said, ‘it is presumptuous for me, who am so poor in all
in which you are so rich--goodness, resolution, all noble qualities--to
doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love you, and how much I
owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to a mistaken sense of duty,
Agnes?’

More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she took her hands
from me, and moved a step back.

‘Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more than sister!
Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a love as
yours!’

Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before me, with its
momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting. Oh, long,
long afterwards, I saw that look subside, as it did now, into the lovely
smile, with which she told me she had no fear for herself--I need have
none for her--and parted from me by the name of Brother, and was gone!

It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach at the inn door.
The day was just breaking when we were about to start, and then, as
I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side, through the
mingled day and night, Uriah’s head.

‘Copperfield!’ said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by the iron
on the roof, ‘I thought you’d be glad to hear before you went off, that
there are no squares broke between us. I’ve been into his room already,
and we’ve made it all smooth. Why, though I’m umble, I’m useful to him,
you know; and he understands his interest when he isn’t in liquor! What
an agreeable man he is, after all, Master Copperfield!’

I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology.

‘Oh, to be sure!’ said Uriah. ‘When a person’s umble, you know, what’s
an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,’ with a jerk, ‘you have sometimes
plucked a pear before it was ripe, Master Copperfield?’

‘I suppose I have,’ I replied.

‘I did that last night,’ said Uriah; ‘but it’ll ripen yet! It only wants
attending to. I can wait!’

Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coachman got up. For
anything I know, he was eating something to keep the raw morning
air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear were ripe
already, and he were smacking his lips over it.



CHAPTER 40. THE WANDERER


We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night,
about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter. My
aunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and down the room with
her arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards. Whenever she was
particularly discomposed, she always performed one of these pedestrian
feats; and the amount of her discomposure might always be estimated by
the duration of her walk. On this occasion she was so much disturbed in
mind as to find it necessary to open the bedroom door, and make a course
for herself, comprising the full extent of the bedrooms from wall to
wall; and while Mr. Dick and I sat quietly by the fire, she kept passing
in and out, along this measured track, at an unchanging pace, with the
regularity of a clock-pendulum.

When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick’s going out to
bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By that time
she was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her dress tucked up
as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual manner, holding her glass
upon her knee, she suffered it to stand neglected on the chimney-piece;
and, resting her left elbow on her right arm, and her chin on her left
hand, looked thoughtfully at me. As often as I raised my eyes from what
I was about, I met hers. ‘I am in the lovingest of tempers, my dear,’
she would assure me with a nod, ‘but I am fidgeted and sorry!’

I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone to bed, that
she had left her night-mixture, as she always called it, untasted on
the chimney-piece. She came to her door, with even more than her usual
affection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint her with this discovery;
but only said, ‘I have not the heart to take it, Trot, tonight,’ and
shook her head, and went in again.

She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning, and approved
of it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then, but wait, as patiently
as I could, for the reply. I was still in this state of expectation, and
had been, for nearly a week; when I left the Doctor’s one snowy night,
to walk home.

It had been a bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind had blown for
some time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so the snow had
come on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, in great flakes; and
it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of people were as hushed, as
if the streets had been strewn that depth with feathers.

My shortest way home,--and I naturally took the shortest way on such a
night--was through St. Martin’s Lane. Now, the church which gives its
name to the lane, stood in a less free situation at that time; there
being no open space before it, and the lane winding down to the Strand.
As I passed the steps of the portico, I encountered, at the corner,
a woman’s face. It looked in mine, passed across the narrow lane,
and disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere. But I could not
remember where. I had some association with it, that struck upon my
heart directly; but I was thinking of anything else when it came upon
me, and was confused.

On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man, who
had put down some burden on the smooth snow, to adjust it; my seeing the
face, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don’t think I had stopped
in my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on, he rose, turned, and
came down towards me. I stood face to face with Mr. Peggotty!

Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had given the
money that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell--side by side with whom,
he would not have seen his dear niece, Ham had told me, for all the
treasures wrecked in the sea.

We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a word.

‘Mas’r Davy!’ he said, gripping me tight, ‘it do my art good to see you,
sir. Well met, well met!’

‘Well met, my dear old friend!’ said I.

‘I had my thowts o’ coming to make inquiration for you, sir, tonight,’
he said, ‘but knowing as your aunt was living along wi’ you--fur I’ve
been down yonder--Yarmouth way--I was afeerd it was too late. I should
have come early in the morning, sir, afore going away.’

‘Again?’ said I.

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, patiently shaking his head, ‘I’m away tomorrow.’

‘Where were you going now?’ I asked.

‘Well!’ he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, ‘I was
a-going to turn in somewheers.’

In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the Golden
Cross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his misfortune,
nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my arm
through his, and we went across. Two or three public-rooms opened out of
the stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and finding it empty, and
a good fire burning, I took him in there.

When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair was long
and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was greyer,
the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had every
appearance of having toiled and wandered through all varieties
of weather; but he looked very strong, and like a man upheld by
steadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snow
from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I was
inwardly making these remarks. As he sat down opposite to me at a table,
with his back to the door by which we had entered, he put out his rough
hand again, and grasped mine warmly.

‘I’ll tell you, Mas’r Davy,’ he said,--‘wheer all I’ve been, and
what-all we’ve heerd. I’ve been fur, and we’ve heerd little; but I’ll
tell you!’

I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing
stronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmed
at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in his
face, I did not venture to disturb.

‘When she was a child,’ he said, lifting up his head soon after we were
left alone, ‘she used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and about
them coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay a-shining and
a-shining in the sun. I thowt, odd times, as her father being drownded
made her think on it so much. I doen’t know, you see, but maybe she
believed--or hoped--he had drifted out to them parts, where the flowers
is always a-blowing, and the country bright.’

‘It is likely to have been a childish fancy,’ I replied.

‘When she was--lost,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I know’d in my mind, as he
would take her to them countries. I know’d in my mind, as he’d have told
her wonders of ‘em, and how she was to be a lady theer, and how he got
her to listen to him fust, along o’ sech like. When we see his mother,
I know’d quite well as I was right. I went across-channel to France, and
landed theer, as if I’d fell down from the sky.’

I saw the door move, and the snow drift in. I saw it move a little more,
and a hand softly interpose to keep it open.

‘I found out an English gen’leman as was in authority,’ said Mr.
Peggotty, ‘and told him I was a-going to seek my niece. He got me them
papers as I wanted fur to carry me through--I doen’t rightly know how
they’re called--and he would have give me money, but that I was thankful
to have no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I’m sure! “I’ve
wrote afore you,” he says to me, “and I shall speak to many as will come
that way, and many will know you, fur distant from here, when you’re
a-travelling alone.” I told him, best as I was able, what my gratitoode
was, and went away through France.’

‘Alone, and on foot?’ said I.

‘Mostly a-foot,’ he rejoined; ‘sometimes in carts along with people
going to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day a-foot, and
often with some poor soldier or another, travelling to see his friends.
I couldn’t talk to him,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘nor he to me; but we was
company for one another, too, along the dusty roads.’

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

‘When I come to any town,’ he pursued, ‘I found the inn, and waited
about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as know’d
English. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my niece, and they
told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to see
any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn’t Em’ly, I went on
agen. By little and little, when I come to a new village or that, among
the poor people, I found they know’d about me. They would set me down at
their cottage doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show
me where to sleep; and many a woman, Mas’r Davy, as has had a daughter
of about Em’ly’s age, I’ve found a-waiting fur me, at Our Saviour’s
Cross outside the village, fur to do me sim’lar kindnesses. Some has had
daughters as was dead. And God only knows how good them mothers was to
me!’

It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face distinctly.
My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her too.

‘They would often put their children--particular their little girls,’
said Mr. Peggotty, ‘upon my knee; and many a time you might have seen
me sitting at their doors, when night was coming in, a’most as if they’d
been my Darling’s children. Oh, my Darling!’

Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling hand
upon the hand he put before his face. ‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, ‘doen’t
take no notice.’

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his breast,
and went on with his story. ‘They often walked with me,’ he said, ‘in
the morning, maybe a mile or two upon my road; and when we parted, and
I said, “I’m very thankful to you! God bless you!” they always seemed to
understand, and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It warn’t
hard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his way
over to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore. The
people was just as good to me, and I should have gone from town to town,
maybe the country through, but that I got news of her being seen among
them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know’d his servant see ‘em there,
all three, and told me how they travelled, and where they was. I made
fur them mountains, Mas’r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I went,
ever so fur the mountains seemed to shift away from me. But I come up
with ‘em, and I crossed ‘em. When I got nigh the place as I had been
told of, I began to think within my own self, “What shall I do when I
see her?”’

The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still drooped at
the door, and the hands begged me--prayed me--not to cast it forth.

‘I never doubted her,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘No! Not a bit! On’y let her
see my face--on’y let her heer my voice--on’y let my stanning still
afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had fled away from, and the
child she had been--and if she had growed to be a royal lady, she’d have
fell down at my feet! I know’d it well! Many a time in my sleep had I
heerd her cry out, “Uncle!” and seen her fall like death afore me. Many
a time in my sleep had I raised her up, and whispered to her, “Em’ly, my
dear, I am come fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you home!”’

He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a sigh.

‘He was nowt to me now. Em’ly was all. I bought a country dress to put
upon her; and I know’d that, once found, she would walk beside me over
them stony roads, go where I would, and never, never, leave me more. To
put that dress upon her, and to cast off what she wore--to take her on
my arm again, and wander towards home--to stop sometimes upon the road,
and heal her bruised feet and her worse-bruised heart--was all that I
thowt of now. I doen’t believe I should have done so much as look at
him. But, Mas’r Davy, it warn’t to be--not yet! I was too late, and they
was gone. Wheer, I couldn’t learn. Some said heer, some said theer.
I travelled heer, and I travelled theer, but I found no Em’ly, and I
travelled home.’

‘How long ago?’ I asked.

‘A matter o’ fower days,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I sighted the old boat
arter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder. When I come nigh and
looked in through the glass, I see the faithful creetur Missis Gummidge
sittin’ by the fire, as we had fixed upon, alone. I called out, “Doen’t
be afeerd! It’s Dan’l!” and I went in. I never could have thowt the old
boat would have been so strange!’ From some pocket in his breast, he
took out, with a very careful hand a small paper bundle containing two
or three letters or little packets, which he laid upon the table.

‘This fust one come,’ he said, selecting it from the rest, ‘afore I had
been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of paper, directed
to me, and put underneath the door in the night. She tried to hide her
writing, but she couldn’t hide it from Me!’

He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in exactly
the same form, and laid it on one side.

‘This come to Missis Gummidge,’ he said, opening another, ‘two or three
months ago.’ After looking at it for some moments, he gave it to me, and
added in a low voice, ‘Be so good as read it, sir.’

I read as follows:


‘Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and know it comes from
my wicked hand! But try, try--not for my sake, but for uncle’s goodness,
try to let your heart soften to me, only for a little little time! Try,
pray do, to relent towards a miserable girl, and write down on a bit of
paper whether he is well, and what he said about me before you left off
ever naming me among yourselves--and whether, of a night, when it is my
old time of coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one
he used to love so dear. Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about
it! I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be as
hard with me as I deserve--as I well, well, know I deserve--but to be so
gentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and to send it to
me. You need not call me Little, you need not call me by the name I have
disgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and have mercy on me so far as to
write me some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this world by my
eyes again!

‘Dear, if your heart is hard towards me--justly hard, I know--but,
listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most--him whose
wife I was to have been--before you quite decide against my poor poor
prayer! If he should be so compassionate as to say that you might write
something for me to read--I think he would, oh, I think he would, if you
would only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving--tell
him then (but not else), that when I hear the wind blowing at night,
I feel as if it was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and was
going up to God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and
oh, if I was fit, I would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and
uncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last
breath!’


Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was
untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way.
Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of a reply,
which, although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, and
made it difficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in reference
to her place of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had
written from that spot where she was stated to have been seen.

‘What answer was sent?’ I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.

‘Missis Gummidge,’ he returned, ‘not being a good scholar, sir, Ham
kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I was
gone to seek her, and what my parting words was.’

‘Is that another letter in your hand?’ said I.

‘It’s money, sir,’ said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. ‘Ten
pound, you see. And wrote inside, “From a true friend,” like the fust.
But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come by the post, day
afore yesterday. I’m a-going to seek her at the post-mark.’

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had found out,
at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they had
drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. He
laid it between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one hand,
tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.

‘He works,’ he said, ‘as bold as a man can. His name’s as good, in all
that part, as any man’s is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone’s hand is
ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He’s
never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister’s belief is [‘twixt
ourselves) as it has cut him deep.’

‘Poor fellow, I can believe it!’

‘He ain’t no care, Mas’r Davy,’ said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn
whisper--‘kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man’s wanted for
rough sarvice in rough weather, he’s theer. When there’s hard duty to
be done with danger in it, he steps for’ard afore all his mates. And yet
he’s as gentle as any child. There ain’t a child in Yarmouth that doen’t
know him.’

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand;
put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breast
again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow drifting
in; but nothing else was there.

‘Well!’ he said, looking to his bag, ‘having seen you tonight, Mas’r
Davy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrow morning.
You have seen what I’ve got heer’; putting his hand on where the little
packet lay; ‘all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might come
to me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost,
or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know’d by him
but what I’d took it, I believe the t’other wureld wouldn’t hold me! I
believe I must come back!’

He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, before
going out.

‘I’d go ten thousand mile,’ he said, ‘I’d go till I dropped dead, to lay
that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em’ly, I’m content.
If I doen’t find her, maybe she’ll come to hear, sometime, as her loving
uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if I
know her, even that will turn her home at last!’

As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flit
away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him in
conversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a traveller’s house on the Dover Road, where he knew he
could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over
Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everything
seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he
resumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the
face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had
covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen;
and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back
over my shoulder.



CHAPTER 41. DORA’S AUNTS


At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented their
compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they had given his
letter their best consideration, ‘with a view to the happiness of
both parties’--which I thought rather an alarming expression, not
only because of the use they had made of it in relation to the family
difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and have all my life)
observed that conventional phrases are a sort of fireworks, easily let
off, and liable to take a great variety of shapes and colours not at
all suggested by their original form. The Misses Spenlow added that they
begged to forbear expressing, ‘through the medium of correspondence’, an
opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield’s communication; but that if
Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour to call, upon a certain day
(accompanied, if he thought proper, by a confidential friend), they
would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject.

To this favour, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with his respectful
compliments, that he would have the honour of waiting on the Misses
Spenlow, at the time appointed; accompanied, in accordance with their
kind permission, by his friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner Temple.
Having dispatched which missive, Mr. Copperfield fell into a condition
of strong nervous agitation; and so remained until the day arrived.

It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereaved, at this
eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of Miss Mills. But Mr.
Mills, who was always doing something or other to annoy me--or I felt
as if he were, which was the same thing--had brought his conduct to a
climax, by taking it into his head that he would go to India. Why should
he go to India, except to harass me? To be sure he had nothing to do
with any other part of the world, and had a good deal to do with that
part; being entirely in the India trade, whatever that was (I had
floating dreams myself concerning golden shawls and elephants’ teeth);
having been at Calcutta in his youth; and designing now to go out there
again, in the capacity of resident partner. But this was nothing to me.
However, it was so much to him that for India he was bound, and
Julia with him; and Julia went into the country to take leave of
her relations; and the house was put into a perfect suit of bills,
announcing that it was to be let or sold, and that the furniture (Mangle
and all) was to be taken at a valuation. So, here was another earthquake
of which I became the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of
its predecessor!

I was in several minds how to dress myself on the important day; being
divided between my desire to appear to advantage, and my apprehensions
of putting on anything that might impair my severely practical character
in the eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I endeavoured to hit a happy medium
between these two extremes; my aunt approved the result; and Mr. Dick
threw one of his shoes after Traddles and me, for luck, as we went
downstairs.

Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly attached to him as
I was, I could not help wishing, on that delicate occasion, that he had
never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very upright. It
gave him a surprised look--not to say a hearth-broomy kind of
expression--which, my apprehensions whispered, might be fatal to us.

I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were walking to
Putney; and saying that if he WOULD smooth it down a little--

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, lifting off his hat, and rubbing
his hair all kinds of ways, ‘nothing would give me greater pleasure. But
it won’t.’

‘Won’t be smoothed down?’ said I.

‘No,’ said Traddles. ‘Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry a
half-hundred-weight upon it, all the way to Putney, it would be up again
the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea what obstinate
hair mine is, Copperfield. I am quite a fretful porcupine.’

I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly charmed by
his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed his good-nature; and said
that his hair must have taken all the obstinacy out of his character,
for he had none.

‘Oh!’ returned Traddles, laughing. ‘I assure you, it’s quite an old
story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle’s wife couldn’t bear it. She said
it exasperated her. It stood very much in my way, too, when I first fell
in love with Sophy. Very much!’

‘Did she object to it?’

‘SHE didn’t,’ rejoined Traddles; ‘but her eldest sister--the one that’s
the Beauty--quite made game of it, I understand. In fact, all the
sisters laugh at it.’

‘Agreeable!’ said I.

‘Yes,’ returned Traddles with perfect innocence, ‘it’s a joke for us.
They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her desk, and is obliged to
shut it in a clasped book, to keep it down. We laugh about it.’

‘By the by, my dear Traddles,’ said I, ‘your experience may suggest
something to me. When you became engaged to the young lady whom you have
just mentioned, did you make a regular proposal to her family? Was there
anything like--what we are going through today, for instance?’ I added,
nervously.

‘Why,’ replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a thoughtful shade had
stolen, ‘it was rather a painful transaction, Copperfield, in my case.
You see, Sophy being of so much use in the family, none of them could
endure the thought of her ever being married. Indeed, they had quite
settled among themselves that she never was to be married, and they
called her the old maid. Accordingly, when I mentioned it, with the
greatest precaution, to Mrs. Crewler--’

‘The mama?’ said I.

‘The mama,’ said Traddles--‘Reverend Horace Crewler--when I mentioned it
with every possible precaution to Mrs. Crewler, the effect upon her was
such that she gave a scream and became insensible. I couldn’t approach
the subject again, for months.’

‘You did at last?’ said I.

‘Well, the Reverend Horace did,’ said Traddles. ‘He is an excellent man,
most exemplary in every way; and he pointed out to her that she ought,
as a Christian, to reconcile herself to the sacrifice (especially as it
was so uncertain), and to bear no uncharitable feeling towards me. As to
myself, Copperfield, I give you my word, I felt a perfect bird of prey
towards the family.’

‘The sisters took your part, I hope, Traddles?’

‘Why, I can’t say they did,’ he returned. ‘When we had comparatively
reconciled Mrs. Crewler to it, we had to break it to Sarah. You
recollect my mentioning Sarah, as the one that has something the matter
with her spine?’

‘Perfectly!’

‘She clenched both her hands,’ said Traddles, looking at me in dismay;
‘shut her eyes; turned lead-colour; became perfectly stiff; and
took nothing for two days but toast-and-water, administered with a
tea-spoon.’

‘What a very unpleasant girl, Traddles!’ I remarked.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Copperfield!’ said Traddles. ‘She is a very
charming girl, but she has a great deal of feeling. In fact, they all
have. Sophy told me afterwards, that the self-reproach she underwent
while she was in attendance upon Sarah, no words could describe. I know
it must have been severe, by my own feelings, Copperfield; which were
like a criminal’s. After Sarah was restored, we still had to break it
to the other eight; and it produced various effects upon them of a most
pathetic nature. The two little ones, whom Sophy educates, have only
just left off de-testing me.’

‘At any rate, they are all reconciled to it now, I hope?’ said I.

‘Ye-yes, I should say they were, on the whole, resigned to it,’ said
Traddles, doubtfully. ‘The fact is, we avoid mentioning the subject;
and my unsettled prospects and indifferent circumstances are a great
consolation to them. There will be a deplorable scene, whenever we
are married. It will be much more like a funeral, than a wedding. And
they’ll all hate me for taking her away!’

His honest face, as he looked at me with a serio-comic shake of his
head, impresses me more in the remembrance than it did in the reality,
for I was by this time in a state of such excessive trepidation
and wandering of mind, as to be quite unable to fix my attention on
anything. On our approaching the house where the Misses Spenlow lived,
I was at such a discount in respect of my personal looks and presence of
mind, that Traddles proposed a gentle stimulant in the form of a glass
of ale. This having been administered at a neighbouring public-house, he
conducted me, with tottering steps, to the Misses Spenlow’s door.

I had a vague sensation of being, as it were, on view, when the maid
opened it; and of wavering, somehow, across a hall with a weather-glass
in it, into a quiet little drawing-room on the ground-floor, commanding
a neat garden. Also of sitting down here, on a sofa, and seeing
Traddles’s hair start up, now his hat was removed, like one of those
obtrusive little figures made of springs, that fly out of fictitious
snuff-boxes when the lid is taken off. Also of hearing an old-fashioned
clock ticking away on the chimney-piece, and trying to make it keep time
to the jerking of my heart,--which it wouldn’t. Also of looking round
the room for any sign of Dora, and seeing none. Also of thinking that
Jip once barked in the distance, and was instantly choked by somebody.
Ultimately I found myself backing Traddles into the fireplace, and
bowing in great confusion to two dry little elderly ladies, dressed in
black, and each looking wonderfully like a preparation in chip or tan of
the late Mr. Spenlow.

‘Pray,’ said one of the two little ladies, ‘be seated.’

When I had done tumbling over Traddles, and had sat upon something which
was not a cat--my first seat was--I so far recovered my sight, as to
perceive that Mr. Spenlow had evidently been the youngest of the
family; that there was a disparity of six or eight years between the
two sisters; and that the younger appeared to be the manager of the
conference, inasmuch as she had my letter in her hand--so familiar as
it looked to me, and yet so odd!--and was referring to it through an
eye-glass. They were dressed alike, but this sister wore her dress with
a more youthful air than the other; and perhaps had a trifle more frill,
or tucker, or brooch, or bracelet, or some little thing of that kind,
which made her look more lively. They were both upright in their
carriage, formal, precise, composed, and quiet. The sister who had
not my letter, had her arms crossed on her breast, and resting on each
other, like an Idol.

‘Mr. Copperfield, I believe,’ said the sister who had got my letter,
addressing herself to Traddles.

This was a frightful beginning. Traddles had to indicate that I was Mr.
Copperfield, and I had to lay claim to myself, and they had to divest
themselves of a preconceived opinion that Traddles was Mr. Copperfield,
and altogether we were in a nice condition. To improve it, we all
distinctly heard Jip give two short barks, and receive another choke.

‘Mr. Copperfield!’ said the sister with the letter.

I did something--bowed, I suppose--and was all attention, when the other
sister struck in.

‘My sister Lavinia,’ said she ‘being conversant with matters of this
nature, will state what we consider most calculated to promote the
happiness of both parties.’

I discovered afterwards that Miss Lavinia was an authority in affairs
of the heart, by reason of there having anciently existed a certain Mr.
Pidger, who played short whist, and was supposed to have been enamoured
of her. My private opinion is, that this was entirely a gratuitous
assumption, and that Pidger was altogether innocent of any such
sentiments--to which he had never given any sort of expression that
I could ever hear of. Both Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa had a
superstition, however, that he would have declared his passion, if he
had not been cut short in his youth (at about sixty) by over-drinking
his constitution, and over-doing an attempt to set it right again by
swilling Bath water. They had a lurking suspicion even, that he died of
secret love; though I must say there was a picture of him in the house
with a damask nose, which concealment did not appear to have ever preyed
upon.

‘We will not,’ said Miss Lavinia, ‘enter on the past history of this
matter. Our poor brother Francis’s death has cancelled that.’

‘We had not,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘been in the habit of frequent
association with our brother Francis; but there was no decided division
or disunion between us. Francis took his road; we took ours. We
considered it conducive to the happiness of all parties that it should
be so. And it was so.’

Each of the sisters leaned a little forward to speak, shook her head
after speaking, and became upright again when silent. Miss Clarissa
never moved her arms. She sometimes played tunes upon them with her
fingers--minuets and marches I should think--but never moved them.

‘Our niece’s position, or supposed position, is much changed by our
brother Francis’s death,’ said Miss Lavinia; ‘and therefore we consider
our brother’s opinions as regarded her position as being changed too. We
have no reason to doubt, Mr. Copperfield, that you are a young gentleman
possessed of good qualities and honourable character; or that you have
an affection--or are fully persuaded that you have an affection--for our
niece.’

I replied, as I usually did whenever I had a chance, that nobody had
ever loved anybody else as I loved Dora. Traddles came to my assistance
with a confirmatory murmur.

Miss Lavinia was going on to make some rejoinder, when Miss Clarissa,
who appeared to be incessantly beset by a desire to refer to her brother
Francis, struck in again:

‘If Dora’s mama,’ she said, ‘when she married our brother Francis, had
at once said that there was not room for the family at the dinner-table,
it would have been better for the happiness of all parties.’

‘Sister Clarissa,’ said Miss Lavinia. ‘Perhaps we needn’t mind that
now.’

‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘it belongs to the subject. With
your branch of the subject, on which alone you are competent to speak, I
should not think of interfering. On this branch of the subject I have a
voice and an opinion. It would have been better for the happiness of
all parties, if Dora’s mama, when she married our brother Francis, had
mentioned plainly what her intentions were. We should then have known
what we had to expect. We should have said “Pray do not invite us,
at any time”; and all possibility of misunderstanding would have been
avoided.’

When Miss Clarissa had shaken her head, Miss Lavinia resumed: again
referring to my letter through her eye-glass. They both had little
bright round twinkling eyes, by the way, which were like birds’ eyes.
They were not unlike birds, altogether; having a sharp, brisk, sudden
manner, and a little short, spruce way of adjusting themselves, like
canaries.

Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed:

‘You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myself, Mr. Copperfield,
to visit here, as the accepted suitor of our niece.’

‘If our brother Francis,’ said Miss Clarissa, breaking out again, if I
may call anything so calm a breaking out, ‘wished to surround himself
with an atmosphere of Doctors’ Commons, and of Doctors’ Commons only,
what right or desire had we to object? None, I am sure. We have ever
been far from wishing to obtrude ourselves on anyone. But why not say
so? Let our brother Francis and his wife have their society. Let
my sister Lavinia and myself have our society. We can find it for
ourselves, I hope.’

As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and me, both Traddles and
I made some sort of reply. Traddles was inaudible. I think I observed,
myself, that it was highly creditable to all concerned. I don’t in the
least know what I meant.

‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, having now relieved her mind, ‘you
can go on, my dear.’

Miss Lavinia proceeded:

‘Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa and I have been very careful
indeed in considering this letter; and we have not considered it without
finally showing it to our niece, and discussing it with our niece. We
have no doubt that you think you like her very much.’

‘Think, ma’am,’ I rapturously began, ‘oh!--’

But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary), as
requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I begged pardon.

‘Affection,’ said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for
corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to every
clause, ‘mature affection, homage, devotion, does not easily express
itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and retiring, it lies in ambush,
waits and waits. Such is the mature fruit. Sometimes a life glides away,
and finds it still ripening in the shade.’

Of course I did not understand then that this was an allusion to her
supposed experience of the stricken Pidger; but I saw, from the gravity
with which Miss Clarissa nodded her head, that great weight was attached
to these words.

‘The light--for I call them, in comparison with such sentiments, the
light--inclinations of very young people,’ pursued Miss Lavinia, ‘are
dust, compared to rocks. It is owing to the difficulty of knowing
whether they are likely to endure or have any real foundation, that
my sister Clarissa and myself have been very undecided how to act, Mr.
Copperfield, and Mr.--’

‘Traddles,’ said my friend, finding himself looked at.

‘I beg pardon. Of the Inner Temple, I believe?’ said Miss Clarissa,
again glancing at my letter.

Traddles said ‘Exactly so,’ and became pretty red in the face.

Now, although I had not received any express encouragement as yet, I
fancied that I saw in the two little sisters, and particularly in Miss
Lavinia, an intensified enjoyment of this new and fruitful subject of
domestic interest, a settling down to make the most of it, a disposition
to pet it, in which there was a good bright ray of hope. I thought
I perceived that Miss Lavinia would have uncommon satisfaction in
superintending two young lovers, like Dora and me; and that Miss
Clarissa would have hardly less satisfaction in seeing her superintend
us, and in chiming in with her own particular department of the subject
whenever that impulse was strong upon her. This gave me courage to
protest most vehemently that I loved Dora better than I could tell, or
anyone believe; that all my friends knew how I loved her; that my aunt,
Agnes, Traddles, everyone who knew me, knew how I loved her, and how
earnest my love had made me. For the truth of this, I appealed to
Traddles. And Traddles, firing up as if he were plunging into a
Parliamentary Debate, really did come out nobly: confirming me in good
round terms, and in a plain sensible practical manner, that evidently
made a favourable impression.

‘I speak, if I may presume to say so, as one who has some little
experience of such things,’ said Traddles, ‘being myself engaged to a
young lady--one of ten, down in Devonshire--and seeing no probability,
at present, of our engagement coming to a termination.’

‘You may be able to confirm what I have said, Mr. Traddles,’ observed
Miss Lavinia, evidently taking a new interest in him, ‘of the affection
that is modest and retiring; that waits and waits?’

‘Entirely, ma’am,’ said Traddles.

Miss Clarissa looked at Miss Lavinia, and shook her head gravely. Miss
Lavinia looked consciously at Miss Clarissa, and heaved a little sigh.
‘Sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘take my smelling-bottle.’

Miss Lavinia revived herself with a few whiffs of aromatic
vinegar--Traddles and I looking on with great solicitude the while; and
then went on to say, rather faintly:

‘My sister and myself have been in great doubt, Mr. Traddles, what
course we ought to take in reference to the likings, or imaginary
likings, of such very young people as your friend Mr. Copperfield and
our niece.’

‘Our brother Francis’s child,’ remarked Miss Clarissa. ‘If our brother
Francis’s wife had found it convenient in her lifetime (though she had
an unquestionable right to act as she thought best) to invite the family
to her dinner-table, we might have known our brother Francis’s child
better at the present moment. Sister Lavinia, proceed.’

Miss Lavinia turned my letter, so as to bring the superscription towards
herself, and referred through her eye-glass to some orderly-looking
notes she had made on that part of it.

‘It seems to us,’ said she, ‘prudent, Mr. Traddles, to bring these
feelings to the test of our own observation. At present we know nothing
of them, and are not in a situation to judge how much reality there
may be in them. Therefore we are inclined so far to accede to Mr.
Copperfield’s proposal, as to admit his visits here.’

‘I shall never, dear ladies,’ I exclaimed, relieved of an immense load
of apprehension, ‘forget your kindness!’

‘But,’ pursued Miss Lavinia,--‘but, we would prefer to regard those
visits, Mr. Traddles, as made, at present, to us. We must guard
ourselves from recognizing any positive engagement between Mr.
Copperfield and our niece, until we have had an opportunity--’

‘Until YOU have had an opportunity, sister Lavinia,’ said Miss Clarissa.

‘Be it so,’ assented Miss Lavinia, with a sigh--‘until I have had an
opportunity of observing them.’

‘Copperfield,’ said Traddles, turning to me, ‘you feel, I am sure, that
nothing could be more reasonable or considerate.’

‘Nothing!’ cried I. ‘I am deeply sensible of it.’

‘In this position of affairs,’ said Miss Lavinia, again referring to
her notes, ‘and admitting his visits on this understanding only, we
must require from Mr. Copperfield a distinct assurance, on his word of
honour, that no communication of any kind shall take place between him
and our niece without our knowledge. That no project whatever shall be
entertained with regard to our niece, without being first submitted to
us--’ ‘To you, sister Lavinia,’ Miss Clarissa interposed.

‘Be it so, Clarissa!’ assented Miss Lavinia resignedly--‘to me--and
receiving our concurrence. We must make this a most express and serious
stipulation, not to be broken on any account. We wished Mr. Copperfield
to be accompanied by some confidential friend today,’ with an
inclination of her head towards Traddles, who bowed, ‘in order that
there might be no doubt or misconception on this subject. If Mr.
Copperfield, or if you, Mr. Traddles, feel the least scruple, in giving
this promise, I beg you to take time to consider it.’

I exclaimed, in a state of high ecstatic fervour, that not a moment’s
consideration could be necessary. I bound myself by the required
promise, in a most impassioned manner; called upon Traddles to witness
it; and denounced myself as the most atrocious of characters if I ever
swerved from it in the least degree.

‘Stay!’ said Miss Lavinia, holding up her hand; ‘we resolved, before we
had the pleasure of receiving you two gentlemen, to leave you alone
for a quarter of an hour, to consider this point. You will allow us to
retire.’

It was in vain for me to say that no consideration was necessary. They
persisted in withdrawing for the specified time. Accordingly, these
little birds hopped out with great dignity; leaving me to receive the
congratulations of Traddles, and to feel as if I were translated to
regions of exquisite happiness. Exactly at the expiration of the
quarter of an hour, they reappeared with no less dignity than they had
disappeared. They had gone rustling away as if their little dresses were
made of autumn-leaves: and they came rustling back, in like manner.

I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions.

‘Sister Clarissa,’ said Miss Lavinia, ‘the rest is with you.’

Miss Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took the notes and
glanced at them.

‘We shall be happy,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘to see Mr. Copperfield to
dinner, every Sunday, if it should suit his convenience. Our hour is
three.’

I bowed.

‘In the course of the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘we shall be happy to
see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half-past six.’

I bowed again.

‘Twice in the week,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘but, as a rule, not oftener.’

I bowed again.

‘Miss Trotwood,’ said Miss Clarissa, ‘mentioned in Mr. Copperfield’s
letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting is better for the
happiness of all parties, we are glad to receive visits, and return
them. When it is better for the happiness of all parties that no
visiting should take place, (as in the case of our brother Francis, and
his establishment) that is quite different.’

I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to make their
acquaintance; though I must say I was not quite sure of their getting
on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now closed, I
expressed my acknowledgements in the warmest manner; and, taking the
hand, first of Miss Clarissa, and then of Miss Lavinia, pressed it, in
each case, to my lips.

Miss Lavinia then arose, and begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us for a
minute, requested me to follow her. I obeyed, all in a tremble, and was
conducted into another room. There I found my blessed darling stopping
her ears behind the door, with her dear little face against the wall;
and Jip in the plate-warmer with his head tied up in a towel.

Oh! How beautiful she was in her black frock, and how she sobbed and
cried at first, and wouldn’t come out from behind the door! How fond we
were of one another, when she did come out at last; and what a state of
bliss I was in, when we took Jip out of the plate-warmer, and restored
him to the light, sneezing very much, and were all three reunited!

‘My dearest Dora! Now, indeed, my own for ever!’

‘Oh, DON’T!’ pleaded Dora. ‘Please!’

‘Are you not my own for ever, Dora?’

‘Oh yes, of course I am!’ cried Dora, ‘but I am so frightened!’

‘Frightened, my own?’

‘Oh yes! I don’t like him,’ said Dora. ‘Why don’t he go?’

‘Who, my life?’

‘Your friend,’ said Dora. ‘It isn’t any business of his. What a stupid
he must be!’

‘My love!’ (There never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways.)
‘He is the best creature!’

‘Oh, but we don’t want any best creatures!’ pouted Dora.

‘My dear,’ I argued, ‘you will soon know him well, and like him of all
things. And here is my aunt coming soon; and you’ll like her of all
things too, when you know her.’

‘No, please don’t bring her!’ said Dora, giving me a horrified
little kiss, and folding her hands. ‘Don’t. I know she’s a naughty,
mischief-making old thing! Don’t let her come here, Doady!’ which was a
corruption of David.

Remonstrance was of no use, then; so I laughed, and admired, and was
very much in love and very happy; and she showed me Jip’s new trick of
standing on his hind legs in a corner--which he did for about the space
of a flash of lightning, and then fell down--and I don’t know how long I
should have stayed there, oblivious of Traddles, if Miss Lavinia had not
come in to take me away. Miss Lavinia was very fond of Dora (she told
me Dora was exactly like what she had been herself at her age--she must
have altered a good deal), and she treated Dora just as if she had been
a toy. I wanted to persuade Dora to come and see Traddles, but on my
proposing it she ran off to her own room and locked herself in; so I
went to Traddles without her, and walked away with him on air.

‘Nothing could be more satisfactory,’ said Traddles; ‘and they are very
agreeable old ladies, I am sure. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you
were to be married years before me, Copperfield.’

‘Does your Sophy play on any instrument, Traddles?’ I inquired, in the
pride of my heart.

‘She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little sisters,’ said
Traddles.

‘Does she sing at all?’ I asked.

‘Why, she sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the others a little
when they’re out of spirits,’ said Traddles. ‘Nothing scientific.’

‘She doesn’t sing to the guitar?’ said I.

‘Oh dear no!’ said Traddles.

‘Paint at all?’

‘Not at all,’ said Traddles.

I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing, and see some of her
flower-painting. He said he should like it very much, and we went home
arm in arm in great good humour and delight. I encouraged him to talk
about Sophy, on the way; which he did with a loving reliance on her
that I very much admired. I compared her in my mind with Dora, with
considerable inward satisfaction; but I candidly admitted to myself that
she seemed to be an excellent kind of girl for Traddles, too.

Of course my aunt was immediately made acquainted with the successful
issue of the conference, and with all that had been said and done in the
course of it. She was happy to see me so happy, and promised to call on
Dora’s aunts without loss of time. But she took such a long walk up and
down our rooms that night, while I was writing to Agnes, that I began to
think she meant to walk till morning.

My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narrating all the
good effects that had resulted from my following her advice. She wrote,
by return of post, to me. Her letter was hopeful, earnest, and cheerful.
She was always cheerful from that time.

I had my hands more full than ever, now. My daily journeys to Highgate
considered, Putney was a long way off; and I naturally wanted to go
there as often as I could. The proposed tea-drinkings being quite
impracticable, I compounded with Miss Lavinia for permission to visit
every Saturday afternoon, without detriment to my privileged Sundays.
So, the close of every week was a delicious time for me; and I got
through the rest of the week by looking forward to it.

I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Dora’s aunts
rubbed on, all things considered, much more smoothly than I could have
expected. My aunt made her promised visit within a few days of the
conference; and within a few more days, Dora’s aunts called upon her,
in due state and form. Similar but more friendly exchanges took place
afterwards, usually at intervals of three or four weeks. I know that my
aunt distressed Dora’s aunts very much, by utterly setting at naught the
dignity of fly-conveyance, and walking out to Putney at extraordinary
times, as shortly after breakfast or just before tea; likewise by
wearing her bonnet in any manner that happened to be comfortable to her
head, without at all deferring to the prejudices of civilization on that
subject. But Dora’s aunts soon agreed to regard my aunt as an eccentric
and somewhat masculine lady, with a strong understanding; and although
my aunt occasionally ruffled the feathers of Dora’s aunts, by expressing
heretical opinions on various points of ceremony, she loved me too
well not to sacrifice some of her little peculiarities to the general
harmony.

The only member of our small society who positively refused to adapt
himself to circumstances, was Jip. He never saw my aunt without
immediately displaying every tooth in his head, retiring under a chair,
and growling incessantly: with now and then a doleful howl, as if she
really were too much for his feelings. All kinds of treatment were tried
with him, coaxing, scolding, slapping, bringing him to Buckingham
Street (where he instantly dashed at the two cats, to the terror of all
beholders); but he never could prevail upon himself to bear my
aunt’s society. He would sometimes think he had got the better of his
objection, and be amiable for a few minutes; and then would put up his
snub nose, and howl to that extent, that there was nothing for it but
to blind him and put him in the plate-warmer. At length, Dora regularly
muffled him in a towel and shut him up there, whenever my aunt was
reported at the door.

One thing troubled me much, after we had fallen into this quiet train.
It was, that Dora seemed by one consent to be regarded like a pretty toy
or plaything. My aunt, with whom she gradually became familiar, always
called her Little Blossom; and the pleasure of Miss Lavinia’s life was
to wait upon her, curl her hair, make ornaments for her, and treat her
like a pet child. What Miss Lavinia did, her sister did as a matter of
course. It was very odd to me; but they all seemed to treat Dora, in her
degree, much as Dora treated Jip in his.

I made up my mind to speak to Dora about this; and one day when we were
out walking (for we were licensed by Miss Lavinia, after a while, to
go out walking by ourselves), I said to her that I wished she could get
them to behave towards her differently.

‘Because you know, my darling,’ I remonstrated, ‘you are not a child.’

‘There!’ said Dora. ‘Now you’re going to be cross!’

‘Cross, my love?’

‘I am sure they’re very kind to me,’ said Dora, ‘and I am very happy--’

‘Well! But my dearest life!’ said I, ‘you might be very happy, and yet
be treated rationally.’

Dora gave me a reproachful look--the prettiest look!--and then began to
sob, saying, if I didn’t like her, why had I ever wanted so much to be
engaged to her? And why didn’t I go away, now, if I couldn’t bear her?

What could I do, but kiss away her tears, and tell her how I doted on
her, after that!

‘I am sure I am very affectionate,’ said Dora; ‘you oughtn’t to be cruel
to me, Doady!’

‘Cruel, my precious love! As if I would--or could--be cruel to you, for
the world!’

‘Then don’t find fault with me,’ said Dora, making a rosebud of her
mouth; ‘and I’ll be good.’

I was charmed by her presently asking me, of her own accord, to give
her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to show her how to keep
accounts as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume with me on
my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less dry
and more inviting); and as we strolled about the Common, I showed her an
old housekeeping-book of my aunt’s, and gave her a set of tablets, and
a pretty little pencil-case and box of leads, to practise housekeeping
with.

But the cookery-book made Dora’s head ache, and the figures made her
cry. They wouldn’t add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew
little nosegays and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.

Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in domestic matters, as we
walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, for example, when we
passed a butcher’s shop, I would say:

‘Now suppose, my pet, that we were married, and you were going to buy a
shoulder of mutton for dinner, would you know how to buy it?’

My pretty little Dora’s face would fall, and she would make her mouth
into a bud again, as if she would very much prefer to shut mine with a
kiss.

‘Would you know how to buy it, my darling?’ I would repeat, perhaps, if
I were very inflexible.

Dora would think a little, and then reply, perhaps, with great triumph:

‘Why, the butcher would know how to sell it, and what need I know? Oh,
you silly boy!’

So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery-book, what she
would do, if we were married, and I were to say I should like a nice
Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the servant to make it; and
then clapped her little hands together across my arm, and laughed in
such a charming manner that she was more delightful than ever.

Consequently, the principal use to which the cookery-book was devoted,
was being put down in the corner for Jip to stand upon. But Dora was so
pleased, when she had trained him to stand upon it without offering to
come off, and at the same time to hold the pencil-case in his mouth,
that I was very glad I had bought it.

And we fell back on the guitar-case, and the flower-painting, and the
songs about never leaving off dancing, Ta ra la! and were as happy as
the week was long. I occasionally wished I could venture to hint to Miss
Lavinia, that she treated the darling of my heart a little too much like
a plaything; and I sometimes awoke, as it were, wondering to find that
I had fallen into the general fault, and treated her like a plaything
too--but not often.



CHAPTER 42. MISCHIEF

I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this manuscript
is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at that tremendous
short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in my sense of
responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add, to what I have
already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a
patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me,
and which I know to be the strong part of my character, if it have any
strength at all, that there, on looking back, I find the source of my
success. I have been very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have
worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well; but I never could
have done what I have done, without the habits of punctuality, order,
and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one
object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon
its heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows I write this, in no spirit
of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do mine,
in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been a good man
indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents
neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted
feelings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating him. I
do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. My
meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have
tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself
to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in
small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed
it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from
the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and
hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on this
earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the
two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that
ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no
substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and sincere earnestness. Never
to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my whole self; and
never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was; I find, now,
to have been my golden rules.

How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept, I owe to Agnes,
I will not repeat here. My narrative proceeds to Agnes, with a thankful
love.

She came on a visit of a fortnight to the Doctor’s. Mr. Wickfield was
the Doctor’s old friend, and the Doctor wished to talk with him, and
do him good. It had been matter of conversation with Agnes when she was
last in town, and this visit was the result. She and her father came
together. I was not much surprised to hear from her that she had engaged
to find a lodging in the neighbourhood for Mrs. Heep, whose rheumatic
complaint required change of air, and who would be charmed to have it in
such company. Neither was I surprised when, on the very next day, Uriah,
like a dutiful son, brought his worthy mother to take possession.

‘You see, Master Copperfield,’ said he, as he forced himself upon my
company for a turn in the Doctor’s garden, ‘where a person loves, a
person is a little jealous--leastways, anxious to keep an eye on the
beloved one.’

‘Of whom are you jealous, now?’ said I.

‘Thanks to you, Master Copperfield,’ he returned, ‘of no one in
particular just at present--no male person, at least.’

‘Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person?’

He gave me a sidelong glance out of his sinister red eyes, and laughed.

‘Really, Master Copperfield,’ he said, ‘--I should say Mister, but I
know you’ll excuse the abit I’ve got into--you’re so insinuating, that
you draw me like a corkscrew! Well, I don’t mind telling you,’ putting
his fish-like hand on mine, ‘I’m not a lady’s man in general, sir, and I
never was, with Mrs. Strong.’

His eyes looked green now, as they watched mine with a rascally cunning.

‘What do you mean?’ said I.

‘Why, though I am a lawyer, Master Copperfield,’ he replied, with a dry
grin, ‘I mean, just at present, what I say.’

‘And what do you mean by your look?’ I retorted, quietly.

‘By my look? Dear me, Copperfield, that’s sharp practice! What do I mean
by my look?’

‘Yes,’ said I. ‘By your look.’

He seemed very much amused, and laughed as heartily as it was in his
nature to laugh. After some scraping of his chin with his hand, he went
on to say, with his eyes cast downward--still scraping, very slowly:

‘When I was but an umble clerk, she always looked down upon me. She was
for ever having my Agnes backwards and forwards at her ouse, and she was
for ever being a friend to you, Master Copperfield; but I was too far
beneath her, myself, to be noticed.’

‘Well?’ said I; ‘suppose you were!’

‘--And beneath him too,’ pursued Uriah, very distinctly, and in a
meditative tone of voice, as he continued to scrape his chin.

‘Don’t you know the Doctor better,’ said I, ‘than to suppose him
conscious of your existence, when you were not before him?’

He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again, and he made
his face very lantern-jawed, for the greater convenience of scraping, as
he answered:

‘Oh dear, I am not referring to the Doctor! Oh no, poor man! I mean Mr.
Maldon!’

My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts and apprehensions on
that subject, all the Doctor’s happiness and peace, all the mingled
possibilities of innocence and compromise, that I could not unravel, I
saw, in a moment, at the mercy of this fellow’s twisting.

‘He never could come into the office, without ordering and shoving me
about,’ said Uriah. ‘One of your fine gentlemen he was! I was very meek
and umble--and I am. But I didn’t like that sort of thing--and I don’t!’

He left off scraping his chin, and sucked in his cheeks until they
seemed to meet inside; keeping his sidelong glance upon me all the
while.

‘She is one of your lovely women, she is,’ he pursued, when he had
slowly restored his face to its natural form; ‘and ready to be no friend
to such as me, I know. She’s just the person as would put my Agnes up
to higher sort of game. Now, I ain’t one of your lady’s men, Master
Copperfield; but I’ve had eyes in my ed, a pretty long time back. We
umble ones have got eyes, mostly speaking--and we look out of ‘em.’

I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquieted, but, I saw in
his face, with poor success.

‘Now, I’m not a-going to let myself be run down, Copperfield,’ he
continued, raising that part of his countenance, where his red eyebrows
would have been if he had had any, with malignant triumph, ‘and I shall
do what I can to put a stop to this friendship. I don’t approve of it.
I don’t mind acknowledging to you that I’ve got rather a grudging
disposition, and want to keep off all intruders. I ain’t a-going, if I
know it, to run the risk of being plotted against.’

‘You are always plotting, and delude yourself into the belief that
everybody else is doing the like, I think,’ said I.

‘Perhaps so, Master Copperfield,’ he replied. ‘But I’ve got a motive, as
my fellow-partner used to say; and I go at it tooth and nail. I mustn’t
be put upon, as a numble person, too much. I can’t allow people in my
way. Really they must come out of the cart, Master Copperfield!’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said I.

‘Don’t you, though?’ he returned, with one of his jerks. ‘I’m astonished
at that, Master Copperfield, you being usually so quick! I’ll try to be
plainer, another time.---Is that Mr. Maldon a-norseback, ringing at the
gate, sir?’

‘It looks like him,’ I replied, as carelessly as I could.

Uriah stopped short, put his hands between his great knobs of knees, and
doubled himself up with laughter. With perfectly silent laughter. Not
a sound escaped from him. I was so repelled by his odious behaviour,
particularly by this concluding instance, that I turned away without any
ceremony; and left him doubled up in the middle of the garden, like a
scarecrow in want of support.

It was not on that evening; but, as I well remember, on the next evening
but one, which was a Sunday; that I took Agnes to see Dora. I had
arranged the visit, beforehand, with Miss Lavinia; and Agnes was
expected to tea.

I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear little
betrothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All the way to
Putney, Agnes being inside the stage-coach, and I outside, I pictured
Dora to myself in every one of the pretty looks I knew so well; now
making up my mind that I should like her to look exactly as she looked
at such a time, and then doubting whether I should not prefer her
looking as she looked at such another time; and almost worrying myself
into a fever about it.

I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in any case; but
it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. She was not in the
drawing-room when I presented Agnes to her little aunts, but was shyly
keeping out of the way. I knew where to look for her, now; and sure
enough I found her stopping her ears again, behind the same dull old
door.

At first she wouldn’t come at all; and then she pleaded for five minutes
by my watch. When at length she put her arm through mine, to be taken
to the drawing-room, her charming little face was flushed, and had never
been so pretty. But, when we went into the room, and it turned pale, she
was ten thousand times prettier yet.

Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew Agnes was
‘too clever’. But when she saw her looking at once so cheerful and so
earnest, and so thoughtful, and so good, she gave a faint little cry of
pleased surprise, and just put her affectionate arms round Agnes’s neck,
and laid her innocent cheek against her face.

I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I saw those two sit
down together, side by side. As when I saw my little darling looking up
so naturally to those cordial eyes. As when I saw the tender, beautiful
regard which Agnes cast upon her.

Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partook, in their way, of my joy. It was
the pleasantest tea-table in the world. Miss Clarissa presided. I cut
and handed the sweet seed-cake--the little sisters had a bird-like
fondness for picking up seeds and pecking at sugar; Miss Lavinia looked
on with benignant patronage, as if our happy love were all her work; and
we were perfectly contented with ourselves and one another.

The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Her quiet
interest in everything that interested Dora; her manner of making
acquaintance with Jip (who responded instantly); her pleasant way, when
Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat by me; her modest grace
and ease, eliciting a crowd of blushing little marks of confidence from
Dora; seemed to make our circle quite complete.

‘I am so glad,’ said Dora, after tea, ‘that you like me. I didn’t think
you would; and I want, more than ever, to be liked, now Julia Mills is
gone.’

I have omitted to mention it, by the by. Miss Mills had sailed, and Dora
and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend to see her;
and we had had preserved ginger, and guava, and other delicacies of that
sort for lunch; and we had left Miss Mills weeping on a camp-stool on
the quarter-deck, with a large new diary under her arm, in which the
original reflections awakened by the contemplation of Ocean were to be
recorded under lock and key.

Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromising
character; but Dora corrected that directly.

‘Oh no!’ she said, shaking her curls at me; ‘it was all praise. He
thinks so much of your opinion, that I was quite afraid of it.’

‘My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some people whom he
knows,’ said Agnes, with a smile; ‘it is not worth their having.’

‘But please let me have it,’ said Dora, in her coaxing way, ‘if you
can!’

We made merry about Dora’s wanting to be liked, and Dora said I was a
goose, and she didn’t like me at any rate, and the short evening flew
away on gossamer-wings. The time was at hand when the coach was to call
for us. I was standing alone before the fire, when Dora came stealing
softly in, to give me that usual precious little kiss before I went.

‘Don’t you think, if I had had her for a friend a long time ago, Doady,’
said Dora, her bright eyes shining very brightly, and her little right
hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of my coat, ‘I might
have been more clever perhaps?’

‘My love!’ said I, ‘what nonsense!’

‘Do you think it is nonsense?’ returned Dora, without looking at me.
‘Are you sure it is?’

‘Of course I am!’ ‘I have forgotten,’ said Dora, still turning the
button round and round, ‘what relation Agnes is to you, you dear bad
boy.’

‘No blood-relation,’ I replied; ‘but we were brought up together, like
brother and sister.’

‘I wonder why you ever fell in love with me?’ said Dora, beginning on
another button of my coat.

‘Perhaps because I couldn’t see you, and not love you, Dora!’

‘Suppose you had never seen me at all,’ said Dora, going to another
button.

‘Suppose we had never been born!’ said I, gaily.

I wondered what she was thinking about, as I glanced in admiring silence
at the little soft hand travelling up the row of buttons on my coat, and
at the clustering hair that lay against my breast, and at the lashes of
her downcast eyes, slightly rising as they followed her idle fingers. At
length her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to
give me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious little kiss--once,
twice, three times--and went out of the room.

They all came back together within five minutes afterwards, and Dora’s
unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone then. She was laughingly resolved
to put Jip through the whole of his performances, before the coach came.
They took some time (not so much on account of their variety, as Jip’s
reluctance), and were still unfinished when it was heard at the door.
There was a hurried but affectionate parting between Agnes and herself;
and Dora was to write to Agnes (who was not to mind her letters being
foolish, she said), and Agnes was to write to Dora; and they had a
second parting at the coach door, and a third when Dora, in spite of
the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would come running out once more to
remind Agnes at the coach window about writing, and to shake her curls
at me on the box.

The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where we were
to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I was impatient for the short
walk in the interval, that Agnes might praise Dora to me. Ah! what
praise it was! How lovingly and fervently did it commend the pretty
creature I had won, with all her artless graces best displayed, to my
most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind me, yet with no pretence of
doing so, of the trust in which I held the orphan child!

Never, never, had I loved Dora so deeply and truly, as I loved her that
night. When we had again alighted, and were walking in the starlight
along the quiet road that led to the Doctor’s house, I told Agnes it was
her doing.

‘When you were sitting by her,’ said I, ‘you seemed to be no less her
guardian angel than mine; and you seem so now, Agnes.’

‘A poor angel,’ she returned, ‘but faithful.’

The clear tone of her voice, going straight to my heart, made it natural
to me to say:

‘The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no one else that
ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed today, that I have
begun to hope you are happier at home?’

‘I am happier in myself,’ she said; ‘I am quite cheerful and
light-hearted.’

I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought it was the
stars that made it seem so noble.

‘There has been no change at home,’ said Agnes, after a few moments.

‘No fresh reference,’ said I, ‘to--I wouldn’t distress you, Agnes, but I
cannot help asking--to what we spoke of, when we parted last?’

‘No, none,’ she answered.

‘I have thought so much about it.’

‘You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love
and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,’ she added,
after a moment; ‘the step you dread my taking, I shall never take.’

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of cool
reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurance
from her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.

‘And when this visit is over,’ said I,--‘for we may not be alone another
time,--how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before you come to
London again?’

‘Probably a long time,’ she replied; ‘I think it will be best--for
papa’s sake--to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often, for
some time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of Dora’s, and we
shall frequently hear of one another that way.’

We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor’s cottage. It was
growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs. Strong’s chamber,
and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night.

‘Do not be troubled,’ she said, giving me her hand, ‘by our misfortunes
and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in your happiness. If
you can ever give me help, rely upon it I will ask you for it. God
bless you always!’ In her beaming smile, and in these last tones of her
cheerful voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her
company. I stood awhile, looking through the porch at the stars, with
a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth. I had
engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was going out at the
gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a light in the Doctor’s
study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my mind, that he had been
working at the Dictionary without my help. With the view of seeing if
this were so, and, in any case, of bidding him good night, if he were
yet sitting among his books, I turned back, and going softly across the
hall, and gently opening the door, looked in.

The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light of the
shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with one of
his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting on the Doctor’s
table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering his face with his
hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning
forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor’s arm.

For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily advanced a
step under that impression, when I met Uriah’s eye, and saw what was the
matter. I would have withdrawn, but the Doctor made a gesture to detain
me, and I remained.

‘At any rate,’ observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungainly person, ‘we
may keep the door shut. We needn’t make it known to ALL the town.’

Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I had left open,
and carefully closed it. He then came back, and took up his former
position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal in his voice
and manner, more intolerable--at least to me--than any demeanour he
could have assumed.

‘I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,’ said Uriah, ‘to
point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talked about.
You didn’t exactly understand me, though?’

I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my good old
master, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and
encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had been his
custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift his grey
head.

‘As you didn’t understand me, Master Copperfield,’ resumed Uriah in
the same officious manner, ‘I may take the liberty of umbly mentioning,
being among friends, that I have called Doctor Strong’s attention to the
goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It’s much against the grain with me, I assure
you, Copperfield, to be concerned in anything so unpleasant; but really,
as it is, we’re all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn’t to be. That
was what my meaning was, sir, when you didn’t understand me.’ I wonder
now, when I recall his leer, that I did not collar him, and try to shake
the breath out of his body.

‘I dare say I didn’t make myself very clear,’ he went on, ‘nor you
neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to give such a subject
a wide berth. Hows’ever, at last I have made up my mind to speak plain;
and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that--did you speak, sir?’

This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound might have touched any
heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon Uriah’s.

‘--mentioned to Doctor Strong,’ he proceeded, ‘that anyone may see that
Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable lady as is Doctor Strong’s
wife, are too sweet on one another. Really the time is come (we being at
present all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn’t to be), when Doctor
Strong must be told that this was full as plain to everybody as the sun,
before Mr. Maldon went to India; that Mr. Maldon made excuses to come
back, for nothing else; and that he’s always here, for nothing else.
When you come in, sir, I was just putting it to my fellow-partner,’
towards whom he turned, ‘to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and
honour, whether he’d ever been of this opinion long ago, or not. Come,
Mr. Wickfield, sir! Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or no, sir?
Come, partner!’

‘For God’s sake, my dear Doctor,’ said Mr. Wickfield again laying his
irresolute hand upon the Doctor’s arm, ‘don’t attach too much weight to
any suspicions I may have entertained.’

‘There!’ cried Uriah, shaking his head. ‘What a melancholy confirmation:
ain’t it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your soul, when I was nothing
but a clerk in his office, Copperfield, I’ve seen him twenty times, if
I’ve seen him once, quite in a taking about it--quite put out, you know
(and very proper in him as a father; I’m sure I can’t blame him), to
think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up with what oughtn’t to be.’

‘My dear Strong,’ said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice, ‘my good
friend, I needn’t tell you that it has been my vice to look for some one
master motive in everybody, and to try all actions by one narrow test. I
may have fallen into such doubts as I have had, through this mistake.’

‘You have had doubts, Wickfield,’ said the Doctor, without lifting up
his head. ‘You have had doubts.’

‘Speak up, fellow-partner,’ urged Uriah.

‘I had, at one time, certainly,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I--God forgive
me--I thought YOU had.’

‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pathetic grief.
‘I thought, at one time,’ said Mr. Wickfield, ‘that you wished to send
Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation.’

‘No, no, no!’ returned the Doctor. ‘To give Annie pleasure, by making
some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing else.’

‘So I found,’ said Mr. Wickfield. ‘I couldn’t doubt it, when you told
me so. But I thought--I implore you to remember the narrow construction
which has been my besetting sin--that, in a case where there was so much
disparity in point of years--’

‘That’s the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield!’ observed Uriah,
with fawning and offensive pity.

‘--a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real her
respect for you, might have been influenced in marrying, by worldly
considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings
and circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven’s sake
remember that!’

‘How kind he puts it!’ said Uriah, shaking his head.

‘Always observing her from one point of view,’ said Mr. Wickfield; ‘but
by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to consider
what it was; I am forced to confess now, having no escape-’

‘No! There’s no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ observed Uriah,
‘when it’s got to this.’

‘--that I did,’ said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and distractedly
at his partner, ‘that I did doubt her, and think her wanting in her
duty to you; and that I did sometimes, if I must say all, feel averse
to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards her, as to see what I
saw, or in my diseased theory fancied that I saw. I never mentioned
this to anyone. I never meant it to be known to anyone. And though it
is terrible to you to hear,’ said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, ‘if you
knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel compassion for
me!’

The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out his hand. Mr.
Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with his head bowed down.

‘I am sure,’ said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like a
Conger-eel, ‘that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to everybody.
But since we have got so far, I ought to take the liberty of mentioning
that Copperfield has noticed it too.’

I turned upon him, and asked him how he dared refer to me!

‘Oh! it’s very kind of you, Copperfield,’ returned Uriah, undulating all
over, ‘and we all know what an amiable character yours is; but you know
that the moment I spoke to you the other night, you knew what I meant.
You know you knew what I meant, Copperfield. Don’t deny it! You deny it
with the best intentions; but don’t do it, Copperfield.’

I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for a moment,
and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings and remembrances
was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked. It was of no use
raging. I could not undo that. Say what I would, I could not unsay it.

We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor rose and walked
twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to where his
chair stood; and, leaning on the back of it, and occasionally putting
his handkerchief to his eyes, with a simple honesty that did him more
honour, to my thinking, than any disguise he could have effected, said:

‘I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to blame.
I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart, to trials and aspersions--I
call them aspersions, even to have been conceived in anybody’s inmost
mind--of which she never, but for me, could have been the object.’

Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express sympathy.

‘Of which my Annie,’ said the Doctor, ‘never, but for me, could have
been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know; I do not feel,
tonight, that I have much to live for. But my life--my Life--upon the
truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the subject of this
conversation!’

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the realization of
the handsomest and most romantic figure ever imagined by painter, could
have said this, with a more impressive and affecting dignity than the
plain old Doctor did.

‘But I am not prepared,’ he went on, ‘to deny--perhaps I may have been,
without knowing it, in some degree prepared to admit--that I may have
unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage. I am a man
quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe that the
observation of several people, of different ages and positions, all too
plainly tending in one direction (and that so natural), is better than
mine.’

I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignant manner
towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness he manifested
in every reference to her on this occasion, and the almost reverential
manner in which he put away from him the lightest doubt of her
integrity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond description.

‘I married that lady,’ said the Doctor, ‘when she was extremely young. I
took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed. So far as it
was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. I knew her father
well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could, for the love of
all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear
I did, in taking advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and
her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!’

He walked across the room, and came back to the same place; holding
the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his subdued voice, in its
earnestness.

‘I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers and
vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we were in
years, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me. I did not shut
out of my consideration the time when I should leave her free, and still
young and still beautiful, but with her judgement more matured--no,
gentlemen--upon my truth!’

His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidelity and
generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other grace could
have imparted to it.

‘My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I have
had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her great
injustice.’

His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words,
stopped for a few moments; then he went on:

‘Once awakened from my dream--I have been a poor dreamer, in one way or
other, all my life--I see how natural it is that she should have some
regretful feeling towards her old companion and her equal. That she does
regard him with some innocent regret, with some blameless thoughts of
what might have been, but for me, is, I fear, too true. Much that I have
seen, but not noted, has come back upon me with new meaning, during
this last trying hour. But, beyond this, gentlemen, the dear lady’s name
never must be coupled with a word, a breath, of doubt.’

For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a little
while he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded as before:

‘It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness I have
occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is she who should reproach; not
I. To save her from misconstruction, cruel misconstruction, that even my
friends have not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. The more retired
we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the time comes--may
it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure!--when my death shall
release her from constraint, I shall close my eyes upon her honoured
face, with unbounded confidence and love; and leave her, with no sorrow
then, to happier and brighter days.’

I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and goodness,
so adorned by, and so adorning, the perfect simplicity of his manner,
brought into my eyes. He had moved to the door, when he added:

‘Gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you will respect it.
What we have said tonight is never to be said more. Wickfield, give me
an old friend’s arm upstairs!’

Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a word they went
slowly out of the room together, Uriah looking after them.

‘Well, Master Copperfield!’ said Uriah, meekly turning to me. ‘The thing
hasn’t took quite the turn that might have been expected, for the old
Scholar--what an excellent man!--is as blind as a brickbat; but this
family’s out of the cart, I think!’

I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as I never
was before, and never have been since.

‘You villain,’ said I, ‘what do you mean by entrapping me into your
schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal, as if we
had been in discussion together?’

As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy
exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I mean that he
forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable, and had
set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I couldn’t bear
it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck
it with my open hand with that force that my fingers tingled as if I had
burnt them.

He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connexion, looking at
each other. We stood so, a long time; long enough for me to see the
white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek, and
leave it a deeper red.

‘Copperfield,’ he said at length, in a breathless voice, ‘have you taken
leave of your senses?’

‘I have taken leave of you,’ said I, wresting my hand away. ‘You dog,
I’ll know no more of you.’

‘Won’t you?’ said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put his
hand there. ‘Perhaps you won’t be able to help it. Isn’t this ungrateful
of you, now?’

‘I have shown you often enough,’ said I, ‘that I despise you. I have
shown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should I dread your doing
your worst to all about you? What else do you ever do?’

He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that had
hitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather think
that neither the blow, nor the allusion, would have escaped me, but for
the assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is no matter.

There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemed to
take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.

‘Copperfield,’ he said, removing his hand from his cheek, ‘you have
always gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at Mr.
Wickfield’s.’

‘You may think what you like,’ said I, still in a towering rage. ‘If it
is not true, so much the worthier you.’

‘And yet I always liked you, Copperfield!’ he rejoined.

I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going out to
bed, when he came between me and the door.

‘Copperfield,’ he said, ‘there must be two parties to a quarrel. I won’t
be one.’

‘You may go to the devil!’ said I.

‘Don’t say that!’ he replied. ‘I know you’ll be sorry afterwards. How
can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a bad spirit?
But I forgive you.’

‘You forgive me!’ I repeated disdainfully.

‘I do, and you can’t help yourself,’ replied Uriah. ‘To think of your
going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you! But there
can’t be a quarrel without two parties, and I won’t be one. I will be
a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know what you’ve got to
expect.’

The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was
very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might not be
disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper; though my
passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I should expect from
him what I always had expected, and had never yet been disappointed in,
I opened the door upon him, as if he had been a great walnut put there
to be cracked, and went out of the house. But he slept out of the house
too, at his mother’s lodging; and before I had gone many hundred yards,
came up with me.

‘You know, Copperfield,’ he said, in my ear (I did not turn my head),
‘you’re in quite a wrong position’; which I felt to be true, and that
made me chafe the more; ‘you can’t make this a brave thing, and you
can’t help being forgiven. I don’t intend to mention it to mother, nor
to any living soul. I’m determined to forgive you. But I do wonder
that you should lift your hand against a person that you knew to be so
umble!’

I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knew myself. If
he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would have been a relief
and a justification; but he had put me on a slow fire, on which I lay
tormented half the night.

In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell was ringing,
and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as if
nothing had happened, and I could do no less than reply. I had struck
him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose. At all events
his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief, which, with his hat
perched on the top of it, was far from improving his appearance. I heard
that he went to a dentist’s in London on the Monday morning, and had a
tooth out. I hope it was a double one.

The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remained alone, for
a considerable part of every day, during the remainder of the visit.
Agnes and her father had been gone a week, before we resumed our usual
work. On the day preceding its resumption, the Doctor gave me with his
own hands a folded note not sealed. It was addressed to myself; and laid
an injunction on me, in a few affectionate words, never to refer to the
subject of that evening. I had confided it to my aunt, but to no
one else. It was not a subject I could discuss with Agnes, and Agnes
certainly had not the least suspicion of what had passed.

Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks elapsed
before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly, like a cloud
when there is no wind. At first, she seemed to wonder at the gentle
compassion with which the Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish that she
should have her mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony of her
life. Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I would see
her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face. Afterwards, I
sometimes observed her rise, with her eyes full of tears, and go out
of the room. Gradually, an unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty, and
deepened every day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage
then; but she talked and talked, and saw nothing.

As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the Doctor’s house,
the Doctor became older in appearance, and more grave; but the sweetness
of his temper, the placid kindness of his manner, and his benevolent
solicitude for her, if they were capable of any increase, were
increased. I saw him once, early on the morning of her birthday, when
she came to sit in the window while we were at work (which she had
always done, but now began to do with a timid and uncertain air that I
thought very touching), take her forehead between his hands, kiss it,
and go hurriedly away, too much moved to remain. I saw her stand where
he had left her, like a statue; and then bend down her head, and clasp
her hands, and weep, I cannot say how sorrowfully.

Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak even to me,
in intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a word. The
Doctor always had some new project for her participating in amusements
away from home, with her mother; and Mrs. Markleham, who was very fond
of amusements, and very easily dissatisfied with anything else, entered
into them with great good-will, and was loud in her commendations. But
Annie, in a spiritless unhappy way, only went whither she was led, and
seemed to have no care for anything.

I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who must have walked,
at various times, a hundred miles in her uncertainty. What was strangest
of all was, that the only real relief which seemed to make its way into
the secret region of this domestic unhappiness, made its way there in
the person of Mr. Dick.

What his thoughts were on the subject, or what his observation was, I am
as unable to explain, as I dare say he would have been to assist me in
the task. But, as I have recorded in the narrative of my school days,
his veneration for the Doctor was unbounded; and there is a subtlety of
perception in real attachment, even when it is borne towards man by one
of the lower animals, which leaves the highest intellect behind. To this
mind of the heart, if I may call it so, in Mr. Dick, some bright ray of
the truth shot straight.

He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his spare hours,
of walking up and down the garden with the Doctor; as he had been
accustomed to pace up and down The Doctor’s Walk at Canterbury. But
matters were no sooner in this state, than he devoted all his spare time
(and got up earlier to make it more) to these perambulations. If he had
never been so happy as when the Doctor read that marvellous performance,
the Dictionary, to him; he was now quite miserable unless the Doctor
pulled it out of his pocket, and began. When the Doctor and I were
engaged, he now fell into the custom of walking up and down with Mrs.
Strong, and helping her to trim her favourite flowers, or weed the
beds. I dare say he rarely spoke a dozen words in an hour: but his quiet
interest, and his wistful face, found immediate response in both their
breasts; each knew that the other liked him, and that he loved both; and
he became what no one else could be--a link between them.

When I think of him, with his impenetrably wise face, walking up and
down with the Doctor, delighted to be battered by the hard words in the
Dictionary; when I think of him carrying huge watering-pots after Annie;
kneeling down, in very paws of gloves, at patient microscopic work among
the little leaves; expressing as no philosopher could have expressed,
in everything he did, a delicate desire to be her friend; showering
sympathy, trustfulness, and affection, out of every hole in the
watering-pot; when I think of him never wandering in that better mind
of his to which unhappiness addressed itself, never bringing the
unfortunate King Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grateful
service, never diverted from his knowledge that there was something
wrong, or from his wish to set it right--I really feel almost ashamed
of having known that he was not quite in his wits, taking account of the
utmost I have done with mine.

‘Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is!’ my aunt would proudly
remark, when we conversed about it. ‘Dick will distinguish himself yet!’

I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. While the
visit at the Doctor’s was still in progress, I observed that the postman
brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah Heep, who remained
at Highgate until the rest went back, it being a leisure time; and that
these were always directed in a business-like manner by Mr. Micawber,
who now assumed a round legal hand. I was glad to infer, from these
slight premises, that Mr. Micawber was doing well; and consequently was
much surprised to receive, about this time, the following letter from
his amiable wife.



                         ‘CANTERBURY, Monday Evening.

‘You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to receive
this communication. Still more so, by its contents. Still more so, by
the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg to impose. But my
feelings as a wife and mother require relief; and as I do not wish to
consult my family (already obnoxious to the feelings of Mr. Micawber),
I know no one of whom I can better ask advice than my friend and former
lodger.

‘You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that between myself and Mr.
Micawber (whom I will never desert), there has always been preserved a
spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have occasionally given
a bill without consulting me, or he may have misled me as to the period
when that obligation would become due. This has actually happened.
But, in general, Mr. Micawber has had no secrets from the bosom of
affection--I allude to his wife--and has invariably, on our retirement
to rest, recalled the events of the day.

‘You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield, what the
poignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform you that Mr. Micawber is
entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His life is a mystery to
the partner of his joys and sorrows--I again allude to his wife--and if
I should assure you that beyond knowing that it is passed from morning
to night at the office, I now know less of it than I do of the man in
the south, connected with whose mouth the thoughtless children repeat
an idle tale respecting cold plum porridge, I should adopt a popular
fallacy to express an actual fact.

‘But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe. He is
estranged from our eldest son and daughter, he has no pride in his
twins, he looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffending stranger
who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary means of meeting
our expenses, kept down to the utmost farthing, are obtained from him
with great difficulty, and even under fearful threats that he will
Settle himself (the exact expression); and he inexorably refuses to give
any explanation whatever of this distracting policy.

‘This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you will advise me,
knowing my feeble powers such as they are, how you think it will be best
to exert them in a dilemma so unwonted, you will add another friendly
obligation to the many you have already rendered me. With loves from the
children, and a smile from the happily-unconscious stranger, I remain,
dear Mr. Copperfield,

                              Your afflicted,

                                   ‘EMMA MICAWBER.’


I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber’s experience
any other recommendation, than that she should try to reclaim Mr.
Micawber by patience and kindness (as I knew she would in any case); but
the letter set me thinking about him very much.



CHAPTER 43. ANOTHER RETROSPECT


Once again, let me pause upon a memorable period of my life. Let me
stand aside, to see the phantoms of those days go by me, accompanying
the shadow of myself, in dim procession.

Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than a summer
day and a winter evening. Now, the Common where I walk with Dora is all
in bloom, a field of bright gold; and now the unseen heather lies in
mounds and bunches underneath a covering of snow. In a breath, the river
that flows through our Sunday walks is sparkling in the summer sun, is
ruffled by the winter wind, or thickened with drifting heaps of ice.
Faster than ever river ran towards the sea, it flashes, darkens, and
rolls away.

Not a thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-like ladies.
The clock ticks over the fireplace, the weather-glass hangs in the hall.
Neither clock nor weather-glass is ever right; but we believe in both,
devoutly.

I have come legally to man’s estate. I have attained the dignity of
twenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may be thrust upon one.
Let me think what I have achieved.

I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a respectable
income by it. I am in high repute for my accomplishment in all
pertaining to the art, and am joined with eleven others in reporting
the debates in Parliament for a Morning Newspaper. Night after night, I
record predictions that never come to pass, professions that are never
fulfilled, explanations that are only meant to mystify. I wallow in
words. Britannia, that unfortunate female, is always before me, like a
trussed fowl: skewered through and through with office-pens, and bound
hand and foot with red tape. I am sufficiently behind the scenes to know
the worth of political life. I am quite an Infidel about it, and shall
never be converted.

My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuit, but it
is not in Traddles’s way. He is perfectly good-humoured respecting his
failure, and reminds me that he always did consider himself slow. He has
occasional employment on the same newspaper, in getting up the facts of
dry subjects, to be written about and embellished by more fertile minds.
He is called to the bar; and with admirable industry and self-denial
has scraped another hundred pounds together, to fee a Conveyancer whose
chambers he attends. A great deal of very hot port wine was consumed at
his call; and, considering the figure, I should think the Inner Temple
must have made a profit by it.

I have come out in another way. I have taken with fear and trembling
to authorship. I wrote a little something, in secret, and sent it to a
magazine, and it was published in the magazine. Since then, I have taken
heart to write a good many trifling pieces. Now, I am regularly paid for
them. Altogether, I am well off, when I tell my income on the fingers
of my left hand, I pass the third finger and take in the fourth to the
middle joint.

We have removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleasant little cottage
very near the one I looked at, when my enthusiasm first came on. My
aunt, however (who has sold the house at Dover, to good advantage), is
not going to remain here, but intends removing herself to a still more
tiny cottage close at hand. What does this portend? My marriage? Yes!

Yes! I am going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa
have given their consent; and if ever canary birds were in a flutter,
they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged with the superintendence of my
darling’s wardrobe, is constantly cutting out brown-paper cuirasses, and
differing in opinion from a highly respectable young man, with a long
bundle, and a yard measure under his arm. A dressmaker, always stabbed
in the breast with a needle and thread, boards and lodges in the house;
and seems to me, eating, drinking, or sleeping, never to take her
thimble off. They make a lay-figure of my dear. They are always sending
for her to come and try something on. We can’t be happy together for
five minutes in the evening, but some intrusive female knocks at the
door, and says, ‘Oh, if you please, Miss Dora, would you step upstairs!’

Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find out articles of
furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would be better for them to buy
the goods at once, without this ceremony of inspection; for, when we go
to see a kitchen fender and meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinese house for
Jip, with little bells on the top, and prefers that. And it takes a
long time to accustom Jip to his new residence, after we have bought it;
whenever he goes in or out, he makes all the little bells ring, and is
horribly frightened.

Peggotty comes up to make herself useful, and falls to work immediately.
Her department appears to be, to clean everything over and over again.
She rubs everything that can be rubbed, until it shines, like her own
honest forehead, with perpetual friction. And now it is, that I begin to
see her solitary brother passing through the dark streets at night, and
looking, as he goes, among the wandering faces. I never speak to him at
such an hour. I know too well, as his grave figure passes onward, what
he seeks, and what he dreads.

Why does Traddles look so important when he calls upon me this afternoon
in the Commons--where I still occasionally attend, for form’s sake, when
I have time? The realization of my boyish day-dreams is at hand. I am
going to take out the licence.

It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplates it,
as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half in awe. There are the
names, in the sweet old visionary connexion, David Copperfield and Dora
Spenlow; and there, in the corner, is that Parental Institution,
the Stamp Office, which is so benignantly interested in the various
transactions of human life, looking down upon our Union; and there is
the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a blessing on us in print, and
doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected.

Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried dream. I
can’t believe that it is going to be; and yet I can’t believe but that
everyone I pass in the street, must have some kind of perception, that I
am to be married the day after tomorrow. The Surrogate knows me, when
I go down to be sworn; and disposes of me easily, as if there were a
Masonic understanding between us. Traddles is not at all wanted, but is
in attendance as my general backer.

‘I hope the next time you come here, my dear fellow,’ I say to Traddles,
‘it will be on the same errand for yourself. And I hope it will be
soon.’

‘Thank you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,’ he replies. ‘I
hope so too. It’s a satisfaction to know that she’ll wait for me any
length of time, and that she really is the dearest girl--’

‘When are you to meet her at the coach?’ I ask.

‘At seven,’ says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver watch--the
very watch he once took a wheel out of, at school, to make a water-mill.
‘That is about Miss Wickfield’s time, is it not?’

‘A little earlier. Her time is half past eight.’ ‘I assure you, my dear
boy,’ says Traddles, ‘I am almost as pleased as if I were going to
be married myself, to think that this event is coming to such a happy
termination. And really the great friendship and consideration of
personally associating Sophy with the joyful occasion, and inviting
her to be a bridesmaid in conjunction with Miss Wickfield, demands my
warmest thanks. I am extremely sensible of it.’

I hear him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and walk, and dine,
and so on; but I don’t believe it. Nothing is real.

Sophy arrives at the house of Dora’s aunts, in due course. She has the
most agreeable of faces,--not absolutely beautiful, but extraordinarily
pleasant,--and is one of the most genial, unaffected, frank, engaging
creatures I have ever seen. Traddles presents her to us with great
pride; and rubs his hands for ten minutes by the clock, with every
individual hair upon his head standing on tiptoe, when I congratulate
him in a corner on his choice.

I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and her cheerful and
beautiful face is among us for the second time. Agnes has a great liking
for Traddles, and it is capital to see them meet, and to observe the
glory of Traddles as he commends the dearest girl in the world to her
acquaintance.

Still I don’t believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are
supremely happy; but I don’t believe it yet. I can’t collect myself. I
can’t check off my happiness as it takes place. I feel in a misty and
unsettled kind of state; as if I had got up very early in the morning a
week or two ago, and had never been to bed since. I can’t make out when
yesterday was. I seem to have been carrying the licence about, in my
pocket, many months.

Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house--our
house--Dora’s and mine--I am quite unable to regard myself as its
master. I seem to be there, by permission of somebody else. I half
expect the real master to come home presently, and say he is glad to see
me. Such a beautiful little house as it is, with everything so bright
and new; with the flowers on the carpets looking as if freshly gathered,
and the green leaves on the paper as if they had just come out; with the
spotless muslin curtains, and the blushing rose-coloured furniture, and
Dora’s garden hat with the blue ribbon--do I remember, now, how I loved
her in such another hat when I first knew her!--already hanging on its
little peg; the guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a corner;
and everybody tumbling over Jip’s pagoda, which is much too big for the
establishment. Another happy evening, quite as unreal as all the rest
of it, and I steal into the usual room before going away. Dora is not
there. I suppose they have not done trying on yet. Miss Lavinia peeps
in, and tells me mysteriously that she will not be long. She is rather
long, notwithstanding; but by and by I hear a rustling at the door, and
someone taps.

I say, ‘Come in!’ but someone taps again.

I go to the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair of bright
eyes, and a blushing face; they are Dora’s eyes and face, and Miss
Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow’s dress, bonnet and all, for me to
see. I take my little wife to my heart; and Miss Lavinia gives a little
scream because I tumble the bonnet, and Dora laughs and cries at once,
because I am so pleased; and I believe it less than ever.

‘Do you think it pretty, Doady?’ says Dora.

Pretty! I should rather think I did.

‘And are you sure you like me very much?’ says Dora.

The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that Miss Lavinia
gives another little scream, and begs me to understand that Dora is only
to be looked at, and on no account to be touched. So Dora stands in a
delightful state of confusion for a minute or two, to be admired; and
then takes off her bonnet--looking so natural without it!--and runs away
with it in her hand; and comes dancing down again in her own familiar
dress, and asks Jip if I have got a beautiful little wife, and whether
he’ll forgive her for being married, and kneels down to make him stand
upon the cookery-book, for the last time in her single life.

I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that I have hard by;
and get up very early in the morning, to ride to the Highgate road and
fetch my aunt.

I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in
lavender-coloured silk, and has a white bonnet on, and is amazing. Janet
has dressed her, and is there to look at me. Peggotty is ready to go to
church, intending to behold the ceremony from the gallery. Mr. Dick,
who is to give my darling to me at the altar, has had his hair curled.
Traddles, whom I have taken up by appointment at the turnpike, presents
a dazzling combination of cream colour and light blue; and both he and
Mr. Dick have a general effect about them of being all gloves.

No doubt I see this, because I know it is so; but I am astray, and seem
to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still, as we drive
along in an open carriage, this fairy marriage is real enough to fill
me with a sort of wondering pity for the unfortunate people who have
no part in it, but are sweeping out the shops, and going to their daily
occupations.

My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop a little way
short of the church, to put down Peggotty, whom we have brought on the
box, she gives it a squeeze, and me a kiss.

‘God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. I think of poor
dear Baby this morning.’ ‘So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt.’

‘Tut, child!’ says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing cordiality
to Traddles, who then gives his to Mr. Dick, who then gives his to me,
who then gives mine to Traddles, and then we come to the church door.

The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power loom
in full action, for any sedative effect it has on me. I am too far gone
for that.

The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.

A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arranging us,
like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails; of my wondering, even
then, why pew-openers must always be the most disagreeable females
procurable, and whether there is any religious dread of a disastrous
infection of good-humour which renders it indispensable to set those
vessels of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.

Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and some
other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me, strongly
flavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning in a deep
voice, and our all being very attentive.

Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being the
first to cry, and of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory of
Pidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of Agnes
taking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent herself as
a model of sternness, with tears rolling down her face; of little Dora
trembling very much, and making her responses in faint whispers.

Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora’s trembling less
and less, but always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the service being
got through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking at each other in an
April state of smiles and tears, when it is over; of my young wife being
hysterical in the vestry, and crying for her poor papa, her dear papa.

Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the register all round.
Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to sign it; of
Peggotty’s hugging me in a corner, and telling me she saw my own dear
mother married; of its being over, and our going away.

Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet wife
upon my arm, through a mist of half-seen people, pulpits, monuments,
pews, fonts, organs, and church windows, in which there flutter faint
airs of association with my childish church at home, so long ago.

Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are, and what
a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry and talkative in
the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that when she saw Traddles
(whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked for it, she almost
fainted, having been convinced that he would contrive to lose it, or to
have his pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing gaily; and of Dora being so
fond of Agnes that she will not be separated from her, but still keeps
her hand.

Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty and
substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in any
other dream, without the least perception of their flavour; eating
and drinking, as I may say, nothing but love and marriage, and no more
believing in the viands than in anything else.

Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without having an idea
of what I want to say, beyond such as may be comprehended in the full
conviction that I haven’t said it. Of our being very sociably and simply
happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip’s having wedding cake, and
its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora’s going away
to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining with us; and
our walking in the garden; and my aunt, who has made quite a speech at
breakfast touching Dora’s aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but
a little proud of it too.

Of Dora’s being ready, and of Miss Lavinia’s hovering about her, loth to
lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant occupation.
Of Dora’s making a long series of surprised discoveries that she
has forgotten all sorts of little things; and of everybody’s running
everywhere to fetch them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say
good-bye, looking, with their bright colours and ribbons, like a bed
of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the flowers, and
coming out, laughing and crying both together, to my jealous arms.

Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), and Dora’s
saying no, that she must carry him, or else he’ll think she don’t like
him any more, now she is married, and will break his heart. Of our
going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping and looking back, and saying, ‘If
I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybody, don’t remember it!’ and
bursting into tears.

Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Of her
once more stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes, and giving
Agnes, above all the others, her last kisses and farewells.

We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it at
last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom I love so well!

‘Are you happy now, you foolish boy?’ says Dora, ‘and sure you don’t
repent?’


I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me. They are
gone, and I resume the journey of my story.



CHAPTER 44. OUR HOUSEKEEPING


It was a strange condition of things, the honeymoon being over, and the
bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sitting down in my own
small house with Dora; quite thrown out of employment, as I may say, in
respect of the delicious old occupation of making love.

It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always there. It was
so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out to see her, not to have any
occasion to be tormenting myself about her, not to have to write to her,
not to be scheming and devising opportunities of being alone with her.
Sometimes of an evening, when I looked up from my writing, and saw her
seated opposite, I would lean back in my chair, and think how queer it
was that there we were, alone together as a matter of course--nobody’s
business any more--all the romance of our engagement put away upon a
shelf, to rust--no one to please but one another--one another to please,
for life.

When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it seemed so
strange to me, as I was walking home, to think that Dora was at home! It
was such a wonderful thing, at first, to have her coming softly down to
talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a stupendous thing to know
for certain that she put her hair in papers. It was altogether such an
astonishing event to see her do it!

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping
house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She
kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she must have been
Mrs. Crupp’s daughter in disguise, we had such an awful time of it with
Mary Anne.

Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to us, when we engaged
her, as being feebly expressed in her name. She had a written character,
as large as a proclamation; and, according to this document, could do
everything of a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a great many
things that I never did hear of. She was a woman in the prime of life;
of a severe countenance; and subject (particularly in the arms) to
a sort of perpetual measles or fiery rash. She had a cousin in the
Life-Guards, with such long legs that he looked like the afternoon
shadow of somebody else. His shell-jacket was as much too little for him
as he was too big for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it
need have been, by being so very much out of proportion to it. Besides
which, the walls were not thick, and, whenever he passed the evening at
our house, we always knew of it by hearing one continual growl in the
kitchen.

Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am therefore willing to
believe that she was in a fit when we found her under the boiler; and
that the deficient tea-spoons were attributable to the dustman.

But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our inexperience, and
were unable to help ourselves. We should have been at her mercy, if she
had had any; but she was a remorseless woman, and had none. She was the
cause of our first little quarrel.

‘My dearest life,’ I said one day to Dora, ‘do you think Mary Anne has
any idea of time?’

‘Why, Doady?’ inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, from her drawing.

‘My love, because it’s five, and we were to have dined at four.’

Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she thought it was
too fast.

‘On the contrary, my love,’ said I, referring to my watch, ‘it’s a few
minutes too slow.’

My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and
drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn’t
dine off that, though it was very agreeable.

‘Don’t you think, my dear,’ said I, ‘it would be better for you to
remonstrate with Mary Anne?’

‘Oh no, please! I couldn’t, Doady!’ said Dora.

‘Why not, my love?’ I gently asked.

‘Oh, because I am such a little goose,’ said Dora, ‘and she knows I am!’

I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any
system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.

‘Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy’s forehead!’ said Dora, and still
being on my knee, she traced them with her pencil; putting it to her
rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working at my forehead with a
quaint little mockery of being industrious, that quite delighted me in
spite of myself.

‘There’s a good child,’ said Dora, ‘it makes its face so much prettier
to laugh.’ ‘But, my love,’ said I.

‘No, no! please!’ cried Dora, with a kiss, ‘don’t be a naughty Blue
Beard! Don’t be serious!’

‘My precious wife,’ said I, ‘we must be serious sometimes. Come! Sit
down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let
us talk sensibly. You know, dear’; what a little hand it was to hold,
and what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see! ‘You know, my love, it is
not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one’s dinner. Now, is
it?’

‘N-n-no!’ replied Dora, faintly.

‘My love, how you tremble!’

‘Because I KNOW you’re going to scold me,’ exclaimed Dora, in a piteous
voice.

‘My sweet, I am only going to reason.’

‘Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding!’ exclaimed Dora, in despair.
‘I didn’t marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with such a
poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!’

I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and shook her
curls from side to side, and said, ‘You cruel, cruel boy!’ so many
times, that I really did not exactly know what to do: so I took a few
turns up and down the room in my uncertainty, and came back again.

‘Dora, my darling!’

‘No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married
me, or else you wouldn’t reason with me!’ returned Dora.

I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it
gave me courage to be grave.

‘Now, my own Dora,’ said I, ‘you are very childish, and are talking
nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out
yesterday when dinner was half over; and that, the day before, I was
made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry;
today, I don’t dine at all--and I am afraid to say how long we waited
for breakfast--and then the water didn’t boil. I don’t mean to reproach
you, my dear, but this is not comfortable.’

‘Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!’ cried Dora.

‘Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!’

‘You said, I wasn’t comfortable!’ cried Dora. ‘I said the housekeeping
was not comfortable!’

‘It’s exactly the same thing!’ cried Dora. And she evidently thought so,
for she wept most grievously.

I took another turn across the room, full of love for my pretty wife,
and distracted by self-accusatory inclinations to knock my head against
the door. I sat down again, and said:

‘I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal to learn. I am
only trying to show you, my dear, that you must--you really must’ (I
was resolved not to give this up)--‘accustom yourself to look after Mary
Anne. Likewise to act a little for yourself, and me.’

‘I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches,’ sobbed Dora.
‘When you know that the other day, when you said you would like a little
bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it, to
surprise you.’

‘And it was very kind of you, my own darling,’ said I. ‘I felt it so
much that I wouldn’t on any account have even mentioned that you
bought a Salmon--which was too much for two. Or that it cost one pound
six--which was more than we can afford.’

‘You enjoyed it very much,’ sobbed Dora. ‘And you said I was a Mouse.’

‘And I’ll say so again, my love,’ I returned, ‘a thousand times!’

But I had wounded Dora’s soft little heart, and she was not to be
comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailing, that I felt
as if I had said I don’t know what to hurt her. I was obliged to hurry
away; I was kept out late; and I felt all night such pangs of remorse as
made me miserable. I had the conscience of an assassin, and was haunted
by a vague sense of enormous wickedness.

It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. I found my
aunt, in our house, sitting up for me.

‘Is anything the matter, aunt?’ said I, alarmed.

‘Nothing, Trot,’ she replied. ‘Sit down, sit down. Little Blossom has
been rather out of spirits, and I have been keeping her company. That’s
all.’

I leaned my head upon my hand; and felt more sorry and downcast, as I
sat looking at the fire, than I could have supposed possible so soon
after the fulfilment of my brightest hopes. As I sat thinking, I
happened to meet my aunt’s eyes, which were resting on my face. There
was an anxious expression in them, but it cleared directly.

‘I assure you, aunt,’ said I, ‘I have been quite unhappy myself all
night, to think of Dora’s being so. But I had no other intention than to
speak to her tenderly and lovingly about our home-affairs.’

My aunt nodded encouragement.

‘You must have patience, Trot,’ said she.

‘Of course. Heaven knows I don’t mean to be unreasonable, aunt!’

‘No, no,’ said my aunt. ‘But Little Blossom is a very tender little
blossom, and the wind must be gentle with her.’

I thanked my good aunt, in my heart, for her tenderness towards my wife;
and I was sure that she knew I did.

‘Don’t you think, aunt,’ said I, after some further contemplation of the
fire, ‘that you could advise and counsel Dora a little, for our mutual
advantage, now and then?’

‘Trot,’ returned my aunt, with some emotion, ‘no! Don’t ask me such a
thing.’

Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in surprise.

‘I look back on my life, child,’ said my aunt, ‘and I think of some who
are in their graves, with whom I might have been on kinder terms. If I
judged harshly of other people’s mistakes in marriage, it may have been
because I had bitter reason to judge harshly of my own. Let that pass. I
have been a grumpy, frumpy, wayward sort of a woman, a good many years.
I am still, and I always shall be. But you and I have done one another
some good, Trot,--at all events, you have done me good, my dear; and
division must not come between us, at this time of day.’

‘Division between us!’ cried I.

‘Child, child!’ said my aunt, smoothing her dress, ‘how soon it might
come between us, or how unhappy I might make our Little Blossom, if I
meddled in anything, a prophet couldn’t say. I want our pet to like me,
and be as gay as a butterfly. Remember your own home, in that second
marriage; and never do both me and her the injury you have hinted at!’

I comprehended, at once, that my aunt was right; and I comprehended the
full extent of her generous feeling towards my dear wife.

‘These are early days, Trot,’ she pursued, ‘and Rome was not built in a
day, nor in a year. You have chosen freely for yourself’; a cloud passed
over her face for a moment, I thought; ‘and you have chosen a very
pretty and a very affectionate creature. It will be your duty, and it
will be your pleasure too--of course I know that; I am not delivering
a lecture--to estimate her (as you chose her) by the qualities she has,
and not by the qualities she may not have. The latter you must develop
in her, if you can. And if you cannot, child,’ here my aunt rubbed her
nose, ‘you must just accustom yourself to do without ‘em. But remember,
my dear, your future is between you two. No one can assist you; you are
to work it out for yourselves. This is marriage, Trot; and Heaven bless
you both, in it, for a pair of babes in the wood as you are!’

My aunt said this in a sprightly way, and gave me a kiss to ratify the
blessing.

‘Now,’ said she, ‘light my little lantern, and see me into my bandbox by
the garden path’; for there was a communication between our cottages in
that direction. ‘Give Betsey Trotwood’s love to Blossom, when you come
back; and whatever you do, Trot, never dream of setting Betsey up as a
scarecrow, for if I ever saw her in the glass, she’s quite grim enough
and gaunt enough in her private capacity!’

With this my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchief, with which she was
accustomed to make a bundle of it on such occasions; and I escorted her
home. As she stood in her garden, holding up her little lantern to light
me back, I thought her observation of me had an anxious air again; but
I was too much occupied in pondering on what she had said, and too much
impressed--for the first time, in reality--by the conviction that Dora
and I had indeed to work out our future for ourselves, and that no one
could assist us, to take much notice of it.

Dora came stealing down in her little slippers, to meet me, now that I
was alone; and cried upon my shoulder, and said I had been hard-hearted
and she had been naughty; and I said much the same thing in effect, I
believe; and we made it up, and agreed that our first little difference
was to be our last, and that we were never to have another if we lived a
hundred years.

The next domestic trial we went through, was the Ordeal of Servants.
Mary Anne’s cousin deserted into our coal-hole, and was brought out, to
our great amazement, by a piquet of his companions in arms, who took
him away handcuffed in a procession that covered our front-garden with
ignominy. This nerved me to get rid of Mary Anne, who went so mildly,
on receipt of wages, that I was surprised, until I found out about the
tea-spoons, and also about the little sums she had borrowed in my
name of the tradespeople without authority. After an interval of Mrs.
Kidgerbury--the oldest inhabitant of Kentish Town, I believe, who went
out charing, but was too feeble to execute her conceptions of that
art--we found another treasure, who was one of the most amiable of
women, but who generally made a point of falling either up or down the
kitchen stairs with the tray, and almost plunged into the parlour,
as into a bath, with the tea-things. The ravages committed by this
unfortunate, rendering her dismissal necessary, she was succeeded (with
intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line of Incapables; terminating
in a young person of genteel appearance, who went to Greenwich Fair in
Dora’s bonnet. After whom I remember nothing but an average equality of
failure.

Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat us. Our appearance
in a shop was a signal for the damaged goods to be brought out
immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was full of water. All our meat
turned out to be tough, and there was hardly any crust to our loaves.
In search of the principle on which joints ought to be roasted, to be
roasted enough, and not too much, I myself referred to the Cookery Book,
and found it there established as the allowance of a quarter of an hour
to every pound, and say a quarter over. But the principle always failed
us by some curious fatality, and we never could hit any medium between
redness and cinders.

I had reason to believe that in accomplishing these failures we incurred
a far greater expense than if we had achieved a series of triumphs. It
appeared to me, on looking over the tradesmen’s books, as if we might
have kept the basement storey paved with butter, such was the extensive
scale of our consumption of that article. I don’t know whether the
Excise returns of the period may have exhibited any increase in the
demand for pepper; but if our performances did not affect the market,
I should say several families must have left off using it. And the most
wonderful fact of all was, that we never had anything in the house.

As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, and coming in a state of
penitent intoxication to apologize, I suppose that might have happened
several times to anybody. Also the chimney on fire, the parish engine,
and perjury on the part of the Beadle. But I apprehend that we were
personally fortunate in engaging a servant with a taste for cordials,
who swelled our running account for porter at the public-house by such
inexplicable items as ‘quartern rum shrub (Mrs. C.)’; ‘Half-quartern
gin and cloves (Mrs. C.)’; ‘Glass rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)’--the
parentheses always referring to Dora, who was supposed, it appeared on
explanation, to have imbibed the whole of these refreshments.

One of our first feats in the housekeeping way was a little dinner to
Traddles. I met him in town, and asked him to walk out with me that
afternoon. He readily consenting, I wrote to Dora, saying I would bring
him home. It was pleasant weather, and on the road we made my domestic
happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was very full of it; and
said, that, picturing himself with such a home, and Sophy waiting and
preparing for him, he could think of nothing wanting to complete his
bliss.

I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the opposite end
of the table, but I certainly could have wished, when we sat down, for a
little more room. I did not know how it was, but though there were only
two of us, we were at once always cramped for room, and yet had always
room enough to lose everything in. I suspect it may have been because
nothing had a place of its own, except Jip’s pagoda, which invariably
blocked up the main thoroughfare. On the present occasion, Traddles
was so hemmed in by the pagoda and the guitar-case, and Dora’s
flower-painting, and my writing-table, that I had serious doubts of the
possibility of his using his knife and fork; but he protested, with his
own good-humour, ‘Oceans of room, Copperfield! I assure you, Oceans!’

There was another thing I could have wished, namely, that Jip had never
been encouraged to walk about the tablecloth during dinner. I began to
think there was something disorderly in his being there at all, even
if he had not been in the habit of putting his foot in the salt or the
melted butter. On this occasion he seemed to think he was introduced
expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked at my old friend, and
made short runs at his plate, with such undaunted pertinacity, that he
may be said to have engrossed the conversation.

However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora was, and how
sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favourite, I hinted no
objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion to the skirmishing
plates upon the floor; or to the disreputable appearance of the castors,
which were all at sixes and sevens, and looked drunk; or to the further
blockade of Traddles by wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I could
not help wondering in my own mind, as I contemplated the boiled leg of
mutton before me, previous to carving it, how it came to pass that
our joints of meat were of such extraordinary shapes--and whether our
butcher contracted for all the deformed sheep that came into the world;
but I kept my reflections to myself.

‘My love,’ said I to Dora, ‘what have you got in that dish?’

I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting little faces at
me, as if she wanted to kiss me.

‘Oysters, dear,’ said Dora, timidly.

‘Was that YOUR thought?’ said I, delighted.

‘Ye-yes, Doady,’ said Dora.

‘There never was a happier one!’ I exclaimed, laying down the
carving-knife and fork. ‘There is nothing Traddles likes so much!’

‘Ye-yes, Doady,’ said Dora, ‘and so I bought a beautiful little barrel
of them, and the man said they were very good. But I--I am afraid
there’s something the matter with them. They don’t seem right.’ Here
Dora shook her head, and diamonds twinkled in her eyes.

‘They are only opened in both shells,’ said I. ‘Take the top one off, my
love.’

‘But it won’t come off!’ said Dora, trying very hard, and looking very
much distressed.

‘Do you know, Copperfield,’ said Traddles, cheerfully examining the
dish, ‘I think it is in consequence--they are capital oysters, but I
think it is in consequence--of their never having been opened.’

They never had been opened; and we had no oyster-knives--and couldn’t
have used them if we had; so we looked at the oysters and ate the
mutton. At least we ate as much of it as was done, and made up with
capers. If I had permitted him, I am satisfied that Traddles would have
made a perfect savage of himself, and eaten a plateful of raw meat, to
express enjoyment of the repast; but I would hear of no such immolation
on the altar of friendship, and we had a course of bacon instead; there
happening, by good fortune, to be cold bacon in the larder.

My poor little wife was in such affliction when she thought I should be
annoyed, and in such a state of joy when she found I was not, that the
discomfiture I had subdued, very soon vanished, and we passed a happy
evening; Dora sitting with her arm on my chair while Traddles and I
discussed a glass of wine, and taking every opportunity of whispering
in my ear that it was so good of me not to be a cruel, cross old boy. By
and by she made tea for us; which it was so pretty to see her do, as if
she was busying herself with a set of doll’s tea-things, that I was not
particular about the quality of the beverage. Then Traddles and I played
a game or two at cribbage; and Dora singing to the guitar the while,
it seemed to me as if our courtship and marriage were a tender dream
of mine, and the night when I first listened to her voice were not yet
over.

When Traddles went away, and I came back into the parlour from seeing
him out, my wife planted her chair close to mine, and sat down by my
side. ‘I am very sorry,’ she said. ‘Will you try to teach me, Doady?’

‘I must teach myself first, Dora,’ said I. ‘I am as bad as you, love.’

‘Ah! But you can learn,’ she returned; ‘and you are a clever, clever
man!’

‘Nonsense, mouse!’ said I.

‘I wish,’ resumed my wife, after a long silence, ‘that I could have gone
down into the country for a whole year, and lived with Agnes!’

Her hands were clasped upon my shoulder, and her chin rested on them,
and her blue eyes looked quietly into mine.

‘Why so?’ I asked.

‘I think she might have improved me, and I think I might have learned
from her,’ said Dora.

‘All in good time, my love. Agnes has had her father to take care of for
these many years, you should remember. Even when she was quite a child,
she was the Agnes whom we know,’ said I.

‘Will you call me a name I want you to call me?’ inquired Dora, without
moving.

‘What is it?’ I asked with a smile.

‘It’s a stupid name,’ she said, shaking her curls for a moment.
‘Child-wife.’

I laughingly asked my child-wife what her fancy was in desiring to be so
called. She answered without moving, otherwise than as the arm I twined
about her may have brought her blue eyes nearer to me:

‘I don’t mean, you silly fellow, that you should use the name instead
of Dora. I only mean that you should think of me that way. When you are
going to be angry with me, say to yourself, “it’s only my child-wife!”
 When I am very disappointing, say, “I knew, a long time ago, that she
would make but a child-wife!” When you miss what I should like to be,
and I think can never be, say, “still my foolish child-wife loves me!”
 For indeed I do.’

I had not been serious with her; having no idea until now, that she was
serious herself. But her affectionate nature was so happy in what I now
said to her with my whole heart, that her face became a laughing one
before her glittering eyes were dry. She was soon my child-wife indeed;
sitting down on the floor outside the Chinese House, ringing all
the little bells one after another, to punish Jip for his recent bad
behaviour; while Jip lay blinking in the doorway with his head out, even
too lazy to be teased.

This appeal of Dora’s made a strong impression on me. I look back on the
time I write of; I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved, to
come out from the mists and shadows of the past, and turn its gentle
head towards me once again; and I can still declare that this one little
speech was constantly in my memory. I may not have used it to the best
account; I was young and inexperienced; but I never turned a deaf ear to
its artless pleading.

Dora told me, shortly afterwards, that she was going to be a wonderful
housekeeper. Accordingly, she polished the tablets, pointed the pencil,
bought an immense account-book, carefully stitched up with a needle and
thread all the leaves of the Cookery Book which Jip had torn, and made
quite a desperate little attempt ‘to be good’, as she called it. But the
figures had the old obstinate propensity--they WOULD NOT add up. When
she had entered two or three laborious items in the account-book, Jip
would walk over the page, wagging his tail, and smear them all out. Her
own little right-hand middle finger got steeped to the very bone in ink;
and I think that was the only decided result obtained.

Sometimes, of an evening, when I was at home and at work--for I wrote
a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to be known as a
writer--I would lay down my pen, and watch my child-wife trying to be
good. First of all, she would bring out the immense account-book, and
lay it down upon the table, with a deep sigh. Then she would open it at
the place where Jip had made it illegible last night, and call Jip
up, to look at his misdeeds. This would occasion a diversion in Jip’s
favour, and some inking of his nose, perhaps, as a penalty. Then she
would tell Jip to lie down on the table instantly, ‘like a lion’--which
was one of his tricks, though I cannot say the likeness was
striking--and, if he were in an obedient humour, he would obey. Then she
would take up a pen, and begin to write, and find a hair in it. Then
she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and find that it
spluttered. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and
say in a low voice, ‘Oh, it’s a talking pen, and will disturb Doady!’
And then she would give it up as a bad job, and put the account-book
away, after pretending to crush the lion with it.

Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she would
sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and other
documents, which looked more like curl-papers than anything else, and
endeavour to get some result out of them. After severely comparing one
with another, and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them
out, and counting all the fingers of her left hand over and over again,
backwards and forwards, she would be so vexed and discouraged, and
would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright face
clouded--and for me!--and I would go softly to her, and say:

‘What’s the matter, Dora?’

Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, ‘They won’t come right. They
make my head ache so. And they won’t do anything I want!’

Then I would say, ‘Now let us try together. Let me show you, Dora.’

Then I would commence a practical demonstration, to which Dora would pay
profound attention, perhaps for five minutes; when she would begin to be
dreadfully tired, and would lighten the subject by curling my hair,
or trying the effect of my face with my shirt-collar turned down. If
I tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look so
scared and disconsolate, as she became more and more bewildered, that
the remembrance of her natural gaiety when I first strayed into her
path, and of her being my child-wife, would come reproachfully upon me;
and I would lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar.

I had a great deal of work to do, and had many anxieties, but the same
considerations made me keep them to myself. I am far from sure, now,
that it was right to do this, but I did it for my child-wife’s sake. I
search my breast, and I commit its secrets, if I know them, without any
reservation to this paper. The old unhappy loss or want of something
had, I am conscious, some place in my heart; but not to the embitterment
of my life. When I walked alone in the fine weather, and thought of the
summer days when all the air had been filled with my boyish enchantment,
I did miss something of the realization of my dreams; but I thought it
was a softened glory of the Past, which nothing could have thrown upon
the present time. I did feel, sometimes, for a little while, that I
could have wished my wife had been my counsellor; had had more character
and purpose, to sustain me and improve me by; had been endowed with
power to fill up the void which somewhere seemed to be about me; but
I felt as if this were an unearthly consummation of my happiness, that
never had been meant to be, and never could have been.

I was a boyish husband as to years. I had known the softening influence
of no other sorrows or experiences than those recorded in these leaves.
If I did any wrong, as I may have done much, I did it in mistaken love,
and in my want of wisdom. I write the exact truth. It would avail me
nothing to extenuate it now.

Thus it was that I took upon myself the toils and cares of our life,
and had no partner in them. We lived much as before, in reference to our
scrambling household arrangements; but I had got used to those, and Dora
I was pleased to see was seldom vexed now. She was bright and cheerful
in the old childish way, loved me dearly, and was happy with her old
trifles.

When the debates were heavy--I mean as to length, not quality, for in
the last respect they were not often otherwise--and I went home late,
Dora would never rest when she heard my footsteps, but would always come
downstairs to meet me. When my evenings were unoccupied by the pursuit
for which I had qualified myself with so much pains, and I was engaged
in writing at home, she would sit quietly near me, however late the
hour, and be so mute, that I would often think she had dropped asleep.
But generally, when I raised my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me
with the quiet attention of which I have already spoken.

‘Oh, what a weary boy!’ said Dora one night, when I met her eyes as I
was shutting up my desk.

‘What a weary girl!’ said I. ‘That’s more to the purpose. You must go to
bed another time, my love. It’s far too late for you.’

‘No, don’t send me to bed!’ pleaded Dora, coming to my side. ‘Pray,
don’t do that!’

‘Dora!’ To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. ‘Not well, my dear!
not happy!’

‘Yes! quite well, and very happy!’ said Dora. ‘But say you’ll let me
stop, and see you write.’

‘Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!’ I replied.

‘Are they bright, though?’ returned Dora, laughing. ‘I’m so glad they’re
bright.’ ‘Little Vanity!’ said I.

But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my admiration. I
knew that very well, before she told me so.

‘If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you write!’
said Dora. ‘Do you think them pretty?’

‘Very pretty.’

‘Then let me always stop and see you write.’

‘I am afraid that won’t improve their brightness, Dora.’

‘Yes, it will! Because, you clever boy, you’ll not forget me then, while
you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say something
very, very silly?---more than usual?’ inquired Dora, peeping over my
shoulder into my face.

‘What wonderful thing is that?’ said I.

‘Please let me hold the pens,’ said Dora. ‘I want to have something to
do with all those many hours when you are so industrious. May I hold the
pens?’

The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said yes, brings tears into my
eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly afterwards,
she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at her side. Her
triumph in this connexion with my work, and her delight when I wanted a
new pen--which I very often feigned to do--suggested to me a new way of
pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of wanting a
page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The
preparations she made for this great work, the aprons she put on, the
bibs she borrowed from the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she
took, the innumerable stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if
he understood it all, her conviction that her work was incomplete unless
she signed her name at the end, and the way in which she would bring it
to me, like a school-copy, and then, when I praised it, clasp me round
the neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as they might appear
to other men.

She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went jingling about
the house with the whole bunch in a little basket, tied to her slender
waist. I seldom found that the places to which they belonged were
locked, or that they were of any use except as a plaything for Jip--but
Dora was pleased, and that pleased me. She was quite satisfied that a
good deal was effected by this make-belief of housekeeping; and was as
merry as if we had been keeping a baby-house, for a joke.

So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my aunt than to me,
and often told her of the time when she was afraid she was ‘a cross old
thing’. I never saw my aunt unbend more systematically to anyone. She
courted Jip, though Jip never responded; listened, day after day, to the
guitar, though I am afraid she had no taste for music; never attacked
the Incapables, though the temptation must have been severe; went
wonderful distances on foot to purchase, as surprises, any trifles that
she found out Dora wanted; and never came in by the garden, and missed
her from the room, but she would call out, at the foot of the stairs, in
a voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house:

‘Where’s Little Blossom?’



CHAPTER 45. MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT’S PREDICTIONS


It was some time now, since I had left the Doctor. Living in his
neighbourhood, I saw him frequently; and we all went to his house on two
or three occasions to dinner or tea. The Old Soldier was in permanent
quarters under the Doctor’s roof. She was exactly the same as ever, and
the same immortal butterflies hovered over her cap.

Like some other mothers, whom I have known in the course of my life,
Mrs. Markleham was far more fond of pleasure than her daughter was.
She required a great deal of amusement, and, like a deep old soldier,
pretended, in consulting her own inclinations, to be devoting herself
to her child. The Doctor’s desire that Annie should be entertained,
was therefore particularly acceptable to this excellent parent; who
expressed unqualified approval of his discretion.

I have no doubt, indeed, that she probed the Doctor’s wound without
knowing it. Meaning nothing but a certain matured frivolity and
selfishness, not always inseparable from full-blown years, I think she
confirmed him in his fear that he was a constraint upon his young
wife, and that there was no congeniality of feeling between them, by so
strongly commending his design of lightening the load of her life.

‘My dear soul,’ she said to him one day when I was present, ‘you know
there is no doubt it would be a little pokey for Annie to be always shut
up here.’

The Doctor nodded his benevolent head. ‘When she comes to her mother’s
age,’ said Mrs. Markleham, with a flourish of her fan, ‘then it’ll be
another thing. You might put ME into a Jail, with genteel society and
a rubber, and I should never care to come out. But I am not Annie, you
know; and Annie is not her mother.’

‘Surely, surely,’ said the Doctor.

‘You are the best of creatures--no, I beg your pardon!’ for the Doctor
made a gesture of deprecation, ‘I must say before your face, as I always
say behind your back, you are the best of creatures; but of course you
don’t--now do you?---enter into the same pursuits and fancies as Annie?’

‘No,’ said the Doctor, in a sorrowful tone.

‘No, of course not,’ retorted the Old Soldier. ‘Take your Dictionary,
for example. What a useful work a Dictionary is! What a necessary work!
The meanings of words! Without Doctor Johnson, or somebody of that sort,
we might have been at this present moment calling an Italian-iron,
a bedstead. But we can’t expect a Dictionary--especially when it’s
making--to interest Annie, can we?’

The Doctor shook his head.

‘And that’s why I so much approve,’ said Mrs. Markleham, tapping him
on the shoulder with her shut-up fan, ‘of your thoughtfulness. It shows
that you don’t expect, as many elderly people do expect, old heads on
young shoulders. You have studied Annie’s character, and you understand
it. That’s what I find so charming!’

Even the calm and patient face of Doctor Strong expressed some little
sense of pain, I thought, under the infliction of these compliments.

‘Therefore, my dear Doctor,’ said the Old Soldier, giving him several
affectionate taps, ‘you may command me, at all times and seasons. Now,
do understand that I am entirely at your service. I am ready to go with
Annie to operas, concerts, exhibitions, all kinds of places; and you
shall never find that I am tired. Duty, my dear Doctor, before every
consideration in the universe!’

She was as good as her word. She was one of those people who can bear
a great deal of pleasure, and she never flinched in her perseverance
in the cause. She seldom got hold of the newspaper (which she settled
herself down in the softest chair in the house to read through an
eye-glass, every day, for two hours), but she found out something that
she was certain Annie would like to see. It was in vain for Annie to
protest that she was weary of such things. Her mother’s remonstrance
always was, ‘Now, my dear Annie, I am sure you know better; and I must
tell you, my love, that you are not making a proper return for the
kindness of Doctor Strong.’

This was usually said in the Doctor’s presence, and appeared to me to
constitute Annie’s principal inducement for withdrawing her objections
when she made any. But in general she resigned herself to her mother,
and went where the Old Soldier would.

It rarely happened now that Mr. Maldon accompanied them. Sometimes
my aunt and Dora were invited to do so, and accepted the invitation.
Sometimes Dora only was asked. The time had been, when I should have
been uneasy in her going; but reflection on what had passed that
former night in the Doctor’s study, had made a change in my mistrust. I
believed that the Doctor was right, and I had no worse suspicions.

My aunt rubbed her nose sometimes when she happened to be alone with
me, and said she couldn’t make it out; she wished they were happier; she
didn’t think our military friend (so she always called the Old Soldier)
mended the matter at all. My aunt further expressed her opinion, ‘that
if our military friend would cut off those butterflies, and give ‘em to
the chimney-sweepers for May-day, it would look like the beginning of
something sensible on her part.’

But her abiding reliance was on Mr. Dick. That man had evidently an
idea in his head, she said; and if he could only once pen it up into a
corner, which was his great difficulty, he would distinguish himself in
some extraordinary manner.

Unconscious of this prediction, Mr. Dick continued to occupy precisely
the same ground in reference to the Doctor and to Mrs. Strong. He seemed
neither to advance nor to recede. He appeared to have settled into his
original foundation, like a building; and I must confess that my faith
in his ever Moving, was not much greater than if he had been a building.

But one night, when I had been married some months, Mr. Dick put his
head into the parlour, where I was writing alone (Dora having gone out
with my aunt to take tea with the two little birds), and said, with a
significant cough:

‘You couldn’t speak to me without inconveniencing yourself, Trotwood, I
am afraid?’

‘Certainly, Mr. Dick,’ said I; ‘come in!’

‘Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick, laying his finger on the side of his nose,
after he had shaken hands with me. ‘Before I sit down, I wish to make an
observation. You know your aunt?’

‘A little,’ I replied.

‘She is the most wonderful woman in the world, sir!’

After the delivery of this communication, which he shot out of himself
as if he were loaded with it, Mr. Dick sat down with greater gravity
than usual, and looked at me.

‘Now, boy,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘I am going to put a question to you.’

‘As many as you please,’ said I.

‘What do you consider me, sir?’ asked Mr. Dick, folding his arms.

‘A dear old friend,’ said I. ‘Thank you, Trotwood,’ returned Mr. Dick,
laughing, and reaching across in high glee to shake hands with me. ‘But
I mean, boy,’ resuming his gravity, ‘what do you consider me in this
respect?’ touching his forehead.

I was puzzled how to answer, but he helped me with a word.

‘Weak?’ said Mr. Dick.

‘Well,’ I replied, dubiously. ‘Rather so.’

‘Exactly!’ cried Mr. Dick, who seemed quite enchanted by my reply. ‘That
is, Trotwood, when they took some of the trouble out of you-know-who’s
head, and put it you know where, there was a--’ Mr. Dick made his two
hands revolve very fast about each other a great number of times, and
then brought them into collision, and rolled them over and over one
another, to express confusion. ‘There was that sort of thing done to me
somehow. Eh?’

I nodded at him, and he nodded back again.

‘In short, boy,’ said Mr. Dick, dropping his voice to a whisper, ‘I am
simple.’

I would have qualified that conclusion, but he stopped me.

‘Yes, I am! She pretends I am not. She won’t hear of it; but I am. I
know I am. If she hadn’t stood my friend, sir, I should have been shut
up, to lead a dismal life these many years. But I’ll provide for her!
I never spend the copying money. I put it in a box. I have made a will.
I’ll leave it all to her. She shall be rich--noble!’

Mr. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. He then
folded it up with great care, pressed it smooth between his two hands,
put it in his pocket, and seemed to put my aunt away with it.

‘Now you are a scholar, Trotwood,’ said Mr. Dick. ‘You are a fine
scholar. You know what a learned man, what a great man, the Doctor is.
You know what honour he has always done me. Not proud in his wisdom.
Humble, humble--condescending even to poor Dick, who is simple and knows
nothing. I have sent his name up, on a scrap of paper, to the kite,
along the string, when it has been in the sky, among the larks. The kite
has been glad to receive it, sir, and the sky has been brighter with
it.’

I delighted him by saying, most heartily, that the Doctor was deserving
of our best respect and highest esteem.

‘And his beautiful wife is a star,’ said Mr. Dick. ‘A shining star. I
have seen her shine, sir. But,’ bringing his chair nearer, and laying
one hand upon my knee--‘clouds, sir--clouds.’

I answered the solicitude which his face expressed, by conveying the
same expression into my own, and shaking my head.

‘What clouds?’ said Mr. Dick.

He looked so wistfully into my face, and was so anxious to understand,
that I took great pains to answer him slowly and distinctly, as I might
have entered on an explanation to a child.

‘There is some unfortunate division between them,’ I replied. ‘Some
unhappy cause of separation. A secret. It may be inseparable from the
discrepancy in their years. It may have grown up out of almost nothing.’

Mr. Dick, who had told off every sentence with a thoughtful nod, paused
when I had done, and sat considering, with his eyes upon my face, and
his hand upon my knee.

‘Doctor not angry with her, Trotwood?’ he said, after some time.

‘No. Devoted to her.’

‘Then, I have got it, boy!’ said Mr. Dick.

The sudden exultation with which he slapped me on the knee, and leaned
back in his chair, with his eyebrows lifted up as high as he could
possibly lift them, made me think him farther out of his wits than
ever. He became as suddenly grave again, and leaning forward as before,
said--first respectfully taking out his pocket-handkerchief, as if it
really did represent my aunt:

‘Most wonderful woman in the world, Trotwood. Why has she done nothing
to set things right?’

‘Too delicate and difficult a subject for such interference,’ I replied.

‘Fine scholar,’ said Mr. Dick, touching me with his finger. ‘Why has HE
done nothing?’

‘For the same reason,’ I returned.

‘Then, I have got it, boy!’ said Mr. Dick. And he stood up before me,
more exultingly than before, nodding his head, and striking himself
repeatedly upon the breast, until one might have supposed that he had
nearly nodded and struck all the breath out of his body.

‘A poor fellow with a craze, sir,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘a simpleton, a
weak-minded person--present company, you know!’ striking himself again,
‘may do what wonderful people may not do. I’ll bring them together, boy.
I’ll try. They’ll not blame me. They’ll not object to me. They’ll not
mind what I do, if it’s wrong. I’m only Mr. Dick. And who minds Dick?
Dick’s nobody! Whoo!’ He blew a slight, contemptuous breath, as if he
blew himself away.

It was fortunate he had proceeded so far with his mystery, for we heard
the coach stop at the little garden gate, which brought my aunt and Dora
home.

‘Not a word, boy!’ he pursued in a whisper; ‘leave all the blame with
Dick--simple Dick--mad Dick. I have been thinking, sir, for some time,
that I was getting it, and now I have got it. After what you have said
to me, I am sure I have got it. All right!’ Not another word did Mr.
Dick utter on the subject; but he made a very telegraph of himself for
the next half-hour (to the great disturbance of my aunt’s mind), to
enjoin inviolable secrecy on me.

To my surprise, I heard no more about it for some two or three weeks,
though I was sufficiently interested in the result of his endeavours;
descrying a strange gleam of good sense--I say nothing of good feeling,
for that he always exhibited--in the conclusion to which he had come. At
last I began to believe, that, in the flighty and unsettled state of his
mind, he had either forgotten his intention or abandoned it.

One fair evening, when Dora was not inclined to go out, my aunt and I
strolled up to the Doctor’s cottage. It was autumn, when there were no
debates to vex the evening air; and I remember how the leaves smelt like
our garden at Blunderstone as we trod them under foot, and how the old,
unhappy feeling, seemed to go by, on the sighing wind.

It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong was just coming
out of the garden, where Mr. Dick yet lingered, busy with his knife,
helping the gardener to point some stakes. The Doctor was engaged with
someone in his study; but the visitor would be gone directly, Mrs.
Strong said, and begged us to remain and see him. We went into the
drawing-room with her, and sat down by the darkening window. There was
never any ceremony about the visits of such old friends and neighbours
as we were.

We had not sat here many minutes, when Mrs. Markleham, who usually
contrived to be in a fuss about something, came bustling in, with her
newspaper in her hand, and said, out of breath, ‘My goodness gracious,
Annie, why didn’t you tell me there was someone in the Study!’

‘My dear mama,’ she quietly returned, ‘how could I know that you desired
the information?’

‘Desired the information!’ said Mrs. Markleham, sinking on the sofa. ‘I
never had such a turn in all my life!’

‘Have you been to the Study, then, mama?’ asked Annie.

‘BEEN to the Study, my dear!’ she returned emphatically. ‘Indeed I have!
I came upon the amiable creature--if you’ll imagine my feelings, Miss
Trotwood and David--in the act of making his will.’

Her daughter looked round from the window quickly.

‘In the act, my dear Annie,’ repeated Mrs. Markleham, spreading the
newspaper on her lap like a table-cloth, and patting her hands upon it,
‘of making his last Will and Testament. The foresight and affection of
the dear! I must tell you how it was. I really must, in justice to the
darling--for he is nothing less!--tell you how it was. Perhaps you know,
Miss Trotwood, that there is never a candle lighted in this house, until
one’s eyes are literally falling out of one’s head with being stretched
to read the paper. And that there is not a chair in this house, in which
a paper can be what I call, read, except one in the Study. This took me
to the Study, where I saw a light. I opened the door. In company with
the dear Doctor were two professional people, evidently connected with
the law, and they were all three standing at the table: the
darling Doctor pen in hand. “This simply expresses then,” said the
Doctor--Annie, my love, attend to the very words--“this simply expresses
then, gentlemen, the confidence I have in Mrs. Strong, and gives her all
unconditionally?” One of the professional people replied, “And gives her
all unconditionally.” Upon that, with the natural feelings of a mother,
I said, “Good God, I beg your pardon!” fell over the door-step, and came
away through the little back passage where the pantry is.’

Mrs. Strong opened the window, and went out into the verandah, where she
stood leaning against a pillar.

‘But now isn’t it, Miss Trotwood, isn’t it, David, invigorating,’ said
Mrs. Markleham, mechanically following her with her eyes, ‘to find a man
at Doctor Strong’s time of life, with the strength of mind to do this
kind of thing? It only shows how right I was. I said to Annie, when
Doctor Strong paid a very flattering visit to myself, and made her the
subject of a declaration and an offer, I said, “My dear, there is no
doubt whatever, in my opinion, with reference to a suitable provision
for you, that Doctor Strong will do more than he binds himself to do.”’

Here the bell rang, and we heard the sound of the visitors’ feet as they
went out.

‘It’s all over, no doubt,’ said the Old Soldier, after listening; ‘the
dear creature has signed, sealed, and delivered, and his mind’s at rest.
Well it may be! What a mind! Annie, my love, I am going to the Study
with my paper, for I am a poor creature without news. Miss Trotwood,
David, pray come and see the Doctor.’

I was conscious of Mr. Dick’s standing in the shadow of the room,
shutting up his knife, when we accompanied her to the Study; and of my
aunt’s rubbing her nose violently, by the way, as a mild vent for her
intolerance of our military friend; but who got first into the Study, or
how Mrs. Markleham settled herself in a moment in her easy-chair, or how
my aunt and I came to be left together near the door (unless her eyes
were quicker than mine, and she held me back), I have forgotten, if I
ever knew. But this I know,--that we saw the Doctor before he saw us,
sitting at his table, among the folio volumes in which he delighted,
resting his head calmly on his hand. That, in the same moment, we saw
Mrs. Strong glide in, pale and trembling. That Mr. Dick supported her on
his arm. That he laid his other hand upon the Doctor’s arm, causing him
to look up with an abstracted air. That, as the Doctor moved his head,
his wife dropped down on one knee at his feet, and, with her hands
imploringly lifted, fixed upon his face the memorable look I had never
forgotten. That at this sight Mrs. Markleham dropped the newspaper,
and stared more like a figure-head intended for a ship to be called The
Astonishment, than anything else I can think of.

The gentleness of the Doctor’s manner and surprise, the dignity that
mingled with the supplicating attitude of his wife, the amiable concern
of Mr. Dick, and the earnestness with which my aunt said to herself,
‘That man mad!’ (triumphantly expressive of the misery from which she
had saved him)--I see and hear, rather than remember, as I write about
it.

‘Doctor!’ said Mr. Dick. ‘What is it that’s amiss? Look here!’

‘Annie!’ cried the Doctor. ‘Not at my feet, my dear!’

‘Yes!’ she said. ‘I beg and pray that no one will leave the room! Oh, my
husband and father, break this long silence. Let us both know what it is
that has come between us!’

Mrs. Markleham, by this time recovering the power of speech, and seeming
to swell with family pride and motherly indignation, here exclaimed,
‘Annie, get up immediately, and don’t disgrace everybody belonging to
you by humbling yourself like that, unless you wish to see me go out of
my mind on the spot!’

‘Mama!’ returned Annie. ‘Waste no words on me, for my appeal is to my
husband, and even you are nothing here.’

‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs. Markleham. ‘Me, nothing! The child has taken
leave of her senses. Please to get me a glass of water!’

I was too attentive to the Doctor and his wife, to give any heed to this
request; and it made no impression on anybody else; so Mrs. Markleham
panted, stared, and fanned herself.

‘Annie!’ said the Doctor, tenderly taking her in his hands. ‘My dear!
If any unavoidable change has come, in the sequence of time, upon our
married life, you are not to blame. The fault is mine, and only mine.
There is no change in my affection, admiration, and respect. I wish to
make you happy. I truly love and honour you. Rise, Annie, pray!’

But she did not rise. After looking at him for a little while, she sank
down closer to him, laid her arm across his knee, and dropping her head
upon it, said:

‘If I have any friend here, who can speak one word for me, or for my
husband in this matter; if I have any friend here, who can give a voice
to any suspicion that my heart has sometimes whispered to me; if I have
any friend here, who honours my husband, or has ever cared for me, and
has anything within his knowledge, no matter what it is, that may help
to mediate between us, I implore that friend to speak!’

There was a profound silence. After a few moments of painful hesitation,
I broke the silence.

‘Mrs. Strong,’ I said, ‘there is something within my knowledge, which
I have been earnestly entreated by Doctor Strong to conceal, and have
concealed until tonight. But, I believe the time has come when it would
be mistaken faith and delicacy to conceal it any longer, and when your
appeal absolves me from his injunction.’

She turned her face towards me for a moment, and I knew that I was
right. I could not have resisted its entreaty, if the assurance that it
gave me had been less convincing.

‘Our future peace,’ she said, ‘may be in your hands. I trust it
confidently to your not suppressing anything. I know beforehand that
nothing you, or anyone, can tell me, will show my husband’s noble heart
in any other light than one. Howsoever it may seem to you to touch me,
disregard that. I will speak for myself, before him, and before God
afterwards.’

Thus earnestly besought, I made no reference to the Doctor for his
permission, but, without any other compromise of the truth than a little
softening of the coarseness of Uriah Heep, related plainly what had
passed in that same room that night. The staring of Mrs. Markleham
during the whole narration, and the shrill, sharp interjections with
which she occasionally interrupted it, defy description.

When I had finished, Annie remained, for some few moments, silent, with
her head bent down, as I have described. Then, she took the Doctor’s
hand (he was sitting in the same attitude as when we had entered the
room), and pressed it to her breast, and kissed it. Mr. Dick softly
raised her; and she stood, when she began to speak, leaning on him, and
looking down upon her husband--from whom she never turned her eyes.

‘All that has ever been in my mind, since I was married,’ she said in a
low, submissive, tender voice, ‘I will lay bare before you. I could not
live and have one reservation, knowing what I know now.’

‘Nay, Annie,’ said the Doctor, mildly, ‘I have never doubted you, my
child. There is no need; indeed there is no need, my dear.’

‘There is great need,’ she answered, in the same way, ‘that I should
open my whole heart before the soul of generosity and truth, whom, year
by year, and day by day, I have loved and venerated more and more, as
Heaven knows!’

‘Really,’ interrupted Mrs. Markleham, ‘if I have any discretion at
all--’

[‘Which you haven’t, you Marplot,’ observed my aunt, in an indignant
whisper.) --‘I must be permitted to observe that it cannot be requisite
to enter into these details.’

‘No one but my husband can judge of that, mama,’ said Annie without
removing her eyes from his face, ‘and he will hear me. If I say anything
to give you pain, mama, forgive me. I have borne pain first, often and
long, myself.’

‘Upon my word!’ gasped Mrs. Markleham.

‘When I was very young,’ said Annie, ‘quite a little child, my first
associations with knowledge of any kind were inseparable from a patient
friend and teacher--the friend of my dead father--who was always dear
to me. I can remember nothing that I know, without remembering him. He
stored my mind with its first treasures, and stamped his character upon
them all. They never could have been, I think, as good as they have been
to me, if I had taken them from any other hands.’

‘Makes her mother nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs. Markleham.

‘Not so mama,’ said Annie; ‘but I make him what he was. I must do that.
As I grew up, he occupied the same place still. I was proud of his
interest: deeply, fondly, gratefully attached to him. I looked up to
him, I can hardly describe how--as a father, as a guide, as one whose
praise was different from all other praise, as one in whom I could have
trusted and confided, if I had doubted all the world. You know, mama,
how young and inexperienced I was, when you presented him before me, of
a sudden, as a lover.’

‘I have mentioned the fact, fifty times at least, to everybody here!’
said Mrs. Markleham.

[‘Then hold your tongue, for the Lord’s sake, and don’t mention it any
more!’ muttered my aunt.)

‘It was so great a change: so great a loss, I felt it, at first,’ said
Annie, still preserving the same look and tone, ‘that I was agitated
and distressed. I was but a girl; and when so great a change came in the
character in which I had so long looked up to him, I think I was sorry.
But nothing could have made him what he used to be again; and I was
proud that he should think me so worthy, and we were married.’ ‘--At
Saint Alphage, Canterbury,’ observed Mrs. Markleham.

[‘Confound the woman!’ said my aunt, ‘she WON’T be quiet!’)

‘I never thought,’ proceeded Annie, with a heightened colour, ‘of any
worldly gain that my husband would bring to me. My young heart had no
room in its homage for any such poor reference. Mama, forgive me when
I say that it was you who first presented to my mind the thought that
anyone could wrong me, and wrong him, by such a cruel suspicion.’

‘Me!’ cried Mrs. Markleham.

[‘Ah! You, to be sure!’ observed my aunt, ‘and you can’t fan it away, my
military friend!’)

‘It was the first unhappiness of my new life,’ said Annie. ‘It was the
first occasion of every unhappy moment I have known. These moments have
been more, of late, than I can count; but not--my generous husband!--not
for the reason you suppose; for in my heart there is not a thought, a
recollection, or a hope, that any power could separate from you!’

She raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, and looked as beautiful and
true, I thought, as any Spirit. The Doctor looked on her, henceforth, as
steadfastly as she on him.

‘Mama is blameless,’ she went on, ‘of having ever urged you for herself,
and she is blameless in intention every way, I am sure,--but when I saw
how many importunate claims were pressed upon you in my name; how you
were traded on in my name; how generous you were, and how Mr. Wickfield,
who had your welfare very much at heart, resented it; the first sense
of my exposure to the mean suspicion that my tenderness was bought--and
sold to you, of all men on earth--fell upon me like unmerited disgrace,
in which I forced you to participate. I cannot tell you what it
was--mama cannot imagine what it was--to have this dread and trouble
always on my mind, yet know in my own soul that on my marriage-day I
crowned the love and honour of my life!’

‘A specimen of the thanks one gets,’ cried Mrs. Markleham, in tears,
‘for taking care of one’s family! I wish I was a Turk!’

[‘I wish you were, with all my heart--and in your native country!’ said
my aunt.)

‘It was at that time that mama was most solicitous about my Cousin
Maldon. I had liked him’: she spoke softly, but without any hesitation:
‘very much. We had been little lovers once. If circumstances had not
happened otherwise, I might have come to persuade myself that I really
loved him, and might have married him, and been most wretched. There can
be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.’

I pondered on those words, even while I was studiously attending to
what followed, as if they had some particular interest, or some strange
application that I could not divine. ‘There can be no disparity in
marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose’--‘no disparity in
marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.’

‘There is nothing,’ said Annie, ‘that we have in common. I have long
found that there is nothing. If I were thankful to my husband for no
more, instead of for so much, I should be thankful to him for having
saved me from the first mistaken impulse of my undisciplined heart.’

She stood quite still, before the Doctor, and spoke with an earnestness
that thrilled me. Yet her voice was just as quiet as before.

‘When he was waiting to be the object of your munificence, so freely
bestowed for my sake, and when I was unhappy in the mercenary shape
I was made to wear, I thought it would have become him better to have
worked his own way on. I thought that if I had been he, I would have
tried to do it, at the cost of almost any hardship. But I thought no
worse of him, until the night of his departure for India. That night I
knew he had a false and thankless heart. I saw a double meaning, then,
in Mr. Wickfield’s scrutiny of me. I perceived, for the first time, the
dark suspicion that shadowed my life.’

‘Suspicion, Annie!’ said the Doctor. ‘No, no, no!’

‘In your mind there was none, I know, my husband!’ she returned. ‘And
when I came to you, that night, to lay down all my load of shame and
grief, and knew that I had to tell that, underneath your roof, one of my
own kindred, to whom you had been a benefactor, for the love of me, had
spoken to me words that should have found no utterance, even if I had
been the weak and mercenary wretch he thought me--my mind revolted from
the taint the very tale conveyed. It died upon my lips, and from that
hour till now has never passed them.’

Mrs. Markleham, with a short groan, leaned back in her easy-chair; and
retired behind her fan, as if she were never coming out any more.

‘I have never, but in your presence, interchanged a word with him from
that time; then, only when it has been necessary for the avoidance of
this explanation. Years have passed since he knew, from me, what his
situation here was. The kindnesses you have secretly done for his
advancement, and then disclosed to me, for my surprise and pleasure,
have been, you will believe, but aggravations of the unhappiness and
burden of my secret.’

She sunk down gently at the Doctor’s feet, though he did his utmost to
prevent her; and said, looking up, tearfully, into his face:

‘Do not speak to me yet! Let me say a little more! Right or wrong, if
this were to be done again, I think I should do just the same. You never
can know what it was to be devoted to you, with those old associations;
to find that anyone could be so hard as to suppose that the truth of my
heart was bartered away, and to be surrounded by appearances confirming
that belief. I was very young, and had no adviser. Between mama and
me, in all relating to you, there was a wide division. If I shrunk into
myself, hiding the disrespect I had undergone, it was because I honoured
you so much, and so much wished that you should honour me!’

‘Annie, my pure heart!’ said the Doctor, ‘my dear girl!’

‘A little more! a very few words more! I used to think there were so
many whom you might have married, who would not have brought such charge
and trouble on you, and who would have made your home a worthier home. I
used to be afraid that I had better have remained your pupil, and almost
your child. I used to fear that I was so unsuited to your learning and
wisdom. If all this made me shrink within myself (as indeed it did),
when I had that to tell, it was still because I honoured you so much,
and hoped that you might one day honour me.’

‘That day has shone this long time, Annie,’ said the Doctor, ‘and can
have but one long night, my dear.’

‘Another word! I afterwards meant--steadfastly meant, and purposed to
myself--to bear the whole weight of knowing the unworthiness of one
to whom you had been so good. And now a last word, dearest and best of
friends! The cause of the late change in you, which I have seen with
so much pain and sorrow, and have sometimes referred to my old
apprehension--at other times to lingering suppositions nearer to the
truth--has been made clear tonight; and by an accident I have also come
to know, tonight, the full measure of your noble trust in me, even
under that mistake. I do not hope that any love and duty I may render in
return, will ever make me worthy of your priceless confidence; but with
all this knowledge fresh upon me, I can lift my eyes to this dear
face, revered as a father’s, loved as a husband’s, sacred to me in
my childhood as a friend’s, and solemnly declare that in my lightest
thought I have never wronged you; never wavered in the love and the
fidelity I owe you!’

She had her arms around the Doctor’s neck, and he leant his head down
over her, mingling his grey hair with her dark brown tresses.

‘Oh, hold me to your heart, my husband! Never cast me out! Do not think
or speak of disparity between us, for there is none, except in all my
many imperfections. Every succeeding year I have known this better, as I
have esteemed you more and more. Oh, take me to your heart, my husband,
for my love was founded on a rock, and it endures!’

In the silence that ensued, my aunt walked gravely up to Mr. Dick,
without at all hurrying herself, and gave him a hug and a sounding kiss.
And it was very fortunate, with a view to his credit, that she did so;
for I am confident that I detected him at that moment in the act of
making preparations to stand on one leg, as an appropriate expression of
delight.

‘You are a very remarkable man, Dick!’ said my aunt, with an air of
unqualified approbation; ‘and never pretend to be anything else, for I
know better!’

With that, my aunt pulled him by the sleeve, and nodded to me; and we
three stole quietly out of the room, and came away.

‘That’s a settler for our military friend, at any rate,’ said my aunt,
on the way home. ‘I should sleep the better for that, if there was
nothing else to be glad of!’

‘She was quite overcome, I am afraid,’ said Mr. Dick, with great
commiseration.

‘What! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome?’ inquired my aunt.

‘I don’t think I ever saw a crocodile,’ returned Mr. Dick, mildly.

‘There never would have been anything the matter, if it hadn’t been for
that old Animal,’ said my aunt, with strong emphasis. ‘It’s very much
to be wished that some mothers would leave their daughters alone after
marriage, and not be so violently affectionate. They seem to think the
only return that can be made them for bringing an unfortunate young
woman into the world--God bless my soul, as if she asked to be brought,
or wanted to come!--is full liberty to worry her out of it again. What
are you thinking of, Trot?’

I was thinking of all that had been said. My mind was still running on
some of the expressions used. ‘There can be no disparity in marriage
like unsuitability of mind and purpose.’ ‘The first mistaken impulse of
an undisciplined heart.’ ‘My love was founded on a rock.’ But we were at
home; and the trodden leaves were lying under-foot, and the autumn wind
was blowing.



CHAPTER 46. INTELLIGENCE


I must have been married, if I may trust to my imperfect memory for
dates, about a year or so, when one evening, as I was returning from a
solitary walk, thinking of the book I was then writing--for my success
had steadily increased with my steady application, and I was engaged at
that time upon my first work of fiction--I came past Mrs. Steerforth’s
house. I had often passed it before, during my residence in that
neighbourhood, though never when I could choose another road. Howbeit,
it did sometimes happen that it was not easy to find another, without
making a long circuit; and so I had passed that way, upon the whole,
pretty often.

I had never done more than glance at the house, as I went by with a
quickened step. It had been uniformly gloomy and dull. None of the best
rooms abutted on the road; and the narrow, heavily-framed old-fashioned
windows, never cheerful under any circumstances, looked very dismal,
close shut, and with their blinds always drawn down. There was a covered
way across a little paved court, to an entrance that was never used; and
there was one round staircase window, at odds with all the rest, and the
only one unshaded by a blind, which had the same unoccupied blank look.
I do not remember that I ever saw a light in all the house. If I had
been a casual passer-by, I should have probably supposed that some
childless person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge
of the place, and had seen it often in that changeless state, I should
have pleased my fancy with many ingenious speculations, I dare say.

As it was, I thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could not
go by it and leave it, as my body did; and it usually awakened a long
train of meditations. Coming before me, on this particular evening that
I mention, mingled with the childish recollections and later fancies,
the ghosts of half-formed hopes, the broken shadows of disappointments
dimly seen and understood, the blending of experience and imagination,
incidental to the occupation with which my thoughts had been busy, it
was more than commonly suggestive. I fell into a brown study as I walked
on, and a voice at my side made me start.

It was a woman’s voice, too. I was not long in recollecting Mrs.
Steerforth’s little parlour-maid, who had formerly worn blue ribbons in
her cap. She had taken them out now, to adapt herself, I suppose, to
the altered character of the house; and wore but one or two disconsolate
bows of sober brown.

‘If you please, sir, would you have the goodness to walk in, and speak
to Miss Dartle?’

‘Has Miss Dartle sent you for me?’ I inquired.

‘Not tonight, sir, but it’s just the same. Miss Dartle saw you pass a
night or two ago; and I was to sit at work on the staircase, and when I
saw you pass again, to ask you to step in and speak to her.’

I turned back, and inquired of my conductor, as we went along, how Mrs.
Steerforth was. She said her lady was but poorly, and kept her own room
a good deal.

When we arrived at the house, I was directed to Miss Dartle in the
garden, and left to make my presence known to her myself. She was
sitting on a seat at one end of a kind of terrace, overlooking the great
city. It was a sombre evening, with a lurid light in the sky; and as
I saw the prospect scowling in the distance, with here and there some
larger object starting up into the sullen glare, I fancied it was no
inapt companion to the memory of this fierce woman.

She saw me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to receive me. I thought
her, then, still more colourless and thin than when I had seen her last;
the flashing eyes still brighter, and the scar still plainer.

Our meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on the last occasion;
and there was an air of disdain about her, which she took no pains to
conceal.

‘I am told you wish to speak to me, Miss Dartle,’ said I, standing near
her, with my hand upon the back of the seat, and declining her gesture
of invitation to sit down.

‘If you please,’ said she. ‘Pray has this girl been found?’

‘No.’

‘And yet she has run away!’

I saw her thin lips working while she looked at me, as if they were
eager to load her with reproaches.

‘Run away?’ I repeated.

‘Yes! From him,’ she said, with a laugh. ‘If she is not found, perhaps
she never will be found. She may be dead!’

The vaunting cruelty with which she met my glance, I never saw expressed
in any other face that ever I have seen.

‘To wish her dead,’ said I, ‘may be the kindest wish that one of her own
sex could bestow upon her. I am glad that time has softened you so much,
Miss Dartle.’

She condescended to make no reply, but, turning on me with another
scornful laugh, said:

‘The friends of this excellent and much-injured young lady are friends
of yours. You are their champion, and assert their rights. Do you wish
to know what is known of her?’

‘Yes,’ said I.

She rose with an ill-favoured smile, and taking a few steps towards
a wall of holly that was near at hand, dividing the lawn from a
kitchen-garden, said, in a louder voice, ‘Come here!’--as if she were
calling to some unclean beast.

‘You will restrain any demonstrative championship or vengeance in this
place, of course, Mr. Copperfield?’ said she, looking over her shoulder
at me with the same expression.

I inclined my head, without knowing what she meant; and she said, ‘Come
here!’ again; and returned, followed by the respectable Mr. Littimer,
who, with undiminished respectability, made me a bow, and took up his
position behind her. The air of wicked grace: of triumph, in which,
strange to say, there was yet something feminine and alluring: with
which she reclined upon the seat between us, and looked at me, was
worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.

‘Now,’ said she, imperiously, without glancing at him, and touching
the old wound as it throbbed: perhaps, in this instance, with pleasure
rather than pain. ‘Tell Mr. Copperfield about the flight.’

‘Mr. James and myself, ma’am--’

‘Don’t address yourself to me!’ she interrupted with a frown.

‘Mr. James and myself, sir--’

‘Nor to me, if you please,’ said I.

Mr. Littimer, without being at all discomposed, signified by a slight
obeisance, that anything that was most agreeable to us was most
agreeable to him; and began again.

‘Mr. James and myself have been abroad with the young woman, ever
since she left Yarmouth under Mr. James’s protection. We have been in a
variety of places, and seen a deal of foreign country. We have been in
France, Switzerland, Italy, in fact, almost all parts.’

He looked at the back of the seat, as if he were addressing himself to
that; and softly played upon it with his hands, as if he were striking
chords upon a dumb piano.

‘Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young woman; and was more
settled, for a length of time, than I have known him to be since I have
been in his service. The young woman was very improvable, and spoke the
languages; and wouldn’t have been known for the same country-person. I
noticed that she was much admired wherever we went.’

Miss Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal a glance at her,
and slightly smile to himself.

‘Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was. What with her dress;
what with the air and sun; what with being made so much of; what with
this, that, and the other; her merits really attracted general notice.’

He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the distant
prospect, and she bit her nether lip to stop that busy mouth.

Taking his hands from the seat, and placing one of them within the
other, as he settled himself on one leg, Mr. Littimer proceeded, with
his eyes cast down, and his respectable head a little advanced, and a
little on one side:

‘The young woman went on in this manner for some time, being
occasionally low in her spirits, until I think she began to weary Mr.
James by giving way to her low spirits and tempers of that kind; and
things were not so comfortable. Mr. James he began to be restless again.
The more restless he got, the worse she got; and I must say, for myself,
that I had a very difficult time of it indeed between the two. Still
matters were patched up here, and made good there, over and over again;
and altogether lasted, I am sure, for a longer time than anybody could
have expected.’

Recalling her eyes from the distance, she looked at me again now, with
her former air. Mr. Littimer, clearing his throat behind his hand with a
respectable short cough, changed legs, and went on:

‘At last, when there had been, upon the whole, a good many words and
reproaches, Mr. James he set off one morning, from the neighbourhood of
Naples, where we had a villa (the young woman being very partial to
the sea), and, under pretence of coming back in a day or so, left it in
charge with me to break it out, that, for the general happiness of all
concerned, he was’--here an interruption of the short cough--‘gone. But
Mr. James, I must say, certainly did behave extremely honourable; for
he proposed that the young woman should marry a very respectable person,
who was fully prepared to overlook the past, and who was, at least, as
good as anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regular way:
her connexions being very common.’

He changed legs again, and wetted his lips. I was convinced that the
scoundrel spoke of himself, and I saw my conviction reflected in Miss
Dartle’s face.

‘This I also had it in charge to communicate. I was willing to do
anything to relieve Mr. James from his difficulty, and to restore
harmony between himself and an affectionate parent, who has undergone
so much on his account. Therefore I undertook the commission. The
young woman’s violence when she came to, after I broke the fact of his
departure, was beyond all expectations. She was quite mad, and had to
be held by force; or, if she couldn’t have got to a knife, or got to the
sea, she’d have beaten her head against the marble floor.’

Miss Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of exultation in
her face, seemed almost to caress the sounds this fellow had uttered.

‘But when I came to the second part of what had been entrusted to me,’
said Mr. Littimer, rubbing his hands uneasily, ‘which anybody might
have supposed would have been, at all events, appreciated as a kind
intention, then the young woman came out in her true colours. A more
outrageous person I never did see. Her conduct was surprisingly bad. She
had no more gratitude, no more feeling, no more patience, no more reason
in her, than a stock or a stone. If I hadn’t been upon my guard, I am
convinced she would have had my blood.’

‘I think the better of her for it,’ said I, indignantly.

Mr. Littimer bent his head, as much as to say, ‘Indeed, sir? But you’re
young!’ and resumed his narrative.

‘It was necessary, in short, for a time, to take away everything nigh
her, that she could do herself, or anybody else, an injury with, and
to shut her up close. Notwithstanding which, she got out in the night;
forced the lattice of a window, that I had nailed up myself; dropped on
a vine that was trailed below; and never has been seen or heard of, to
my knowledge, since.’

‘She is dead, perhaps,’ said Miss Dartle, with a smile, as if she could
have spurned the body of the ruined girl.

‘She may have drowned herself, miss,’ returned Mr. Littimer, catching at
an excuse for addressing himself to somebody. ‘It’s very possible. Or,
she may have had assistance from the boatmen, and the boatmen’s wives
and children. Being given to low company, she was very much in the
habit of talking to them on the beach, Miss Dartle, and sitting by their
boats. I have known her do it, when Mr. James has been away, whole days.
Mr. James was far from pleased to find out, once, that she had told the
children she was a boatman’s daughter, and that in her own country, long
ago, she had roamed about the beach, like them.’

Oh, Emily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before me of her sitting
on the far-off shore, among the children like herself when she was
innocent, listening to little voices such as might have called her
Mother had she been a poor man’s wife; and to the great voice of the
sea, with its eternal ‘Never more!’

‘When it was clear that nothing could be done, Miss Dartle--’

‘Did I tell you not to speak to me?’ she said, with stern contempt.

‘You spoke to me, miss,’ he replied. ‘I beg your pardon. But it is my
service to obey.’

‘Do your service,’ she returned. ‘Finish your story, and go!’

‘When it was clear,’ he said, with infinite respectability and an
obedient bow, ‘that she was not to be found, I went to Mr. James, at the
place where it had been agreed that I should write to him, and informed
him of what had occurred. Words passed between us in consequence, and
I felt it due to my character to leave him. I could bear, and I have
borne, a great deal from Mr. James; but he insulted me too far. He hurt
me. Knowing the unfortunate difference between himself and his mother,
and what her anxiety of mind was likely to be, I took the liberty of
coming home to England, and relating--’

‘For money which I paid him,’ said Miss Dartle to me.

‘Just so, ma’am--and relating what I knew. I am not aware,’ said Mr.
Littimer, after a moment’s reflection, ‘that there is anything else.
I am at present out of employment, and should be happy to meet with a
respectable situation.’

Miss Dartle glanced at me, as though she would inquire if there were
anything that I desired to ask. As there was something which had
occurred to my mind, I said in reply:

‘I could wish to know from this--creature,’ I could not bring myself
to utter any more conciliatory word, ‘whether they intercepted a letter
that was written to her from home, or whether he supposes that she
received it.’

He remained calm and silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and the
tip of every finger of his right hand delicately poised against the tip
of every finger of his left.

Miss Dartle turned her head disdainfully towards him.

‘I beg your pardon, miss,’ he said, awakening from his abstraction,
‘but, however submissive to you, I have my position, though a servant.
Mr. Copperfield and you, miss, are different people. If Mr. Copperfield
wishes to know anything from me, I take the liberty of reminding Mr.
Copperfield that he can put a question to me. I have a character to
maintain.’

After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my eyes upon him, and
said, ‘You have heard my question. Consider it addressed to yourself, if
you choose. What answer do you make?’

‘Sir,’ he rejoined, with an occasional separation and reunion of those
delicate tips, ‘my answer must be qualified; because, to betray Mr.
James’s confidence to his mother, and to betray it to you, are two
different actions. It is not probable, I consider, that Mr. James would
encourage the receipt of letters likely to increase low spirits and
unpleasantness; but further than that, sir, I should wish to avoid
going.’

‘Is that all?’ inquired Miss Dartle of me.

I indicated that I had nothing more to say. ‘Except,’ I added, as I
saw him moving off, ‘that I understand this fellow’s part in the wicked
story, and that, as I shall make it known to the honest man who has been
her father from her childhood, I would recommend him to avoid going too
much into public.’

He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened with his usual
repose of manner.

‘Thank you, sir. But you’ll excuse me if I say, sir, that there are
neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country, and that people are
not allowed to take the law into their own hands. If they do, it is
more to their own peril, I believe, than to other people’s. Consequently
speaking, I am not at all afraid of going wherever I may wish, sir.’

With that, he made a polite bow; and, with another to Miss Dartle, went
away through the arch in the wall of holly by which he had come. Miss
Dartle and I regarded each other for a little while in silence; her
manner being exactly what it was, when she had produced the man.

‘He says besides,’ she observed, with a slow curling of her lip, ‘that
his master, as he hears, is coasting Spain; and this done, is away
to gratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary. But this is of no
interest to you. Between these two proud persons, mother and son, there
is a wider breach than before, and little hope of its healing, for they
are one at heart, and time makes each more obstinate and imperious.
Neither is this of any interest to you; but it introduces what I wish to
say. This devil whom you make an angel of. I mean this low girl whom he
picked out of the tide-mud,’ with her black eyes full upon me, and her
passionate finger up, ‘may be alive,--for I believe some common things
are hard to die. If she is, you will desire to have a pearl of such
price found and taken care of. We desire that, too; that he may not
by any chance be made her prey again. So far, we are united in one
interest; and that is why I, who would do her any mischief that so
coarse a wretch is capable of feeling, have sent for you to hear what
you have heard.’

I saw, by the change in her face, that someone was advancing behind me.
It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me her hand more coldly than of yore,
and with an augmentation of her former stateliness of manner, but still,
I perceived--and I was touched by it--with an ineffaceable remembrance
of my old love for her son. She was greatly altered. Her fine figure was
far less upright, her handsome face was deeply marked, and her hair was
almost white. But when she sat down on the seat, she was a handsome lady
still; and well I knew the bright eye with its lofty look, that had been
a light in my very dreams at school.

‘Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everything, Rosa?’

‘Yes.’

‘And has he heard Littimer himself?’

‘Yes; I have told him why you wished it.’ ‘You are a good girl. I have
had some slight correspondence with your former friend, sir,’ addressing
me, ‘but it has not restored his sense of duty or natural obligation.
Therefore I have no other object in this, than what Rosa has mentioned.
If, by the course which may relieve the mind of the decent man you
brought here (for whom I am sorry--I can say no more), my son may be
saved from again falling into the snares of a designing enemy, well!’

She drew herself up, and sat looking straight before her, far away.

‘Madam,’ I said respectfully, ‘I understand. I assure you I am in no
danger of putting any strained construction on your motives. But I must
say, even to you, having known this injured family from childhood,
that if you suppose the girl, so deeply wronged, has not been cruelly
deluded, and would not rather die a hundred deaths than take a cup of
water from your son’s hand now, you cherish a terrible mistake.’

‘Well, Rosa, well!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other was about to
interpose, ‘it is no matter. Let it be. You are married, sir, I am
told?’

I answered that I had been some time married.

‘And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I lead, but I
understand you are beginning to be famous.’

‘I have been very fortunate,’ I said, ‘and find my name connected with
some praise.’

‘You have no mother?’--in a softened voice.

‘No.’

‘It is a pity,’ she returned. ‘She would have been proud of you. Good
night!’

I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending air, and it
was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at peace. Her pride could
still its very pulses, it appeared, and draw the placid veil before
her face, through which she sat looking straight before her on the far
distance.

As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could not help observing
how steadily they both sat gazing on the prospect, and how it thickened
and closed around them. Here and there, some early lamps were seen to
twinkle in the distant city; and in the eastern quarter of the sky
the lurid light still hovered. But, from the greater part of the broad
valley interposed, a mist was rising like a sea, which, mingling with
the darkness, made it seem as if the gathering waters would encompass
them. I have reason to remember this, and think of it with awe; for
before I looked upon those two again, a stormy sea had risen to their
feet.

Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right that it should
be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the following evening I went into
London in quest of him. He was always wandering about from place to
place, with his one object of recovering his niece before him; but was
more in London than elsewhere. Often and often, now, had I seen him in
the dead of night passing along the streets, searching, among the few
who loitered out of doors at those untimely hours, for what he dreaded
to find.

He kept a lodging over the little chandler’s shop in Hungerford Market,
which I have had occasion to mention more than once, and from which he
first went forth upon his errand of mercy. Hither I directed my walk. On
making inquiry for him, I learned from the people of the house that he
had not gone out yet, and I should find him in his room upstairs.

He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a few plants. The
room was very neat and orderly. I saw in a moment that it was always
kept prepared for her reception, and that he never went out but he
thought it possible he might bring her home. He had not heard my tap
at the door, and only raised his eyes when I laid my hand upon his
shoulder.

‘Mas’r Davy! Thankee, sir! thankee hearty, for this visit! Sit ye down.
You’re kindly welcome, sir!’

‘Mr. Peggotty,’ said I, taking the chair he handed me, ‘don’t expect
much! I have heard some news.’

‘Of Em’ly!’

He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on his mouth, and turned pale, as
he fixed his eyes on mine.

‘It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.’

He sat down, looking intently at me, and listened in profound silence
to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense of dignity, beauty even,
with which the patient gravity of his face impressed me, when, having
gradually removed his eyes from mine, he sat looking downward, leaning
his forehead on his hand. He offered no interruption, but remained
throughout perfectly still. He seemed to pursue her figure through
the narrative, and to let every other shape go by him, as if it were
nothing.

When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued silent. I looked out
of the window for a little while, and occupied myself with the plants.

‘How do you fare to feel about it, Mas’r Davy?’ he inquired at length.

‘I think that she is living,’ I replied.

‘I doen’t know. Maybe the first shock was too rough, and in the wildness
of her art--! That there blue water as she used to speak on. Could she
have thowt o’ that so many year, because it was to be her grave!’

He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice; and walked across the
little room.

‘And yet,’ he added, ‘Mas’r Davy, I have felt so sure as she was
living--I have know’d, awake and sleeping, as it was so trew that I
should find her--I have been so led on by it, and held up by it--that I
doen’t believe I can have been deceived. No! Em’ly’s alive!’

He put his hand down firmly on the table, and set his sunburnt face into
a resolute expression.

‘My niece, Em’ly, is alive, sir!’ he said, steadfastly. ‘I doen’t know
wheer it comes from, or how ‘tis, but I am told as she’s alive!’

He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I waited for a
few moments, until he could give me his undivided attention; and then
proceeded to explain the precaution, that, it had occurred to me last
night, it would be wise to take.

‘Now, my dear friend--‘I began.

‘Thankee, thankee, kind sir,’ he said, grasping my hand in both of his.

‘If she should make her way to London, which is likely--for where could
she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what would she
wish to do, but lose and hide herself, if she does not go home?--’

‘And she won’t go home,’ he interposed, shaking his head mournfully. ‘If
she had left of her own accord, she might; not as It was, sir.’

‘If she should come here,’ said I, ‘I believe there is one person,
here, more likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do
you remember--hear what I say, with fortitude--think of your great
object!--do you remember Martha?’

‘Of our town?’

I needed no other answer than his face.

‘Do you know that she is in London?’

‘I have seen her in the streets,’ he answered, with a shiver.

‘But you don’t know,’ said I, ‘that Emily was charitable to her, with
Ham’s help, long before she fled from home. Nor, that, when we met one
night, and spoke together in the room yonder, over the way, she listened
at the door.’

‘Mas’r Davy!’ he replied in astonishment. ‘That night when it snew so
hard?’

‘That night. I have never seen her since. I went back, after parting
from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I was unwilling to mention
her to you then, and I am now; but she is the person of whom I speak,
and with whom I think we should communicate. Do you understand?’

‘Too well, sir,’ he replied. We had sunk our voices, almost to a
whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.

‘You say you have seen her. Do you think that you could find her? I
could only hope to do so by chance.’

‘I think, Mas’r Davy, I know wheer to look.’

‘It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try to find her
tonight?’

He assented, and prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to observe
what he was doing, I saw how carefully he adjusted the little room,
put a candle ready and the means of lighting it, arranged the bed, and
finally took out of a drawer one of her dresses (I remember to have
seen her wear it), neatly folded with some other garments, and a bonnet,
which he placed upon a chair. He made no allusion to these clothes,
neither did I. There they had been waiting for her, many and many a
night, no doubt.

‘The time was, Mas’r Davy,’ he said, as we came downstairs, ‘when I
thowt this girl, Martha, a’most like the dirt underneath my Em’ly’s
feet. God forgive me, theer’s a difference now!’

As we went along, partly to hold him in conversation, and partly to
satisfy myself, I asked him about Ham. He said, almost in the same words
as formerly, that Ham was just the same, ‘wearing away his life with
kiender no care nohow for ‘t; but never murmuring, and liked by all’.

I asked him what he thought Ham’s state of mind was, in reference to the
cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was dangerous? What
he supposed, for example, Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should
encounter?

‘I doen’t know, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have thowt of it oftentimes, but I
can’t awize myself of it, no matters.’

I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departure, when we
were all three on the beach. ‘Do you recollect,’ said I, ‘a certain wild
way in which he looked out to sea, and spoke about “the end of it”?’

‘Sure I do!’ said he.

‘What do you suppose he meant?’

‘Mas’r Davy,’ he replied, ‘I’ve put the question to myself a mort o’
times, and never found no answer. And theer’s one curious thing--that,
though he is so pleasant, I wouldn’t fare to feel comfortable to try and
get his mind upon ‘t. He never said a wured to me as warn’t as dootiful
as dootiful could be, and it ain’t likely as he’d begin to speak any
other ways now; but it’s fur from being fleet water in his mind, where
them thowts lays. It’s deep, sir, and I can’t see down.’

‘You are right,’ said I, ‘and that has sometimes made me anxious.’

‘And me too, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined. ‘Even more so, I do assure you,
than his ventersome ways, though both belongs to the alteration in him.
I doen’t know as he’d do violence under any circumstances, but I hope as
them two may be kep asunders.’

We had come, through Temple Bar, into the city. Conversing no more now,
and walking at my side, he yielded himself up to the one aim of his
devoted life, and went on, with that hushed concentration of his
faculties which would have made his figure solitary in a multitude.
We were not far from Blackfriars Bridge, when he turned his head and
pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the opposite side of
the street. I knew it, readily, to be the figure that we sought.

We crossed the road, and were pressing on towards her, when it occurred
to me that she might be more disposed to feel a woman’s interest in the
lost girl, if we spoke to her in a quieter place, aloof from the crowd,
and where we should be less observed. I advised my companion, therefore,
that we should not address her yet, but follow her; consulting in this,
likewise, an indistinct desire I had, to know where she went.

He acquiescing, we followed at a distance: never losing sight of her,
but never caring to come very near, as she frequently looked about.
Once, she stopped to listen to a band of music; and then we stopped too.

She went on a long way. Still we went on. It was evident, from the
manner in which she held her course, that she was going to some fixed
destination; and this, and her keeping in the busy streets, and I
suppose the strange fascination in the secrecy and mystery of so
following anyone, made me adhere to my first purpose. At length she
turned into a dull, dark street, where the noise and crowd were lost;
and I said, ‘We may speak to her now’; and, mending our pace, we went
after her.


CHAPTER 47. MARTHA


We were now down in Westminster. We had turned back to follow her,
having encountered her coming towards us; and Westminster Abbey was
the point at which she passed from the lights and noise of the leading
streets. She proceeded so quickly, when she got free of the two currents
of passengers setting towards and from the bridge, that, between this
and the advance she had of us when she struck off, we were in the narrow
water-side street by Millbank before we came up with her. At that moment
she crossed the road, as if to avoid the footsteps that she heard so
close behind; and, without looking back, passed on even more rapidly.

A glimpse of the river through a dull gateway, where some waggons were
housed for the night, seemed to arrest my feet. I touched my companion
without speaking, and we both forbore to cross after her, and both
followed on that opposite side of the way; keeping as quietly as we
could in the shadow of the houses, but keeping very near her.

There was, and is when I write, at the end of that low-lying street,
a dilapidated little wooden building, probably an obsolete old
ferry-house. Its position is just at that point where the street ceases,
and the road begins to lie between a row of houses and the river. As
soon as she came here, and saw the water, she stopped as if she had come
to her destination; and presently went slowly along by the brink of the
river, looking intently at it.

All the way here, I had supposed that she was going to some house;
indeed, I had vaguely entertained the hope that the house might be in
some way associated with the lost girl. But that one dark glimpse of the
river, through the gateway, had instinctively prepared me for her going
no farther.

The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as oppressive, sad, and
solitary by night, as any about London. There were neither wharves nor
houses on the melancholy waste of road near the great blank Prison. A
sluggish ditch deposited its mud at the prison walls. Coarse grass and
rank weeds straggled over all the marshy land in the vicinity. In one
part, carcases of houses, inauspiciously begun and never finished,
rotted away. In another, the ground was cumbered with rusty iron
monsters of steam-boilers, wheels, cranks, pipes, furnaces, paddles,
anchors, diving-bells, windmill-sails, and I know not what strange
objects, accumulated by some speculator, and grovelling in the dust,
underneath which--having sunk into the soil of their own weight in wet
weather--they had the appearance of vainly trying to hide themselves.
The clash and glare of sundry fiery Works upon the river-side, arose
by night to disturb everything except the heavy and unbroken smoke that
poured out of their chimneys. Slimy gaps and causeways, winding among
old wooden piles, with a sickly substance clinging to the latter, like
green hair, and the rags of last year’s handbills offering rewards for
drowned men fluttering above high-water mark, led down through the ooze
and slush to the ebb-tide. There was a story that one of the pits
dug for the dead in the time of the Great Plague was hereabout; and
a blighting influence seemed to have proceeded from it over the whole
place. Or else it looked as if it had gradually decomposed into that
nightmare condition, out of the overflowings of the polluted stream.

As if she were a part of the refuse it had cast out, and left to
corruption and decay, the girl we had followed strayed down to the
river’s brink, and stood in the midst of this night-picture, lonely and
still, looking at the water.

There were some boats and barges astrand in the mud, and these enabled
us to come within a few yards of her without being seen. I then signed
to Mr. Peggotty to remain where he was, and emerged from their shade to
speak to her. I did not approach her solitary figure without trembling;
for this gloomy end to her determined walk, and the way in which she
stood, almost within the cavernous shadow of the iron bridge, looking
at the lights crookedly reflected in the strong tide, inspired a dread
within me.

I think she was talking to herself. I am sure, although absorbed in
gazing at the water, that her shawl was off her shoulders, and that she
was muffling her hands in it, in an unsettled and bewildered way, more
like the action of a sleep-walker than a waking person. I know, and
never can forget, that there was that in her wild manner which gave me
no assurance but that she would sink before my eyes, until I had her arm
within my grasp.

At the same moment I said ‘Martha!’

She uttered a terrified scream, and struggled with me with such strength
that I doubt if I could have held her alone. But a stronger hand than
mine was laid upon her; and when she raised her frightened eyes and saw
whose it was, she made but one more effort and dropped down between us.
We carried her away from the water to where there were some dry stones,
and there laid her down, crying and moaning. In a little while she sat
among the stones, holding her wretched head with both her hands.

‘Oh, the river!’ she cried passionately. ‘Oh, the river!’

‘Hush, hush!’ said I. ‘Calm yourself.’

But she still repeated the same words, continually exclaiming, ‘Oh, the
river!’ over and over again.

‘I know it’s like me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know that I belong to it.
I know that it’s the natural company of such as I am! It comes from
country places, where there was once no harm in it--and it creeps
through the dismal streets, defiled and miserable--and it goes away,
like my life, to a great sea, that is always troubled--and I feel that
I must go with it!’ I have never known what despair was, except in the
tone of those words.

‘I can’t keep away from it. I can’t forget it. It haunts me day and
night. It’s the only thing in all the world that I am fit for, or that’s
fit for me. Oh, the dreadful river!’

The thought passed through my mind that in the face of my companion,
as he looked upon her without speech or motion, I might have read his
niece’s history, if I had known nothing of it. I never saw, in any
painting or reality, horror and compassion so impressively blended. He
shook as if he would have fallen; and his hand--I touched it with my
own, for his appearance alarmed me--was deadly cold.

‘She is in a state of frenzy,’ I whispered to him. ‘She will speak
differently in a little time.’

I don’t know what he would have said in answer. He made some motion with
his mouth, and seemed to think he had spoken; but he had only pointed to
her with his outstretched hand.

A new burst of crying came upon her now, in which she once more hid
her face among the stones, and lay before us, a prostrate image of
humiliation and ruin. Knowing that this state must pass, before we could
speak to her with any hope, I ventured to restrain him when he would
have raised her, and we stood by in silence until she became more
tranquil.

‘Martha,’ said I then, leaning down, and helping her to rise--she seemed
to want to rise as if with the intention of going away, but she was
weak, and leaned against a boat. ‘Do you know who this is, who is with
me?’

She said faintly, ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know that we have followed you a long way tonight?’

She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at me, but stood in
a humble attitude, holding her bonnet and shawl in one hand, without
appearing conscious of them, and pressing the other, clenched, against
her forehead.

‘Are you composed enough,’ said I, ‘to speak on the subject which so
interested you--I hope Heaven may remember it!--that snowy night?’

Her sobs broke out afresh, and she murmured some inarticulate thanks to
me for not having driven her away from the door.

‘I want to say nothing for myself,’ she said, after a few moments. ‘I
am bad, I am lost. I have no hope at all. But tell him, sir,’ she had
shrunk away from him, ‘if you don’t feel too hard to me to do it, that
I never was in any way the cause of his misfortune.’ ‘It has never been
attributed to you,’ I returned, earnestly responding to her earnestness.

‘It was you, if I don’t deceive myself,’ she said, in a broken voice,
‘that came into the kitchen, the night she took such pity on me; was so
gentle to me; didn’t shrink away from me like all the rest, and gave me
such kind help! Was it you, sir?’

‘It was,’ said I.

‘I should have been in the river long ago,’ she said, glancing at it
with a terrible expression, ‘if any wrong to her had been upon my mind.
I never could have kept out of it a single winter’s night, if I had not
been free of any share in that!’

‘The cause of her flight is too well understood,’ I said. ‘You are
innocent of any part in it, we thoroughly believe,--we know.’

‘Oh, I might have been much the better for her, if I had had a better
heart!’ exclaimed the girl, with most forlorn regret; ‘for she was
always good to me! She never spoke a word to me but what was pleasant
and right. Is it likely I would try to make her what I am myself,
knowing what I am myself, so well? When I lost everything that makes
life dear, the worst of all my thoughts was that I was parted for ever
from her!’

Mr. Peggotty, standing with one hand on the gunwale of the boat, and his
eyes cast down, put his disengaged hand before his face.

‘And when I heard what had happened before that snowy night, from some
belonging to our town,’ cried Martha, ‘the bitterest thought in all my
mind was, that the people would remember she once kept company with me,
and would say I had corrupted her! When, Heaven knows, I would have died
to have brought back her good name!’

Long unused to any self-control, the piercing agony of her remorse and
grief was terrible.

‘To have died, would not have been much--what can I say?---I would
have lived!’ she cried. ‘I would have lived to be old, in the wretched
streets--and to wander about, avoided, in the dark--and to see the day
break on the ghastly line of houses, and remember how the same sun used
to shine into my room, and wake me once--I would have done even that, to
save her!’

Sinking on the stones, she took some in each hand, and clenched them
up, as if she would have ground them. She writhed into some new posture
constantly: stiffening her arms, twisting them before her face, as
though to shut out from her eyes the little light there was, and
drooping her head, as if it were heavy with insupportable recollections.

‘What shall I ever do!’ she said, fighting thus with her despair. ‘How
can I go on as I am, a solitary curse to myself, a living disgrace to
everyone I come near!’ Suddenly she turned to my companion. ‘Stamp upon
me, kill me! When she was your pride, you would have thought I had
done her harm if I had brushed against her in the street. You can’t
believe--why should you?---a syllable that comes out of my lips. It
would be a burning shame upon you, even now, if she and I exchanged a
word. I don’t complain. I don’t say she and I are alike--I know there
is a long, long way between us. I only say, with all my guilt and
wretchedness upon my head, that I am grateful to her from my soul, and
love her. Oh, don’t think that all the power I had of loving anything is
quite worn out! Throw me away, as all the world does. Kill me for being
what I am, and having ever known her; but don’t think that of me!’

He looked upon her, while she made this supplication, in a wild
distracted manner; and, when she was silent, gently raised her.

‘Martha,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘God forbid as I should judge you. Forbid
as I, of all men, should do that, my girl! You doen’t know half the
change that’s come, in course of time, upon me, when you think it
likely. Well!’ he paused a moment, then went on. ‘You doen’t understand
how ‘tis that this here gentleman and me has wished to speak to you. You
doen’t understand what ‘tis we has afore us. Listen now!’

His influence upon her was complete. She stood, shrinkingly, before him,
as if she were afraid to meet his eyes; but her passionate sorrow was
quite hushed and mute.

‘If you heerd,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘owt of what passed between Mas’r
Davy and me, th’ night when it snew so hard, you know as I have
been--wheer not--fur to seek my dear niece. My dear niece,’ he repeated
steadily. ‘Fur she’s more dear to me now, Martha, than she was dear
afore.’

She put her hands before her face; but otherwise remained quiet.

‘I have heerd her tell,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘as you was early left
fatherless and motherless, with no friend fur to take, in a rough
seafaring-way, their place. Maybe you can guess that if you’d had such
a friend, you’d have got into a way of being fond of him in course of
time, and that my niece was kiender daughter-like to me.’

As she was silently trembling, he put her shawl carefully about her,
taking it up from the ground for that purpose.

‘Whereby,’ said he, ‘I know, both as she would go to the wureld’s
furdest end with me, if she could once see me again; and that she would
fly to the wureld’s furdest end to keep off seeing me. For though she
ain’t no call to doubt my love, and doen’t--and doen’t,’ he repeated,
with a quiet assurance of the truth of what he said, ‘there’s shame
steps in, and keeps betwixt us.’

I read, in every word of his plain impressive way of delivering himself,
new evidence of his having thought of this one topic, in every feature
it presented.

‘According to our reckoning,’ he proceeded, ‘Mas’r Davy’s here, and
mine, she is like, one day, to make her own poor solitary course to
London. We believe--Mas’r Davy, me, and all of us--that you are as
innocent of everything that has befell her, as the unborn child. You’ve
spoke of her being pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her, I knew
she was! I knew she always was, to all. You’re thankful to her, and you
love her. Help us all you can to find her, and may Heaven reward you!’

She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she were
doubtful of what he had said.

‘Will you trust me?’ she asked, in a low voice of astonishment.

‘Full and free!’ said Mr. Peggotty.

‘To speak to her, if I should ever find her; shelter her, if I have any
shelter to divide with her; and then, without her knowledge, come to
you, and bring you to her?’ she asked hurriedly.

We both replied together, ‘Yes!’

She lifted up her eyes, and solemnly declared that she would devote
herself to this task, fervently and faithfully. That she would never
waver in it, never be diverted from it, never relinquish it, while there
was any chance of hope. If she were not true to it, might the object
she now had in life, which bound her to something devoid of evil, in its
passing away from her, leave her more forlorn and more despairing, if
that were possible, than she had been upon the river’s brink that night;
and then might all help, human and Divine, renounce her evermore!

She did not raise her voice above her breath, or address us, but said
this to the night sky; then stood profoundly quiet, looking at the
gloomy water.

We judged it expedient, now, to tell her all we knew; which I recounted
at length. She listened with great attention, and with a face that often
changed, but had the same purpose in all its varying expressions. Her
eyes occasionally filled with tears, but those she repressed. It seemed
as if her spirit were quite altered, and she could not be too quiet.

She asked, when all was told, where we were to be communicated with, if
occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the road, I wrote our two
addresses on a leaf of my pocket-book, which I tore out and gave to
her, and which she put in her poor bosom. I asked her where she lived
herself. She said, after a pause, in no place long. It were better not
to know.

Mr. Peggotty suggesting to me, in a whisper, what had already occurred
to myself, I took out my purse; but I could not prevail upon her to
accept any money, nor could I exact any promise from her that she would
do so at another time. I represented to her that Mr. Peggotty could
not be called, for one in his condition, poor; and that the idea of her
engaging in this search, while depending on her own resources, shocked
us both. She continued steadfast. In this particular, his influence
upon her was equally powerless with mine. She gratefully thanked him but
remained inexorable.

‘There may be work to be got,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’

‘At least take some assistance,’ I returned, ‘until you have tried.’

‘I could not do what I have promised, for money,’ she replied. ‘I could
not take it, if I was starving. To give me money would be to take away
your trust, to take away the object that you have given me, to take away
the only certain thing that saves me from the river.’

‘In the name of the great judge,’ said I, ‘before whom you and all of us
must stand at His dread time, dismiss that terrible idea! We can all do
some good, if we will.’

She trembled, and her lip shook, and her face was paler, as she
answered:

‘It has been put into your hearts, perhaps, to save a wretched creature
for repentance. I am afraid to think so; it seems too bold. If any good
should come of me, I might begin to hope; for nothing but harm has ever
come of my deeds yet. I am to be trusted, for the first time in a long
while, with my miserable life, on account of what you have given me to
try for. I know no more, and I can say no more.’

Again she repressed the tears that had begun to flow; and, putting out
her trembling hand, and touching Mr. Peggotty, as if there was some
healing virtue in him, went away along the desolate road. She had been
ill, probably for a long time. I observed, upon that closer opportunity
of observation, that she was worn and haggard, and that her sunken eyes
expressed privation and endurance.

We followed her at a short distance, our way lying in the same
direction, until we came back into the lighted and populous streets. I
had such implicit confidence in her declaration, that I then put it to
Mr. Peggotty, whether it would not seem, in the onset, like distrusting
her, to follow her any farther. He being of the same mind, and equally
reliant on her, we suffered her to take her own road, and took ours,
which was towards Highgate. He accompanied me a good part of the way;
and when we parted, with a prayer for the success of this fresh effort,
there was a new and thoughtful compassion in him that I was at no loss
to interpret.

It was midnight when I arrived at home. I had reached my own gate, and
was standing listening for the deep bell of St. Paul’s, the sound
of which I thought had been borne towards me among the multitude of
striking clocks, when I was rather surprised to see that the door of my
aunt’s cottage was open, and that a faint light in the entry was shining
out across the road.

Thinking that my aunt might have relapsed into one of her old alarms,
and might be watching the progress of some imaginary conflagration in
the distance, I went to speak to her. It was with very great surprise
that I saw a man standing in her little garden.

He had a glass and bottle in his hand, and was in the act of drinking. I
stopped short, among the thick foliage outside, for the moon was up now,
though obscured; and I recognized the man whom I had once supposed to be
a delusion of Mr. Dick’s, and had once encountered with my aunt in the
streets of the city.

He was eating as well as drinking, and seemed to eat with a hungry
appetite. He seemed curious regarding the cottage, too, as if it were
the first time he had seen it. After stooping to put the bottle on the
ground, he looked up at the windows, and looked about; though with a
covert and impatient air, as if he was anxious to be gone.

The light in the passage was obscured for a moment, and my aunt came
out. She was agitated, and told some money into his hand. I heard it
chink.

‘What’s the use of this?’ he demanded.

‘I can spare no more,’ returned my aunt.

‘Then I can’t go,’ said he. ‘Here! You may take it back!’

‘You bad man,’ returned my aunt, with great emotion; ‘how can you use me
so? But why do I ask? It is because you know how weak I am! What have
I to do, to free myself for ever of your visits, but to abandon you to
your deserts?’

‘And why don’t you abandon me to my deserts?’ said he.

‘You ask me why!’ returned my aunt. ‘What a heart you must have!’

He stood moodily rattling the money, and shaking his head, until at
length he said:

‘Is this all you mean to give me, then?’

‘It is all I CAN give you,’ said my aunt. ‘You know I have had losses,
and am poorer than I used to be. I have told you so. Having got it, why
do you give me the pain of looking at you for another moment, and seeing
what you have become?’

‘I have become shabby enough, if you mean that,’ he said. ‘I lead the
life of an owl.’

‘You stripped me of the greater part of all I ever had,’ said my aunt.
‘You closed my heart against the whole world, years and years. You
treated me falsely, ungratefully, and cruelly. Go, and repent of it.
Don’t add new injuries to the long, long list of injuries you have done
me!’

‘Aye!’ he returned. ‘It’s all very fine--Well! I must do the best I can,
for the present, I suppose.’

In spite of himself, he appeared abashed by my aunt’s indignant tears,
and came slouching out of the garden. Taking two or three quick steps,
as if I had just come up, I met him at the gate, and went in as he came
out. We eyed one another narrowly in passing, and with no favour.

‘Aunt,’ said I, hurriedly. ‘This man alarming you again! Let me speak to
him. Who is he?’

‘Child,’ returned my aunt, taking my arm, ‘come in, and don’t speak to
me for ten minutes.’

We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind the round
green fan of former days, which was screwed on the back of a chair, and
occasionally wiped her eyes, for about a quarter of an hour. Then she
came out, and took a seat beside me.

‘Trot,’ said my aunt, calmly, ‘it’s my husband.’

‘Your husband, aunt? I thought he had been dead!’

‘Dead to me,’ returned my aunt, ‘but living.’

I sat in silent amazement.

‘Betsey Trotwood don’t look a likely subject for the tender passion,’
said my aunt, composedly, ‘but the time was, Trot, when she believed in
that man most entirely. When she loved him, Trot, right well. When there
was no proof of attachment and affection that she would not have given
him. He repaid her by breaking her fortune, and nearly breaking her
heart. So she put all that sort of sentiment, once and for ever, in a
grave, and filled it up, and flattened it down.’

‘My dear, good aunt!’

‘I left him,’ my aunt proceeded, laying her hand as usual on the back of
mine, ‘generously. I may say at this distance of time, Trot, that I left
him generously. He had been so cruel to me, that I might have effected
a separation on easy terms for myself; but I did not. He soon made ducks
and drakes of what I gave him, sank lower and lower, married another
woman, I believe, became an adventurer, a gambler, and a cheat. What he
is now, you see. But he was a fine-looking man when I married him,’ said
my aunt, with an echo of her old pride and admiration in her tone; ‘and
I believed him--I was a fool!--to be the soul of honour!’

She gave my hand a squeeze, and shook her head.

‘He is nothing to me now, Trot--less than nothing. But, sooner than have
him punished for his offences (as he would be if he prowled about in
this country), I give him more money than I can afford, at intervals
when he reappears, to go away. I was a fool when I married him; and I am
so far an incurable fool on that subject, that, for the sake of what
I once believed him to be, I wouldn’t have even this shadow of my idle
fancy hardly dealt with. For I was in earnest, Trot, if ever a woman
was.’

My aunt dismissed the matter with a heavy sigh, and smoothed her dress.

‘There, my dear!’ she said. ‘Now you know the beginning, middle, and
end, and all about it. We won’t mention the subject to one another any
more; neither, of course, will you mention it to anybody else. This is
my grumpy, frumpy story, and we’ll keep it to ourselves, Trot!’



CHAPTER 48. DOMESTIC


I laboured hard at my book, without allowing it to interfere with the
punctual discharge of my newspaper duties; and it came out and was very
successful. I was not stunned by the praise which sounded in my ears,
notwithstanding that I was keenly alive to it, and thought better of
my own performance, I have little doubt, than anybody else did. It has
always been in my observation of human nature, that a man who has any
good reason to believe in himself never flourishes himself before the
faces of other people in order that they may believe in him. For this
reason, I retained my modesty in very self-respect; and the more praise
I got, the more I tried to deserve.

It is not my purpose, in this record, though in all other essentials
it is my written memory, to pursue the history of my own fictions. They
express themselves, and I leave them to themselves. When I refer to
them, incidentally, it is only as a part of my progress.

Having some foundation for believing, by this time, that nature and
accident had made me an author, I pursued my vocation with confidence.
Without such assurance I should certainly have left it alone, and
bestowed my energy on some other endeavour. I should have tried to find
out what nature and accident really had made me, and to be that, and
nothing else. I had been writing, in the newspaper and elsewhere, so
prosperously, that when my new success was achieved, I considered myself
reasonably entitled to escape from the dreary debates. One joyful night,
therefore, I noted down the music of the parliamentary bagpipes for the
last time, and I have never heard it since; though I still recognize the
old drone in the newspapers, without any substantial variation (except,
perhaps, that there is more of it), all the livelong session.

I now write of the time when I had been married, I suppose, about a year
and a half. After several varieties of experiment, we had given up the
housekeeping as a bad job. The house kept itself, and we kept a page.
The principal function of this retainer was to quarrel with the cook;
in which respect he was a perfect Whittington, without his cat, or the
remotest chance of being made Lord Mayor.

He appears to me to have lived in a hail of saucepan-lids. His whole
existence was a scuffle. He would shriek for help on the most improper
occasions,--as when we had a little dinner-party, or a few friends in
the evening,--and would come tumbling out of the kitchen, with iron
missiles flying after him. We wanted to get rid of him, but he was very
much attached to us, and wouldn’t go. He was a tearful boy, and broke
into such deplorable lamentations, when a cessation of our connexion
was hinted at, that we were obliged to keep him. He had no mother--no
anything in the way of a relative, that I could discover, except a
sister, who fled to America the moment we had taken him off her hands;
and he became quartered on us like a horrible young changeling. He had
a lively perception of his own unfortunate state, and was always rubbing
his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, or stooping to blow his nose on
the extreme corner of a little pocket-handkerchief, which he never would
take completely out of his pocket, but always economized and secreted.

This unlucky page, engaged in an evil hour at six pounds ten per annum,
was a source of continual trouble to me. I watched him as he grew--and
he grew like scarlet beans--with painful apprehensions of the time when
he would begin to shave; even of the days when he would be bald or grey.
I saw no prospect of ever getting rid of him; and, projecting myself
into the future, used to think what an inconvenience he would be when he
was an old man.

I never expected anything less, than this unfortunate’s manner of
getting me out of my difficulty. He stole Dora’s watch, which, like
everything else belonging to us, had no particular place of its own;
and, converting it into money, spent the produce (he was always a
weak-minded boy) in incessantly riding up and down between London and
Uxbridge outside the coach. He was taken to Bow Street, as well as
I remember, on the completion of his fifteenth journey; when
four-and-sixpence, and a second-hand fife which he couldn’t play, were
found upon his person.

The surprise and its consequences would have been much less disagreeable
to me if he had not been penitent. But he was very penitent indeed, and
in a peculiar way--not in the lump, but by instalments. For example:
the day after that on which I was obliged to appear against him, he made
certain revelations touching a hamper in the cellar, which we believed
to be full of wine, but which had nothing in it except bottles and
corks. We supposed he had now eased his mind, and told the worst he knew
of the cook; but, a day or two afterwards, his conscience sustained a
new twinge, and he disclosed how she had a little girl, who, early every
morning, took away our bread; and also how he himself had been suborned
to maintain the milkman in coals. In two or three days more, I was
informed by the authorities of his having led to the discovery of
sirloins of beef among the kitchen-stuff, and sheets in the rag-bag. A
little while afterwards, he broke out in an entirely new direction, and
confessed to a knowledge of burglarious intentions as to our premises,
on the part of the pot-boy, who was immediately taken up. I got to be so
ashamed of being such a victim, that I would have given him any money
to hold his tongue, or would have offered a round bribe for his being
permitted to run away. It was an aggravating circumstance in the case
that he had no idea of this, but conceived that he was making me amends
in every new discovery: not to say, heaping obligations on my head.

At last I ran away myself, whenever I saw an emissary of the police
approaching with some new intelligence; and lived a stealthy life until
he was tried and ordered to be transported. Even then he couldn’t be
quiet, but was always writing us letters; and wanted so much to see Dora
before he went away, that Dora went to visit him, and fainted when she
found herself inside the iron bars. In short, I had no peace of my life
until he was expatriated, and made (as I afterwards heard) a shepherd
of, ‘up the country’ somewhere; I have no geographical idea where.

All this led me into some serious reflections, and presented our
mistakes in a new aspect; as I could not help communicating to Dora one
evening, in spite of my tenderness for her.

‘My love,’ said I, ‘it is very painful to me to think that our want of
system and management, involves not only ourselves (which we have got
used to), but other people.’

‘You have been silent for a long time, and now you are going to be
cross!’ said Dora.

‘No, my dear, indeed! Let me explain to you what I mean.’

‘I think I don’t want to know,’ said Dora.

‘But I want you to know, my love. Put Jip down.’

Dora put his nose to mine, and said ‘Boh!’ to drive my seriousness away;
but, not succeeding, ordered him into his Pagoda, and sat looking at
me, with her hands folded, and a most resigned little expression of
countenance.

‘The fact is, my dear,’ I began, ‘there is contagion in us. We infect
everyone about us.’

I might have gone on in this figurative manner, if Dora’s face had not
admonished me that she was wondering with all her might whether I was
going to propose any new kind of vaccination, or other medical remedy,
for this unwholesome state of ours. Therefore I checked myself, and made
my meaning plainer.

‘It is not merely, my pet,’ said I, ‘that we lose money and comfort, and
even temper sometimes, by not learning to be more careful; but that we
incur the serious responsibility of spoiling everyone who comes into
our service, or has any dealings with us. I begin to be afraid that the
fault is not entirely on one side, but that these people all turn out
ill because we don’t turn out very well ourselves.’

‘Oh, what an accusation,’ exclaimed Dora, opening her eyes wide; ‘to say
that you ever saw me take gold watches! Oh!’

‘My dearest,’ I remonstrated, ‘don’t talk preposterous nonsense! Who has
made the least allusion to gold watches?’

‘You did,’ returned Dora. ‘You know you did. You said I hadn’t turned
out well, and compared me to him.’

‘To whom?’ I asked.

‘To the page,’ sobbed Dora. ‘Oh, you cruel fellow, to compare your
affectionate wife to a transported page! Why didn’t you tell me
your opinion of me before we were married? Why didn’t you say,
you hard-hearted thing, that you were convinced I was worse than a
transported page? Oh, what a dreadful opinion to have of me! Oh, my
goodness!’

‘Now, Dora, my love,’ I returned, gently trying to remove the
handkerchief she pressed to her eyes, ‘this is not only very ridiculous
of you, but very wrong. In the first place, it’s not true.’

‘You always said he was a story-teller,’ sobbed Dora. ‘And now you say
the same of me! Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!’

‘My darling girl,’ I retorted, ‘I really must entreat you to be
reasonable, and listen to what I did say, and do say. My dear Dora,
unless we learn to do our duty to those whom we employ, they will never
learn to do their duty to us. I am afraid we present opportunities to
people to do wrong, that never ought to be presented. Even if we were
as lax as we are, in all our arrangements, by choice--which we are
not--even if we liked it, and found it agreeable to be so--which we
don’t--I am persuaded we should have no right to go on in this way. We
are positively corrupting people. We are bound to think of that. I can’t
help thinking of it, Dora. It is a reflection I am unable to dismiss,
and it sometimes makes me very uneasy. There, dear, that’s all. Come
now. Don’t be foolish!’

Dora would not allow me, for a long time, to remove the handkerchief.
She sat sobbing and murmuring behind it, that, if I was uneasy, why had
I ever been married? Why hadn’t I said, even the day before we went to
church, that I knew I should be uneasy, and I would rather not? If I
couldn’t bear her, why didn’t I send her away to her aunts at Putney, or
to Julia Mills in India? Julia would be glad to see her, and would not
call her a transported page; Julia never had called her anything of the
sort. In short, Dora was so afflicted, and so afflicted me by being
in that condition, that I felt it was of no use repeating this kind of
effort, though never so mildly, and I must take some other course.

What other course was left to take? To ‘form her mind’? This was a
common phrase of words which had a fair and promising sound, and I
resolved to form Dora’s mind.

I began immediately. When Dora was very childish, and I would
have infinitely preferred to humour her, I tried to be grave--and
disconcerted her, and myself too. I talked to her on the subjects which
occupied my thoughts; and I read Shakespeare to her--and fatigued her
to the last degree. I accustomed myself to giving her, as it were quite
casually, little scraps of useful information, or sound opinion--and she
started from them when I let them off, as if they had been crackers.
No matter how incidentally or naturally I endeavoured to form my little
wife’s mind, I could not help seeing that she always had an instinctive
perception of what I was about, and became a prey to the keenest
apprehensions. In particular, it was clear to me, that she thought
Shakespeare a terrible fellow. The formation went on very slowly.

I pressed Traddles into the service without his knowledge; and whenever
he came to see us, exploded my mines upon him for the edification of
Dora at second hand. The amount of practical wisdom I bestowed upon
Traddles in this manner was immense, and of the best quality; but it
had no other effect upon Dora than to depress her spirits, and make her
always nervous with the dread that it would be her turn next. I found
myself in the condition of a schoolmaster, a trap, a pitfall; of always
playing spider to Dora’s fly, and always pouncing out of my hole to her
infinite disturbance.

Still, looking forward through this intermediate stage, to the time
when there should be a perfect sympathy between Dora and me, and when I
should have ‘formed her mind’ to my entire satisfaction, I persevered,
even for months. Finding at last, however, that, although I had been
all this time a very porcupine or hedgehog, bristling all over with
determination, I had effected nothing, it began to occur to me that
perhaps Dora’s mind was already formed.

On further consideration this appeared so likely, that I abandoned
my scheme, which had had a more promising appearance in words than in
action; resolving henceforth to be satisfied with my child-wife, and to
try to change her into nothing else by any process. I was heartily tired
of being sagacious and prudent by myself, and of seeing my darling under
restraint; so I bought a pretty pair of ear-rings for her, and a collar
for Jip, and went home one day to make myself agreeable.

Dora was delighted with the little presents, and kissed me joyfully; but
there was a shadow between us, however slight, and I had made up my mind
that it should not be there. If there must be such a shadow anywhere, I
would keep it for the future in my own breast.

I sat down by my wife on the sofa, and put the ear-rings in her ears;
and then I told her that I feared we had not been quite as good company
lately, as we used to be, and that the fault was mine. Which I sincerely
felt, and which indeed it was.

‘The truth is, Dora, my life,’ I said; ‘I have been trying to be wise.’

‘And to make me wise too,’ said Dora, timidly. ‘Haven’t you, Doady?’

I nodded assent to the pretty inquiry of the raised eyebrows, and kissed
the parted lips.

‘It’s of not a bit of use,’ said Dora, shaking her head, until the
ear-rings rang again. ‘You know what a little thing I am, and what I
wanted you to call me from the first. If you can’t do so, I am afraid
you’ll never like me. Are you sure you don’t think, sometimes, it would
have been better to have--’

‘Done what, my dear?’ For she made no effort to proceed.

‘Nothing!’ said Dora.

‘Nothing?’ I repeated.

She put her arms round my neck, and laughed, and called herself by her
favourite name of a goose, and hid her face on my shoulder in such a
profusion of curls that it was quite a task to clear them away and see
it.

‘Don’t I think it would have been better to have done nothing, than to
have tried to form my little wife’s mind?’ said I, laughing at myself.
‘Is that the question? Yes, indeed, I do.’

‘Is that what you have been trying?’ cried Dora. ‘Oh what a shocking
boy!’

‘But I shall never try any more,’ said I. ‘For I love her dearly as she
is.’

‘Without a story--really?’ inquired Dora, creeping closer to me.

‘Why should I seek to change,’ said I, ‘what has been so precious to me
for so long! You never can show better than as your own natural self, my
sweet Dora; and we’ll try no conceited experiments, but go back to our
old way, and be happy.’

‘And be happy!’ returned Dora. ‘Yes! All day! And you won’t mind things
going a tiny morsel wrong, sometimes?’

‘No, no,’ said I. ‘We must do the best we can.’

‘And you won’t tell me, any more, that we make other people bad,’ coaxed
Dora; ‘will you? Because you know it’s so dreadfully cross!’

‘No, no,’ said I.

‘It’s better for me to be stupid than uncomfortable, isn’t it?’ said
Dora.

‘Better to be naturally Dora than anything else in the world.’

‘In the world! Ah, Doady, it’s a large place!’

She shook her head, turned her delighted bright eyes up to mine, kissed
me, broke into a merry laugh, and sprang away to put on Jip’s new
collar.

So ended my last attempt to make any change in Dora. I had been unhappy
in trying it; I could not endure my own solitary wisdom; I could not
reconcile it with her former appeal to me as my child-wife. I resolved
to do what I could, in a quiet way, to improve our proceedings myself,
but I foresaw that my utmost would be very little, or I must degenerate
into the spider again, and be for ever lying in wait.

And the shadow I have mentioned, that was not to be between us any more,
but was to rest wholly on my own heart? How did that fall?

The old unhappy feeling pervaded my life. It was deepened, if it were
changed at all; but it was as undefined as ever, and addressed me like
a strain of sorrowful music faintly heard in the night. I loved my wife
dearly, and I was happy; but the happiness I had vaguely anticipated,
once, was not the happiness I enjoyed, and there was always something
wanting.

In fulfilment of the compact I have made with myself, to reflect my mind
on this paper, I again examine it, closely, and bring its secrets to the
light. What I missed, I still regarded--I always regarded--as something
that had been a dream of my youthful fancy; that was incapable of
realization; that I was now discovering to be so, with some natural
pain, as all men did. But that it would have been better for me if my
wife could have helped me more, and shared the many thoughts in which I
had no partner; and that this might have been; I knew.

Between these two irreconcilable conclusions: the one, that what I felt
was general and unavoidable; the other, that it was particular to me,
and might have been different: I balanced curiously, with no distinct
sense of their opposition to each other. When I thought of the airy
dreams of youth that are incapable of realization, I thought of the
better state preceding manhood that I had outgrown; and then the
contented days with Agnes, in the dear old house, arose before me, like
spectres of the dead, that might have some renewal in another world, but
never more could be reanimated here.

Sometimes, the speculation came into my thoughts, What might have
happened, or what would have happened, if Dora and I had never known
each other? But she was so incorporated with my existence, that it
was the idlest of all fancies, and would soon rise out of my reach and
sight, like gossamer floating in the air.

I always loved her. What I am describing, slumbered, and half awoke, and
slept again, in the innermost recesses of my mind. There was no evidence
of it in me; I know of no influence it had in anything I said or did. I
bore the weight of all our little cares, and all my projects; Dora held
the pens; and we both felt that our shares were adjusted as the case
required. She was truly fond of me, and proud of me; and when Agnes
wrote a few earnest words in her letters to Dora, of the pride and
interest with which my old friends heard of my growing reputation, and
read my book as if they heard me speaking its contents, Dora read them
out to me with tears of joy in her bright eyes, and said I was a dear
old clever, famous boy.

‘The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.’ Those words of
Mrs. Strong’s were constantly recurring to me, at this time; were almost
always present to my mind. I awoke with them, often, in the night; I
remember to have even read them, in dreams, inscribed upon the walls
of houses. For I knew, now, that my own heart was undisciplined when it
first loved Dora; and that if it had been disciplined, it never
could have felt, when we were married, what it had felt in its secret
experience.

‘There can be no disparity in marriage, like unsuitability of mind and
purpose.’ Those words I remembered too. I had endeavoured to adapt
Dora to myself, and found it impracticable. It remained for me to adapt
myself to Dora; to share with her what I could, and be happy; to bear
on my own shoulders what I must, and be happy still. This was the
discipline to which I tried to bring my heart, when I began to think.
It made my second year much happier than my first; and, what was better
still, made Dora’s life all sunshine.

But, as that year wore on, Dora was not strong. I had hoped that lighter
hands than mine would help to mould her character, and that a baby-smile
upon her breast might change my child-wife to a woman. It was not to be.
The spirit fluttered for a moment on the threshold of its little prison,
and, unconscious of captivity, took wing.

‘When I can run about again, as I used to do, aunt,’ said Dora, ‘I shall
make Jip race. He is getting quite slow and lazy.’

‘I suspect, my dear,’ said my aunt quietly working by her side, ‘he has
a worse disorder than that. Age, Dora.’

‘Do you think he is old?’ said Dora, astonished. ‘Oh, how strange it
seems that Jip should be old!’

‘It’s a complaint we are all liable to, Little One, as we get on in
life,’ said my aunt, cheerfully; ‘I don’t feel more free from it than I
used to be, I assure you.’

‘But Jip,’ said Dora, looking at him with compassion, ‘even little Jip!
Oh, poor fellow!’

‘I dare say he’ll last a long time yet, Blossom,’ said my aunt, patting
Dora on the cheek, as she leaned out of her couch to look at Jip, who
responded by standing on his hind legs, and baulking himself in various
asthmatic attempts to scramble up by the head and shoulders. ‘He must
have a piece of flannel in his house this winter, and I shouldn’t wonder
if he came out quite fresh again, with the flowers in the spring. Bless
the little dog!’ exclaimed my aunt, ‘if he had as many lives as a cat,
and was on the point of losing ‘em all, he’d bark at me with his last
breath, I believe!’

Dora had helped him up on the sofa; where he really was defying my aunt
to such a furious extent, that he couldn’t keep straight, but barked
himself sideways. The more my aunt looked at him, the more he reproached
her; for she had lately taken to spectacles, and for some inscrutable
reason he considered the glasses personal.

Dora made him lie down by her, with a good deal of persuasion; and when
he was quiet, drew one of his long ears through and through her hand,
repeating thoughtfully, ‘Even little Jip! Oh, poor fellow!’

‘His lungs are good enough,’ said my aunt, gaily, ‘and his dislikes are
not at all feeble. He has a good many years before him, no doubt. But if
you want a dog to race with, Little Blossom, he has lived too well for
that, and I’ll give you one.’

‘Thank you, aunt,’ said Dora, faintly. ‘But don’t, please!’

‘No?’ said my aunt, taking off her spectacles.

‘I couldn’t have any other dog but Jip,’ said Dora. ‘It would be so
unkind to Jip! Besides, I couldn’t be such friends with any other dog
but Jip; because he wouldn’t have known me before I was married,
and wouldn’t have barked at Doady when he first came to our house. I
couldn’t care for any other dog but Jip, I am afraid, aunt.’

‘To be sure!’ said my aunt, patting her cheek again. ‘You are right.’

‘You are not offended,’ said Dora. ‘Are you?’

‘Why, what a sensitive pet it is!’ cried my aunt, bending over her
affectionately. ‘To think that I could be offended!’

‘No, no, I didn’t really think so,’ returned Dora; ‘but I am a little
tired, and it made me silly for a moment--I am always a silly little
thing, you know, but it made me more silly--to talk about Jip. He
has known me in all that has happened to me, haven’t you, Jip? And I
couldn’t bear to slight him, because he was a little altered--could I,
Jip?’

Jip nestled closer to his mistress, and lazily licked her hand.

‘You are not so old, Jip, are you, that you’ll leave your mistress yet?’
said Dora. ‘We may keep one another company a little longer!’

My pretty Dora! When she came down to dinner on the ensuing Sunday, and
was so glad to see old Traddles (who always dined with us on Sunday), we
thought she would be ‘running about as she used to do’, in a few days.
But they said, wait a few days more; and then, wait a few days more; and
still she neither ran nor walked. She looked very pretty, and was very
merry; but the little feet that used to be so nimble when they danced
round Jip, were dull and motionless.

I began to carry her downstairs every morning, and upstairs every night.
She would clasp me round the neck and laugh, the while, as if I did it
for a wager. Jip would bark and caper round us, and go on before, and
look back on the landing, breathing short, to see that we were coming.
My aunt, the best and most cheerful of nurses, would trudge after us, a
moving mass of shawls and pillows. Mr. Dick would not have relinquished
his post of candle-bearer to anyone alive. Traddles would be often at
the bottom of the staircase, looking on, and taking charge of sportive
messages from Dora to the dearest girl in the world. We made quite a gay
procession of it, and my child-wife was the gayest there.

But, sometimes, when I took her up, and felt that she was lighter in
my arms, a dead blank feeling came upon me, as if I were approaching
to some frozen region yet unseen, that numbed my life. I avoided the
recognition of this feeling by any name, or by any communing with
myself; until one night, when it was very strong upon me, and my aunt
had left her with a parting cry of ‘Good night, Little Blossom,’ I sat
down at my desk alone, and tried to think, Oh what a fatal name it was,
and how the blossom withered in its bloom upon the tree!


CHAPTER 49. I AM INVOLVED IN MYSTERY


I received one morning by the post, the following letter, dated
Canterbury, and addressed to me at Doctor’s Commons; which I read with
some surprise:


‘MY DEAR SIR,

‘Circumstances beyond my individual control have, for a considerable
lapse of time, effected a severance of that intimacy which, in the
limited opportunities conceded to me in the midst of my professional
duties, of contemplating the scenes and events of the past, tinged by
the prismatic hues of memory, has ever afforded me, as it ever must
continue to afford, gratifying emotions of no common description. This
fact, my dear sir, combined with the distinguished elevation to which
your talents have raised you, deters me from presuming to aspire to
the liberty of addressing the companion of my youth, by the familiar
appellation of Copperfield! It is sufficient to know that the name to
which I do myself the honour to refer, will ever be treasured among
the muniments of our house (I allude to the archives connected with our
former lodgers, preserved by Mrs. Micawber), with sentiments of personal
esteem amounting to affection.

‘It is not for one, situated, through his original errors and a
fortuitous combination of unpropitious events, as is the foundered Bark
(if he may be allowed to assume so maritime a denomination), who
now takes up the pen to address you--it is not, I repeat, for one
so circumstanced, to adopt the language of compliment, or of
congratulation. That he leaves to abler and to purer hands.

‘If your more important avocations should admit of your ever tracing
these imperfect characters thus far--which may be, or may not be, as
circumstances arise--you will naturally inquire by what object am I
influenced, then, in inditing the present missive? Allow me to say that
I fully defer to the reasonable character of that inquiry, and proceed
to develop it; premising that it is not an object of a pecuniary nature.

‘Without more directly referring to any latent ability that may
possibly exist on my part, of wielding the thunderbolt, or directing
the devouring and avenging flame in any quarter, I may be permitted
to observe, in passing, that my brightest visions are for ever
dispelled--that my peace is shattered and my power of enjoyment
destroyed--that my heart is no longer in the right place--and that I no
more walk erect before my fellow man. The canker is in the flower.
The cup is bitter to the brim. The worm is at his work, and will soon
dispose of his victim. The sooner the better. But I will not digress.
‘Placed in a mental position of peculiar painfulness, beyond the
assuaging reach even of Mrs. Micawber’s influence, though exercised in
the tripartite character of woman, wife, and mother, it is my intention
to fly from myself for a short period, and devote a respite of
eight-and-forty hours to revisiting some metropolitan scenes of past
enjoyment. Among other havens of domestic tranquillity and peace of
mind, my feet will naturally tend towards the King’s Bench Prison. In
stating that I shall be (D. V.) on the outside of the south wall of
that place of incarceration on civil process, the day after tomorrow,
at seven in the evening, precisely, my object in this epistolary
communication is accomplished.

‘I do not feel warranted in soliciting my former friend Mr. Copperfield,
or my former friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner Temple, if that
gentleman is still existent and forthcoming, to condescend to meet me,
and renew (so far as may be) our past relations of the olden time. I
confine myself to throwing out the observation, that, at the hour and
place I have indicated, may be found such ruined vestiges as yet

               ‘Remain,
                    ‘Of
                         ‘A
                              ‘Fallen Tower,
                                   ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.

‘P.S. It may be advisable to superadd to the above, the statement that
Mrs. Micawber is not in confidential possession of my intentions.’


I read the letter over several times. Making due allowance for Mr.
Micawber’s lofty style of composition, and for the extraordinary relish
with which he sat down and wrote long letters on all possible and
impossible occasions, I still believed that something important lay
hidden at the bottom of this roundabout communication. I put it down,
to think about it; and took it up again, to read it once more; and
was still pursuing it, when Traddles found me in the height of my
perplexity.

‘My dear fellow,’ said I, ‘I never was better pleased to see you. You
come to give me the benefit of your sober judgement at a most opportune
time. I have received a very singular letter, Traddles, from Mr.
Micawber.’

‘No?’ cried Traddles. ‘You don’t say so? And I have received one from
Mrs. Micawber!’

With that, Traddles, who was flushed with walking, and whose hair, under
the combined effects of exercise and excitement, stood on end as if he
saw a cheerful ghost, produced his letter and made an exchange with me.
I watched him into the heart of Mr. Micawber’s letter, and returned the
elevation of eyebrows with which he said “‘Wielding the thunderbolt,
or directing the devouring and avenging flame!” Bless me,
Copperfield!’--and then entered on the perusal of Mrs. Micawber’s
epistle.

It ran thus:


‘My best regards to Mr. Thomas Traddles, and if he should still remember
one who formerly had the happiness of being well acquainted with him,
may I beg a few moments of his leisure time? I assure Mr. T. T. that I
would not intrude upon his kindness, were I in any other position than
on the confines of distraction.

‘Though harrowing to myself to mention, the alienation of Mr. Micawber
(formerly so domesticated) from his wife and family, is the cause of my
addressing my unhappy appeal to Mr. Traddles, and soliciting his best
indulgence. Mr. T. can form no adequate idea of the change in Mr.
Micawber’s conduct, of his wildness, of his violence. It has gradually
augmented, until it assumes the appearance of aberration of intellect.
Scarcely a day passes, I assure Mr. Traddles, on which some paroxysm
does not take place. Mr. T. will not require me to depict my feelings,
when I inform him that I have become accustomed to hear Mr. Micawber
assert that he has sold himself to the D. Mystery and secrecy have
long been his principal characteristic, have long replaced unlimited
confidence. The slightest provocation, even being asked if there is
anything he would prefer for dinner, causes him to express a wish for a
separation. Last night, on being childishly solicited for twopence, to
buy ‘lemon-stunners’--a local sweetmeat--he presented an oyster-knife at
the twins!

‘I entreat Mr. Traddles to bear with me in entering into these details.
Without them, Mr. T. would indeed find it difficult to form the faintest
conception of my heart-rending situation.

‘May I now venture to confide to Mr. T. the purport of my letter? Will
he now allow me to throw myself on his friendly consideration? Oh yes,
for I know his heart!

‘The quick eye of affection is not easily blinded, when of the female
sex. Mr. Micawber is going to London. Though he studiously concealed his
hand, this morning before breakfast, in writing the direction-card which
he attached to the little brown valise of happier days, the eagle-glance
of matrimonial anxiety detected, d, o, n, distinctly traced. The
West-End destination of the coach, is the Golden Cross. Dare I fervently
implore Mr. T. to see my misguided husband, and to reason with him?
Dare I ask Mr. T. to endeavour to step in between Mr. Micawber and his
agonized family? Oh no, for that would be too much!

‘If Mr. Copperfield should yet remember one unknown to fame, will Mr.
T. take charge of my unalterable regards and similar entreaties? In
any case, he will have the benevolence to consider this communication
strictly private, and on no account whatever to be alluded to, however
distantly, in the presence of Mr. Micawber. If Mr. T. should ever
reply to it (which I cannot but feel to be most improbable), a letter
addressed to M. E., Post Office, Canterbury, will be fraught with
less painful consequences than any addressed immediately to one, who
subscribes herself, in extreme distress,

‘Mr. Thomas Traddles’s respectful friend and suppliant,

                                   ‘EMMA MICAWBER.’


‘What do you think of that letter?’ said Traddles, casting his eyes upon
me, when I had read it twice.

‘What do you think of the other?’ said I. For he was still reading it
with knitted brows.

‘I think that the two together, Copperfield,’ replied Traddles,
‘mean more than Mr. and Mrs. Micawber usually mean in their
correspondence--but I don’t know what. They are both written in good
faith, I have no doubt, and without any collusion. Poor thing!’ he was
now alluding to Mrs. Micawber’s letter, and we were standing side by
side comparing the two; ‘it will be a charity to write to her, at all
events, and tell her that we will not fail to see Mr. Micawber.’

I acceded to this the more readily, because I now reproached myself with
having treated her former letter rather lightly. It had set me thinking
a good deal at the time, as I have mentioned in its place; but my
absorption in my own affairs, my experience of the family, and my
hearing nothing more, had gradually ended in my dismissing the subject.
I had often thought of the Micawbers, but chiefly to wonder what
‘pecuniary liabilities’ they were establishing in Canterbury, and to
recall how shy Mr. Micawber was of me when he became clerk to Uriah
Heep.

However, I now wrote a comforting letter to Mrs. Micawber, in our
joint names, and we both signed it. As we walked into town to post it,
Traddles and I held a long conference, and launched into a number of
speculations, which I need not repeat. We took my aunt into our counsels
in the afternoon; but our only decided conclusion was, that we would be
very punctual in keeping Mr. Micawber’s appointment.

Although we appeared at the stipulated place a quarter of an hour before
the time, we found Mr. Micawber already there. He was standing with his
arms folded, over against the wall, looking at the spikes on the top,
with a sentimental expression, as if they were the interlacing boughs of
trees that had shaded him in his youth.

When we accosted him, his manner was something more confused, and
something less genteel, than of yore. He had relinquished his legal suit
of black for the purposes of this excursion, and wore the old surtout
and tights, but not quite with the old air. He gradually picked up more
and more of it as we conversed with him; but, his very eye-glass seemed
to hang less easily, and his shirt-collar, though still of the old
formidable dimensions, rather drooped.

‘Gentlemen!’ said Mr. Micawber, after the first salutations, ‘you are
friends in need, and friends indeed. Allow me to offer my inquiries with
reference to the physical welfare of Mrs. Copperfield in esse, and
Mrs. Traddles in posse,--presuming, that is to say, that my friend Mr.
Traddles is not yet united to the object of his affections, for weal and
for woe.’

We acknowledged his politeness, and made suitable replies. He then
directed our attention to the wall, and was beginning, ‘I assure you,
gentlemen,’ when I ventured to object to that ceremonious form of
address, and to beg that he would speak to us in the old way.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ he returned, pressing my hand, ‘your cordiality
overpowers me. This reception of a shattered fragment of the Temple once
called Man--if I may be permitted so to express myself--bespeaks a heart
that is an honour to our common nature. I was about to observe that
I again behold the serene spot where some of the happiest hours of my
existence fleeted by.’

‘Made so, I am sure, by Mrs. Micawber,’ said I. ‘I hope she is well?’

‘Thank you,’ returned Mr. Micawber, whose face clouded at this
reference, ‘she is but so-so. And this,’ said Mr. Micawber, nodding
his head sorrowfully, ‘is the Bench! Where, for the first time in many
revolving years, the overwhelming pressure of pecuniary liabilities was
not proclaimed, from day to day, by importune voices declining to vacate
the passage; where there was no knocker on the door for any creditor
to appeal to; where personal service of process was not required, and
detainees were merely lodged at the gate! Gentlemen,’ said Mr. Micawber,
‘when the shadow of that iron-work on the summit of the brick structure
has been reflected on the gravel of the Parade, I have seen my children
thread the mazes of the intricate pattern, avoiding the dark marks. I
have been familiar with every stone in the place. If I betray weakness,
you will know how to excuse me.’

‘We have all got on in life since then, Mr. Micawber,’ said I.

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, bitterly, ‘when I was an
inmate of that retreat I could look my fellow-man in the face, and punch
his head if he offended me. My fellow-man and myself are no longer on
those glorious terms!’

Turning from the building in a downcast manner, Mr. Micawber accepted
my proffered arm on one side, and the proffered arm of Traddles on the
other, and walked away between us.

‘There are some landmarks,’ observed Mr. Micawber, looking fondly back
over his shoulder, ‘on the road to the tomb, which, but for the impiety
of the aspiration, a man would wish never to have passed. Such is the
Bench in my chequered career.’

‘Oh, you are in low spirits, Mr. Micawber,’ said Traddles.

‘I am, sir,’ interposed Mr. Micawber.

‘I hope,’ said Traddles, ‘it is not because you have conceived a dislike
to the law--for I am a lawyer myself, you know.’

Mr. Micawber answered not a word.

‘How is our friend Heep, Mr. Micawber?’ said I, after a silence.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, bursting into a state of
much excitement, and turning pale, ‘if you ask after my employer as
YOUR friend, I am sorry for it; if you ask after him as MY friend,
I sardonically smile at it. In whatever capacity you ask after my
employer, I beg, without offence to you, to limit my reply to this--that
whatever his state of health may be, his appearance is foxy: not to
say diabolical. You will allow me, as a private individual, to
decline pursuing a subject which has lashed me to the utmost verge of
desperation in my professional capacity.’

I expressed my regret for having innocently touched upon a theme
that roused him so much. ‘May I ask,’ said I, ‘without any hazard of
repeating the mistake, how my old friends Mr. and Miss Wickfield are?’

‘Miss Wickfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, now turning red, ‘is, as she always
is, a pattern, and a bright example. My dear Copperfield, she is the
only starry spot in a miserable existence. My respect for that young
lady, my admiration of her character, my devotion to her for her love
and truth, and goodness!--Take me,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘down a turning,
for, upon my soul, in my present state of mind I am not equal to this!’

We wheeled him off into a narrow street, where he took out his
pocket-handkerchief, and stood with his back to a wall. If I looked as
gravely at him as Traddles did, he must have found our company by no
means inspiriting.

‘It is my fate,’ said Mr. Micawber, unfeignedly sobbing, but doing even
that, with a shadow of the old expression of doing something genteel;
‘it is my fate, gentlemen, that the finer feelings of our nature have
become reproaches to me. My homage to Miss Wickfield, is a flight of
arrows in my bosom. You had better leave me, if you please, to walk the
earth as a vagabond. The worm will settle my business in double-quick
time.’

Without attending to this invocation, we stood by, until he put up his
pocket-handkerchief, pulled up his shirt-collar, and, to delude any
person in the neighbourhood who might have been observing him, hummed a
tune with his hat very much on one side. I then mentioned--not knowing
what might be lost if we lost sight of him yet--that it would give me
great pleasure to introduce him to my aunt, if he would ride out to
Highgate, where a bed was at his service.

‘You shall make us a glass of your own punch, Mr. Micawber,’ said
I, ‘and forget whatever you have on your mind, in pleasanter
reminiscences.’

‘Or, if confiding anything to friends will be more likely to relieve
you, you shall impart it to us, Mr. Micawber,’ said Traddles, prudently.

‘Gentlemen,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘do with me as you will! I am a
straw upon the surface of the deep, and am tossed in all directions by
the elephants--I beg your pardon; I should have said the elements.’

We walked on, arm-in-arm, again; found the coach in the act of starting;
and arrived at Highgate without encountering any difficulties by the
way. I was very uneasy and very uncertain in my mind what to say or do
for the best--so was Traddles, evidently. Mr. Micawber was for the most
part plunged into deep gloom. He occasionally made an attempt to smarten
himself, and hum the fag-end of a tune; but his relapses into profound
melancholy were only made the more impressive by the mockery of a hat
exceedingly on one side, and a shirt-collar pulled up to his eyes.

We went to my aunt’s house rather than to mine, because of Dora’s not
being well. My aunt presented herself on being sent for, and welcomed
Mr. Micawber with gracious cordiality. Mr. Micawber kissed her hand,
retired to the window, and pulling out his pocket-handkerchief, had a
mental wrestle with himself.

Mr. Dick was at home. He was by nature so exceedingly compassionate of
anyone who seemed to be ill at ease, and was so quick to find any such
person out, that he shook hands with Mr. Micawber, at least half-a-dozen
times in five minutes. To Mr. Micawber, in his trouble, this warmth, on
the part of a stranger, was so extremely touching, that he could
only say, on the occasion of each successive shake, ‘My dear sir, you
overpower me!’ Which gratified Mr. Dick so much, that he went at it
again with greater vigour than before.

‘The friendliness of this gentleman,’ said Mr. Micawber to my aunt, ‘if
you will allow me, ma’am, to cull a figure of speech from the vocabulary
of our coarser national sports--floors me. To a man who is struggling
with a complicated burden of perplexity and disquiet, such a reception
is trying, I assure you.’

‘My friend Mr. Dick,’ replied my aunt proudly, ‘is not a common man.’

‘That I am convinced of,’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘My dear sir!’ for Mr.
Dick was shaking hands with him again; ‘I am deeply sensible of your
cordiality!’

‘How do you find yourself?’ said Mr. Dick, with an anxious look.

‘Indifferent, my dear sir,’ returned Mr. Micawber, sighing.

‘You must keep up your spirits,’ said Mr. Dick, ‘and make yourself as
comfortable as possible.’

Mr. Micawber was quite overcome by these friendly words, and by finding
Mr. Dick’s hand again within his own. ‘It has been my lot,’ he observed,
‘to meet, in the diversified panorama of human existence, with an
occasional oasis, but never with one so green, so gushing, as the
present!’

At another time I should have been amused by this; but I felt that
we were all constrained and uneasy, and I watched Mr. Micawber so
anxiously, in his vacillations between an evident disposition to reveal
something, and a counter-disposition to reveal nothing, that I was in a
perfect fever. Traddles, sitting on the edge of his chair, with his eyes
wide open, and his hair more emphatically erect than ever, stared by
turns at the ground and at Mr. Micawber, without so much as attempting
to put in a word. My aunt, though I saw that her shrewdest observation
was concentrated on her new guest, had more useful possession of her
wits than either of us; for she held him in conversation, and made it
necessary for him to talk, whether he liked it or not.

‘You are a very old friend of my nephew’s, Mr. Micawber,’ said my aunt.
‘I wish I had had the pleasure of seeing you before.’

‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘I wish I had had the honour of knowing
you at an earlier period. I was not always the wreck you at present
behold.’

‘I hope Mrs. Micawber and your family are well, sir,’ said my aunt.

Mr. Micawber inclined his head. ‘They are as well, ma’am,’ he
desperately observed after a pause, ‘as Aliens and Outcasts can ever
hope to be.’

‘Lord bless you, sir!’ exclaimed my aunt, in her abrupt way. ‘What are
you talking about?’

‘The subsistence of my family, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘trembles
in the balance. My employer--’

Here Mr. Micawber provokingly left off; and began to peel the lemons
that had been under my directions set before him, together with all the
other appliances he used in making punch.

‘Your employer, you know,’ said Mr. Dick, jogging his arm as a gentle
reminder.

‘My good sir,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘you recall me, I am obliged to
you.’ They shook hands again. ‘My employer, ma’am--Mr. Heep--once did
me the favour to observe to me, that if I were not in the receipt of the
stipendiary emoluments appertaining to my engagement with him, I should
probably be a mountebank about the country, swallowing a sword-blade,
and eating the devouring element. For anything that I can perceive to
the contrary, it is still probable that my children may be reduced to
seek a livelihood by personal contortion, while Mrs. Micawber abets
their unnatural feats by playing the barrel-organ.’

Mr. Micawber, with a random but expressive flourish of his knife,
signified that these performances might be expected to take place after
he was no more; then resumed his peeling with a desperate air.

My aunt leaned her elbow on the little round table that she usually kept
beside her, and eyed him attentively. Notwithstanding the aversion with
which I regarded the idea of entrapping him into any disclosure he was
not prepared to make voluntarily, I should have taken him up at this
point, but for the strange proceedings in which I saw him engaged;
whereof his putting the lemon-peel into the kettle, the sugar into the
snuffer-tray, the spirit into the empty jug, and confidently attempting
to pour boiling water out of a candlestick, were among the most
remarkable. I saw that a crisis was at hand, and it came. He clattered
all his means and implements together, rose from his chair, pulled out
his pocket-handkerchief, and burst into tears.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, behind his handkerchief,
‘this is an occupation, of all others, requiring an untroubled mind, and
self-respect. I cannot perform it. It is out of the question.’

‘Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘what is the matter? Pray speak out. You are
among friends.’

‘Among friends, sir!’ repeated Mr. Micawber; and all he had reserved
came breaking out of him. ‘Good heavens, it is principally because I AM
among friends that my state of mind is what it is. What is the matter,
gentlemen? What is NOT the matter? Villainy is the matter; baseness is
the matter; deception, fraud, conspiracy, are the matter; and the name
of the whole atrocious mass is--HEEP!’

My aunt clapped her hands, and we all started up as if we were
possessed.

‘The struggle is over!’ said Mr. Micawber violently gesticulating with
his pocket-handkerchief, and fairly striking out from time to time with
both arms, as if he were swimming under superhuman difficulties. ‘I will
lead this life no longer. I am a wretched being, cut off from everything
that makes life tolerable. I have been under a Taboo in that infernal
scoundrel’s service. Give me back my wife, give me back my family,
substitute Micawber for the petty wretch who walks about in the boots
at present on my feet, and call upon me to swallow a sword tomorrow, and
I’ll do it. With an appetite!’

I never saw a man so hot in my life. I tried to calm him, that we might
come to something rational; but he got hotter and hotter, and wouldn’t
hear a word.

‘I’ll put my hand in no man’s hand,’ said Mr. Micawber, gasping,
puffing, and sobbing, to that degree that he was like a man
fighting with cold water, ‘until I have--blown to
fragments--the--a--detestable--serpent--HEEP! I’ll partake of no
one’s hospitality, until I have--a--moved Mount Vesuvius--to
eruption--on--a--the abandoned rascal--HEEP! Refreshment--a--underneath
this roof--particularly punch--would--a--choke me--unless--I
had--previously--choked the eyes--out of the head--a--of--interminable
cheat, and liar--HEEP! I--a--I’ll know nobody--and--a--say
nothing--and--a--live nowhere--until I have
crushed--to--a--undiscoverable atoms--the--transcendent and immortal
hypocrite and perjurer--HEEP!’

I really had some fear of Mr. Micawber’s dying on the spot. The manner
in which he struggled through these inarticulate sentences, and,
whenever he found himself getting near the name of Heep, fought his way
on to it, dashed at it in a fainting state, and brought it out with a
vehemence little less than marvellous, was frightful; but now, when
he sank into a chair, steaming, and looked at us, with every possible
colour in his face that had no business there, and an endless procession
of lumps following one another in hot haste up his throat, whence they
seemed to shoot into his forehead, he had the appearance of being in
the last extremity. I would have gone to his assistance, but he waved me
off, and wouldn’t hear a word.

‘No, Copperfield!--No communication--a--until--Miss
Wickfield--a--redress from wrongs inflicted by consummate
scoundrel--HEEP!’ (I am quite convinced he could not have uttered three
words, but for the amazing energy with which this word inspired him when
he felt it coming.) ‘Inviolable secret--a--from the whole world--a--no
exceptions--this day week--a--at breakfast-time--a--everybody
present--including aunt--a--and extremely friendly gentleman--to be at
the hotel at Canterbury--a--where--Mrs. Micawber and myself--Auld Lang
Syne in chorus--and--a--will expose intolerable ruffian--HEEP! No more
to say--a--or listen to persuasion--go immediately--not capable--a--bear
society--upon the track of devoted and doomed traitor--HEEP!’

With this last repetition of the magic word that had kept him going at
all, and in which he surpassed all his previous efforts, Mr. Micawber
rushed out of the house; leaving us in a state of excitement, hope, and
wonder, that reduced us to a condition little better than his own. But
even then his passion for writing letters was too strong to be resisted;
for while we were yet in the height of our excitement, hope, and wonder,
the following pastoral note was brought to me from a neighbouring
tavern, at which he had called to write it:--


          ‘Most secret and confidential.
‘MY DEAR SIR,

‘I beg to be allowed to convey, through you, my apologies to your
excellent aunt for my late excitement. An explosion of a smouldering
volcano long suppressed, was the result of an internal contest more
easily conceived than described.

‘I trust I rendered tolerably intelligible my appointment for the
morning of this day week, at the house of public entertainment at
Canterbury, where Mrs. Micawber and myself had once the honour of
uniting our voices to yours, in the well-known strain of the Immortal
exciseman nurtured beyond the Tweed.

‘The duty done, and act of reparation performed, which can alone enable
me to contemplate my fellow mortal, I shall be known no more. I shall
simply require to be deposited in that place of universal resort, where

     Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
     The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,

                    ‘--With the plain Inscription,

                         ‘WILKINS MICAWBER.’



CHAPTER 50. Mr. PEGGOTTY’S DREAM COMES TRUE


By this time, some months had passed since our interview on the bank
of the river with Martha. I had never seen her since, but she had
communicated with Mr. Peggotty on several occasions. Nothing had come of
her zealous intervention; nor could I infer, from what he told me, that
any clue had been obtained, for a moment, to Emily’s fate. I confess
that I began to despair of her recovery, and gradually to sink deeper
and deeper into the belief that she was dead.

His conviction remained unchanged. So far as I know--and I believe
his honest heart was transparent to me--he never wavered again, in his
solemn certainty of finding her. His patience never tired. And, although
I trembled for the agony it might one day be to him to have his strong
assurance shivered at a blow, there was something so religious in it, so
affectingly expressive of its anchor being in the purest depths of
his fine nature, that the respect and honour in which I held him were
exalted every day.

His was not a lazy trustfulness that hoped, and did no more. He had
been a man of sturdy action all his life, and he knew that in all things
wherein he wanted help he must do his own part faithfully, and help
himself. I have known him set out in the night, on a misgiving that the
light might not be, by some accident, in the window of the old boat,
and walk to Yarmouth. I have known him, on reading something in the
newspaper that might apply to her, take up his stick, and go forth on a
journey of three--or four-score miles. He made his way by sea to Naples,
and back, after hearing the narrative to which Miss Dartle had assisted
me. All his journeys were ruggedly performed; for he was always
steadfast in a purpose of saving money for Emily’s sake, when she should
be found. In all this long pursuit, I never heard him repine; I never
heard him say he was fatigued, or out of heart.

Dora had often seen him since our marriage, and was quite fond of him.
I fancy his figure before me now, standing near her sofa, with his rough
cap in his hand, and the blue eyes of my child-wife raised, with a timid
wonder, to his face. Sometimes of an evening, about twilight, when
he came to talk with me, I would induce him to smoke his pipe in the
garden, as we slowly paced to and fro together; and then, the picture
of his deserted home, and the comfortable air it used to have in my
childish eyes of an evening when the fire was burning, and the wind
moaning round it, came most vividly into my mind.

One evening, at this hour, he told me that he had found Martha waiting
near his lodging on the preceding night when he came out, and that she
had asked him not to leave London on any account, until he should have
seen her again.

‘Did she tell you why?’ I inquired.

‘I asked her, Mas’r Davy,’ he replied, ‘but it is but few words as she
ever says, and she on’y got my promise and so went away.’

‘Did she say when you might expect to see her again?’ I demanded.

‘No, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned, drawing his hand thoughtfully down his
face. ‘I asked that too; but it was more (she said) than she could
tell.’

As I had long forborne to encourage him with hopes that hung on threads,
I made no other comment on this information than that I supposed he
would see her soon. Such speculations as it engendered within me I kept
to myself, and those were faint enough.

I was walking alone in the garden, one evening, about a fortnight
afterwards. I remember that evening well. It was the second in Mr.
Micawber’s week of suspense. There had been rain all day, and there was
a damp feeling in the air. The leaves were thick upon the trees, and
heavy with wet; but the rain had ceased, though the sky was still dark;
and the hopeful birds were singing cheerfully. As I walked to and fro
in the garden, and the twilight began to close around me, their little
voices were hushed; and that peculiar silence which belongs to such an
evening in the country when the lightest trees are quite still, save for
the occasional droppings from their boughs, prevailed.

There was a little green perspective of trellis-work and ivy at the side
of our cottage, through which I could see, from the garden where I was
walking, into the road before the house. I happened to turn my eyes
towards this place, as I was thinking of many things; and I saw a figure
beyond, dressed in a plain cloak. It was bending eagerly towards me, and
beckoning.

‘Martha!’ said I, going to it.

‘Can you come with me?’ she inquired, in an agitated whisper. ‘I have
been to him, and he is not at home. I wrote down where he was to come,
and left it on his table with my own hand. They said he would not be out
long. I have tidings for him. Can you come directly?’

My answer was, to pass out at the gate immediately. She made a hasty
gesture with her hand, as if to entreat my patience and my silence,
and turned towards London, whence, as her dress betokened, she had come
expeditiously on foot.

I asked her if that were not our destination? On her motioning Yes,
with the same hasty gesture as before, I stopped an empty coach that was
coming by, and we got into it. When I asked her where the coachman was
to drive, she answered, ‘Anywhere near Golden Square! And quick!’--then
shrunk into a corner, with one trembling hand before her face, and the
other making the former gesture, as if she could not bear a voice.

Now much disturbed, and dazzled with conflicting gleams of hope and
dread, I looked at her for some explanation. But seeing how strongly
she desired to remain quiet, and feeling that it was my own natural
inclination too, at such a time, I did not attempt to break the silence.
We proceeded without a word being spoken. Sometimes she glanced out of
the window, as though she thought we were going slowly, though indeed we
were going fast; but otherwise remained exactly as at first.

We alighted at one of the entrances to the Square she had mentioned,
where I directed the coach to wait, not knowing but that we might have
some occasion for it. She laid her hand on my arm, and hurried me on
to one of the sombre streets, of which there are several in that part,
where the houses were once fair dwellings in the occupation of single
families, but have, and had, long degenerated into poor lodgings let off
in rooms. Entering at the open door of one of these, and releasing my
arm, she beckoned me to follow her up the common staircase, which was
like a tributary channel to the street.

The house swarmed with inmates. As we went up, doors of rooms were
opened and people’s heads put out; and we passed other people on the
stairs, who were coming down. In glancing up from the outside, before
we entered, I had seen women and children lolling at the windows over
flower-pots; and we seemed to have attracted their curiosity, for these
were principally the observers who looked out of their doors. It was a
broad panelled staircase, with massive balustrades of some dark wood;
cornices above the doors, ornamented with carved fruit and flowers; and
broad seats in the windows. But all these tokens of past grandeur
were miserably decayed and dirty; rot, damp, and age, had weakened
the flooring, which in many places was unsound and even unsafe. Some
attempts had been made, I noticed, to infuse new blood into this
dwindling frame, by repairing the costly old wood-work here and there
with common deal; but it was like the marriage of a reduced old noble to
a plebeian pauper, and each party to the ill-assorted union shrunk away
from the other. Several of the back windows on the staircase had
been darkened or wholly blocked up. In those that remained, there was
scarcely any glass; and, through the crumbling frames by which the bad
air seemed always to come in, and never to go out, I saw, through other
glassless windows, into other houses in a similar condition, and looked
giddily down into a wretched yard, which was the common dust-heap of the
mansion.

We proceeded to the top-storey of the house. Two or three times, by the
way, I thought I observed in the indistinct light the skirts of a female
figure going up before us. As we turned to ascend the last flight of
stairs between us and the roof, we caught a full view of this figure
pausing for a moment, at a door. Then it turned the handle, and went in.

‘What’s this!’ said Martha, in a whisper. ‘She has gone into my room. I
don’t know her!’

I knew her. I had recognized her with amazement, for Miss Dartle.

I said something to the effect that it was a lady whom I had seen
before, in a few words, to my conductress; and had scarcely done so,
when we heard her voice in the room, though not, from where we stood,
what she was saying. Martha, with an astonished look, repeated her
former action, and softly led me up the stairs; and then, by a little
back-door which seemed to have no lock, and which she pushed open with a
touch, into a small empty garret with a low sloping roof, little better
than a cupboard. Between this, and the room she had called hers,
there was a small door of communication, standing partly open. Here we
stopped, breathless with our ascent, and she placed her hand lightly on
my lips. I could only see, of the room beyond, that it was pretty large;
that there was a bed in it; and that there were some common pictures of
ships upon the walls. I could not see Miss Dartle, or the person whom
we had heard her address. Certainly, my companion could not, for my
position was the best. A dead silence prevailed for some moments. Martha
kept one hand on my lips, and raised the other in a listening attitude.

‘It matters little to me her not being at home,’ said Rosa Dartle
haughtily, ‘I know nothing of her. It is you I come to see.’

‘Me?’ replied a soft voice.

At the sound of it, a thrill went through my frame. For it was Emily’s!

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Dartle, ‘I have come to look at you. What? You are
not ashamed of the face that has done so much?’

The resolute and unrelenting hatred of her tone, its cold stern
sharpness, and its mastered rage, presented her before me, as if I had
seen her standing in the light. I saw the flashing black eyes, and the
passion-wasted figure; and I saw the scar, with its white track cutting
through her lips, quivering and throbbing as she spoke.

‘I have come to see,’ she said, ‘James Steerforth’s fancy; the girl who
ran away with him, and is the town-talk of the commonest people of her
native place; the bold, flaunting, practised companion of persons like
James Steerforth. I want to know what such a thing is like.’

There was a rustle, as if the unhappy girl, on whom she heaped these
taunts, ran towards the door, and the speaker swiftly interposed herself
before it. It was succeeded by a moment’s pause.

When Miss Dartle spoke again, it was through her set teeth, and with a
stamp upon the ground.

‘Stay there!’ she said, ‘or I’ll proclaim you to the house, and the
whole street! If you try to evade me, I’ll stop you, if it’s by the
hair, and raise the very stones against you!’

A frightened murmur was the only reply that reached my ears. A silence
succeeded. I did not know what to do. Much as I desired to put an end to
the interview, I felt that I had no right to present myself; that it was
for Mr. Peggotty alone to see her and recover her. Would he never come?
I thought impatiently.

‘So!’ said Rosa Dartle, with a contemptuous laugh, ‘I see her at last!
Why, he was a poor creature to be taken by that delicate mock-modesty,
and that hanging head!’

‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, spare me!’ exclaimed Emily. ‘Whoever you are,
you know my pitiable story, and for Heaven’s sake spare me, if you would
be spared yourself!’

‘If I would be spared!’ returned the other fiercely; ‘what is there in
common between US, do you think!’

‘Nothing but our sex,’ said Emily, with a burst of tears.

‘And that,’ said Rosa Dartle, ‘is so strong a claim, preferred by one
so infamous, that if I had any feeling in my breast but scorn and
abhorrence of you, it would freeze it up. Our sex! You are an honour to
our sex!’

‘I have deserved this,’ said Emily, ‘but it’s dreadful! Dear, dear lady,
think what I have suffered, and how I am fallen! Oh, Martha, come back!
Oh, home, home!’

Miss Dartle placed herself in a chair, within view of the door, and
looked downward, as if Emily were crouching on the floor before her.
Being now between me and the light, I could see her curled lip, and her
cruel eyes intently fixed on one place, with a greedy triumph.

‘Listen to what I say!’ she said; ‘and reserve your false arts for your
dupes. Do you hope to move me by your tears? No more than you could
charm me by your smiles, you purchased slave.’

‘Oh, have some mercy on me!’ cried Emily. ‘Show me some compassion, or I
shall die mad!’

‘It would be no great penance,’ said Rosa Dartle, ‘for your crimes. Do
you know what you have done? Do you ever think of the home you have laid
waste?’

‘Oh, is there ever night or day, when I don’t think of it!’ cried Emily;
and now I could just see her, on her knees, with her head thrown back,
her pale face looking upward, her hands wildly clasped and held out,
and her hair streaming about her. ‘Has there ever been a single minute,
waking or sleeping, when it hasn’t been before me, just as it used to
be in the lost days when I turned my back upon it for ever and for ever!
Oh, home, home! Oh dear, dear uncle, if you ever could have known the
agony your love would cause me when I fell away from good, you never
would have shown it to me so constant, much as you felt it; but would
have been angry to me, at least once in my life, that I might have had
some comfort! I have none, none, no comfort upon earth, for all of them
were always fond of me!’ She dropped on her face, before the imperious
figure in the chair, with an imploring effort to clasp the skirt of her
dress.

Rosa Dartle sat looking down upon her, as inflexible as a figure of
brass. Her lips were tightly compressed, as if she knew that she
must keep a strong constraint upon herself--I write what I sincerely
believe--or she would be tempted to strike the beautiful form with
her foot. I saw her, distinctly, and the whole power of her face and
character seemed forced into that expression.---Would he never come?

‘The miserable vanity of these earth-worms!’ she said, when she had so
far controlled the angry heavings of her breast, that she could trust
herself to speak. ‘YOUR home! Do you imagine that I bestow a thought
on it, or suppose you could do any harm to that low place, which money
would not pay for, and handsomely? YOUR home! You were a part of the
trade of your home, and were bought and sold like any other vendible
thing your people dealt in.’

‘Oh, not that!’ cried Emily. ‘Say anything of me; but don’t visit
my disgrace and shame, more than I have done, on folks who are as
honourable as you! Have some respect for them, as you are a lady, if you
have no mercy for me.’

‘I speak,’ she said, not deigning to take any heed of this appeal, and
drawing away her dress from the contamination of Emily’s touch, ‘I speak
of HIS home--where I live. Here,’ she said, stretching out her hand with
her contemptuous laugh, and looking down upon the prostrate girl, ‘is a
worthy cause of division between lady-mother and gentleman-son; of grief
in a house where she wouldn’t have been admitted as a kitchen-girl; of
anger, and repining, and reproach. This piece of pollution, picked up
from the water-side, to be made much of for an hour, and then tossed
back to her original place!’

‘No! no!’ cried Emily, clasping her hands together. ‘When he first came
into my way--that the day had never dawned upon me, and he had met me
being carried to my grave!--I had been brought up as virtuous as you or
any lady, and was going to be the wife of as good a man as you or any
lady in the world can ever marry. If you live in his home and know him,
you know, perhaps, what his power with a weak, vain girl might be. I
don’t defend myself, but I know well, and he knows well, or he will know
when he comes to die, and his mind is troubled with it, that he used all
his power to deceive me, and that I believed him, trusted him, and loved
him!’

Rosa Dartle sprang up from her seat; recoiled; and in recoiling struck
at her, with a face of such malignity, so darkened and disfigured by
passion, that I had almost thrown myself between them. The blow, which
had no aim, fell upon the air. As she now stood panting, looking at
her with the utmost detestation that she was capable of expressing, and
trembling from head to foot with rage and scorn, I thought I had never
seen such a sight, and never could see such another.

‘YOU love him? You?’ she cried, with her clenched hand, quivering as if
it only wanted a weapon to stab the object of her wrath.

Emily had shrunk out of my view. There was no reply.

‘And tell that to ME,’ she added, ‘with your shameful lips? Why don’t
they whip these creatures? If I could order it to be done, I would have
this girl whipped to death.’

And so she would, I have no doubt. I would not have trusted her with the
rack itself, while that furious look lasted. She slowly, very slowly,
broke into a laugh, and pointed at Emily with her hand, as if she were a
sight of shame for gods and men.

‘SHE love!’ she said. ‘THAT carrion! And he ever cared for her, she’d
tell me. Ha, ha! The liars that these traders are!’

Her mockery was worse than her undisguised rage. Of the two, I would
have much preferred to be the object of the latter. But, when she
suffered it to break loose, it was only for a moment. She had chained
it up again, and however it might tear her within, she subdued it to
herself.

‘I came here, you pure fountain of love,’ she said, ‘to see--as I began
by telling you--what such a thing as you was like. I was curious. I am
satisfied. Also to tell you, that you had best seek that home of yours,
with all speed, and hide your head among those excellent people who are
expecting you, and whom your money will console. When it’s all gone, you
can believe, and trust, and love again, you know! I thought you a broken
toy that had lasted its time; a worthless spangle that was tarnished,
and thrown away. But, finding you true gold, a very lady, and
an ill-used innocent, with a fresh heart full of love and
trustfulness--which you look like, and is quite consistent with your
story!--I have something more to say. Attend to it; for what I say I’ll
do. Do you hear me, you fairy spirit? What I say, I mean to do!’

Her rage got the better of her again, for a moment; but it passed over
her face like a spasm, and left her smiling.

‘Hide yourself,’ she pursued, ‘if not at home, somewhere. Let it be
somewhere beyond reach; in some obscure life--or, better still, in some
obscure death. I wonder, if your loving heart will not break, you have
found no way of helping it to be still! I have heard of such means
sometimes. I believe they may be easily found.’

A low crying, on the part of Emily, interrupted her here. She stopped,
and listened to it as if it were music.

‘I am of a strange nature, perhaps,’ Rosa Dartle went on; ‘but I can’t
breathe freely in the air you breathe. I find it sickly. Therefore, I
will have it cleared; I will have it purified of you. If you live here
tomorrow, I’ll have your story and your character proclaimed on the
common stair. There are decent women in the house, I am told; and it
is a pity such a light as you should be among them, and concealed. If,
leaving here, you seek any refuge in this town in any character but your
true one (which you are welcome to bear, without molestation from me),
the same service shall be done you, if I hear of your retreat. Being
assisted by a gentleman who not long ago aspired to the favour of your
hand, I am sanguine as to that.’

Would he never, never come? How long was I to bear this? How long could
I bear it? ‘Oh me, oh me!’ exclaimed the wretched Emily, in a tone that
might have touched the hardest heart, I should have thought; but there
was no relenting in Rosa Dartle’s smile. ‘What, what, shall I do!’

‘Do?’ returned the other. ‘Live happy in your own reflections!
Consecrate your existence to the recollection of James Steerforth’s
tenderness--he would have made you his serving-man’s wife, would he
not?---or to feeling grateful to the upright and deserving creature who
would have taken you as his gift. Or, if those proud remembrances, and
the consciousness of your own virtues, and the honourable position to
which they have raised you in the eyes of everything that wears the
human shape, will not sustain you, marry that good man, and be happy in
his condescension. If this will not do either, die! There are doorways
and dust-heaps for such deaths, and such despair--find one, and take
your flight to Heaven!’

I heard a distant foot upon the stairs. I knew it, I was certain. It was
his, thank God!

She moved slowly from before the door when she said this, and passed out
of my sight.

‘But mark!’ she added, slowly and sternly, opening the other door to
go away, ‘I am resolved, for reasons that I have and hatreds that
I entertain, to cast you out, unless you withdraw from my reach
altogether, or drop your pretty mask. This is what I had to say; and
what I say, I mean to do!’

The foot upon the stairs came nearer--nearer--passed her as she went
down--rushed into the room!

‘Uncle!’

A fearful cry followed the word. I paused a moment, and looking in, saw
him supporting her insensible figure in his arms. He gazed for a few
seconds in the face; then stooped to kiss it--oh, how tenderly!--and
drew a handkerchief before it.

‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, in a low tremulous voice, when it was covered, ‘I
thank my Heav’nly Father as my dream’s come true! I thank Him hearty for
having guided of me, in His own ways, to my darling!’

With those words he took her up in his arms; and, with the veiled
face lying on his bosom, and addressed towards his own, carried her,
motionless and unconscious, down the stairs.



CHAPTER 51. THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY


It was yet early in the morning of the following day, when, as I was
walking in my garden with my aunt (who took little other exercise
now, being so much in attendance on my dear Dora), I was told that Mr.
Peggotty desired to speak with me. He came into the garden to meet me
half-way, on my going towards the gate; and bared his head, as it was
always his custom to do when he saw my aunt, for whom he had a high
respect. I had been telling her all that had happened overnight. Without
saying a word, she walked up with a cordial face, shook hands with him,
and patted him on the arm. It was so expressively done, that she had no
need to say a word. Mr. Peggotty understood her quite as well as if she
had said a thousand.

‘I’ll go in now, Trot,’ said my aunt, ‘and look after Little Blossom,
who will be getting up presently.’

‘Not along of my being heer, ma’am, I hope?’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘Unless
my wits is gone a bahd’s neezing’--by which Mr. Peggotty meant to say,
bird’s-nesting--‘this morning, ‘tis along of me as you’re a-going to
quit us?’

‘You have something to say, my good friend,’ returned my aunt, ‘and will
do better without me.’

‘By your leave, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘I should take it kind,
pervising you doen’t mind my clicketten, if you’d bide heer.’

‘Would you?’ said my aunt, with short good-nature. ‘Then I am sure I
will!’

So, she drew her arm through Mr. Peggotty’s, and walked with him to a
leafy little summer-house there was at the bottom of the garden, where
she sat down on a bench, and I beside her. There was a seat for Mr.
Peggotty too, but he preferred to stand, leaning his hand on the small
rustic table. As he stood, looking at his cap for a little while before
beginning to speak, I could not help observing what power and force
of character his sinewy hand expressed, and what a good and trusty
companion it was to his honest brow and iron-grey hair.

‘I took my dear child away last night,’ Mr. Peggotty began, as he
raised his eyes to ours, ‘to my lodging, wheer I have a long time been
expecting of her and preparing fur her. It was hours afore she knowed me
right; and when she did, she kneeled down at my feet, and kiender said
to me, as if it was her prayers, how it all come to be. You may believe
me, when I heerd her voice, as I had heerd at home so playful--and see
her humbled, as it might be in the dust our Saviour wrote in with his
blessed hand--I felt a wownd go to my ‘art, in the midst of all its
thankfulness.’

He drew his sleeve across his face, without any pretence of concealing
why; and then cleared his voice.

‘It warn’t for long as I felt that; for she was found. I had on’y to
think as she was found, and it was gone. I doen’t know why I do so much
as mention of it now, I’m sure. I didn’t have it in my mind a minute
ago, to say a word about myself; but it come up so nat’ral, that I
yielded to it afore I was aweer.’

‘You are a self-denying soul,’ said my aunt, ‘and will have your
reward.’

Mr. Peggotty, with the shadows of the leaves playing athwart his
face, made a surprised inclination of the head towards my aunt, as an
acknowledgement of her good opinion; then took up the thread he had
relinquished.

‘When my Em’ly took flight,’ he said, in stern wrath for the moment,
‘from the house wheer she was made a prisoner by that theer spotted
snake as Mas’r Davy see,--and his story’s trew, and may GOD confound
him!--she took flight in the night. It was a dark night, with a many
stars a-shining. She was wild. She ran along the sea beach, believing
the old boat was theer; and calling out to us to turn away our faces,
for she was a-coming by. She heerd herself a-crying out, like as if
it was another person; and cut herself on them sharp-pinted stones and
rocks, and felt it no more than if she had been rock herself. Ever so
fur she run, and there was fire afore her eyes, and roarings in her
ears. Of a sudden--or so she thowt, you unnerstand--the day broke, wet
and windy, and she was lying b’low a heap of stone upon the shore, and
a woman was a-speaking to her, saying, in the language of that country,
what was it as had gone so much amiss?’

He saw everything he related. It passed before him, as he spoke, so
vividly, that, in the intensity of his earnestness, he presented what
he described to me, with greater distinctness than I can express. I can
hardly believe, writing now long afterwards, but that I was actually
present in these scenes; they are impressed upon me with such an
astonishing air of fidelity.

‘As Em’ly’s eyes--which was heavy--see this woman better,’ Mr. Peggotty
went on, ‘she know’d as she was one of them as she had often talked to
on the beach. Fur, though she had run (as I have said) ever so fur in
the night, she had oftentimes wandered long ways, partly afoot, partly
in boats and carriages, and know’d all that country, ‘long the coast,
miles and miles. She hadn’t no children of her own, this woman, being
a young wife; but she was a-looking to have one afore long. And may
my prayers go up to Heaven that ‘twill be a happiness to her, and a
comfort, and a honour, all her life! May it love her and be dootiful to
her, in her old age; helpful of her at the last; a Angel to her heer,
and heerafter!’

‘Amen!’ said my aunt.

‘She had been summat timorous and down,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and had sat,
at first, a little way off, at her spinning, or such work as it was,
when Em’ly talked to the children. But Em’ly had took notice of her,
and had gone and spoke to her; and as the young woman was partial to
the children herself, they had soon made friends. Sermuchser, that when
Em’ly went that way, she always giv Em’ly flowers. This was her as
now asked what it was that had gone so much amiss. Em’ly told her,
and she--took her home. She did indeed. She took her home,’ said Mr.
Peggotty, covering his face.

He was more affected by this act of kindness, than I had ever seen him
affected by anything since the night she went away. My aunt and I did
not attempt to disturb him.

‘It was a little cottage, you may suppose,’ he said, presently, ‘but she
found space for Em’ly in it,--her husband was away at sea,--and she kep
it secret, and prevailed upon such neighbours as she had (they was not
many near) to keep it secret too. Em’ly was took bad with fever,
and, what is very strange to me is,--maybe ‘tis not so strange to
scholars,--the language of that country went out of her head, and she
could only speak her own, that no one unnerstood. She recollects, as if
she had dreamed it, that she lay there always a-talking her own tongue,
always believing as the old boat was round the next pint in the bay, and
begging and imploring of ‘em to send theer and tell how she was dying,
and bring back a message of forgiveness, if it was on’y a wured. A’most
the whole time, she thowt,--now, that him as I made mention on just now
was lurking for her unnerneath the winder; now that him as had brought
her to this was in the room,--and cried to the good young woman not to
give her up, and know’d, at the same time, that she couldn’t unnerstand,
and dreaded that she must be took away. Likewise the fire was afore
her eyes, and the roarings in her ears; and theer was no today, nor
yesterday, nor yet tomorrow; but everything in her life as ever had
been, or as ever could be, and everything as never had been, and as
never could be, was a crowding on her all at once, and nothing clear nor
welcome, and yet she sang and laughed about it! How long this lasted, I
doen’t know; but then theer come a sleep; and in that sleep, from being
a many times stronger than her own self, she fell into the weakness of
the littlest child.’

Here he stopped, as if for relief from the terrors of his own
description. After being silent for a few moments, he pursued his story.

‘It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke; and so quiet, that there
warn’t a sound but the rippling of that blue sea without a tide, upon
the shore. It was her belief, at first, that she was at home upon a
Sunday morning; but the vine leaves as she see at the winder, and the
hills beyond, warn’t home, and contradicted of her. Then, come in her
friend to watch alongside of her bed; and then she know’d as the old
boat warn’t round that next pint in the bay no more, but was fur off;
and know’d where she was, and why; and broke out a-crying on that good
young woman’s bosom, wheer I hope her baby is a-lying now, a-cheering of
her with its pretty eyes!’

He could not speak of this good friend of Emily’s without a flow of
tears. It was in vain to try. He broke down again, endeavouring to bless
her!

‘That done my Em’ly good,’ he resumed, after such emotion as I could
not behold without sharing in; and as to my aunt, she wept with all her
heart; ‘that done Em’ly good, and she begun to mend. But, the language
of that country was quite gone from her, and she was forced to make
signs. So she went on, getting better from day to day, slow, but sure,
and trying to learn the names of common things--names as she seemed
never to have heerd in all her life--till one evening come, when she
was a-setting at her window, looking at a little girl at play upon the
beach. And of a sudden this child held out her hand, and said, what
would be in English, “Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!”--for you
are to unnerstand that they used at first to call her “Pretty lady”, as
the general way in that country is, and that she had taught ‘em to
call her “Fisherman’s daughter” instead. The child says of a sudden,
“Fisherman’s daughter, here’s a shell!” Then Em’ly unnerstands her; and
she answers, bursting out a-crying; and it all comes back!

‘When Em’ly got strong again,’ said Mr. Peggotty, after another short
interval of silence, ‘she cast about to leave that good young creetur,
and get to her own country. The husband was come home, then; and the two
together put her aboard a small trader bound to Leghorn, and from that
to France. She had a little money, but it was less than little as they
would take for all they done. I’m a’most glad on it, though they was
so poor! What they done, is laid up wheer neither moth or rust doth
corrupt, and wheer thieves do not break through nor steal. Mas’r Davy,
it’ll outlast all the treasure in the wureld.

‘Em’ly got to France, and took service to wait on travelling ladies at a
inn in the port. Theer, theer come, one day, that snake. --Let him never
come nigh me. I doen’t know what hurt I might do him!--Soon as she see
him, without him seeing her, all her fear and wildness returned upon
her, and she fled afore the very breath he draw’d. She come to England,
and was set ashore at Dover.

‘I doen’t know,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘for sure, when her ‘art begun to
fail her; but all the way to England she had thowt to come to her dear
home. Soon as she got to England she turned her face tow’rds it. But,
fear of not being forgiv, fear of being pinted at, fear of some of
us being dead along of her, fear of many things, turned her from it,
kiender by force, upon the road: “Uncle, uncle,” she says to me, “the
fear of not being worthy to do what my torn and bleeding breast so
longed to do, was the most fright’ning fear of all! I turned back, when
my ‘art was full of prayers that I might crawl to the old door-step, in
the night, kiss it, lay my wicked face upon it, and theer be found dead
in the morning.”

‘She come,’ said Mr. Peggotty, dropping his voice to an
awe-stricken whisper, ‘to London. She--as had never seen it in her
life--alone--without a penny--young--so pretty--come to London. A’most
the moment as she lighted heer, all so desolate, she found (as she
believed) a friend; a decent woman as spoke to her about the needle-work
as she had been brought up to do, about finding plenty of it fur her,
about a lodging fur the night, and making secret inquiration concerning
of me and all at home, tomorrow. When my child,’ he said aloud, and with
an energy of gratitude that shook him from head to foot, ‘stood upon the
brink of more than I can say or think on--Martha, trew to her promise,
saved her.’

I could not repress a cry of joy.

‘Mas’r Davy!’ said he, gripping my hand in that strong hand of his,
‘it was you as first made mention of her to me. I thankee, sir! She was
arnest. She had know’d of her bitter knowledge wheer to watch and what
to do. She had done it. And the Lord was above all! She come, white and
hurried, upon Em’ly in her sleep. She says to her, “Rise up from worse
than death, and come with me!” Them belonging to the house would have
stopped her, but they might as soon have stopped the sea. “Stand away
from me,” she says, “I am a ghost that calls her from beside her open
grave!” She told Em’ly she had seen me, and know’d I loved her, and
forgive her. She wrapped her, hasty, in her clothes. She took her, faint
and trembling, on her arm. She heeded no more what they said, than if
she had had no ears. She walked among ‘em with my child, minding only
her; and brought her safe out, in the dead of the night, from that black
pit of ruin!

‘She attended on Em’ly,’ said Mr. Peggotty, who had released my hand,
and put his own hand on his heaving chest; ‘she attended to my Em’ly,
lying wearied out, and wandering betwixt whiles, till late next day.
Then she went in search of me; then in search of you, Mas’r Davy. She
didn’t tell Em’ly what she come out fur, lest her ‘art should fail, and
she should think of hiding of herself. How the cruel lady know’d of
her being theer, I can’t say. Whether him as I have spoke so much of,
chanced to see ‘em going theer, or whether (which is most like, to my
thinking) he had heerd it from the woman, I doen’t greatly ask myself.
My niece is found.

‘All night long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘we have been together, Em’ly
and me. ‘Tis little (considering the time) as she has said, in wureds,
through them broken-hearted tears; ‘tis less as I have seen of her dear
face, as grow’d into a woman’s at my hearth. But, all night long, her
arms has been about my neck; and her head has laid heer; and we knows
full well, as we can put our trust in one another, ever more.’

He ceased to speak, and his hand upon the table rested there in perfect
repose, with a resolution in it that might have conquered lions.

‘It was a gleam of light upon me, Trot,’ said my aunt, drying her eyes,
‘when I formed the resolution of being godmother to your sister Betsey
Trotwood, who disappointed me; but, next to that, hardly anything would
have given me greater pleasure, than to be godmother to that good young
creature’s baby!’

Mr. Peggotty nodded his understanding of my aunt’s feelings, but could
not trust himself with any verbal reference to the subject of her
commendation. We all remained silent, and occupied with our own
reflections (my aunt drying her eyes, and now sobbing convulsively, and
now laughing and calling herself a fool); until I spoke.

‘You have quite made up your mind,’ said I to Mr. Peggotty, ‘as to the
future, good friend? I need scarcely ask you.’

‘Quite, Mas’r Davy,’ he returned; ‘and told Em’ly. Theer’s mighty
countries, fur from heer. Our future life lays over the sea.’

‘They will emigrate together, aunt,’ said I.

‘Yes!’ said Mr. Peggotty, with a hopeful smile. ‘No one can’t reproach
my darling in Australia. We will begin a new life over theer!’

I asked him if he yet proposed to himself any time for going away.

‘I was down at the Docks early this morning, sir,’ he returned, ‘to get
information concerning of them ships. In about six weeks or two
months from now, there’ll be one sailing--I see her this morning--went
aboard--and we shall take our passage in her.’

‘Quite alone?’ I asked.

‘Aye, Mas’r Davy!’ he returned. ‘My sister, you see, she’s that fond
of you and yourn, and that accustomed to think on’y of her own country,
that it wouldn’t be hardly fair to let her go. Besides which, theer’s
one she has in charge, Mas’r Davy, as doen’t ought to be forgot.’

‘Poor Ham!’ said I.

‘My good sister takes care of his house, you see, ma’am, and he takes
kindly to her,’ Mr. Peggotty explained for my aunt’s better information.
‘He’ll set and talk to her, with a calm spirit, wen it’s like he
couldn’t bring himself to open his lips to another. Poor fellow!’ said
Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head, ‘theer’s not so much left him, that he
could spare the little as he has!’

‘And Mrs. Gummidge?’ said I.

‘Well, I’ve had a mort of consideration, I do tell you,’ returned Mr.
Peggotty, with a perplexed look which gradually cleared as he went
on, ‘concerning of Missis Gummidge. You see, wen Missis Gummidge falls
a-thinking of the old ‘un, she an’t what you may call good company.
Betwixt you and me, Mas’r Davy--and you, ma’am--wen Mrs. Gummidge takes
to wimicking,’--our old country word for crying,--‘she’s liable to be
considered to be, by them as didn’t know the old ‘un, peevish-like. Now
I DID know the old ‘un,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and I know’d his merits,
so I unnerstan’ her; but ‘tan’t entirely so, you see, with
others--nat’rally can’t be!’

My aunt and I both acquiesced.

‘Wheerby,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘my sister might--I doen’t say she would,
but might--find Missis Gummidge give her a leetle trouble now-and-again.
Theerfur ‘tan’t my intentions to moor Missis Gummidge ‘long with them,
but to find a Beein’ fur her wheer she can fisherate for herself.’
(A Beein’ signifies, in that dialect, a home, and to fisherate is to
provide.) ‘Fur which purpose,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘I means to make her
a ‘lowance afore I go, as’ll leave her pretty comfort’ble. She’s the
faithfullest of creeturs. ‘Tan’t to be expected, of course, at her
time of life, and being lone and lorn, as the good old Mawther is to
be knocked about aboardship, and in the woods and wilds of a new and
fur-away country. So that’s what I’m a-going to do with her.’

He forgot nobody. He thought of everybody’s claims and strivings, but
his own.

‘Em’ly,’ he continued, ‘will keep along with me--poor child, she’s sore
in need of peace and rest!--until such time as we goes upon our voyage.
She’ll work at them clothes, as must be made; and I hope her troubles
will begin to seem longer ago than they was, wen she finds herself once
more by her rough but loving uncle.’

My aunt nodded confirmation of this hope, and imparted great
satisfaction to Mr. Peggotty.

‘Theer’s one thing furder, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, putting his hand in his
breast-pocket, and gravely taking out the little paper bundle I had
seen before, which he unrolled on the table. ‘Theer’s these here
banknotes--fifty pound, and ten. To them I wish to add the money as she
come away with. I’ve asked her about that (but not saying why), and have
added of it up. I an’t a scholar. Would you be so kind as see how ‘tis?’

He handed me, apologetically for his scholarship, a piece of paper, and
observed me while I looked it over. It was quite right.

‘Thankee, sir,’ he said, taking it back. ‘This money, if you doen’t
see objections, Mas’r Davy, I shall put up jest afore I go, in a cover
directed to him; and put that up in another, directed to his mother.
I shall tell her, in no more wureds than I speak to you, what it’s the
price on; and that I’m gone, and past receiving of it back.’

I told him that I thought it would be right to do so--that I was
thoroughly convinced it would be, since he felt it to be right.

‘I said that theer was on’y one thing furder,’ he proceeded with a grave
smile, when he had made up his little bundle again, and put it in his
pocket; ‘but theer was two. I warn’t sure in my mind, wen I come out
this morning, as I could go and break to Ham, of my own self, what had
so thankfully happened. So I writ a letter while I was out, and put
it in the post-office, telling of ‘em how all was as ‘tis; and that I
should come down tomorrow to unload my mind of what little needs a-doing
of down theer, and, most-like, take my farewell leave of Yarmouth.’

‘And do you wish me to go with you?’ said I, seeing that he left
something unsaid.

‘If you could do me that kind favour, Mas’r Davy,’ he replied. ‘I know
the sight on you would cheer ‘em up a bit.’

My little Dora being in good spirits, and very desirous that I should
go--as I found on talking it over with her--I readily pledged myself to
accompany him in accordance with his wish. Next morning, consequently,
we were on the Yarmouth coach, and again travelling over the old ground.

As we passed along the familiar street at night--Mr. Peggotty, in
despite of all my remonstrances, carrying my bag--I glanced into Omer
and Joram’s shop, and saw my old friend Mr. Omer there, smoking his
pipe. I felt reluctant to be present, when Mr. Peggotty first met his
sister and Ham; and made Mr. Omer my excuse for lingering behind.

‘How is Mr. Omer, after this long time?’ said I, going in.

He fanned away the smoke of his pipe, that he might get a better view of
me, and soon recognized me with great delight.

‘I should get up, sir, to acknowledge such an honour as this visit,’
said he, ‘only my limbs are rather out of sorts, and I am wheeled about.
With the exception of my limbs and my breath, howsoever, I am as hearty
as a man can be, I’m thankful to say.’

I congratulated him on his contented looks and his good spirits, and
saw, now, that his easy-chair went on wheels.

‘It’s an ingenious thing, ain’t it?’ he inquired, following the
direction of my glance, and polishing the elbow with his arm. ‘It runs
as light as a feather, and tracks as true as a mail-coach. Bless you,
my little Minnie--my grand-daughter you know, Minnie’s child--puts her
little strength against the back, gives it a shove, and away we go, as
clever and merry as ever you see anything! And I tell you what--it’s a
most uncommon chair to smoke a pipe in.’

I never saw such a good old fellow to make the best of a thing, and
find out the enjoyment of it, as Mr. Omer. He was as radiant, as if
his chair, his asthma, and the failure of his limbs, were the various
branches of a great invention for enhancing the luxury of a pipe.

‘I see more of the world, I can assure you,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘in this
chair, than ever I see out of it. You’d be surprised at the number of
people that looks in of a day to have a chat. You really would! There’s
twice as much in the newspaper, since I’ve taken to this chair, as there
used to be. As to general reading, dear me, what a lot of it I do get
through! That’s what I feel so strong, you know! If it had been my eyes,
what should I have done? If it had been my ears, what should I have
done? Being my limbs, what does it signify? Why, my limbs only made my
breath shorter when I used ‘em. And now, if I want to go out into
the street or down to the sands, I’ve only got to call Dick, Joram’s
youngest ‘prentice, and away I go in my own carriage, like the Lord
Mayor of London.’

He half suffocated himself with laughing here.

‘Lord bless you!’ said Mr. Omer, resuming his pipe, ‘a man must take
the fat with the lean; that’s what he must make up his mind to, in this
life. Joram does a fine business. Ex-cellent business!’

‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said I.

‘I knew you would be,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘And Joram and Minnie are like
Valentines. What more can a man expect? What’s his limbs to that!’

His supreme contempt for his own limbs, as he sat smoking, was one of
the pleasantest oddities I have ever encountered.

‘And since I’ve took to general reading, you’ve took to general writing,
eh, sir?’ said Mr. Omer, surveying me admiringly. ‘What a lovely work
that was of yours! What expressions in it! I read it every word--every
word. And as to feeling sleepy! Not at all!’

I laughingly expressed my satisfaction, but I must confess that I
thought this association of ideas significant.

‘I give you my word and honour, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘that when I lay
that book upon the table, and look at it outside; compact in three
separate and indiwidual wollumes--one, two, three; I am as proud as
Punch to think that I once had the honour of being connected with
your family. And dear me, it’s a long time ago, now, ain’t it? Over
at Blunderstone. With a pretty little party laid along with the other
party. And you quite a small party then, yourself. Dear, dear!’

I changed the subject by referring to Emily. After assuring him that I
did not forget how interested he had always been in her, and how
kindly he had always treated her, I gave him a general account of her
restoration to her uncle by the aid of Martha; which I knew would please
the old man. He listened with the utmost attention, and said, feelingly,
when I had done:

‘I am rejoiced at it, sir! It’s the best news I have heard for many
a day. Dear, dear, dear! And what’s going to be undertook for that
unfortunate young woman, Martha, now?’

‘You touch a point that my thoughts have been dwelling on since
yesterday,’ said I, ‘but on which I can give you no information yet, Mr.
Omer. Mr. Peggotty has not alluded to it, and I have a delicacy in
doing so. I am sure he has not forgotten it. He forgets nothing that is
disinterested and good.’

‘Because you know,’ said Mr. Omer, taking himself up, where he had left
off, ‘whatever is done, I should wish to be a member of. Put me down for
anything you may consider right, and let me know. I never could think
the girl all bad, and I am glad to find she’s not. So will my daughter
Minnie be. Young women are contradictory creatures in some things--her
mother was just the same as her--but their hearts are soft and kind.
It’s all show with Minnie, about Martha. Why she should consider it
necessary to make any show, I don’t undertake to tell you. But it’s all
show, bless you. She’d do her any kindness in private. So, put me down
for whatever you may consider right, will you be so good? and drop me
a line where to forward it. Dear me!’ said Mr. Omer, ‘when a man is
drawing on to a time of life, where the two ends of life meet; when he
finds himself, however hearty he is, being wheeled about for the second
time, in a speeches of go-cart; he should be over-rejoiced to do a
kindness if he can. He wants plenty. And I don’t speak of myself,
particular,’ said Mr. Omer, ‘because, sir, the way I look at it is, that
we are all drawing on to the bottom of the hill, whatever age we are,
on account of time never standing still for a single moment. So let us
always do a kindness, and be over-rejoiced. To be sure!’

He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it on a ledge in the back
of his chair, expressly made for its reception.

‘There’s Em’ly’s cousin, him that she was to have been married to,’ said
Mr. Omer, rubbing his hands feebly, ‘as fine a fellow as there is in
Yarmouth! He’ll come and talk or read to me, in the evening, for an hour
together sometimes. That’s a kindness, I should call it! All his life’s
a kindness.’

‘I am going to see him now,’ said I.

‘Are you?’ said Mr. Omer. ‘Tell him I was hearty, and sent my respects.
Minnie and Joram’s at a ball. They would be as proud to see you as I
am, if they was at home. Minnie won’t hardly go out at all, you see, “on
account of father”, as she says. So I swore tonight, that if she didn’t
go, I’d go to bed at six. In consequence of which,’ Mr. Omer shook
himself and his chair with laughter at the success of his device, ‘she
and Joram’s at a ball.’

I shook hands with him, and wished him good night.

‘Half a minute, sir,’ said Mr. Omer. ‘If you was to go without seeing
my little elephant, you’d lose the best of sights. You never see such
a sight! Minnie!’ A musical little voice answered, from somewhere
upstairs, ‘I am coming, grandfather!’ and a pretty little girl with
long, flaxen, curling hair, soon came running into the shop.

‘This is my little elephant, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, fondling the child.
‘Siamese breed, sir. Now, little elephant!’

The little elephant set the door of the parlour open, enabling me to see
that, in these latter days, it was converted into a bedroom for Mr.
Omer who could not be easily conveyed upstairs; and then hid her pretty
forehead, and tumbled her long hair, against the back of Mr. Omer’s
chair.

‘The elephant butts, you know, sir,’ said Mr. Omer, winking, ‘when he
goes at a object. Once, elephant. Twice. Three times!’

At this signal, the little elephant, with a dexterity that was next to
marvellous in so small an animal, whisked the chair round with Mr. Omer
in it, and rattled it off, pell-mell, into the parlour, without touching
the door-post: Mr. Omer indescribably enjoying the performance, and
looking back at me on the road as if it were the triumphant issue of his
life’s exertions.

After a stroll about the town I went to Ham’s house. Peggotty had now
removed here for good; and had let her own house to the successor of
Mr. Barkis in the carrying business, who had paid her very well for the
good-will, cart, and horse. I believe the very same slow horse that Mr.
Barkis drove was still at work.

I found them in the neat kitchen, accompanied by Mrs. Gummidge, who had
been fetched from the old boat by Mr. Peggotty himself. I doubt if
she could have been induced to desert her post, by anyone else. He
had evidently told them all. Both Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge had their
aprons to their eyes, and Ham had just stepped out ‘to take a turn on
the beach’. He presently came home, very glad to see me; and I hope they
were all the better for my being there. We spoke, with some approach to
cheerfulness, of Mr. Peggotty’s growing rich in a new country, and of
the wonders he would describe in his letters. We said nothing of Emily
by name, but distantly referred to her more than once. Ham was the
serenest of the party.

But, Peggotty told me, when she lighted me to a little chamber where the
Crocodile book was lying ready for me on the table, that he always was
the same. She believed (she told me, crying) that he was broken-hearted;
though he was as full of courage as of sweetness, and worked harder and
better than any boat-builder in any yard in all that part. There were
times, she said, of an evening, when he talked of their old life in
the boat-house; and then he mentioned Emily as a child. But, he never
mentioned her as a woman.

I thought I had read in his face that he would like to speak to me
alone. I therefore resolved to put myself in his way next evening, as he
came home from his work. Having settled this with myself, I fell asleep.
That night, for the first time in all those many nights, the candle was
taken out of the window, Mr. Peggotty swung in his old hammock in the
old boat, and the wind murmured with the old sound round his head.

All next day, he was occupied in disposing of his fishing-boat and
tackle; in packing up, and sending to London by waggon, such of his
little domestic possessions as he thought would be useful to him; and in
parting with the rest, or bestowing them on Mrs. Gummidge. She was with
him all day. As I had a sorrowful wish to see the old place once more,
before it was locked up, I engaged to meet them there in the evening.
But I so arranged it, as that I should meet Ham first.

It was easy to come in his way, as I knew where he worked. I met him
at a retired part of the sands, which I knew he would cross, and turned
back with him, that he might have leisure to speak to me if he really
wished. I had not mistaken the expression of his face. We had walked but
a little way together, when he said, without looking at me:

‘Mas’r Davy, have you seen her?’

‘Only for a moment, when she was in a swoon,’ I softly answered.

We walked a little farther, and he said:

‘Mas’r Davy, shall you see her, d’ye think?’

‘It would be too painful to her, perhaps,’ said I.

‘I have thowt of that,’ he replied. ‘So ‘twould, sir, so ‘twould.’

‘But, Ham,’ said I, gently, ‘if there is anything that I could write
to her, for you, in case I could not tell it; if there is anything
you would wish to make known to her through me; I should consider it a
sacred trust.’

‘I am sure on’t. I thankee, sir, most kind! I think theer is something I
could wish said or wrote.’

‘What is it?’

We walked a little farther in silence, and then he spoke.

‘’Tan’t that I forgive her. ‘Tan’t that so much. ‘Tis more as I beg of
her to forgive me, for having pressed my affections upon her. Odd times,
I think that if I hadn’t had her promise fur to marry me, sir, she was
that trustful of me, in a friendly way, that she’d have told me what was
struggling in her mind, and would have counselled with me, and I might
have saved her.’

I pressed his hand. ‘Is that all?’ ‘Theer’s yet a something else,’ he
returned, ‘if I can say it, Mas’r Davy.’

We walked on, farther than we had walked yet, before he spoke again. He
was not crying when he made the pauses I shall express by lines. He was
merely collecting himself to speak very plainly.

‘I loved her--and I love the mem’ry of her--too deep--to be able to
lead her to believe of my own self as I’m a happy man. I could only be
happy--by forgetting of her--and I’m afeerd I couldn’t hardly bear as
she should be told I done that. But if you, being so full of learning,
Mas’r Davy, could think of anything to say as might bring her to believe
I wasn’t greatly hurt: still loving of her, and mourning for her:
anything as might bring her to believe as I was not tired of my life,
and yet was hoping fur to see her without blame, wheer the wicked cease
from troubling and the weary are at rest--anything as would ease her
sorrowful mind, and yet not make her think as I could ever marry, or as
‘twas possible that anyone could ever be to me what she was--I should
ask of you to say that--with my prayers for her--that was so dear.’

I pressed his manly hand again, and told him I would charge myself to do
this as well as I could.

‘I thankee, sir,’ he answered. ‘’Twas kind of you to meet me. ‘Twas kind
of you to bear him company down. Mas’r Davy, I unnerstan’ very well,
though my aunt will come to Lon’on afore they sail, and they’ll unite
once more, that I am not like to see him agen. I fare to feel sure on’t.
We doen’t say so, but so ‘twill be, and better so. The last you see on
him--the very last--will you give him the lovingest duty and thanks of
the orphan, as he was ever more than a father to?’

This I also promised, faithfully.

‘I thankee agen, sir,’ he said, heartily shaking hands. ‘I know wheer
you’re a-going. Good-bye!’

With a slight wave of his hand, as though to explain to me that he could
not enter the old place, he turned away. As I looked after his figure,
crossing the waste in the moonlight, I saw him turn his face towards a
strip of silvery light upon the sea, and pass on, looking at it, until
he was a shadow in the distance.

The door of the boat-house stood open when I approached; and, on
entering, I found it emptied of all its furniture, saving one of the old
lockers, on which Mrs. Gummidge, with a basket on her knee, was seated,
looking at Mr. Peggotty. He leaned his elbow on the rough chimney-piece,
and gazed upon a few expiring embers in the grate; but he raised his
head, hopefully, on my coming in, and spoke in a cheery manner.

‘Come, according to promise, to bid farewell to ‘t, eh, Mas’r Davy?’
he said, taking up the candle. ‘Bare enough, now, an’t it?’ ‘Indeed you
have made good use of the time,’ said I.

‘Why, we have not been idle, sir. Missis Gummidge has worked like a--I
doen’t know what Missis Gummidge an’t worked like,’ said Mr. Peggotty,
looking at her, at a loss for a sufficiently approving simile.

Mrs. Gummidge, leaning on her basket, made no observation.

‘Theer’s the very locker that you used to sit on, ‘long with Em’ly!’
said Mr. Peggotty, in a whisper. ‘I’m a-going to carry it away with me,
last of all. And heer’s your old little bedroom, see, Mas’r Davy! A’most
as bleak tonight, as ‘art could wish!’

In truth, the wind, though it was low, had a solemn sound, and crept
around the deserted house with a whispered wailing that was very
mournful. Everything was gone, down to the little mirror with the
oyster-shell frame. I thought of myself, lying here, when that first
great change was being wrought at home. I thought of the blue-eyed child
who had enchanted me. I thought of Steerforth: and a foolish, fearful
fancy came upon me of his being near at hand, and liable to be met at
any turn.

‘’Tis like to be long,’ said Mr. Peggotty, in a low voice, ‘afore
the boat finds new tenants. They look upon ‘t, down heer, as being
unfortunate now!’

‘Does it belong to anybody in the neighbourhood?’ I asked.

‘To a mast-maker up town,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘I’m a-going to give the
key to him tonight.’

We looked into the other little room, and came back to Mrs. Gummidge,
sitting on the locker, whom Mr. Peggotty, putting the light on the
chimney-piece, requested to rise, that he might carry it outside the
door before extinguishing the candle.

‘Dan’l,’ said Mrs. Gummidge, suddenly deserting her basket, and clinging
to his arm ‘my dear Dan’l, the parting words I speak in this house is, I
mustn’t be left behind. Doen’t ye think of leaving me behind, Dan’l! Oh,
doen’t ye ever do it!’

Mr. Peggotty, taken aback, looked from Mrs. Gummidge to me, and from me
to Mrs. Gummidge, as if he had been awakened from a sleep.

‘Doen’t ye, dearest Dan’l, doen’t ye!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge, fervently.
‘Take me ‘long with you, Dan’l, take me ‘long with you and Em’ly! I’ll
be your servant, constant and trew. If there’s slaves in them parts
where you’re a-going, I’ll be bound to you for one, and happy, but
doen’t ye leave me behind, Dan’l, that’s a deary dear!’

‘My good soul,’ said Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head, ‘you doen’t know
what a long voyage, and what a hard life ‘tis!’ ‘Yes, I do, Dan’l! I can
guess!’ cried Mrs. Gummidge. ‘But my parting words under this roof is,
I shall go into the house and die, if I am not took. I can dig, Dan’l.
I can work. I can live hard. I can be loving and patient now--more than
you think, Dan’l, if you’ll on’y try me. I wouldn’t touch the ‘lowance,
not if I was dying of want, Dan’l Peggotty; but I’ll go with you and
Em’ly, if you’ll on’y let me, to the world’s end! I know how ‘tis; I
know you think that I am lone and lorn; but, deary love, ‘tan’t so no
more! I ain’t sat here, so long, a-watching, and a-thinking of your
trials, without some good being done me. Mas’r Davy, speak to him for
me! I knows his ways, and Em’ly’s, and I knows their sorrows, and can be
a comfort to ‘em, some odd times, and labour for ‘em allus! Dan’l, deary
Dan’l, let me go ‘long with you!’

And Mrs. Gummidge took his hand, and kissed it with a homely pathos and
affection, in a homely rapture of devotion and gratitude, that he well
deserved.

We brought the locker out, extinguished the candle, fastened the door
on the outside, and left the old boat close shut up, a dark speck in
the cloudy night. Next day, when we were returning to London outside the
coach, Mrs. Gummidge and her basket were on the seat behind, and Mrs.
Gummidge was happy.



CHAPTER 52. I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION


When the time Mr. Micawber had appointed so mysteriously, was within
four-and-twenty hours of being come, my aunt and I consulted how we
should proceed; for my aunt was very unwilling to leave Dora. Ah! how
easily I carried Dora up and down stairs, now!

We were disposed, notwithstanding Mr. Micawber’s stipulation for my
aunt’s attendance, to arrange that she should stay at home, and be
represented by Mr. Dick and me. In short, we had resolved to take this
course, when Dora again unsettled us by declaring that she never
would forgive herself, and never would forgive her bad boy, if my aunt
remained behind, on any pretence.

‘I won’t speak to you,’ said Dora, shaking her curls at my aunt. ‘I’ll
be disagreeable! I’ll make Jip bark at you all day. I shall be sure that
you really are a cross old thing, if you don’t go!’

‘Tut, Blossom!’ laughed my aunt. ‘You know you can’t do without me!’

‘Yes, I can,’ said Dora. ‘You are no use to me at all. You never run up
and down stairs for me, all day long. You never sit and tell me stories
about Doady, when his shoes were worn out, and he was covered with
dust--oh, what a poor little mite of a fellow! You never do anything at
all to please me, do you, dear?’ Dora made haste to kiss my aunt, and
say, ‘Yes, you do! I’m only joking!’-lest my aunt should think she
really meant it.

‘But, aunt,’ said Dora, coaxingly, ‘now listen. You must go. I shall
tease you, ‘till you let me have my own way about it. I shall lead my
naughty boy such a life, if he don’t make you go. I shall make myself
so disagreeable--and so will Jip! You’ll wish you had gone, like a good
thing, for ever and ever so long, if you don’t go. Besides,’ said Dora,
putting back her hair, and looking wonderingly at my aunt and me, ‘why
shouldn’t you both go? I am not very ill indeed. Am I?’

‘Why, what a question!’ cried my aunt.

‘What a fancy!’ said I.

‘Yes! I know I am a silly little thing!’ said Dora, slowly looking from
one of us to the other, and then putting up her pretty lips to kiss us
as she lay upon her couch. ‘Well, then, you must both go, or I shall not
believe you; and then I shall cry!’

I saw, in my aunt’s face, that she began to give way now, and Dora
brightened again, as she saw it too.

‘You’ll come back with so much to tell me, that it’ll take at least
a week to make me understand!’ said Dora. ‘Because I know I shan’t
understand, for a length of time, if there’s any business in it. And
there’s sure to be some business in it! If there’s anything to add up,
besides, I don’t know when I shall make it out; and my bad boy will look
so miserable all the time. There! Now you’ll go, won’t you? You’ll only
be gone one night, and Jip will take care of me while you are gone.
Doady will carry me upstairs before you go, and I won’t come down again
till you come back; and you shall take Agnes a dreadfully scolding
letter from me, because she has never been to see us!’

We agreed, without any more consultation, that we would both go, and
that Dora was a little Impostor, who feigned to be rather unwell,
because she liked to be petted. She was greatly pleased, and very merry;
and we four, that is to say, my aunt, Mr. Dick, Traddles, and I, went
down to Canterbury by the Dover mail that night.

At the hotel where Mr. Micawber had requested us to await him, which
we got into, with some trouble, in the middle of the night, I found a
letter, importing that he would appear in the morning punctually at half
past nine. After which, we went shivering, at that uncomfortable hour,
to our respective beds, through various close passages; which smelt as
if they had been steeped, for ages, in a solution of soup and stables.

Early in the morning, I sauntered through the dear old tranquil streets,
and again mingled with the shadows of the venerable gateways and
churches. The rooks were sailing about the cathedral towers; and the
towers themselves, overlooking many a long unaltered mile of the rich
country and its pleasant streams, were cutting the bright morning air,
as if there were no such thing as change on earth. Yet the bells, when
they sounded, told me sorrowfully of change in everything; told me of
their own age, and my pretty Dora’s youth; and of the many, never old,
who had lived and loved and died, while the reverberations of the bells
had hummed through the rusty armour of the Black Prince hanging up
within, and, motes upon the deep of Time, had lost themselves in air, as
circles do in water.

I looked at the old house from the corner of the street, but did not go
nearer to it, lest, being observed, I might unwittingly do any harm to
the design I had come to aid. The early sun was striking edgewise on its
gables and lattice-windows, touching them with gold; and some beams of
its old peace seemed to touch my heart.

I strolled into the country for an hour or so, and then returned by
the main street, which in the interval had shaken off its last night’s
sleep. Among those who were stirring in the shops, I saw my ancient
enemy the butcher, now advanced to top-boots and a baby, and in business
for himself. He was nursing the baby, and appeared to be a benignant
member of society.

We all became very anxious and impatient, when we sat down to breakfast.
As it approached nearer and nearer to half past nine o’clock, our
restless expectation of Mr. Micawber increased. At last we made no more
pretence of attending to the meal, which, except with Mr. Dick, had been
a mere form from the first; but my aunt walked up and down the room.
Traddles sat upon the sofa affecting to read the paper with his eyes on
the ceiling; and I looked out of the window to give early notice of Mr.
Micawber’s coming. Nor had I long to watch, for, at the first chime of
the half hour, he appeared in the street.

‘Here he is,’ said I, ‘and not in his legal attire!’

My aunt tied the strings of her bonnet (she had come down to breakfast
in it), and put on her shawl, as if she were ready for anything that
was resolute and uncompromising. Traddles buttoned his coat with a
determined air. Mr. Dick, disturbed by these formidable appearances, but
feeling it necessary to imitate them, pulled his hat, with both hands,
as firmly over his ears as he possibly could; and instantly took it off
again, to welcome Mr. Micawber.

‘Gentlemen, and madam,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘good morning! My dear sir,’
to Mr. Dick, who shook hands with him violently, ‘you are extremely
good.’

‘Have you breakfasted?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘Have a chop!’

‘Not for the world, my good sir!’ cried Mr. Micawber, stopping him on
his way to the bell; ‘appetite and myself, Mr. Dixon, have long been
strangers.’

Mr. Dixon was so well pleased with his new name, and appeared to think
it so obliging in Mr. Micawber to confer it upon him, that he shook
hands with him again, and laughed rather childishly.

‘Dick,’ said my aunt, ‘attention!’

Mr. Dick recovered himself, with a blush.

‘Now, sir,’ said my aunt to Mr. Micawber, as she put on her gloves, ‘we
are ready for Mount Vesuvius, or anything else, as soon as YOU please.’

‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘I trust you will shortly witness an
eruption. Mr. Traddles, I have your permission, I believe, to mention
here that we have been in communication together?’

‘It is undoubtedly the fact, Copperfield,’ said Traddles, to whom I
looked in surprise. ‘Mr. Micawber has consulted me in reference to
what he has in contemplation; and I have advised him to the best of my
judgement.’

‘Unless I deceive myself, Mr. Traddles,’ pursued Mr. Micawber, ‘what I
contemplate is a disclosure of an important nature.’

‘Highly so,’ said Traddles.

‘Perhaps, under such circumstances, madam and gentlemen,’ said Mr.
Micawber, ‘you will do me the favour to submit yourselves, for the
moment, to the direction of one who, however unworthy to be regarded in
any other light but as a Waif and Stray upon the shore of human nature,
is still your fellow-man, though crushed out of his original form
by individual errors, and the accumulative force of a combination of
circumstances?’

‘We have perfect confidence in you, Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘and will do
what you please.’

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘your confidence is not, at
the existing juncture, ill-bestowed. I would beg to be allowed a start
of five minutes by the clock; and then to receive the present company,
inquiring for Miss Wickfield, at the office of Wickfield and Heep, whose
Stipendiary I am.’

My aunt and I looked at Traddles, who nodded his approval.

‘I have no more,’ observed Mr. Micawber, ‘to say at present.’

With which, to my infinite surprise, he included us all in a
comprehensive bow, and disappeared; his manner being extremely distant,
and his face extremely pale.

Traddles only smiled, and shook his head (with his hair standing upright
on the top of it), when I looked to him for an explanation; so I took
out my watch, and, as a last resource, counted off the five minutes. My
aunt, with her own watch in her hand, did the like. When the time was
expired, Traddles gave her his arm; and we all went out together to the
old house, without saying one word on the way.

We found Mr. Micawber at his desk, in the turret office on the
ground floor, either writing, or pretending to write, hard. The large
office-ruler was stuck into his waistcoat, and was not so well concealed
but that a foot or more of that instrument protruded from his bosom,
like a new kind of shirt-frill.

As it appeared to me that I was expected to speak, I said aloud:

‘How do you do, Mr. Micawber?’

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Micawber, gravely, ‘I hope I see you well?’

‘Is Miss Wickfield at home?’ said I.

‘Mr. Wickfield is unwell in bed, sir, of a rheumatic fever,’ he
returned; ‘but Miss Wickfield, I have no doubt, will be happy to see old
friends. Will you walk in, sir?’

He preceded us to the dining-room--the first room I had entered in that
house--and flinging open the door of Mr. Wickfield’s former office,
said, in a sonorous voice:

‘Miss Trotwood, Mr. David Copperfield, Mr. Thomas Traddles, and Mr.
Dixon!’

I had not seen Uriah Heep since the time of the blow. Our visit
astonished him, evidently; not the less, I dare say, because it
astonished ourselves. He did not gather his eyebrows together, for he
had none worth mentioning; but he frowned to that degree that he almost
closed his small eyes, while the hurried raising of his grisly hand to
his chin betrayed some trepidation or surprise. This was only when we
were in the act of entering his room, and when I caught a glance at him
over my aunt’s shoulder. A moment afterwards, he was as fawning and as
humble as ever.

‘Well, I am sure,’ he said. ‘This is indeed an unexpected pleasure! To
have, as I may say, all friends round St. Paul’s at once, is a treat
unlooked for! Mr. Copperfield, I hope I see you well, and--if I may
umbly express myself so--friendly towards them as is ever your friends,
whether or not. Mrs. Copperfield, sir, I hope she’s getting on. We have
been made quite uneasy by the poor accounts we have had of her state,
lately, I do assure you.’

I felt ashamed to let him take my hand, but I did not know yet what else
to do.

‘Things are changed in this office, Miss Trotwood, since I was an umble
clerk, and held your pony; ain’t they?’ said Uriah, with his sickliest
smile. ‘But I am not changed, Miss Trotwood.’

‘Well, sir,’ returned my aunt, ‘to tell you the truth, I think you are
pretty constant to the promise of your youth; if that’s any satisfaction
to you.’

‘Thank you, Miss Trotwood,’ said Uriah, writhing in his ungainly manner,
‘for your good opinion! Micawber, tell ‘em to let Miss Agnes know--and
mother. Mother will be quite in a state, when she sees the present
company!’ said Uriah, setting chairs.

‘You are not busy, Mr. Heep?’ said Traddles, whose eye the cunning red
eye accidentally caught, as it at once scrutinized and evaded us.

‘No, Mr. Traddles,’ replied Uriah, resuming his official seat, and
squeezing his bony hands, laid palm to palm between his bony knees. ‘Not
so much so as I could wish. But lawyers, sharks, and leeches, are not
easily satisfied, you know! Not but what myself and Micawber have our
hands pretty full, in general, on account of Mr. Wickfield’s being
hardly fit for any occupation, sir. But it’s a pleasure as well as a
duty, I am sure, to work for him. You’ve not been intimate with Mr.
Wickfield, I think, Mr. Traddles? I believe I’ve only had the honour of
seeing you once myself?’

‘No, I have not been intimate with Mr. Wickfield,’ returned Traddles;
‘or I might perhaps have waited on you long ago, Mr. Heep.’

There was something in the tone of this reply, which made Uriah look at
the speaker again, with a very sinister and suspicious expression. But,
seeing only Traddles, with his good-natured face, simple manner, and
hair on end, he dismissed it as he replied, with a jerk of his whole
body, but especially his throat:

‘I am sorry for that, Mr. Traddles. You would have admired him as much
as we all do. His little failings would only have endeared him to you
the more. But if you would like to hear my fellow-partner eloquently
spoken of, I should refer you to Copperfield. The family is a subject
he’s very strong upon, if you never heard him.’

I was prevented from disclaiming the compliment (if I should have
done so, in any case), by the entrance of Agnes, now ushered in by Mr.
Micawber. She was not quite so self-possessed as usual, I thought; and
had evidently undergone anxiety and fatigue. But her earnest cordiality,
and her quiet beauty, shone with the gentler lustre for it.

I saw Uriah watch her while she greeted us; and he reminded me of an
ugly and rebellious genie watching a good spirit. In the meanwhile,
some slight sign passed between Mr. Micawber and Traddles; and Traddles,
unobserved except by me, went out.

‘Don’t wait, Micawber,’ said Uriah.

Mr. Micawber, with his hand upon the ruler in his breast, stood erect
before the door, most unmistakably contemplating one of his fellow-men,
and that man his employer.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Uriah. ‘Micawber! did you hear me tell
you not to wait?’

‘Yes!’ replied the immovable Mr. Micawber.

‘Then why DO you wait?’ said Uriah.

‘Because I--in short, choose,’ replied Mr. Micawber, with a burst.

Uriah’s cheeks lost colour, and an unwholesome paleness, still faintly
tinged by his pervading red, overspread them. He looked at Mr. Micawber
attentively, with his whole face breathing short and quick in every
feature.

‘You are a dissipated fellow, as all the world knows,’ he said, with an
effort at a smile, ‘and I am afraid you’ll oblige me to get rid of you.
Go along! I’ll talk to you presently.’

‘If there is a scoundrel on this earth,’ said Mr. Micawber, suddenly
breaking out again with the utmost vehemence, ‘with whom I have already
talked too much, that scoundrel’s name is--HEEP!’

Uriah fell back, as if he had been struck or stung. Looking slowly round
upon us with the darkest and wickedest expression that his face could
wear, he said, in a lower voice:

‘Oho! This is a conspiracy! You have met here by appointment! You are
playing Booty with my clerk, are you, Copperfield? Now, take care.
You’ll make nothing of this. We understand each other, you and me.
There’s no love between us. You were always a puppy with a proud
stomach, from your first coming here; and you envy me my rise, do you?
None of your plots against me; I’ll counterplot you! Micawber, you be
off. I’ll talk to you presently.’

‘Mr. Micawber,’ said I, ‘there is a sudden change in this fellow, in
more respects than the extraordinary one of his speaking the truth in
one particular, which assures me that he is brought to bay. Deal with
him as he deserves!’

‘You are a precious set of people, ain’t you?’ said Uriah, in the same
low voice, and breaking out into a clammy heat, which he wiped from his
forehead, with his long lean hand, ‘to buy over my clerk, who is the
very scum of society,--as you yourself were, Copperfield, you know it,
before anyone had charity on you,--to defame me with his lies? Miss
Trotwood, you had better stop this; or I’ll stop your husband shorter
than will be pleasant to you. I won’t know your story professionally,
for nothing, old lady! Miss Wickfield, if you have any love for your
father, you had better not join that gang. I’ll ruin him, if you do.
Now, come! I have got some of you under the harrow. Think twice, before
it goes over you. Think twice, you, Micawber, if you don’t want to
be crushed. I recommend you to take yourself off, and be talked to
presently, you fool! while there’s time to retreat. Where’s mother?’ he
said, suddenly appearing to notice, with alarm, the absence of Traddles,
and pulling down the bell-rope. ‘Fine doings in a person’s own house!’

‘Mrs. Heep is here, sir,’ said Traddles, returning with that worthy
mother of a worthy son. ‘I have taken the liberty of making myself known
to her.’

‘Who are you to make yourself known?’ retorted Uriah. ‘And what do you
want here?’

‘I am the agent and friend of Mr. Wickfield, sir,’ said Traddles, in a
composed and business-like way. ‘And I have a power of attorney from him
in my pocket, to act for him in all matters.’

‘The old ass has drunk himself into a state of dotage,’ said Uriah,
turning uglier than before, ‘and it has been got from him by fraud!’

‘Something has been got from him by fraud, I know,’ returned Traddles
quietly; ‘and so do you, Mr. Heep. We will refer that question, if you
please, to Mr. Micawber.’

‘Ury--!’ Mrs. Heep began, with an anxious gesture.

‘YOU hold your tongue, mother,’ he returned; ‘least said, soonest
mended.’

‘But, my Ury--’

‘Will you hold your tongue, mother, and leave it to me?’

Though I had long known that his servility was false, and all his
pretences knavish and hollow, I had had no adequate conception of the
extent of his hypocrisy, until I now saw him with his mask off. The
suddenness with which he dropped it, when he perceived that it was
useless to him; the malice, insolence, and hatred, he revealed; the leer
with which he exulted, even at this moment, in the evil he had done--all
this time being desperate too, and at his wits’ end for the means
of getting the better of us--though perfectly consistent with the
experience I had of him, at first took even me by surprise, who had
known him so long, and disliked him so heartily.

I say nothing of the look he conferred on me, as he stood eyeing us,
one after another; for I had always understood that he hated me, and I
remembered the marks of my hand upon his cheek. But when his eyes passed
on to Agnes, and I saw the rage with which he felt his power over her
slipping away, and the exhibition, in their disappointment, of the
odious passions that had led him to aspire to one whose virtues he could
never appreciate or care for, I was shocked by the mere thought of her
having lived, an hour, within sight of such a man.

After some rubbing of the lower part of his face, and some looking at us
with those bad eyes, over his grisly fingers, he made one more address
to me, half whining, and half abusive.

‘You think it justifiable, do you, Copperfield, you who pride yourself
so much on your honour and all the rest of it, to sneak about my place,
eaves-dropping with my clerk? If it had been ME, I shouldn’t have
wondered; for I don’t make myself out a gentleman (though I never was
in the streets either, as you were, according to Micawber), but being
you!--And you’re not afraid of doing this, either? You don’t think at
all of what I shall do, in return; or of getting yourself into
trouble for conspiracy and so forth? Very well. We shall see! Mr.
What’s-your-name, you were going to refer some question to Micawber.
There’s your referee. Why don’t you make him speak? He has learnt his
lesson, I see.’

Seeing that what he said had no effect on me or any of us, he sat on the
edge of his table with his hands in his pockets, and one of his splay
feet twisted round the other leg, waiting doggedly for what might
follow.

Mr. Micawber, whose impetuosity I had restrained thus far with the
greatest difficulty, and who had repeatedly interposed with the first
syllable of SCOUN-drel! without getting to the second, now burst
forward, drew the ruler from his breast (apparently as a defensive
weapon), and produced from his pocket a foolscap document, folded in the
form of a large letter. Opening this packet, with his old flourish, and
glancing at the contents, as if he cherished an artistic admiration of
their style of composition, he began to read as follows:


‘“Dear Miss Trotwood and gentlemen--“’

‘Bless and save the man!’ exclaimed my aunt in a low voice. ‘He’d write
letters by the ream, if it was a capital offence!’

Mr. Micawber, without hearing her, went on.

‘“In appearing before you to denounce probably the most consummate
Villain that has ever existed,”’ Mr. Micawber, without looking off the
letter, pointed the ruler, like a ghostly truncheon, at Uriah Heep,
‘“I ask no consideration for myself. The victim, from my cradle, of
pecuniary liabilities to which I have been unable to respond, I have
ever been the sport and toy of debasing circumstances. Ignominy,
Want, Despair, and Madness, have, collectively or separately, been the
attendants of my career.”’

The relish with which Mr. Micawber described himself as a prey to these
dismal calamities, was only to be equalled by the emphasis with which he
read his letter; and the kind of homage he rendered to it with a roll of
his head, when he thought he had hit a sentence very hard indeed.

‘“In an accumulation of Ignominy, Want, Despair, and Madness, I entered
the office--or, as our lively neighbour the Gaul would term it, the
Bureau--of the Firm, nominally conducted under the appellation of
Wickfield and--HEEP, but in reality, wielded by--HEEP alone. HEEP, and
only HEEP, is the mainspring of that machine. HEEP, and only HEEP, is
the Forger and the Cheat.”’

Uriah, more blue than white at these words, made a dart at the letter,
as if to tear it in pieces. Mr. Micawber, with a perfect miracle of
dexterity or luck, caught his advancing knuckles with the ruler, and
disabled his right hand. It dropped at the wrist, as if it were broken.
The blow sounded as if it had fallen on wood.

‘The Devil take you!’ said Uriah, writhing in a new way with pain. ‘I’ll
be even with you.’

‘Approach me again, you--you--you HEEP of infamy,’ gasped Mr. Micawber,
‘and if your head is human, I’ll break it. Come on, come on!’

I think I never saw anything more ridiculous--I was sensible of it, even
at the time--than Mr. Micawber making broad-sword guards with the ruler,
and crying, ‘Come on!’ while Traddles and I pushed him back into a
corner, from which, as often as we got him into it, he persisted in
emerging again.

His enemy, muttering to himself, after wringing his wounded hand for
sometime, slowly drew off his neck-kerchief and bound it up; then
held it in his other hand, and sat upon his table with his sullen face
looking down.

Mr. Micawber, when he was sufficiently cool, proceeded with his letter.

‘“The stipendiary emoluments in consideration of which I entered into
the service of--HEEP,”’ always pausing before that word and uttering
it with astonishing vigour, ‘“were not defined, beyond the pittance of
twenty-two shillings and six per week. The rest was left contingent on
the value of my professional exertions; in other and more expressive
words, on the baseness of my nature, the cupidity of my motives, the
poverty of my family, the general moral (or rather immoral) resemblance
between myself and--HEEP. Need I say, that it soon became necessary for
me to solicit from--HEEP--pecuniary advances towards the support of
Mrs. Micawber, and our blighted but rising family? Need I say that this
necessity had been foreseen by--HEEP? That those advances were secured
by I.O.U.’s and other similar acknowledgements, known to the legal
institutions of this country? And that I thus became immeshed in the web
he had spun for my reception?”’

Mr. Micawber’s enjoyment of his epistolary powers, in describing this
unfortunate state of things, really seemed to outweigh any pain or
anxiety that the reality could have caused him. He read on:

‘“Then it was that--HEEP--began to favour me with just so much of his
confidence, as was necessary to the discharge of his infernal business.
Then it was that I began, if I may so Shakespearianly express myself, to
dwindle, peak, and pine. I found that my services were constantly
called into requisition for the falsification of business, and the
mystification of an individual whom I will designate as Mr. W. That Mr.
W. was imposed upon, kept in ignorance, and deluded, in every possible
way; yet, that all this while, the ruffian--HEEP--was professing
unbounded gratitude to, and unbounded friendship for, that much-abused
gentleman. This was bad enough; but, as the philosophic Dane observes,
with that universal applicability which distinguishes the illustrious
ornament of the Elizabethan Era, worse remains behind!”’

Mr. Micawber was so very much struck by this happy rounding off with a
quotation, that he indulged himself, and us, with a second reading of
the sentence, under pretence of having lost his place.

‘“It is not my intention,”’ he continued reading on, ‘“to enter on a
detailed list, within the compass of the present epistle (though it
is ready elsewhere), of the various malpractices of a minor nature,
affecting the individual whom I have denominated Mr. W., to which I
have been a tacitly consenting party. My object, when the contest within
myself between stipend and no stipend, baker and no baker, existence
and non-existence, ceased, was to take advantage of my opportunities
to discover and expose the major malpractices committed, to that
gentleman’s grievous wrong and injury, by--HEEP. Stimulated by the
silent monitor within, and by a no less touching and appealing monitor
without--to whom I will briefly refer as Miss W.--I entered on a not
unlaborious task of clandestine investigation, protracted--now, to the
best of my knowledge, information, and belief, over a period exceeding
twelve calendar months.”’

He read this passage as if it were from an Act of Parliament; and
appeared majestically refreshed by the sound of the words.

‘“My charges against--HEEP,”’ he read on, glancing at him, and drawing
the ruler into a convenient position under his left arm, in case of
need, ‘“are as follows.”’

We all held our breath, I think. I am sure Uriah held his.

‘“First,”’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘“When Mr. W.’s faculties and memory
for business became, through causes into which it is not necessary or
expedient for me to enter, weakened and confused,--HEEP--designedly
perplexed and complicated the whole of the official transactions. When
Mr. W. was least fit to enter on business,--HEEP was always at hand
to force him to enter on it. He obtained Mr. W.’s signature under such
circumstances to documents of importance, representing them to be other
documents of no importance. He induced Mr. W. to empower him to draw
out, thus, one particular sum of trust-money, amounting to twelve six
fourteen, two and nine, and employed it to meet pretended business
charges and deficiencies which were either already provided for, or
had never really existed. He gave this proceeding, throughout, the
appearance of having originated in Mr. W.’s own dishonest intention, and
of having been accomplished by Mr. W.’s own dishonest act; and has used
it, ever since, to torture and constrain him.”’

‘You shall prove this, you Copperfield!’ said Uriah, with a threatening
shake of the head. ‘All in good time!’

‘Ask--HEEP--Mr. Traddles, who lived in his house after him,’ said Mr.
Micawber, breaking off from the letter; ‘will you?’

‘The fool himself--and lives there now,’ said Uriah, disdainfully.

‘Ask--HEEP--if he ever kept a pocket-book in that house,’ said Mr.
Micawber; ‘will you?’

I saw Uriah’s lank hand stop, involuntarily, in the scraping of his
chin.

‘Or ask him,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘if he ever burnt one there. If he says
yes, and asks you where the ashes are, refer him to Wilkins Micawber,
and he will hear of something not at all to his advantage!’

The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber delivered himself of
these words, had a powerful effect in alarming the mother; who cried
out, in much agitation:

‘Ury, Ury! Be umble, and make terms, my dear!’

‘Mother!’ he retorted, ‘will you keep quiet? You’re in a fright, and
don’t know what you say or mean. Umble!’ he repeated, looking at me,
with a snarl; ‘I’ve umbled some of ‘em for a pretty long time back,
umble as I was!’

Mr. Micawber, genteelly adjusting his chin in his cravat, presently
proceeded with his composition.

‘“Second. HEEP has, on several occasions, to the best of my knowledge,
information, and belief--“’

‘But that won’t do,’ muttered Uriah, relieved. ‘Mother, you keep quiet.’

‘We will endeavour to provide something that WILL do, and do for you
finally, sir, very shortly,’ replied Mr. Micawber.

‘“Second. HEEP has, on several occasions, to the best of my knowledge,
information, and belief, systematically forged, to various entries,
books, and documents, the signature of Mr. W.; and has distinctly done
so in one instance, capable of proof by me. To wit, in manner following,
that is to say:”’

Again, Mr. Micawber had a relish in this formal piling up of words,
which, however ludicrously displayed in his case, was, I must say, not
at all peculiar to him. I have observed it, in the course of my life,
in numbers of men. It seems to me to be a general rule. In the taking of
legal oaths, for instance, deponents seem to enjoy themselves mightily
when they come to several good words in succession, for the expression
of one idea; as, that they utterly detest, abominate, and abjure, or so
forth; and the old anathemas were made relishing on the same principle.
We talk about the tyranny of words, but we like to tyrannize over them
too; we are fond of having a large superfluous establishment of words to
wait upon us on great occasions; we think it looks important, and sounds
well. As we are not particular about the meaning of our liveries on
state occasions, if they be but fine and numerous enough, so, the
meaning or necessity of our words is a secondary consideration, if there
be but a great parade of them. And as individuals get into trouble by
making too great a show of liveries, or as slaves when they are too
numerous rise against their masters, so I think I could mention a
nation that has got into many great difficulties, and will get into many
greater, from maintaining too large a retinue of words.

Mr. Micawber read on, almost smacking his lips:

‘“To wit, in manner following, that is to say. Mr. W. being infirm, and
it being within the bounds of probability that his decease might lead
to some discoveries, and to the downfall of--HEEP’S--power over the W.
family,--as I, Wilkins Micawber, the undersigned, assume--unless the
filial affection of his daughter could be secretly influenced from
allowing any investigation of the partnership affairs to be ever made,
the said--HEEP--deemed it expedient to have a bond ready by him, as from
Mr. W., for the before-mentioned sum of twelve six fourteen, two and
nine, with interest, stated therein to have been advanced by--HEEP--to
Mr. W. to save Mr. W. from dishonour; though really the sum was never
advanced by him, and has long been replaced. The signatures to this
instrument purporting to be executed by Mr. W. and attested by Wilkins
Micawber, are forgeries by--HEEP. I have, in my possession, in his hand
and pocket-book, several similar imitations of Mr. W.’s signature, here
and there defaced by fire, but legible to anyone. I never attested any
such document. And I have the document itself, in my possession.”’ Uriah
Heep, with a start, took out of his pocket a bunch of keys, and opened
a certain drawer; then, suddenly bethought himself of what he was about,
and turned again towards us, without looking in it.

‘“And I have the document,”’ Mr. Micawber read again, looking about as
if it were the text of a sermon, ‘“in my possession,--that is to say,
I had, early this morning, when this was written, but have since
relinquished it to Mr. Traddles.”’

‘It is quite true,’ assented Traddles.

‘Ury, Ury!’ cried the mother, ‘be umble and make terms. I know my
son will be umble, gentlemen, if you’ll give him time to think. Mr.
Copperfield, I’m sure you know that he was always very umble, sir!’

It was singular to see how the mother still held to the old trick, when
the son had abandoned it as useless.

‘Mother,’ he said, with an impatient bite at the handkerchief in which
his hand was wrapped, ‘you had better take and fire a loaded gun at me.’

‘But I love you, Ury,’ cried Mrs. Heep. And I have no doubt she did; or
that he loved her, however strange it may appear; though, to be sure,
they were a congenial couple. ‘And I can’t bear to hear you provoking
the gentlemen, and endangering of yourself more. I told the gentleman
at first, when he told me upstairs it was come to light, that I would
answer for your being umble, and making amends. Oh, see how umble I am,
gentlemen, and don’t mind him!’

‘Why, there’s Copperfield, mother,’ he angrily retorted, pointing his
lean finger at me, against whom all his animosity was levelled, as the
prime mover in the discovery; and I did not undeceive him; ‘there’s
Copperfield, would have given you a hundred pound to say less than
you’ve blurted out!’

‘I can’t help it, Ury,’ cried his mother. ‘I can’t see you running into
danger, through carrying your head so high. Better be umble, as you
always was.’

He remained for a little, biting the handkerchief, and then said to me
with a scowl:

‘What more have you got to bring forward? If anything, go on with it.
What do you look at me for?’

Mr. Micawber promptly resumed his letter, glad to revert to a
performance with which he was so highly satisfied.

‘“Third. And last. I am now in a condition to show, by--HEEP’S--false
books, and--HEEP’S--real memoranda, beginning with the partially
destroyed pocket-book (which I was unable to comprehend, at the time of
its accidental discovery by Mrs. Micawber, on our taking possession of
our present abode, in the locker or bin devoted to the reception of the
ashes calcined on our domestic hearth), that the weaknesses, the faults,
the very virtues, the parental affections, and the sense of honour, of
the unhappy Mr. W. have been for years acted on by, and warped to the
base purposes of--HEEP. That Mr. W. has been for years deluded and
plundered, in every conceivable manner, to the pecuniary aggrandisement
of the avaricious, false, and grasping--HEEP. That the engrossing object
of--HEEP--was, next to gain, to subdue Mr. and Miss W. (of his ulterior
views in reference to the latter I say nothing) entirely to himself.
That his last act, completed but a few months since, was to induce Mr.
W. to execute a relinquishment of his share in the partnership, and even
a bill of sale on the very furniture of his house, in consideration of a
certain annuity, to be well and truly paid by--HEEP--on the four common
quarter-days in each and every year. That these meshes; beginning with
alarming and falsified accounts of the estate of which Mr. W. is the
receiver, at a period when Mr. W. had launched into imprudent and
ill-judged speculations, and may not have had the money, for which he
was morally and legally responsible, in hand; going on with pretended
borrowings of money at enormous interest, really coming from--HEEP--and
by--HEEP--fraudulently obtained or withheld from Mr. W. himself,
on pretence of such speculations or otherwise; perpetuated by a
miscellaneous catalogue of unscrupulous chicaneries--gradually
thickened, until the unhappy Mr. W. could see no world beyond. Bankrupt,
as he believed, alike in circumstances, in all other hope, and
in honour, his sole reliance was upon the monster in the garb of
man,”’--Mr. Micawber made a good deal of this, as a new turn of
expression,--‘“who, by making himself necessary to him, had achieved his
destruction. All this I undertake to show. Probably much more!”’

I whispered a few words to Agnes, who was weeping, half joyfully, half
sorrowfully, at my side; and there was a movement among us, as if Mr.
Micawber had finished. He said, with exceeding gravity, ‘Pardon me,’
and proceeded, with a mixture of the lowest spirits and the most intense
enjoyment, to the peroration of his letter.

‘“I have now concluded. It merely remains for me to substantiate these
accusations; and then, with my ill-starred family, to disappear from the
landscape on which we appear to be an encumbrance. That is soon done. It
may be reasonably inferred that our baby will first expire of inanition,
as being the frailest member of our circle; and that our twins will
follow next in order. So be it! For myself, my Canterbury Pilgrimage has
done much; imprisonment on civil process, and want, will soon do more.
I trust that the labour and hazard of an investigation--of which the
smallest results have been slowly pieced together, in the pressure of
arduous avocations, under grinding penurious apprehensions, at rise of
morn, at dewy eve, in the shadows of night, under the watchful eye of
one whom it were superfluous to call Demon--combined with the struggle
of parental Poverty to turn it, when completed, to the right account,
may be as the sprinkling of a few drops of sweet water on my funeral
pyre. I ask no more. Let it be, in justice, merely said of me, as of a
gallant and eminent naval Hero, with whom I have no pretensions to
cope, that what I have done, I did, in despite of mercenary and selfish
objects,

     For England, home, and Beauty.

     ‘“Remaining always, &c.  &c., WILKINS MICAWBER.”’


Much affected, but still intensely enjoying himself, Mr. Micawber folded
up his letter, and handed it with a bow to my aunt, as something she
might like to keep.

There was, as I had noticed on my first visit long ago, an iron safe in
the room. The key was in it. A hasty suspicion seemed to strike Uriah;
and, with a glance at Mr. Micawber, he went to it, and threw the doors
clanking open. It was empty.

‘Where are the books?’ he cried, with a frightful face. ‘Some thief has
stolen the books!’

Mr. Micawber tapped himself with the ruler. ‘I did, when I got the key
from you as usual--but a little earlier--and opened it this morning.’

‘Don’t be uneasy,’ said Traddles. ‘They have come into my possession. I
will take care of them, under the authority I mentioned.’

‘You receive stolen goods, do you?’ cried Uriah.

‘Under such circumstances,’ answered Traddles, ‘yes.’

What was my astonishment when I beheld my aunt, who had been profoundly
quiet and attentive, make a dart at Uriah Heep, and seize him by the
collar with both hands!

‘You know what I want?’ said my aunt.

‘A strait-waistcoat,’ said he.

‘No. My property!’ returned my aunt. ‘Agnes, my dear, as long as
I believed it had been really made away with by your father, I
wouldn’t--and, my dear, I didn’t, even to Trot, as he knows--breathe a
syllable of its having been placed here for investment. But, now I know
this fellow’s answerable for it, and I’ll have it! Trot, come and take
it away from him!’

Whether my aunt supposed, for the moment, that he kept her property in
his neck-kerchief, I am sure I don’t know; but she certainly pulled at
it as if she thought so. I hastened to put myself between them, and to
assure her that we would all take care that he should make the utmost
restitution of everything he had wrongly got. This, and a few moments’
reflection, pacified her; but she was not at all disconcerted by what
she had done (though I cannot say as much for her bonnet) and resumed
her seat composedly.

During the last few minutes, Mrs. Heep had been clamouring to her son
to be ‘umble’; and had been going down on her knees to all of us in
succession, and making the wildest promises. Her son sat her down in his
chair; and, standing sulkily by her, holding her arm with his hand, but
not rudely, said to me, with a ferocious look:

‘What do you want done?’

‘I will tell you what must be done,’ said Traddles.

‘Has that Copperfield no tongue?’ muttered Uriah, ‘I would do a good
deal for you if you could tell me, without lying, that somebody had cut
it out.’

‘My Uriah means to be umble!’ cried his mother. ‘Don’t mind what he
says, good gentlemen!’

‘What must be done,’ said Traddles, ‘is this. First, the deed of
relinquishment, that we have heard of, must be given over to me
now--here.’

‘Suppose I haven’t got it,’ he interrupted.

‘But you have,’ said Traddles; ‘therefore, you know, we won’t suppose
so.’ And I cannot help avowing that this was the first occasion on
which I really did justice to the clear head, and the plain, patient,
practical good sense, of my old schoolfellow. ‘Then,’ said Traddles,
‘you must prepare to disgorge all that your rapacity has become
possessed of, and to make restoration to the last farthing. All the
partnership books and papers must remain in our possession; all your
books and papers; all money accounts and securities, of both kinds. In
short, everything here.’

‘Must it? I don’t know that,’ said Uriah. ‘I must have time to think
about that.’

‘Certainly,’ replied Traddles; ‘but, in the meanwhile, and until
everything is done to our satisfaction, we shall maintain possession
of these things; and beg you--in short, compel you--to keep to your own
room, and hold no communication with anyone.’

‘I won’t do it!’ said Uriah, with an oath.

‘Maidstone jail is a safer place of detention,’ observed Traddles; ‘and
though the law may be longer in righting us, and may not be able to
right us so completely as you can, there is no doubt of its punishing
YOU. Dear me, you know that quite as well as I! Copperfield, will you go
round to the Guildhall, and bring a couple of officers?’

Here, Mrs. Heep broke out again, crying on her knees to Agnes to
interfere in their behalf, exclaiming that he was very humble, and it
was all true, and if he didn’t do what we wanted, she would, and much
more to the same purpose; being half frantic with fears for her darling.
To inquire what he might have done, if he had had any boldness, would
be like inquiring what a mongrel cur might do, if it had the spirit of
a tiger. He was a coward, from head to foot; and showed his dastardly
nature through his sullenness and mortification, as much as at any time
of his mean life.

‘Stop!’ he growled to me; and wiped his hot face with his hand. ‘Mother,
hold your noise. Well! Let ‘em have that deed. Go and fetch it!’

‘Do you help her, Mr. Dick,’ said Traddles, ‘if you please.’

Proud of his commission, and understanding it, Mr. Dick accompanied her
as a shepherd’s dog might accompany a sheep. But, Mrs. Heep gave him
little trouble; for she not only returned with the deed, but with the
box in which it was, where we found a banker’s book and some other
papers that were afterwards serviceable.

‘Good!’ said Traddles, when this was brought. ‘Now, Mr. Heep, you can
retire to think: particularly observing, if you please, that I declare
to you, on the part of all present, that there is only one thing to be
done; that it is what I have explained; and that it must be done without
delay.’

Uriah, without lifting his eyes from the ground, shuffled across the
room with his hand to his chin, and pausing at the door, said:

‘Copperfield, I have always hated you. You’ve always been an upstart,
and you’ve always been against me.’

‘As I think I told you once before,’ said I, ‘it is you who have been,
in your greed and cunning, against all the world. It may be profitable
to you to reflect, in future, that there never were greed and cunning in
the world yet, that did not do too much, and overreach themselves. It is
as certain as death.’

‘Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same school where I
picked up so much umbleness), from nine o’clock to eleven, that labour
was a curse; and from eleven o’clock to one, that it was a blessing and
a cheerfulness, and a dignity, and I don’t know what all, eh?’ said
he with a sneer. ‘You preach, about as consistent as they did.
Won’t umbleness go down? I shouldn’t have got round my gentleman
fellow-partner without it, I think. --Micawber, you old bully, I’ll pay
YOU!’

Mr. Micawber, supremely defiant of him and his extended finger, and
making a great deal of his chest until he had slunk out at the door,
then addressed himself to me, and proffered me the satisfaction of
‘witnessing the re-establishment of mutual confidence between himself
and Mrs. Micawber’. After which, he invited the company generally to the
contemplation of that affecting spectacle.

‘The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Micawber and
myself, is now withdrawn,’ said Mr. Micawber; ‘and my children and the
Author of their Being can once more come in contact on equal terms.’

As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to show that we
were, as well as the hurry and disorder of our spirits would permit, I
dare say we should all have gone, but that it was necessary for Agnes to
return to her father, as yet unable to bear more than the dawn of
hope; and for someone else to hold Uriah in safe keeping. So, Traddles
remained for the latter purpose, to be presently relieved by Mr. Dick;
and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with Mr. Micawber. As I parted
hurriedly from the dear girl to whom I owed so much, and thought from
what she had been saved, perhaps, that morning--her better resolution
notwithstanding--I felt devoutly thankful for the miseries of my younger
days which had brought me to the knowledge of Mr. Micawber.

His house was not far off; and as the street door opened into the
sitting-room, and he bolted in with a precipitation quite his own,
we found ourselves at once in the bosom of the family. Mr. Micawber
exclaiming, ‘Emma! my life!’ rushed into Mrs. Micawber’s arms. Mrs.
Micawber shrieked, and folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace. Miss
Micawber, nursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber’s last
letter to me, was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped. The twins
testified their joy by several inconvenient but innocent demonstrations.
Master Micawber, whose disposition appeared to have been soured by
early disappointment, and whose aspect had become morose, yielded to his
better feelings, and blubbered.

‘Emma!’ said Mr. Micawber. ‘The cloud is past from my mind. Mutual
confidence, so long preserved between us once, is restored, to know
no further interruption. Now, welcome poverty!’ cried Mr. Micawber,
shedding tears. ‘Welcome misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger,
rags, tempest, and beggary! Mutual confidence will sustain us to the
end!’

With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micawber in a chair,
and embraced the family all round; welcoming a variety of bleak
prospects, which appeared, to the best of my judgement, to be anything
but welcome to them; and calling upon them to come out into Canterbury
and sing a chorus, as nothing else was left for their support.

But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emotions, fainted away,
the first thing to be done, even before the chorus could be considered
complete, was to recover her. This my aunt and Mr. Micawber did; and
then my aunt was introduced, and Mrs. Micawber recognized me.

‘Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said the poor lady, giving me her
hand, ‘but I am not strong; and the removal of the late misunderstanding
between Mr. Micawber and myself was at first too much for me.’

‘Is this all your family, ma’am?’ said my aunt.

‘There are no more at present,’ returned Mrs. Micawber.

‘Good gracious, I didn’t mean that, ma’am,’ said my aunt. ‘I mean, are
all these yours?’

‘Madam,’ replied Mr. Micawber, ‘it is a true bill.’

‘And that eldest young gentleman, now,’ said my aunt, musing, ‘what has
he been brought up to?’

‘It was my hope when I came here,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘to have got
Wilkins into the Church: or perhaps I shall express my meaning more
strictly, if I say the Choir. But there was no vacancy for a tenor in
the venerable Pile for which this city is so justly eminent; and he
has--in short, he has contracted a habit of singing in public-houses,
rather than in sacred edifices.’

‘But he means well,’ said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.

‘I dare say, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Micawber, ‘that he means
particularly well; but I have not yet found that he carries out his
meaning, in any given direction whatsoever.’

Master Micawber’s moroseness of aspect returned upon him again, and he
demanded, with some temper, what he was to do? Whether he had been born
a carpenter, or a coach-painter, any more than he had been born a bird?
Whether he could go into the next street, and open a chemist’s shop?
Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim himself a
lawyer? Whether he could come out by force at the opera, and succeed
by violence? Whether he could do anything, without being brought up to
something?

My aunt mused a little while, and then said:

‘Mr. Micawber, I wonder you have never turned your thoughts to
emigration.’

‘Madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘it was the dream of my youth, and the
fallacious aspiration of my riper years.’ I am thoroughly persuaded, by
the by, that he had never thought of it in his life.

‘Aye?’ said my aunt, with a glance at me. ‘Why, what a thing it would
be for yourselves and your family, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, if you were to
emigrate now.’

‘Capital, madam, capital,’ urged Mr. Micawber, gloomily.

‘That is the principal, I may say the only difficulty, my dear Mr.
Copperfield,’ assented his wife.

‘Capital?’ cried my aunt. ‘But you are doing us a great service--have
done us a great service, I may say, for surely much will come out of
the fire--and what could we do for you, that would be half so good as to
find the capital?’

‘I could not receive it as a gift,’ said Mr. Micawber, full of fire and
animation, ‘but if a sufficient sum could be advanced, say at five per
cent interest, per annum, upon my personal liability--say my notes of
hand, at twelve, eighteen, and twenty-four months, respectively, to
allow time for something to turn up--’

‘Could be? Can be and shall be, on your own terms,’ returned my aunt,
‘if you say the word. Think of this now, both of you. Here are some
people David knows, going out to Australia shortly. If you decide to go,
why shouldn’t you go in the same ship? You may help each other. Think of
this now, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Take your time, and weigh it well.’

‘There is but one question, my dear ma’am, I could wish to ask,’ said
Mrs. Micawber. ‘The climate, I believe, is healthy?’

‘Finest in the world!’ said my aunt.

‘Just so,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘Then my question arises. Now, are
the circumstances of the country such, that a man of Mr. Micawber’s
abilities would have a fair chance of rising in the social scale? I will
not say, at present, might he aspire to be Governor, or anything of that
sort; but would there be a reasonable opening for his talents to
develop themselves--that would be amply sufficient--and find their own
expansion?’

‘No better opening anywhere,’ said my aunt, ‘for a man who conducts
himself well, and is industrious.’

‘For a man who conducts himself well,’ repeated Mrs. Micawber, with her
clearest business manner, ‘and is industrious. Precisely. It is
evident to me that Australia is the legitimate sphere of action for Mr.
Micawber!’

‘I entertain the conviction, my dear madam,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘that
it is, under existing circumstances, the land, the only land, for myself
and family; and that something of an extraordinary nature will turn up
on that shore. It is no distance--comparatively speaking; and though
consideration is due to the kindness of your proposal, I assure you that
is a mere matter of form.’

Shall I ever forget how, in a moment, he was the most sanguine of men,
looking on to fortune; or how Mrs. Micawber presently discoursed
about the habits of the kangaroo! Shall I ever recall that street of
Canterbury on a market-day, without recalling him, as he walked
back with us; expressing, in the hardy roving manner he assumed, the
unsettled habits of a temporary sojourner in the land; and looking at
the bullocks, as they came by, with the eye of an Australian farmer!



CHAPTER 53. ANOTHER RETROSPECT


I must pause yet once again. O, my child-wife, there is a figure in the
moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocent
love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me--turn to look upon the
Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground!

I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora, in our
cottage. I do not know how long she has been ill. I am so used to it in
feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks
or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while.

They have left off telling me to ‘wait a few days more’. I have begun
to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine, when I shall see my
child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.

He is, as it were suddenly, grown very old. It may be that he misses in
his mistress, something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he
mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is
sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on
Dora’s bed--she sitting at the bedside--and mildly licks her hand.

Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or
complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear
old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no
sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes, the
little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our
wedding-day, and all that happy time.

What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be--and in all
life, within doors and without--when I sit in the quiet, shaded, orderly
room, with the blue eyes of my child-wife turned towards me, and her
little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus;
but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind.


It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt’s hands, shows me how
her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, an how long and bright it
is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears.

‘Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy,’ she says, when I
smile; ‘but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and
because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the
glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it.
Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!’

‘That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given you,
Dora, and when I told you how much in love I was.’

‘Ah! but I didn’t like to tell you,’ says Dora, ‘then, how I had cried
over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about
again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we
were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some of the old walks? And
not forget poor papa?’

‘Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must make haste to get
well, my dear.’

‘Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much better, you don’t know!’


It is evening; and I sit in the same chair, by the same bed, with the
same face turned towards me. We have been silent, and there is a smile
upon her face. I have ceased to carry my light burden up and down stairs
now. She lies here all the day.

‘Doady!’

‘My dear Dora!’

‘You won’t think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you
told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield’s not being well? I
want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.’

‘I will write to her, my dear.’

‘Will you?’

‘Directly.’

‘What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear,
it’s not a whim. It’s not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to
see her!’

‘I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to
come.’

‘You are very lonely when you go downstairs, now?’ Dora whispers, with
her arm about my neck.

‘How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?’

‘My empty chair!’ She clings to me for a little while, in silence. ‘And
you really miss me, Doady?’ looking up, and brightly smiling. ‘Even
poor, giddy, stupid me?’

‘My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?’

‘Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!’ creeping closer to me, and
folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet, and
quite happy.

‘Quite!’ she says. ‘Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I
want very, very, much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for.’

‘Except to get well again, Dora.’

‘Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think--you know I always was a silly little
thing!--that that will never be!’

‘Don’t say so, Dora! Dearest love, don’t think so!’

‘I won’t, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear
boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-wife’s empty chair!’


It is night; and I am with her still. Agnes has arrived; has been among
us for a whole day and an evening. She, my aunt, and I, have sat with
Dora since the morning, all together. We have not talked much, but Dora
has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone.

Do I know, now, that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me
so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts--but I am far from
sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have
withdrawn by myself, many times today, to weep. I have remembered Who
wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me
of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign
myself, and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done
imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end
will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine,
I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a
pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared.

‘I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have
often thought of saying, lately. You won’t mind?’ with a gentle look.

‘Mind, my darling?’

‘Because I don’t know what you will think, or what you may have thought
sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same. Doady, dear, I am
afraid I was too young.’

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into my eyes, and
speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on, I feel, with a stricken
heart, that she is speaking of herself as past.

‘I am afraid, dear, I was too young. I don’t mean in years only, but
in experience, and thoughts, and everything. I was such a silly little
creature! I am afraid it would have been better, if we had only loved
each other as a boy and girl, and forgotten it. I have begun to think I
was not fit to be a wife.’

I try to stay my tears, and to reply, ‘Oh, Dora, love, as fit as I to be
a husband!’

‘I don’t know,’ with the old shake of her curls. ‘Perhaps! But if I had
been more fit to be married I might have made you more so, too. Besides,
you are very clever, and I never was.’

‘We have been very happy, my sweet Dora.’

‘I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have
wearied of his child-wife. She would have been less and less a companion
for him. He would have been more and more sensible of what was wanting
in his home. She wouldn’t have improved. It is better as it is.’

‘Oh, Dora, dearest, dearest, do not speak to me so. Every word seems a
reproach!’

‘No, not a syllable!’ she answers, kissing me. ‘Oh, my dear, you never
deserved it, and I loved you far too well to say a reproachful word to
you, in earnest--it was all the merit I had, except being pretty--or you
thought me so. Is it lonely, down-stairs, Doady?’

‘Very! Very!’

‘Don’t cry! Is my chair there?’

‘In its old place.’

‘Oh, how my poor boy cries! Hush, hush! Now, make me one promise. I want
to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her
up to me; and while I speak to her, let no one come--not even aunt.
I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to speak to Agnes, quite
alone.’

I promise that she shall, immediately; but I cannot leave her, for my
grief.

‘I said that it was better as it is!’ she whispers, as she holds me in
her arms. ‘Oh, Doady, after more years, you never could have loved your
child-wife better than you do; and, after more years, she would so have
tried and disappointed you, that you might not have been able to love
her half so well! I know I was too young and foolish. It is much better
as it is!’

Agnes is downstairs, when I go into the parlour; and I give her the
message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.

His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within it, on his bed of
flannel, querulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high and clear.
As I look out on the night, my tears fall fast, and my undisciplined
heart is chastened heavily--heavily.

I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all those
secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of every
little trifle between me and Dora, and feel the truth, that trifles
make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my remembrance, is the
image of the dear child as I knew her first, graced by my young love,
and by her own, with every fascination wherein such love is rich. Would
it, indeed, have been better if we had loved each other as a boy and a
girl, and forgotten it? Undisciplined heart, reply!

How the time wears, I know not; until I am recalled by my child-wife’s
old companion. More restless than he was, he crawls out of his house,
and looks at me, and wanders to the door, and whines to go upstairs.

‘Not tonight, Jip! Not tonight!’

He comes very slowly back to me, licks my hand, and lifts his dim eyes
to my face.

‘Oh, Jip! It may be, never again!’

He lies down at my feet, stretches himself out as if to sleep, and with
a plaintive cry, is dead.

‘Oh, Agnes! Look, look, here!’ --That face, so full of pity, and of
grief, that rain of tears, that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn
hand upraised towards Heaven!

‘Agnes?’

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; and, for a time, all things
are blotted out of my remembrance.



CHAPTER 54. Mr. MICAWBER’S TRANSACTIONS


This is not the time at which I am to enter on the state of my mind
beneath its load of sorrow. I came to think that the Future was walled
up before me, that the energy and action of my life were at an end, that
I never could find any refuge but in the grave. I came to think so, I
say, but not in the first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that.
If the events I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in the
beginning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it is
possible (though I think not probable), that I might have fallen at once
into this condition. As it was, an interval occurred before I fully knew
my own distress; an interval, in which I even supposed that its sharpest
pangs were past; and when my mind could soothe itself by resting on
all that was most innocent and beautiful, in the tender story that was
closed for ever.

When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how it came to be
agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of my peace in change
and travel, I do not, even now, distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so
pervaded all we thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that
I assume I may refer the project to her influence. But her influence was
so quiet that I know no more.

And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old association of her with
the stained-glass window in the church, a prophetic foreshadowing of
what she would be to me, in the calamity that was to happen in the
fullness of time, had found a way into my mind. In all that sorrow, from
the moment, never to be forgotten, when she stood before me with her
upraised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my lonely house. When
the Angel of Death alighted there, my child-wife fell asleep--they told
me so when I could bear to hear it--on her bosom, with a smile. From my
swoon, I first awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tears, her
words of hope and peace, her gentle face bending down as from a purer
region nearer Heaven, over my undisciplined heart, and softening its
pain.

Let me go on.

I was to go abroad. That seemed to have been determined among us from
the first. The ground now covering all that could perish of my
departed wife, I waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the ‘final
pulverization of Heep’; and for the departure of the emigrants.

At the request of Traddles, most affectionate and devoted of friends in
my trouble, we returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt, Agnes, and I. We
proceeded by appointment straight to Mr. Micawber’s house; where, and at
Mr. Wickfield’s, my friend had been labouring ever since our explosive
meeting. When poor Mrs. Micawber saw me come in, in my black clothes,
she was sensibly affected. There was a great deal of good in Mrs.
Micawber’s heart, which had not been dunned out of it in all those many
years.

‘Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber,’ was my aunt’s first salutation after we
were seated. ‘Pray, have you thought about that emigration proposal of
mine?’

‘My dear madam,’ returned Mr. Micawber, ‘perhaps I cannot better express
the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawber, your humble servant, and I may
add our children, have jointly and severally arrived, than by borrowing
the language of an illustrious poet, to reply that our Boat is on the
shore, and our Bark is on the sea.’

‘That’s right,’ said my aunt. ‘I augur all sort of good from your
sensible decision.’

‘Madam, you do us a great deal of honour,’ he rejoined. He then referred
to a memorandum. ‘With respect to the pecuniary assistance enabling
us to launch our frail canoe on the ocean of enterprise, I have
reconsidered that important business-point; and would beg to propose
my notes of hand--drawn, it is needless to stipulate, on stamps of the
amounts respectively required by the various Acts of Parliament applying
to such securities--at eighteen, twenty-four, and thirty months.
The proposition I originally submitted, was twelve, eighteen, and
twenty-four; but I am apprehensive that such an arrangement might not
allow sufficient time for the requisite amount of--Something--to turn
up. We might not,’ said Mr. Micawber, looking round the room as if it
represented several hundred acres of highly cultivated land, ‘on the
first responsibility becoming due, have been successful in our harvest,
or we might not have got our harvest in. Labour, I believe, is sometimes
difficult to obtain in that portion of our colonial possessions where it
will be our lot to combat with the teeming soil.’

‘Arrange it in any way you please, sir,’ said my aunt.

‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘Mrs. Micawber and myself are deeply sensible of
the very considerate kindness of our friends and patrons. What I wish
is, to be perfectly business-like, and perfectly punctual. Turning over,
as we are about to turn over, an entirely new leaf; and falling back,
as we are now in the act of falling back, for a Spring of no common
magnitude; it is important to my sense of self-respect, besides being
an example to my son, that these arrangements should be concluded as
between man and man.’

I don’t know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to this last phrase;
I don’t know that anybody ever does, or did; but he appeared to relish
it uncommonly, and repeated, with an impressive cough, ‘as between man
and man’.

‘I propose,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘Bills--a convenience to the mercantile
world, for which, I believe, we are originally indebted to the Jews, who
appear to me to have had a devilish deal too much to do with them
ever since--because they are negotiable. But if a Bond, or any other
description of security, would be preferred, I should be happy to
execute any such instrument. As between man and man.’

My aunt observed, that in a case where both parties were willing to
agree to anything, she took it for granted there would be no difficulty
in settling this point. Mr. Micawber was of her opinion.

‘In reference to our domestic preparations, madam,’ said Mr. Micawber,
with some pride, ‘for meeting the destiny to which we are now understood
to be self-devoted, I beg to report them. My eldest daughter attends
at five every morning in a neighbouring establishment, to acquire
the process--if process it may be called--of milking cows. My younger
children are instructed to observe, as closely as circumstances will
permit, the habits of the pigs and poultry maintained in the poorer
parts of this city: a pursuit from which they have, on two occasions,
been brought home, within an inch of being run over. I have myself
directed some attention, during the past week, to the art of baking; and
my son Wilkins has issued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle,
when permitted, by the rugged hirelings who had them in charge, to
render any voluntary service in that direction--which I regret to say,
for the credit of our nature, was not often; he being generally warned,
with imprecations, to desist.’

‘All very right indeed,’ said my aunt, encouragingly. ‘Mrs. Micawber has
been busy, too, I have no doubt.’

‘My dear madam,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, with her business-like air.
‘I am free to confess that I have not been actively engaged in pursuits
immediately connected with cultivation or with stock, though well aware
that both will claim my attention on a foreign shore. Such opportunities
as I have been enabled to alienate from my domestic duties, I have
devoted to corresponding at some length with my family. For I own it
seems to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, who always
fell back on me, I suppose from old habit, to whomsoever else she might
address her discourse at starting, ‘that the time is come when the past
should be buried in oblivion; when my family should take Mr. Micawber by
the hand, and Mr. Micawber should take my family by the hand; when the
lion should lie down with the lamb, and my family be on terms with Mr.
Micawber.’

I said I thought so too.

‘This, at least, is the light, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ pursued Mrs.
Micawber, ‘in which I view the subject. When I lived at home with my
papa and mama, my papa was accustomed to ask, when any point was under
discussion in our limited circle, “In what light does my Emma view the
subject?” That my papa was too partial, I know; still, on such a point
as the frigid coldness which has ever subsisted between Mr. Micawber and
my family, I necessarily have formed an opinion, delusive though it may
be.’

‘No doubt. Of course you have, ma’am,’ said my aunt.

‘Precisely so,’ assented Mrs. Micawber. ‘Now, I may be wrong in my
conclusions; it is very likely that I am, but my individual impression
is, that the gulf between my family and Mr. Micawber may be traced to an
apprehension, on the part of my family, that Mr. Micawber would require
pecuniary accommodation. I cannot help thinking,’ said Mrs. Micawber,
with an air of deep sagacity, ‘that there are members of my family who
have been apprehensive that Mr. Micawber would solicit them for their
names.---I do not mean to be conferred in Baptism upon our children,
but to be inscribed on Bills of Exchange, and negotiated in the Money
Market.’

The look of penetration with which Mrs. Micawber announced this
discovery, as if no one had ever thought of it before, seemed rather to
astonish my aunt; who abruptly replied, ‘Well, ma’am, upon the whole, I
shouldn’t wonder if you were right!’

‘Mr. Micawber being now on the eve of casting off the pecuniary
shackles that have so long enthralled him,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘and of
commencing a new career in a country where there is sufficient range
for his abilities,--which, in my opinion, is exceedingly important; Mr.
Micawber’s abilities peculiarly requiring space,--it seems to me that
my family should signalize the occasion by coming forward. What I could
wish to see, would be a meeting between Mr. Micawber and my family at
a festive entertainment, to be given at my family’s expense; where Mr.
Micawber’s health and prosperity being proposed, by some leading member
of my family, Mr. Micawber might have an opportunity of developing his
views.’

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, with some heat, ‘it may be better for me
to state distinctly, at once, that if I were to develop my views to that
assembled group, they would possibly be found of an offensive nature:
my impression being that your family are, in the aggregate, impertinent
Snobs; and, in detail, unmitigated Ruffians.’

‘Micawber,’ said Mrs. Micawber, shaking her head, ‘no! You have never
understood them, and they have never understood you.’

Mr. Micawber coughed.

‘They have never understood you, Micawber,’ said his wife. ‘They may
be incapable of it. If so, that is their misfortune. I can pity their
misfortune.’

‘I am extremely sorry, my dear Emma,’ said Mr. Micawber, relenting, ‘to
have been betrayed into any expressions that might, even remotely, have
the appearance of being strong expressions. All I would say is, that
I can go abroad without your family coming forward to favour me,--in
short, with a parting Shove of their cold shoulders; and that, upon the
whole, I would rather leave England with such impetus as I possess, than
derive any acceleration of it from that quarter. At the same time, my
dear, if they should condescend to reply to your communications--which
our joint experience renders most improbable--far be it from me to be a
barrier to your wishes.’

The matter being thus amicably settled, Mr. Micawber gave Mrs. Micawber
his arm, and glancing at the heap of books and papers lying before
Traddles on the table, said they would leave us to ourselves; which they
ceremoniously did.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, leaning back in his chair when
they were gone, and looking at me with an affection that made his eyes
red, and his hair all kinds of shapes, ‘I don’t make any excuse for
troubling you with business, because I know you are deeply interested
in it, and it may divert your thoughts. My dear boy, I hope you are not
worn out?’

‘I am quite myself,’ said I, after a pause. ‘We have more cause to think
of my aunt than of anyone. You know how much she has done.’

‘Surely, surely,’ answered Traddles. ‘Who can forget it!’

‘But even that is not all,’ said I. ‘During the last fortnight, some new
trouble has vexed her; and she has been in and out of London every day.
Several times she has gone out early, and been absent until evening.
Last night, Traddles, with this journey before her, it was almost
midnight before she came home. You know what her consideration for
others is. She will not tell me what has happened to distress her.’

My aunt, very pale, and with deep lines in her face, sat immovable until
I had finished; when some stray tears found their way to her cheeks, and
she put her hand on mine.

‘It’s nothing, Trot; it’s nothing. There will be no more of it. You
shall know by and by. Now Agnes, my dear, let us attend to these
affairs.’

‘I must do Mr. Micawber the justice to say,’ Traddles began, ‘that
although he would appear not to have worked to any good account for
himself, he is a most untiring man when he works for other people. I
never saw such a fellow. If he always goes on in the same way, he must
be, virtually, about two hundred years old, at present. The heat into
which he has been continually putting himself; and the distracted and
impetuous manner in which he has been diving, day and night, among
papers and books; to say nothing of the immense number of letters he has
written me between this house and Mr. Wickfield’s, and often across the
table when he has been sitting opposite, and might much more easily have
spoken; is quite extraordinary.’

‘Letters!’ cried my aunt. ‘I believe he dreams in letters!’

‘There’s Mr. Dick, too,’ said Traddles, ‘has been doing wonders! As soon
as he was released from overlooking Uriah Heep, whom he kept in such
charge as I never saw exceeded, he began to devote himself to Mr.
Wickfield. And really his anxiety to be of use in the investigations we
have been making, and his real usefulness in extracting, and copying,
and fetching, and carrying, have been quite stimulating to us.’

‘Dick is a very remarkable man,’ exclaimed my aunt; ‘and I always said
he was. Trot, you know it.’

‘I am happy to say, Miss Wickfield,’ pursued Traddles, at once with
great delicacy and with great earnestness, ‘that in your absence Mr.
Wickfield has considerably improved. Relieved of the incubus that had
fastened upon him for so long a time, and of the dreadful apprehensions
under which he had lived, he is hardly the same person. At times,
even his impaired power of concentrating his memory and attention on
particular points of business, has recovered itself very much; and he
has been able to assist us in making some things clear, that we should
have found very difficult indeed, if not hopeless, without him. But
what I have to do is to come to results; which are short enough; not
to gossip on all the hopeful circumstances I have observed, or I shall
never have done.’ His natural manner and agreeable simplicity made it
transparent that he said this to put us in good heart, and to enable
Agnes to hear her father mentioned with greater confidence; but it was
not the less pleasant for that.

‘Now, let me see,’ said Traddles, looking among the papers on the
table. ‘Having counted our funds, and reduced to order a great mass of
unintentional confusion in the first place, and of wilful confusion and
falsification in the second, we take it to be clear that Mr. Wickfield
might now wind up his business, and his agency-trust, and exhibit no
deficiency or defalcation whatever.’

‘Oh, thank Heaven!’ cried Agnes, fervently.

‘But,’ said Traddles, ‘the surplus that would be left as his means of
support--and I suppose the house to be sold, even in saying this--would
be so small, not exceeding in all probability some hundreds of pounds,
that perhaps, Miss Wickfield, it would be best to consider whether he
might not retain his agency of the estate to which he has so long been
receiver. His friends might advise him, you know; now he is free. You
yourself, Miss Wickfield--Copperfield--I--’

‘I have considered it, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, looking to me, ‘and I feel
that it ought not to be, and must not be; even on the recommendation of
a friend to whom I am so grateful, and owe so much.’

‘I will not say that I recommend it,’ observed Traddles. ‘I think it
right to suggest it. No more.’

‘I am happy to hear you say so,’ answered Agnes, steadily, ‘for it gives
me hope, almost assurance, that we think alike. Dear Mr. Traddles and
dear Trotwood, papa once free with honour, what could I wish for! I have
always aspired, if I could have released him from the toils in which he
was held, to render back some little portion of the love and care I owe
him, and to devote my life to him. It has been, for years, the utmost
height of my hopes. To take our future on myself, will be the next
great happiness--the next to his release from all trust and
responsibility--that I can know.’

‘Have you thought how, Agnes?’

‘Often! I am not afraid, dear Trotwood. I am certain of success. So many
people know me here, and think kindly of me, that I am certain. Don’t
mistrust me. Our wants are not many. If I rent the dear old house, and
keep a school, I shall be useful and happy.’

The calm fervour of her cheerful voice brought back so vividly, first
the dear old house itself, and then my solitary home, that my heart was
too full for speech. Traddles pretended for a little while to be busily
looking among the papers.

‘Next, Miss Trotwood,’ said Traddles, ‘that property of yours.’

‘Well, sir,’ sighed my aunt. ‘All I have got to say about it is, that if
it’s gone, I can bear it; and if it’s not gone, I shall be glad to get
it back.’

‘It was originally, I think, eight thousand pounds, Consols?’ said
Traddles.

‘Right!’ replied my aunt.

‘I can’t account for more than five,’ said Traddles, with an air of
perplexity.

‘--thousand, do you mean?’ inquired my aunt, with uncommon composure,
‘or pounds?’

‘Five thousand pounds,’ said Traddles.

‘It was all there was,’ returned my aunt. ‘I sold three, myself. One, I
paid for your articles, Trot, my dear; and the other two I have by me.
When I lost the rest, I thought it wise to say nothing about that sum,
but to keep it secretly for a rainy day. I wanted to see how you would
come out of the trial, Trot; and you came out nobly--persevering,
self-reliant, self-denying! So did Dick. Don’t speak to me, for I find
my nerves a little shaken!’

Nobody would have thought so, to see her sitting upright, with her arms
folded; but she had wonderful self-command.

‘Then I am delighted to say,’ cried Traddles, beaming with joy, ‘that we
have recovered the whole money!’

‘Don’t congratulate me, anybody!’ exclaimed my aunt. ‘How so, sir?’

‘You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wickfield?’ said
Traddles.

‘Of course I did,’ said my aunt, ‘and was therefore easily silenced.
Agnes, not a word!’

‘And indeed,’ said Traddles, ‘it was sold, by virtue of the power of
management he held from you; but I needn’t say by whom sold, or on whose
actual signature. It was afterwards pretended to Mr. Wickfield, by that
rascal,--and proved, too, by figures,--that he had possessed himself of
the money (on general instructions, he said) to keep other deficiencies
and difficulties from the light. Mr. Wickfield, being so weak and
helpless in his hands as to pay you, afterwards, several sums of
interest on a pretended principal which he knew did not exist, made
himself, unhappily, a party to the fraud.’

‘And at last took the blame upon himself,’ added my aunt; ‘and wrote me
a mad letter, charging himself with robbery, and wrong unheard of. Upon
which I paid him a visit early one morning, called for a candle, burnt
the letter, and told him if he ever could right me and himself, to
do it; and if he couldn’t, to keep his own counsel for his daughter’s
sake.---If anybody speaks to me, I’ll leave the house!’

We all remained quiet; Agnes covering her face.

‘Well, my dear friend,’ said my aunt, after a pause, ‘and you have
really extorted the money back from him?’

‘Why, the fact is,’ returned Traddles, ‘Mr. Micawber had so completely
hemmed him in, and was always ready with so many new points if an
old one failed, that he could not escape from us. A most remarkable
circumstance is, that I really don’t think he grasped this sum even so
much for the gratification of his avarice, which was inordinate, as in
the hatred he felt for Copperfield. He said so to me, plainly. He said
he would even have spent as much, to baulk or injure Copperfield.’

‘Ha!’ said my aunt, knitting her brows thoughtfully, and glancing at
Agnes. ‘And what’s become of him?’

‘I don’t know. He left here,’ said Traddles, ‘with his mother, who had
been clamouring, and beseeching, and disclosing, the whole time. They
went away by one of the London night coaches, and I know no more about
him; except that his malevolence to me at parting was audacious. He
seemed to consider himself hardly less indebted to me, than to Mr.
Micawber; which I consider (as I told him) quite a compliment.’

‘Do you suppose he has any money, Traddles?’ I asked.

‘Oh dear, yes, I should think so,’ he replied, shaking his head,
seriously. ‘I should say he must have pocketed a good deal, in one
way or other. But, I think you would find, Copperfield, if you had an
opportunity of observing his course, that money would never keep that
man out of mischief. He is such an incarnate hypocrite, that whatever
object he pursues, he must pursue crookedly. It’s his only compensation
for the outward restraints he puts upon himself. Always creeping along
the ground to some small end or other, he will always magnify every
object in the way; and consequently will hate and suspect everybody that
comes, in the most innocent manner, between him and it. So the crooked
courses will become crookeder, at any moment, for the least reason,
or for none. It’s only necessary to consider his history here,’ said
Traddles, ‘to know that.’

‘He’s a monster of meanness!’ said my aunt.

‘Really I don’t know about that,’ observed Traddles thoughtfully. ‘Many
people can be very mean, when they give their minds to it.’

‘And now, touching Mr. Micawber,’ said my aunt.

‘Well, really,’ said Traddles, cheerfully, ‘I must, once more, give Mr.
Micawber high praise. But for his having been so patient and persevering
for so long a time, we never could have hoped to do anything worth
speaking of. And I think we ought to consider that Mr. Micawber did
right, for right’s sake, when we reflect what terms he might have made
with Uriah Heep himself, for his silence.’

‘I think so too,’ said I.

‘Now, what would you give him?’ inquired my aunt.

‘Oh! Before you come to that,’ said Traddles, a little disconcerted,
‘I am afraid I thought it discreet to omit (not being able to carry
everything before me) two points, in making this lawless adjustment--for
it’s perfectly lawless from beginning to end--of a difficult affair.
Those I.O.U.’s, and so forth, which Mr. Micawber gave him for the
advances he had--’

‘Well! They must be paid,’ said my aunt.

‘Yes, but I don’t know when they may be proceeded on, or where they
are,’ rejoined Traddles, opening his eyes; ‘and I anticipate, that,
between this time and his departure, Mr. Micawber will be constantly
arrested, or taken in execution.’

‘Then he must be constantly set free again, and taken out of execution,’
said my aunt. ‘What’s the amount altogether?’

‘Why, Mr. Micawber has entered the transactions--he calls them
transactions--with great form, in a book,’ rejoined Traddles, smiling;
‘and he makes the amount a hundred and three pounds, five.’

‘Now, what shall we give him, that sum included?’ said my aunt. ‘Agnes,
my dear, you and I can talk about division of it afterwards. What should
it be? Five hundred pounds?’

Upon this, Traddles and I both struck in at once. We both recommended
a small sum in money, and the payment, without stipulation to Mr.
Micawber, of the Uriah claims as they came in. We proposed that the
family should have their passage and their outfit, and a hundred pounds;
and that Mr. Micawber’s arrangement for the repayment of the advances
should be gravely entered into, as it might be wholesome for him
to suppose himself under that responsibility. To this, I added the
suggestion, that I should give some explanation of his character and
history to Mr. Peggotty, who I knew could be relied on; and that to Mr.
Peggotty should be quietly entrusted the discretion of advancing another
hundred. I further proposed to interest Mr. Micawber in Mr. Peggotty,
by confiding so much of Mr. Peggotty’s story to him as I might feel
justified in relating, or might think expedient; and to endeavour to
bring each of them to bear upon the other, for the common advantage. We
all entered warmly into these views; and I may mention at once, that the
principals themselves did so, shortly afterwards, with perfect good will
and harmony.

Seeing that Traddles now glanced anxiously at my aunt again, I reminded
him of the second and last point to which he had adverted.

‘You and your aunt will excuse me, Copperfield, if I touch upon a
painful theme, as I greatly fear I shall,’ said Traddles, hesitating;
‘but I think it necessary to bring it to your recollection. On the day
of Mr. Micawber’s memorable denunciation a threatening allusion was made
by Uriah Heep to your aunt’s--husband.’

My aunt, retaining her stiff position, and apparent composure, assented
with a nod.

‘Perhaps,’ observed Traddles, ‘it was mere purposeless impertinence?’

‘No,’ returned my aunt.

‘There was--pardon me--really such a person, and at all in his power?’
hinted Traddles.

‘Yes, my good friend,’ said my aunt.

Traddles, with a perceptible lengthening of his face, explained that he
had not been able to approach this subject; that it had shared the fate
of Mr. Micawber’s liabilities, in not being comprehended in the terms he
had made; that we were no longer of any authority with Uriah Heep; and
that if he could do us, or any of us, any injury or annoyance, no doubt
he would.

My aunt remained quiet; until again some stray tears found their way to
her cheeks. ‘You are quite right,’ she said. ‘It was very thoughtful to
mention it.’

‘Can I--or Copperfield--do anything?’ asked Traddles, gently.

‘Nothing,’ said my aunt. ‘I thank you many times. Trot, my dear, a vain
threat! Let us have Mr. and Mrs. Micawber back. And don’t any of you
speak to me!’ With that she smoothed her dress, and sat, with her
upright carriage, looking at the door.

‘Well, Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!’ said my aunt, when they entered. ‘We have
been discussing your emigration, with many apologies to you for keeping
you out of the room so long; and I’ll tell you what arrangements we
propose.’

These she explained to the unbounded satisfaction of the
family,--children and all being then present,--and so much to the
awakening of Mr. Micawber’s punctual habits in the opening stage of
all bill transactions, that he could not be dissuaded from immediately
rushing out, in the highest spirits, to buy the stamps for his notes of
hand. But, his joy received a sudden check; for within five minutes,
he returned in the custody of a sheriff ‘s officer, informing us, in
a flood of tears, that all was lost. We, being quite prepared for this
event, which was of course a proceeding of Uriah Heep’s, soon paid the
money; and in five minutes more Mr. Micawber was seated at the table,
filling up the stamps with an expression of perfect joy, which only
that congenial employment, or the making of punch, could impart in full
completeness to his shining face. To see him at work on the stamps, with
the relish of an artist, touching them like pictures, looking at them
sideways, taking weighty notes of dates and amounts in his pocket-book,
and contemplating them when finished, with a high sense of their
precious value, was a sight indeed.

‘Now, the best thing you can do, sir, if you’ll allow me to advise
you,’ said my aunt, after silently observing him, ‘is to abjure that
occupation for evermore.’

‘Madam,’ replied Mr. Micawber, ‘it is my intention to register such a
vow on the virgin page of the future. Mrs. Micawber will attest it. I
trust,’ said Mr. Micawber, solemnly, ‘that my son Wilkins will ever bear
in mind, that he had infinitely better put his fist in the fire, than
use it to handle the serpents that have poisoned the life-blood of his
unhappy parent!’ Deeply affected, and changed in a moment to the image
of despair, Mr. Micawber regarded the serpents with a look of gloomy
abhorrence (in which his late admiration of them was not quite subdued),
folded them up and put them in his pocket.

This closed the proceedings of the evening. We were weary with sorrow
and fatigue, and my aunt and I were to return to London on the morrow.
It was arranged that the Micawbers should follow us, after effecting a
sale of their goods to a broker; that Mr. Wickfield’s affairs should be
brought to a settlement, with all convenient speed, under the direction
of Traddles; and that Agnes should also come to London, pending those
arrangements. We passed the night at the old house, which, freed from
the presence of the Heeps, seemed purged of a disease; and I lay in my
old room, like a shipwrecked wanderer come home.

We went back next day to my aunt’s house--not to mine--and when she and
I sat alone, as of old, before going to bed, she said:

‘Trot, do you really wish to know what I have had upon my mind lately?’

‘Indeed I do, aunt. If there ever was a time when I felt unwilling that
you should have a sorrow or anxiety which I could not share, it is now.’

‘You have had sorrow enough, child,’ said my aunt, affectionately,
‘without the addition of my little miseries. I could have no other
motive, Trot, in keeping anything from you.’

‘I know that well,’ said I. ‘But tell me now.’

‘Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?’ asked my aunt.

‘Of course.’

‘At nine,’ said she. ‘I’ll tell you then, my dear.’

At nine, accordingly, we went out in a little chariot, and drove to
London. We drove a long way through the streets, until we came to one of
the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a plain hearse.
The driver recognized my aunt, and, in obedience to a motion of her hand
at the window, drove slowly off; we following.

‘You understand it now, Trot,’ said my aunt. ‘He is gone!’

‘Did he die in the hospital?’

‘Yes.’

She sat immovable beside me; but, again I saw the stray tears on her
face.

‘He was there once before,’ said my aunt presently. ‘He was ailing a
long time--a shattered, broken man, these many years. When he knew his
state in this last illness, he asked them to send for me. He was sorry
then. Very sorry.’

‘You went, I know, aunt.’

‘I went. I was with him a good deal afterwards.’

‘He died the night before we went to Canterbury?’ said I. My aunt
nodded. ‘No one can harm him now,’ she said. ‘It was a vain threat.’

We drove away, out of town, to the churchyard at Hornsey. ‘Better here
than in the streets,’ said my aunt. ‘He was born here.’

We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I remember well,
where the service was read consigning it to the dust.

‘Six-and-thirty years ago, this day, my dear,’ said my aunt, as we
walked back to the chariot, ‘I was married. God forgive us all!’ We took
our seats in silence; and so she sat beside me for a long time, holding
my hand. At length she suddenly burst into tears, and said:

‘He was a fine-looking man when I married him, Trot--and he was sadly
changed!’

It did not last long. After the relief of tears, she soon became
composed, and even cheerful. Her nerves were a little shaken, she said,
or she would not have given way to it. God forgive us all!

So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgate, where we found the
following short note, which had arrived by that morning’s post from Mr.
Micawber:


          ‘Canterbury,

               ‘Friday.

‘My dear Madam, and Copperfield,

‘The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon is again
enveloped in impenetrable mists, and for ever withdrawn from the eyes of
a drifting wretch whose Doom is sealed!

‘Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty’s High Court of King’s
Bench at Westminster), in another cause of HEEP V. MICAWBER, and
the defendant in that cause is the prey of the sheriff having legal
jurisdiction in this bailiwick.

     ‘Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
     See the front of battle lower,
     See approach proud EDWARD’S power--
     Chains and slavery!

‘Consigned to which, and to a speedy end (for mental torture is not
supportable beyond a certain point, and that point I feel I have
attained), my course is run. Bless you, bless you! Some future
traveller, visiting, from motives of curiosity, not unmingled, let us
hope, with sympathy, the place of confinement allotted to debtors in
this city, may, and I trust will, Ponder, as he traces on its wall,
inscribed with a rusty nail,

                              ‘The obscure initials,

                                   ‘W. M.

‘P.S. I re-open this to say that our common friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles
(who has not yet left us, and is looking extremely well), has paid the
debt and costs, in the noble name of Miss Trotwood; and that myself and
family are at the height of earthly bliss.’



CHAPTER 55. TEMPEST


I now approach an event in my life, so indelible, so awful, so bound by
an infinite variety of ties to all that has preceded it, in these pages,
that, from the beginning of my narrative, I have seen it growing larger
and larger as I advanced, like a great tower in a plain, and throwing
its fore-cast shadow even on the incidents of my childish days.

For years after it occurred, I dreamed of it often. I have started up so
vividly impressed by it, that its fury has yet seemed raging in my quiet
room, in the still night. I dream of it sometimes, though at lengthened
and uncertain intervals, to this hour. I have an association between it
and a stormy wind, or the lightest mention of a sea-shore, as strong as
any of which my mind is conscious. As plainly as I behold what happened,
I will try to write it down. I do not recall it, but see it done; for it
happens again before me.

The time drawing on rapidly for the sailing of the emigrant-ship, my
good old nurse (almost broken-hearted for me, when we first met) came up
to London. I was constantly with her, and her brother, and the Micawbers
(they being very much together); but Emily I never saw.

One evening when the time was close at hand, I was alone with Peggotty
and her brother. Our conversation turned on Ham. She described to us how
tenderly he had taken leave of her, and how manfully and quietly he
had borne himself. Most of all, of late, when she believed he was most
tried. It was a subject of which the affectionate creature never tired;
and our interest in hearing the many examples which she, who was so much
with him, had to relate, was equal to hers in relating them.

My aunt and I were at that time vacating the two cottages at Highgate; I
intending to go abroad, and she to return to her house at Dover. We had
a temporary lodging in Covent Garden. As I walked home to it, after this
evening’s conversation, reflecting on what had passed between Ham and
myself when I was last at Yarmouth, I wavered in the original purpose
I had formed, of leaving a letter for Emily when I should take leave of
her uncle on board the ship, and thought it would be better to write to
her now. She might desire, I thought, after receiving my communication,
to send some parting word by me to her unhappy lover. I ought to give
her the opportunity.

I therefore sat down in my room, before going to bed, and wrote to her.
I told her that I had seen him, and that he had requested me to tell her
what I have already written in its place in these sheets. I faithfully
repeated it. I had no need to enlarge upon it, if I had had the right.
Its deep fidelity and goodness were not to be adorned by me or any
man. I left it out, to be sent round in the morning; with a line to Mr.
Peggotty, requesting him to give it to her; and went to bed at daybreak.

I was weaker than I knew then; and, not falling asleep until the sun
was up, lay late, and unrefreshed, next day. I was roused by the silent
presence of my aunt at my bedside. I felt it in my sleep, as I suppose
we all do feel such things.

‘Trot, my dear,’ she said, when I opened my eyes, ‘I couldn’t make up my
mind to disturb you. Mr. Peggotty is here; shall he come up?’

I replied yes, and he soon appeared.

‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, when we had shaken hands, ‘I giv Em’ly your
letter, sir, and she writ this heer; and begged of me fur to ask you
to read it, and if you see no hurt in’t, to be so kind as take charge
on’t.’

‘Have you read it?’ said I.

He nodded sorrowfully. I opened it, and read as follows:


‘I have got your message. Oh, what can I write, to thank you for your
good and blessed kindness to me!

‘I have put the words close to my heart. I shall keep them till I die.
They are sharp thorns, but they are such comfort. I have prayed over
them, oh, I have prayed so much. When I find what you are, and what
uncle is, I think what God must be, and can cry to him.

‘Good-bye for ever. Now, my dear, my friend, good-bye for ever in this
world. In another world, if I am forgiven, I may wake a child and come
to you. All thanks and blessings. Farewell, evermore.’


This, blotted with tears, was the letter.

‘May I tell her as you doen’t see no hurt in’t, and as you’ll be so kind
as take charge on’t, Mas’r Davy?’ said Mr. Peggotty, when I had read it.
‘Unquestionably,’ said I--‘but I am thinking--’

‘Yes, Mas’r Davy?’

‘I am thinking,’ said I, ‘that I’ll go down again to Yarmouth. There’s
time, and to spare, for me to go and come back before the ship sails. My
mind is constantly running on him, in his solitude; to put this letter
of her writing in his hand at this time, and to enable you to tell her,
in the moment of parting, that he has got it, will be a kindness to
both of them. I solemnly accepted his commission, dear good fellow, and
cannot discharge it too completely. The journey is nothing to me. I am
restless, and shall be better in motion. I’ll go down tonight.’

Though he anxiously endeavoured to dissuade me, I saw that he was of my
mind; and this, if I had required to be confirmed in my intention, would
have had the effect. He went round to the coach office, at my request,
and took the box-seat for me on the mail. In the evening I started,
by that conveyance, down the road I had traversed under so many
vicissitudes.

‘Don’t you think that,’ I asked the coachman, in the first stage out of
London, ‘a very remarkable sky? I don’t remember to have seen one like
it.’

‘Nor I--not equal to it,’ he replied. ‘That’s wind, sir. There’ll be
mischief done at sea, I expect, before long.’

It was a murky confusion--here and there blotted with a colour like the
colour of the smoke from damp fuel--of flying clouds, tossed up into
most remarkable heaps, suggesting greater heights in the clouds than
there were depths below them to the bottom of the deepest hollows in the
earth, through which the wild moon seemed to plunge headlong, as if, in
a dread disturbance of the laws of nature, she had lost her way and were
frightened. There had been a wind all day; and it was rising then, with
an extraordinary great sound. In another hour it had much increased, and
the sky was more overcast, and blew hard.

But, as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and densely
over-spreading the whole sky, then very dark, it came on to blow, harder
and harder. It still increased, until our horses could scarcely face
the wind. Many times, in the dark part of the night (it was then late in
September, when the nights were not short), the leaders turned about, or
came to a dead stop; and we were often in serious apprehension that the
coach would be blown over. Sweeping gusts of rain came up before this
storm, like showers of steel; and, at those times, when there was any
shelter of trees or lee walls to be got, we were fain to stop, in a
sheer impossibility of continuing the struggle.

When the day broke, it blew harder and harder. I had been in Yarmouth
when the seamen said it blew great guns, but I had never known the like
of this, or anything approaching to it. We came to Ipswich--very late,
having had to fight every inch of ground since we were ten miles out of
London; and found a cluster of people in the market-place, who had
risen from their beds in the night, fearful of falling chimneys. Some of
these, congregating about the inn-yard while we changed horses, told us
of great sheets of lead having been ripped off a high church-tower, and
flung into a by-street, which they then blocked up. Others had to tell
of country people, coming in from neighbouring villages, who had seen
great trees lying torn out of the earth, and whole ricks scattered about
the roads and fields. Still, there was no abatement in the storm, but it
blew harder.

As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, from which this mighty
wind was blowing dead on shore, its force became more and more terrific.
Long before we saw the sea, its spray was on our lips, and showered
salt rain upon us. The water was out, over miles and miles of the flat
country adjacent to Yarmouth; and every sheet and puddle lashed its
banks, and had its stress of little breakers setting heavily towards us.
When we came within sight of the sea, the waves on the horizon, caught
at intervals above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another
shore with towers and buildings. When at last we got into the town, the
people came out to their doors, all aslant, and with streaming hair,
making a wonder of the mail that had come through such a night.

I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the sea; staggering
along the street, which was strewn with sand and seaweed, and with
flying blotches of sea-foam; afraid of falling slates and tiles; and
holding by people I met, at angry corners. Coming near the beach, I saw,
not only the boatmen, but half the people of the town, lurking behind
buildings; some, now and then braving the fury of the storm to look
away to sea, and blown sheer out of their course in trying to get zigzag
back.

Joining these groups, I found bewailing women whose husbands were away
in herring or oyster boats, which there was too much reason to think
might have foundered before they could run in anywhere for safety.
Grizzled old sailors were among the people, shaking their heads, as they
looked from water to sky, and muttering to one another; ship-owners,
excited and uneasy; children, huddling together, and peering into older
faces; even stout mariners, disturbed and anxious, levelling their
glasses at the sea from behind places of shelter, as if they were
surveying an enemy.

The tremendous sea itself, when I could find sufficient pause to look at
it, in the agitation of the blinding wind, the flying stones and sand,
and the awful noise, confounded me. As the high watery walls came
rolling in, and, at their highest, tumbled into surf, they looked as if
the least would engulf the town. As the receding wave swept back with a
hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop out deep caves in the beach, as if its
purpose were to undermine the earth. When some white-headed billows
thundered on, and dashed themselves to pieces before they reached the
land, every fragment of the late whole seemed possessed by the full
might of its wrath, rushing to be gathered to the composition of another
monster. Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating valleys
(with a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming through them) were lifted
up to hills; masses of water shivered and shook the beach with a booming
sound; every shape tumultuously rolled on, as soon as made, to change
its shape and place, and beat another shape and place away; the ideal
shore on the horizon, with its towers and buildings, rose and fell; the
clouds fell fast and thick; I seemed to see a rending and upheaving of
all nature.

Not finding Ham among the people whom this memorable wind--for it is
still remembered down there, as the greatest ever known to blow upon
that coast--had brought together, I made my way to his house. It was
shut; and as no one answered to my knocking, I went, by back ways and
by-lanes, to the yard where he worked. I learned, there, that he had
gone to Lowestoft, to meet some sudden exigency of ship-repairing
in which his skill was required; but that he would be back tomorrow
morning, in good time.

I went back to the inn; and when I had washed and dressed, and tried to
sleep, but in vain, it was five o’clock in the afternoon. I had not sat
five minutes by the coffee-room fire, when the waiter, coming to stir
it, as an excuse for talking, told me that two colliers had gone down,
with all hands, a few miles away; and that some other ships had been
seen labouring hard in the Roads, and trying, in great distress, to keep
off shore. Mercy on them, and on all poor sailors, said he, if we had
another night like the last!

I was very much depressed in spirits; very solitary; and felt an
uneasiness in Ham’s not being there, disproportionate to the occasion. I
was seriously affected, without knowing how much, by late events; and my
long exposure to the fierce wind had confused me. There was that jumble
in my thoughts and recollections, that I had lost the clear arrangement
of time and distance. Thus, if I had gone out into the town, I should
not have been surprised, I think, to encounter someone who I knew must
be then in London. So to speak, there was in these respects a curious
inattention in my mind. Yet it was busy, too, with all the remembrances
the place naturally awakened; and they were particularly distinct and
vivid.

In this state, the waiter’s dismal intelligence about the ships
immediately connected itself, without any effort of my volition, with my
uneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded that I had an apprehension of his
returning from Lowestoft by sea, and being lost. This grew so strong
with me, that I resolved to go back to the yard before I took my dinner,
and ask the boat-builder if he thought his attempting to return by sea
at all likely? If he gave me the least reason to think so, I would go
over to Lowestoft and prevent it by bringing him with me.

I hastily ordered my dinner, and went back to the yard. I was none too
soon; for the boat-builder, with a lantern in his hand, was locking
the yard-gate. He quite laughed when I asked him the question, and said
there was no fear; no man in his senses, or out of them, would put off
in such a gale of wind, least of all Ham Peggotty, who had been born to
seafaring.

So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really felt ashamed of doing
what I was nevertheless impelled to do, I went back to the inn. If
such a wind could rise, I think it was rising. The howl and roar, the
rattling of the doors and windows, the rumbling in the chimneys, the
apparent rocking of the very house that sheltered me, and the prodigious
tumult of the sea, were more fearful than in the morning. But there
was now a great darkness besides; and that invested the storm with new
terrors, real and fanciful.

I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not continue steadfast
to anything. Something within me, faintly answering to the storm
without, tossed up the depths of my memory and made a tumult in them.
Yet, in all the hurry of my thoughts, wild running with the thundering
sea,--the storm, and my uneasiness regarding Ham were always in the
fore-ground.

My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried to refresh myself with
a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into a dull slumber before
the fire, without losing my consciousness, either of the uproar out of
doors, or of the place in which I was. Both became overshadowed by a new
and indefinable horror; and when I awoke--or rather when I shook off
the lethargy that bound me in my chair--my whole frame thrilled with
objectless and unintelligible fear.

I walked to and fro, tried to read an old gazetteer, listened to the
awful noises: looked at faces, scenes, and figures in the fire.
At length, the steady ticking of the undisturbed clock on the wall
tormented me to that degree that I resolved to go to bed.

It was reassuring, on such a night, to be told that some of the
inn-servants had agreed together to sit up until morning. I went to bed,
exceedingly weary and heavy; but, on my lying down, all such sensations
vanished, as if by magic, and I was broad awake, with every sense
refined.

For hours I lay there, listening to the wind and water; imagining, now,
that I heard shrieks out at sea; now, that I distinctly heard the firing
of signal guns; and now, the fall of houses in the town. I got up,
several times, and looked out; but could see nothing, except the
reflection in the window-panes of the faint candle I had left burning,
and of my own haggard face looking in at me from the black void.

At length, my restlessness attained to such a pitch, that I hurried on
my clothes, and went downstairs. In the large kitchen, where I dimly
saw bacon and ropes of onions hanging from the beams, the watchers were
clustered together, in various attitudes, about a table, purposely moved
away from the great chimney, and brought near the door. A pretty girl,
who had her ears stopped with her apron, and her eyes upon the door,
screamed when I appeared, supposing me to be a spirit; but the others
had more presence of mind, and were glad of an addition to their
company. One man, referring to the topic they had been discussing, asked
me whether I thought the souls of the collier-crews who had gone down,
were out in the storm?

I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once, I opened the yard-gate,
and looked into the empty street. The sand, the sea-weed, and the flakes
of foam, were driving by; and I was obliged to call for assistance
before I could shut the gate again, and make it fast against the wind.

There was a dark gloom in my solitary chamber, when I at length returned
to it; but I was tired now, and, getting into bed again, fell--off
a tower and down a precipice--into the depths of sleep. I have an
impression that for a long time, though I dreamed of being elsewhere and
in a variety of scenes, it was always blowing in my dream. At length,
I lost that feeble hold upon reality, and was engaged with two dear
friends, but who they were I don’t know, at the siege of some town in a
roar of cannonading.

The thunder of the cannon was so loud and incessant, that I could not
hear something I much desired to hear, until I made a great exertion
and awoke. It was broad day--eight or nine o’clock; the storm raging, in
lieu of the batteries; and someone knocking and calling at my door.

‘What is the matter?’ I cried.

‘A wreck! Close by!’

I sprung out of bed, and asked, what wreck?

‘A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and wine. Make
haste, sir, if you want to see her! It’s thought, down on the beach,
she’ll go to pieces every moment.’

The excited voice went clamouring along the staircase; and I wrapped
myself in my clothes as quickly as I could, and ran into the street.

Numbers of people were there before me, all running in one direction, to
the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping a good many, and soon came
facing the wild sea.

The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though not more
sensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed of, had been diminished
by the silencing of half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds. But the sea,
having upon it the additional agitation of the whole night, was
infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last. Every appearance
it had then presented, bore the expression of being swelled; and the
height to which the breakers rose, and, looking over one another,
bore one another down, and rolled in, in interminable hosts, was most
appalling. In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and waves,
and in the crowd, and the unspeakable confusion, and my first breathless
efforts to stand against the weather, I was so confused that I looked
out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads of the
great waves. A half-dressed boatman, standing next me, pointed with his
bare arm (a tattoo’d arrow on it, pointing in the same direction) to the
left. Then, O great Heaven, I saw it, close in upon us!

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from the deck, and lay
over the side, entangled in a maze of sail and rigging; and all that
ruin, as the ship rolled and beat--which she did without a moment’s
pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable--beat the side as if it
would stave it in. Some efforts were even then being made, to cut this
portion of the wreck away; for, as the ship, which was broadside on,
turned towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her people at
work with axes, especially one active figure with long curling hair,
conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, which was audible even
above the wind and water, rose from the shore at this moment; the sea,
sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men,
spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boiling
surge.

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail, and
a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The ship had
struck once, the same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted
in and struck again. I understood him to add that she was parting
amidships, and I could readily suppose so, for the rolling and beating
were too tremendous for any human work to suffer long. As he spoke,
there was another great cry of pity from the beach; four men arose with
the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging of the remaining
mast; uppermost, the active figure with the curling hair.

There was a bell on board; and as the ship rolled and dashed, like a
desperate creature driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep of her
deck, as she turned on her beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but
her keel, as she sprung wildly over and turned towards the sea, the bell
rang; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy men, was borne towards
us on the wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were
gone. The agony on the shore increased. Men groaned, and clasped their
hands; women shrieked, and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly
up and down along the beach, crying for help where no help could be. I
found myself one of these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom
I knew, not to let those two lost creatures perish before our eyes.

They were making out to me, in an agitated way--I don’t know how,
for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to
understand--that the lifeboat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and
could do nothing; and that as no man would be so desperate as to attempt
to wade off with a rope, and establish a communication with the shore,
there was nothing left to try; when I noticed that some new sensation
moved the people on the beach, and saw them part, and Ham come breaking
through them to the front.

I ran to him--as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for help. But,
distracted though I was, by a sight so new to me and terrible, the
determination in his face, and his look out to sea--exactly the same
look as I remembered in connexion with the morning after Emily’s
flight--awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I held him back with both
arms; and implored the men with whom I had been speaking, not to listen
to him, not to do murder, not to let him stir from off that sand!

Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the wreck, we saw the cruel
sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two men, and fly up
in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the mast.

Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of the
calmly desperate man who was already accustomed to lead half the people
present, I might as hopefully have entreated the wind. ‘Mas’r Davy,’
he said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, ‘if my time is come, ‘tis
come. If ‘tan’t, I’ll bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all!
Mates, make me ready! I’m a-going off!’

I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, where the people
around me made me stay; urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he was
bent on going, with help or without, and that I should endanger the
precautions for his safety by troubling those with whom they rested. I
don’t know what I answered, or what they rejoined; but I saw hurry on
the beach, and men running with ropes from a capstan that was there, and
penetrating into a circle of figures that hid him from me. Then, I saw
him standing alone, in a seaman’s frock and trousers: a rope in his
hand, or slung to his wrist: another round his body: and several of the
best men holding, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid out
himself, slack upon the shore, at his feet.

The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was breaking up. I saw that she
was parting in the middle, and that the life of the solitary man upon
the mast hung by a thread. Still, he clung to it. He had a singular red
cap on,--not like a sailor’s cap, but of a finer colour; and as the few
yielding planks between him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his
anticipative death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to wave it. I
saw him do it now, and thought I was going distracted, when his action
brought an old remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend.

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspended
breath behind him, and the storm before, until there was a great
retiring wave, when, with a backward glance at those who held the rope
which was made fast round his body, he dashed in after it, and in a
moment was buffeting with the water; rising with the hills, falling
with the valleys, lost beneath the foam; then drawn again to land. They
hauled in hastily.

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood; but he took
no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give them some directions for
leaving him more free--or so I judged from the motion of his arm--and
was gone as before.

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, falling with the
valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in towards the shore,
borne on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance was
nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. At
length he neared the wreck. He was so near, that with one more of his
vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it,--when a high, green, vast
hill-side of water, moving on shoreward, from beyond the ship, he seemed
to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was gone!

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere cask had been
broken, in running to the spot where they were hauling in. Consternation
was in every face. They drew him to my very feet--insensible--dead.
He was carried to the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now, I
remained near him, busy, while every means of restoration were tried;
but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous
heart was stilled for ever.

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was done, a
fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever
since, whispered my name at the door.

‘Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, which,
with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you come over yonder?’

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me, was in his look. I
asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support
me:

‘Has a body come ashore?’

He said, ‘Yes.’

‘Do I know it?’ I asked then.

He answered nothing.

But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had
looked for shells, two children--on that part of it where some lighter
fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by
the wind--among the ruins of the home he had wronged--I saw him lying
with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.



CHAPTER 56. THE NEW WOUND, AND THE OLD

No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we last spoke together, in
that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour--no need to
have said, ‘Think of me at my best!’ I had done that ever; and could I
change now, looking on this sight!

They brought a hand-bier, and laid him on it, and covered him with a
flag, and took him up and bore him on towards the houses. All the men
who carried him had known him, and gone sailing with him, and seen him
merry and bold. They carried him through the wild roar, a hush in the
midst of all the tumult; and took him to the cottage where Death was
already.

But when they set the bier down on the threshold, they looked at one
another, and at me, and whispered. I knew why. They felt as if it were
not right to lay him down in the same quiet room.

We went into the town, and took our burden to the inn. So soon as I
could at all collect my thoughts, I sent for Joram, and begged him to
provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to London in the night.
I knew that the care of it, and the hard duty of preparing his mother to
receive it, could only rest with me; and I was anxious to discharge that
duty as faithfully as I could.

I chose the night for the journey, that there might be less curiosity
when I left the town. But, although it was nearly midnight when I came
out of the yard in a chaise, followed by what I had in charge, there
were many people waiting. At intervals, along the town, and even a
little way out upon the road, I saw more: but at length only the bleak
night and the open country were around me, and the ashes of my youthful
friendship.

Upon a mellow autumn day, about noon, when the ground was perfumed by
fallen leaves, and many more, in beautiful tints of yellow, red, and
brown, yet hung upon the trees, through which the sun was shining, I
arrived at Highgate. I walked the last mile, thinking as I went along of
what I had to do; and left the carriage that had followed me all through
the night, awaiting orders to advance.

The house, when I came up to it, looked just the same. Not a blind was
raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved court, with its covered
way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone down, and
nothing moved.

I had not, at first, the courage to ring at the gate; and when I did
ring, my errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound of the
bell. The little parlour-maid came out, with the key in her hand; and
looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gate, said:

‘I beg your pardon, sir. Are you ill?’

‘I have been much agitated, and am fatigued.’

‘Is anything the matter, sir?---Mr. James?--’ ‘Hush!’ said I. ‘Yes,
something has happened, that I have to break to Mrs. Steerforth. She is
at home?’

The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out now,
even in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no company, but
would see me. Her mistress was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with
her. What message should she take upstairs?

Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her manner, and only to
carry in my card and say I waited, I sat down in the drawing-room (which
we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former pleasant air
of occupation was gone, and the shutters were half closed. The harp had
not been used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, was
there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his letters was there. I
wondered if she ever read them now; if she would ever read them more!

The house was so still that I heard the girl’s light step upstairs. On
her return, she brought a message, to the effect that Mrs. Steerforth
was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I would excuse her
being in her chamber, she would be glad to see me. In a few moments I
stood before her.

She was in his room; not in her own. I felt, of course, that she had
taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him; and that the many tokens
of his old sports and accomplishments, by which she was surrounded,
remained there, just as he had left them, for the same reason. She
murmured, however, even in her reception of me, that she was out of her
own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to her infirmity; and with
her stately look repelled the least suspicion of the truth.

At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of
her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was the bearer of evil
tidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She withdrew herself
a step behind the chair, to keep her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth’s
observation; and scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never
faltered, never shrunk.

‘I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir,’ said Mrs. Steerforth.

‘I am unhappily a widower,’ said I.

‘You are very young to know so great a loss,’ she returned. ‘I am
grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be good to
you.’

‘I hope Time,’ said I, looking at her, ‘will be good to all of us.
Dear Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that, in our heaviest
misfortunes.’

The earnestness of my manner, and the tears in my eyes, alarmed her. The
whole course of her thoughts appeared to stop, and change.

I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but it trembled.
She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in a low tone. Then,
addressing me, she said, with enforced calmness:

‘My son is ill.’

‘Very ill.’

‘You have seen him?’

‘I have.’

‘Are you reconciled?’

I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly turned her head
towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at her elbow, and
in that moment I said, by the motion of my lips, to Rosa, ‘Dead!’

That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind her, and read,
plainly written, what she was not yet prepared to know, I met her look
quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in the air with
vehemence of despair and horror, and then clasp them on her face.

The handsome lady--so like, oh so like!--regarded me with a fixed look,
and put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm, and prepare
herself to bear what I had to tell; but I should rather have entreated
her to weep, for she sat like a stone figure.

‘When I was last here,’ I faltered, ‘Miss Dartle told me he was sailing
here and there. The night before last was a dreadful one at sea. If he
were at sea that night, and near a dangerous coast, as it is said he
was; and if the vessel that was seen should really be the ship which--’

‘Rosa!’ said Mrs. Steerforth, ‘come to me!’

She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed like fire
as she confronted his mother, and broke into a frightful laugh.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘is your pride appeased, you madwoman? Now has he made
atonement to you--with his life! Do you hear?---His life!’

Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and making no sound
but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide stare.

‘Aye!’ cried Rosa, smiting herself passionately on the breast, ‘look at
me! Moan, and groan, and look at me! Look here!’ striking the scar, ‘at
your dead child’s handiwork!’

The moan the mother uttered, from time to time, went to My heart. Always
the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always accompanied with
an incapable motion of the head, but with no change of face. Always
proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed teeth, as if the jaw were
locked and the face frozen up in pain.

‘Do you remember when he did this?’ she proceeded. ‘Do you remember
when, in his inheritance of your nature, and in your pampering of his
pride and passion, he did this, and disfigured me for life? Look at me,
marked until I die with his high displeasure; and moan and groan for
what you made him!’

‘Miss Dartle,’ I entreated her. ‘For Heaven’s sake--’

‘I WILL speak!’ she said, turning on me with her lightning eyes. ‘Be
silent, you! Look at me, I say, proud mother of a proud, false son! Moan
for your nurture of him, moan for your corruption of him, moan for your
loss of him, moan for mine!’

She clenched her hand, and trembled through her spare, worn figure, as
if her passion were killing her by inches.

‘You, resent his self-will!’ she exclaimed. ‘You, injured by his haughty
temper! You, who opposed to both, when your hair was grey, the qualities
which made both when you gave him birth! YOU, who from his cradle reared
him to be what he was, and stunted what he should have been! Are you
rewarded, now, for your years of trouble?’

‘Oh, Miss Dartle, shame! Oh cruel!’

‘I tell you,’ she returned, ‘I WILL speak to her. No power on earth
should stop me, while I was standing here! Have I been silent all these
years, and shall I not speak now? I loved him better than you ever loved
him!’ turning on her fiercely. ‘I could have loved him, and asked no
return. If I had been his wife, I could have been the slave of his
caprices for a word of love a year. I should have been. Who knows it
better than I? You were exacting, proud, punctilious, selfish. My love
would have been devoted--would have trod your paltry whimpering under
foot!’

With flashing eyes, she stamped upon the ground as if she actually did
it.

‘Look here!’ she said, striking the scar again, with a relentless hand.
‘When he grew into the better understanding of what he had done, he saw
it, and repented of it! I could sing to him, and talk to him, and show
the ardour that I felt in all he did, and attain with labour to such
knowledge as most interested him; and I attracted him. When he was
freshest and truest, he loved me. Yes, he did! Many a time, when you
were put off with a slight word, he has taken Me to his heart!’

She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy--for it
was little less--yet with an eager remembrance of it, in which the
smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment.

‘I descended--as I might have known I should, but that he fascinated me
with his boyish courtship--into a doll, a trifle for the occupation
of an idle hour, to be dropped, and taken up, and trifled with, as the
inconstant humour took him. When he grew weary, I grew weary. As his
fancy died out, I would no more have tried to strengthen any power I
had, than I would have married him on his being forced to take me for
his wife. We fell away from one another without a word. Perhaps you saw
it, and were not sorry. Since then, I have been a mere disfigured piece
of furniture between you both; having no eyes, no ears, no feelings,
no remembrances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your love. I
tell you that the time was, when I loved him better than you ever did!’

She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare, and the
set face; and softened no more, when the moaning was repeated, than if
the face had been a picture.

‘Miss Dartle,’ said I, ‘if you can be so obdurate as not to feel for
this afflicted mother--’

‘Who feels for me?’ she sharply retorted. ‘She has sown this. Let her
moan for the harvest that she reaps today!’

‘And if his faults--’ I began.

‘Faults!’ she cried, bursting into passionate tears. ‘Who dares malign
him? He had a soul worth millions of the friends to whom he stooped!’

‘No one can have loved him better, no one can hold him in dearer
remembrance than I,’ I replied. ‘I meant to say, if you have no
compassion for his mother; or if his faults--you have been bitter on
them--’

‘It’s false,’ she cried, tearing her black hair; ‘I loved him!’

‘--if his faults cannot,’ I went on, ‘be banished from your remembrance,
in such an hour; look at that figure, even as one you have never seen
before, and render it some help!’

All this time, the figure was unchanged, and looked unchangeable.
Motionless, rigid, staring; moaning in the same dumb way from time to
time, with the same helpless motion of the head; but giving no other
sign of life. Miss Dartle suddenly kneeled down before it, and began to
loosen the dress.

‘A curse upon you!’ she said, looking round at me, with a mingled
expression of rage and grief. ‘It was in an evil hour that you ever came
here! A curse upon you! Go!’

After passing out of the room, I hurried back to ring the bell, the
sooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive figure
in her arms, and, still upon her knees, was weeping over it, kissing it,
calling to it, rocking it to and fro upon her bosom like a child, and
trying every tender means to rouse the dormant senses. No longer afraid
of leaving her, I noiselessly turned back again; and alarmed the house
as I went out.

Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his mother’s room. She
was just the same, they told me; Miss Dartle never left her; doctors
were in attendance, many things had been tried; but she lay like a
statue, except for the low sound now and then.

I went through the dreary house, and darkened the windows. The windows
of the chamber where he lay, I darkened last. I lifted up the leaden
hand, and held it to my heart; and all the world seemed death and
silence, broken only by his mother’s moaning.



CHAPTER 57. THE EMIGRANTS


One thing more, I had to do, before yielding myself to the shock of
these emotions. It was, to conceal what had occurred, from those who
were going away; and to dismiss them on their voyage in happy ignorance.
In this, no time was to be lost.

I took Mr. Micawber aside that same night, and confided to him the
task of standing between Mr. Peggotty and intelligence of the late
catastrophe. He zealously undertook to do so, and to intercept any
newspaper through which it might, without such precautions, reach him.

‘If it penetrates to him, sir,’ said Mr. Micawber, striking himself on
the breast, ‘it shall first pass through this body!’

Mr. Micawber, I must observe, in his adaptation of himself to a new
state of society, had acquired a bold buccaneering air, not absolutely
lawless, but defensive and prompt. One might have supposed him a child
of the wilderness, long accustomed to live out of the confines of
civilization, and about to return to his native wilds.

He had provided himself, among other things, with a complete suit of
oilskin, and a straw hat with a very low crown, pitched or caulked on
the outside. In this rough clothing, with a common mariner’s telescope
under his arm, and a shrewd trick of casting up his eye at the sky
as looking out for dirty weather, he was far more nautical, after his
manner, than Mr. Peggotty. His whole family, if I may so express it,
were cleared for action. I found Mrs. Micawber in the closest and most
uncompromising of bonnets, made fast under the chin; and in a shawl
which tied her up (as I had been tied up, when my aunt first received
me) like a bundle, and was secured behind at the waist, in a strong
knot. Miss Micawber I found made snug for stormy weather, in the same
manner; with nothing superfluous about her. Master Micawber was hardly
visible in a Guernsey shirt, and the shaggiest suit of slops I ever
saw; and the children were done up, like preserved meats, in impervious
cases. Both Mr. Micawber and his eldest son wore their sleeves loosely
turned back at the wrists, as being ready to lend a hand in any
direction, and to ‘tumble up’, or sing out, ‘Yeo--Heave--Yeo!’ on the
shortest notice.

Thus Traddles and I found them at nightfall, assembled on the wooden
steps, at that time known as Hungerford Stairs, watching the departure
of a boat with some of their property on board. I had told Traddles of
the terrible event, and it had greatly shocked him; but there could be
no doubt of the kindness of keeping it a secret, and he had come to help
me in this last service. It was here that I took Mr. Micawber aside, and
received his promise.

The Micawber family were lodged in a little, dirty, tumble-down
public-house, which in those days was close to the stairs, and whose
protruding wooden rooms overhung the river. The family, as emigrants,
being objects of some interest in and about Hungerford, attracted so
many beholders, that we were glad to take refuge in their room. It was
one of the wooden chambers upstairs, with the tide flowing underneath.
My aunt and Agnes were there, busily making some little extra comforts,
in the way of dress, for the children. Peggotty was quietly assisting,
with the old insensible work-box, yard-measure, and bit of wax-candle
before her, that had now outlived so much.

It was not easy to answer her inquiries; still less to whisper Mr.
Peggotty, when Mr. Micawber brought him in, that I had given the letter,
and all was well. But I did both, and made them happy. If I showed any
trace of what I felt, my own sorrows were sufficient to account for it.

‘And when does the ship sail, Mr. Micawber?’ asked my aunt.

Mr. Micawber considered it necessary to prepare either my aunt or his
wife, by degrees, and said, sooner than he had expected yesterday.

‘The boat brought you word, I suppose?’ said my aunt.

‘It did, ma’am,’ he returned.

‘Well?’ said my aunt. ‘And she sails--’

‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘I am informed that we must positively be on board
before seven tomorrow morning.’

‘Heyday!’ said my aunt, ‘that’s soon. Is it a sea-going fact, Mr.
Peggotty?’ ‘’Tis so, ma’am. She’ll drop down the river with that theer
tide. If Mas’r Davy and my sister comes aboard at Gravesen’, arternoon
o’ next day, they’ll see the last on us.’

‘And that we shall do,’ said I, ‘be sure!’

‘Until then, and until we are at sea,’ observed Mr. Micawber, with a
glance of intelligence at me, ‘Mr. Peggotty and myself will constantly
keep a double look-out together, on our goods and chattels. Emma, my
love,’ said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat in his magnificent way,
‘my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles is so obliging as to solicit, in my ear,
that he should have the privilege of ordering the ingredients necessary
to the composition of a moderate portion of that Beverage which is
peculiarly associated, in our minds, with the Roast Beef of Old England.
I allude to--in short, Punch. Under ordinary circumstances, I should
scruple to entreat the indulgence of Miss Trotwood and Miss Wickfield,
but-’

‘I can only say for myself,’ said my aunt, ‘that I will drink all
happiness and success to you, Mr. Micawber, with the utmost pleasure.’

‘And I too!’ said Agnes, with a smile.

Mr. Micawber immediately descended to the bar, where he appeared to be
quite at home; and in due time returned with a steaming jug. I could
not but observe that he had been peeling the lemons with his own
clasp-knife, which, as became the knife of a practical settler, was
about a foot long; and which he wiped, not wholly without ostentation,
on the sleeve of his coat. Mrs. Micawber and the two elder members
of the family I now found to be provided with similar formidable
instruments, while every child had its own wooden spoon attached to its
body by a strong line. In a similar anticipation of life afloat, and in
the Bush, Mr. Micawber, instead of helping Mrs. Micawber and his eldest
son and daughter to punch, in wine-glasses, which he might easily have
done, for there was a shelf-full in the room, served it out to them in a
series of villainous little tin pots; and I never saw him enjoy anything
so much as drinking out of his own particular pint pot, and putting it
in his pocket at the close of the evening.

‘The luxuries of the old country,’ said Mr. Micawber, with an intense
satisfaction in their renouncement, ‘we abandon. The denizens of the
forest cannot, of course, expect to participate in the refinements of
the land of the Free.’

Here, a boy came in to say that Mr. Micawber was wanted downstairs.

‘I have a presentiment,’ said Mrs. Micawber, setting down her tin pot,
‘that it is a member of my family!’

‘If so, my dear,’ observed Mr. Micawber, with his usual suddenness of
warmth on that subject, ‘as the member of your family--whoever he, she,
or it, may be--has kept us waiting for a considerable period, perhaps
the Member may now wait MY convenience.’

‘Micawber,’ said his wife, in a low tone, ‘at such a time as this--’

‘“It is not meet,”’ said Mr. Micawber, rising, ‘“that every nice offence
should bear its comment!” Emma, I stand reproved.’

‘The loss, Micawber,’ observed his wife, ‘has been my family’s, not
yours. If my family are at length sensible of the deprivation to which
their own conduct has, in the past, exposed them, and now desire to
extend the hand of fellowship, let it not be repulsed.’

‘My dear,’ he returned, ‘so be it!’

‘If not for their sakes; for mine, Micawber,’ said his wife.

‘Emma,’ he returned, ‘that view of the question is, at such a moment,
irresistible. I cannot, even now, distinctly pledge myself to fall
upon your family’s neck; but the member of your family, who is now in
attendance, shall have no genial warmth frozen by me.’

Mr. Micawber withdrew, and was absent some little time; in the course of
which Mrs. Micawber was not wholly free from an apprehension that words
might have arisen between him and the Member. At length the same boy
reappeared, and presented me with a note written in pencil, and headed,
in a legal manner, ‘Heep v. Micawber’. From this document, I learned
that Mr. Micawber being again arrested, ‘Was in a final paroxysm of
despair; and that he begged me to send him his knife and pint pot, by
bearer, as they might prove serviceable during the brief remainder of
his existence, in jail. He also requested, as a last act of friendship,
that I would see his family to the Parish Workhouse, and forget that
such a Being ever lived.

Of course I answered this note by going down with the boy to pay the
money, where I found Mr. Micawber sitting in a corner, looking darkly at
the Sheriff ‘s Officer who had effected the capture. On his release,
he embraced me with the utmost fervour; and made an entry of the
transaction in his pocket-book--being very particular, I recollect,
about a halfpenny I inadvertently omitted from my statement of the
total.

This momentous pocket-book was a timely reminder to him of another
transaction. On our return to the room upstairs (where he accounted for
his absence by saying that it had been occasioned by circumstances over
which he had no control), he took out of it a large sheet of paper,
folded small, and quite covered with long sums, carefully worked. From
the glimpse I had of them, I should say that I never saw such sums
out of a school ciphering-book. These, it seemed, were calculations of
compound interest on what he called ‘the principal amount of forty-one,
ten, eleven and a half’, for various periods. After a careful
consideration of these, and an elaborate estimate of his resources,
he had come to the conclusion to select that sum which represented the
amount with compound interest to two years, fifteen calendar months, and
fourteen days, from that date. For this he had drawn a note-of-hand
with great neatness, which he handed over to Traddles on the spot,
a discharge of his debt in full (as between man and man), with many
acknowledgements.

‘I have still a presentiment,’ said Mrs. Micawber, pensively shaking her
head, ‘that my family will appear on board, before we finally depart.’

Mr. Micawber evidently had his presentiment on the subject too, but he
put it in his tin pot and swallowed it.

‘If you have any opportunity of sending letters home, on your passage,
Mrs. Micawber,’ said my aunt, ‘you must let us hear from you, you know.’

‘My dear Miss Trotwood,’ she replied, ‘I shall only be too happy
to think that anyone expects to hear from us. I shall not fail to
correspond. Mr. Copperfield, I trust, as an old and familiar friend,
will not object to receive occasional intelligence, himself, from one
who knew him when the twins were yet unconscious?’

I said that I should hope to hear, whenever she had an opportunity of
writing.

‘Please Heaven, there will be many such opportunities,’ said Mr.
Micawber. ‘The ocean, in these times, is a perfect fleet of ships; and
we can hardly fail to encounter many, in running over. It is merely
crossing,’ said Mr. Micawber, trifling with his eye-glass, ‘merely
crossing. The distance is quite imaginary.’

I think, now, how odd it was, but how wonderfully like Mr. Micawber,
that, when he went from London to Canterbury, he should have talked as
if he were going to the farthest limits of the earth; and, when he went
from England to Australia, as if he were going for a little trip across
the channel.

‘On the voyage, I shall endeavour,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘occasionally
to spin them a yarn; and the melody of my son Wilkins will, I trust,
be acceptable at the galley-fire. When Mrs. Micawber has her
sea-legs on--an expression in which I hope there is no conventional
impropriety--she will give them, I dare say, “Little Tafflin”. Porpoises
and dolphins, I believe, will be frequently observed athwart our
Bows; and, either on the starboard or the larboard quarter, objects of
interest will be continually descried. In short,’ said Mr. Micawber,
with the old genteel air, ‘the probability is, all will be found so
exciting, alow and aloft, that when the lookout, stationed in the
main-top, cries Land-oh! we shall be very considerably astonished!’

With that he flourished off the contents of his little tin pot, as if he
had made the voyage, and had passed a first-class examination before the
highest naval authorities.

‘What I chiefly hope, my dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber,
‘is, that in some branches of our family we may live again in the old
country. Do not frown, Micawber! I do not now refer to my own family,
but to our children’s children. However vigorous the sapling,’ said Mrs.
Micawber, shaking her head, ‘I cannot forget the parent-tree; and when
our race attains to eminence and fortune, I own I should wish that
fortune to flow into the coffers of Britannia.’

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Micawber, ‘Britannia must take her chance. I am
bound to say that she has never done much for me, and that I have no
particular wish upon the subject.’

‘Micawber,’ returned Mrs. Micawber, ‘there, you are wrong. You are going
out, Micawber, to this distant clime, to strengthen, not to weaken, the
connexion between yourself and Albion.’

‘The connexion in question, my love,’ rejoined Mr. Micawber, ‘has not
laid me, I repeat, under that load of personal obligation, that I am at
all sensitive as to the formation of another connexion.’

‘Micawber,’ returned Mrs. Micawber. ‘There, I again say, you are wrong.
You do not know your power, Micawber. It is that which will strengthen,
even in this step you are about to take, the connexion between yourself
and Albion.’

Mr. Micawber sat in his elbow-chair, with his eyebrows raised; half
receiving and half repudiating Mrs. Micawber’s views as they were
stated, but very sensible of their foresight.

‘My dear Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘I wish Mr. Micawber to
feel his position. It appears to me highly important that Mr. Micawber
should, from the hour of his embarkation, feel his position. Your old
knowledge of me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, will have told you that I have
not the sanguine disposition of Mr. Micawber. My disposition is, if I
may say so, eminently practical. I know that this is a long voyage. I
know that it will involve many privations and inconveniences. I cannot
shut my eyes to those facts. But I also know what Mr. Micawber is.
I know the latent power of Mr. Micawber. And therefore I consider it
vitally important that Mr. Micawber should feel his position.’

‘My love,’ he observed, ‘perhaps you will allow me to remark that it is
barely possible that I DO feel my position at the present moment.’

‘I think not, Micawber,’ she rejoined. ‘Not fully. My dear Mr.
Copperfield, Mr. Micawber’s is not a common case. Mr. Micawber is going
to a distant country expressly in order that he may be fully understood
and appreciated for the first time. I wish Mr. Micawber to take his
stand upon that vessel’s prow, and firmly say, “This country I am
come to conquer! Have you honours? Have you riches? Have you posts of
profitable pecuniary emolument? Let them be brought forward. They are
mine!”’

Mr. Micawber, glancing at us all, seemed to think there was a good deal
in this idea.

‘I wish Mr. Micawber, if I make myself understood,’ said Mrs. Micawber,
in her argumentative tone, ‘to be the Caesar of his own fortunes. That,
my dear Mr. Copperfield, appears to me to be his true position. From
the first moment of this voyage, I wish Mr. Micawber to stand upon
that vessel’s prow and say, “Enough of delay: enough of disappointment:
enough of limited means. That was in the old country. This is the new.
Produce your reparation. Bring it forward!”’

Mr. Micawber folded his arms in a resolute manner, as if he were then
stationed on the figure-head.

‘And doing that,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘--feeling his position--am I not
right in saying that Mr. Micawber will strengthen, and not weaken, his
connexion with Britain? An important public character arising in that
hemisphere, shall I be told that its influence will not be felt at home?
Can I be so weak as to imagine that Mr. Micawber, wielding the rod of
talent and of power in Australia, will be nothing in England? I am but
a woman; but I should be unworthy of myself and of my papa, if I were
guilty of such absurd weakness.’

Mrs. Micawber’s conviction that her arguments were unanswerable, gave
a moral elevation to her tone which I think I had never heard in it
before.

‘And therefore it is,’ said Mrs. Micawber, ‘that I the more wish, that,
at a future period, we may live again on the parent soil. Mr. Micawber
may be--I cannot disguise from myself that the probability is, Mr.
Micawber will be--a page of History; and he ought then to be represented
in the country which gave him birth, and did NOT give him employment!’

‘My love,’ observed Mr. Micawber, ‘it is impossible for me not to be
touched by your affection. I am always willing to defer to your good
sense. What will be--will be. Heaven forbid that I should grudge my
native country any portion of the wealth that may be accumulated by our
descendants!’

‘That’s well,’ said my aunt, nodding towards Mr. Peggotty, ‘and I drink
my love to you all, and every blessing and success attend you!’

Mr. Peggotty put down the two children he had been nursing, one on each
knee, to join Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in drinking to all of us in return;
and when he and the Micawbers cordially shook hands as comrades, and his
brown face brightened with a smile, I felt that he would make his way,
establish a good name, and be beloved, go where he would.

Even the children were instructed, each to dip a wooden spoon into Mr.
Micawber’s pot, and pledge us in its contents. When this was done, my
aunt and Agnes rose, and parted from the emigrants. It was a sorrowful
farewell. They were all crying; the children hung about Agnes to the
last; and we left poor Mrs. Micawber in a very distressed condition,
sobbing and weeping by a dim candle, that must have made the room look,
from the river, like a miserable light-house.

I went down again next morning to see that they were away. They had
departed, in a boat, as early as five o’clock. It was a wonderful
instance to me of the gap such partings make, that although my
association of them with the tumble-down public-house and the wooden
stairs dated only from last night, both seemed dreary and deserted, now
that they were gone.

In the afternoon of the next day, my old nurse and I went down to
Gravesend. We found the ship in the river, surrounded by a crowd
of boats; a favourable wind blowing; the signal for sailing at her
mast-head. I hired a boat directly, and we put off to her; and getting
through the little vortex of confusion of which she was the centre, went
on board.

Mr. Peggotty was waiting for us on deck. He told me that Mr. Micawber
had just now been arrested again (and for the last time) at the suit of
Heep, and that, in compliance with a request I had made to him, he had
paid the money, which I repaid him. He then took us down between decks;
and there, any lingering fears I had of his having heard any rumours of
what had happened, were dispelled by Mr. Micawber’s coming out of the
gloom, taking his arm with an air of friendship and protection, and
telling me that they had scarcely been asunder for a moment, since the
night before last.

It was such a strange scene to me, and so confined and dark, that, at
first, I could make out hardly anything; but, by degrees, it cleared, as
my eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, and I seemed to stand in
a picture by OSTADE. Among the great beams, bulks, and ringbolts of the
ship, and the emigrant-berths, and chests, and bundles, and barrels, and
heaps of miscellaneous baggage--‘lighted up, here and there, by dangling
lanterns; and elsewhere by the yellow daylight straying down a windsail
or a hatchway--were crowded groups of people, making new friendships,
taking leave of one another, talking, laughing, crying, eating and
drinking; some, already settled down into the possession of their few
feet of space, with their little households arranged, and tiny children
established on stools, or in dwarf elbow-chairs; others, despairing of
a resting-place, and wandering disconsolately. From babies who had but a
week or two of life behind them, to crooked old men and women who seemed
to have but a week or two of life before them; and from ploughmen bodily
carrying out soil of England on their boots, to smiths taking away
samples of its soot and smoke upon their skins; every age and occupation
appeared to be crammed into the narrow compass of the ‘tween decks.

As my eye glanced round this place, I thought I saw sitting, by an open
port, with one of the Micawber children near her, a figure like Emily’s;
it first attracted my attention, by another figure parting from it with
a kiss; and as it glided calmly away through the disorder, reminding
me of--Agnes! But in the rapid motion and confusion, and in the
unsettlement of my own thoughts, I lost it again; and only knew that
the time was come when all visitors were being warned to leave the ship;
that my nurse was crying on a chest beside me; and that Mrs. Gummidge,
assisted by some younger stooping woman in black, was busily arranging
Mr. Peggotty’s goods.

‘Is there any last wured, Mas’r Davy?’ said he. ‘Is there any one
forgotten thing afore we parts?’

‘One thing!’ said I. ‘Martha!’

He touched the younger woman I have mentioned on the shoulder, and
Martha stood before me.

‘Heaven bless you, you good man!’ cried I. ‘You take her with you!’

She answered for him, with a burst of tears. I could speak no more at
that time, but I wrung his hand; and if ever I have loved and honoured
any man, I loved and honoured that man in my soul.

The ship was clearing fast of strangers. The greatest trial that I had,
remained. I told him what the noble spirit that was gone, had given me
in charge to say at parting. It moved him deeply. But when he charged
me, in return, with many messages of affection and regret for those deaf
ears, he moved me more.

The time was come. I embraced him, took my weeping nurse upon my arm,
and hurried away. On deck, I took leave of poor Mrs. Micawber. She was
looking distractedly about for her family, even then; and her last words
to me were, that she never would desert Mr. Micawber.

We went over the side into our boat, and lay at a little distance, to
see the ship wafted on her course. It was then calm, radiant sunset.
She lay between us, and the red light; and every taper line and spar was
visible against the glow. A sight at once so beautiful, so mournful, and
so hopeful, as the glorious ship, lying, still, on the flushed water,
with all the life on board her crowded at the bulwarks, and there
clustering, for a moment, bare-headed and silent, I never saw.

Silent, only for a moment. As the sails rose to the wind, and the ship
began to move, there broke from all the boats three resounding cheers,
which those on board took up, and echoed back, and which were echoed
and re-echoed. My heart burst out when I heard the sound, and beheld the
waving of the hats and handkerchiefs--and then I saw her!

Then I saw her, at her uncle’s side, and trembling on his shoulder. He
pointed to us with an eager hand; and she saw us, and waved her last
good-bye to me. Aye, Emily, beautiful and drooping, cling to him with
the utmost trust of thy bruised heart; for he has clung to thee, with
all the might of his great love!

Surrounded by the rosy light, and standing high upon the deck, apart
together, she clinging to him, and he holding her, they solemnly passed
away. The night had fallen on the Kentish hills when we were rowed
ashore--and fallen darkly upon me.



CHAPTER 58. ABSENCE


It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me, haunted by the
ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remembrances, many errors, many
unavailing sorrows and regrets.

I went away from England; not knowing, even then, how great the shock
was, that I had to bear. I left all who were dear to me, and went away;
and believed that I had borne it, and it was past. As a man upon a
field of battle will receive a mortal hurt, and scarcely know that he is
struck, so I, when I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no
conception of the wound with which it had to strive.

The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by little, and grain
by grain. The desolate feeling with which I went abroad, deepened
and widened hourly. At first it was a heavy sense of loss and sorrow,
wherein I could distinguish little else. By imperceptible degrees,
it became a hopeless consciousness of all that I had lost--love,
friendship, interest; of all that had been shattered--my first trust,
my first affection, the whole airy castle of my life; of all that
remained--a ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, unbroken, to
the dark horizon.

If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I mourned for my
child-wife, taken from her blooming world, so young. I mourned for him
who might have won the love and admiration of thousands, as he had won
mine long ago. I mourned for the broken heart that had found rest in the
stormy sea; and for the wandering remnants of the simple home, where I
had heard the night-wind blowing, when I was a child.

From the accumulated sadness into which I fell, I had at length no hope
of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to place, carrying my burden
with me everywhere. I felt its whole weight now; and I drooped beneath
it, and I said in my heart that it could never be lightened.

When this despondency was at its worst, I believed that I should die.
Sometimes, I thought that I would like to die at home; and actually
turned back on my road, that I might get there soon. At other times, I
passed on farther away,--from city to city, seeking I know not what, and
trying to leave I know not what behind.

It is not in my power to retrace, one by one, all the weary phases of
distress of mind through which I passed. There are some dreams that can
only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I oblige myself to
look back on this time of my life, I seem to be recalling such a dream.
I see myself passing on among the novelties of foreign towns, palaces,
cathedrals, temples, pictures, castles, tombs, fantastic streets--the
old abiding places of History and Fancy--as a dreamer might; bearing my
painful load through all, and hardly conscious of the objects as they
fade before me. Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the
night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it--as
at last I did, thank Heaven!--and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to
dawn.

For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening cloud upon my
mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not returning home--reasons then
struggling within me, vainly, for more distinct expression--kept me
on my pilgrimage. Sometimes, I had proceeded restlessly from place to
place, stopping nowhere; sometimes, I had lingered long in one spot. I
had had no purpose, no sustaining soul within me, anywhere.

I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one of the great
passes of the Alps, and had since wandered with a guide among the
by-ways of the mountains. If those awful solitudes had spoken to my
heart, I did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder in the dread
heights and precipices, in the roaring torrents, and the wastes of ice
and snow; but as yet, they had taught me nothing else.

I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, where I was to
rest. In the course of my descent to it, by the winding track along
the mountain-side, from which I saw it shining far below, I think some
long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillity, some softening influence
awakened by its peace, moved faintly in my breast. I remember pausing
once, with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppressive, not quite
despairing. I remember almost hoping that some better change was
possible within me.

I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining on the remote
heights of snow, that closed it in, like eternal clouds. The bases of
the mountains forming the gorge in which the little village lay, were
richly green; and high above this gentler vegetation, grew forests of
dark fir, cleaving the wintry snow-drift, wedge-like, and stemming the
avalanche. Above these, were range upon range of craggy steeps, grey
rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks of pasture, all gradually
blending with the crowning snow. Dotted here and there on the
mountain’s-side, each tiny dot a home, were lonely wooden cottages, so
dwarfed by the towering heights that they appeared too small for toys.
So did even the clustered village in the valley, with its wooden bridge
across the stream, where the stream tumbled over broken rocks, and
roared away among the trees. In the quiet air, there was a sound of
distant singing--shepherd voices; but, as one bright evening cloud
floated midway along the mountain’s-side, I could almost have believed
it came from there, and was not earthly music. All at once, in this
serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to lay down my weary
head upon the grass, and weep as I had not wept yet, since Dora died!

I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutes before,
and had strolled out of the village to read them while my supper was
making ready. Other packets had missed me, and I had received none for a
long time. Beyond a line or two, to say that I was well, and had arrived
at such a place, I had not had fortitude or constancy to write a letter
since I left home.

The packet was in my hand. I opened it, and read the writing of Agnes.

She was happy and useful, was prospering as she had hoped. That was all
she told me of herself. The rest referred to me.

She gave me no advice; she urged no duty on me; she only told me, in her
own fervent manner, what her trust in me was. She knew (she said) how
such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good. She knew how trial
and emotion would exalt and strengthen it. She was sure that in my every
purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher tendency, through the grief
I had undergone. She, who so gloried in my fame, and so looked forward
to its augmentation, well knew that I would labour on. She knew that in
me, sorrow could not be weakness, but must be strength. As the endurance
of my childish days had done its part to make me what I was, so greater
calamities would nerve me on, to be yet better than I was; and so, as
they had taught me, would I teach others. She commended me to God, who
had taken my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly affection
cherished me always, and was always at my side go where I would; proud
of what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet of what I was reserved to
do.

I put the letter in my breast, and thought what had I been an hour ago!
When I heard the voices die away, and saw the quiet evening cloud grow
dim, and all the colours in the valley fade, and the golden snow upon
the mountain-tops become a remote part of the pale night sky, yet felt
that the night was passing from my mind, and all its shadows clearing,
there was no name for the love I bore her, dearer to me, henceforward,
than ever until then.

I read her letter many times. I wrote to her before I slept. I told her
that I had been in sore need of her help; that without her I was not,
and I never had been, what she thought me; but that she inspired me to
be that, and I would try.

I did try. In three months more, a year would have passed since the
beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions until the
expiration of those three months, but to try. I lived in that valley,
and its neighbourhood, all the time.

The three months gone, I resolved to remain away from home for some
time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerland, which was
growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening; to resume my pen;
to work.

I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I sought out Nature,
never sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast the human interest
I had lately shrunk from. It was not long, before I had almost as many
friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when I left it, before the
winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in the spring, their cordial
greetings had a homely sound to me, although they were not conveyed in
English words.

I worked early and late, patiently and hard. I wrote a Story, with a
purpose growing, not remotely, out of my experience, and sent it to
Traddles, and he arranged for its publication very advantageously for
me; and the tidings of my growing reputation began to reach me from
travellers whom I encountered by chance. After some rest and change, I
fell to work, in my old ardent way, on a new fancy, which took strong
possession of me. As I advanced in the execution of this task, I felt it
more and more, and roused my utmost energies to do it well. This was my
third work of fiction. It was not half written, when, in an interval of
rest, I thought of returning home.

For a long time, though studying and working patiently, I had accustomed
myself to robust exercise. My health, severely impaired when I left
England, was quite restored. I had seen much. I had been in many
countries, and I hope I had improved my store of knowledge.

I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall here, of this
term of absence--with one reservation. I have made it, thus far, with
no purpose of suppressing any of my thoughts; for, as I have elsewhere
said, this narrative is my written memory. I have desired to keep the
most secret current of my mind apart, and to the last. I enter on it
now. I cannot so completely penetrate the mystery of my own heart, as
to know when I began to think that I might have set its earliest and
brightest hopes on Agnes. I cannot say at what stage of my grief
it first became associated with the reflection, that, in my wayward
boyhood, I had thrown away the treasure of her love. I believe I may
have heard some whisper of that distant thought, in the old unhappy loss
or want of something never to be realized, of which I had been sensible.
But the thought came into my mind as a new reproach and new regret, when
I was left so sad and lonely in the world.

If, at that time, I had been much with her, I should, in the weakness of
my desolation, have betrayed this. It was what I remotely dreaded when I
was first impelled to stay away from England. I could not have borne
to lose the smallest portion of her sisterly affection; yet, in that
betrayal, I should have set a constraint between us hitherto unknown.

I could not forget that the feeling with which she now regarded me had
grown up in my own free choice and course. That if she had ever loved me
with another love--and I sometimes thought the time was when she might
have done so--I had cast it away. It was nothing, now, that I had
accustomed myself to think of her, when we were both mere children,
as one who was far removed from my wild fancies. I had bestowed my
passionate tenderness upon another object; and what I might have done,
I had not done; and what Agnes was to me, I and her own noble heart had
made her.

In the beginning of the change that gradually worked in me, when I
tried to get a better understanding of myself and be a better man, I
did glance, through some indefinite probation, to a period when I might
possibly hope to cancel the mistaken past, and to be so blessed as
to marry her. But, as time wore on, this shadowy prospect faded, and
departed from me. If she had ever loved me, then, I should hold her
the more sacred; remembering the confidences I had reposed in her, her
knowledge of my errant heart, the sacrifice she must have made to be my
friend and sister, and the victory she had won. If she had never loved
me, could I believe that she would love me now?

I had always felt my weakness, in comparison with her constancy and
fortitude; and now I felt it more and more. Whatever I might have been
to her, or she to me, if I had been more worthy of her long ago, I was
not now, and she was not. The time was past. I had let it go by, and had
deservedly lost her.

That I suffered much in these contentions, that they filled me with
unhappiness and remorse, and yet that I had a sustaining sense that it
was required of me, in right and honour, to keep away from myself, with
shame, the thought of turning to the dear girl in the withering of my
hopes, from whom I had frivolously turned when they were bright and
fresh--which consideration was at the root of every thought I had
concerning her--is all equally true. I made no effort to conceal from
myself, now, that I loved her, that I was devoted to her; but I brought
the assurance home to myself, that it was now too late, and that our
long-subsisting relation must be undisturbed.

I had thought, much and often, of my Dora’s shadowing out to me what
might have happened, in those years that were destined not to try us;
I had considered how the things that never happen, are often as much
realities to us, in their effects, as those that are accomplished. The
very years she spoke of, were realities now, for my correction; and
would have been, one day, a little later perhaps, though we had parted
in our earliest folly. I endeavoured to convert what might have been
between myself and Agnes, into a means of making me more self-denying,
more resolved, more conscious of myself, and my defects and errors.
Thus, through the reflection that it might have been, I arrived at the
conviction that it could never be.

These, with their perplexities and inconsistencies, were the shifting
quicksands of my mind, from the time of my departure to the time of my
return home, three years afterwards. Three years had elapsed since the
sailing of the emigrant ship; when, at that same hour of sunset, and in
the same place, I stood on the deck of the packet vessel that brought me
home, looking on the rosy water where I had seen the image of that ship
reflected.

Three years. Long in the aggregate, though short as they went by. And
home was very dear to me, and Agnes too--but she was not mine--she was
never to be mine. She might have been, but that was past!



CHAPTER 59. RETURN


I landed in London on a wintry autumn evening. It was dark and raining,
and I saw more fog and mud in a minute than I had seen in a year. I
walked from the Custom House to the Monument before I found a coach;
and although the very house-fronts, looking on the swollen gutters, were
like old friends to me, I could not but admit that they were very dingy
friends.

I have often remarked--I suppose everybody has--that one’s going away
from a familiar place, would seem to be the signal for change in it.
As I looked out of the coach window, and observed that an old house on
Fish-street Hill, which had stood untouched by painter, carpenter, or
bricklayer, for a century, had been pulled down in my absence; and that
a neighbouring street, of time-honoured insalubrity and inconvenience,
was being drained and widened; I half expected to find St. Paul’s
Cathedral looking older.

For some changes in the fortunes of my friends, I was prepared. My aunt
had long been re-established at Dover, and Traddles had begun to get
into some little practice at the Bar, in the very first term after my
departure. He had chambers in Gray’s Inn, now; and had told me, in his
last letters, that he was not without hopes of being soon united to the
dearest girl in the world.

They expected me home before Christmas; but had no idea of my returning
so soon. I had purposely misled them, that I might have the pleasure of
taking them by surprise. And yet, I was perverse enough to feel a chill
and disappointment in receiving no welcome, and rattling, alone and
silent, through the misty streets.

The well-known shops, however, with their cheerful lights, did something
for me; and when I alighted at the door of the Gray’s Inn Coffee-house,
I had recovered my spirits. It recalled, at first, that so-different
time when I had put up at the Golden Cross, and reminded me of the
changes that had come to pass since then; but that was natural.

‘Do you know where Mr. Traddles lives in the Inn?’ I asked the waiter,
as I warmed myself by the coffee-room fire.

‘Holborn Court, sir. Number two.’

‘Mr. Traddles has a rising reputation among the lawyers, I believe?’
said I.

‘Well, sir,’ returned the waiter, ‘probably he has, sir; but I am not
aware of it myself.’

This waiter, who was middle-aged and spare, looked for help to a waiter
of more authority--a stout, potential old man, with a double chin,
in black breeches and stockings, who came out of a place like a
churchwarden’s pew, at the end of the coffee-room, where he kept company
with a cash-box, a Directory, a Law-list, and other books and papers.

‘Mr. Traddles,’ said the spare waiter. ‘Number two in the Court.’

The potential waiter waved him away, and turned, gravely, to me.

‘I was inquiring,’ said I, ‘whether Mr. Traddles, at number two in the
Court, has not a rising reputation among the lawyers?’

‘Never heard his name,’ said the waiter, in a rich husky voice.

I felt quite apologetic for Traddles.

‘He’s a young man, sure?’ said the portentous waiter, fixing his eyes
severely on me. ‘How long has he been in the Inn?’

‘Not above three years,’ said I.

The waiter, who I supposed had lived in his churchwarden’s pew for forty
years, could not pursue such an insignificant subject. He asked me what
I would have for dinner?

I felt I was in England again, and really was quite cast down on
Traddles’s account. There seemed to be no hope for him. I meekly ordered
a bit of fish and a steak, and stood before the fire musing on his
obscurity.

As I followed the chief waiter with my eyes, I could not help thinking
that the garden in which he had gradually blown to be the flower he
was, was an arduous place to rise in. It had such a prescriptive,
stiff-necked, long-established, solemn, elderly air. I glanced about the
room, which had had its sanded floor sanded, no doubt, in exactly the
same manner when the chief waiter was a boy--if he ever was a boy,
which appeared improbable; and at the shining tables, where I saw
myself reflected, in unruffled depths of old mahogany; and at the lamps,
without a flaw in their trimming or cleaning; and at the comfortable
green curtains, with their pure brass rods, snugly enclosing the boxes;
and at the two large coal fires, brightly burning; and at the rows of
decanters, burly as if with the consciousness of pipes of expensive old
port wine below; and both England, and the law, appeared to me to be
very difficult indeed to be taken by storm. I went up to my bedroom
to change my wet clothes; and the vast extent of that old wainscoted
apartment (which was over the archway leading to the Inn, I remember),
and the sedate immensity of the four-post bedstead, and the indomitable
gravity of the chests of drawers, all seemed to unite in sternly
frowning on the fortunes of Traddles, or on any such daring youth. I
came down again to my dinner; and even the slow comfort of the meal,
and the orderly silence of the place--which was bare of guests, the Long
Vacation not yet being over--were eloquent on the audacity of Traddles,
and his small hopes of a livelihood for twenty years to come.

I had seen nothing like this since I went away, and it quite dashed my
hopes for my friend. The chief waiter had had enough of me. He came near
me no more; but devoted himself to an old gentleman in long gaiters, to
meet whom a pint of special port seemed to come out of the cellar of its
own accord, for he gave no order. The second waiter informed me, in a
whisper, that this old gentleman was a retired conveyancer living in the
Square, and worth a mint of money, which it was expected he would leave
to his laundress’s daughter; likewise that it was rumoured that he had
a service of plate in a bureau, all tarnished with lying by, though more
than one spoon and a fork had never yet been beheld in his chambers
by mortal vision. By this time, I quite gave Traddles up for lost; and
settled in my own mind that there was no hope for him.

Being very anxious to see the dear old fellow, nevertheless, I
dispatched my dinner, in a manner not at all calculated to raise me in
the opinion of the chief waiter, and hurried out by the back way. Number
two in the Court was soon reached; and an inscription on the door-post
informing me that Mr. Traddles occupied a set of chambers on the top
storey, I ascended the staircase. A crazy old staircase I found it to
be, feebly lighted on each landing by a club-headed little oil wick,
dying away in a little dungeon of dirty glass.

In the course of my stumbling upstairs, I fancied I heard a pleasant
sound of laughter; and not the laughter of an attorney or barrister, or
attorney’s clerk or barrister’s clerk, but of two or three merry girls.
Happening, however, as I stopped to listen, to put my foot in a hole
where the Honourable Society of Gray’s Inn had left a plank deficient,
I fell down with some noise, and when I recovered my footing all was
silent.

Groping my way more carefully, for the rest of the journey, my heart
beat high when I found the outer door, which had Mr. TRADDLES painted on
it, open. I knocked. A considerable scuffling within ensued, but nothing
else. I therefore knocked again.

A small sharp-looking lad, half-footboy and half-clerk, who was very
much out of breath, but who looked at me as if he defied me to prove it
legally, presented himself.

‘Is Mr. Traddles within?’ I said.

‘Yes, sir, but he’s engaged.’

‘I want to see him.’

After a moment’s survey of me, the sharp-looking lad decided to let me
in; and opening the door wider for that purpose, admitted me, first,
into a little closet of a hall, and next into a little sitting-room;
where I came into the presence of my old friend (also out of breath),
seated at a table, and bending over papers.

‘Good God!’ cried Traddles, looking up. ‘It’s Copperfield!’ and rushed
into my arms, where I held him tight.

‘All well, my dear Traddles?’

‘All well, my dear, dear Copperfield, and nothing but good news!’

We cried with pleasure, both of us.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Traddles, rumpling his hair in his excitement,
which was a most unnecessary operation, ‘my dearest Copperfield, my
long-lost and most welcome friend, how glad I am to see you! How
brown you are! How glad I am! Upon my life and honour, I never was so
rejoiced, my beloved Copperfield, never!’

I was equally at a loss to express my emotions. I was quite unable to
speak, at first.

‘My dear fellow!’ said Traddles. ‘And grown so famous! My glorious
Copperfield! Good gracious me, WHEN did you come, WHERE have you come
from, WHAT have you been doing?’

Never pausing for an answer to anything he said, Traddles, who had
clapped me into an easy-chair by the fire, all this time impetuously
stirred the fire with one hand, and pulled at my neck-kerchief with
the other, under some wild delusion that it was a great-coat. Without
putting down the poker, he now hugged me again; and I hugged him; and,
both laughing, and both wiping our eyes, we both sat down, and shook
hands across the hearth.

‘To think,’ said Traddles, ‘that you should have been so nearly coming
home as you must have been, my dear old boy, and not at the ceremony!’

‘What ceremony, my dear Traddles?’

‘Good gracious me!’ cried Traddles, opening his eyes in his old way.
‘Didn’t you get my last letter?’

‘Certainly not, if it referred to any ceremony.’

‘Why, my dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, sticking his hair upright
with both hands, and then putting his hands on my knees, ‘I am married!’

‘Married!’ I cried joyfully.

‘Lord bless me, yes!’ said Traddles--‘by the Reverend Horace--to
Sophy--down in Devonshire. Why, my dear boy, she’s behind the window
curtain! Look here!’

To my amazement, the dearest girl in the world came at that same
instant, laughing and blushing, from her place of concealment. And a
more cheerful, amiable, honest, happy, bright-looking bride, I believe
(as I could not help saying on the spot) the world never saw. I kissed
her as an old acquaintance should, and wished them joy with all my might
of heart.

‘Dear me,’ said Traddles, ‘what a delightful re-union this is! You are
so extremely brown, my dear Copperfield! God bless my soul, how happy I
am!’

‘And so am I,’ said I.

‘And I am sure I am!’ said the blushing and laughing Sophy.

‘We are all as happy as possible!’ said Traddles. ‘Even the girls are
happy. Dear me, I declare I forgot them!’

‘Forgot?’ said I.

‘The girls,’ said Traddles. ‘Sophy’s sisters. They are staying with us.
They have come to have a peep at London. The fact is, when--was it you
that tumbled upstairs, Copperfield?’

‘It was,’ said I, laughing.

‘Well then, when you tumbled upstairs,’ said Traddles, ‘I was romping
with the girls. In point of fact, we were playing at Puss in the Corner.
But as that wouldn’t do in Westminster Hall, and as it wouldn’t look
quite professional if they were seen by a client, they decamped. And
they are now--listening, I have no doubt,’ said Traddles, glancing at
the door of another room.

‘I am sorry,’ said I, laughing afresh, ‘to have occasioned such a
dispersion.’

‘Upon my word,’ rejoined Traddles, greatly delighted, ‘if you had seen
them running away, and running back again, after you had knocked, to
pick up the combs they had dropped out of their hair, and going on in
the maddest manner, you wouldn’t have said so. My love, will you fetch
the girls?’

Sophy tripped away, and we heard her received in the adjoining room with
a peal of laughter.

‘Really musical, isn’t it, my dear Copperfield?’ said Traddles. ‘It’s
very agreeable to hear. It quite lights up these old rooms. To an
unfortunate bachelor of a fellow who has lived alone all his life, you
know, it’s positively delicious. It’s charming. Poor things, they have
had a great loss in Sophy--who, I do assure you, Copperfield is, and
ever was, the dearest girl!--and it gratifies me beyond expression
to find them in such good spirits. The society of girls is a very
delightful thing, Copperfield. It’s not professional, but it’s very
delightful.’

Observing that he slightly faltered, and comprehending that in the
goodness of his heart he was fearful of giving me some pain by what he
had said, I expressed my concurrence with a heartiness that evidently
relieved and pleased him greatly.

‘But then,’ said Traddles, ‘our domestic arrangements are, to say
the truth, quite unprofessional altogether, my dear Copperfield. Even
Sophy’s being here, is unprofessional. And we have no other place of
abode. We have put to sea in a cockboat, but we are quite prepared to
rough it. And Sophy’s an extraordinary manager! You’ll be surprised how
those girls are stowed away. I am sure I hardly know how it’s done!’

‘Are many of the young ladies with you?’ I inquired.

‘The eldest, the Beauty is here,’ said Traddles, in a low confidential
voice, ‘Caroline. And Sarah’s here--the one I mentioned to you as having
something the matter with her spine, you know. Immensely better! And the
two youngest that Sophy educated are with us. And Louisa’s here.’

‘Indeed!’ cried I.

‘Yes,’ said Traddles. ‘Now the whole set--I mean the chambers--is only
three rooms; but Sophy arranges for the girls in the most wonderful way,
and they sleep as comfortably as possible. Three in that room,’ said
Traddles, pointing. ‘Two in that.’

I could not help glancing round, in search of the accommodation
remaining for Mr. and Mrs. Traddles. Traddles understood me.

‘Well!’ said Traddles, ‘we are prepared to rough it, as I said just now,
and we did improvise a bed last week, upon the floor here. But there’s
a little room in the roof--a very nice room, when you’re up there--which
Sophy papered herself, to surprise me; and that’s our room at present.
It’s a capital little gipsy sort of place. There’s quite a view from
it.’

‘And you are happily married at last, my dear Traddles!’ said I. ‘How
rejoiced I am!’

‘Thank you, my dear Copperfield,’ said Traddles, as we shook hands
once more. ‘Yes, I am as happy as it’s possible to be. There’s your old
friend, you see,’ said Traddles, nodding triumphantly at the flower-pot
and stand; ‘and there’s the table with the marble top! All the other
furniture is plain and serviceable, you perceive. And as to plate, Lord
bless you, we haven’t so much as a tea-spoon.’

‘All to be earned?’ said I, cheerfully.

‘Exactly so,’ replied Traddles, ‘all to be earned. Of course we have
something in the shape of tea-spoons, because we stir our tea. But
they’re Britannia metal.’

‘The silver will be the brighter when it comes,’ said I.

‘The very thing we say!’ cried Traddles. ‘You see, my dear Copperfield,’
falling again into the low confidential tone, ‘after I had delivered my
argument in DOE dem. JIPES versus WIGZIELL, which did me great service
with the profession, I went down into Devonshire, and had some serious
conversation in private with the Reverend Horace. I dwelt upon the fact
that Sophy--who I do assure you, Copperfield, is the dearest girl!--’

‘I am certain she is!’ said I.

‘She is, indeed!’ rejoined Traddles. ‘But I am afraid I am wandering
from the subject. Did I mention the Reverend Horace?’

‘You said that you dwelt upon the fact--’

‘True! Upon the fact that Sophy and I had been engaged for a long
period, and that Sophy, with the permission of her parents, was more
than content to take me--in short,’ said Traddles, with his old frank
smile, ‘on our present Britannia-metal footing. Very well. I then
proposed to the Reverend Horace--who is a most excellent clergyman,
Copperfield, and ought to be a Bishop; or at least ought to have enough
to live upon, without pinching himself--that if I could turn the corner,
say of two hundred and fifty pounds, in one year; and could see my
way pretty clearly to that, or something better, next year; and could
plainly furnish a little place like this, besides; then, and in that
case, Sophy and I should be united. I took the liberty of representing
that we had been patient for a good many years; and that the
circumstance of Sophy’s being extraordinarily useful at home, ought not
to operate with her affectionate parents, against her establishment in
life--don’t you see?’

‘Certainly it ought not,’ said I.

‘I am glad you think so, Copperfield,’ rejoined Traddles, ‘because,
without any imputation on the Reverend Horace, I do think parents, and
brothers, and so forth, are sometimes rather selfish in such cases.
Well! I also pointed out, that my most earnest desire was, to be useful
to the family; and that if I got on in the world, and anything should
happen to him--I refer to the Reverend Horace--’

‘I understand,’ said I.

‘--Or to Mrs. Crewler--it would be the utmost gratification of my
wishes, to be a parent to the girls. He replied in a most admirable
manner, exceedingly flattering to my feelings, and undertook to obtain
the consent of Mrs. Crewler to this arrangement. They had a dreadful
time of it with her. It mounted from her legs into her chest, and then
into her head--’

‘What mounted?’ I asked.

‘Her grief,’ replied Traddles, with a serious look. ‘Her feelings
generally. As I mentioned on a former occasion, she is a very superior
woman, but has lost the use of her limbs. Whatever occurs to harass
her, usually settles in her legs; but on this occasion it mounted to the
chest, and then to the head, and, in short, pervaded the whole system
in a most alarming manner. However, they brought her through it by
unremitting and affectionate attention; and we were married yesterday
six weeks. You have no idea what a Monster I felt, Copperfield, when I
saw the whole family crying and fainting away in every direction! Mrs.
Crewler couldn’t see me before we left--couldn’t forgive me, then, for
depriving her of her child--but she is a good creature, and has done so
since. I had a delightful letter from her, only this morning.’

‘And in short, my dear friend,’ said I, ‘you feel as blest as you
deserve to feel!’

‘Oh! That’s your partiality!’ laughed Traddles. ‘But, indeed, I am in a
most enviable state. I work hard, and read Law insatiably. I get up at
five every morning, and don’t mind it at all. I hide the girls in the
daytime, and make merry with them in the evening. And I assure you I am
quite sorry that they are going home on Tuesday, which is the day before
the first day of Michaelmas Term. But here,’ said Traddles, breaking off
in his confidence, and speaking aloud, ‘ARE the girls! Mr. Copperfield,
Miss Crewler--Miss Sarah--Miss Louisa--Margaret and Lucy!’

They were a perfect nest of roses; they looked so wholesome and fresh.
They were all pretty, and Miss Caroline was very handsome; but there was
a loving, cheerful, fireside quality in Sophy’s bright looks, which was
better than that, and which assured me that my friend had chosen well.
We all sat round the fire; while the sharp boy, who I now divined had
lost his breath in putting the papers out, cleared them away again, and
produced the tea-things. After that, he retired for the night, shutting
the outer door upon us with a bang. Mrs. Traddles, with perfect pleasure
and composure beaming from her household eyes, having made the tea, then
quietly made the toast as she sat in a corner by the fire.

She had seen Agnes, she told me while she was toasting. ‘Tom’ had taken
her down into Kent for a wedding trip, and there she had seen my aunt,
too; and both my aunt and Agnes were well, and they had all talked of
nothing but me. ‘Tom’ had never had me out of his thoughts, she really
believed, all the time I had been away. ‘Tom’ was the authority for
everything. ‘Tom’ was evidently the idol of her life; never to be shaken
on his pedestal by any commotion; always to be believed in, and done
homage to with the whole faith of her heart, come what might.

The deference which both she and Traddles showed towards the Beauty,
pleased me very much. I don’t know that I thought it very reasonable;
but I thought it very delightful, and essentially a part of their
character. If Traddles ever for an instant missed the tea-spoons that
were still to be won, I have no doubt it was when he handed the Beauty
her tea. If his sweet-tempered wife could have got up any self-assertion
against anyone, I am satisfied it could only have been because she was
the Beauty’s sister. A few slight indications of a rather petted and
capricious manner, which I observed in the Beauty, were manifestly
considered, by Traddles and his wife, as her birthright and natural
endowment. If she had been born a Queen Bee, and they labouring Bees,
they could not have been more satisfied of that.

But their self-forgetfulness charmed me. Their pride in these girls, and
their submission of themselves to all their whims, was the pleasantest
little testimony to their own worth I could have desired to see. If
Traddles were addressed as ‘a darling’, once in the course of that
evening; and besought to bring something here, or carry something there,
or take something up, or put something down, or find something, or fetch
something, he was so addressed, by one or other of his sisters-in-law,
at least twelve times in an hour. Neither could they do anything without
Sophy. Somebody’s hair fell down, and nobody but Sophy could put it up.
Somebody forgot how a particular tune went, and nobody but Sophy could
hum that tune right. Somebody wanted to recall the name of a place in
Devonshire, and only Sophy knew it. Something was wanted to be written
home, and Sophy alone could be trusted to write before breakfast in
the morning. Somebody broke down in a piece of knitting, and no one but
Sophy was able to put the defaulter in the right direction. They were
entire mistresses of the place, and Sophy and Traddles waited on them.
How many children Sophy could have taken care of in her time, I can’t
imagine; but she seemed to be famous for knowing every sort of song that
ever was addressed to a child in the English tongue; and she sang dozens
to order with the clearest little voice in the world, one after another
(every sister issuing directions for a different tune, and the Beauty
generally striking in last), so that I was quite fascinated. The best
of all was, that, in the midst of their exactions, all the sisters had
a great tenderness and respect both for Sophy and Traddles. I am sure,
when I took my leave, and Traddles was coming out to walk with me to the
coffee-house, I thought I had never seen an obstinate head of hair, or
any other head of hair, rolling about in such a shower of kisses.

Altogether, it was a scene I could not help dwelling on with pleasure,
for a long time after I got back and had wished Traddles good night. If
I had beheld a thousand roses blowing in a top set of chambers, in that
withered Gray’s Inn, they could not have brightened it half so much.
The idea of those Devonshire girls, among the dry law-stationers and the
attorneys’ offices; and of the tea and toast, and children’s songs, in
that grim atmosphere of pounce and parchment, red-tape, dusty wafers,
ink-jars, brief and draft paper, law reports, writs, declarations, and
bills of costs; seemed almost as pleasantly fanciful as if I had
dreamed that the Sultan’s famous family had been admitted on the roll of
attorneys, and had brought the talking bird, the singing tree, and the
golden water into Gray’s Inn Hall. Somehow, I found that I had taken
leave of Traddles for the night, and come back to the coffee-house, with
a great change in my despondency about him. I began to think he would
get on, in spite of all the many orders of chief waiters in England.

Drawing a chair before one of the coffee-room fires to think about him
at my leisure, I gradually fell from the consideration of his happiness
to tracing prospects in the live-coals, and to thinking, as they broke
and changed, of the principal vicissitudes and separations that had
marked my life. I had not seen a coal fire, since I had left England
three years ago: though many a wood fire had I watched, as it crumbled
into hoary ashes, and mingled with the feathery heap upon the hearth,
which not inaptly figured to me, in my despondency, my own dead hopes.

I could think of the past now, gravely, but not bitterly; and could
contemplate the future in a brave spirit. Home, in its best sense, was
for me no more. She in whom I might have inspired a dearer love, I had
taught to be my sister. She would marry, and would have new claimants on
her tenderness; and in doing it, would never know the love for her that
had grown up in my heart. It was right that I should pay the forfeit of
my headlong passion. What I reaped, I had sown.

I was thinking. And had I truly disciplined my heart to this, and could
I resolutely bear it, and calmly hold the place in her home which she
had calmly held in mine,--when I found my eyes resting on a countenance
that might have arisen out of the fire, in its association with my early
remembrances.

Little Mr. Chillip the Doctor, to whose good offices I was indebted in
the very first chapter of this history, sat reading a newspaper in the
shadow of an opposite corner. He was tolerably stricken in years by this
time; but, being a mild, meek, calm little man, had worn so easily, that
I thought he looked at that moment just as he might have looked when he
sat in our parlour, waiting for me to be born.

Mr. Chillip had left Blunderstone six or seven years ago, and I had
never seen him since. He sat placidly perusing the newspaper, with his
little head on one side, and a glass of warm sherry negus at his
elbow. He was so extremely conciliatory in his manner that he seemed to
apologize to the very newspaper for taking the liberty of reading it.

I walked up to where he was sitting, and said, ‘How do you do, Mr.
Chillip?’

He was greatly fluttered by this unexpected address from a stranger, and
replied, in his slow way, ‘I thank you, sir, you are very good. Thank
you, sir. I hope YOU are well.’

‘You don’t remember me?’ said I.

‘Well, sir,’ returned Mr. Chillip, smiling very meekly, and shaking his
head as he surveyed me, ‘I have a kind of an impression that something
in your countenance is familiar to me, sir; but I couldn’t lay my hand
upon your name, really.’

‘And yet you knew it, long before I knew it myself,’ I returned.

‘Did I indeed, sir?’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘Is it possible that I had the
honour, sir, of officiating when--?’

‘Yes,’ said I.

‘Dear me!’ cried Mr. Chillip. ‘But no doubt you are a good deal changed
since then, sir?’

‘Probably,’ said I.

‘Well, sir,’ observed Mr. Chillip, ‘I hope you’ll excuse me, if I am
compelled to ask the favour of your name?’

On my telling him my name, he was really moved. He quite shook hands
with me--which was a violent proceeding for him, his usual course being
to slide a tepid little fish-slice, an inch or two in advance of his
hip, and evince the greatest discomposure when anybody grappled with
it. Even now, he put his hand in his coat-pocket as soon as he could
disengage it, and seemed relieved when he had got it safe back.

‘Dear me, sir!’ said Mr. Chillip, surveying me with his head on one
side. ‘And it’s Mr. Copperfield, is it? Well, sir, I think I should have
known you, if I had taken the liberty of looking more closely at you.
There’s a strong resemblance between you and your poor father, sir.’

‘I never had the happiness of seeing my father,’ I observed.

‘Very true, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, in a soothing tone. ‘And very much
to be deplored it was, on all accounts! We are not ignorant, sir,’ said
Mr. Chillip, slowly shaking his little head again, ‘down in our part of
the country, of your fame. There must be great excitement here, sir,’
said Mr. Chillip, tapping himself on the forehead with his forefinger.
‘You must find it a trying occupation, sir!’

‘What is your part of the country now?’ I asked, seating myself near
him.

‘I am established within a few miles of Bury St. Edmund’s, sir,’ said
Mr. Chillip. ‘Mrs. Chillip, coming into a little property in that
neighbourhood, under her father’s will, I bought a practice down there,
in which you will be glad to hear I am doing well. My daughter is
growing quite a tall lass now, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, giving his little
head another little shake. ‘Her mother let down two tucks in her frocks
only last week. Such is time, you see, sir!’

As the little man put his now empty glass to his lips, when he made this
reflection, I proposed to him to have it refilled, and I would keep him
company with another. ‘Well, sir,’ he returned, in his slow way, ‘it’s
more than I am accustomed to; but I can’t deny myself the pleasure
of your conversation. It seems but yesterday that I had the honour of
attending you in the measles. You came through them charmingly, sir!’

I acknowledged this compliment, and ordered the negus, which was soon
produced. ‘Quite an uncommon dissipation!’ said Mr. Chillip, stirring
it, ‘but I can’t resist so extraordinary an occasion. You have no
family, sir?’

I shook my head.

‘I was aware that you sustained a bereavement, sir, some time ago,’ said
Mr. Chillip. ‘I heard it from your father-in-law’s sister. Very decided
character there, sir?’

‘Why, yes,’ said I, ‘decided enough. Where did you see her, Mr.
Chillip?’

‘Are you not aware, sir,’ returned Mr. Chillip, with his placidest
smile, ‘that your father-in-law is again a neighbour of mine?’

‘No,’ said I.

‘He is indeed, sir!’ said Mr. Chillip. ‘Married a young lady of that
part, with a very good little property, poor thing.---And this action
of the brain now, sir? Don’t you find it fatigue you?’ said Mr. Chillip,
looking at me like an admiring Robin.

I waived that question, and returned to the Murdstones. ‘I was aware of
his being married again. Do you attend the family?’ I asked.

‘Not regularly. I have been called in,’ he replied. ‘Strong
phrenological developments of the organ of firmness, in Mr. Murdstone
and his sister, sir.’

I replied with such an expressive look, that Mr. Chillip was emboldened
by that, and the negus together, to give his head several short shakes,
and thoughtfully exclaim, ‘Ah, dear me! We remember old times, Mr.
Copperfield!’

‘And the brother and sister are pursuing their old course, are they?’
said I.

‘Well, sir,’ replied Mr. Chillip, ‘a medical man, being so much in
families, ought to have neither eyes nor ears for anything but his
profession. Still, I must say, they are very severe, sir: both as to
this life and the next.’

‘The next will be regulated without much reference to them, I dare say,’
I returned: ‘what are they doing as to this?’

Mr. Chillip shook his head, stirred his negus, and sipped it.

‘She was a charming woman, sir!’ he observed in a plaintive manner.

‘The present Mrs. Murdstone?’

‘A charming woman indeed, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip; ‘as amiable, I am sure,
as it was possible to be! Mrs. Chillip’s opinion is, that her spirit
has been entirely broken since her marriage, and that she is all but
melancholy mad. And the ladies,’ observed Mr. Chillip, timorously, ‘are
great observers, sir.’

‘I suppose she was to be subdued and broken to their detestable mould,
Heaven help her!’ said I. ‘And she has been.’

‘Well, sir, there were violent quarrels at first, I assure you,’ said
Mr. Chillip; ‘but she is quite a shadow now. Would it be considered
forward if I was to say to you, sir, in confidence, that since the
sister came to help, the brother and sister between them have nearly
reduced her to a state of imbecility?’

I told him I could easily believe it.

‘I have no hesitation in saying,’ said Mr. Chillip, fortifying himself
with another sip of negus, ‘between you and me, sir, that her mother
died of it--or that tyranny, gloom, and worry have made Mrs. Murdstone
nearly imbecile. She was a lively young woman, sir, before marriage, and
their gloom and austerity destroyed her. They go about with her, now,
more like her keepers than her husband and sister-in-law. That was
Mrs. Chillip’s remark to me, only last week. And I assure you, sir, the
ladies are great observers. Mrs. Chillip herself is a great observer!’

‘Does he gloomily profess to be (I am ashamed to use the word in such
association) religious still?’ I inquired.

‘You anticipate, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, his eyelids getting quite
red with the unwonted stimulus in which he was indulging. ‘One of Mrs.
Chillip’s most impressive remarks. Mrs. Chillip,’ he proceeded, in the
calmest and slowest manner, ‘quite electrified me, by pointing out
that Mr. Murdstone sets up an image of himself, and calls it the Divine
Nature. You might have knocked me down on the flat of my back, sir,
with the feather of a pen, I assure you, when Mrs. Chillip said so. The
ladies are great observers, sir?’

‘Intuitively,’ said I, to his extreme delight.

‘I am very happy to receive such support in my opinion, sir,’ he
rejoined. ‘It is not often that I venture to give a non-medical opinion,
I assure you. Mr. Murdstone delivers public addresses sometimes, and it
is said,--in short, sir, it is said by Mrs. Chillip,--that the darker
tyrant he has lately been, the more ferocious is his doctrine.’

‘I believe Mrs. Chillip to be perfectly right,’ said I.

‘Mrs. Chillip does go so far as to say,’ pursued the meekest of little
men, much encouraged, ‘that what such people miscall their religion, is
a vent for their bad humours and arrogance. And do you know I must say,
sir,’ he continued, mildly laying his head on one side, ‘that I DON’T
find authority for Mr. and Miss Murdstone in the New Testament?’

‘I never found it either!’ said I.

‘In the meantime, sir,’ said Mr. Chillip, ‘they are much disliked;
and as they are very free in consigning everybody who dislikes them
to perdition, we really have a good deal of perdition going on in
our neighbourhood! However, as Mrs. Chillip says, sir, they undergo a
continual punishment; for they are turned inward, to feed upon their own
hearts, and their own hearts are very bad feeding. Now, sir, about that
brain of yours, if you’ll excuse my returning to it. Don’t you expose it
to a good deal of excitement, sir?’

I found it not difficult, in the excitement of Mr. Chillip’s own brain,
under his potations of negus, to divert his attention from this topic
to his own affairs, on which, for the next half-hour, he was quite
loquacious; giving me to understand, among other pieces of information,
that he was then at the Gray’s Inn Coffee-house to lay his professional
evidence before a Commission of Lunacy, touching the state of mind of a
patient who had become deranged from excessive drinking. ‘And I assure
you, sir,’ he said, ‘I am extremely nervous on such occasions. I could
not support being what is called Bullied, sir. It would quite unman
me. Do you know it was some time before I recovered the conduct of that
alarming lady, on the night of your birth, Mr. Copperfield?’

I told him that I was going down to my aunt, the Dragon of that night,
early in the morning; and that she was one of the most tender-hearted
and excellent of women, as he would know full well if he knew her
better. The mere notion of the possibility of his ever seeing her again,
appeared to terrify him. He replied with a small pale smile, ‘Is she so,
indeed, sir? Really?’ and almost immediately called for a candle, and
went to bed, as if he were not quite safe anywhere else. He did not
actually stagger under the negus; but I should think his placid little
pulse must have made two or three more beats in a minute, than it had
done since the great night of my aunt’s disappointment, when she struck
at him with her bonnet.

Thoroughly tired, I went to bed too, at midnight; passed the next day on
the Dover coach; burst safe and sound into my aunt’s old parlour while
she was at tea (she wore spectacles now); and was received by her, and
Mr. Dick, and dear old Peggotty, who acted as housekeeper, with open
arms and tears of joy. My aunt was mightily amused, when we began to
talk composedly, by my account of my meeting with Mr. Chillip, and of
his holding her in such dread remembrance; and both she and Peggotty
had a great deal to say about my poor mother’s second husband, and ‘that
murdering woman of a sister’,--on whom I think no pain or penalty would
have induced my aunt to bestow any Christian or Proper Name, or any
other designation.



CHAPTER 60. AGNES


My aunt and I, when we were left alone, talked far into the night. How
the emigrants never wrote home, otherwise than cheerfully and hopefully;
how Mr. Micawber had actually remitted divers small sums of money, on
account of those ‘pecuniary liabilities’, in reference to which he had
been so business-like as between man and man; how Janet, returning into
my aunt’s service when she came back to Dover, had finally carried out
her renunciation of mankind by entering into wedlock with a thriving
tavern-keeper; and how my aunt had finally set her seal on the same
great principle, by aiding and abetting the bride, and crowning the
marriage-ceremony with her presence; were among our topics--already
more or less familiar to me through the letters I had had. Mr. Dick,
as usual, was not forgotten. My aunt informed me how he incessantly
occupied himself in copying everything he could lay his hands on, and
kept King Charles the First at a respectful distance by that semblance
of employment; how it was one of the main joys and rewards of her life
that he was free and happy, instead of pining in monotonous restraint;
and how (as a novel general conclusion) nobody but she could ever fully
know what he was.

‘And when, Trot,’ said my aunt, patting the back of my hand, as we sat
in our old way before the fire, ‘when are you going over to Canterbury?’

‘I shall get a horse, and ride over tomorrow morning, aunt, unless you
will go with me?’

‘No!’ said my aunt, in her short abrupt way. ‘I mean to stay where I
am.’

Then, I should ride, I said. I could not have come through Canterbury
today without stopping, if I had been coming to anyone but her.

She was pleased, but answered, ‘Tut, Trot; MY old bones would have
kept till tomorrow!’ and softly patted my hand again, as I sat looking
thoughtfully at the fire.

Thoughtfully, for I could not be here once more, and so near Agnes,
without the revival of those regrets with which I had so long been
occupied. Softened regrets they might be, teaching me what I had failed
to learn when my younger life was all before me, but not the less
regrets. ‘Oh, Trot,’ I seemed to hear my aunt say once more; and I
understood her better now--‘Blind, blind, blind!’

We both kept silence for some minutes. When I raised my eyes, I found
that she was steadily observant of me. Perhaps she had followed the
current of my mind; for it seemed to me an easy one to track now, wilful
as it had been once.

‘You will find her father a white-haired old man,’ said my aunt, ‘though
a better man in all other respects--a reclaimed man. Neither will you
find him measuring all human interests, and joys, and sorrows, with his
one poor little inch-rule now. Trust me, child, such things must shrink
very much, before they can be measured off in that way.’

‘Indeed they must,’ said I.

‘You will find her,’ pursued my aunt, ‘as good, as beautiful, as
earnest, as disinterested, as she has always been. If I knew higher
praise, Trot, I would bestow it on her.’

There was no higher praise for her; no higher reproach for me. Oh, how
had I strayed so far away!

‘If she trains the young girls whom she has about her, to be like
herself,’ said my aunt, earnest even to the filling of her eyes with
tears, ‘Heaven knows, her life will be well employed! Useful and happy,
as she said that day! How could she be otherwise than useful and happy!’

‘Has Agnes any--’ I was thinking aloud, rather than speaking.

‘Well? Hey? Any what?’ said my aunt, sharply.

‘Any lover,’ said I.

‘A score,’ cried my aunt, with a kind of indignant pride. ‘She might
have married twenty times, my dear, since you have been gone!’

‘No doubt,’ said I. ‘No doubt. But has she any lover who is worthy of
her? Agnes could care for no other.’

My aunt sat musing for a little while, with her chin upon her hand.
Slowly raising her eyes to mine, she said:

‘I suspect she has an attachment, Trot.’

‘A prosperous one?’ said I.

‘Trot,’ returned my aunt gravely, ‘I can’t say. I have no right to tell
you even so much. She has never confided it to me, but I suspect it.’

She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw her tremble),
that I felt now, more than ever, that she had followed my late thoughts.
I summoned all the resolutions I had made, in all those many days and
nights, and all those many conflicts of my heart.

‘If it should be so,’ I began, ‘and I hope it is-’

‘I don’t know that it is,’ said my aunt curtly. ‘You must not be ruled
by my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They are very slight,
perhaps. I have no right to speak.’

‘If it should be so,’ I repeated, ‘Agnes will tell me at her own good
time. A sister to whom I have confided so much, aunt, will not be
reluctant to confide in me.’

My aunt withdrew her eyes from mine, as slowly as she had turned them
upon me; and covered them thoughtfully with her hand. By and by she
put her other hand on my shoulder; and so we both sat, looking into the
past, without saying another word, until we parted for the night.

I rode away, early in the morning, for the scene of my old school-days.
I cannot say that I was yet quite happy, in the hope that I was gaining
a victory over myself; even in the prospect of so soon looking on her
face again.

The well-remembered ground was soon traversed, and I came into the quiet
streets, where every stone was a boy’s book to me. I went on foot to the
old house, and went away with a heart too full to enter. I returned; and
looking, as I passed, through the low window of the turret-room where
first Uriah Heep, and afterwards Mr. Micawber, had been wont to sit,
saw that it was a little parlour now, and that there was no office.
Otherwise the staid old house was, as to its cleanliness and order,
still just as it had been when I first saw it. I requested the new maid
who admitted me, to tell Miss Wickfield that a gentleman who waited on
her from a friend abroad, was there; and I was shown up the grave old
staircase (cautioned of the steps I knew so well), into the unchanged
drawing-room. The books that Agnes and I had read together, were on
their shelves; and the desk where I had laboured at my lessons, many
a night, stood yet at the same old corner of the table. All the little
changes that had crept in when the Heeps were there, were changed again.
Everything was as it used to be, in the happy time.

I stood in a window, and looked across the ancient street at the
opposite houses, recalling how I had watched them on wet afternoons,
when I first came there; and how I had used to speculate about the
people who appeared at any of the windows, and had followed them with my
eyes up and down stairs, while women went clicking along the pavement in
pattens, and the dull rain fell in slanting lines, and poured out of the
water-spout yonder, and flowed into the road. The feeling with which
I used to watch the tramps, as they came into the town on those wet
evenings, at dusk, and limped past, with their bundles drooping over
their shoulders at the ends of sticks, came freshly back to me; fraught,
as then, with the smell of damp earth, and wet leaves and briar, and the
sensation of the very airs that blew upon me in my own toilsome journey.

The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made me start and
turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as she came towards me. She
stopped and laid her hand upon her bosom, and I caught her in my arms.

‘Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you.’

‘No, no! I am so rejoiced to see you, Trotwood!’

‘Dear Agnes, the happiness it is to me, to see you once again!’

I folded her to my heart, and, for a little while, we were both silent.
Presently we sat down, side by side; and her angel-face was turned upon
me with the welcome I had dreamed of, waking and sleeping, for whole
years.

She was so true, she was so beautiful, she was so good,--I owed her so
much gratitude, she was so dear to me, that I could find no utterance
for what I felt. I tried to bless her, tried to thank her, tried to tell
her (as I had often done in letters) what an influence she had upon me;
but all my efforts were in vain. My love and joy were dumb.

With her own sweet tranquillity, she calmed my agitation; led me back to
the time of our parting; spoke to me of Emily, whom she had visited,
in secret, many times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora’s grave. With the
unerring instinct of her noble heart, she touched the chords of my
memory so softly and harmoniously, that not one jarred within me; I
could listen to the sorrowful, distant music, and desire to shrink from
nothing it awoke. How could I, when, blended with it all, was her dear
self, the better angel of my life?

‘And you, Agnes,’ I said, by and by. ‘Tell me of yourself. You have
hardly ever told me of your own life, in all this lapse of time!’

‘What should I tell?’ she answered, with her radiant smile. ‘Papa is
well. You see us here, quiet in our own home; our anxieties set at rest,
our home restored to us; and knowing that, dear Trotwood, you know all.’

‘All, Agnes?’ said I.

She looked at me, with some fluttering wonder in her face.

‘Is there nothing else, Sister?’ I said.

Her colour, which had just now faded, returned, and faded again. She
smiled; with a quiet sadness, I thought; and shook her head.

I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for, sharply
painful to me as it must be to receive that confidence, I was to
discipline my heart, and do my duty to her. I saw, however, that she was
uneasy, and I let it pass.

‘You have much to do, dear Agnes?’

‘With my school?’ said she, looking up again, in all her bright
composure.

‘Yes. It is laborious, is it not?’

‘The labour is so pleasant,’ she returned, ‘that it is scarcely grateful
in me to call it by that name.’

‘Nothing good is difficult to you,’ said I.

Her colour came and went once more; and once more, as she bent her head,
I saw the same sad smile.

‘You will wait and see papa,’ said Agnes, cheerfully, ‘and pass the
day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We always call it
yours.’

I could not do that, having promised to ride back to my aunt’s at night;
but I would pass the day there, joyfully.

‘I must be a prisoner for a little while,’ said Agnes, ‘but here are the
old books, Trotwood, and the old music.’

‘Even the old flowers are here,’ said I, looking round; ‘or the old
kinds.’

‘I have found a pleasure,’ returned Agnes, smiling, ‘while you have been
absent, in keeping everything as it used to be when we were children.
For we were very happy then, I think.’

‘Heaven knows we were!’ said I.

‘And every little thing that has reminded me of my brother,’ said Agnes,
with her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon me, ‘has been a welcome
companion. Even this,’ showing me the basket-trifle, full of keys, still
hanging at her side, ‘seems to jingle a kind of old tune!’

She smiled again, and went out at the door by which she had come.

It was for me to guard this sisterly affection with religious care. It
was all that I had left myself, and it was a treasure. If I once shook
the foundations of the sacred confidence and usage, in virtue of which
it was given to me, it was lost, and could never be recovered. I set
this steadily before myself. The better I loved her, the more it behoved
me never to forget it.

I walked through the streets; and, once more seeing my old adversary the
butcher--now a constable, with his staff hanging up in the shop--went
down to look at the place where I had fought him; and there meditated
on Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss Larkins, and all the idle loves and
likings, and dislikings, of that time. Nothing seemed to have survived
that time but Agnes; and she, ever a star above me, was brighter and
higher.

When I returned, Mr. Wickfield had come home, from a garden he had, a
couple of miles or so out of town, where he now employed himself almost
every day. I found him as my aunt had described him. We sat down to
dinner, with some half-dozen little girls; and he seemed but the shadow
of his handsome picture on the wall.

The tranquillity and peace belonging, of old, to that quiet ground in my
memory, pervaded it again. When dinner was done, Mr. Wickfield taking no
wine, and I desiring none, we went up-stairs; where Agnes and her little
charges sang and played, and worked. After tea the children left us; and
we three sat together, talking of the bygone days.

‘My part in them,’ said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white head, ‘has much
matter for regret--for deep regret, and deep contrition, Trotwood, you
well know. But I would not cancel it, if it were in my power.’

I could readily believe that, looking at the face beside him.

‘I should cancel with it,’ he pursued, ‘such patience and devotion, such
fidelity, such a child’s love, as I must not forget, no! even to forget
myself.’

‘I understand you, sir,’ I softly said. ‘I hold it--I have always held
it--in veneration.’

‘But no one knows, not even you,’ he returned, ‘how much she has done,
how much she has undergone, how hard she has striven. Dear Agnes!’

She had put her hand entreatingly on his arm, to stop him; and was very,
very pale.

‘Well, well!’ he said with a sigh, dismissing, as I then saw, some trial
she had borne, or was yet to bear, in connexion with what my aunt had
told me. ‘Well! I have never told you, Trotwood, of her mother. Has
anyone?’

‘Never, sir.’

‘It’s not much--though it was much to suffer. She married me in
opposition to her father’s wish, and he renounced her. She prayed him
to forgive her, before my Agnes came into this world. He was a very hard
man, and her mother had long been dead. He repulsed her. He broke her
heart.’

Agnes leaned upon his shoulder, and stole her arm about his neck.

‘She had an affectionate and gentle heart,’ he said; ‘and it was broken.
I knew its tender nature very well. No one could, if I did not. She
loved me dearly, but was never happy. She was always labouring, in
secret, under this distress; and being delicate and downcast at the time
of his last repulse--for it was not the first, by many--pined away
and died. She left me Agnes, two weeks old; and the grey hair that you
recollect me with, when you first came.’ He kissed Agnes on her cheek.

‘My love for my dear child was a diseased love, but my mind was all
unhealthy then. I say no more of that. I am not speaking of myself,
Trotwood, but of her mother, and of her. If I give you any clue to what
I am, or to what I have been, you will unravel it, I know. What Agnes
is, I need not say. I have always read something of her poor mother’s
story, in her character; and so I tell it you tonight, when we three are
again together, after such great changes. I have told it all.’

His bowed head, and her angel-face and filial duty, derived a more
pathetic meaning from it than they had had before. If I had wanted
anything by which to mark this night of our re-union, I should have
found it in this.

Agnes rose up from her father’s side, before long; and going softly to
her piano, played some of the old airs to which we had often listened in
that place.

‘Have you any intention of going away again?’ Agnes asked me, as I was
standing by.

‘What does my sister say to that?’

‘I hope not.’

‘Then I have no such intention, Agnes.’

‘I think you ought not, Trotwood, since you ask me,’ she said, mildly.
‘Your growing reputation and success enlarge your power of doing good;
and if I could spare my brother,’ with her eyes upon me, ‘perhaps the
time could not.’

‘What I am, you have made me, Agnes. You should know best.’

‘I made you, Trotwood?’

‘Yes! Agnes, my dear girl!’ I said, bending over her. ‘I tried to tell
you, when we met today, something that has been in my thoughts since
Dora died. You remember, when you came down to me in our little
room--pointing upward, Agnes?’

‘Oh, Trotwood!’ she returned, her eyes filled with tears. ‘So loving, so
confiding, and so young! Can I ever forget?’

‘As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since, you have ever
been to me. Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever leading me to something
better; ever directing me to higher things!’

She only shook her head; through her tears I saw the same sad quiet
smile.

‘And I am so grateful to you for it, Agnes, so bound to you, that there
is no name for the affection of my heart. I want you to know, yet don’t
know how to tell you, that all my life long I shall look up to you,
and be guided by you, as I have been through the darkness that is past.
Whatever betides, whatever new ties you may form, whatever changes may
come between us, I shall always look to you, and love you, as I do now,
and have always done. You will always be my solace and resource, as you
have always been. Until I die, my dearest sister, I shall see you always
before me, pointing upward!’

She put her hand in mine, and told me she was proud of me, and of what I
said; although I praised her very far beyond her worth. Then she went
on softly playing, but without removing her eyes from me. ‘Do you know,
what I have heard tonight, Agnes,’ said I, strangely seems to be a part
of the feeling with which I regarded you when I saw you first--with
which I sat beside you in my rough school-days?’

‘You knew I had no mother,’ she replied with a smile, ‘and felt kindly
towards me.’

‘More than that, Agnes, I knew, almost as if I had known this story,
that there was something inexplicably gentle and softened, surrounding
you; something that might have been sorrowful in someone else (as I can
now understand it was), but was not so in you.’

She softly played on, looking at me still.

‘Will you laugh at my cherishing such fancies, Agnes?’

‘No!’

‘Or at my saying that I really believe I felt, even then, that you could
be faithfully affectionate against all discouragement, and never cease
to be so, until you ceased to live?---Will you laugh at such a dream?’

‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’

For an instant, a distressful shadow crossed her face; but, even in the
start it gave me, it was gone; and she was playing on, and looking at me
with her own calm smile.

As I rode back in the lonely night, the wind going by me like a restless
memory, I thought of this, and feared she was not happy. I was not
happy; but, thus far, I had faithfully set the seal upon the Past, and,
thinking of her, pointing upward, thought of her as pointing to that
sky above me, where, in the mystery to come, I might yet love her with
a love unknown on earth, and tell her what the strife had been within me
when I loved her here.



CHAPTER 61. I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS


For a time--at all events until my book should be completed, which would
be the work of several months--I took up my abode in my aunt’s house at
Dover; and there, sitting in the window from which I had looked out at
the moon upon the sea, when that roof first gave me shelter, I quietly
pursued my task.

In pursuance of my intention of referring to my own fictions only when
their course should incidentally connect itself with the progress of my
story, I do not enter on the aspirations, the delights, anxieties, and
triumphs of my art. That I truly devoted myself to it with my strongest
earnestness, and bestowed upon it every energy of my soul, I have
already said. If the books I have written be of any worth, they will
supply the rest. I shall otherwise have written to poor purpose, and the
rest will be of interest to no one.

Occasionally, I went to London; to lose myself in the swarm of life
there, or to consult with Traddles on some business point. He had
managed for me, in my absence, with the soundest judgement; and my
worldly affairs were prospering. As my notoriety began to bring upon
me an enormous quantity of letters from people of whom I had no
knowledge--chiefly about nothing, and extremely difficult to answer--I
agreed with Traddles to have my name painted up on his door. There, the
devoted postman on that beat delivered bushels of letters for me; and
there, at intervals, I laboured through them, like a Home Secretary of
State without the salary.

Among this correspondence, there dropped in, every now and then, an
obliging proposal from one of the numerous outsiders always lurking
about the Commons, to practise under cover of my name (if I would take
the necessary steps remaining to make a proctor of myself), and pay me
a percentage on the profits. But I declined these offers; being already
aware that there were plenty of such covert practitioners in existence,
and considering the Commons quite bad enough, without my doing anything
to make it worse.

The girls had gone home, when my name burst into bloom on Traddles’s
door; and the sharp boy looked, all day, as if he had never heard of
Sophy, shut up in a back room, glancing down from her work into a sooty
little strip of garden with a pump in it. But there I always found her,
the same bright housewife; often humming her Devonshire ballads when no
strange foot was coming up the stairs, and blunting the sharp boy in his
official closet with melody.

I wondered, at first, why I so often found Sophy writing in a copy-book;
and why she always shut it up when I appeared, and hurried it into the
table-drawer. But the secret soon came out. One day, Traddles (who had
just come home through the drizzling sleet from Court) took a paper out
of his desk, and asked me what I thought of that handwriting?

‘Oh, DON’T, Tom!’ cried Sophy, who was warming his slippers before the
fire.

‘My dear,’ returned Tom, in a delighted state, ‘why not? What do you say
to that writing, Copperfield?’

‘It’s extraordinarily legal and formal,’ said I. ‘I don’t think I ever
saw such a stiff hand.’

‘Not like a lady’s hand, is it?’ said Traddles.

‘A lady’s!’ I repeated. ‘Bricks and mortar are more like a lady’s hand!’

Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me that it was
Sophy’s writing; that Sophy had vowed and declared he would need a
copying-clerk soon, and she would be that clerk; that she had acquired
this hand from a pattern; and that she could throw off--I forget how
many folios an hour. Sophy was very much confused by my being told all
this, and said that when ‘Tom’ was made a judge he wouldn’t be so ready
to proclaim it. Which ‘Tom’ denied; averring that he should always be
equally proud of it, under all circumstances.

‘What a thoroughly good and charming wife she is, my dear Traddles!’
said I, when she had gone away, laughing.

‘My dear Copperfield,’ returned Traddles, ‘she is, without any
exception, the dearest girl! The way she manages this place; her
punctuality, domestic knowledge, economy, and order; her cheerfulness,
Copperfield!’

‘Indeed, you have reason to commend her!’ I returned. ‘You are a happy
fellow. I believe you make yourselves, and each other, two of the
happiest people in the world.’

‘I am sure we ARE two of the happiest people,’ returned Traddles. ‘I
admit that, at all events. Bless my soul, when I see her getting up
by candle-light on these dark mornings, busying herself in the day’s
arrangements, going out to market before the clerks come into the Inn,
caring for no weather, devising the most capital little dinners out of
the plainest materials, making puddings and pies, keeping everything in
its right place, always so neat and ornamental herself, sitting up
at night with me if it’s ever so late, sweet-tempered and encouraging
always, and all for me, I positively sometimes can’t believe it,
Copperfield!’

He was tender of the very slippers she had been warming, as he put them
on, and stretched his feet enjoyingly upon the fender.

‘I positively sometimes can’t believe it,’ said Traddles. ‘Then our
pleasures! Dear me, they are inexpensive, but they are quite wonderful!
When we are at home here, of an evening, and shut the outer door, and
draw those curtains--which she made--where could we be more snug? When
it’s fine, and we go out for a walk in the evening, the streets
abound in enjoyment for us. We look into the glittering windows of the
jewellers’ shops; and I show Sophy which of the diamond-eyed serpents,
coiled up on white satin rising grounds, I would give her if I could
afford it; and Sophy shows me which of the gold watches that are
capped and jewelled and engine-turned, and possessed of the horizontal
lever-escape-movement, and all sorts of things, she would buy for me if
she could afford it; and we pick out the spoons and forks, fish-slices,
butter-knives, and sugar-tongs, we should both prefer if we could both
afford it; and really we go away as if we had got them! Then, when we
stroll into the squares, and great streets, and see a house to let,
sometimes we look up at it, and say, how would THAT do, if I was made
a judge? And we parcel it out--such a room for us, such rooms for the
girls, and so forth; until we settle to our satisfaction that it
would do, or it wouldn’t do, as the case may be. Sometimes, we go at
half-price to the pit of the theatre--the very smell of which is cheap,
in my opinion, at the money--and there we thoroughly enjoy the play:
which Sophy believes every word of, and so do I. In walking home,
perhaps we buy a little bit of something at a cook’s-shop, or a little
lobster at the fishmongers, and bring it here, and make a splendid
supper, chatting about what we have seen. Now, you know, Copperfield, if
I was Lord Chancellor, we couldn’t do this!’

‘You would do something, whatever you were, my dear Traddles,’ thought
I, ‘that would be pleasant and amiable. And by the way,’ I said aloud,
‘I suppose you never draw any skeletons now?’

‘Really,’ replied Traddles, laughing, and reddening, ‘I can’t wholly
deny that I do, my dear Copperfield. For being in one of the back rows
of the King’s Bench the other day, with a pen in my hand, the fancy came
into my head to try how I had preserved that accomplishment. And I am
afraid there’s a skeleton--in a wig--on the ledge of the desk.’

After we had both laughed heartily, Traddles wound up by looking with a
smile at the fire, and saying, in his forgiving way, ‘Old Creakle!’

‘I have a letter from that old--Rascal here,’ said I. For I never was
less disposed to forgive him the way he used to batter Traddles, than
when I saw Traddles so ready to forgive him himself.

‘From Creakle the schoolmaster?’ exclaimed Traddles. ‘No!’

‘Among the persons who are attracted to me in my rising fame and
fortune,’ said I, looking over my letters, ‘and who discover that they
were always much attached to me, is the self-same Creakle. He is not
a schoolmaster now, Traddles. He is retired. He is a Middlesex
Magistrate.’

I thought Traddles might be surprised to hear it, but he was not so at
all.

‘How do you suppose he comes to be a Middlesex Magistrate?’ said I.

‘Oh dear me!’ replied Traddles, ‘it would be very difficult to answer
that question. Perhaps he voted for somebody, or lent money to somebody,
or bought something of somebody, or otherwise obliged somebody, or
jobbed for somebody, who knew somebody who got the lieutenant of the
county to nominate him for the commission.’

‘On the commission he is, at any rate,’ said I. ‘And he writes to me
here, that he will be glad to show me, in operation, the only true
system of prison discipline; the only unchallengeable way of making
sincere and lasting converts and penitents--which, you know, is by
solitary confinement. What do you say?’

‘To the system?’ inquired Traddles, looking grave.

‘No. To my accepting the offer, and your going with me?’

‘I don’t object,’ said Traddles.

‘Then I’ll write to say so. You remember (to say nothing of our
treatment) this same Creakle turning his son out of doors, I suppose,
and the life he used to lead his wife and daughter?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Traddles.

‘Yet, if you’ll read his letter, you’ll find he is the tenderest of
men to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felonies,’ said I;
‘though I can’t find that his tenderness extends to any other class of
created beings.’

Traddles shrugged his shoulders, and was not at all surprised. I had not
expected him to be, and was not surprised myself; or my observation of
similar practical satires would have been but scanty. We arranged the
time of our visit, and I wrote accordingly to Mr. Creakle that evening.

On the appointed day--I think it was the next day, but no
matter--Traddles and I repaired to the prison where Mr. Creakle was
powerful. It was an immense and solid building, erected at a vast
expense. I could not help thinking, as we approached the gate, what
an uproar would have been made in the country, if any deluded man had
proposed to spend one half the money it had cost, on the erection of an
industrial school for the young, or a house of refuge for the deserving
old.

In an office that might have been on the ground-floor of the Tower of
Babel, it was so massively constructed, we were presented to our old
schoolmaster; who was one of a group, composed of two or three of the
busier sort of magistrates, and some visitors they had brought. He
received me, like a man who had formed my mind in bygone years, and
had always loved me tenderly. On my introducing Traddles, Mr. Creakle
expressed, in like manner, but in an inferior degree, that he had always
been Traddles’s guide, philosopher, and friend. Our venerable instructor
was a great deal older, and not improved in appearance. His face was
as fiery as ever; his eyes were as small, and rather deeper set. The
scanty, wet-looking grey hair, by which I remembered him, was almost
gone; and the thick veins in his bald head were none the more agreeable
to look at.

After some conversation among these gentlemen, from which I might have
supposed that there was nothing in the world to be legitimately taken
into account but the supreme comfort of prisoners, at any expense, and
nothing on the wide earth to be done outside prison-doors, we began
our inspection. It being then just dinner-time, we went, first into the
great kitchen, where every prisoner’s dinner was in course of being set
out separately (to be handed to him in his cell), with the regularity
and precision of clock-work. I said aside, to Traddles, that I wondered
whether it occurred to anybody, that there was a striking contrast
between these plentiful repasts of choice quality, and the dinners, not
to say of paupers, but of soldiers, sailors, labourers, the great bulk
of the honest, working community; of whom not one man in five hundred
ever dined half so well. But I learned that the ‘system’ required high
living; and, in short, to dispose of the system, once for all, I found
that on that head and on all others, ‘the system’ put an end to all
doubts, and disposed of all anomalies. Nobody appeared to have the least
idea that there was any other system, but THE system, to be considered.

As we were going through some of the magnificent passages, I inquired of
Mr. Creakle and his friends what were supposed to be the main advantages
of this all-governing and universally over-riding system? I found
them to be the perfect isolation of prisoners--so that no one man in
confinement there, knew anything about another; and the reduction of
prisoners to a wholesome state of mind, leading to sincere contrition
and repentance.

Now, it struck me, when we began to visit individuals in their cells,
and to traverse the passages in which those cells were, and to have the
manner of the going to chapel and so forth, explained to us, that there
was a strong probability of the prisoners knowing a good deal about each
other, and of their carrying on a pretty complete system of intercourse.
This, at the time I write, has been proved, I believe, to be the case;
but, as it would have been flat blasphemy against the system to have
hinted such a doubt then, I looked out for the penitence as diligently
as I could.

And here again, I had great misgivings. I found as prevalent a fashion
in the form of the penitence, as I had left outside in the forms of the
coats and waistcoats in the windows of the tailors’ shops. I found a
vast amount of profession, varying very little in character: varying
very little (which I thought exceedingly suspicious), even in words. I
found a great many foxes, disparaging whole vineyards of inaccessible
grapes; but I found very few foxes whom I would have trusted within
reach of a bunch. Above all, I found that the most professing men were
the greatest objects of interest; and that their conceit, their vanity,
their want of excitement, and their love of deception (which many
of them possessed to an almost incredible extent, as their histories
showed), all prompted to these professions, and were all gratified by
them.

However, I heard so repeatedly, in the course of our goings to and fro,
of a certain Number Twenty Seven, who was the Favourite, and who really
appeared to be a Model Prisoner, that I resolved to suspend my judgement
until I should see Twenty Seven. Twenty Eight, I understood, was also
a bright particular star; but it was his misfortune to have his glory
a little dimmed by the extraordinary lustre of Twenty Seven. I heard so
much of Twenty Seven, of his pious admonitions to everybody around him,
and of the beautiful letters he constantly wrote to his mother (whom he
seemed to consider in a very bad way), that I became quite impatient to
see him.

I had to restrain my impatience for some time, on account of Twenty
Seven being reserved for a concluding effect. But, at last, we came to
the door of his cell; and Mr. Creakle, looking through a little hole in
it, reported to us, in a state of the greatest admiration, that he was
reading a Hymn Book.

There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Number Twenty Seven
reading his Hymn Book, that the little hole was blocked up, six or seven
heads deep. To remedy this inconvenience, and give us an opportunity of
conversing with Twenty Seven in all his purity, Mr. Creakle directed the
door of the cell to be unlocked, and Twenty Seven to be invited out into
the passage. This was done; and whom should Traddles and I then behold,
to our amazement, in this converted Number Twenty Seven, but Uriah Heep!

He knew us directly; and said, as he came out--with the old writhe,--

‘How do you do, Mr. Copperfield? How do you do, Mr. Traddles?’

This recognition caused a general admiration in the party. I rather
thought that everyone was struck by his not being proud, and taking
notice of us.

‘Well, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, mournfully admiring him. ‘How do
you find yourself today?’

‘I am very umble, sir!’ replied Uriah Heep.

‘You are always so, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle.

Here, another gentleman asked, with extreme anxiety: ‘Are you quite
comfortable?’

‘Yes, I thank you, sir!’ said Uriah Heep, looking in that direction.
‘Far more comfortable here, than ever I was outside. I see my follies,
now, sir. That’s what makes me comfortable.’

Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third questioner, forcing
himself to the front, inquired with extreme feeling: ‘How do you find
the beef?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Uriah, glancing in the new direction of this
voice, ‘it was tougher yesterday than I could wish; but it’s my duty to
bear. I have committed follies, gentlemen,’ said Uriah, looking round
with a meek smile, ‘and I ought to bear the consequences without
repining.’ A murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty Seven’s celestial
state of mind, and partly of indignation against the Contractor who had
given him any cause of complaint (a note of which was immediately made
by Mr. Creakle), having subsided, Twenty Seven stood in the midst of
us, as if he felt himself the principal object of merit in a highly
meritorious museum. That we, the neophytes, might have an excess of
light shining upon us all at once, orders were given to let out Twenty
Eight.

I had been so much astonished already, that I only felt a kind of
resigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forth, reading a good book!

‘Twenty Eight,’ said a gentleman in spectacles, who had not yet spoken,
‘you complained last week, my good fellow, of the cocoa. How has it been
since?’

‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, ‘it has been better made. If I
might take the liberty of saying so, sir, I don’t think the milk which
is boiled with it is quite genuine; but I am aware, sir, that there is
a great adulteration of milk, in London, and that the article in a pure
state is difficult to be obtained.’

It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed his Twenty
Eight against Mr. Creakle’s Twenty Seven, for each of them took his own
man in hand.

‘What is your state of mind, Twenty Eight?’ said the questioner in
spectacles.

‘I thank you, sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer; ‘I see my follies now, sir.
I am a good deal troubled when I think of the sins of my former
companions, sir; but I trust they may find forgiveness.’

‘You are quite happy yourself?’ said the questioner, nodding
encouragement.

‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer. ‘Perfectly so.’

‘Is there anything at all on your mind now?’ said the questioner. ‘If
so, mention it, Twenty Eight.’

‘Sir,’ said Mr. Littimer, without looking up, ‘if my eyes have not
deceived me, there is a gentleman present who was acquainted with me
in my former life. It may be profitable to that gentleman to know, sir,
that I attribute my past follies, entirely to having lived a thoughtless
life in the service of young men; and to having allowed myself to be led
by them into weaknesses, which I had not the strength to resist. I hope
that gentleman will take warning, sir, and will not be offended at my
freedom. It is for his good. I am conscious of my own past follies. I
hope he may repent of all the wickedness and sin to which he has been a
party.’

I observed that several gentlemen were shading their eyes, each with one
hand, as if they had just come into church.

‘This does you credit, Twenty Eight,’ returned the questioner. ‘I should
have expected it of you. Is there anything else?’

‘Sir,’ returned Mr. Littimer, slightly lifting up his eyebrows, but not
his eyes, ‘there was a young woman who fell into dissolute courses, that
I endeavoured to save, sir, but could not rescue. I beg that gentleman,
if he has it in his power, to inform that young woman from me that
I forgive her her bad conduct towards myself, and that I call her to
repentance--if he will be so good.’

‘I have no doubt, Twenty Eight,’ returned the questioner, ‘that the
gentleman you refer to feels very strongly--as we all must--what you
have so properly said. We will not detain you.’

‘I thank you, sir,’ said Mr. Littimer. ‘Gentlemen, I wish you a good
day, and hoping you and your families will also see your wickedness, and
amend!’

With this, Number Twenty Eight retired, after a glance between him and
Uriah; as if they were not altogether unknown to each other, through
some medium of communication; and a murmur went round the group, as his
door shut upon him, that he was a most respectable man, and a beautiful
case.

‘Now, Twenty Seven,’ said Mr. Creakle, entering on a clear stage with
his man, ‘is there anything that anyone can do for you? If so, mention
it.’

‘I would umbly ask, sir,’ returned Uriah, with a jerk of his malevolent
head, ‘for leave to write again to mother.’

‘It shall certainly be granted,’ said Mr. Creakle.

‘Thank you, sir! I am anxious about mother. I am afraid she ain’t safe.’

Somebody incautiously asked, what from? But there was a scandalized
whisper of ‘Hush!’

‘Immortally safe, sir,’ returned Uriah, writhing in the direction of
the voice. ‘I should wish mother to be got into my state. I never should
have been got into my present state if I hadn’t come here. I wish mother
had come here. It would be better for everybody, if they got took up,
and was brought here.’

This sentiment gave unbounded satisfaction--greater satisfaction, I
think, than anything that had passed yet.

‘Before I come here,’ said Uriah, stealing a look at us, as if he would
have blighted the outer world to which we belonged, if he could, ‘I was
given to follies; but now I am sensible of my follies. There’s a deal
of sin outside. There’s a deal of sin in mother. There’s nothing but sin
everywhere--except here.’

‘You are quite changed?’ said Mr. Creakle.

‘Oh dear, yes, sir!’ cried this hopeful penitent.

‘You wouldn’t relapse, if you were going out?’ asked somebody else.

‘Oh de-ar no, sir!’

‘Well!’ said Mr. Creakle, ‘this is very gratifying. You have addressed
Mr. Copperfield, Twenty Seven. Do you wish to say anything further to
him?’

‘You knew me, a long time before I came here and was changed, Mr.
Copperfield,’ said Uriah, looking at me; and a more villainous look
I never saw, even on his visage. ‘You knew me when, in spite of my
follies, I was umble among them that was proud, and meek among them that
was violent--you was violent to me yourself, Mr. Copperfield. Once, you
struck me a blow in the face, you know.’

General commiseration. Several indignant glances directed at me.

‘But I forgive you, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Uriah, making his forgiving
nature the subject of a most impious and awful parallel, which I shall
not record. ‘I forgive everybody. It would ill become me to bear malice.
I freely forgive you, and I hope you’ll curb your passions in future. I
hope Mr. W. will repent, and Miss W., and all of that sinful lot. You’ve
been visited with affliction, and I hope it may do you good; but you’d
better have come here. Mr. W. had better have come here, and Miss W.
too. The best wish I could give you, Mr. Copperfield, and give all of
you gentlemen, is, that you could be took up and brought here. When I
think of my past follies, and my present state, I am sure it would be
best for you. I pity all who ain’t brought here!’

He sneaked back into his cell, amidst a little chorus of approbation;
and both Traddles and I experienced a great relief when he was locked
in.

It was a characteristic feature in this repentance, that I was fain to
ask what these two men had done, to be there at all. That appeared to be
the last thing about which they had anything to say. I addressed
myself to one of the two warders, who, I suspected from certain latent
indications in their faces, knew pretty well what all this stir was
worth.

‘Do you know,’ said I, as we walked along the passage, ‘what felony was
Number Twenty Seven’s last “folly”?’

The answer was that it was a Bank case.

‘A fraud on the Bank of England?’ I asked. ‘Yes, sir. Fraud, forgery,
and conspiracy. He and some others. He set the others on. It was a deep
plot for a large sum. Sentence, transportation for life. Twenty Seven
was the knowingest bird of the lot, and had very nearly kept himself
safe; but not quite. The Bank was just able to put salt upon his
tail--and only just.’

‘Do you know Twenty Eight’s offence?’

‘Twenty Eight,’ returned my informant, speaking throughout in a low
tone, and looking over his shoulder as we walked along the passage, to
guard himself from being overheard, in such an unlawful reference
to these Immaculates, by Creakle and the rest; ‘Twenty Eight (also
transportation) got a place, and robbed a young master of a matter of
two hundred and fifty pounds in money and valuables, the night before
they were going abroad. I particularly recollect his case, from his
being took by a dwarf.’

‘A what?’

‘A little woman. I have forgot her name?’

‘Not Mowcher?’

‘That’s it! He had eluded pursuit, and was going to America in a flaxen
wig, and whiskers, and such a complete disguise as never you see in all
your born days; when the little woman, being in Southampton, met
him walking along the street--picked him out with her sharp eye in a
moment--ran betwixt his legs to upset him--and held on to him like grim
Death.’

‘Excellent Miss Mowcher!’ cried I.

‘You’d have said so, if you had seen her, standing on a chair in the
witness-box at the trial, as I did,’ said my friend. ‘He cut her face
right open, and pounded her in the most brutal manner, when she took
him; but she never loosed her hold till he was locked up. She held so
tight to him, in fact, that the officers were obliged to take ‘em
both together. She gave her evidence in the gamest way, and was highly
complimented by the Bench, and cheered right home to her lodgings. She
said in Court that she’d have took him single-handed (on account of what
she knew concerning him), if he had been Samson. And it’s my belief she
would!’

It was mine too, and I highly respected Miss Mowcher for it.

We had now seen all there was to see. It would have been in vain to
represent to such a man as the Worshipful Mr. Creakle, that Twenty Seven
and Twenty Eight were perfectly consistent and unchanged; that exactly
what they were then, they had always been; that the hypocritical knaves
were just the subjects to make that sort of profession in such a place;
that they knew its market-value at least as well as we did, in the
immediate service it would do them when they were expatriated; in
a word, that it was a rotten, hollow, painfully suggestive piece of
business altogether. We left them to their system and themselves, and
went home wondering.

‘Perhaps it’s a good thing, Traddles,’ said I, ‘to have an unsound Hobby
ridden hard; for it’s the sooner ridden to death.’

‘I hope so,’ replied Traddles.



CHAPTER 62. A LIGHT SHINES ON MY WAY


The year came round to Christmas-time, and I had been at home above
two months. I had seen Agnes frequently. However loud the general voice
might be in giving me encouragement, and however fervent the emotions
and endeavours to which it roused me, I heard her lightest word of
praise as I heard nothing else.

At least once a week, and sometimes oftener, I rode over there, and
passed the evening. I usually rode back at night; for the old unhappy
sense was always hovering about me now--most sorrowfully when I left
her--and I was glad to be up and out, rather than wandering over the
past in weary wakefulness or miserable dreams. I wore away the longest
part of many wild sad nights, in those rides; reviving, as I went, the
thoughts that had occupied me in my long absence.

Or, if I were to say rather that I listened to the echoes of those
thoughts, I should better express the truth. They spoke to me from afar
off. I had put them at a distance, and accepted my inevitable place.
When I read to Agnes what I wrote; when I saw her listening face; moved
her to smiles or tears; and heard her cordial voice so earnest on the
shadowy events of that imaginative world in which I lived; I thought
what a fate mine might have been--but only thought so, as I had thought
after I was married to Dora, what I could have wished my wife to be.

My duty to Agnes, who loved me with a love, which, if I disquieted, I
wronged most selfishly and poorly, and could never restore; my matured
assurance that I, who had worked out my own destiny, and won what I
had impetuously set my heart on, had no right to murmur, and must bear;
comprised what I felt and what I had learned. But I loved her: and now
it even became some consolation to me, vaguely to conceive a distant day
when I might blamelessly avow it; when all this should be over; when I
could say ‘Agnes, so it was when I came home; and now I am old, and I
never have loved since!’

She did not once show me any change in herself. What she always had been
to me, she still was; wholly unaltered.

Between my aunt and me there had been something, in this connexion,
since the night of my return, which I cannot call a restraint, or an
avoidance of the subject, so much as an implied understanding that we
thought of it together, but did not shape our thoughts into words. When,
according to our old custom, we sat before the fire at night, we often
fell into this train; as naturally, and as consciously to each other, as
if we had unreservedly said so. But we preserved an unbroken silence. I
believed that she had read, or partly read, my thoughts that night; and
that she fully comprehended why I gave mine no more distinct expression.

This Christmas-time being come, and Agnes having reposed no new
confidence in me, a doubt that had several times arisen in my
mind--whether she could have that perception of the true state of
my breast, which restrained her with the apprehension of giving me
pain--began to oppress me heavily. If that were so, my sacrifice was
nothing; my plainest obligation to her unfulfilled; and every poor
action I had shrunk from, I was hourly doing. I resolved to set this
right beyond all doubt;--if such a barrier were between us, to break it
down at once with a determined hand.

It was--what lasting reason have I to remember it!--a cold, harsh,
winter day. There had been snow, some hours before; and it lay, not
deep, but hard-frozen on the ground. Out at sea, beyond my window, the
wind blew ruggedly from the north. I had been thinking of it, sweeping
over those mountain wastes of snow in Switzerland, then inaccessible to
any human foot; and had been speculating which was the lonelier, those
solitary regions, or a deserted ocean.

‘Riding today, Trot?’ said my aunt, putting her head in at the door.

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am going over to Canterbury. It’s a good day for a
ride.’

‘I hope your horse may think so too,’ said my aunt; ‘but at present he
is holding down his head and his ears, standing before the door there,
as if he thought his stable preferable.’

My aunt, I may observe, allowed my horse on the forbidden ground, but
had not at all relented towards the donkeys.

‘He will be fresh enough, presently!’ said I.

‘The ride will do his master good, at all events,’ observed my aunt,
glancing at the papers on my table. ‘Ah, child, you pass a good many
hours here! I never thought, when I used to read books, what work it was
to write them.’

‘It’s work enough to read them, sometimes,’ I returned. ‘As to the
writing, it has its own charms, aunt.’

‘Ah! I see!’ said my aunt. ‘Ambition, love of approbation, sympathy, and
much more, I suppose? Well: go along with you!’

‘Do you know anything more,’ said I, standing composedly before her--she
had patted me on the shoulder, and sat down in my chair--‘of that
attachment of Agnes?’

She looked up in my face a little while, before replying:

‘I think I do, Trot.’

‘Are you confirmed in your impression?’ I inquired.

‘I think I am, Trot.’

She looked so steadfastly at me: with a kind of doubt, or pity, or
suspense in her affection: that I summoned the stronger determination to
show her a perfectly cheerful face.

‘And what is more, Trot--’ said my aunt.

‘Yes!’

‘I think Agnes is going to be married.’

‘God bless her!’ said I, cheerfully.

‘God bless her!’ said my aunt, ‘and her husband too!’

I echoed it, parted from my aunt, and went lightly downstairs, mounted,
and rode away. There was greater reason than before to do what I had
resolved to do.

How well I recollect the wintry ride! The frozen particles of ice,
brushed from the blades of grass by the wind, and borne across my face;
the hard clatter of the horse’s hoofs, beating a tune upon the ground;
the stiff-tilled soil; the snowdrift, lightly eddying in the chalk-pit
as the breeze ruffled it; the smoking team with the waggon of old hay,
stopping to breathe on the hill-top, and shaking their bells musically;
the whitened slopes and sweeps of Down-land lying against the dark sky,
as if they were drawn on a huge slate!

I found Agnes alone. The little girls had gone to their own homes now,
and she was alone by the fire, reading. She put down her book on seeing
me come in; and having welcomed me as usual, took her work-basket and
sat in one of the old-fashioned windows.

I sat beside her on the window-seat, and we talked of what I was doing,
and when it would be done, and of the progress I had made since my last
visit. Agnes was very cheerful; and laughingly predicted that I should
soon become too famous to be talked to, on such subjects.

‘So I make the most of the present time, you see,’ said Agnes, ‘and talk
to you while I may.’

As I looked at her beautiful face, observant of her work, she raised her
mild clear eyes, and saw that I was looking at her.

‘You are thoughtful today, Trotwood!’

‘Agnes, shall I tell you what about? I came to tell you.’

She put aside her work, as she was used to do when we were seriously
discussing anything; and gave me her whole attention.

‘My dear Agnes, do you doubt my being true to you?’

‘No!’ she answered, with a look of astonishment.

‘Do you doubt my being what I always have been to you?’

‘No!’ she answered, as before.

‘Do you remember that I tried to tell you, when I came home, what a debt
of gratitude I owed you, dearest Agnes, and how fervently I felt towards
you?’

‘I remember it,’ she said, gently, ‘very well.’

‘You have a secret,’ said I. ‘Let me share it, Agnes.’

She cast down her eyes, and trembled.

‘I could hardly fail to know, even if I had not heard--but from other
lips than yours, Agnes, which seems strange--that there is someone upon
whom you have bestowed the treasure of your love. Do not shut me out of
what concerns your happiness so nearly! If you can trust me, as you say
you can, and as I know you may, let me be your friend, your brother, in
this matter, of all others!’

With an appealing, almost a reproachful, glance, she rose from the
window; and hurrying across the room as if without knowing where, put
her hands before her face, and burst into such tears as smote me to the
heart.

And yet they awakened something in me, bringing promise to my heart.
Without my knowing why, these tears allied themselves with the quietly
sad smile which was so fixed in my remembrance, and shook me more with
hope than fear or sorrow.

‘Agnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done?’

‘Let me go away, Trotwood. I am not well. I am not myself. I will speak
to you by and by--another time. I will write to you. Don’t speak to me
now. Don’t! don’t!’

I sought to recollect what she had said, when I had spoken to her on
that former night, of her affection needing no return. It seemed a very
world that I must search through in a moment. ‘Agnes, I cannot bear
to see you so, and think that I have been the cause. My dearest girl,
dearer to me than anything in life, if you are unhappy, let me share
your unhappiness. If you are in need of help or counsel, let me try to
give it to you. If you have indeed a burden on your heart, let me try to
lighten it. For whom do I live now, Agnes, if it is not for you!’

‘Oh, spare me! I am not myself! Another time!’ was all I could
distinguish.

Was it a selfish error that was leading me away? Or, having once a clue
to hope, was there something opening to me that I had not dared to think
of?

‘I must say more. I cannot let you leave me so! For Heaven’s sake,
Agnes, let us not mistake each other after all these years, and all
that has come and gone with them! I must speak plainly. If you have any
lingering thought that I could envy the happiness you will confer; that
I could not resign you to a dearer protector, of your own choosing; that
I could not, from my removed place, be a contented witness of your joy;
dismiss it, for I don’t deserve it! I have not suffered quite in vain.
You have not taught me quite in vain. There is no alloy of self in what
I feel for you.’

She was quiet now. In a little time, she turned her pale face towards
me, and said in a low voice, broken here and there, but very clear:

‘I owe it to your pure friendship for me, Trotwood--which, indeed, I do
not doubt--to tell you, you are mistaken. I can do no more. If I have
sometimes, in the course of years, wanted help and counsel, they have
come to me. If I have sometimes been unhappy, the feeling has passed
away. If I have ever had a burden on my heart, it has been lightened
for me. If I have any secret, it is--no new one; and is--not what you
suppose. I cannot reveal it, or divide it. It has long been mine, and
must remain mine.’

‘Agnes! Stay! A moment!’

She was going away, but I detained her. I clasped my arm about her
waist. ‘In the course of years!’ ‘It is not a new one!’ New thoughts and
hopes were whirling through my mind, and all the colours of my life were
changing.

‘Dearest Agnes! Whom I so respect and honour--whom I so devotedly love!
When I came here today, I thought that nothing could have wrested this
confession from me. I thought I could have kept it in my bosom all our
lives, till we were old. But, Agnes, if I have indeed any new-born hope
that I may ever call you something more than Sister, widely different
from Sister!--’

Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately shed,
and I saw my hope brighten in them.

‘Agnes! Ever my guide, and best support! If you had been more mindful
of yourself, and less of me, when we grew up here together, I think my
heedless fancy never would have wandered from you. But you were so
much better than I, so necessary to me in every boyish hope and
disappointment, that to have you to confide in, and rely upon in
everything, became a second nature, supplanting for the time the first
and greater one of loving you as I do!’

Still weeping, but not sadly--joyfully! And clasped in my arms as she
had never been, as I had thought she never was to be!

‘When I loved Dora--fondly, Agnes, as you know--’

‘Yes!’ she cried, earnestly. ‘I am glad to know it!’

‘When I loved her--even then, my love would have been incomplete,
without your sympathy. I had it, and it was perfected. And when I lost
her, Agnes, what should I have been without you, still!’

Closer in my arms, nearer to my heart, her trembling hand upon my
shoulder, her sweet eyes shining through her tears, on mine!

‘I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I
returned home, loving you!’

And now, I tried to tell her of the struggle I had had, and the
conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before her, truly, and
entirely. I tried to show her how I had hoped I had come into the better
knowledge of myself and of her; how I had resigned myself to what that
better knowledge brought; and how I had come there, even that day, in my
fidelity to this. If she did so love me (I said) that she could take me
for her husband, she could do so, on no deserving of mine, except upon
the truth of my love for her, and the trouble in which it had ripened to
be what it was; and hence it was that I revealed it. And O, Agnes, even
out of thy true eyes, in that same time, the spirit of my child-wife
looked upon me, saying it was well; and winning me, through thee, to
tenderest recollections of the Blossom that had withered in its bloom!

‘I am so blest, Trotwood--my heart is so overcharged--but there is one
thing I must say.’

‘Dearest, what?’

She laid her gentle hands upon my shoulders, and looked calmly in my
face.

‘Do you know, yet, what it is?’

‘I am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell me, my dear.’

‘I have loved you all my life!’

O, we were happy, we were happy! Our tears were not for the trials (hers
so much the greater) through which we had come to be thus, but for the
rapture of being thus, never to be divided more!

We walked, that winter evening, in the fields together; and the blessed
calm within us seemed to be partaken by the frosty air. The early stars
began to shine while we were lingering on, and looking up to them, we
thanked our GOD for having guided us to this tranquillity.

We stood together in the same old-fashioned window at night, when the
moon was shining; Agnes with her quiet eyes raised up to it; I following
her glance. Long miles of road then opened out before my mind; and,
toiling on, I saw a ragged way-worn boy, forsaken and neglected, who
should come to call even the heart now beating against mine, his own.


It was nearly dinner-time next day when we appeared before my aunt. She
was up in my study, Peggotty said: which it was her pride to keep in
readiness and order for me. We found her, in her spectacles, sitting by
the fire.

‘Goodness me!’ said my aunt, peering through the dusk, ‘who’s this
you’re bringing home?’

‘Agnes,’ said I.

As we had arranged to say nothing at first, my aunt was not a little
discomfited. She darted a hopeful glance at me, when I said ‘Agnes’; but
seeing that I looked as usual, she took off her spectacles in despair,
and rubbed her nose with them.

She greeted Agnes heartily, nevertheless; and we were soon in the
lighted parlour downstairs, at dinner. My aunt put on her spectacles
twice or thrice, to take another look at me, but as often took them
off again, disappointed, and rubbed her nose with them. Much to the
discomfiture of Mr. Dick, who knew this to be a bad symptom.

‘By the by, aunt,’ said I, after dinner; ‘I have been speaking to Agnes
about what you told me.’

‘Then, Trot,’ said my aunt, turning scarlet, ‘you did wrong, and broke
your promise.’

‘You are not angry, aunt, I trust? I am sure you won’t be, when you
learn that Agnes is not unhappy in any attachment.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said my aunt.

As my aunt appeared to be annoyed, I thought the best way was to cut her
annoyance short. I took Agnes in my arm to the back of her chair, and we
both leaned over her. My aunt, with one clap of her hands, and one look
through her spectacles, immediately went into hysterics, for the first
and only time in all my knowledge of her.

The hysterics called up Peggotty. The moment my aunt was restored, she
flew at Peggotty, and calling her a silly old creature, hugged her with
all her might. After that, she hugged Mr. Dick (who was highly honoured,
but a good deal surprised); and after that, told them why. Then, we were
all happy together.

I could not discover whether my aunt, in her last short conversation
with me, had fallen on a pious fraud, or had really mistaken the state
of my mind. It was quite enough, she said, that she had told me Agnes
was going to be married; and that I now knew better than anyone how true
it was.


We were married within a fortnight. Traddles and Sophy, and Doctor and
Mrs. Strong, were the only guests at our quiet wedding. We left them
full of joy; and drove away together. Clasped in my embrace, I held the
source of every worthy aspiration I had ever had; the centre of myself,
the circle of my life, my own, my wife; my love of whom was founded on a
rock!

‘Dearest husband!’ said Agnes. ‘Now that I may call you by that name, I
have one thing more to tell you.’

‘Let me hear it, love.’

‘It grows out of the night when Dora died. She sent you for me.’

‘She did.’

‘She told me that she left me something. Can you think what it was?’

I believed I could. I drew the wife who had so long loved me, closer to
my side.

‘She told me that she made a last request to me, and left me a last
charge.’

‘And it was--’

‘That only I would occupy this vacant place.’

And Agnes laid her head upon my breast, and wept; and I wept with her,
though we were so happy.




CHAPTER 63. A VISITOR

What I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but there is yet an
incident conspicuous in my memory, on which it often rests with delight,
and without which one thread in the web I have spun would have a
ravelled end.

I had advanced in fame and fortune, my domestic joy was perfect, I had
been married ten happy years. Agnes and I were sitting by the fire, in
our house in London, one night in spring, and three of our children were
playing in the room, when I was told that a stranger wished to see me.

He had been asked if he came on business, and had answered No; he had
come for the pleasure of seeing me, and had come a long way. He was an
old man, my servant said, and looked like a farmer.

As this sounded mysterious to the children, and moreover was like the
beginning of a favourite story Agnes used to tell them, introductory
to the arrival of a wicked old Fairy in a cloak who hated everybody, it
produced some commotion. One of our boys laid his head in his mother’s
lap to be out of harm’s way, and little Agnes (our eldest child) left
her doll in a chair to represent her, and thrust out her little heap
of golden curls from between the window-curtains, to see what happened
next.

‘Let him come in here!’ said I.

There soon appeared, pausing in the dark doorway as he entered, a hale,
grey-haired old man. Little Agnes, attracted by his looks, had run to
bring him in, and I had not yet clearly seen his face, when my wife,
starting up, cried out to me, in a pleased and agitated voice, that it
was Mr. Peggotty!

It WAS Mr. Peggotty. An old man now, but in a ruddy, hearty, strong old
age. When our first emotion was over, and he sat before the fire with
the children on his knees, and the blaze shining on his face, he looked,
to me, as vigorous and robust, withal as handsome, an old man, as ever I
had seen.

‘Mas’r Davy,’ said he. And the old name in the old tone fell so
naturally on my ear! ‘Mas’r Davy, ‘tis a joyful hour as I see you, once
more, ‘long with your own trew wife!’

‘A joyful hour indeed, old friend!’ cried I.

‘And these heer pretty ones,’ said Mr. Peggotty. ‘To look at these heer
flowers! Why, Mas’r Davy, you was but the heighth of the littlest of
these, when I first see you! When Em’ly warn’t no bigger, and our poor
lad were BUT a lad!’

‘Time has changed me more than it has changed you since then,’ said I.
‘But let these dear rogues go to bed; and as no house in England but
this must hold you, tell me where to send for your luggage (is the old
black bag among it, that went so far, I wonder!), and then, over a glass
of Yarmouth grog, we will have the tidings of ten years!’

‘Are you alone?’ asked Agnes.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, kissing her hand, ‘quite alone.’

We sat him between us, not knowing how to give him welcome enough; and
as I began to listen to his old familiar voice, I could have fancied he
was still pursuing his long journey in search of his darling niece.

‘It’s a mort of water,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘fur to come across, and
on’y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water [‘specially when ‘tis salt)
comes nat’ral to me; and friends is dear, and I am heer. --Which is
verse,’ said Mr. Peggotty, surprised to find it out, ‘though I hadn’t
such intentions.’

‘Are you going back those many thousand miles, so soon?’ asked Agnes.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he returned. ‘I giv the promise to Em’ly, afore I come
away. You see, I doen’t grow younger as the years comes round, and if
I hadn’t sailed as ‘twas, most like I shouldn’t never have done ‘t. And
it’s allus been on my mind, as I must come and see Mas’r Davy and your
own sweet blooming self, in your wedded happiness, afore I got to be too
old.’

He looked at us, as if he could never feast his eyes on us sufficiently.
Agnes laughingly put back some scattered locks of his grey hair, that he
might see us better.

‘And now tell us,’ said I, ‘everything relating to your fortunes.’

‘Our fortuns, Mas’r Davy,’ he rejoined, ‘is soon told. We haven’t fared
nohows, but fared to thrive. We’ve allus thrived. We’ve worked as we
ought to ‘t, and maybe we lived a leetle hard at first or so, but
we have allus thrived. What with sheep-farming, and what with
stock-farming, and what with one thing and what with t’other, we are as
well to do, as well could be. Theer’s been kiender a blessing fell upon
us,’ said Mr. Peggotty, reverentially inclining his head, ‘and we’ve
done nowt but prosper. That is, in the long run. If not yesterday, why
then today. If not today, why then tomorrow.’

‘And Emily?’ said Agnes and I, both together.

‘Em’ly,’ said he, ‘arter you left her, ma’am--and I never heerd her
saying of her prayers at night, t’other side the canvas screen, when we
was settled in the Bush, but what I heerd your name--and arter she and
me lost sight of Mas’r Davy, that theer shining sundown--was that low,
at first, that, if she had know’d then what Mas’r Davy kep from us so
kind and thowtful, ‘tis my opinion she’d have drooped away. But theer
was some poor folks aboard as had illness among ‘em, and she took care
of them; and theer was the children in our company, and she took care of
them; and so she got to be busy, and to be doing good, and that helped
her.’

‘When did she first hear of it?’ I asked.

‘I kep it from her arter I heerd on ‘t,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘going
on nigh a year. We was living then in a solitary place, but among the
beautifullest trees, and with the roses a-covering our Beein to the
roof. Theer come along one day, when I was out a-working on the land, a
traveller from our own Norfolk or Suffolk in England (I doen’t rightly
mind which), and of course we took him in, and giv him to eat and drink,
and made him welcome. We all do that, all the colony over. He’d got an
old newspaper with him, and some other account in print of the storm.
That’s how she know’d it. When I came home at night, I found she know’d
it.’

He dropped his voice as he said these words, and the gravity I so well
remembered overspread his face.

‘Did it change her much?’ we asked.

‘Aye, for a good long time,’ he said, shaking his head; ‘if not to this
present hour. But I think the solitoode done her good. And she had a
deal to mind in the way of poultry and the like, and minded of it, and
come through. I wonder,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘if you could see my
Em’ly now, Mas’r Davy, whether you’d know her!’

‘Is she so altered?’ I inquired.

‘I doen’t know. I see her ev’ry day, and doen’t know; But, odd-times, I
have thowt so. A slight figure,’ said Mr. Peggotty, looking at the fire,
‘kiender worn; soft, sorrowful, blue eyes; a delicate face; a pritty
head, leaning a little down; a quiet voice and way--timid a’most. That’s
Em’ly!’

We silently observed him as he sat, still looking at the fire.

‘Some thinks,’ he said, ‘as her affection was ill-bestowed; some, as her
marriage was broken off by death. No one knows how ‘tis. She might have
married well, a mort of times, “but, uncle,” she says to me, “that’s
gone for ever.” Cheerful along with me; retired when others is by;
fond of going any distance fur to teach a child, or fur to tend a sick
person, or fur to do some kindness tow’rds a young girl’s wedding (and
she’s done a many, but has never seen one); fondly loving of her uncle;
patient; liked by young and old; sowt out by all that has any trouble.
That’s Em’ly!’

He drew his hand across his face, and with a half-suppressed sigh looked
up from the fire.

‘Is Martha with you yet?’ I asked.

‘Martha,’ he replied, ‘got married, Mas’r Davy, in the second year. A
young man, a farm-labourer, as come by us on his way to market with his
mas’r’s drays--a journey of over five hundred mile, theer and back--made
offers fur to take her fur his wife (wives is very scarce theer), and
then to set up fur their two selves in the Bush. She spoke to me fur to
tell him her trew story. I did. They was married, and they live fower
hundred mile away from any voices but their own and the singing birds.’

‘Mrs. Gummidge?’ I suggested.

It was a pleasant key to touch, for Mr. Peggotty suddenly burst into a
roar of laughter, and rubbed his hands up and down his legs, as he had
been accustomed to do when he enjoyed himself in the long-shipwrecked
boat.

‘Would you believe it!’ he said. ‘Why, someun even made offer fur to
marry her! If a ship’s cook that was turning settler, Mas’r Davy, didn’t
make offers fur to marry Missis Gummidge, I’m Gormed--and I can’t say no
fairer than that!’

I never saw Agnes laugh so. This sudden ecstasy on the part of Mr.
Peggotty was so delightful to her, that she could not leave off
laughing; and the more she laughed the more she made me laugh, and the
greater Mr. Peggotty’s ecstasy became, and the more he rubbed his legs.

‘And what did Mrs. Gummidge say?’ I asked, when I was grave enough.

‘If you’ll believe me,’ returned Mr. Peggotty, ‘Missis Gummidge, ‘stead
of saying “thank you, I’m much obleeged to you, I ain’t a-going fur
to change my condition at my time of life,” up’d with a bucket as was
standing by, and laid it over that theer ship’s cook’s head ‘till he
sung out fur help, and I went in and reskied of him.’

Mr. Peggotty burst into a great roar of laughter, and Agnes and I both
kept him company.

‘But I must say this, for the good creetur,’ he resumed, wiping his
face, when we were quite exhausted; ‘she has been all she said she’d
be to us, and more. She’s the willingest, the trewest, the
honestest-helping woman, Mas’r Davy, as ever draw’d the breath of life.
I have never know’d her to be lone and lorn, for a single minute,
not even when the colony was all afore us, and we was new to it. And
thinking of the old ‘un is a thing she never done, I do assure you,
since she left England!’

‘Now, last, not least, Mr. Micawber,’ said I. ‘He has paid off every
obligation he incurred here--even to Traddles’s bill, you remember my
dear Agnes--and therefore we may take it for granted that he is doing
well. But what is the latest news of him?’

Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his breast-pocket, and
produced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from which he took out, with much
care, a little odd-looking newspaper.

‘You are to understan’, Mas’r Davy,’ said he, ‘as we have left the
Bush now, being so well to do; and have gone right away round to Port
Middlebay Harbour, wheer theer’s what we call a town.’

‘Mr. Micawber was in the Bush near you?’ said I.

‘Bless you, yes,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘and turned to with a will. I never
wish to meet a better gen’l’man for turning to with a will. I’ve seen
that theer bald head of his a perspiring in the sun, Mas’r Davy, till I
a’most thowt it would have melted away. And now he’s a Magistrate.’

‘A Magistrate, eh?’ said I.

Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the newspaper, where I
read aloud as follows, from the Port Middlebay Times:


‘The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist and townsman,
WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Port Middlebay District Magistrate, came
off yesterday in the large room of the Hotel, which was crowded to
suffocation. It is estimated that not fewer than forty-seven persons
must have been accommodated with dinner at one time, exclusive of the
company in the passage and on the stairs. The beauty, fashion, and
exclusiveness of Port Middlebay, flocked to do honour to one so
deservedly esteemed, so highly talented, and so widely popular. Doctor
Mell (of Colonial Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) presided,
and on his right sat the distinguished guest. After the removal of the
cloth, and the singing of Non Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which
we were at no loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted
amateur, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR), the usual loyal and
patriotic toasts were severally given and rapturously received. Doctor
Mell, in a speech replete with feeling, then proposed “Our distinguished
Guest, the ornament of our town. May he never leave us but to better
himself, and may his success among us be such as to render his bettering
himself impossible!” The cheering with which the toast was received
defies description. Again and again it rose and fell, like the waves
of ocean. At length all was hushed, and WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE,
presented himself to return thanks. Far be it from us, in the present
comparatively imperfect state of the resources of our establishment,
to endeavour to follow our distinguished townsman through the
smoothly-flowing periods of his polished and highly-ornate address!
Suffice it to observe, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and that
those passages in which he more particularly traced his own successful
career to its source, and warned the younger portion of his auditory
from the shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which they were
unable to liquidate, brought a tear into the manliest eye present. The
remaining toasts were DOCTOR MELL; Mrs. MICAWBER (who gracefully bowed
her acknowledgements from the side-door, where a galaxy of beauty was
elevated on chairs, at once to witness and adorn the gratifying scene),
Mrs. RIDGER BEGS (late Miss Micawber); Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBER,
ESQUIRE, JUNIOR (who convulsed the assembly by humorously remarking that
he found himself unable to return thanks in a speech, but would do so,
with their permission, in a song); Mrs. MICAWBER’S FAMILY (well known,
it is needless to remark, in the mother-country), &c. &c. &c. At the
conclusion of the proceedings the tables were cleared as if by art-magic
for dancing. Among the votaries of TERPSICHORE, who disported themselves
until Sol gave warning for departure, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Junior,
and the lovely and accomplished Miss Helena, fourth daughter of Doctor
Mell, were particularly remarkable.’


I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mell, pleased to have
discovered, in these happier circumstances, Mr. Mell, formerly poor
pinched usher to my Middlesex magistrate, when Mr. Peggotty pointing
to another part of the paper, my eyes rested on my own name, and I read
thus:


‘TO DAVID COPPERFIELD, ESQUIRE,

‘THE EMINENT AUTHOR.

‘My Dear Sir,

‘Years have elapsed, since I had an opportunity of ocularly perusing the
lineaments, now familiar to the imaginations of a considerable portion
of the civilized world.

‘But, my dear Sir, though estranged (by the force of circumstances over
which I have had no control) from the personal society of the friend and
companion of my youth, I have not been unmindful of his soaring flight.
Nor have I been debarred,

     Though seas between us braid ha’ roared,

(BURNS) from participating in the intellectual feasts he has spread
before us.

‘I cannot, therefore, allow of the departure from this place of an
individual whom we mutually respect and esteem, without, my dear Sir,
taking this public opportunity of thanking you, on my own behalf, and,
I may undertake to add, on that of the whole of the Inhabitants of Port
Middlebay, for the gratification of which you are the ministering agent.

‘Go on, my dear Sir! You are not unknown here, you are not
unappreciated. Though “remote”, we are neither “unfriended”,
“melancholy”, nor (I may add) “slow”. Go on, my dear Sir, in your Eagle
course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire to watch
it, with delight, with entertainment, with instruction!

‘Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of the globe,
will ever be found, while it has light and life,

               ‘The
                    ‘Eye
                         ‘Appertaining to

                              ‘WILKINS MICAWBER,
                                   ‘Magistrate.’


I found, on glancing at the remaining contents of the newspaper, that
Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed correspondent of that journal.
There was another letter from him in the same paper, touching a bridge;
there was an advertisement of a collection of similar letters by him, to
be shortly republished, in a neat volume, ‘with considerable additions’;
and, unless I am very much mistaken, the Leading Article was his also.

We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other evenings while Mr.
Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us during the whole term of his
stay,--which, I think, was something less than a month,--and his sister
and my aunt came to London to see him. Agnes and I parted from him
aboard-ship, when he sailed; and we shall never part from him more, on
earth.

But before he left, he went with me to Yarmouth, to see a little tablet
I had put up in the churchyard to the memory of Ham. While I was copying
the plain inscription for him at his request, I saw him stoop, and
gather a tuft of grass from the grave and a little earth.

‘For Em’ly,’ he said, as he put it in his breast. ‘I promised, Mas’r
Davy.’



CHAPTER 64. A LAST RETROSPECT


And now my written story ends. I look back, once more--for the last
time--before I close these leaves.

I see myself, with Agnes at my side, journeying along the road of life.
I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the roar of
many voices, not indifferent to me as I travel on.

What faces are the most distinct to me in the fleeting crowd? Lo, these;
all turning to me as I ask my thoughts the question!

Here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of four-score
years and more, but upright yet, and a steady walker of six miles at a
stretch in winter weather.

Always with her, here comes Peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in
spectacles, accustomed to do needle-work at night very close to the
lamp, but never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle, a
yard-measure in a little house, and a work-box with a picture of St.
Paul’s upon the lid.

The cheeks and arms of Peggotty, so hard and red in my childish days,
when I wondered why the birds didn’t peck her in preference to apples,
are shrivelled now; and her eyes, that used to darken their whole
neighbourhood in her face, are fainter (though they glitter still);
but her rough forefinger, which I once associated with a pocket
nutmeg-grater, is just the same, and when I see my least child catching
at it as it totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlour
at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt’s old disappointment is set
right, now. She is godmother to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora
(the next in order) says she spoils her.

There is something bulky in Peggotty’s pocket. It is nothing smaller
than the Crocodile Book, which is in rather a dilapidated condition by
this time, with divers of the leaves torn and stitched across, but which
Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious relic. I find it very
curious to see my own infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile
stories; and to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of
Sheffield.

Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old man making giant
kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a delight for which there
are no words. He greets me rapturously, and whispers, with many nods
and winks, ‘Trotwood, you will be glad to hear that I shall finish the
Memorial when I have nothing else to do, and that your aunt’s the most
extraordinary woman in the world, sir!’

Who is this bent lady, supporting herself by a stick, and showing me
a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and beauty,
feebly contending with a querulous, imbecile, fretful wandering of the
mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a sharp, dark, withered
woman, with a white scar on her lip. Let me hear what they say.

‘Rosa, I have forgotten this gentleman’s name.’

Rosa bends over her, and calls to her, ‘Mr. Copperfield.’

‘I am glad to see you, sir. I am sorry to observe you are in mourning. I
hope Time will be good to you.’

Her impatient attendant scolds her, tells her I am not in mourning, bids
her look again, tries to rouse her.

‘You have seen my son, sir,’ says the elder lady. ‘Are you reconciled?’

Looking fixedly at me, she puts her hand to her forehead, and moans.
Suddenly, she cries, in a terrible voice, ‘Rosa, come to me. He is
dead!’ Rosa kneeling at her feet, by turns caresses her, and quarrels
with her; now fiercely telling her, ‘I loved him better than you ever
did!’--now soothing her to sleep on her breast, like a sick child. Thus
I leave them; thus I always find them; thus they wear their time away,
from year to year.

What ship comes sailing home from India, and what English lady is this,
married to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of ears? Can
this be Julia Mills?

Indeed it is Julia Mills, peevish and fine, with a black man to carry
cards and letters to her on a golden salver, and a copper-coloured woman
in linen, with a bright handkerchief round her head, to serve her Tiffin
in her dressing-room. But Julia keeps no diary in these days; never
sings Affection’s Dirge; eternally quarrels with the old Scotch Croesus,
who is a sort of yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in
money to the throat, and talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her
better in the Desert of Sahara.

Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! For, though Julia has a stately
house, and mighty company, and sumptuous dinners every day, I see no
green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit or flower.
What Julia calls ‘society’, I see; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his
Patent Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him, and speaking to me
of the Doctor as ‘so charmingly antique’. But when society is the name
for such hollow gentlemen and ladies, Julia, and when its breeding is
professed indifference to everything that can advance or can retard
mankind, I think we must have lost ourselves in that same Desert of
Sahara, and had better find the way out.

And lo, the Doctor, always our good friend, labouring at his Dictionary
(somewhere about the letter D), and happy in his home and wife. Also
the Old Soldier, on a considerably reduced footing, and by no means so
influential as in days of yore!

Working at his chambers in the Temple, with a busy aspect, and his hair
(where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the constant
friction of his lawyer’s-wig, I come, in a later time, upon my dear old
Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles of papers; and I say, as
I look around me
A Chancery judge once had the kindness to inform me, as one of a
company of some hundred and fifty men and women not labouring under
any suspicions of lunacy, that the Court of Chancery, though the
shining subject of much popular prejudice (at which point I thought
the judge's eye had a cast in my direction), was almost immaculate.
There had been, he admitted, a trivial blemish or so in its rate of
progress, but this was exaggerated and had been entirely owing to the
"parsimony of the public," which guilty public, it appeared, had been
until lately bent in the most determined manner on by no means
enlarging the number of Chancery judges appointed--I believe by
Richard the Second, but any other king will do as well.

This seemed to me too profound a joke to be inserted in the body of
this book or I should have restored it to Conversation Kenge or to
Mr. Vholes, with one or other of whom I think it must have
originated. In such mouths I might have coupled it with an apt
quotation from one of Shakespeare's sonnets:

                     "My nature is subdued
   To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
   Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed!"

But as it is wholesome that the parsimonious public should know what
has been doing, and still is doing, in this connexion, I mention here
that everything set forth in these pages concerning the Court of
Chancery is substantially true, and within the truth. The case of
Gridley is in no essential altered from one of actual occurrence,
made public by a disinterested person who was professionally
acquainted with the whole of the monstrous wrong from beginning to
end. At the present moment (August, 1853) there is a suit before the
court which was commenced nearly twenty years ago, in which from
thirty to forty counsel have been known to appear at one time, in
which costs have been incurred to the amount of seventy thousand
pounds, which is A FRIENDLY SUIT, and which is (I am assured) no
nearer to its termination now than when it was begun. There is
another well-known suit in Chancery, not yet decided, which was
commenced before the close of the last century and in which more than
double the amount of seventy thousand pounds has been swallowed up in
costs. If I wanted other authorities for Jarndyce and Jarndyce, I
could rain them on these pages, to the shame of--a parsimonious
public.

There is only one other point on which I offer a word of remark. The
possibility of what is called spontaneous combustion has been denied
since the death of Mr. Krook; and my good friend Mr. Lewes (quite
mistaken, as he soon found, in supposing the thing to have been
abandoned by all authorities) published some ingenious letters to me
at the time when that event was chronicled, arguing that spontaneous
combustion could not possibly be. I have no need to observe that I do
not wilfully or negligently mislead my readers and that before I
wrote that description I took pains to investigate the subject. There
are about thirty cases on record, of which the most famous, that of
the Countess Cornelia de Baudi Cesenate, was minutely investigated
and described by Giuseppe Bianchini, a prebendary of Verona,
otherwise distinguished in letters, who published an account of it at
Verona in 1731, which he afterwards republished at Rome. The
appearances, beyond all rational doubt, observed in that case are the
appearances observed in Mr. Krook's case. The next most famous
instance happened at Rheims six years earlier, and the historian in
that case is Le Cat, one of the most renowned surgeons produced by
France. The subject was a woman, whose husband was ignorantly
convicted of having murdered her; but on solemn appeal to a higher
court, he was acquitted because it was shown upon the evidence that
she had died the death of which this name of spontaneous combustion
is given. I do not think it necessary to add to these notable facts,
and that general reference to the authorities which will be found at
page 30, vol. ii.,* the recorded opinions and experiences of
distinguished medical professors, French, English, and Scotch, in
more modern days, contenting myself with observing that I shall not
abandon the facts until there shall have been a considerable
spontaneous combustion of the testimony on which human occurrences
are usually received.**

In Bleak House I have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side of
familiar things.


1853


   *Transcriber's note. This referred to a specific page in
    the printed book. In this Project Gutenberg edition the
    pertinent information is in Chapter XXX, paragraph 90.

   ** Another case, very clearly described by a dentist,
    occurred at the town of Columbus, in the United States
    of America, quite recently. The subject was a German who
    kept a liquor-shop and was an inveterate drunkard.




CHAPTER I

In Chancery


London. Michaelmas term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting
in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in
the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of
the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus,
forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn
Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black
drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown
snowflakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of
the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better;
splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one
another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing
their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other
foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke
(if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust
of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and
accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and
meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers
of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city.
Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping
into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and
hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales
of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient
Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog
in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper,
down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of
his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the
bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog
all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the
misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as
the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman
and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their
time--as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling
look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the
muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction,
appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old
corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln's Inn
Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in
his High Court of Chancery.

Never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire
too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which
this High Court of Chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds
this day in the sight of heaven and earth.

On such an afternoon, if ever, the Lord High Chancellor ought to be
sitting here--as here he is--with a foggy glory round his head,
softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a
large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an
interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the
lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. On such an
afternoon some score of members of the High Court of Chancery bar
ought to be--as here they are--mistily engaged in one of the ten
thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on
slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running
their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words and
making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. On
such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause, some two or
three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a
fortune by it, ought to be--as are they not?--ranged in a line, in a
long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom
of it) between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with
bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits,
issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly
nonsense, piled before them. Well may the court be dim, with wasting
candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it
would never get out; well may the stained-glass windows lose their
colour and admit no light of day into the place; well may the
uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in
the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect and by the
drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the
Lord High Chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it
and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! This is the
Court of Chancery, which has its decaying houses and its blighted
lands in every shire, which has its worn-out lunatic in every
madhouse and its dead in every churchyard, which has its ruined
suitor with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress borrowing and
begging through the round of every man's acquaintance, which gives to
monied might the means abundantly of wearying out the right, which so
exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope, so overthrows the brain
and breaks the heart, that there is not an honourable man among its
practitioners who would not give--who does not often give--the
warning, "Suffer any wrong that can be done you rather than come
here!"

Who happen to be in the Lord Chancellor's court this murky afternoon
besides the Lord Chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three
counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before
mentioned? There is the registrar below the judge, in wig and gown;
and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses, or
whatever they may be, in legal court suits. These are all yawning,
for no crumb of amusement ever falls from Jarndyce and Jarndyce (the
cause in hand), which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. The
short-hand writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of
the newspapers invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when
Jarndyce and Jarndyce comes on. Their places are a blank. Standing on
a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained
sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet who is
always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting
some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favour. Some say
she really is, or was, a party to a suit, but no one knows for
certain because no one cares. She carries some small litter in a
reticule which she calls her documents, principally consisting of
paper matches and dry lavender. A sallow prisoner has come up, in
custody, for the half-dozenth time to make a personal application "to
purge himself of his contempt," which, being a solitary surviving
executor who has fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts
of which it is not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is
not at all likely ever to do. In the meantime his prospects in life
are ended. Another ruined suitor, who periodically appears from
Shropshire and breaks out into efforts to address the Chancellor at
the close of the day's business and who can by no means be made to
understand that the Chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence
after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself
in a good place and keeps an eye on the judge, ready to call out "My
Lord!" in a voice of sonorous complaint on the instant of his rising.
A few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by sight linger
on the chance of his furnishing some fun and enlivening the dismal
weather a little.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, in
course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it
means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been
observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five
minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the
premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause;
innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people
have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found
themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how
or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the
suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new
rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown
up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the
other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and
grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone
out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere
bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth
perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a
coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags
its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.

Jarndyce and Jarndyce has passed into a joke. That is the only good
that has ever come of it. It has been death to many, but it is a joke
in the profession. Every master in Chancery has had a reference out
of it. Every Chancellor was "in it," for somebody or other, when he
was counsel at the bar. Good things have been said about it by
blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers in select port-wine committee
after dinner in hall. Articled clerks have been in the habit of
fleshing their legal wit upon it. The last Lord Chancellor handled it
neatly, when, correcting Mr. Blowers, the eminent silk gown who said
that such a thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he
observed, "or when we get through Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mr.
Blowers"--a pleasantry that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and
purses.

How many people out of the suit Jarndyce and Jarndyce has stretched
forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt would be a very wide
question. From the master upon whose impaling files reams of dusty
warrants in Jarndyce and Jarndyce have grimly writhed into many
shapes, down to the copying-clerk in the Six Clerks' Office who has
copied his tens of thousands of Chancery folio-pages under that
eternal heading, no man's nature has been made better by it. In
trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under
false pretences of all sorts, there are influences that can never
come to good. The very solicitors' boys who have kept the wretched
suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that Mr. Chizzle,
Mizzle, or otherwise was particularly engaged and had appointments
until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into
themselves out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The receiver in the cause
has acquired a goodly sum of money by it but has acquired too a
distrust of his own mother and a contempt for his own kind. Chizzle,
Mizzle, and otherwise have lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising
themselves that they will look into that outstanding little matter
and see what can be done for Drizzle--who was not well used--when
Jarndyce and Jarndyce shall be got out of the office. Shirking and
sharking in all their many varieties have been sown broadcast by the
ill-fated cause; and even those who have contemplated its history
from the outermost circle of such evil have been insensibly tempted
into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad
course, and a loose belief that if the world go wrong it was in some
off-hand manner never meant to go right.

Thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the
Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

"Mr. Tangle," says the Lord High Chancellor, latterly something
restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman.

"Mlud," says Mr. Tangle. Mr. Tangle knows more of Jarndyce and
Jarndyce than anybody. He is famous for it--supposed never to have
read anything else since he left school.

"Have you nearly concluded your argument?"

"Mlud, no--variety of points--feel it my duty tsubmit--ludship," is
the reply that slides out of Mr. Tangle.

"Several members of the bar are still to be heard, I believe?" says
the Chancellor with a slight smile.

Eighteen of Mr. Tangle's learned friends, each armed with a little
summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a
pianoforte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places
of obscurity.

"We will proceed with the hearing on Wednesday fortnight," says the
Chancellor. For the question at issue is only a question of costs, a
mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come
to a settlement one of these days.

The Chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward
in a hurry; the man from Shropshire cries, "My lord!" Maces, bags,
and purses indignantly proclaim silence and frown at the man from
Shropshire.

"In reference," proceeds the Chancellor, still on Jarndyce and
Jarndyce, "to the young girl--"

"Begludship's pardon--boy," says Mr. Tangle prematurely. "In
reference," proceeds the Chancellor with extra distinctness, "to the
young girl and boy, the two young people"--Mr. Tangle crushed--"whom
I directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in my private
room, I will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of
making the order for their residing with their uncle."

Mr. Tangle on his legs again. "Begludship's pardon--dead."

"With their"--Chancellor looking through his double eye-glass at the
papers on his desk--"grandfather."

"Begludship's pardon--victim of rash action--brains."

Suddenly a very little counsel with a terrific bass voice arises,
fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, "Will
your lordship allow me? I appear for him. He is a cousin, several
times removed. I am not at the moment prepared to inform the court in
what exact remove he is a cousin, but he IS a cousin."

Leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing in
the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog
knows him no more. Everybody looks for him. Nobody can see him.

"I will speak with both the young people," says the Chancellor anew,
"and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their
cousin. I will mention the matter to-morrow morning when I take my
seat."

The Chancellor is about to bow to the bar when the prisoner is
presented. Nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's conglomeration
but his being sent back to prison, which is soon done. The man from
Shropshire ventures another remonstrative "My lord!" but the
Chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. Everybody
else quickly vanishes too. A battery of blue bags is loaded with
heavy charges of papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old
woman marches off with her documents; the empty court is locked up.
If all the injustice it has committed and all the misery it has
caused could only be locked up with it, and the whole burnt away in a
great funeral pyre--why so much the better for other parties than the
parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce!




CHAPTER II

In Fashion


It is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this same
miry afternoon. It is not so unlike the Court of Chancery but that we
may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. Both the
world of fashion and the Court of Chancery are things of precedent
and usage: oversleeping Rip Van Winkles who have played at strange
games through a deal of thundery weather; sleeping beauties whom the
knight will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen
shall begin to turn prodigiously!

It is not a large world. Relatively even to this world of ours, which
has its limits too (as your Highness shall find when you have made
the tour of it and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a
very little speck. There is much good in it; there are many good and
true people in it; it has its appointed place. But the evil of it is
that it is a world wrapped up in too much jeweller's cotton and fine
wool, and cannot hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and cannot
see them as they circle round the sun. It is a deadened world, and
its growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air.

My Lady Dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few days
previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to
stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. The
fashionable intelligence says so for the comfort of the Parisians,
and it knows all fashionable things. To know things otherwise were to
be unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been down at what she calls, in
familiar conversation, her "place" in Lincolnshire. The waters are
out in Lincolnshire. An arch of the bridge in the park has been
sapped and sopped away. The adjacent low-lying ground for half a mile
in breadth is a stagnant river with melancholy trees for islands in
it and a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain.
My Lady Dedlock's place has been extremely dreary. The weather for
many a day and night has been so wet that the trees seem wet through,
and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman's axe can make no
crash or crackle as they fall. The deer, looking soaked, leave
quagmires where they pass. The shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in
the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards
the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the
falling rain. The view from my Lady Dedlock's own windows is
alternately a lead-coloured view and a view in Indian ink. The vases
on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and
the heavy drops fall--drip, drip, drip--upon the broad flagged
pavement, called from old time the Ghost's Walk, all night. On
Sundays the little church in the park is mouldy; the oaken pulpit
breaks out into a cold sweat; and there is a general smell and taste
as of the ancient Dedlocks in their graves. My Lady Dedlock (who is
childless), looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir at a
keeper's lodge and seeing the light of a fire upon the latticed
panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased by a
woman, running out into the rain to meet the shining figure of a
wrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite out of
temper. My Lady Dedlock says she has been "bored to death."

Therefore my Lady Dedlock has come away from the place in
Lincolnshire and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the
rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. The pictures
of the Dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish into the damp
walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along
the old rooms shutting up the shutters. And when they will next come
forth again, the fashionable intelligence--which, like the fiend, is
omniscient of the past and present, but not the future--cannot yet
undertake to say.

Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier
baronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitely
more respectable. He has a general opinion that the world might get
on without hills but would be done up without Dedlocks. He would on
the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when
not enclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its
execution on your great county families. He is a gentleman of strict
conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness and ready on
the shortest notice to die any death you may please to mention rather
than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. He is
an honourable, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely
prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man.

Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my Lady. He
will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet
sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then and walks a
little stiffly. He is of a worthy presence, with his light-grey hair
and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure-white waistcoat, and his
blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious,
stately, most polite on every occasion to my Lady, and holds her
personal attractions in the highest estimation. His gallantry to my
Lady, which has never changed since he courted her, is the one little
touch of romantic fancy in him.

Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about that she
had not even family; howbeit, Sir Leicester had so much family that
perhaps he had enough and could dispense with any more. But she had
beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to
portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and station, added to
these, soon floated her upward, and for years now my Lady Dedlock has
been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence and at the top of
the fashionable tree.

How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, everybody
knows--or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having
been rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Dedlock, having conquered
HER world, fell not into the melting, but rather into the freezing,
mood. An exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of
fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the
trophies of her victory. She is perfectly well-bred. If she could be
translated to heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend
without any rapture.

She has beauty still, and if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet
in its autumn. She has a fine face--originally of a character that
would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into
classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. Her
figure is elegant and has the effect of being tall. Not that she is
so, but that "the most is made," as the Honourable Bob Stables has
frequently asserted upon oath, "of all her points." The same
authority observes that she is perfectly got up and remarks in
commendation of her hair especially that she is the best-groomed
woman in the whole stud.

With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has come up
from her place in Lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable
intelligence) to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her
departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks,
after which her movements are uncertain. And at her house in town,
upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned
old gentleman, attorney-at-law and eke solicitor of the High Court of
Chancery, who has the honour of acting as legal adviser of the
Dedlocks and has as many cast-iron boxes in his office with that name
outside as if the present baronet were the coin of the conjuror's
trick and were constantly being juggled through the whole set. Across
the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the
rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of
it--fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in--the old gentleman
is conducted by a Mercury in powder to my Lady's presence.

The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made
good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic
wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a mysterious halo of
family confidences, of which he is known to be the silent depository.
There are noble mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of
parks among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer
noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of
Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called the old school--a phrase
generally meaning any school that seems never to have been young--and
wears knee-breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. One
peculiarity of his black clothes and of his black stockings, be they
silk or worsted, is that they never shine. Mute, close, irresponsive
to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. He never converses
when not professionally consulted. He is found sometimes, speechless
but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great country
houses and near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the
fashionable intelligence is eloquent, where everybody knows him and
where half the Peerage stops to say "How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?"
He receives these salutations with gravity and buries them along with
the rest of his knowledge.

Sir Leicester Dedlock is with my Lady and is happy to see Mr.
Tulkinghorn. There is an air of prescription about him which is
always agreeable to Sir Leicester; he receives it as a kind of
tribute. He likes Mr. Tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind of tribute
in that too. It is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general
way, retainer-like. It expresses, as it were, the steward of the
legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, of the Dedlocks.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? It may be so, or it may
not, but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in
everything associated with my Lady Dedlock as one of a class--as one
of the leaders and representatives of her little world. She supposes
herself to be an inscrutable Being, quite out of the reach and ken of
ordinary mortals--seeing herself in her glass, where indeed she looks
so. Yet every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to
the manager of the Italian Opera, knows her weaknesses, prejudices,
follies, haughtinesses, and caprices and lives upon as accurate a
calculation and as nice a measure of her moral nature as her
dressmaker takes of her physical proportions. Is a new dress, a new
custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a new form of jewellery, a new
dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a new anything, to be set up? There are
deferential people in a dozen callings whom my Lady Dedlock suspects
of nothing but prostration before her, who can tell you how to manage
her as if she were a baby, who do nothing but nurse her all their
lives, who, humbly affecting to follow with profound subservience,
lead her and her whole troop after them; who, in hooking one, hook
all and bear them off as Lemuel Gulliver bore away the stately fleet
of the majestic Lilliput. "If you want to address our people, sir,"
say Blaze and Sparkle, the jewellers--meaning by our people Lady
Dedlock and the rest--"you must remember that you are not dealing
with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest
place, and their weakest place is such a place." "To make this
article go down, gentlemen," say Sheen and Gloss, the mercers, to
their friends the manufacturers, "you must come to us, because we
know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it
fashionable." "If you want to get this print upon the tables of my
high connexion, sir," says Mr. Sladdery, the librarian, "or if you
want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connexion,
sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of
my high connexion, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me, for
I have been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion,
sir, and I may tell you without vanity that I can turn them round my
finger"--in which Mr. Sladdery, who is an honest man, does not
exaggerate at all.

Therefore, while Mr. Tulkinghorn may not know what is passing in the
Dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may.

"My Lady's cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr.
Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand.

"Yes. It has been on again to-day," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, making
one of his quiet bows to my Lady, who is on a sofa near the fire,
shading her face with a hand-screen.

"It would be useless to ask," says my Lady with the dreariness of the
place in Lincolnshire still upon her, "whether anything has been
done."

"Nothing that YOU would call anything has been done to-day," replies
Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Nor ever will be," says my Lady.

Sir Leicester has no objection to an interminable Chancery suit. It
is a slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To be
sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part
in which was the only property my Lady brought him; and he has a
shadowy impression that for his name--the name of Dedlock--to be in a
cause, and not in the title of that cause, is a most ridiculous
accident. But he regards the Court of Chancery, even if it should
involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of
confusion, as a something devised in conjunction with a variety of
other somethings by the perfection of human wisdom for the eternal
settlement (humanly speaking) of everything. And he is upon the whole
of a fixed opinion that to give the sanction of his countenance to
any complaints respecting it would be to encourage some person in the
lower classes to rise up somewhere--like Wat Tyler.

"As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says Mr.
Tulkinghorn, "and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the
troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any
new proceedings in a cause"--cautious man Mr. Tulkinghorn, taking no
more responsibility than necessary--"and further, as I see you are
going to Paris, I have brought them in my pocket."

(Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by the by, but the delight of
the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.)

Mr. Tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them
on a golden talisman of a table at my Lady's elbow, puts on his
spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.

"'In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce--'"

My Lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formal
horrors as he can.

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lower
down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. Sir
Leicester in a great chair looks at the file and appears to have a
stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities as ranging
among the national bulwarks. It happens that the fire is hot where my
Lady sits and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful,
being priceless but small. My Lady, changing her position, sees the
papers on the table--looks at them nearer--looks at them nearer
still--asks impulsively, "Who copied that?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady's animation and her
unusual tone.

"Is it what you people call law-hand?" she asks, looking full at him
in her careless way again and toying with her screen.

"Not quite. Probably"--Mr. Tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks--"the
legal character which it has was acquired after the original hand was
formed. Why do you ask?"

"Anything to vary this detestable monotony. Oh, go on, do!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater; my Lady screens her
face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, "Eh? What
do you say?"

"I say I am afraid," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily,
"that Lady Dedlock is ill."

"Faint," my Lady murmurs with white lips, "only that; but it is like
the faintness of death. Don't speak to me. Ring, and take me to my
room!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet
shuffle and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr.
Tulkinghorn to return.

"Better now," quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down
and read to him alone. "I have been quite alarmed. I never knew my
Lady swoon before. But the weather is extremely trying, and she
really has been bored to death down at our place in Lincolnshire."




CHAPTER III

A Progress


I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of
these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. I can
remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to say to my
doll when we were alone together, "Now, Dolly, I am not clever, you
know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!" And so
she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful
complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or not so much at me, I
think, as at nothing--while I busily stitched away and told her every
one of my secrets.

My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldom dared
to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else.
It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me
when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my room and
say, "Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would be expecting me!"
and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great
chair, and tell her all I had noticed since we parted. I had always
rather a noticing way--not a quick way, oh, no!--a silent way of
noticing what passed before me and thinking I should like to
understand it better. I have not by any means a quick understanding.
When I love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. But
even that may be my vanity.

I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of the
princesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming--by my
godmother. At least, I only knew her as such. She was a good, good
woman! She went to church three times every Sunday, and to morning
prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures whenever there
were lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and if she had
ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like an angel--but she
never smiled. She was always grave and strict. She was so very good
herself, I thought, that the badness of other people made her frown
all her life. I felt so different from her, even making every
allowance for the differences between a child and a woman; I felt so
poor, so trifling, and so far off that I never could be unrestrained
with her--no, could never even love her as I wished. It made me very
sorry to consider how good she was and how unworthy of her I was, and
I used ardently to hope that I might have a better heart; and I
talked it over very often with the dear old doll, but I never loved
my godmother as I ought to have loved her and as I felt I must have
loved her if I had been a better girl.

This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturally
was and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt at
ease. But something happened when I was still quite a little thing
that helped it very much.

I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my papa
either, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had never worn a
black frock, that I could recollect. I had never been shown my mama's
grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had never been
taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had more than
once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael, our
only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (another very
good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said, "Esther, good
night!" and gone away and left me.

Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where I
was a day boarder, and although they called me little Esther
Summerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them were older than
I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), but there
seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and
besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing much more
than I did. One of them in the first week of my going to the school
(I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party, to my
great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining for me,
and I never went. I never went out at all.

It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on other
birthdays--none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on other
birthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to one
another--there were none on mine. My birthday was the most melancholy
day at home in the whole year.

I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I know
it may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeed I
don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. My
disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feel such
a wound if such a wound could be received more than once with the
quickness of that birthday.

Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the table
before the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another
sound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don't know how
long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the
table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomily at me,
"It would have been far better, little Esther, that you had had no
birthday, that you had never been born!"

I broke out crying and sobbing, and I said, "Oh, dear godmother, tell
me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?"

"No," she returned. "Ask me no more, child!"

"Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, dear
godmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I lose her?
Why am I so different from other children, and why is it my fault,
dear godmother? No, no, no, don't go away. Oh, speak to me!"

I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of her
dress and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while,
"Let me go!" But now she stood still.

Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in the
midst of my vehemence. I put up my trembling little hand to clasp
hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, but withdrew
it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart. She
raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, said slowly
in a cold, low voice--I see her knitted brow and pointed
finger--"Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers.
The time will come--and soon enough--when you will understand this
better and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. I have
forgiven her"--but her face did not relent--"the wrong she did to me,
and I say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever
know--than any one will ever know but I, the sufferer. For yourself,
unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil
anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon
your head, according to what is written. Forget your mother and leave
all other people to forget her who will do her unhappy child that
greatest kindness. Now, go!"

She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her--so frozen
as I was!--and added this, "Submission, self-denial, diligent work,
are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. You
are different from other children, Esther, because you were not born,
like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. You are set apart."

I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek
against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon my
bosom, cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding of my
sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time to anybody's
heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly was to me.

Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together
afterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of my
birthday and confided to her that I would try as hard as ever I could
to repair the fault I had been born with (of which I confessedly felt
guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as I grew up to be
industrious, contented, and kind-hearted and to do some good to some
one, and win some love to myself if I could. I hope it is not
self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it. I am very
thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite help their coming to
my eyes.

There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.

I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more
after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her
house which ought to have been empty, that I found her more difficult
of approach, though I was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than
ever. I felt in the same way towards my school companions; I felt in
the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was a widow; and oh, towards
her daughter, of whom she was proud, who came to see her once a
fortnight! I was very retired and quiet, and tried to be very
diligent.

One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with my books
and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I was
gliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the
parlour-door and called me back. Sitting with her, I found--which was
very unusual indeed--a stranger. A portly, important-looking
gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large gold
watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon
his little finger.

"This," said my godmother in an undertone, "is the child." Then she
said in her naturally stern way of speaking, "This is Esther, sir."

The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, "Come
here, my dear!" He shook hands with me and asked me to take off my
bonnet, looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he said,
"Ah!" and afterwards "Yes!" And then, taking off his eye-glasses and
folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair,
turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a nod.
Upon that, my godmother said, "You may go upstairs, Esther!" And I
made him my curtsy and left him.

It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen,
when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. I was
reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nine o'clock
as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was reading from St.
John how our Saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the
dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.

"So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said
unto them, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a
stone at her!'"

I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her head,
and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of the book,
"'Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. And
what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'"

In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she
fell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice had
sounded through the house and been heard in the street.

She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there, little
altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that I so
well knew carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in the day and
in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers
might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her,
asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me
the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no. Her face was
immovable. To the very last, and even afterwards, her frown remained
unsoftened.

On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in
black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for by Mrs.
Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone
away.

"My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kenge
and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn."

I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before.

"Pray be seated--here near me. Don't distress yourself; it's of no
use. Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted with the
late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her and that
this young lady, now her aunt is dead--"

"My aunt, sir!"

"It is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to
be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge smoothly, "Aunt in fact, though not
in law. Don't distress yourself! Don't weep! Don't tremble! Mrs.
Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of--the--a--Jarndyce and
Jarndyce."

"Never," said Mrs. Rachael.

"Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses,
"that our young friend--I BEG you won't distress yourself!--never
heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!"

I shook my head, wondering even what it was.

"Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?" said Mr. Kenge, looking over his
glasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he
were petting something. "Not of one of the greatest Chancery suits
known? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monument of
Chancery practice. In which (I would say) every difficulty, every
contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known
in that court, is represented over and over again? It is a cause
that could not exist out of this free and great country. I should
say that the aggregate of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Mrs.
Rachael"--I was afraid he addressed himself to her because I appeared
inattentive"--amounts at the present hour to from SIX-ty to SEVEN-ty
THOUSAND POUNDS!" said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair.

I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so entirely
unacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about it even
then.

"And she really never heard of the cause!" said Mr. Kenge.
"Surprising!"

"Miss Barbary, sir," returned Mrs. Rachael, "who is now among the
Seraphim--"

"I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Kenge politely.

"--Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her. And
she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more."

"Well!" said Mr. Kenge. "Upon the whole, very proper. Now to the
point," addressing me. "Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in fact
that is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) being
deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs.
Rachael--"

"Oh, dear no!" said Mrs. Rachael quickly.

"Quite so," assented Mr. Kenge; "--that Mrs. Rachael should charge
herself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distress
yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer
which I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years ago and
which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the
lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. Now, if I avow
that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise, a highly
humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall I compromise myself
by any stretch of my professional caution?" said Mr. Kenge, leaning
back in his chair again and looking calmly at us both.

He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice. I
couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gave great
importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himself with
obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own music
with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. I was very much
impressed by him--even then, before I knew that he formed himself on
the model of a great lord who was his client and that he was
generally called Conversation Kenge.

"Mr. Jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--I would say,
desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at a
first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed,
where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall
be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge
her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased--shall I
say Providence?--to call her."

My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by his
affecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, though I
tried.

"Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition beyond expressing his
expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove herself
from the establishment in question without his knowledge and
concurrence. That she will faithfully apply herself to the
acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which she
will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the paths of
virtue and honour, and--the--a--so forth."

I was still less able to speak than before.

"Now, what does our young friend say?" proceeded Mr. Kenge. "Take
time, take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!"

What the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, I need not
repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it were worth
the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, I could
never relate.

This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far as I
knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided with all
necessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach, for Reading.

Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I was
not so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to have known
her better after so many years and ought to have made myself enough
of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When she gave me one
cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone
porch--it was a very frosty day--I felt so miserable and
self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was my fault, I
knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!

"No, Esther!" she returned. "It is your misfortune!"

The coach was at the little lawn-gate--we had not come out until we
heard the wheels--and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. She
went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the
door. As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it from the
window through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachael all the
little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an old
hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first
thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outside in the frost
and snow. A day or two before, I had wrapped the dear old doll in her
own shawl and quietly laid her--I am half ashamed to tell it--in the
garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old window. I had no
companion left but my bird, and him I carried with me in his cage.

When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in the
straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high
window, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces of
spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night's snow, and
the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice, dark like
metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow away. There
was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite seat and looked
very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he sat gazing out of the
other window and took no notice of me.

I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her, of
her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strange place
I was going to, of the people I should find there, and what they
would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice in the
coach gave me a terrible start.

It said, "What the de-vil are you crying for?"

I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in a
whisper, "Me, sir?" For of course I knew it must have been the
gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking
out of his window.

"Yes, you," he said, turning round.

"I didn't know I was crying, sir," I faltered.

"But you are!" said the gentleman. "Look here!" He came quite
opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of his
large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and showed
me that it was wet.

"There! Now you know you are," he said. "Don't you?"

"Yes, sir," I said.

"And what are you crying for?" said the gentleman, "Don't you want to
go there?"

"Where, sir?"

"Where? Why, wherever you are going," said the gentleman.

"I am very glad to go there, sir," I answered.

"Well, then! Look glad!" said the gentleman.

I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see of
him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face
was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the side of
his head fastened under his chin; but I was composed again, and not
afraid of him. So I told him that I thought I must have been crying
because of my godmother's death and because of Mrs. Rachael's not
being sorry to part with me.

"Confound Mrs. Rachael!" said the gentleman. "Let her fly away in a
high wind on a broomstick!"

I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the
greatest astonishment. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes,
although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and
calling Mrs. Rachael names.

After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to
me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down into
a deep pocket in the side.

"Now, look here!" he said. "In this paper," which was nicely folded,
"is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money--sugar on
the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. Here's a little
pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in France. And
what do you suppose it's made of? Livers of fat geese. There's a pie!
Now let's see you eat 'em."

"Thank you, sir," I replied; "thank you very much indeed, but I hope
you won't be offended--they are too rich for me."

"Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at all
understand, and threw them both out of window.

He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a
little way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girl and
to be studious, and shook hands with me. I must say I was relieved by
his departure. We left him at a milestone. I often walked past it
afterwards, and never for a long time without thinking of him and
half expecting to meet him. But I never did; and so, as time went on,
he passed out of my mind.

When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window and
said, "Miss Donny."

"No, ma'am, Esther Summerson."

"That is quite right," said the lady, "Miss Donny."

I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and begged
Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her
request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put
outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, the maid,
and I got inside and were driven away.

"Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny, "and the
scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with
the wishes of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce."

"Of--did you say, ma'am?"

"Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny.

I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been too
severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.

"Do you know my--guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I asked after a good
deal of hesitation.

"Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; "merely through his
solicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superior
gentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent indeed. Some of his periods
quite majestic!"

I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it. Our
speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recover
myself, increased my confusion, and I never shall forget the
uncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (Miss Donny's
house) that afternoon!

But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine of
Greenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a great while
and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old life at my
godmother's. Nothing could be more precise, exact, and orderly than
Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all round the dial of the
clock, and everything was done at its appointed moment.

We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins. It
was understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on my
qualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed in
everything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in
helping to instruct others. Although I was treated in every other
respect like the rest of the school, this single difference was made
in my case from the first. As I began to know more, I taught more,
and so in course of time I had plenty to do, which I was very fond of
doing because it made the dear girls fond of me. At last, whenever a
new pupil came who was a little downcast and unhappy, she was so
sure--indeed I don't know why--to make a friend of me that all
new-comers were confided to my care. They said I was so gentle, but I
am sure THEY were! I often thought of the resolution I had made on my
birthday to try to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to
do some good to some one and win some love if I could; and indeed,
indeed, I felt almost ashamed to have done so little and have won so
much.

I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw in any face
there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been better
if I had never been born. When the day came round, it brought me so
many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my room was beautiful
with them from New Year's Day to Christmas.

In those six years I had never been away except on visits at holiday
time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months or so I had
taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety of writing to
Mr. Kenge to say that I was happy and grateful, and with her approval
I had written such a letter. I had received a formal answer
acknowledging its receipt and saying, "We note the contents thereof,
which shall be duly communicated to our client." After that I
sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention how regular my
accounts were paid, and about twice a year I ventured to write a
similar letter. I always received by return of post exactly the same
answer in the same round hand, with the signature of Kenge and Carboy
in another writing, which I supposed to be Mr. Kenge's.

It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about
myself! As if this narrative were the narrative of MY life! But my
little body will soon fall into the background now.

Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I had
passed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a
looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when,
one November morning, I received this letter. I omit the date.


   Old Square, Lincoln's Inn

   Madam,

   Jarndyce and Jarndyce

   Our clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house,
   under an Order of the Ct of Chy, a Ward of the Ct in this
   cause, for whom he wishes to secure an elgble compn,
   directs us to inform you that he will be glad of your
   serces in the afsd capacity.

   We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr
   eight o'clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning next,
   to White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of
   our clks will be in waiting to convey you to our offe as
   above.

   We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,

   Kenge and Carboy

   Miss Esther Summerson


Oh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this letter caused
in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much for me, it was
so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me to have made my
orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined so many youthful
natures towards me, that I could hardly bear it. Not that I would
have had them less sorry--I am afraid not; but the pleasure of it,
and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble
regret of it were so blended that my heart seemed almost breaking
while it was full of rapture.

The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. When every
minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in
those five days, and when at last the morning came and when they took
me through all the rooms that I might see them for the last time, and
when some cried, "Esther, dear, say good-bye to me here at my
bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!" and when others
asked me only to write their names, "With Esther's love," and when
they all surrounded me with their parting presents and clung to me
weeping and cried, "What shall we do when dear, dear Esther's gone!"
and when I tried to tell them how forbearing and how good they had
all been to me and how I blessed and thanked them every one, what a
heart I had!

And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as the
least among them, and when the maids said, "Bless you, miss, wherever
you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who I thought had
hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to
give me a little nosegay of geraniums and told me I had been the
light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!--what a heart I had
then!

And could I help it if with all this, and the coming to the little
school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside waving
their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentleman and lady
whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house I had visited
(who were said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring
for nothing but calling out, "Good-bye, Esther. May you be very
happy!"--could I help it if I was quite bowed down in the coach by
myself and said "Oh, I am so thankful, I am so thankful!" many times
over!

But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where I
was going after all that had been done for me. Therefore, of course,
I made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet by saying
very often, "Esther, now you really must! This WILL NOT do!" I
cheered myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid I was
longer about it than I ought to have been; and when I had cooled my
eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch for London.

I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten miles off,
and when we really were there, that we should never get there.
However, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and
particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running into
us, and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, I began
to believe that we really were approaching the end of our journey.
Very soon afterwards we stopped.

A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed me from
the pavement and said, "I am from Kenge and Carboy's, miss, of
Lincoln's Inn."

"If you please, sir," said I.

He was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly after
superintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether there was
a great fire anywhere? For the streets were so full of dense brown
smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen.

"Oh, dear no, miss," he said. "This is a London particular."

I had never heard of such a thing.

"A fog, miss," said the young gentleman.

"Oh, indeed!" said I.

We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever
were seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting state of
confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses, until we
passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and drove on through
a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there
was an entrance up a steep, broad flight of stairs, like an entrance
to a church. And there really was a churchyard outside under some
cloisters, for I saw the gravestones from the staircase window.

This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gentleman showed me through an
outer office into Mr. Kenge's room--there was no one in it--and
politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He then called my
attention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one side
of the chimney-piece.

"In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the
journey, as you're going before the Chancellor. Not that it's
requisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly.

"Going before the Chancellor?" I said, startled for a moment.

"Only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman. "Mr.
Kenge is in court now. He left his compliments, and would you partake
of some refreshment"--there were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a
small table--"and look over the paper," which the young gentleman
gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire and left me.

Everything was so strange--the stranger from its being night in the
day-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw and
cold--that I read the words in the newspaper without knowing what
they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. As it
was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down, took a peep
at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the
room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby, dusty tables,
and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most
inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to say for
themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking; and the
fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles went on
flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers--until the young
gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair--for two hours.

At last Mr. Kenge came. HE was not altered, but he was surprised to
see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased. "As you are going
to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the Chancellor's
private room, Miss Summerson," he said, "we thought it well that you
should be in attendance also. You will not be discomposed by the Lord
Chancellor, I dare say?"

"No, sir," I said, "I don't think I shall," really not seeing on
consideration why I should be.

So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm and we went round the corner, under a
colonnade, and in at a side door. And so we came, along a passage,
into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a young
gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. A screen was
interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on the screen,
talking.

They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady, with
the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! With such rich
golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent,
trusting face!

"Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Summerson."

She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended,
but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me. In short,
she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner that in a few
minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of the
fire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be.

What a load off my mind! It was so delightful to know that she could
confide in me and like me! It was so good of her, and so encouraging
to me!

The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his name
Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth with an ingenuous face and
a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to where we
sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talking gaily, like a
light-hearted boy. He was very young, not more than nineteen then, if
quite so much, but nearly two years older than she was. They were
both orphans and (what was very unexpected and curious to me) had
never met before that day. Our all three coming together for the
first time in such an unusual place was a thing to talk about, and we
talked about it; and the fire, which had left off roaring, winked its
red eyes at us--as Richard said--like a drowsy old Chancery lion.

We conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in a bag
wig frequently came in and out, and when he did so, we could hear a
drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the counsel
in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told Mr. Kenge that
the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; and presently we heard a
bustle and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge said that the Court had
risen and his lordship was in the next room.

The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly and
requested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, we all went into the next
room, Mr. Kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to me now
that I can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in black and
sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his lordship,
whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown upon another
chair. He gave us a searching look as we entered, but his manner was
both courtly and kind.

The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his lordship's
table, and his lordship silently selected one and turned over the
leaves.

"Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor. "Miss Ada Clare?"

Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down near
him. That he admired her and was interested by her even I could see
in a moment. It touched me that the home of such a beautiful young
creature should be represented by that dry, official place. The Lord
High Chancellor, at his best, appeared so poor a substitute for the
love and pride of parents.

"The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chancellor, still turning
over leaves, "is Jarndyce of Bleak House."

"Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.

"A dreary name," said the Lord Chancellor.

"But not a dreary place at present, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.

"And Bleak House," said his lordship, "is in--"

"Hertfordshire, my lord."

"Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?" said his lordship.

"He is not, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.

A pause.

"Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?" said the Lord Chancellor,
glancing towards him.

Richard bowed and stepped forward.

"Hum!" said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves.

"Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed in a low
voice, "if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable
companion for--"

"For Mr. Richard Carstone?" I thought (but I am not quite sure) I
heard his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile.

"For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Summerson."

His lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my curtsy
very graciously.

"Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?"

"No, my lord."

Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said and whispered. His
lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or
thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me again
until we were going away.

Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was, near the
door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can't help
it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor, with whom his lordship spoke a
little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whether she had
well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she thought she
would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, and why
she thought so? Presently he rose courteously and released her, and
then he spoke for a minute or two with Richard Carstone, not seated,
but standing, and altogether with more ease and less ceremony, as if
he still knew, though he WAS Lord Chancellor, how to go straight to
the candour of a boy.

"Very well!" said his lordship aloud. "I shall make the order. Mr.
Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge," and this
was when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the young lady,
and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the
circumstances admit."

He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged to
him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainly lost
no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.

When we got under the colonnade, Mr. Kenge remembered that he must go
back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fog, with the
Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come out.

"Well!" said Richard Carstone. "THAT'S over! And where do we go next,
Miss Summerson?"

"Don't you know?" I said.

"Not in the least," said he.

"And don't YOU know, my love?" I asked Ada.

"No!" said she. "Don't you?"

"Not at all!" said I.

We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like the
children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed
bonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to us
with an air of great ceremony.

"Oh!" said she. "The wards in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure, to
have the honour! It is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty
when they find themselves in this place, and don't know what's to
come of it."

"Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him.

"Right! Mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he was
quite abashed. "I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time,"
curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence. "I had youth
and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters very little now. Neither of
the three served or saved me. I have the honour to attend court
regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the
Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in
the Revelations is the Great Seal. It has been open a long time! Pray
accept my blessing."

As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor old lady,
that we were much obliged to her.

"Ye-es!" she said mincingly. "I imagine so. And here is Conversation
Kenge. With HIS documents! How does your honourable worship do?"

"Quite well, quite well! Now don't be troublesome, that's a good
soul!" said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back.

"By no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and me.
"Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both--which is
not being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly. On the
Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept my blessing!"

She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but
we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, still
with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence, "Youth. And
hope. And beauty. And Chancery. And Conversation Kenge! Ha! Pray
accept my blessing!"




CHAPTER IV

Telescopic Philanthropy


We were to pass the night, Mr. Kenge told us when we arrived in his
room, at Mrs. Jellyby's; and then he turned to me and said he took it
for granted I knew who Mrs. Jellyby was.

"I really don't, sir," I returned. "Perhaps Mr. Carstone--or Miss
Clare--"

But no, they knew nothing whatever about Mrs. Jellyby. "In-deed! Mrs.
Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, standing with his back to the fire and
casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were Mrs.
Jellyby's biography, "is a lady of very remarkable strength of
character who devotes herself entirely to the public. She has devoted
herself to an extensive variety of public subjects at various times
and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the
subject of Africa, with a view to the general cultivation of the
coffee berry--AND the natives--and the happy settlement, on the banks
of the African rivers, of our superabundant home population. Mr.
Jarndyce, who is desirous to aid any work that is considered likely
to be a good work and who is much sought after by philanthropists,
has, I believe, a very high opinion of Mrs. Jellyby."

Mr. Kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us.

"And Mr. Jellyby, sir?" suggested Richard.

"Ah! Mr. Jellyby," said Mr. Kenge, "is--a--I don't know that I can
describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of
Mrs. Jellyby."

"A nonentity, sir?" said Richard with a droll look.

"I don't say that," returned Mr. Kenge gravely. "I can't say that,
indeed, for I know nothing whatever OF Mr. Jellyby. I never, to my
knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jellyby. He may be a very
superior man, but he is, so to speak, merged--merged--in the more
shining qualities of his wife." Mr. Kenge proceeded to tell us that
as the road to Bleak House would have been very long, dark, and
tedious on such an evening, and as we had been travelling already,
Mr. Jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. A carriage would
be at Mrs. Jellyby's to convey us out of town early in the forenoon
of to-morrow.

He then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in.
Addressing him by the name of Guppy, Mr. Kenge inquired whether Miss
Summerson's boxes and the rest of the baggage had been "sent round."
Mr. Guppy said yes, they had been sent round, and a coach was waiting
to take us round too as soon as we pleased.

"Then it only remains," said Mr. Kenge, shaking hands with us, "for
me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, Miss Clare!) the
arrangement this day concluded and my (GOOD-bye to you, Miss
Summerson!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the
(glad to have had the honour of making your acquaintance, Mr.
Carstone!) welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all
concerned! Guppy, see the party safely there."

"Where IS 'there,' Mr. Guppy?" said Richard as we went downstairs.

"No distance," said Mr. Guppy; "round in Thavies Inn, you know."

"I can't say I know where it is, for I come from Winchester and am
strange in London."

"Only round the corner," said Mr. Guppy. "We just twist up Chancery
Lane, and cut along Holborn, and there we are in four minutes' time,
as near as a toucher. This is about a London particular NOW, ain't
it, miss?" He seemed quite delighted with it on my account.

"The fog is very dense indeed!" said I.

"Not that it affects you, though, I'm sure," said Mr. Guppy, putting
up the steps. "On the contrary, it seems to do you good, miss,
judging from your appearance."

I knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so I laughed at
myself for blushing at it when he had shut the door and got upon the
box; and we all three laughed and chatted about our inexperience and
the strangeness of London until we turned up under an archway to our
destination--a narrow street of high houses like an oblong cistern to
hold the fog. There was a confused little crowd of people,
principally children, gathered about the house at which we stopped,
which had a tarnished brass plate on the door with the inscription
JELLYBY.

"Don't be frightened!" said Mr. Guppy, looking in at the
coach-window. "One of the young Jellybys been and got his head
through the area railings!"

"Oh, poor child," said I; "let me out, if you please!"

"Pray be careful of yourself, miss. The young Jellybys are always up
to something," said Mr. Guppy.

I made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little
unfortunates I ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened and
crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a
milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were
endeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression
that his skull was compressible by those means. As I found (after
pacifying him) that he was a little boy with a naturally large head,
I thought that perhaps where his head could go, his body could
follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to
push him forward. This was so favourably received by the milkman and
beadle that he would immediately have been pushed into the area if I
had not held his pinafore while Richard and Mr. Guppy ran down
through the kitchen to catch him when he should be released. At last
he was happily got down without any accident, and then he began to
beat Mr. Guppy with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner.

Nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person in
pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom; I
don't know with what object, and I don't think she did. I therefore
supposed that Mrs. Jellyby was not at home, and was quite surprised
when the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and
going up to the back room on the first floor before Ada and me,
announced us as, "Them two young ladies, Missis Jellyby!" We passed
several more children on the way up, whom it was difficult to avoid
treading on in the dark; and as we came into Mrs. Jellyby's presence,
one of the poor little things fell downstairs--down a whole flight
(as it sounded to me), with a great noise.

Mrs. Jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we
could not help showing in our own faces as the dear child's head
recorded its passage with a bump on every stair--Richard afterwards
said he counted seven, besides one for the landing--received us with
perfect equanimity. She was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman of
from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious
habit of seeming to look a long way off. As if--I am quoting Richard
again--they could see nothing nearer than Africa!

"I am very glad indeed," said Mrs. Jellyby in an agreeable voice, "to
have the pleasure of receiving you. I have a great respect for Mr.
Jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of
indifference to me."

We expressed our acknowledgments and sat down behind the door, where
there was a lame invalid of a sofa. Mrs. Jellyby had very good hair
but was too much occupied with her African duties to brush it. The
shawl in which she had been loosely muffled dropped onto her chair
when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resume her seat, we
could not help noticing that her dress didn't nearly meet up the back
and that the open space was railed across with a lattice-work of
stay-lace--like a summer-house.

The room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great
writing-table covered with similar litter, was, I must say, not only
very untidy but very dirty. We were obliged to take notice of that
with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we
followed the poor child who had tumbled downstairs: I think into the
back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him.

But what principally struck us was a jaded and unhealthy-looking
though by no means plain girl at the writing-table, who sat biting
the feather of her pen and staring at us. I suppose nobody ever was
in such a state of ink. And from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet,
which were disfigured with frayed and broken satin slippers trodden
down at heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her,
from a pin upwards, that was in its proper condition or its right
place.

"You find me, my dears," said Mrs. Jellyby, snuffing the two great
office candles in tin candlesticks, which made the room taste
strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing
in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), "you find me,
my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. The African
project at present employs my whole time. It involves me in
correspondence with public bodies and with private individuals
anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. I am
happy to say it is advancing. We hope by this time next year to have
from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating
coffee and educating the natives of Borrioboola-Gha, on the left bank
of the Niger."

As Ada said nothing, but looked at me, I said it must be very
gratifying.

"It IS gratifying," said Mrs. Jellyby. "It involves the devotion of
all my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it
succeeds; and I am more confident of success every day. Do you know,
Miss Summerson, I almost wonder that YOU never turned your thoughts
to Africa."

This application of the subject was really so unexpected to me that I
was quite at a loss how to receive it. I hinted that the climate--

"The finest climate in the world!" said Mrs. Jellyby.

"Indeed, ma'am?"

"Certainly. With precaution," said Mrs. Jellyby. "You may go into
Holborn, without precaution, and be run over. You may go into
Holborn, with precaution, and never be run over. Just so with
Africa."

I said, "No doubt." I meant as to Holborn.

"If you would like," said Mrs. Jellyby, putting a number of papers
towards us, "to look over some remarks on that head, and on the
general subject, which have been extensively circulated, while I
finish a letter I am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is my
amanuensis--"

The girl at the table left off biting her pen and made a return to
our recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky.

"--I shall then have finished for the present," proceeded Mrs.
Jellyby with a sweet smile, "though my work is never done. Where are
you, Caddy?"

"'Presents her compliments to Mr. Swallow, and begs--'" said Caddy.

"'And begs,'" said Mrs. Jellyby, dictating, "'to inform him, in
reference to his letter of inquiry on the African project--' No,
Peepy! Not on my account!"

Peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen
downstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting
himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his
wounded knees, in which Ada and I did not know which to pity
most--the bruises or the dirt. Mrs. Jellyby merely added, with the
serene composure with which she said everything, "Go along, you
naughty Peepy!" and fixed her fine eyes on Africa again.

However, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as I
interrupted nothing by doing it, I ventured quietly to stop poor
Peepy as he was going out and to take him up to nurse. He looked very
much astonished at it and at Ada's kissing him, but soon fell fast
asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he
was quiet. I was so occupied with Peepy that I lost the letter in
detail, though I derived such a general impression from it of the
momentous importance of Africa, and the utter insignificance of all
other places and things, that I felt quite ashamed to have thought so
little about it.

"Six o'clock!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "And our dinner hour is nominally
(for we dine at all hours) five! Caddy, show Miss Clare and Miss
Summerson their rooms. You will like to make some change, perhaps?
You will excuse me, I know, being so much occupied. Oh, that very bad
child! Pray put him down, Miss Summerson!"

I begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at
all troublesome, and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed. Ada
and I had two upper rooms with a door of communication between. They
were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window
was fastened up with a fork.

"You would like some hot water, wouldn't you?" said Miss Jellyby,
looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain.

"If it is not being troublesome," said we.

"Oh, it's not the trouble," returned Miss Jellyby; "the question is,
if there IS any."

The evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy smell
that I must confess it was a little miserable, and Ada was half
crying. We soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking when Miss
Jellyby came back to say that she was sorry there was no hot water,
but they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order.

We begged her not to mention it and made all the haste we could to
get down to the fire again. But all the little children had come up
to the landing outside to look at the phenomenon of Peepy lying on my
bed, and our attention was distracted by the constant apparition of
noses and fingers in situations of danger between the hinges of the
doors. It was impossible to shut the door of either room, for my
lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up; and
though the handle of Ada's went round and round with the greatest
smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever on the door.
Therefore I proposed to the children that they should come in and be
very good at my table, and I would tell them the story of Little Red
Riding Hood while I dressed; which they did, and were as quiet as
mice, including Peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of
the wolf.

When we went downstairs we found a mug with "A Present from Tunbridge
Wells" on it lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick,
and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage
blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door
with Mrs. Jellyby's room) and choking dreadfully. It smoked to that
degree, in short, that we all sat coughing and crying with the
windows open for half an hour, during which Mrs. Jellyby, with the
same sweetness of temper, directed letters about Africa. Her being so
employed was, I must say, a great relief to me, for Richard told us
that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish and that they had found
the kettle on his dressing-table, and he made Ada laugh so that they
made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner.

Soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner, carefully, by Mrs.
Jellyby's advice, for the stair-carpets, besides being very deficient
in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. We had a fine
cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an
excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was
almost raw. The young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and
dropped everything on the table wherever it happened to go, and never
moved it again until she put it on the stairs. The person I had seen
in pattens, who I suppose to have been the cook, frequently came and
skirmished with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill will
between them.

All through dinner--which was long, in consequence of such accidents
as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle and the
handle of the corkscrew coming off and striking the young woman in
the chin--Mrs. Jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposition. She
told us a great deal that was interesting about Borrioboola-Gha and
the natives, and received so many letters that Richard, who sat by
her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. Some of the letters
were proceedings of ladies' committees or resolutions of ladies'
meetings, which she read to us; others were applications from people
excited in various ways about the cultivation of coffee, and natives;
others required answers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from
the table three or four times to write. She was full of business and
undoubtedly was, as she had told us, devoted to the cause.

I was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in
spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top or
bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away and seemed
passively to submit himself to Borrioboola-Gha but not to be actively
interested in that settlement. As he never spoke a word, he might
have been a native but for his complexion. It was not until we left
the table and he remained alone with Richard that the possibility of
his being Mr. Jellyby ever entered my head. But he WAS Mr. Jellyby;
and a loquacious young man called Mr. Quale, with large shining knobs
for temples and his hair all brushed to the back of his head, who
came in the evening, and told Ada he was a philanthropist, also
informed her that he called the matrimonial alliance of Mrs. Jellyby
with Mr. Jellyby the union of mind and matter.

This young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself about
Africa and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to
teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export
trade, delighted in drawing Mrs. Jellyby out by saying, "I believe
now, Mrs. Jellyby, you have received as many as from one hundred and
fifty to two hundred letters respecting Africa in a single day, have
you not?" or, "If my memory does not deceive me, Mrs. Jellyby, you
once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand circulars from one
post-office at one time?"--always repeating Mrs. Jellyby's answer to
us like an interpreter. During the whole evening, Mr. Jellyby sat in
a corner with his head against the wall as if he were subject to low
spirits. It seemed that he had several times opened his mouth when
alone with Richard after dinner, as if he had something on his mind,
but had always shut it again, to Richard's extreme confusion, without
saying anything.

Mrs. Jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee
all the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. She
also held a discussion with Mr. Quale, of which the subject seemed to
be--if I understood it--the brotherhood of humanity, and gave
utterance to some beautiful sentiments. I was not so attentive an
auditor as I might have wished to be, however, for Peepy and the
other children came flocking about Ada and me in a corner of the
drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat down among them and
told them in whispers "Puss in Boots" and I don't know what else
until Mrs. Jellyby, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed.
As Peepy cried for me to take him to bed, I carried him upstairs,
where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst
of the little family like a dragon and overturned them into cribs.

After that I occupied myself in making our room a little tidy and in
coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted to burn, which at
last it did, quite brightly. On my return downstairs, I felt that
Mrs. Jellyby looked down upon me rather for being so frivolous, and I
was sorry for it, though at the same time I knew that I had no higher
pretensions.

It was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going to
bed, and even then we left Mrs. Jellyby among her papers drinking
coffee and Miss Jellyby biting the feather of her pen.

"What a strange house!" said Ada when we got upstairs. "How curious
of my cousin Jarndyce to send us here!"

"My love," said I, "it quite confuses me. I want to understand it,
and I can't understand it at all."

"What?" asked Ada with her pretty smile.

"All this, my dear," said I. "It MUST be very good of Mrs. Jellyby to
take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives--and
yet--Peepy and the housekeeping!"

Ada laughed and put her arm about my neck as I stood looking at the
fire, and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature and had won her
heart. "You are so thoughtful, Esther," she said, "and yet so
cheerful! And you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make a
home out of even this house."

My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praised
herself and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she
made so much of me!

"May I ask you a question?" said I when we had sat before the fire a
little while.

"Five hundred," said Ada.

"Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you mind
describing him to me?"

Shaking her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with such
laughing wonder that I was full of wonder too, partly at her beauty,
partly at her surprise.

"Esther!" she cried.

"My dear!"

"You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce?"

"My dear, I never saw him."

"And I never saw him!" returned Ada.

Well, to be sure!

No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died, she
remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of
him and of the noble generosity of his character, which she had said
was to be trusted above all earthly things; and Ada trusted it. Her
cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few months ago--"a plain, honest
letter," Ada said--proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on
and telling her that "in time it might heal some of the wounds made
by the miserable Chancery suit." She had replied, gratefully
accepting his proposal. Richard had received a similar letter and had
made a similar response. He HAD seen Mr. Jarndyce once, but only
once, five years ago, at Winchester school. He had told Ada, when
they were leaning on the screen before the fire where I found them,
that he recollected him as "a bluff, rosy fellow." This was the
utmost description Ada could give me.

It set me thinking so that when Ada was asleep, I still remained
before the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and
wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long
ago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered when they were
recalled by a tap at the door.

I opened it softly and found Miss Jellyby shivering there with a
broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup in
the other.

"Good night!" she said very sulkily.

"Good night!" said I.

"May I come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the same
sulky way.

"Certainly," said I. "Don't wake Miss Clare."

She would not sit down, but stood by the fire dipping her inky middle
finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over
the ink stains on her face, frowning the whole time and looking very
gloomy.

"I wish Africa was dead!" she said on a sudden.

I was going to remonstrate.

"I do!" she said "Don't talk to me, Miss Summerson. I hate it and
detest it. It's a beast!"

I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon her
head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now but would be
cool to-morrow. She still stood pouting and frowning at me, but
presently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bed
where Ada lay.

"She is very pretty!" she said with the same knitted brow and in the
same uncivil manner.

I assented with a smile.

"An orphan. Ain't she?"

"Yes."

"But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and
sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes,
and needlework, and everything?"

"No doubt," said I.

"I can't," she returned. "I can't do anything hardly, except write.
I'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not ashamed of
yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to do nothing
else. It was like your ill nature. Yet you think yourselves very
fine, I dare say!"

I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my
chair without speaking and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I felt
towards her.

"It's disgraceful," she said. "You know it is. The whole house is
disgraceful. The children are disgraceful. I'M disgraceful. Pa's
miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks--she's always drinking.
It's a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn't
smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner;
you know it was!"

"My dear, I don't know it," said I.

"You do," she said very shortly. "You shan't say you don't. You do!"

"Oh, my dear!" said I. "If you won't let me speak--"

"You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, Miss
Summerson."

"My dear," said I, "as long as you won't hear me out--"

"I don't want to hear you out."

"Oh, yes, I think you do," said I, "because that would be so very
unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me because the servant did
not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt what you tell me, and I
am sorry to hear it."

"You needn't make a merit of that," said she.

"No, my dear," said I. "That would be very foolish."

She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still
with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she came
softly back and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving
in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied, but I thought it
better not to speak.

"I wish I was dead!" she broke out. "I wish we were all dead. It
would be a great deal better for us."

In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her
face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I
comforted her and would have raised her, but she cried no, no; she
wanted to stay there!

"You used to teach girls," she said, "If you could only have taught
me, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and I like
you so much!"

I could not persuade her to sit by me or to do anything but move a
ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold
my dress in the same manner. By degrees the poor tired girl fell
asleep, and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest
on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and
all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I
was painfully awake and vainly tried to lose myself, with my eyes
closed, among the scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they
became indistinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the
sleeper resting on me. Now it was Ada, now one of my old Reading
friends from whom I could not believe I had so recently parted. Now
it was the little mad woman worn out with curtsying and smiling, now
some one in authority at Bleak House. Lastly, it was no one, and I
was no one.

The purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog when I opened my
eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon
me. Peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bed-gown and
cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he had cut
them all.




CHAPTER V

A Morning Adventure


Although the morning was raw, and although the fog still seemed
heavy--I say seemed, for the windows were so encrusted with dirt that
they would have made midsummer sunshine dim--I was sufficiently
forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that early hour and
sufficiently curious about London to think it a good idea on the part
of Miss Jellyby when she proposed that we should go out for a walk.

"Ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, "and then it's a
chance if breakfast's ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so.
As to Pa, he gets what he can and goes to the office. He never has
what you would call a regular breakfast. Priscilla leaves him out the
loaf and some milk, when there is any, overnight. Sometimes there
isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. But I'm afraid you
must be tired, Miss Summerson, and perhaps you would rather go to
bed."

"I am not at all tired, my dear," said I, "and would much prefer to
go out."

"If you're sure you would," returned Miss Jellyby, "I'll get my
things on."

Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. I made a proposal to
Peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for him, that
he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my bed
again. To this he submitted with the best grace possible, staring at
me during the whole operation as if he never had been, and never
could again be, so astonished in his life--looking very miserable
also, certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep
as soon as it was over. At first I was in two minds about taking such
a liberty, but I soon reflected that nobody in the house was likely
to notice it.

What with the bustle of dispatching Peepy and the bustle of getting
myself ready and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow. We found
Miss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room,
which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlour candlestick,
throwing the candle in to make it burn better. Everything was just as
we had left it last night and was evidently intended to remain so.
Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, but had been
left ready for breakfast. Crumbs, dust, and waste-paper were all over
the house. Some pewter pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings;
the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner coming out
of a public-house, wiping her mouth. She mentioned, as she passed us,
that she had been to see what o'clock it was.

But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was dancing up and
down Thavies Inn to warm his feet. He was agreeably surprised to see
us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk. So he
took care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went first. I may mention
that Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner and that I
really should not have thought she liked me much unless she had told
me so.

"Where would you wish to go?" she asked.

"Anywhere, my dear," I replied.

"Anywhere's nowhere," said Miss Jellyby, stopping perversely.

"Let us go somewhere at any rate," said I.

She then walked me on very fast.

"I don't care!" she said. "Now, you are my witness, Miss Summerson, I
say I don't care--but if he was to come to our house with his great,
shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as
Methuselah, I wouldn't have anything to say to him. Such ASSES as he
and Ma make of themselves!"

"My dear!" I remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet and the
vigorous emphasis Miss Jellyby set upon it. "Your duty as a child--"

"Oh! Don't talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where's Ma's duty
as a parent? All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose! Then
let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it's much more their
affair than mine. You are shocked, I dare say! Very well, so am I
shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there's an end of it!"

She walked me on faster yet.

"But for all that, I say again, he may come, and come, and come, and
I won't have anything to say to him. I can't bear him. If there's any
stuff in the world that I hate and detest, it's the stuff he and Ma
talk. I wonder the very paving-stones opposite our house can have the
patience to stay there and be a witness of such inconsistencies and
contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and Ma's management!"

I could not but understand her to refer to Mr. Quale, the young
gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. I was saved the
disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by Richard and Ada
coming up at a round pace, laughing and asking us if we meant to run
a race. Thus interrupted, Miss Jellyby became silent and walked
moodily on at my side while I admired the long successions and
varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and
fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy
preparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping
out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly
groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse.

"So, cousin," said the cheerful voice of Richard to Ada behind me.
"We are never to get out of Chancery! We have come by another way to
our place of meeting yesterday, and--by the Great Seal, here's the
old lady again!"

Truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtsying, and
smiling, and saying with her yesterday's air of patronage, "The wards
in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure!"

"You are out early, ma'am," said I as she curtsied to me.

"Ye-es! I usually walk here early. Before the court sits. It's
retired. I collect my thoughts here for the business of the day,"
said the old lady mincingly. "The business of the day requires a
great deal of thought. Chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to
follow."

"Who's this, Miss Summerson?" whispered Miss Jellyby, drawing my arm
tighter through her own.

The little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. She answered for
herself directly.

"A suitor, my child. At your service. I have the honour to attend
court regularly. With my documents. Have I the pleasure of addressing
another of the youthful parties in Jarndyce?" said the old lady,
recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low
curtsy.

Richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday,
good-naturedly explained that Miss Jellyby was not connected with the
suit.

"Ha!" said the old lady. "She does not expect a judgment? She will
still grow old. But not so old. Oh, dear, no! This is the garden of
Lincoln's Inn. I call it my garden. It is quite a bower in the
summer-time. Where the birds sing melodiously. I pass the greater
part of the long vacation here. In contemplation. You find the long
vacation exceedingly long, don't you?"

We said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so.

"When the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more
flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the Lord Chancellor's
court," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth
seal, mentioned in the Revelations, again prevails. Pray come and see
my lodging. It will be a good omen for me. Youth, and hope, and
beauty are very seldom there. It is a long, long time since I had a
visit from either."

She had taken my hand, and leading me and Miss Jellyby away, beckoned
Richard and Ada to come too. I did not know how to excuse myself and
looked to Richard for aid. As he was half amused and half curious and
all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady without offence, she
continued to lead us away, and he and Ada continued to follow, our
strange conductress informing us all the time, with much smiling
condescension, that she lived close by.

It was quite true, as it soon appeared. She lived so close by that we
had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments before she
was at home. Slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady
stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some
courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said,
"This is my lodging. Pray walk up!"

She had stopped at a shop over which was written KROOK, RAG AND
BOTTLE WAREHOUSE. Also, in long thin letters, KROOK, DEALER IN MARINE
STORES. In one part of the window was a picture of a red paper mill
at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of old rags. In
another was the inscription BONES BOUGHT. In another, KITCHEN-STUFF
BOUGHT. In another, OLD IRON BOUGHT. In another, WASTE-PAPER BOUGHT.
In another, LADIES' AND GENTLEMEN'S WARDROBES BOUGHT. Everything
seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold there. In all parts of the
window were quantities of dirty bottles--blacking bottles, medicine
bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine
bottles, ink bottles; I am reminded by mentioning the latter that the
shop had in several little particulars the air of being in a legal
neighbourhood and of being, as it were, a dirty hanger-on and
disowned relation of the law. There were a great many ink bottles.
There was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the
door, labelled "Law Books, all at 9d." Some of the inscriptions I
have enumerated were written in law-hand, like the papers I had seen
in Kenge and Carboy's office and the letters I had so long received
from the firm. Among them was one, in the same writing, having
nothing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a
respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to
execute with neatness and dispatch: Address to Nemo, care of Mr.
Krook, within. There were several second-hand bags, blue and red,
hanging up. A little way within the shop-door lay heaps of old
crackled parchment scrolls and discoloured and dog's-eared
law-papers. I could have fancied that all the rusty keys, of which
there must have been hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once
belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. The
litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged
wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might
have been counsellors' bands and gowns torn up. One had only to
fancy, as Richard whispered to Ada and me while we all stood looking
in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very
clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete.

As it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besides
by the wall of Lincoln's Inn, intercepting the light within a couple
of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern
that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in
the shop. Turning towards the door, he now caught sight of us. He was
short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between
his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth
as if he were on fire within. His throat, chin, and eyebrows were so
frosted with white hairs and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin
that he looked from his breast upward like some old root in a fall of
snow.

"Hi, hi!" said the old man, coming to the door. "Have you anything to
sell?"

We naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had been
trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from her
pocket, and to whom Richard now said that as we had had the pleasure
of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed for
time. But she was not to be so easily left. She became so
fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would
walk up and see her apartment for an instant, and was so bent, in her
harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired,
that I (whatever the others might do) saw nothing for it but to
comply. I suppose we were all more or less curious; at any rate, when
the old man added his persuasions to hers and said, "Aye, aye! Please
her! It won't take a minute! Come in, come in! Come in through the
shop if t'other door's out of order!" we all went in, stimulated by
Richard's laughing encouragement and relying on his protection.

"My landlord, Krook," said the little old lady, condescending to him
from her lofty station as she presented him to us. "He is called
among the neighbours the Lord Chancellor. His shop is called the
Court of Chancery. He is a very eccentric person. He is very odd. Oh,
I assure you he is very odd!"

She shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead with
her finger to express to us that we must have the goodness to excuse
him, "For he is a little--you know--M!" said the old lady with great
stateliness. The old man overheard, and laughed.

"It's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, "that
they call me the Lord Chancellor and call my shop Chancery. And why
do you think they call me the Lord Chancellor and my shop Chancery?"

"I don't know, I am sure!" said Richard rather carelessly.

"You see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they--Hi!
Here's lovely hair! I have got three sacks of ladies' hair below, but
none so beautiful and fine as this. What colour, and what texture!"

"That'll do, my good friend!" said Richard, strongly disapproving of
his having drawn one of Ada's tresses through his yellow hand. "You
can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty."

The old man darted at him a sudden look which even called my
attention from Ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably
beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the
little old lady herself. But as Ada interposed and laughingly said
she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, Mr. Krook
shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it.

"You see, I have so many things here," he resumed, holding up the
lantern, "of so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (but THEY
know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that's
why they have given me and my place a christening. And I have so many
old parchmentses and papers in my stock. And I have a liking for rust
and must and cobwebs. And all's fish that comes to my net. And I
can't abear to part with anything I once lay hold of (or so my
neighbours think, but what do THEY know?) or to alter anything, or to
have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on
about me. That's the way I've got the ill name of Chancery. I don't
mind. I go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day,
when he sits in the Inn. He don't notice me, but I notice him.
There's no great odds betwixt us. We both grub on in a muddle. Hi,
Lady Jane!"

A large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his shoulder
and startled us all.

"Hi! Show 'em how you scratch. Hi! Tear, my lady!" said her master.

The cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish
claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear.

"She'd do as much for any one I was to set her on," said the old man.
"I deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was
offered to me. It's a very fine skin, as you may see, but I didn't
have it stripped off! THAT warn't like Chancery practice though, says
you!"

He had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in
the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. As he stood with his
hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciously observed to him
before passing out, "That will do, Krook. You mean well, but are
tiresome. My young friends are pressed for time. I have none to spare
myself, having to attend court very soon. My young friends are the
wards in Jarndyce."

"Jarndyce!" said the old man with a start.

"Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The great suit, Krook," returned his lodger.

"Hi!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement and
with a wider stare than before. "Think of it!"

He seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at us that
Richard said, "Why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about
the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other
Chancellor!"

"Yes," said the old man abstractedly. "Sure! YOUR name now will be--"

"Richard Carstone."

"Carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his
forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon a
separate finger. "Yes. There was the name of Barbary, and the name of
Clare, and the name of Dedlock, too, I think."

"He knows as much of the cause as the real salaried Chancellor!" said
Richard, quite astonished, to Ada and me.

"Aye!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. "Yes!
Tom Jarndyce--you'll excuse me, being related; but he was never known
about court by any other name, and was as well known there as--she is
now," nodding slightly at his lodger. "Tom Jarndyce was often in
here. He got into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause
was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers and telling
'em to keep out of Chancery, whatever they did. 'For,' says he, 'it's
being ground to bits in a slow mill; it's being roasted at a slow
fire; it's being stung to death by single bees; it's being drowned by
drops; it's going mad by grains.' He was as near making away with
himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be."

We listened with horror.

"He come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing an
imaginary track along the shop, "on the day he did it--the whole
neighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of a
certainty sooner or later--he come in at the door that day, and
walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, and
asked me (you'll judge I was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch
him a pint of wine. 'For,' says he, 'Krook, I am much depressed; my
cause is on again, and I think I'm nearer judgment than I ever was.'
I hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and I persuaded him to go to the
tavern over the way there, t'other side my lane (I mean Chancery
Lane); and I followed and looked in at the window, and saw him,
comfortable as I thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company
with him. I hadn't hardly got back here when I heard a shot go
echoing and rattling right away into the inn. I ran out--neighbours
ran out--twenty of us cried at once, 'Tom Jarndyce!'"

The old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the lantern,
blew the light out, and shut the lantern up.

"We were right, I needn't tell the present hearers. Hi! To be sure,
how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the
cause was on! How my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of
'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they
hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if they
had--Oh, dear me!--nothing at all to do with it if they had heard of
it by any chance!"

Ada's colour had entirely left her, and Richard was scarcely less
pale. Nor could I wonder, judging even from my emotions, and I was no
party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh it was a shock
to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended in the
minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. I had another
uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to the poor
half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to my surprise,
she seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led the way
upstairs again, informing us with the toleration of a superior
creature for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlord was
"a little M, you know!"

She lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from which
she had a glimpse of Lincoln's Inn Hall. This seemed to have been her
principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence there.
She could look at it, she said, in the night, especially in the
moonshine. Her room was clean, but very, very bare. I noticed the
scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture; a few old prints from
books, of Chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and
some half-dozen reticles and work-bags, "containing documents," as
she informed us. There were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and
I saw no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. Upon a
shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so
forth, but all dry and empty. There was a more affecting meaning in
her pinched appearance, I thought as I looked round, than I had
understood before.

"Extremely honoured, I am sure," said our poor hostess with the
greatest suavity, "by this visit from the wards in Jarndyce. And very
much indebted for the omen. It is a retired situation. Considering. I
am limited as to situation. In consequence of the necessity of
attending on the Chancellor. I have lived here many years. I pass my
days in court, my evenings and my nights here. I find the nights
long, for I sleep but little and think much. That is, of course,
unavoidable, being in Chancery. I am sorry I cannot offer chocolate.
I expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on
a superior footing. At present, I don't mind confessing to the wards
in Jarndyce (in strict confidence) that I sometimes find it difficult
to keep up a genteel appearance. I have felt the cold here. I have
felt something sharper than cold. It matters very little. Pray excuse
the introduction of such mean topics."

She partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret window and
called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there, some
containing several birds. There were larks, linnets, and
goldfinches--I should think at least twenty.

"I began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with an object
that the wards will readily comprehend. With the intention of
restoring them to liberty. When my judgment should be given. Ye-es!
They die in prison, though. Their lives, poor silly things, are so
short in comparison with Chancery proceedings that, one by one, the
whole collection has died over and over again. I doubt, do you know,
whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be
free! Ve-ry mortifying, is it not?"

Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a
reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so when no
one but herself was present.

"Indeed," she pursued, "I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure
you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or
Great Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark and
senseless here, as I have found so many birds!"

Richard, answering what he saw in Ada's compassionate eyes, took the
opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the
chimney-piece. We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine
the birds.

"I can't allow them to sing much," said the little old lady, "for
(you'll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that
they are singing while I am following the arguments in court. And my
mind requires to be so very clear, you know! Another time, I'll tell
you their names. Not at present. On a day of such good omen, they
shall sing as much as they like. In honour of youth," a smile and
curtsy, "hope," a smile and curtsy, "and beauty," a smile and curtsy.
"There! We'll let in the full light."

The birds began to stir and chirp.

"I cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady--the room
was close, and would have been the better for it--"because the cat
you saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives. She
crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. I have
discovered," whispering mysteriously, "that her natural cruelty is
sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. In
consequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given. She is sly
and full of malice. I half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat,
but the wolf of the old saying. It is so very difficult to keep her
from the door."

Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was
half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to
an end than we could easily have done for ourselves. She hurriedly
took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the
table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court. On
our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she
opened the door to attend us downstairs.

"With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I
should be there before the Chancellor comes in," said she, "for he
might mention my case the first thing. I have a presentiment that he
WILL mention it the first thing this morning."

She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the
whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had
bought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being a
little M. This was on the first floor. But she had made a previous
stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at a dark door
there.

"The only other lodger," she now whispered in explanation, "a
law-writer. The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to
the devil. I don't know what he can have done with the money. Hush!"

She appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her even there,
and repeating "Hush!" went before us on tiptoe as though even the
sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said.

Passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through it
on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of
waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. He seemed to be working
hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a piece
of chalk by him, with which, as he put each separate package or
bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the panelling of the wall.

Richard and Ada, and Miss Jellyby, and the little old lady had gone
by him, and I was going when he touched me on the arm to stay me, and
chalked the letter J upon the wall--in a very curious manner,
beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. It was
a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any
clerk in Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's office would have made.

"Can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance.

"Surely," said I. "It's very plain."

"What is it?"

"J."

With another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out
and turned an "a" in its place (not a capital letter this time), and
said, "What's that?"

I told him. He then rubbed that out and turned the letter "r," and
asked me the same question. He went on quickly until he had formed in
the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the
letters, the word Jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the
wall together.

"What does that spell?" he asked me.

When I told him, he laughed. In the same odd way, yet with the same
rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters
forming the words Bleak House. These, in some astonishment, I also
read; and he laughed again.

"Hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk. "I have a turn for
copying from memory, you see, miss, though I can neither read nor
write."

He looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as if
I were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that I was quite
relieved by Richard's appearing at the door and saying, "Miss
Summerson, I hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair.
Don't be tempted. Three sacks below are quite enough for Mr. Krook!"

I lost no time in wishing Mr. Krook good morning and joining my
friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who gave
us her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance of
yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on Ada
and me. Before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back
and saw Mr. Krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles,
looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail
sticking up on one side of his hairy cap like a tall feather.

"Quite an adventure for a morning in London!" said Richard with a
sigh. "Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word this Chancery!"

"It is to me, and has been ever since I can remember," returned Ada.
"I am grieved that I should be the enemy--as I suppose I am--of a
great number of relations and others, and that they should be my
enemies--as I suppose they are--and that we should all be ruining one
another without knowing how or why and be in constant doubt and
discord all our lives. It seems very strange, as there must be right
somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to
find out through all these years where it is."

"Ah, cousin!" said Richard. "Strange, indeed! All this wasteful,
wanton chess-playing IS very strange. To see that composed court
yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness of
the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both
together. My head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were
neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could
possibly be either. But at all events, Ada--I may call you Ada?"

"Of course you may, cousin Richard."

"At all events, Chancery will work none of its bad influences on US.
We have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman,
and it can't divide us now!"

"Never, I hope, cousin Richard!" said Ada gently.

Miss Jellyby gave my arm a squeeze and me a very significant look. I
smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very
pleasantly.

In half an hour after our arrival, Mrs. Jellyby appeared; and in the
course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast
straggled one by one into the dining-room. I do not doubt that Mrs.
Jellyby had gone to bed and got up in the usual manner, but she
presented no appearance of having changed her dress. She was greatly
occupied during breakfast, for the morning's post brought a heavy
correspondence relative to Borrioboola-Gha, which would occasion her
(she said) to pass a busy day. The children tumbled about, and
notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which were
perfect little calendars of distress; and Peepy was lost for an hour
and a half, and brought home from Newgate market by a policeman. The
equable manner in which Mrs. Jellyby sustained both his absence and
his restoration to the family circle surprised us all.

She was by that time perseveringly dictating to Caddy, and Caddy was
fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. At
one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our
luggage. Mrs. Jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good
friend Mr. Jarndyce; Caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me
in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing on the steps;
Peepy, I am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of
separation (I was not without misgivings that he had gone to Newgate
market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the
barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great concern, scattered
over the surface of Thavies Inn as we rolled out of its precincts.




CHAPTER VI

Quite at Home


The day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we went
westward. We went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air,
wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the brilliancy
of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the
pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-coloured
flowers. By and by we began to leave the wonderful city and to
proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a
pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got into a real country
road again, with windmills, rick-yards, milestones, farmers' waggons,
scents of old hay, swinging signs, and horse troughs: trees, fields,
and hedge-rows. It was delightful to see the green landscape before
us and the immense metropolis behind; and when a waggon with a train
of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding
bells, came by us with its music, I believe we could all three have
sung to the bells, so cheerful were the influences around.

"The whole road has been reminding me of my namesake Whittington,"
said Richard, "and that waggon is the finishing touch. Halloa! What's
the matter?"

We had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. Its music changed as
the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling, except
when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and sprinkled off a
little shower of bell-ringing.

"Our postilion is looking after the waggoner," said Richard, "and the
waggoner is coming back after us. Good day, friend!" The waggoner was
at our coach-door. "Why, here's an extraordinary thing!" added
Richard, looking closely at the man. "He has got your name, Ada, in
his hat!"

He had all our names in his hat. Tucked within the band were three
small notes--one addressed to Ada, one to Richard, one to me. These
the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name
aloud first. In answer to Richard's inquiry from whom they came, he
briefly answered, "Master, sir, if you please"; and putting on his
hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened
his music, and went melodiously away.

"Is that Mr. Jarndyce's waggon?" said Richard, calling to our
post-boy.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "Going to London."

We opened the notes. Each was a counterpart of the other and
contained these words in a solid, plain hand.


   I look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and
   without constraint on either side. I therefore have to
   propose that we meet as old friends and take the past for
   granted. It will be a relief to you possibly, and to me
   certainly, and so my love to you.

   John Jarndyce


I had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my
companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one
who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through so
many years. I had not considered how I could thank him, my gratitude
lying too deep in my heart for that; but I now began to consider how
I could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be very
difficult indeed.

The notes revived in Richard and Ada a general impression that they
both had, without quite knowing how they came by it, that their
cousin Jarndyce could never bear acknowledgments for any kindness he
performed and that sooner than receive any he would resort to the
most singular expedients and evasions or would even run away. Ada
dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a very
little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon generosity
and that on her going to his house to thank him, he happened to see
her through a window coming to the door, and immediately escaped by
the back gate, and was not heard of for three months. This discourse
led to a great deal more on the same theme, and indeed it lasted us
all day, and we talked of scarcely anything else. If we did by any
chance diverge into another subject, we soon returned to this, and
wondered what the house would be like, and when we should get there,
and whether we should see Mr. Jarndyce as soon as we arrived or after
a delay, and what he would say to us, and what we should say to him.
All of which we wondered about, over and over again.

The roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was
generally good, so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and liked
it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground when we got
to the top. At Barnet there were other horses waiting for us, but as
they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them too, and got a
long fresh walk over a common and an old battle-field before the
carriage came up. These delays so protracted the journey that the
short day was spent and the long night had closed in before we came
to St. Albans, near to which town Bleak House was, we knew.

By that time we were so anxious and nervous that even Richard
confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to
feeling an irrational desire to drive back again. As to Ada and me,
whom he had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp and
frosty, we trembled from head to foot. When we turned out of the
town, round a corner, and Richard told us that the post-boy, who had
for a long time sympathized with our heightened expectation, was
looking back and nodding, we both stood up in the carriage (Richard
holding Ada lest she should be jolted down) and gazed round upon the
open country and the starlight night for our destination. There was a
light sparkling on the top of a hill before us, and the driver,
pointing to it with his whip and crying, "That's Bleak House!" put
his horses into a canter and took us forward at such a rate, uphill
though it was, that the wheels sent the road drift flying about our
heads like spray from a water-mill. Presently we lost the light,
presently saw it, presently lost it, presently saw it, and turned
into an avenue of trees and cantered up towards where it was beaming
brightly. It was in a window of what seemed to be an old-fashioned
house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep
leading to the porch. A bell was rung as we drew up, and amidst the
sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of
some dogs, and a gush of light from the opened door, and the smoking
and steaming of the heated horses, and the quickened beating of our
own hearts, we alighted in no inconsiderable confusion.

"Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I rejoice to see
you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at present, I would give it you!"

The gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitable
voice had one of his arms round Ada's waist and the other round mine,
and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall
into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. Here he
kissed us again, and opening his arms, made us sit down side by side
on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. I felt that if we had been
at all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment.

"Now, Rick!" said he. "I have a hand at liberty. A word in earnest is
as good as a speech. I am heartily glad to see you. You are at home.
Warm yourself!"

Richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of respect
and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestness that
rather alarmed me, I was so afraid of Mr. Jarndyce's suddenly
disappearing), "You are very kind, sir! We are very much obliged to
you!" laid aside his hat and coat and came up to the fire.

"And how did you like the ride? And how did you like Mrs. Jellyby, my
dear?" said Mr. Jarndyce to Ada.

While Ada was speaking to him in reply, I glanced (I need not say
with how much interest) at his face. It was a handsome, lively, quick
face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered
iron-grey. I took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was
upright, hearty, and robust. From the moment of his first speaking to
us his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind that
I could not define; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his
manner and a pleasant expression in his eyes recalled the gentleman
in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day of my journey to
Reading. I was certain it was he. I never was so frightened in my
life as when I made the discovery, for he caught my glance, and
appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look at the door that I
thought we had lost him.

However, I am happy to say he remained where he was, and asked me
what I thought of Mrs. Jellyby.

"She exerts herself very much for Africa, sir," I said.

"Nobly!" returned Mr. Jarndyce. "But you answer like Ada." Whom I had
not heard. "You all think something else, I see."

"We rather thought," said I, glancing at Richard and Ada, who
entreated me with their eyes to speak, "that perhaps she was a little
unmindful of her home."

"Floored!" cried Mr. Jarndyce.

I was rather alarmed again.

"Well! I want to know your real thoughts, my dear. I may have sent
you there on purpose."

"We thought that, perhaps," said I, hesitating, "it is right to begin
with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are
overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted
for them."

"The little Jellybys," said Richard, coming to my relief, "are
really--I can't help expressing myself strongly, sir--in a devil of a
state."

"She means well," said Mr. Jarndyce hastily. "The wind's in the
east."

"It was in the north, sir, as we came down," observed Richard.

"My dear Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, poking the fire, "I'll take an
oath it's either in the east or going to be. I am always conscious of
an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in
the east."

"Rheumatism, sir?" said Richard.

"I dare say it is, Rick. I believe it is. And so the little Jell--I
had my doubts about 'em--are in a--oh, Lord, yes, it's easterly!"
said Mr. Jarndyce.

He had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while uttering
these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand and rubbing
his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation at once so
whimsical and so lovable that I am sure we were more delighted with
him than we could possibly have expressed in any words. He gave an
arm to Ada and an arm to me, and bidding Richard bring a candle, was
leading the way out when he suddenly turned us all back again.

"Those little Jellybys. Couldn't you--didn't you--now, if it had
rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything of
that sort!" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Oh, cousin--" Ada hastily began.

"Good, my pretty pet. I like cousin. Cousin John, perhaps, is
better."

"Then, cousin John--" Ada laughingly began again.

"Ha, ha! Very good indeed!" said Mr. Jarndyce with great enjoyment.
"Sounds uncommonly natural. Yes, my dear?"

"It did better than that. It rained Esther."

"Aye?" said Mr. Jarndyce. "What did Esther do?"

"Why, cousin John," said Ada, clasping her hands upon his arm and
shaking her head at me across him--for I wanted her to be
quiet--"Esther was their friend directly. Esther nursed them, coaxed
them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them
quiet, bought them keepsakes"--My dear girl! I had only gone out with
Peepy after he was found and given him a little, tiny horse!--"and,
cousin John, she softened poor Caroline, the eldest one, so much and
was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! No, no, I won't be
contradicted, Esther dear! You know, you know, it's true!"

The warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin John and kissed me,
and then looking up in his face, boldly said, "At all events, cousin
John, I WILL thank you for the companion you have given me." I felt
as if she challenged him to run away. But he didn't.

"Where did you say the wind was, Rick?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.

"In the north as we came down, sir."

"You are right. There's no east in it. A mistake of mine. Come,
girls, come and see your home!"

It was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up and
down steps out of one room into another, and where you come upon more
rooms when you think you have seen all there are, and where there is
a bountiful provision of little halls and passages, and where you
find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places with lattice
windows and green growth pressing through them. Mine, which we
entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof that had
more corners in it than I ever counted afterwards and a chimney
(there was a wood fire on the hearth) paved all around with pure
white tiles, in every one of which a bright miniature of the fire was
blazing. Out of this room, you went down two steps into a charming
little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden, which room was
henceforth to belong to Ada and me. Out of this you went up three
steps into Ada's bedroom, which had a fine broad window commanding a
beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of darkness lying underneath
the stars), to which there was a hollow window-seat, in which, with a
spring-lock, three dear Adas might have been lost at once. Out of
this room you passed into a little gallery, with which the other best
rooms (only two) communicated, and so, by a little staircase of
shallow steps with a number of corner stairs in it, considering its
length, down into the hall. But if instead of going out at Ada's door
you came back into my room, and went out at the door by which you had
entered it, and turned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an
unexpected manner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages,
with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and a native Hindu
chair, which was also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked in
every form something between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage,
and had been brought from India nobody knew by whom or when. From
these you came on Richard's room, which was part library, part
sitting-room, part bedroom, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound
of many rooms. Out of that you went straight, with a little interval
of passage, to the plain room where Mr. Jarndyce slept, all the year
round, with his window open, his bedstead without any furniture
standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and his cold bath
gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. Out of that you came into
another passage, where there were back-stairs and where you could
hear the horses being rubbed down outside the stable and being told
to "Hold up" and "Get over," as they slipped about very much on the
uneven stones. Or you might, if you came out at another door (every
room had at least two doors), go straight down to the hall again by
half-a-dozen steps and a low archway, wondering how you got back
there or had ever got out of it.

The furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was as
pleasantly irregular. Ada's sleeping-room was all flowers--in chintz
and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two stiff
courtly chairs which stood, each attended by a little page of a stool
for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. Our sitting-room
was green and had framed and glazed upon the walls numbers of
surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a real
trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been served with
gravy; at the death of Captain Cook; and at the whole process of
preparing tea in China, as depicted by Chinese artists. In my room
there were oval engravings of the months--ladies haymaking in short
waists and large hats tied under the chin, for June; smooth-legged
noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to village steeples, for October.
Half-length portraits in crayons abounded all through the house, but
were so dispersed that I found the brother of a youthful officer of
mine in the china-closet and the grey old age of my pretty young
bride, with a flower in her bodice, in the breakfast-room. As
substitutes, I had four angels, of Queen Anne's reign, taking a
complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty;
and a composition in needlework representing fruit, a kettle, and an
alphabet. All the movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and
tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles
on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. They
agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, their display of the
whitest linen, and their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a
drawer, small or large, rendered it possible, of quantities of
rose-leaves and sweet lavender. Such, with its illuminated windows,
softened here and there by shadows of curtains, shining out upon the
starlight night; with its light, and warmth, and comfort; with its
hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner; with
the face of its generous master brightening everything we saw; and
just wind enough without to sound a low accompaniment to everything
we heard, were our first impressions of Bleak House.

"I am glad you like it," said Mr. Jarndyce when he had brought us
round again to Ada's sitting-room. "It makes no pretensions, but it
is a comfortable little place, I hope, and will be more so with such
bright young looks in it. You have barely half an hour before dinner.
There's no one here but the finest creature upon earth--a child."

"More children, Esther!" said Ada.

"I don't mean literally a child," pursued Mr. Jarndyce; "not a child
in years. He is grown up--he is at least as old as I am--but in
simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless
inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child."

We felt that he must be very interesting.

"He knows Mrs. Jellyby," said Mr. Jarndyce. "He is a musical man, an
amateur, but might have been a professional. He is an artist too, an
amateur, but might have been a professional. He is a man of
attainments and of captivating manners. He has been unfortunate in
his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his
family; but he don't care--he's a child!"

"Did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?" inquired
Richard.

"Yes, Rick! Half-a-dozen. More! Nearer a dozen, I should think. But
he has never looked after them. How could he? He wanted somebody to
look after HIM. He is a child, you know!" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"And have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?" inquired
Richard.

"Why, just as you may suppose," said Mr. Jarndyce, his countenance
suddenly falling. "It is said that the children of the very poor are
not brought up, but dragged up. Harold Skimpole's children have
tumbled up somehow or other. The wind's getting round again, I am
afraid. I feel it rather!"

Richard observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp night.

"It IS exposed," said Mr. Jarndyce. "No doubt that's the cause. Bleak
House has an exposed sound. But you are coming my way. Come along!"

Our luggage having arrived and being all at hand, I was dressed in a
few minutes and engaged in putting my worldly goods away when a maid
(not the one in attendance upon Ada, but another, whom I had not
seen) brought a basket into my room with two bunches of keys in it,
all labelled.

"For you, miss, if you please," said she.

"For me?" said I.

"The housekeeping keys, miss."

I showed my surprise, for she added with some little surprise on her
own part, "I was told to bring them as soon as you was alone, miss.
Miss Summerson, if I don't deceive myself?"

"Yes," said I. "That is my name."

"The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the
cellars, miss. Any time you was pleased to appoint to-morrow morning,
I was to show you the presses and things they belong to."

I said I would be ready at half-past six, and after she was gone,
stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust.
Ada found me thus and had such a delightful confidence in me when I
showed her the keys and told her about them that it would have been
insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. I knew, to be
sure, that it was the dear girl's kindness, but I liked to be so
pleasantly cheated.

When we went downstairs, we were presented to Mr. Skimpole, who was
standing before the fire telling Richard how fond he used to be, in
his school-time, of football. He was a little bright creature with a
rather large head, but a delicate face and a sweet voice, and there
was a perfect charm in him. All he said was so free from effort and
spontaneous and was said with such a captivating gaiety that it was
fascinating to hear him talk. Being of a more slender figure than Mr.
Jarndyce and having a richer complexion, with browner hair, he looked
younger. Indeed, he had more the appearance in all respects of a
damaged young man than a well-preserved elderly one. There was an
easy negligence in his manner and even in his dress (his hair
carelessly disposed, and his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, as I
have seen artists paint their own portraits) which I could not
separate from the idea of a romantic youth who had undergone some
unique process of depreciation. It struck me as being not at all like
the manner or appearance of a man who had advanced in life by the
usual road of years, cares, and experiences.

I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been educated
for the medical profession and had once lived, in his professional
capacity, in the household of a German prince. He told us, however,
that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and
measures and had never known anything about them (except that they
disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with the
requisite accuracy of detail. In fact, he said, he had no head for
detail. And he told us, with great humour, that when he was wanted to
bleed the prince or physic any of his people, he was generally found
lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers or making
fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn't come. The prince, at last,
objecting to this, "in which," said Mr. Skimpole, in the frankest
manner, "he was perfectly right," the engagement terminated, and Mr.
Skimpole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) "nothing to live
upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with
rosy cheeks." His good friend Jarndyce and some other of his good
friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to several
openings in life, but to no purpose, for he must confess to two of
the oldest infirmities in the world: one was that he had no idea of
time, the other that he had no idea of money. In consequence of which
he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business, and
never knew the value of anything! Well! So he had got on in life, and
here he was! He was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of
making fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond
of art. All he asked of society was to let him live. THAT wasn't
much. His wants were few. Give him the papers, conversation, music,
mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of
Bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. He was a
mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the moon. He said to
the world, "Go your several ways in peace! Wear red coats, blue
coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after
glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only--let
Harold Skimpole live!"

All this and a great deal more he told us, not only with the
utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious
candour--speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair,
as if Skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that Skimpole had
his singularities but still had his claims too, which were the
general business of the community and must not be slighted. He was
quite enchanting. If I felt at all confused at that early time in
endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything I had
thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which I am far
from sure of), I was confused by not exactly understanding why he was
free of them. That he WAS free of them, I scarcely doubted; he was so
very clear about it himself.

"I covet nothing," said Mr. Skimpole in the same light way.
"Possession is nothing to me. Here is my friend Jarndyce's excellent
house. I feel obliged to him for possessing it. I can sketch it and
alter it. I can set it to music. When I am here, I have sufficient
possession of it and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility.
My steward's name, in short, is Jarndyce, and he can't cheat me. We
have been mentioning Mrs. Jellyby. There is a bright-eyed woman, of a
strong will and immense power of business detail, who throws herself
into objects with surprising ardour! I don't regret that I have not a
strong will and an immense power of business detail to throw myself
into objects with surprising ardour. I can admire her without envy. I
can sympathize with the objects. I can dream of them. I can lie down
on the grass--in fine weather--and float along an African river,
embracing all the natives I meet, as sensible of the deep silence and
sketching the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately as if I
were there. I don't know that it's of any direct use my doing so, but
it's all I can do, and I do it thoroughly. Then, for heaven's sake,
having Harold Skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the
world, an agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to
let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other,
like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!"

It was plain enough that Mr. Jarndyce had not been neglectful of the
adjuration. Mr. Skimpole's general position there would have rendered
it so without the addition of what he presently said.

"It's only you, the generous creatures, whom I envy," said Mr.
Skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. "I
envy you your power of doing what you do. It is what I should revel
in myself. I don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. I almost feel as
if YOU ought to be grateful to ME for giving you the opportunity of
enjoying the luxury of generosity. I know you like it. For anything I
can tell, I may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of
increasing your stock of happiness. I may have been born to be a
benefactor to you by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting
me in my little perplexities. Why should I regret my incapacity for
details and worldly affairs when it leads to such pleasant
consequences? I don't regret it therefore."

Of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning what
they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of Mr. Jarndyce
than this. I had often new temptations, afterwards, to wonder whether
it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was
probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least occasion, should
so desire to escape the gratitude of others.

We were all enchanted. I felt it a merited tribute to the engaging
qualities of Ada and Richard that Mr. Skimpole, seeing them for the
first time, should be so unreserved and should lay himself out to be
so exquisitely agreeable. They (and especially Richard) were
naturally pleased, for similar reasons, and considered it no common
privilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. The
more we listened, the more gaily Mr. Skimpole talked. And what with
his fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and his genial way
of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, as if he had said, "I am
a child, you know! You are designing people compared with me" (he
really made me consider myself in that light) "but I am gay and
innocent; forget your worldly arts and play with me!" the effect was
absolutely dazzling.

He was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment for
what was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by that
alone. In the evening, when I was preparing to make tea and Ada was
touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming a tune to
her cousin Richard, which they had happened to mention, he came and
sat down on the sofa near me and so spoke of Ada that I almost loved
him.

"She is like the morning," he said. "With that golden hair, those
blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer
morning. The birds here will mistake her for it. We will not call
such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an
orphan. She is the child of the universe."

Mr. Jarndyce, I found, was standing near us with his hands behind him
and an attentive smile upon his face.

"The universe," he observed, "makes rather an indifferent parent, I
am afraid."

"Oh! I don't know!" cried Mr. Skimpole buoyantly.

"I think I do know," said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Well!" cried Mr. Skimpole. "You know the world (which in your sense
is the universe), and I know nothing of it, so you shall have your
way. But if I had mine," glancing at the cousins, "there should be no
brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. It should be
strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no
spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. Age or change
should never wither it. The base word money should never be breathed
near it!"

Mr. Jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had been
really a child, and passing a step or two on, and stopping a moment,
glanced at the young cousins. His look was thoughtful, but had a
benignant expression in it which I often (how often!) saw again,
which has long been engraven on my heart. The room in which they
were, communicating with that in which he stood, was only lighted by
the fire. Ada sat at the piano; Richard stood beside her, bending
down. Upon the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by
strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught from the unsteady
fire, though reflecting from motionless objects. Ada touched the
notes so softly and sang so low that the wind, sighing away to the
distant hills, was as audible as the music. The mystery of the future
and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present seemed
expressed in the whole picture.

But it is not to recall this fancy, well as I remember it, that I
recall the scene. First, I was not quite unconscious of the contrast
in respect of meaning and intention between the silent look directed
that way and the flow of words that had preceded it. Secondly, though
Mr. Jarndyce's glance as he withdrew it rested for but a moment on
me, I felt as if in that moment he confided to me--and knew that he
confided to me and that I received the confidence--his hope that Ada
and Richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship.

Mr. Skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncello, and he was
a composer--had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it--and
played what he composed with taste. After tea we had quite a little
concert, in which Richard--who was enthralled by Ada's singing and
told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were
written--and Mr. Jarndyce, and I were the audience. After a little
while I missed first Mr. Skimpole and afterwards Richard, and while I
was thinking how could Richard stay away so long and lose so much,
the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, "If
you please, miss, could you spare a minute?"

When I was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her
hands, "Oh, if you please, miss, Mr. Carstone says would you come
upstairs to Mr. Skimpole's room. He has been took, miss!"

"Took?" said I.

"Took, miss. Sudden," said the maid.

I was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind, but
of course I begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one and
collected myself, as I followed her quickly upstairs, sufficiently to
consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove
to be a fit. She threw open a door and I went into a chamber, where,
to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding Mr. Skimpole stretched
upon the bed or prostrate on the floor, I found him standing before
the fire smiling at Richard, while Richard, with a face of great
embarrassment, looked at a person on the sofa, in a white great-coat,
with smooth hair upon his head and not much of it, which he was
wiping smoother and making less of with a pocket-handkerchief.

"Miss Summerson," said Richard hurriedly, "I am glad you are come.
You will be able to advise us. Our friend Mr. Skimpole--don't be
alarmed!--is arrested for debt."

"And really, my dear Miss Summerson," said Mr. Skimpole with his
agreeable candour, "I never was in a situation in which that
excellent sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which
anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter
of an hour in your society, was more needed."

The person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head, gave
such a very loud snort that he startled me.

"Are you arrested for much, sir?" I inquired of Mr. Skimpole.

"My dear Miss Summerson," said he, shaking his head pleasantly, "I
don't know. Some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, I think, were
mentioned."

"It's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha'penny," observed
the stranger. "That's wot it is."

"And it sounds--somehow it sounds," said Mr. Skimpole, "like a small
sum?"

The strange man said nothing but made another snort. It was such a
powerful one that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat.

"Mr. Skimpole," said Richard to me, "has a delicacy in applying to my
cousin Jarndyce because he has lately--I think, sir, I understood you
that you had lately--"

"Oh, yes!" returned Mr. Skimpole, smiling. "Though I forgot how much
it was and when it was. Jarndyce would readily do it again, but I
have the epicure-like feeling that I would prefer a novelty in help,
that I would rather," and he looked at Richard and me, "develop
generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower."

"What do you think will be best, Miss Summerson?" said Richard,
aside.

I ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what would happen
if the money were not produced.

"Jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into
his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. "Or Coavinses."

"May I ask, sir, what is--"

"Coavinses?" said the strange man. "A 'ouse."

Richard and I looked at one another again. It was a most singular
thing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not Mr. Skimpole's.
He observed us with a genial interest, but there seemed, if I may
venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. He had
entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours.

"I thought," he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out, "that
being parties in a Chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large
amount of property, Mr. Richard or his beautiful cousin, or both,
could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of
undertaking, or pledge, or bond? I don't know what the business name
of it may be, but I suppose there is some instrument within their
power that would settle this?"

"Not a bit on it," said the strange man.

"Really?" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That seems odd, now, to one who is
no judge of these things!"

"Odd or even," said the stranger gruffly, "I tell you, not a bit on
it!"

"Keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!" Mr. Skimpole
gently reasoned with him as he made a little drawing of his head on
the fly-leaf of a book. "Don't be ruffled by your occupation. We can
separate you from your office; we can separate the individual from
the pursuit. We are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private
life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal
of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious."

The stranger only answered with another violent snort, whether in
acceptance of the poetry-tribute or in disdainful rejection of it, he
did not express to me.

"Now, my dear Miss Summerson, and my dear Mr. Richard," said Mr.
Skimpole gaily, innocently, and confidingly as he looked at his
drawing with his head on one side, "here you see me utterly incapable
of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! I only ask to be free.
The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold
Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!"

"My dear Miss Summerson," said Richard in a whisper, "I have ten
pounds that I received from Mr. Kenge. I must try what that will do."

I possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which I had saved from my
quarterly allowance during several years. I had always thought that
some accident might happen which would throw me suddenly, without any
relation or any property, on the world and had always tried to keep
some little money by me that I might not be quite penniless. I told
Richard of my having this little store and having no present need of
it, and I asked him delicately to inform Mr. Skimpole, while I should
be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of paying his
debt.

When I came back, Mr. Skimpole kissed my hand and seemed quite
touched. Not on his own account (I was again aware of that perplexing
and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours, as if personal
considerations were impossible with him and the contemplation of our
happiness alone affected him. Richard, begging me, for the greater
grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle with Coavinses (as
Mr. Skimpole now jocularly called him), I counted out the money and
received the necessary acknowledgment. This, too, delighted Mr.
Skimpole.

His compliments were so delicately administered that I blushed less
than I might have done and settled with the stranger in the white
coat without making any mistakes. He put the money in his pocket and
shortly said, "Well, then, I'll wish you a good evening, miss.

"My friend," said Mr. Skimpole, standing with his back to the fire
after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, "I should like
to ask you something, without offence."

I think the reply was, "Cut away, then!"

"Did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on this
errand?" said Mr. Skimpole.

"Know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea-time," said Coavinses.

"It didn't affect your appetite? Didn't make you at all uneasy?"

"Not a bit," said Coavinses. "I know'd if you wos missed to-day, you
wouldn't be missed to-morrow. A day makes no such odds."

"But when you came down here," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, "it was a fine
day. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights and
shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing."

"Nobody said they warn't, in MY hearing," returned Coavinses.

"No," observed Mr. Skimpole. "But what did you think upon the road?"

"Wot do you mean?" growled Coavinses with an appearance of strong
resentment. "Think! I've got enough to do, and little enough to get
for it without thinking. Thinking!" (with profound contempt).

"Then you didn't think, at all events," proceeded Mr. Skimpole, "to
this effect: 'Harold Skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to
hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows,
loves to hear the birds, those choristers in Nature's great
cathedral. And does it seem to me that I am about to deprive Harold
Skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his only
birthright!' You thought nothing to that effect?"

"I--certainly--did--NOT," said Coavinses, whose doggedness in utterly
renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he could only give
adequate expression to it by putting a long interval between each
word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might have
dislocated his neck.

"Very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of
business!" said Mr. Skimpole thoughtfully. "Thank you, my friend.
Good night."

As our absence had been long enough already to seem strange
downstairs, I returned at once and found Ada sitting at work by the
fireside talking to her cousin John. Mr. Skimpole presently appeared,
and Richard shortly after him. I was sufficiently engaged during the
remainder of the evening in taking my first lesson in backgammon from
Mr. Jarndyce, who was very fond of the game and from whom I wished of
course to learn it as quickly as I could in order that I might be of
the very small use of being able to play when he had no better
adversary. But I thought, occasionally, when Mr. Skimpole played some
fragments of his own compositions or when, both at the piano and the
violoncello, and at our table, he preserved with an absence of all
effort his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation, that
Richard and I seemed to retain the transferred impression of having
been arrested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether.

It was late before we separated, for when Ada was going at eleven
o'clock, Mr. Skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariously that
the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours
from night, my dear! It was past twelve before he took his candle and
his radiant face out of the room, and I think he might have kept us
there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. Ada and Richard were
lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether Mrs.
Jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day, when Mr.
Jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned.

"Oh, dear me, what's this, what's this!" he said, rubbing his head
and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. "What's this they
tell me? Rick, my boy, Esther, my dear, what have you been doing? Why
did you do it? How could you do it? How much apiece was it? The
wind's round again. I feel it all over me!"

We neither of us quite knew what to answer.

"Come, Rick, come! I must settle this before I sleep. How much are
you out of pocket? You two made the money up, you know! Why did you?
How could you? Oh, Lord, yes, it's due east--must be!"

"Really, sir," said Richard, "I don't think it would be honourable in
me to tell you. Mr. Skimpole relied upon us--"

"Lord bless you, my dear boy! He relies upon everybody!" said Mr.
Jarndyce, giving his head a great rub and stopping short.

"Indeed, sir?"

"Everybody! And he'll be in the same scrape again next week!" said
Mr. Jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in his
hand that had gone out. "He's always in the same scrape. He was born
in the same scrape. I verily believe that the announcement in the
newspapers when his mother was confined was 'On Tuesday last, at her
residence in Botheration Buildings, Mrs. Skimpole of a son in
difficulties.'"

Richard laughed heartily but added, "Still, sir, I don't want to
shake his confidence or to break his confidence, and if I submit to
your better knowledge again, that I ought to keep his secret, I hope
you will consider before you press me any more. Of course, if you do
press me, sir, I shall know I am wrong and will tell you."

"Well!" cried Mr. Jarndyce, stopping again, and making several absent
endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. "I--here! Take it
away, my dear. I don't know what I am about with it; it's all the
wind--invariably has that effect--I won't press you, Rick; you may be
right. But really--to get hold of you and Esther--and to squeeze you
like a couple of tender young Saint Michael's oranges! It'll blow a
gale in the course of the night!"

He was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if he
were going to keep them there a long time, and taking them out again
and vehemently rubbing them all over his head.

I ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that Mr. Skimpole,
being in all such matters quite a child--

"Eh, my dear?" said Mr. Jarndyce, catching at the word.

"Being quite a child, sir," said I, "and so different from other
people--"

"You are right!" said Mr. Jarndyce, brightening. "Your woman's wit
hits the mark. He is a child--an absolute child. I told you he was a
child, you know, when I first mentioned him."

Certainly! Certainly! we said.

"And he IS a child. Now, isn't he?" asked Mr. Jarndyce, brightening
more and more.

He was indeed, we said.

"When you come to think of it, it's the height of childishness in
you--I mean me--" said Mr. Jarndyce, "to regard him for a moment as a
man. You can't make HIM responsible. The idea of Harold Skimpole with
designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! Ha, ha, ha!"

It was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face clearing,
and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was impossible
not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the goodness which
was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or secretly accusing any
one, that I saw the tears in Ada's eyes, while she echoed his laugh,
and felt them in my own.

"Why, what a cod's head and shoulders I am," said Mr. Jarndyce, "to
require reminding of it! The whole business shows the child from
beginning to end. Nobody but a child would have thought of singling
YOU two out for parties in the affair! Nobody but a child would have
thought of YOUR having the money! If it had been a thousand pounds,
it would have been just the same!" said Mr. Jarndyce with his whole
face in a glow.

We all confirmed it from our night's experience.

"To be sure, to be sure!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "However, Rick, Esther,
and you too, Ada, for I don't know that even your little purse is
safe from his inexperience--I must have a promise all round that
nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. No advances! Not
even sixpences."

We all promised faithfully, Richard with a merry glance at me
touching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger of
OUR transgressing.

"As to Skimpole," said Mr. Jarndyce, "a habitable doll's house with
good board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow
money of would set the boy up in life. He is in a child's sleep by
this time, I suppose; it's time I should take my craftier head to my
more worldly pillow. Good night, my dears. God bless you!"

He peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted our
candles, and said, "Oh! I have been looking at the weather-cock. I
find it was a false alarm about the wind. It's in the south!" And
went away singing to himself.

Ada and I agreed, as we talked together for a little while upstairs,
that this caprice about the wind was a fiction and that he used the
pretence to account for any disappointment he could not conceal,
rather than he would blame the real cause of it or disparage or
depreciate any one. We thought this very characteristic of his
eccentric gentleness and of the difference between him and those
petulant people who make the weather and the winds (particularly that
unlucky wind which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the
stalking-horses of their splenetic and gloomy humours.

Indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one evening
to my gratitude that I hoped I already began to understand him
through that mingled feeling. Any seeming inconsistencies in Mr.
Skimpole or in Mrs. Jellyby I could not expect to be able to
reconcile, having so little experience or practical knowledge.
Neither did I try, for my thoughts were busy when I was alone, with
Ada and Richard and with the confidence I had seemed to receive
concerning them. My fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps,
would not consent to be all unselfish, either, though I would have
persuaded it to be so if I could. It wandered back to my godmother's
house and came along the intervening track, raising up shadowy
speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the dark as to
what knowledge Mr. Jarndyce had of my earliest history--even as to
the possibility of his being my father, though that idle dream was
quite gone now.

It was all gone now, I remembered, getting up from the fire. It was
not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spirit
and a grateful heart. So I said to myself, "Esther, Esther, Esther!
Duty, my dear!" and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such a
shake that they sounded like little bells and rang me hopefully to
bed.




CHAPTER VII

The Ghost's Walk


While Esther sleeps, and while Esther wakes, it is still wet weather
down at the place in Lincolnshire. The rain is ever falling--drip,
drip, drip--by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pavement,
the Ghost's Walk. The weather is so very bad down in Lincolnshire
that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being
fine again. Not that there is any superabundant life of imagination
on the spot, for Sir Leicester is not here (and, truly, even if he
were, would not do much for it in that particular), but is in Paris
with my Lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon
Chesney Wold.

There may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals at Chesney
Wold. The horses in the stables--the long stables in a barren,
red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in a turret, and a
clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live near it and who
love to perch upon its shoulders seem to be always consulting--THEY
may contemplate some mental pictures of fine weather on occasions,
and may be better artists at them than the grooms. The old roan, so
famous for cross-country work, turning his large eyeball to the
grated window near his rack, may remember the fresh leaves that
glisten there at other times and the scents that stream in, and may
have a fine run with the hounds, while the human helper, clearing out
the next stall, never stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. The
grey, whose place is opposite the door and who with an impatient
rattle of his halter pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully
when it is opened, and to whom the opener says, "Woa grey, then,
steady! Noabody wants you to-day!" may know it quite as well as the
man. The whole seemingly monotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen,
stabled together, may pass the long wet hours when the door is shut
in livelier communication than is held in the servants' hall or at
the Dedlock Arms, or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps
corrupting) the pony in the loose-box in the corner.

So the mastiff, dozing in his kennel in the court-yard with his large
head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine when the shadows of
the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing and leave him
at one time of the day no broader refuge than the shadow of his own
house, where he sits on end, panting and growling short, and very
much wanting something to worry besides himself and his chain. So
now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall the house full of
company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables full of
horses, and the out-buildings full of attendants upon horses, until
he is undecided about the present and comes forth to see how it is.
Then, with that impatient shake of himself, he may growl in the
spirit, "Rain, rain, rain! Nothing but rain--and no family here!" as
he goes in again and lies down with a gloomy yawn.

So with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who have
their restless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has been
very obstinate have even made it known in the house itself--upstairs,
downstairs, and in my Lady's chamber. They may hunt the whole
country-side, while the raindrops are pattering round their
inactivity. So the rabbits with their self-betraying tails, frisking
in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively with ideas of
the breezy days when their ears are blown about or of those seasons
of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. The turkey in
the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance (probably
Christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morning wrongfully
taken from him when he got into the lane among the felled trees,
where there was a barn and barley. The discontented goose, who stoops
to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, may gabble out, if
we only knew it, a waddling preference for weather when the gateway
casts its shadow on the ground.

Be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at
Chesney Wold. If there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, like a
little noise in that old echoing place, a long way and usually leads
off to ghosts and mystery.

It has rained so hard and rained so long down in Lincolnshire that
Mrs. Rouncewell, the old housekeeper at Chesney Wold, has several
times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certain that
the drops were not upon the glasses. Mrs. Rouncewell might have been
sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather
deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. She is a fine old
lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such a back and
such a stomacher that if her stays should turn out when she dies to
have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate, nobody who knows
her would have cause to be surprised. Weather affects Mrs. Rouncewell
little. The house is there in all weathers, and the house, as she
expresses it, "is what she looks at." She sits in her room (in a side
passage on the ground floor, with an arched window commanding a
smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular intervals with smooth round
trees and smooth round blocks of stone, as if the trees were going to
play at bowls with the stones), and the whole house reposes on her
mind. She can open it on occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it
is shut up now and lies on the breadth of Mrs. Rouncewell's
iron-bound bosom in a majestic sleep.

It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine Chesney
Wold without Mrs. Rouncewell, but she has only been here fifty years.
Ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shall answer "fifty year,
three months, and a fortnight, by the blessing of heaven, if I live
till Tuesday." Mr. Rouncewell died some time before the decease of
the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly hid his own (if he took
it with him) in a corner of the churchyard in the park near the
mouldy porch. He was born in the market-town, and so was his young
widow. Her progress in the family began in the time of the last Sir
Leicester and originated in the still-room.

The present representative of the Dedlocks is an excellent master. He
supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual
characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was
born to supersede the necessity of their having any. If he were to
make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned--would
never recover himself, most likely, except to gasp and die. But he is
an excellent master still, holding it a part of his state to be so.
He has a great liking for Mrs. Rouncewell; he says she is a most
respectable, creditable woman. He always shakes hands with her when
he comes down to Chesney Wold and when he goes away; and if he were
very ill, or if he were knocked down by accident, or run over, or
placed in any situation expressive of a Dedlock at a disadvantage, he
would say if he could speak, "Leave me, and send Mrs. Rouncewell
here!" feeling his dignity, at such a pass, safer with her than with
anybody else.

Mrs. Rouncewell has known trouble. She has had two sons, of whom the
younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back. Even
to this hour, Mrs. Rouncewell's calm hands lose their composure when
she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from her stomacher, hover
about her in an agitated manner as she says what a likely lad, what a
fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever lad he was! Her second
son would have been provided for at Chesney Wold and would have been
made steward in due season, but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to
constructing steam-engines out of saucepans and setting birds to draw
their own water with the least possible amount of labour, so
assisting them with artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure that a
thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to
the wheel and the job was done. This propensity gave Mrs. Rouncewell
great uneasiness. She felt it with a mother's anguish to be a move in
the Wat Tyler direction, well knowing that Sir Leicester had that
general impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a
tall chimney might be considered essential. But the doomed young
rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign
of grace as he got older but, on the contrary, constructing a model
of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention his
backslidings to the baronet. "Mrs. Rouncewell," said Sir Leicester,
"I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any
subject. You had better get rid of your boy; you had better get him
into some Works. The iron country farther north is, I suppose, the
congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies." Farther north
he went, and farther north he grew up; and if Sir Leicester Dedlock
ever saw him when he came to Chesney Wold to visit his mother, or
ever thought of him afterwards, it is certain that he only regarded
him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspirators, swarthy and
grim, who were in the habit of turning out by torchlight two or three
nights in the week for unlawful purposes.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Rouncewell's son has, in the course of nature and
art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called unto
him Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson, who, being out of his apprenticeship,
and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to
enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations for the venture
of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day
in Mrs. Rouncewell's room at Chesney Wold.

"And, again and again, I am glad to see you, Watt! And, once again, I
am glad to see you, Watt!" says Mrs. Rouncewell. "You are a fine
young fellow. You are like your poor uncle George. Ah!" Mrs.
Rouncewell's hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference.

"They say I am like my father, grandmother."

"Like him, also, my dear--but most like your poor uncle George! And
your dear father." Mrs. Rouncewell folds her hands again. "He is
well?"

"Thriving, grandmother, in every way."

"I am thankful!" Mrs. Rouncewell is fond of her son but has a
plaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourable
soldier who had gone over to the enemy.

"He is quite happy?" says she.

"Quite."

"I am thankful! So he has brought you up to follow in his ways and
has sent you into foreign countries and the like? Well, he knows
best. There may be a world beyond Chesney Wold that I don't
understand. Though I am not young, either. And I have seen a quantity
of good company too!"

"Grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, "what a very
pretty girl that was I found with you just now. You called her Rosa?"

"Yes, child. She is daughter of a widow in the village. Maids are so
hard to teach, now-a-days, that I have put her about me young. She's
an apt scholar and will do well. She shows the house already, very
pretty. She lives with me at my table here."

"I hope I have not driven her away?"

"She supposes we have family affairs to speak about, I dare say. She
is very modest. It is a fine quality in a young woman. And scarcer,"
says Mrs. Rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits,
"than it formerly was!"

The young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the precepts of
experience. Mrs. Rouncewell listens.

"Wheels!" says she. They have long been audible to the younger ears
of her companion. "What wheels on such a day as this, for gracious
sake?"

After a short interval, a tap at the door. "Come in!" A dark-eyed,
dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in--so fresh in her rosy and
yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which have beaten on her
hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered.

"What company is this, Rosa?" says Mrs. Rouncewell.

"It's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the house--yes,
and if you please, I told them so!" in quick reply to a gesture of
dissent from the housekeeper. "I went to the hall-door and told them
it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who was
driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me to bring this card
to you."

"Read it, my dear Watt," says the housekeeper.

Rosa is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it between them
and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up. Rosa is
shyer than before.

"Mr. Guppy" is all the information the card yields.

"Guppy!" repeats Mrs. Rouncewell, "MR. Guppy! Nonsense, I never heard
of him!"

"If you please, he told ME that!" says Rosa. "But he said that he and
the other young gentleman came from London only last night by the
mail, on business at the magistrates' meeting, ten miles off, this
morning, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard
a great deal said of Chesney Wold, and really didn't know what to do
with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. They are
lawyers. He says he is not in Mr. Tulkinghorn's office, but he is
sure he may make use of Mr. Tulkinghorn's name if necessary."
Finding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long
speech, Rosa is shyer than ever.

Now, Mr. Tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place,
and besides, is supposed to have made Mrs. Rouncewell's will. The old
lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favour,
and dismisses Rosa. The grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden
wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party. The
grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest,
accompanies him--though to do him justice, he is exceedingly
unwilling to trouble her.

"Much obliged to you, ma'am!" says Mr. Guppy, divesting himself of
his wet dreadnought in the hall. "Us London lawyers don't often get
an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know."

The old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves
her hand towards the great staircase. Mr. Guppy and his friend follow
Rosa; Mrs. Rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a young gardener
goes before to open the shutters.

As is usually the case with people who go over houses, Mr. Guppy and
his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. They straggle
about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don't care for the right
things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression
of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. In each successive chamber
that they enter, Mrs. Rouncewell, who is as upright as the house
itself, rests apart in a window-seat or other such nook and listens
with stately approval to Rosa's exposition. Her grandson is so
attentive to it that Rosa is shyer than ever--and prettier. Thus they
pass on from room to room, raising the pictured Dedlocks for a few
brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and
reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts it out again. It
appears to the afflicted Mr. Guppy and his inconsolable friend that
there is no end to the Dedlocks, whose family greatness seems to
consist in their never having done anything to distinguish themselves
for seven hundred years.

Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr. Guppy's
spirits. He is so low that he droops on the threshold and has hardly
strength of mind to enter. But a portrait over the chimney-piece,
painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like a
charm. He recovers in a moment. He stares at it with uncommon
interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it.

"Dear me!" says Mr. Guppy. "Who's that?"

"The picture over the fire-place," says Rosa, "is the portrait of the
present Lady Dedlock. It is considered a perfect likeness, and the
best work of the master."

"Blest," says Mr. Guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend,
"if I can ever have seen her. Yet I know her! Has the picture been
engraved, miss?"

"The picture has never been engraved. Sir Leicester has always
refused permission."

"Well!" says Mr. Guppy in a low voice. "I'll be shot if it ain't very
curious how well I know that picture! So that's Lady Dedlock, is it!"

"The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock. The
picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester."

Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. "It's
unaccountable to me," he says, still staring at the portrait, "how
well I know that picture! I'm dashed," adds Mr. Guppy, looking round,
"if I don't think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!"

As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy's dreams,
the probability is not pursued. But he still remains so absorbed by
the portrait that he stands immovable before it until the young
gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out of the room in a
dazed state that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for
interest and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare,
as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlock again.

He sees no more of her. He sees her rooms, which are the last shown,
as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she
looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death.
All things have an end, even houses that people take infinite pains
to see and are tired of before they begin to see them. He has come to
the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her
description; which is always this: "The terrace below is much
admired. It is called, from an old story in the family, the Ghost's
Walk."

"No?" says Mr. Guppy, greedily curious. "What's the story, miss? Is
it anything about a picture?"

"Pray tell us the story," says Watt in a half whisper.

"I don't know it, sir." Rosa is shyer than ever.

"It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten," says the
housekeeper, advancing. "It has never been more than a family
anecdote."

"You'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a
picture, ma'am," observes Mr. Guppy, "because I do assure you that
the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without
knowing how I know it!"

The story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can
guarantee that. Mr. Guppy is obliged to her for the information and
is, moreover, generally obliged. He retires with his friend, guided
down another staircase by the young gardener, and presently is heard
to drive away. It is now dusk. Mrs. Rouncewell can trust to the
discretion of her two young hearers and may tell THEM how the terrace
came to have that ghostly name.

She seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window and
tells them: "In the wicked days, my dears, of King Charles the
First--I mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who
leagued themselves against that excellent king--Sir Morbury Dedlock
was the owner of Chesney Wold. Whether there was any account of a
ghost in the family before those days, I can't say. I should think it
very likely indeed."

Mrs. Rouncewell holds this opinion because she considers that a
family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. She
regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes, a
genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim.

"Sir Morbury Dedlock," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "was, I have no occasion
to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. But it IS supposed that
his Lady, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favoured the
bad cause. It is said that she had relations among King Charles's
enemies, that she was in correspondence with them, and that she gave
them information. When any of the country gentlemen who followed his
Majesty's cause met here, it is said that my Lady was always nearer
to the door of their council-room than they supposed. Do you hear a
sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, Watt?"

Rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper.

"I hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, "and I
hear a curious echo--I suppose an echo--which is very like a halting
step."

The housekeeper gravely nods and continues: "Partly on account of
this division between them, and partly on other accounts, Sir Morbury
and his Lady led a troubled life. She was a lady of a haughty temper.
They were not well suited to each other in age or character, and they
had no children to moderate between them. After her favourite
brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by Sir
Morbury's near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated
the race into which she had married. When the Dedlocks were about to
ride out from Chesney Wold in the king's cause, she is supposed to
have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night
and lamed their horses; and the story is that once at such an hour,
her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed her into the
stall where his own favourite horse stood. There he seized her by the
wrist, and in a struggle or in a fall or through the horse being
frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the hip and from that
hour began to pine away."

The housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little more than a
whisper.

"She had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. She
never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of being
crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk upon
the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and
down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater
difficulty every day. At last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she
had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night),
standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement.
He hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over
her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, 'I will die here
where I have walked. And I will walk here, though I am in my grave. I
will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled. And when
calamity or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen
for my step!'"

Watt looks at Rosa. Rosa in the deepening gloom looks down upon the
ground, half frightened and half shy.

"There and then she died. And from those days," says Mrs. Rouncewell,
"the name has come down--the Ghost's Walk. If the tread is an echo,
it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often unheard for
a long while together. But it comes back from time to time; and so
sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard
then."

"And disgrace, grandmother--" says Watt.

"Disgrace never comes to Chesney Wold," returns the housekeeper.

Her grandson apologizes with "True. True."

"That is the story. Whatever the sound is, it is a worrying sound,"
says Mrs. Rouncewell, getting up from her chair; "and what is to be
noticed in it is that it MUST BE HEARD. My Lady, who is afraid of
nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. You cannot
shut it out. Watt, there is a tall French clock behind you (placed
there, 'a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion and can
play music. You understand how those things are managed?"

"Pretty well, grandmother, I think."

"Set it a-going."

Watt sets it a-going--music and all.

"Now, come hither," says the housekeeper. "Hither, child, towards my
Lady's pillow. I am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen!
Can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music, and the
beat, and everything?"

"I certainly can!"

"So my Lady says."




CHAPTER VIII

Covering a Multitude of Sins


It was interesting when I dressed before daylight to peep out of
window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like
two beacons, and finding all beyond still enshrouded in the
indistinctness of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day
came on. As the prospect gradually revealed itself and disclosed the
scene over which the wind had wandered in the dark, like my memory
over my life, I had a pleasure in discovering the unknown objects
that had been around me in my sleep. At first they were faintly
discernible in the mist, and above them the later stars still
glimmered. That pale interval over, the picture began to enlarge and
fill up so fast that at every new peep I could have found enough
to look at for an hour. Imperceptibly my candles became the only
incongruous part of the morning, the dark places in my room all
melted away, and the day shone bright upon a cheerful landscape,
prominent in which the old Abbey Church, with its massive tower,
threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed compatible
with its rugged character. But so from rough outsides (I hope I have
learnt), serene and gentle influences often proceed.

Every part of the house was in such order, and every one was so
attentive to me, that I had no trouble with my two bunches of keys,
though what with trying to remember the contents of each little
store-room drawer and cupboard; and what with making notes on a slate
about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, and glass, and
china, and a great many other things; and what with being generally a
methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little person, I was so busy
that I could not believe it was breakfast-time when I heard the bell
ring. Away I ran, however, and made tea, as I had already been
installed into the responsibility of the tea-pot; and then, as they
were all rather late and nobody was down yet, I thought I would take
a peep at the garden and get some knowledge of that too. I found it
quite a delightful place--in front, the pretty avenue and drive by
which we had approached (and where, by the by, we had cut up the
gravel so terribly with our wheels that I asked the gardener to roll
it); at the back, the flower-garden, with my darling at her window up
there, throwing it open to smile out at me, as if she would have
kissed me from that distance. Beyond the flower-garden was a
kitchen-garden, and then a paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard,
and then a dear little farm-yard. As to the house itself, with its
three peaks in the roof; its various-shaped windows, some so large,
some so small, and all so pretty; its trellis-work, against the
south-front for roses and honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable,
welcoming look--it was, as Ada said when she came out to meet me with
her arm through that of its master, worthy of her cousin John, a bold
thing to say, though he only pinched her dear cheek for it.

Mr. Skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast as he had been overnight.
There was honey on the table, and it led him into a discourse about
bees. He had no objection to honey, he said (and I should think he
had not, for he seemed to like it), but he protested against the
overweening assumptions of bees. He didn't at all see why the busy
bee should be proposed as a model to him; he supposed the bee liked
to make honey, or he wouldn't do it--nobody asked him. It was not
necessary for the bee to make such a merit of his tastes. If every
confectioner went buzzing about the world banging against everything
that came in his way and egotistically calling upon everybody to take
notice that he was going to his work and must not be interrupted, the
world would be quite an unsupportable place. Then, after all, it was
a ridiculous position to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone
as soon as you had made it. You would have a very mean opinion of a
Manchester man if he spun cotton for no other purpose. He must say he
thought a drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea. The
drone said unaffectedly, "You will excuse me; I really cannot attend
to the shop! I find myself in a world in which there is so much to
see and so short a time to see it in that I must take the liberty of
looking about me and begging to be provided for by somebody who
doesn't want to look about him." This appeared to Mr. Skimpole to be
the drone philosophy, and he thought it a very good philosophy,
always supposing the drone to be willing to be on good terms with the
bee, which, so far as he knew, the easy fellow always was, if the
consequential creature would only let him, and not be so conceited
about his honey!

He pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of ground
and made us all merry, though again he seemed to have as serious a
meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. I left them
still listening to him when I withdrew to attend to my new duties.
They had occupied me for some time, and I was passing through the
passages on my return with my basket of keys on my arm when Mr.
Jarndyce called me into a small room next his bed-chamber, which I
found to be in part a little library of books and papers and in part
quite a little museum of his boots and shoes and hat-boxes.

"Sit down, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce. "This, you must know, is the
growlery. When I am out of humour, I come and growl here."

"You must be here very seldom, sir," said I.

"Oh, you don't know me!" he returned. "When I am deceived or
disappointed in--the wind, and it's easterly, I take refuge here. The
growlery is the best-used room in the house. You are not aware of
half my humours yet. My dear, how you are trembling!"

I could not help it; I tried very hard, but being alone with that
benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so happy
and so honoured there, and my heart so full--I kissed his hand. I
don't know what I said, or even that I spoke. He was disconcerted and
walked to the window; I almost believed with an intention of jumping
out, until he turned and I was reassured by seeing in his eyes what
he had gone there to hide. He gently patted me on the head, and I sat
down.

"There! There!" he said. "That's over. Pooh! Don't be foolish."

"It shall not happen again, sir," I returned, "but at first it is
difficult--"

"Nonsense!" he said. "It's easy, easy. Why not? I hear of a good
little orphan girl without a protector, and I take it into my head to
be that protector. She grows up, and more than justifies my good
opinion, and I remain her guardian and her friend. What is there in
all this? So, so! Now, we have cleared off old scores, and I have
before me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again."

I said to myself, "Esther, my dear, you surprise me! This really is
not what I expected of you!" And it had such a good effect that I
folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. Mr.
Jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me as
confidentially as if I had been in the habit of conversing with him
every morning for I don't know how long. I almost felt as if I had.

"Of course, Esther," he said, "you don't understand this Chancery
business?"

And of course I shook my head.

"I don't know who does," he returned. "The lawyers have twisted it
into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case
have long disappeared from the face of the earth. It's about a will
and the trusts under a will--or it was once. It's about nothing but
costs now. We are always appearing, and disappearing, and swearing,
and interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and
sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving
about the Lord Chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably
waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, about costs. That's the great
question. All the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted
away."

"But it was, sir," said I, to bring him back, for he began to rub his
head, "about a will?"

"Why, yes, it was about a will when it was about anything," he
returned. "A certain Jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a great fortune,
and made a great will. In the question how the trusts under that will
are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squandered
away; the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserable
condition that they would be sufficiently punished if they had
committed an enormous crime in having money left them, and the will
itself is made a dead letter. All through the deplorable cause,
everything that everybody in it, except one man, knows already is
referred to that only one man who don't know, it to find out--all
through the deplorable cause, everybody must have copies, over and
over again, of everything that has accumulated about it in the way of
cartloads of papers (or must pay for them without having them, which
is the usual course, for nobody wants them) and must go down the
middle and up again through such an infernal country-dance of costs
and fees and nonsense and corruption as was never dreamed of in the
wildest visions of a witch's Sabbath. Equity sends questions to law,
law sends questions back to equity; law finds it can't do this,
equity finds it can't do that; neither can so much as say it can't
do anything, without this solicitor instructing and this counsel
appearing for A, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel
appearing for B; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the
history of the apple pie. And thus, through years and years, and
lives and lives, everything goes on, constantly beginning over and
over again, and nothing ever ends. And we can't get out of the suit
on any terms, for we are made parties to it, and MUST BE parties to
it, whether we like it or not. But it won't do to think of it! When
my great uncle, poor Tom Jarndyce, began to think of it, it was the
beginning of the end!"

"The Mr. Jarndyce, sir, whose story I have heard?"

He nodded gravely. "I was his heir, and this was his house, Esther.
When I came here, it was bleak indeed. He had left the signs of his
misery upon it."

"How changed it must be now!" I said.

"It had been called, before his time, the Peaks. He gave it its
present name and lived here shut up, day and night poring over the
wicked heaps of papers in the suit and hoping against hope to
disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the
meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the
cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds
choked the passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained
of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of
the house too, it was so shattered and ruined."

He walked a little to and fro after saying this to himself with a
shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and sat down
again with his hands in his pockets.

"I told you this was the growlery, my dear. Where was I?"

I reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in Bleak House.

"Bleak House; true. There is, in that city of London there, some
property of ours which is much at this day what Bleak House was then;
I say property of ours, meaning of the suit's, but I ought to call it
the property of costs, for costs is the only power on earth that will
ever get anything out of it now or will ever know it for anything but
an eyesore and a heartsore. It is a street of perishing blind houses,
with their eyes stoned out, without a pane of glass, without so much
as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters tumbling from their
hinges and falling asunder, the iron rails peeling away in flakes of
rust, the chimneys sinking in, the stone steps to every door (and
every door might be death's door) turning stagnant green, the very
crutches on which the ruins are propped decaying. Although Bleak
House was not in Chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with
the same seal. These are the Great Seal's impressions, my dear, all
over England--the children know them!"

"How changed it is!" I said again.

"Why, so it is," he answered much more cheerfully; "and it is wisdom
in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." (The idea of my
wisdom!) "These are things I never talk about or even think about,
excepting in the growlery here. If you consider it right to mention
them to Rick and Ada," looking seriously at me, "you can. I leave it
to your discretion, Esther."

"I hope, sir--" said I.

"I think you had better call me guardian, my dear."

I felt that I was choking again--I taxed myself with it, "Esther,
now, you know you are!"--when he feigned to say this slightly, as if
it were a whim instead of a thoughtful tenderness. But I gave the
housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to
myself, and folding my hands in a still more determined manner on the
basket, looked at him quietly.

"I hope, guardian," said I, "that you may not trust too much to my
discretion. I hope you may not mistake me. I am afraid it will be a
disappointment to you to know that I am not clever, but it really is
the truth, and you would soon find it out if I had not the honesty to
confess it."

He did not seem at all disappointed; quite the contrary. He told me,
with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very well indeed and
that I was quite clever enough for him.

"I hope I may turn out so," said I, "but I am much afraid of it,
guardian."

"You are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here,
my dear," he returned playfully; "the little old woman of the child's
(I don't mean Skimpole's) rhyme:


   "'Little old woman, and whither so high?'
    'To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.'


"You will sweep them so neatly out of OUR sky in the course of your
housekeeping, Esther, that one of these days we shall have to abandon
the growlery and nail up the door."

This was the beginning of my being called Old Woman, and Little Old
Woman, and Cobweb, and Mrs. Shipton, and Mother Hubbard, and Dame
Durden, and so many names of that sort that my own name soon became
quite lost among them.

"However," said Mr. Jarndyce, "to return to our gossip. Here's Rick,
a fine young fellow full of promise. What's to be done with him?"

Oh, my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point!

"Here he is, Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, comfortably putting his
hands into his pockets and stretching out his legs. "He must have a
profession; he must make some choice for himself. There will be a
world more wiglomeration about it, I suppose, but it must be done."

"More what, guardian?" said I.

"More wiglomeration," said he. "It's the only name I know for the
thing. He is a ward in Chancery, my dear. Kenge and Carboy will have
something to say about it; Master Somebody--a sort of ridiculous
sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the
end of Quality Court, Chancery Lane--will have something to say about
it; counsel will have something to say about it; the Chancellor will
have something to say about it; the satellites will have something to
say about it; they will all have to be handsomely feed, all round,
about it; the whole thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy,
unsatisfactory, and expensive, and I call it, in general,
wiglomeration. How mankind ever came to be afflicted with
wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young people ever fell into a
pit of it, I don't know; so it is."

He began to rub his head again and to hint that he felt the wind. But
it was a delightful instance of his kindness towards me that whether
he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his face was sure
to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine; and he was
sure to turn comfortable again and put his hands in his pockets and
stretch out his legs.

"Perhaps it would be best, first of all," said I, "to ask Mr. Richard
what he inclines to himself."

"Exactly so," he returned. "That's what I mean! You know, just
accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet
way, with him and Ada, and see what you all make of it. We are sure
to come at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman."

I really was frightened at the thought of the importance I was
attaining and the number of things that were being confided to me. I
had not meant this at all; I had meant that he should speak to
Richard. But of course I said nothing in reply except that I would do
my best, though I feared (I really felt it necessary to repeat this)
that he thought me much more sagacious than I was. At which my
guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh I ever heard.

"Come!" he said, rising and pushing back his chair. "I think we may
have done with the growlery for one day! Only a concluding word.
Esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me anything?"

He looked so attentively at me that I looked attentively at him and
felt sure I understood him.

"About myself, sir?" said I.

"Yes."

"Guardian," said I, venturing to put my hand, which was suddenly
colder than I could have wished, in his, "nothing! I am quite sure
that if there were anything I ought to know or had any need to know,
I should not have to ask you to tell it to me. If my whole reliance
and confidence were not placed in you, I must have a hard heart
indeed. I have nothing to ask you, nothing in the world."

He drew my hand through his arm and we went away to look for Ada.
From that hour I felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved, quite
content to know no more, quite happy.

We lived, at first, rather a busy life at Bleak House, for we had to
become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neighbourhood
who knew Mr. Jarndyce. It seemed to Ada and me that everybody knew
him who wanted to do anything with anybody else's money. It amazed us
when we began to sort his letters and to answer some of them for him
in the growlery of a morning to find how the great object of the
lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared to be to form
themselves into committees for getting in and laying out money. The
ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen; indeed, I think they were
even more so. They threw themselves into committees in the most
impassioned manner and collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite
extraordinary. It appeared to us that some of them must pass their
whole lives in dealing out subscription-cards to the whole
post-office directory--shilling cards, half-crown cards,
half-sovereign cards, penny cards. They wanted everything. They
wanted wearing apparel, they wanted linen rags, they wanted money,
they wanted coals, they wanted soup, they wanted interest, they
wanted autographs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever Mr.
Jarndyce had--or had not. Their objects were as various as their
demands. They were going to raise new buildings, they were going to
pay off debts on old buildings, they were going to establish in a
picturesque building (engraving of proposed west elevation attached)
the Sisterhood of Mediaeval Marys, they were going to give a
testimonial to Mrs. Jellyby, they were going to have their
secretary's portrait painted and presented to his mother-in-law,
whose deep devotion to him was well known, they were going to get up
everything, I really believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to an
annuity and from a marble monument to a silver tea-pot. They took a
multitude of titles. They were the Women of England, the Daughters of
Britain, the Sisters of all the cardinal virtues separately, the
Females of America, the Ladies of a hundred denominations. They
appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. They
seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to be
constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringing
their candidates in for anything. It made our heads ache to think, on
the whole, what feverish lives they must lead.

Among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious
benevolence (if I may use the expression) was a Mrs. Pardiggle, who
seemed, as I judged from the number of her letters to Mr. Jarndyce,
to be almost as powerful a correspondent as Mrs. Jellyby herself. We
observed that the wind always changed when Mrs. Pardiggle became the
subject of conversation and that it invariably interrupted Mr.
Jarndyce and prevented his going any farther, when he had remarked
that there were two classes of charitable people; one, the people who
did a little and made a great deal of noise; the other, the people
who did a great deal and made no noise at all. We were therefore
curious to see Mrs. Pardiggle, suspecting her to be a type of the
former class, and were glad when she called one day with her five
young sons.

She was a formidable style of lady with spectacles, a prominent nose,
and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of room.
And she really did, for she knocked down little chairs with her
skirts that were quite a great way off. As only Ada and I were at
home, we received her timidly, for she seemed to come in like cold
weather and to make the little Pardiggles blue as they followed.

"These, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle with great volubility
after the first salutations, "are my five boys. You may have seen
their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one) in
the possession of our esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce. Egbert, my eldest
(twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to the amount of
five and threepence, to the Tockahoopo Indians. Oswald, my second
(ten and a half), is the child who contributed two and nine-pence to
the Great National Smithers Testimonial. Francis, my third (nine),
one and sixpence halfpenny; Felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to
the Superannuated Widows; Alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily
enrolled himself in the Infant Bonds of Joy, and is pledged never,
through life, to use tobacco in any form."

We had never seen such dissatisfied children. It was not merely that
they were weazened and shrivelled--though they were certainly that
too--but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. At the
mention of the Tockahoopo Indians, I could really have supposed
Egbert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gave
me such a savage frown. The face of each child, as the amount of his
contribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindictive
manner, but his was by far the worst. I must except, however, the
little recruit into the Infant Bonds of Joy, who was stolidly and
evenly miserable.

"You have been visiting, I understand," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "at Mrs.
Jellyby's?"

We said yes, we had passed one night there.

"Mrs. Jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking in the same
demonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed my fancy
as if it had a sort of spectacles on too--and I may take the
opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less
engaging by her eyes being what Ada called "choking eyes," meaning
very prominent--"Mrs. Jellyby is a benefactor to society and deserves
a helping hand. My boys have contributed to the African
project--Egbert, one and six, being the entire allowance of nine
weeks; Oswald, one and a penny halfpenny, being the same; the rest,
according to their little means. Nevertheless, I do not go with Mrs.
Jellyby in all things. I do not go with Mrs. Jellyby in her treatment
of her young family. It has been noticed. It has been observed that
her young family are excluded from participation in the objects to
which she is devoted. She may be right, she may be wrong; but, right
or wrong, this is not my course with MY young family. I take them
everywhere."

I was afterwards convinced (and so was Ada) that from the
ill-conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. He
turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell.

"They attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half-past six
o'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the
depth of winter," said Mrs. Pardiggle rapidly, "and they are with me
during the revolving duties of the day. I am a School lady, I am a
Visiting lady, I am a Reading lady, I am a Distributing lady; I am on
the local Linen Box Committee and many general committees; and my
canvassing alone is very extensive--perhaps no one's more so. But
they are my companions everywhere; and by these means they acquire
that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable
business in general--in short, that taste for the sort of
thing--which will render them in after life a service to their
neighbours and a satisfaction to themselves. My young family are not
frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance in
subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many
public meetings and listened to as many lectures, orations, and
discussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. Alfred
(five), who, as I mentioned, has of his own election joined the
Infant Bonds of Joy, was one of the very few children who manifested
consciousness on that occasion after a fervid address of two hours
from the chairman of the evening."

Alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the
injury of that night.

"You may have observed, Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "in
some of the lists to which I have referred, in the possession of our
esteemed friend Mr. Jarndyce, that the names of my young family are
concluded with the name of O. A. Pardiggle, F.R.S., one pound. That
is their father. We usually observe the same routine. I put down my
mite first; then my young family enrol their contributions, according
to their ages and their little means; and then Mr. Pardiggle brings
up the rear. Mr. Pardiggle is happy to throw in his limited donation,
under my direction; and thus things are made not only pleasant to
ourselves, but, we trust, improving to others."

Suppose Mr. Pardiggle were to dine with Mr. Jellyby, and suppose Mr.
Jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to Mr. Pardiggle, would
Mr. Pardiggle, in return, make any confidential communication to Mr.
Jellyby? I was quite confused to find myself thinking this, but it
came into my head.

"You are very pleasantly situated here!" said Mrs. Pardiggle.

We were glad to change the subject, and going to the window, pointed
out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles appeared to
me to rest with curious indifference.

"You know Mr. Gusher?" said our visitor.

We were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of Mr. Gusher's
acquaintance.

"The loss is yours, I assure you," said Mrs. Pardiggle with her
commanding deportment. "He is a very fervid, impassioned
speaker--full of fire! Stationed in a waggon on this lawn, now,
which, from the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public
meeting, he would improve almost any occasion you could mention for
hours and hours! By this time, young ladies," said Mrs. Pardiggle,
moving back to her chair and overturning, as if by invisible agency,
a little round table at a considerable distance with my work-basket
on it, "by this time you have found me out, I dare say?"

This was really such a confusing question that Ada looked at me in
perfect dismay. As to the guilty nature of my own consciousness after
what I had been thinking, it must have been expressed in the colour
of my cheeks.

"Found out, I mean," said Mrs. Pardiggle, "the prominent point in my
character. I am aware that it is so prominent as to be discoverable
immediately. I lay myself open to detection, I know. Well! I freely
admit, I am a woman of business. I love hard work; I enjoy hard work.
The excitement does me good. I am so accustomed and inured to hard
work that I don't know what fatigue is."

We murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying, or
something to that effect. I don't think we knew what it was either,
but this is what our politeness expressed.

"I do not understand what it is to be tired; you cannot tire me if
you try!" said Mrs. Pardiggle. "The quantity of exertion (which is no
exertion to me), the amount of business (which I regard as nothing),
that I go through sometimes astonishes myself. I have seen my young
family, and Mr. Pardiggle, quite worn out with witnessing it, when I
may truly say I have been as fresh as a lark!"

If that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he had
already looked, this was the time when he did it. I observed that he
doubled his right fist and delivered a secret blow into the crown of
his cap, which was under his left arm.

"This gives me a great advantage when I am making my rounds," said
Mrs. Pardiggle. "If I find a person unwilling to hear what I have to
say, I tell that person directly, 'I am incapable of fatigue, my good
friend, I am never tired, and I mean to go on until I have done.' It
answers admirably! Miss Summerson, I hope I shall have your
assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and Miss Clare's very
soon."

At first I tried to excuse myself for the present on the general
ground of having occupations to attend to which I must not neglect.
But as this was an ineffectual protest, I then said, more
particularly, that I was not sure of my qualifications. That I was
inexperienced in the art of adapting my mind to minds very
differently situated, and addressing them from suitable points of
view. That I had not that delicate knowledge of the heart which must
be essential to such a work. That I had much to learn, myself, before
I could teach others, and that I could not confide in my good
intentions alone. For these reasons I thought it best to be as useful
as I could, and to render what kind services I could to those
immediately about me, and to try to let that circle of duty gradually
and naturally expand itself. All this I said with anything but
confidence, because Mrs. Pardiggle was much older than I, and had
great experience, and was so very military in her manners.

"You are wrong, Miss Summerson," said she, "but perhaps you are not
equal to hard work or the excitement of it, and that makes a vast
difference. If you would like to see how I go through my work, I am
now about--with my young family--to visit a brickmaker in the
neighbourhood (a very bad character) and shall be glad to take you
with me. Miss Clare also, if she will do me the favour."

Ada and I interchanged looks, and as we were going out in any case,
accepted the offer. When we hastily returned from putting on our
bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner and Mrs.
Pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all the light
objects it contained. Mrs. Pardiggle took possession of Ada, and I
followed with the family.

Ada told me afterwards that Mrs. Pardiggle talked in the same loud
tone (that, indeed, I overheard) all the way to the brickmaker's
about an exciting contest which she had for two or three years waged
against another lady relative to the bringing in of their rival
candidates for a pension somewhere. There had been a quantity of
printing, and promising, and proxying, and polling, and it appeared
to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned, except the
pensioners--who were not elected yet.

I am very fond of being confided in by children and am happy in being
usually favoured in that respect, but on this occasion it gave me
great uneasiness. As soon as we were out of doors, Egbert, with the
manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me on the ground
that his pocket-money was "boned" from him. On my pointing out the
great impropriety of the word, especially in connexion with his
parent (for he added sulkily "By her!"), he pinched me and said, "Oh,
then! Now! Who are you! YOU wouldn't like it, I think? What does she
make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away
again? Why do you call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?"
These exasperating questions so inflamed his mind and the minds of
Oswald and Francis that they all pinched me at once, and in a
dreadfully expert way--screwing up such little pieces of my arms that
I could hardly forbear crying out. Felix, at the same time, stamped
upon my toes. And the Bond of Joy, who on account of always having
the whole of his little income anticipated stood in fact pledged to
abstain from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage
when we passed a pastry-cook's shop that he terrified me by becoming
purple. I never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the
course of a walk with young people as from these unnaturally
constrained children when they paid me the compliment of being
natural.

I was glad when we came to the brickmaker's house, though it was one
of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-field, with pigsties close
to the broken windows and miserable little gardens before the doors
growing nothing but stagnant pools. Here and there an old tub was put
to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, or they were banked
up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. At the doors
and windows some men and women lounged or prowled about, and took
little notice of us except to laugh to one another or to say
something as we passed about gentlefolks minding their own business
and not troubling their heads and muddying their shoes with coming to
look after other people's.

Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral
determination and talking with much volubility about the untidy
habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have
been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the
farthest corner, the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled.
Besides ourselves, there were in this damp, offensive room a woman
with a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a
man, all stained with clay and mud and looking very dissipated, lying
at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man
fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl doing some kind of
washing in very dirty water. They all looked up at us as we came in,
and the woman seemed to turn her face towards the fire as if to hide
her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome.

"Well, my friends," said Mrs. Pardiggle, but her voice had not a
friendly sound, I thought; it was much too business-like and
systematic. "How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I told you,
you couldn't tire me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true
to my word."

"There an't," growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on his
hand as he stared at us, "any more on you to come in, is there?"

"No, my friend," said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on one stool
and knocking down another. "We are all here."

"Because I thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps?" said the
man, with his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us.

The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the young
man, whom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood there with
their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily.

"You can't tire me, good people," said Mrs. Pardiggle to these
latter. "I enjoy hard work, and the harder you make mine, the better
I like it."

"Then make it easy for her!" growled the man upon the floor. "I wants
it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties took with my
place. I wants an end of being drawed like a badger. Now you're
a-going to poll-pry and question according to custom--I know what
you're a-going to be up to. Well! You haven't got no occasion to be
up to it. I'll save you the trouble. Is my daughter a-washin? Yes,
she IS a-washin. Look at the water. Smell it! That's wot we drinks.
How do you like it, and what do you think of gin instead! An't my
place dirty? Yes, it is dirty--it's nat'rally dirty, and it's
nat'rally onwholesome; and we've had five dirty and onwholesome
children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them,
and for us besides. Have I read the little book wot you left? No, I
an't read the little book wot you left. There an't nobody here as
knows how to read it; and if there wos, it wouldn't be suitable to
me. It's a book fit for a babby, and I'm not a babby. If you was to
leave me a doll, I shouldn't nuss it. How have I been conducting of
myself? Why, I've been drunk for three days; and I'da been drunk four
if I'da had the money. Don't I never mean for to go to church? No, I
don't never mean for to go to church. I shouldn't be expected there,
if I did; the beadle's too gen-teel for me. And how did my wife get
that black eye? Why, I give it her; and if she says I didn't, she's a
lie!"

He had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he now
turned over on his other side and smoked again. Mrs. Pardiggle, who
had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible
composure, calculated, I could not help thinking, to increase his
antagonism, pulled out a good book as if it were a constable's staff
and took the whole family into custody. I mean into religious
custody, of course; but she really did it as if she were an
inexorable moral policeman carrying them all off to a station-house.

Ada and I were very uncomfortable. We both felt intrusive and out of
place, and we both thought that Mrs. Pardiggle would have got on
infinitely better if she had not had such a mechanical way of taking
possession of people. The children sulked and stared; the family took
no notice of us whatever, except when the young man made the dog
bark, which he usually did when Mrs. Pardiggle was most emphatic. We
both felt painfully sensible that between us and these people there
was an iron barrier which could not be removed by our new friend. By
whom or how it could be removed, we did not know, but we knew that.
Even what she read and said seemed to us to be ill-chosen for such
auditors, if it had been imparted ever so modestly and with ever so
much tact. As to the little book to which the man on the floor had
referred, we acquired a knowledge of it afterwards, and Mr. Jarndyce
said he doubted if Robinson Crusoe could have read it, though he had
had no other on his desolate island.

We were much relieved, under these circumstances, when Mrs. Pardiggle
left off.

The man on the floor, then turning his head round again, said
morosely, "Well! You've done, have you?"

"For to-day, I have, my friend. But I am never fatigued. I shall come
to you again in your regular order," returned Mrs. Pardiggle with
demonstrative cheerfulness.

"So long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and shutting his
eyes with an oath, "you may do wot you like!"

Mrs. Pardiggle accordingly rose and made a little vortex in the
confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped.
Taking one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others
to follow closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and
all his house would be improved when she saw them next, she then
proceeded to another cottage. I hope it is not unkind in me to say
that she certainly did make, in this as in everything else, a show
that was not conciliatory of doing charity by wholesale and of
dealing in it to a large extent.

She supposed that we were following her, but as soon as the space was
left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire to ask if the
baby were ill.

She only looked at it as it lay on her lap. We had observed before
that when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye with her
hand, as though she wished to separate any association with noise and
violence and ill treatment from the poor little child.

Ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down to
touch its little face. As she did so, I saw what happened and drew
her back. The child died.

"Oh, Esther!" cried Ada, sinking on her knees beside it. "Look here!
Oh, Esther, my love, the little thing! The suffering, quiet, pretty
little thing! I am so sorry for it. I am so sorry for the mother. I
never saw a sight so pitiful as this before! Oh, baby, baby!"

Such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent down
weeping and put her hand upon the mother's might have softened any
mother's heart that ever beat. The woman at first gazed at her in
astonishment and then burst into tears.

Presently I took the light burden from her lap, did what I could to
make the baby's rest the prettier and gentler, laid it on a shelf,
and covered it with my own handkerchief. We tried to comfort the
mother, and we whispered to her what Our Saviour said of children.
She answered nothing, but sat weeping--weeping very much.

When I turned, I found that the young man had taken out the dog and
was standing at the door looking in upon us with dry eyes, but quiet.
The girl was quiet too and sat in a corner looking on the ground. The
man had risen. He still smoked his pipe with an air of defiance, but
he was silent.

An ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while I was glancing
at them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, "Jenny! Jenny!"
The mother rose on being so addressed and fell upon the woman's neck.

She also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill usage. She had
no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but when she
condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted no
beauty. I say condoled, but her only words were "Jenny! Jenny!" All
the rest was in the tone in which she said them.

I thought it very touching to see these two women, coarse and shabby
and beaten, so united; to see what they could be to one another; to
see how they felt for one another, how the heart of each to each was
softened by the hard trials of their lives. I think the best side of
such people is almost hidden from us. What the poor are to the poor
is little known, excepting to themselves and God.

We felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. We stole
out quietly and without notice from any one except the man. He was
leaning against the wall near the door, and finding that there was
scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. He seemed to want
to hide that he did this on our account, but we perceived that he
did, and thanked him. He made no answer.

Ada was so full of grief all the way home, and Richard, whom we found
at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though he said to me,
when she was not present, how beautiful it was too!), that we
arranged to return at night with some little comforts and repeat our
visit at the brick-maker's house. We said as little as we could to
Mr. Jarndyce, but the wind changed directly.

Richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning
expedition. On our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking-house,
where a number of men were flocking about the door. Among them, and
prominent in some dispute, was the father of the little child. At a
short distance, we passed the young man and the dog, in congenial
company. The sister was standing laughing and talking with some other
young women at the corner of the row of cottages, but she seemed
ashamed and turned away as we went by.

We left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's dwelling and
proceeded by ourselves. When we came to the door, we found the woman
who had brought such consolation with her standing there looking
anxiously out.

"It's you, young ladies, is it?" she said in a whisper. "I'm
a-watching for my master. My heart's in my mouth. If he was to catch
me away from home, he'd pretty near murder me."

"Do you mean your husband?" said I.

"Yes, miss, my master. Jenny's asleep, quite worn out. She's scarcely
had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and nights,
except when I've been able to take it for a minute or two."

As she gave way for us, she went softly in and put what we had
brought near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. No effort
had been made to clean the room--it seemed in its nature almost
hopeless of being clean; but the small waxen form from which so much
solemnity diffused itself had been composed afresh, and washed, and
neatly dressed in some fragments of white linen; and on my
handkerchief, which still covered the poor baby, a little bunch of
sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough, scarred hands, so
lightly, so tenderly!

"May heaven reward you!" we said to her. "You are a good woman."

"Me, young ladies?" she returned with surprise. "Hush! Jenny, Jenny!"

The mother had moaned in her sleep and moved. The sound of the
familiar voice seemed to calm her again. She was quiet once more.

How little I thought, when I raised my handkerchief to look upon the
tiny sleeper underneath and seemed to see a halo shine around the
child through Ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her head--how
little I thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would come
to lie after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! I only
thought that perhaps the Angel of the child might not be all
unconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a
hand; not all unconscious of her presently, when we had taken leave,
and left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening in terror
for herself, and saying in her old soothing manner, "Jenny, Jenny!"




CHAPTER IX

Signs and Tokens


I don't know how it is I seem to be always writing about myself. I
mean all the time to write about other people, and I try to think
about myself as little as possible, and I am sure, when I find myself
coming into the story again, I am really vexed and say, "Dear, dear,
you tiresome little creature, I wish you wouldn't!" but it is all of
no use. I hope any one who may read what I write will understand that
if these pages contain a great deal about me, I can only suppose it
must be because I have really something to do with them and can't be
kept out.

My darling and I read together, and worked, and practised, and found
so much employment for our time that the winter days flew by us like
bright-winged birds. Generally in the afternoons, and always in the
evenings, Richard gave us his company. Although he was one of the
most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of
our society.

He was very, very, very fond of Ada. I mean it, and I had better say
it at once. I had never seen any young people falling in love before,
but I found them out quite soon. I could not say so, of course, or
show that I knew anything about it. On the contrary, I was so demure
and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes I considered within
myself while I was sitting at work whether I was not growing quite
deceitful.

But there was no help for it. All I had to do was to be quiet, and I
was as quiet as a mouse. They were as quiet as mice too, so far as
any words were concerned, but the innocent manner in which they
relied more and more upon me as they took more and more to one
another was so charming that I had great difficulty in not showing
how it interested me.

"Our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," Richard
would say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his
pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, "that I can't
get on without her. Before I begin my harum-scarum day--grinding away
at those books and instruments and then galloping up hill and down
dale, all the country round, like a highwayman--it does me so much
good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that
here I am again!"

"You know, Dame Durden, dear," Ada would say at night, with her head
upon my shoulder and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, "I
don't want to talk when we come upstairs here. Only to sit a little
while thinking, with your dear face for company, and to hear the wind
and remember the poor sailors at sea--"

Ah! Perhaps Richard was going to be a sailor. We had talked it over
very often now, and there was some talk of gratifying the inclination
of his childhood for the sea. Mr. Jarndyce had written to a relation
of the family, a great Sir Leicester Dedlock, for his interest in
Richard's favour, generally; and Sir Leicester had replied in a
gracious manner that he would be happy to advance the prospects of
the young gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his power,
which was not at all probable, and that my Lady sent her compliments
to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was
allied by remote consanguinity) and trusted that he would ever do his
duty in any honourable profession to which he might devote himself.

"So I apprehend it's pretty clear," said Richard to me, "that I shall
have to work my own way. Never mind! Plenty of people have had to do
that before now, and have done it. I only wish I had the command of a
clipping privateer to begin with and could carry off the Chancellor
and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause.
He'd find himself growing thin, if he didn't look sharp!"

With a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever
flagged, Richard had a carelessness in his character that quite
perplexed me, principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd
way, for prudence. It entered into all his calculations about money
in a singular manner which I don't think I can better explain than by
reverting for a moment to our loan to Mr. Skimpole.

Mr. Jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either from Mr. Skimpole
himself or from Coavinses, and had placed the money in my hands with
instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the rest to
Richard. The number of little acts of thoughtless expenditure which
Richard justified by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the number
of times he talked to me as if he had saved or realized that amount,
would form a sum in simple addition.

"My prudent Mother Hubbard, why not?" he said to me when he wanted,
without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the
brickmaker. "I made ten pounds, clear, out of Coavinses' business."

"How was that?" said I.

"Why, I got rid of ten pounds which I was quite content to get rid of
and never expected to see any more. You don't deny that?"

"No," said I.

"Very well! Then I came into possession of ten pounds--"

"The same ten pounds," I hinted.

"That has nothing to do with it!" returned Richard. "I have got ten
pounds more than I expected to have, and consequently I can afford to
spend it without being particular."

In exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the sacrifice
of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do no good, he
carried that sum to his credit and drew upon it.

"Let me see!" he would say. "I saved five pounds out of the
brickmaker's affair, so if I have a good rattle to London and back in
a post-chaise and put that down at four pounds, I shall have saved
one. And it's a very good thing to save one, let me tell you: a penny
saved is a penny got!"

I believe Richard's was as frank and generous a nature as there
possibly can be. He was ardent and brave, and in the midst of all his
wild restlessness, was so gentle that I knew him like a brother in a
few weeks. His gentleness was natural to him and would have shown
itself abundantly even without Ada's influence; but with it, he
became one of the most winning of companions, always so ready to be
interested and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. I am
sure that I, sitting with them, and walking with them, and talking
with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on, falling
deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, and each
shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets, perhaps
not yet suspected even by the other--I am sure that I was scarcely
less enchanted than they were and scarcely less pleased with the
pretty dream.

We were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast Mr.
Jarndyce received a letter, and looking at the superscription, said,
"From Boythorn? Aye, aye!" and opened and read it with evident
pleasure, announcing to us in a parenthesis when he was about
half-way through, that Boythorn was "coming down" on a visit. Now who
was Boythorn, we all thought. And I dare say we all thought too--I am
sure I did, for one--would Boythorn at all interfere with what was
going forward?

"I went to school with this fellow, Lawrence Boythorn," said Mr.
Jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, "more than
five and forty years ago. He was then the most impetuous boy in the
world, and he is now the most impetuous man. He was then the loudest
boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. He was then the
heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now the heartiest
and sturdiest man. He is a tremendous fellow."

"In stature, sir?" asked Richard.

"Pretty well, Rick, in that respect," said Mr. Jarndyce; "being some
ten years older than I and a couple of inches taller, with his head
thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, his
hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs! There's no simile for
his lungs. Talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the
house shake."

As Mr. Jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend Boythorn, we
observed the favourable omen that there was not the least indication
of any change in the wind.

"But it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the
passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, Rick--and Ada, and
little Cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor--that I
speak of," he pursued. "His language is as sounding as his voice. He
is always in extremes, perpetually in the superlative degree. In his
condemnation he is all ferocity. You might suppose him to be an ogre
from what he says, and I believe he has the reputation of one with
some people. There! I tell you no more of him beforehand. You must
not be surprised to see him take me under his protection, for he has
never forgotten that I was a low boy at school and that our
friendship began in his knocking two of my head tyrant's teeth out
(he says six) before breakfast. Boythorn and his man," to me, "will
be here this afternoon, my dear."

I took care that the necessary preparations were made for Mr.
Boythorn's reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with some
curiosity. The afternoon wore away, however, and he did not appear.
The dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. The dinner was
put back an hour, and we were sitting round the fire with no light
but the blaze when the hall-door suddenly burst open and the hall
resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest vehemence and
in a stentorian tone: "We have been misdirected, Jarndyce, by a most
abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right
instead of to the left. He is the most intolerable scoundrel on the
face of the earth. His father must have been a most consummate
villain, ever to have such a son. I would have had that fellow shot
without the least remorse!"

"Did he do it on purpose?" Mr. Jarndyce inquired.

"I have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his
whole existence in misdirecting travellers!" returned the other. "By
my soul, I thought him the worst-looking dog I had ever beheld when
he was telling me to take the turning to the right. And yet I stood
before that fellow face to face and didn't knock his brains out!"

"Teeth, you mean?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, really making the whole
house vibrate. "What, you have not forgotten it yet! Ha, ha, ha! And
that was another most consummate vagabond! By my soul, the
countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was the blackest image
of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a
field of scoundrels. If I were to meet that most unparalleled despot
in the streets to-morrow, I would fell him like a rotten tree!"

"I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now, will you come
upstairs?"

"By my soul, Jarndyce," returned his guest, who seemed to refer to
his watch, "if you had been married, I would have turned back at the
garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of the Himalaya
Mountains sooner than I would have presented myself at this
unseasonable hour."

"Not quite so far, I hope?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"By my life and honour, yes!" cried the visitor. "I wouldn't be
guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house
waiting all this time for any earthly consideration. I would
infinitely rather destroy myself--infinitely rather!"

Talking thus, they went upstairs, and presently we heard him in his
bedroom thundering "Ha, ha, ha!" and again "Ha, ha, ha!" until the
flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion and
to laugh as enjoyingly as he did or as we did when we heard him
laugh.

We all conceived a prepossession in his favour, for there was a
sterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous, healthy voice,
and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word he
spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go
off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. But we were hardly prepared
to have it so confirmed by his appearance when Mr. Jarndyce presented
him. He was not only a very handsome old gentleman--upright and
stalwart as he had been described to us--with a massive grey head, a
fine composure of face when silent, a figure that might have become
corpulent but for his being so continually in earnest that he gave it
no rest, and a chin that might have subsided into a double chin but
for the vehement emphasis in which it was constantly required to
assist; but he was such a true gentleman in his manner, so
chivalrously polite, his face was lighted by a smile of so much
sweetness and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had nothing
to hide, but showed himself exactly as he was--incapable, as Richard
said, of anything on a limited scale, and firing away with those
blank great guns because he carried no small arms whatever--that
really I could not help looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat
at dinner, whether he smilingly conversed with Ada and me, or was led
by Mr. Jarndyce into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up
his head like a bloodhound and gave out that tremendous "Ha, ha, ha!"

"You have brought your bird with you, I suppose?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"By heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in Europe!" replied the
other. "He IS the most wonderful creature! I wouldn't take ten
thousand guineas for that bird. I have left an annuity for his sole
support in case he should outlive me. He is, in sense and attachment,
a phenomenon. And his father before him was one of the most
astonishing birds that ever lived!"

The subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so
tame that he was brought down by Mr. Boythorn's man, on his
forefinger, and after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted
on his master's head. To hear Mr. Boythorn presently expressing the
most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of
a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was to have a good
illustration of his character, I thought.

"By my soul, Jarndyce," he said, very gently holding up a bit of
bread to the canary to peck at, "if I were in your place I would
seize every master in Chancery by the throat to-morrow morning and
shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bones
rattled in his skin. I would have a settlement out of somebody, by
fair means or by foul. If you would empower me to do it, I would do
it for you with the greatest satisfaction!" (All this time the very
small canary was eating out of his hand.)

"I thank you, Lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at
present," returned Mr. Jarndyce, laughing, "that it would be greatly
advanced even by the legal process of shaking the bench and the whole
bar."

"There never was such an infernal cauldron as that Chancery on the
face of the earth!" said Mr. Boythorn. "Nothing but a mine below it
on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, and
precedents collected in it and every functionary belonging to it
also, high and low, upward and downward, from its son the
Accountant-General to its father the Devil, and the whole blown to
atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform it
in the least!"

It was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which he
recommended this strong measure of reform. When we laughed, he threw
up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole country
seemed to echo to his "Ha, ha, ha!" It had not the least effect in
disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete and who
hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side and now
on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master as if he were no
more than another bird.

"But how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed right of
way?" said Mr. Jarndyce. "You are not free from the toils of the law
yourself!"

"The fellow has brought actions against ME for trespass, and I have
brought actions against HIM for trespass," returned Mr. Boythorn. "By
heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. It is morally impossible
that his name can be Sir Leicester. It must be Sir Lucifer."

"Complimentary to our distant relation!" said my guardian laughingly
to Ada and Richard.

"I would beg Miss Clare's pardon and Mr. Carstone's pardon," resumed
our visitor, "if I were not reassured by seeing in the fair face of
the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quite unnecessary
and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance."

"Or he keeps us," suggested Richard.

"By my soul," exclaimed Mr. Boythorn, suddenly firing another volley,
"that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather was, the
most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull, ever, by
some inexplicable mistake of Nature, born in any station of life but
a walking-stick's! The whole of that family are the most solemnly
conceited and consummate blockheads! But it's no matter; he should
not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets melted into one and
living in a hundred Chesney Wolds, one within another, like the ivory
balls in a Chinese carving. The fellow, by his agent, or secretary,
or somebody, writes to me 'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, presents
his compliments to Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, and has to call his
attention to the fact that the green pathway by the old
parsonage-house, now the property of Mr. Lawrence Boythorn, is Sir
Leicester's right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of
Chesney Wold, and that Sir Leicester finds it convenient to close up
the same.' I write to the fellow, 'Mr. Lawrence Boythorn presents his
compliments to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and has to call HIS
attention to the fact that he totally denies the whole of Sir
Leicester Dedlock's positions on every possible subject and has to
add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to
see the man who may undertake to do it.' The fellow sends a most
abandoned villain with one eye to construct a gateway. I play upon
that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine until the breath is
nearly driven out of his body. The fellow erects a gate in the night.
I chop it down and burn it in the morning. He sends his myrmidons to
come over the fence and pass and repass. I catch them in humane man
traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the
engine--resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the
existence of those lurking ruffians. He brings actions for trespass;
I bring actions for trespass. He brings actions for assault and
battery; I defend them and continue to assault and batter. Ha, ha,
ha!"

To hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have
thought him the angriest of mankind. To see him at the very same
time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly
smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought
him the gentlest. To hear him laugh and see the broad good nature of
his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in the
world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence was a
summer joke.

"No, no," he said, "no closing up of my paths by any Dedlock! Though
I willingly confess," here he softened in a moment, "that Lady
Dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom I would
do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a head
seven hundred years thick, may. A man who joined his regiment at
twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious and
presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the
breath of life through a tight waist--and got broke for it--is not
the man to be walked over by all the Sir Lucifers, dead or alive,
locked or unlocked. Ha, ha, ha!"

"Nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?" said my
guardian.

"Most assuredly not!" said Mr. Boythorn, clapping him on the shoulder
with an air of protection that had something serious in it, though he
laughed. "He will stand by the low boy, always. Jarndyce, you may
rely upon him! But speaking of this trespass--with apologies to Miss
Clare and Miss Summerson for the length at which I have pursued so
dry a subject--is there nothing for me from your men Kenge and
Carboy?"

"I think not, Esther?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Nothing, guardian."

"Much obliged!" said Mr. Boythorn. "Had no need to ask, after even my
slight experience of Miss Summerson's forethought for every one about
her." (They all encouraged me; they were determined to do it.) "I
inquired because, coming from Lincolnshire, I of course have not yet
been in town, and I thought some letters might have been sent down
here. I dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning."

I saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed very
pleasantly, contemplate Richard and Ada with an interest and a
satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat
at a little distance from the piano listening to the music--and he
had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music,
for his face showed it--that I asked my guardian as we sat at the
backgammon board whether Mr. Boythorn had ever been married.

"No," said he. "No."

"But he meant to be!" said I.

"How did you find out that?" he returned with a smile. "Why,
guardian," I explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding
what was in my thoughts, "there is something so tender in his manner,
after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and--"

Mr. Jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as I have just
described him.

I said no more.

"You are right, little woman," he answered. "He was all but married
once. Long ago. And once."

"Did the lady die?"

"No--but she died to him. That time has had its influence on all his
later life. Would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of
romance yet?"

"I think, guardian, I might have supposed so. But it is easy to say
that when you have told me so."

"He has never since been what he might have been," said Mr. Jarndyce,
"and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant
and his little yellow friend. It's your throw, my dear!"

I felt, from my guardian's manner, that beyond this point I could not
pursue the subject without changing the wind. I therefore forbore to
ask any further questions. I was interested, but not curious. I
thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when I
was awakened by Mr. Boythorn's lusty snoring; and I tried to do that
very difficult thing, imagine old people young again and invested
with the graces of youth. But I fell asleep before I had succeeded,
and dreamed of the days when I lived in my godmother's house. I am
not sufficiently acquainted with such subjects to know whether it is
at all remarkable that I almost always dreamed of that period of my
life.

With the morning there came a letter from Messrs. Kenge and Carboy to
Mr. Boythorn informing him that one of their clerks would wait upon
him at noon. As it was the day of the week on which I paid the bills,
and added up my books, and made all the household affairs as compact
as possible, I remained at home while Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and Richard
took advantage of a very fine day to make a little excursion, Mr.
Boythorn was to wait for Kenge and Carboy's clerk and then was to go
on foot to meet them on their return.

Well! I was full of business, examining tradesmen's books, adding up
columns, paying money, filing receipts, and I dare say making a great
bustle about it when Mr. Guppy was announced and shown in. I had had
some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might be the young
gentleman who had met me at the coach-office, and I was glad to see
him, because he was associated with my present happiness.

I scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. He had an
entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid
gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-house
flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little
finger. Besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with
bear's-grease and other perfumery. He looked at me with an attention
that quite confused me when I begged him to take a seat until the
servant should return; and as he sat there crossing and uncrossing
his legs in a corner, and I asked him if he had had a pleasant ride,
and hoped that Mr. Kenge was well, I never looked at him, but I found
him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and curious way.

When the request was brought to him that he would go upstairs to Mr.
Boythorn's room, I mentioned that he would find lunch prepared for
him when he came down, of which Mr. Jarndyce hoped he would partake.
He said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the door,
"Shall I have the honour of finding you here, miss?" I replied yes, I
should be there; and he went out with a bow and another look.

I thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much
embarrassed; and I fancied that the best thing I could do would be to
wait until I saw that he had everything he wanted and then to leave
him to himself. The lunch was soon brought, but it remained for some
time on the table. The interview with Mr. Boythorn was a long one,
and a stormy one too, I should think, for although his room was at
some distance I heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a
high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation.

At last Mr. Guppy came back, looking something the worse for the
conference. "My eye, miss," he said in a low voice, "he's a Tartar!"

"Pray take some refreshment, sir," said I.

Mr. Guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the
carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as I felt
quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. The
sharpening lasted so long that at last I felt a kind of obligation on
me to raise my eyes in order that I might break the spell under which
he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off.

He immediately looked at the dish and began to carve.

"What will you take yourself, miss? You'll take a morsel of
something?"

"No, thank you," said I.

"Shan't I give you a piece of anything at all, miss?" said Mr. Guppy,
hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine.

"Nothing, thank you," said I. "I have only waited to see that you
have everything you want. Is there anything I can order for you?"

"No, I am much obliged to you, miss, I'm sure. I've everything that I
can require to make me comfortable--at least I--not comfortable--I'm
never that." He drank off two more glasses of wine, one after
another.

I thought I had better go.

"I beg your pardon, miss!" said Mr. Guppy, rising when he saw me
rise. "But would you allow me the favour of a minute's private
conversation?"

Not knowing what to say, I sat down again.

"What follows is without prejudice, miss?" said Mr. Guppy, anxiously
bringing a chair towards my table.

"I don't understand what you mean," said I, wondering.

"It's one of our law terms, miss. You won't make any use of it to my
detriment at Kenge and Carboy's or elsewhere. If our conversation
shouldn't lead to anything, I am to be as I was and am not to be
prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. In short, it's in
total confidence."

"I am at a loss, sir," said I, "to imagine what you can have to
communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but
once; but I should be very sorry to do you any injury."

"Thank you, miss. I'm sure of it--that's quite sufficient." All this
time Mr. Guppy was either planing his forehead with his handkerchief
or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the palm of his
right. "If you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, I
think it might assist me in getting on without a continual choke that
cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant."

He did so, and came back again. I took the opportunity of moving well
behind my table.

"You wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you miss?" said Mr.
Guppy, apparently refreshed.

"Not any," said I.

"Not half a glass?" said Mr. Guppy. "Quarter? No! Then, to proceed.
My present salary, Miss Summerson, at Kenge and Carboy's, is two
pound a week. When I first had the happiness of looking upon you, it
was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened
period. A rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of
five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve
months from the present date. My mother has a little property, which
takes the form of a small life annuity, upon which she lives in an
independent though unassuming manner in the Old Street Road. She is
eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. She never interferes, is
all for peace, and her disposition easy. She has her failings--as who
has not?--but I never knew her do it when company was present, at
which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt
liquors. My own abode is lodgings at Penton Place, Pentonville. It is
lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the
'ealthiest outlets. Miss Summerson! In the mildest language, I adore
you. Would you be so kind as to allow me (as I may say) to file a
declaration--to make an offer!"

Mr. Guppy went down on his knees. I was well behind my table and not
much frightened. I said, "Get up from that ridiculous position
immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise
and ring the bell!"

"Hear me out, miss!" said Mr. Guppy, folding his hands.

"I cannot consent to hear another word, sir," I returned, "Unless you
get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table as
you ought to do if you have any sense at all."

He looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so.

"Yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said with his hand upon his
heart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the
tray, "to be stationed behind food at such a moment. The soul recoils
from food at such a moment, miss."

"I beg you to conclude," said I; "you have asked me to hear you out,
and I beg you to conclude."

"I will, miss," said Mr. Guppy. "As I love and honour, so likewise I
obey. Would that I could make thee the subject of that vow before the
shrine!"

"That is quite impossible," said I, "and entirely out of the
question."

"I am aware," said Mr. Guppy, leaning forward over the tray and
regarding me, as I again strangely felt, though my eyes were not
directed to him, with his late intent look, "I am aware that in a
worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a
poor one. But, Miss Summerson! Angel! No, don't ring--I have been
brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety of
general practice. Though a young man, I have ferreted out evidence,
got up cases, and seen lots of life. Blest with your hand, what means
might I not find of advancing your interests and pushing your
fortunes! What might I not get to know, nearly concerning you? I know
nothing now, certainly; but what MIGHT I not if I had your
confidence, and you set me on?"

I told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to be my
interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination, and
he would now understand that I requested him, if he pleased, to go
away immediately.

"Cruel miss," said Mr. Guppy, "hear but another word! I think you
must have seen that I was struck with those charms on the day when I
waited at the Whytorseller. I think you must have remarked that I
could not forbear a tribute to those charms when I put up the steps
of the 'ackney-coach. It was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was
well meant. Thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. I have
walked up and down of an evening opposite Jellyby's house only to
look upon the bricks that once contained thee. This out of to-day,
quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its
pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone. If I
speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful
wretchedness. Love was before it, and is before it."

"I should be pained, Mr. Guppy," said I, rising and putting my hand
upon the bell-rope, "to do you or any one who was sincere the
injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably
expressed. If you have really meant to give me a proof of your good
opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, I feel that I ought to thank
you. I have very little reason to be proud, and I am not proud. I
hope," I think I added, without very well knowing what I said, "that
you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish
and attend to Messrs. Kenge and Carboy's business."

"Half a minute, miss!" cried Mr. Guppy, checking me as I was about to
ring. "This has been without prejudice?"

"I will never mention it," said I, "unless you should give me future
occasion to do so."

"A quarter of a minute, miss! In case you should think better at any
time, however distant--THAT'S no consequence, for my feelings can
never alter--of anything I have said, particularly what might I not
do, Mr. William Guppy, eighty-seven, Penton Place, or if removed, or
dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of Mrs.
Guppy, three hundred and two, Old Street Road, will be sufficient."

I rang the bell, the servant came, and Mr. Guppy, laying his written
card upon the table and making a dejected bow, departed. Raising my
eyes as he went out, I once more saw him looking at me after he had
passed the door.

I sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and payments
and getting through plenty of business. Then I arranged my desk, and
put everything away, and was so composed and cheerful that I thought
I had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. But, when I went
upstairs to my own room, I surprised myself by beginning to laugh
about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning to cry
about it. In short, I was in a flutter for a little while and felt as
if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever had been
since the days of the dear old doll, long buried in the garden.




CHAPTER X

The Law-Writer


On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, that is to say, more
particularly in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby,
law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook's
Court, at most times a shady place, Mr. Snagsby has dealt in
all sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls
of parchment; in paper--foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white,
whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens,
ink, India-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and
wafers; in red tape and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs,
diaries, and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands--glass
and leaden--pen-knives, scissors, bodkins, and other small
office-cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention, ever
since he was out of his time and went into partnership with Peffer.
On that occasion, Cook's Court was in a manner revolutionized by the
new inscription in fresh paint, PEFFER AND SNAGSBY, displacing the
time-honoured and not easily to be deciphered legend PEFFER only. For
smoke, which is the London ivy, had so wreathed itself round Peffer's
name and clung to his dwelling-place that the affectionate parasite
quite overpowered the parent tree.

Peffer is never seen in Cook's Court now. He is not expected there,
for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard
of St. Andrews, Holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches roaring
past him all the day and half the night like one great dragon. If he
ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest to air himself again in
Cook's Court until admonished to return by the crowing of the
sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in Cursitor Street,
whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he
knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it--if
Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of Cook's Court, which no
law-stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly,
and no one is the worse or wiser.

In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Snagsby's "time"
of seven long years, there dwelt with Peffer in the same
law-stationering premises a niece--a short, shrewd niece, something
too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like
a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. The
Cook's Courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother of
this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous a
solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her
up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for
a stronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited
internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice, which acids, they held,
had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoever
of the many tongues of Rumour this frothy report originated, it
either never reached or never influenced the ears of young Snagsby,
who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man's
estate, entered into two partnerships at once. So now, in Cook's
Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby and the niece are one; and the
niece still cherishes her figure, which, however tastes may differ,
is unquestionably so far precious that there is mighty little of it.

Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to the
neighbours' thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing to proceed
from Mrs. Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook's Court very often. Mr.
Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through these dulcet
tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining
head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He
tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his door in Cook's
Court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at
the clouds, or stands behind a desk in his dark shop with a heavy
flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin in company with his two
'prentices, he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. From
beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in
its grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamentations in
the voice already mentioned; and haply, on some occasions when these
reach a sharper pitch than usual, Mr. Snagsby mentions to the
'prentices, "I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster!"

This proper name, so used by Mr. Snagsby, has before now sharpened
the wit of the Cook's Courtiers to remark that it ought to be the
name of Mrs. Snagsby, seeing that she might with great force and
expression be termed a Guster, in compliment to her stormy character.
It is, however, the possession, and the only possession except fifty
shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with
clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to
have been christened Augusta) who, although she was farmed or
contracted for during her growing time by an amiable benefactor of
his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail to have been
developed under the most favourable circumstances, "has fits," which
the parish can't account for.

Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round ten
years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits, and
is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron saint
that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the sink,
or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be
near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. She is a
satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 'prentices, who feel
that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the
breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, who can
always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to Mr. Snagsby, who
thinks it a charity to keep her. The law-stationer's establishment
is, in Guster's eyes, a temple of plenty and splendour. She believes
the little drawing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with
its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant
apartment in Christendom. The view it commands of Cook's Court at one
end (not to mention a squint into Cursitor Street) and of Coavinses'
the sheriff's officer's backyard at the other she regards as a
prospect of unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil--and
plenty of it too--of Mr. Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby and of Mrs.
Snagsby looking at Mr. Snagsby are in her eyes as achievements of
Raphael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her many
privations.

Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the
business to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches the
tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays,
licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges no
responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner,
insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the
neighbouring wives a long way down Chancery Lane on both sides, and
even out in Holborn, who in any domestic passages of arms habitually
call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their (the
wives') position and Mrs. Snagsby's, and their (the husbands')
behaviour and Mr. Snagsby's. Rumour, always flying bat-like about
Cook's Court and skimming in and out at everybody's windows, does say
that Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that Mr. Snagsby is
sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if he had the
spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. It is even observed that the
wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining
example in reality look down upon him and that nobody does so with
greater superciliousness than one particular lady whose lord is more
than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of
correction. But these vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby's
being in his way rather a meditative and poetical man, loving to walk
in Staple Inn in the summer-time and to observe how countrified the
sparrows and the leaves are, also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a
Sunday afternoon and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were
old times once and that you'd find a stone coffin or two now under
that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his
imagination, too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, and
Masters of the Rolls who are deceased; and he gets such a flavour of
the country out of telling the two 'prentices how he HAS heard say
that a brook "as clear as crystal" once ran right down the middle of
Holborn, when Turnstile really was a turnstile, leading slap away
into the meadows--gets such a flavour of the country out of this that
he never wants to go there.

The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully
effective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at his
shop-door looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skim
westward over the slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court. The crow
flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's Inn Garden into
Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those
shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in
nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still
remain; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman
helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars,
flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache--as
would seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less. Here, among
his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr.
Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where
the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is to-day,
quiet at his table. An oyster of the old school whom nobody can open.

Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of
the present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from
attention, able to afford it. Heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned,
mahogany-and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables
with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the
holders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one,
environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor where
he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks
that give a very insufficient light to his large room. The titles on
the backs of his books have retired into the binding; everything that
can have a lock has got one; no key is visible. Very few loose papers
are about. He has some manuscript near him, but is not referring
to it. With the round top of an inkstand and two broken bits of
sealing-wax he is silently and slowly working out whatever train of
indecision is in his mind. Now the inkstand top is in the middle, now
the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. That's not it. Mr.
Tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin again.

Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory
staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and
he cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office.
He keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at
elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened
with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a common way. He wants no
clerks. He is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped.
His clients want HIM; he is all in all. Drafts that he requires to be
drawn are drawn by special-pleaders in the temple on mysterious
instructions; fair copies that he requires to be made are made at the
stationers', expense being no consideration. The middle-aged man in
the pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of the peerage than any
crossing-sweeper in Holborn.

The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand top,
the little sand-box. So! You to the middle, you to the right, you to
the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out now or
never. Now! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on
his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the
middle-aged man out at elbows, "I shall be back presently." Very
rarely tells him anything more explicit.

Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came--not quite so straight, but
nearly--to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. To Snagsby's,
Law-Stationer's, Deeds engrossed and copied, Law-Writing executed in
all its branches, &c., &c., &c.

It is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a
balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. It hovers about
Snagsby's door. The hours are early there: dinner at half-past one
and supper at half-past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to descend into
the subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his door
just now and saw the crow who was out late.

"Master at home?"

Guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the
kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker's two
daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two
second-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two
'prentices to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merely
awakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won't
grow, and never would, and it is confidently thought, never will.

"Master at home?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster disappears, glad
to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and
veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great torture
of the law--a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off.

Mr. Snagsby appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. Bolts a
bit of bread and butter. Says, "Bless my soul, sir! Mr. Tulkinghorn!"

"I want half a word with you, Snagsby."

"Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man
round for me? Pray walk into the back shop, sir." Snagsby has
brightened in a moment.

The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse,
counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facing
round, on a stool at the desk.

"Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby."

"Yes, sir." Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind his hand,
modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsby, as a timid man, is
accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save
words.

"You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately."

"Yes, sir, we did."

"There was one of them," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly
feeling--tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong
coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather
like. As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I
looked in to ask you--but I haven't got it. No matter, any other time
will do. Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this."

"Who copied this, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat
on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a
twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. "We gave this out,
sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that
time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to
my book."

Mr. Snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt of
the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped short, eyes
the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling down
a page of the book, "Jewby--Packer--Jarndyce."

"Jarndyce! Here we are, sir," says Mr. Snagsby. "To be sure! I might
have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges
just over on the opposite side of the lane."

Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the
law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.

"WHAT do you call him? Nemo?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo, sir. Here
it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night at eight
o'clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine."

"Nemo!" repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo is Latin for no one."

"It must be English for some one, sir, I think," Mr. Snagsby submits
with his deferential cough. "It is a person's name. Here it is, you
see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eight o'clock;
brought in Thursday morning, half after nine."

The tail of Mr. Snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of Mrs.
Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by
deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to Mrs.
Snagsby, as who should say, "My dear, a customer!"

"Half after nine, sir," repeats Mr. Snagsby. "Our law-writers, who
live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but
it's the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a
written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the
King's Bench Office, and the Judges' Chambers, and so forth. You know
the kind of document, sir--wanting employ?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of
Coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in Coavinses'
windows. Coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of
several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. Mr.
Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance
over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic motions
with his mouth to this effect: "Tul-king-horn--rich--in-flu-en-tial!"

"Have you given this man work before?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours."

"Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he
lived?"

"Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a--" Mr. Snagsby makes
another bolt, as if the bit of bread and buffer were insurmountable
"--at a rag and bottle shop."

"Can you show me the place as I go back?"

"With the greatest pleasure, sir!"

Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his
black coat, takes his hat from its peg. "Oh! Here is my little
woman!" he says aloud. "My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one
of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with
Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, sir--I shan't be two minutes, my
love!"

Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps
at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office,
refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently
curious.

"You will find that the place is rough, sir," says Mr. Snagsby,
walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to
the lawyer; "and the party is very rough. But they're a wild lot in
general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never
wants sleep. He'll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long
as ever you like."

It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full
effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and
against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against
plaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sorts, and against the
general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has
interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest
business of life; diving through law and equity, and through that
kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows what
and collects about us nobody knows whence or how--we only knowing in
general that when there is too much of it we find it necessary to
shovel it away--the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and
bottle shop and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise,
lying and being in the shadow of the wall of Lincoln's Inn, and kept,
as is announced in paint, to all whom it may concern, by one Krook.

"This is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer.

"This is where he lives, is it?" says the lawyer unconcernedly.
"Thank you."

"Are you not going in, sir?"

"No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields at present. Good
evening. Thank you!" Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat and returns to his
little woman and his tea.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. He goes
a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. Krook, and
enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so
in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part by
a fire. The old man rises and comes forward, with another blot-headed
candle in his hand.

"Pray is your lodger within?"

"Male or female, sir?" says Mr. Krook.

"Male. The person who does copying."

Mr. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has an
indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute.

"Did you wish to see him, sir?"

"Yes."

"It's what I seldom do myself," says Mr. Krook with a grin. "Shall I
call him down? But it's a weak chance if he'd come, sir!"

"I'll go up to him, then," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there!" Mr. Krook, with his
cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking after
Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Hi-hi!" he says when Mr. Tulkinghorn has nearly
disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The cat
expands her wicked mouth and snarls at him.

"Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You know
what they say of my lodger?" whispers Krook, going up a step or two.

"What do they say of him?"

"They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I know
better--he don't buy. I'll tell you what, though; my lodger is so
black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he'd as soon make that
bargain as any other. Don't put him out, sir. That's my advice!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark door
on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and
accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.

The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it if
he had not. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease,
and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as
if poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. In the corner
by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, a wilderness
marked with a rain of ink. In another corner a ragged old portmanteau
on one of the two chairs serves for cabinet or wardrobe; no larger
one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. The
floor is bare, except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of
rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the
darkness of the night, but the discoloured shutters are drawn
together, and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine
might be staring in--the banshee of the man upon the bed.

For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork,
lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just
within the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt and
trousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectral
darkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole length of
its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower of
winding-sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with his
whiskers and his beard--the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the
scum and mist around him, in neglect. Foul and filthy as the room is,
foul and filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive what fumes
those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the
general sickliness and faintness, and the odour of stale tobacco,
there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium.

"Hallo, my friend!" he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick
against the door.

He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned away,
but his eyes are surely open.

"Hallo, my friend!" he cries again. "Hallo! Hallo!"

As he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long goes
out and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shutters
staring down upon the bed.




CHAPTER XI

Our Dear Brother


A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room,
irresolute, makes him start and say, "What's that?"

"It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his
ear. "Can't you wake him?"

"No."

"What have you done with your candle?"

"It's gone out. Here it is."

Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and
tries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, and his
endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectual call to his
lodger, that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from
the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some new reason
that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs
outside.

The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes slowly up
with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "Does the man
generally sleep like this?" inquired the lawyer in a low voice. "Hi!
I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows.
"I know next to nothing of his habits except that he keeps himself
very close."

Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goes in, the
great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not so the eyes
upon the bed.

"God save us!" exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He is dead!" Krook drops
the heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings over
the bedside.

They look at one another for a moment.

"Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir. Here's
poison by the bed! Call out for Flite, will you?" says Krook, with
his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings.

Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, "Miss Flite! Flite!
Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!" Krook follows him with his
eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old
portmanteau and steal back again.

"Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!" So Mr. Krook addresses a
crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appears and vanishes
in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testy medical man
brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lip and a broad
Scotch tongue.

"Ey! Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at
them after a moment's examination. "He's just as dead as Phairy!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has
been dead any time.

"Any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's probable he wull
have been dead aboot three hours."

"About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man on the
other side of the bed.

"Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires the
first.

The dark young man says yes.

"Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other, "for I'm nae
gude here!" With which remark he finishes his brief attendance and
returns to finish his dinner.

The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face
and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his
pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.

"I knew this person by sight very well," says he. "He has purchased
opium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody present related
to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders.

"I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle from
the surgeon's outstretched hand. "He told me once I was the nearest
relation he had."

"He has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there is
no doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enough
here now," taking an old tea-pot from Mr. Krook, "to kill a dozen
people."

"Do you think he did it on purpose?" asks Krook.

"Took the over-dose?"

"Yes!" Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible
interest.

"I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit
of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I suppose?"

"I suppose he was. His room--don't look rich," says Krook, who might
have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around.
"But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to
name his circumstances to me."

"Did he owe you any rent?"

"Six weeks."

"He will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming his examination.
"It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and to
judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy
release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare
say, good-looking." He says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on
the bedstead's edge with his face towards that other face and his
hand upon the region of the heart. "I recollect once thinking there
was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall
in life. Was that so?" he continues, looking round.

Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose
heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that he was my
lodger for a year and a half and lived--or didn't live--by
law-writing, I know no more of him."

During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old
portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all
appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the
bed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death,
noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as
an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy
woman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his
rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this
while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention
nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might
the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case,
as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.

He now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved,
professional way.

"I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the
intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some
employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my
stationer--Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knows anything
about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!" to the
little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he has
often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the
law-stationer. "Suppose you do!"

While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation
and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook and
he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, but
stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.

Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves.
"Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it! Bless
my soul!"

"Can you give the person of the house any information about this
unfortunate creature, Snagsby?" inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He was in
arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know."

"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind
his hand, "I really don't know what advice I could offer, except
sending for the beadle."

"I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I could
advise--"

"No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, with his
deferential cough.

"I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he
came from, or to anything concerning him."

"I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby after prefacing his reply with
his cough of general propitiation, "that I no more know where he came
from than I know--"

"Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon to help him
out.

A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook,
with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.

"As to his connexions, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "if a person was to
say to me, 'Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you
in the Bank of England if you'll only name one of 'em,' I couldn't do
it, sir! About a year and a half ago--to the best of my belief, at
the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle
shop--"

"That was the time!" says Krook with a nod.

"About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, "he
came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my
little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation)
in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her to
understand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to
put too fine a point upon it," a favourite apology for plain speaking
with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative
frankness, "hard up! My little woman is not in general partial to
strangers, particular--not to put too fine a point upon it--when they
want anything. But she was rather took by something about this
person, whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want
of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge;
and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My
little woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds Mr. Snagsby after
consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, "and she
considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod. In consequence of which,
she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, 'Mr. Snagsby, you
haven't found Nimrod any work yet!' or 'Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you
give that eight and thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod?' or
such like. And that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our
place; and that is the most I know of him except that he was a quick
hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him
out, say, five and forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have
it brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which--" Mr. Snagsby
concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much
as to add, "I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm if he
were in a condition to do it."

"Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, "whether he
had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an inquest, and
you will be asked the question. You can read?"

"No, I can't," returns the old man with a sudden grin.

"Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. He will
get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. Being here, I'll wait
if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should
ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold the
candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is
anything to help you."

"In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby.

Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have
seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though
there is very little else, heaven knows.

The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer
conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of the
chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door.
The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches
tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his
long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied
in the bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same
place and attitude.

There are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau;
there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets
on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper, smelling of opium,
on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took, such a day, so many
grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as
if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left
off. There are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to
coroners' inquests; there is nothing else. They search the cupboard
and the drawer of the ink-splashed table. There is not a morsel of an
old letter or of any other writing in either. The young surgeon
examines the dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence
are all he finds. Mr. Snagsby's suggestion is the practical
suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in.

So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out
of the room. "Don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon; "that
won't do!" Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before him, and she
goes furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her
lips.

"Good night!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and goes home to Allegory and
meditation.

By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of its
inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of the
army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.
Krook's window, which they closely invest. A policeman has already
walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he
stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base
occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall
back. Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms
with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantness originating in
young Perkins' having "fetched" young Piper "a crack," renews her
friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion. The potboy at the
corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge
of life and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges
confidential communications with the policeman and has the appearance
of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable
in station-houses. People talk across the court out of window, and
bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's
the matter. The general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr.
Krook warn't made away with first, mingled with a little natural
disappointment that he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the
beadle arrives.

The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be a
ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the
moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. The
policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the
barbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something that
must be borne with until government shall abolish him. The sensation
is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the
beadle is on the ground and has gone in.

By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation,
which has rather languished in the interval. He is understood to be
in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow who can tell the
coroner and jury anything whatever respecting the deceased. Is
immediately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing
whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that
Mrs. Green's son "was a law-writer his-self and knowed him better
than anybody," which son of Mrs. Green's appears, on inquiry, to be
at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China, three months
out, but considered accessible by telegraph on application to the
Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes into various shops and parlours,
examining the inhabitants, always shutting the door first, and by
exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy exasperating the public.
Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Public loses interest and
undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle in shrill youthful voices with
having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of a popular song to that
effect and importing that the boy was made into soup for the
workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary to support the law
and seize a vocalist, who is released upon the flight of the rest on
condition of his getting out of this then, come, and cutting it--a
condition he immediately observes. So the sensation dies off for the
time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or
less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible
great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues
his lounging way with a heavy tread, beating the palms of his white
gloves one against the other and stopping now and then at a
street-corner to look casually about for anything between a lost
child and a murder.

Under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting
about Chancery Lane with his summonses, in which every juror's name
is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle's own
name, which nobody can read or wants to know. The summonses served
and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to Mr. Krook's to keep
a small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presently
arriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes in
the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which
earthly lodgings take for No one--and for Every one.

And all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau;
and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through
five and forty years, lies there with no more track behind him that
any one can trace than a deserted infant.

Next day the court is all alive--is like a fair, as Mrs. Perkins,
more than reconciled to Mrs. Piper, says in amicable conversation
with that excellent woman. The coroner is to sit in the first-floor
room at the Sol's Arms, where the Harmonic Meetings take place twice
a week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional
celebrity, faced by Little Swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes
(according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally
round him and support first-rate talent. The Sol's Arms does a brisk
stroke of business all the morning. Even children so require
sustaining under the general excitement that a pieman who has
established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court says
his brandy-balls go off like smoke. What time the beadle, hovering
between the door of Mr. Krook's establishment and the door of the
Sol's Arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet
spirits and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return.

At the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are
waiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good
dry skittle-ground attached to the Sol's Arms. The coroner frequents
more public-houses than any man alive. The smell of sawdust, beer,
tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in his vocation from death
in its most awful shapes. He is conducted by the beadle and the
landlord to the Harmonic Meeting Room, where he puts his hat on the
piano and takes a Windsor-chair at the head of a long table formed of
several short tables put together and ornamented with glutinous rings
in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. As many of the jury
as can crowd together at the table sit there. The rest get among the
spittoons and pipes or lean against the piano. Over the coroner's
head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which
rather gives the majesty of the court the appearance of going to be
hanged presently.

Call over and swear the jury! While the ceremony is in progress,
sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a
large shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, who
modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public,
but seems familiar with the room too. A whisper circulates that this
is Little Swills. It is considered not unlikely that he will get up
an imitation of the coroner and make it the principal feature of the
Harmonic Meeting in the evening.

"Well, gentlemen--" the coroner begins.

"Silence there, will you!" says the beadle. Not to the coroner,
though it might appear so.

"Well, gentlemen," resumes the coroner. "You are impanelled here to
inquire into the death of a certain man. Evidence will be given
before you as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will
give your verdict according to the--skittles; they must be stopped,
you know, beadle!--evidence, and not according to anything else. The
first thing to be done is to view the body."

"Make way there!" cries the beadle.

So they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a
straggling funeral, and make their inspection in Mr. Krook's back
second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and
precipitately. The beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very
neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has
provided a special little table near the coroner in the Harmonic
Meeting Room) should see all that is to be seen. For they are the
public chroniclers of such inquiries by the line; and he is not
superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print
what "Mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district,"
said and did and even aspires to see the name of Mooney as familiarly
and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman is, according
to the latest examples.

Little Swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return.
Mr. Tulkinghorn, also. Mr. Tulkinghorn is received with distinction
and seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, a
bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. The inquiry proceeds. The jury
learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about
him. "A very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says the
coroner, "who, I am informed, was accidentally present when discovery
of the death was made, but he could only repeat the evidence you have
already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the
law-stationer, and it is not necessary to trouble him. Is anybody in
attendance who knows anything more?"

Mrs. Piper pushed forward by Mrs. Perkins. Mrs. Piper sworn.

Anastasia Piper, gentlemen. Married woman. Now, Mrs. Piper, what have
you got to say about this?

Why, Mrs. Piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses and
without punctuation, but not much to tell. Mrs. Piper lives in the
court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has long been
well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but one
before the half-baptizing of Alexander James Piper aged eighteen
months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live
such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the
plaintive--so Mrs. Piper insists on calling the deceased--was
reported to have sold himself. Thinks it was the plaintive's air in
which that report originatinin. See the plaintive often and
considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go
about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping Mrs. Perkins
may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her
husband and herself and family). Has seen the plaintive wexed and
worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you
cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be
Methoozellers which you was not yourself). On accounts of this and
his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe from
his pocket and split Johnny's head (which the child knows not fear
and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). Never
however see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far
from it. Has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if not
partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor
grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing
down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here
would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent).

Says the coroner, is that boy here? Says the beadle, no, sir, he is
not here. Says the coroner, go and fetch him then. In the absence of
the active and intelligent, the coroner converses with Mr.
Tulkinghorn.

Oh! Here's the boy, gentlemen!

Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. Now, boy! But stop
a minute. Caution. This boy must be put through a few preliminary
paces.

Name, Jo. Nothing else that he knows on. Don't know that everybody
has two names. Never heerd of sich a think. Don't know that Jo is
short for a longer name. Thinks it long enough for HIM. HE don't find
no fault with it. Spell it? No. HE can't spell it. No father, no
mother, no friends. Never been to school. What's home? Knows a
broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. Don't recollect
who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both. Can't
exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie
to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to
punish him, and serve him right--and so he'll tell the truth.

"This won't do, gentlemen!" says the coroner with a melancholy shake
of the head.

"Don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an
attentive juryman.

"Out of the question," says the coroner. "You have heard the boy.
'Can't exactly say' won't do, you know. We can't take THAT in a court
of justice, gentlemen. It's terrible depravity. Put the boy aside."

Boy put aside, to the great edification of the audience, especially
of Little Swills, the comic vocalist.

Now. Is there any other witness? No other witness.

Very well, gentlemen! Here's a man unknown, proved to have been in
the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half,
found dead of too much opium. If you think you have any evidence to
lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come
to that conclusion. If you think it is a case of accidental death,
you will find a verdict accordingly.

Verdict accordingly. Accidental death. No doubt. Gentlemen, you are
discharged. Good afternoon.

While the coroner buttons his great-coat, Mr. Tulkinghorn and he give
private audience to the rejected witness in a corner.

That graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he
recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes
hooted and pursued about the streets. That one cold winter night when
he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man
turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned him and
found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "Neither have I.
Not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging.
That the man had often spoken to him since and asked him whether he
slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he
ever wished to die, and similar strange questions. That when the man
had no money, he would say in passing, "I am as poor as you to-day,
Jo," but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most
heartily believes) been glad to give him some.

"He was wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his
wretched sleeve. "Wen I see him a-layin' so stritched out just now, I
wished he could have heerd me tell him so. He wos wery good to me, he
wos!"

As he shuffles downstairs, Mr. Snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a
half-crown in his hand. "If you ever see me coming past your crossing
with my little woman--I mean a lady--" says Mr. Snagsby with his
finger on his nose, "don't allude to it!"

For some little time the jurymen hang about the Sol's Arms
colloquially. In the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud of
pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the Sol's Arms; two stroll to
Hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play at night, and
top up with oysters. Little Swills is treated on several hands. Being
asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizes them (his
strength lying in a slangular direction) as "a rummy start." The
landlord of the Sol's Arms, finding Little Swills so popular,
commends him highly to the jurymen and public, observing that for a
song in character he don't know his equal and that that man's
character-wardrobe would fill a cart.

Thus, gradually the Sol's Arms melts into the shadowy night and then
flares out of it strong in gas. The Harmonic Meeting hour arriving,
the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair, is faced
(red-faced) by Little Swills; their friends rally round them and
support first-rate talent. In the zenith of the evening, Little
Swills says, "Gentlemen, if you'll permit me, I'll attempt a short
description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day." Is
much applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as Swills; comes
in as the coroner (not the least in the world like him); describes
the inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment,
to the refrain: With his (the coroner's) tippy tol li doll, tippy tol
lo doll, tippy tol li doll, Dee!

The jingling piano at last is silent, and the Harmonic friends rally
round their pillows. Then there is rest around the lonely figure, now
laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the gaunt
eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. If this
forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here by the
mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised
to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon
the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would
have seemed! Oh, if in brighter days the now-extinguished fire within
him ever burned for one woman who held him in her heart, where is
she, while these ashes are above the ground!

It is anything but a night of rest at Mr. Snagsby's, in Cook's Court,
where Guster murders sleep by going, as Mr. Snagsby himself
allows--not to put too fine a point upon it--out of one fit into
twenty. The occasion of this seizure is that Guster has a tender
heart and a susceptible something that possibly might have been
imagination, but for Tooting and her patron saint. Be it what it may,
now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by Mr. Snagsby's
account of the inquiry at which he had assisted that at supper-time
she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying Dutch
cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration, which she only came
out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain of
fits, with short intervals between, of which she has pathetically
availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to Mrs. Snagsby not
to give her warning "when she quite comes to," and also in appeals to
the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones and go to bed.
Hence, Mr. Snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in
Cursitor Street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the
subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though the most
patient of men, "I thought you was dead, I am sure!"

What question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he
strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men
crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about what
cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. It is enough that
daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes.

Then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papers
as such, comes with his pauper company to Mr. Krook's and bears off
the body of our dear brother here departed to a hemmed-in churchyard,
pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases are communicated
to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not departed,
while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official
back-stairs--would to heaven they HAD departed!--are very complacent
and agreeable. Into a beastly scrap of ground which a Turk would
reject as a savage abomination and a Caffre would shudder at, they
bring our dear brother here departed to receive Christian burial.

With houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little
tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy
of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of
death in action close on life--here they lower our dear brother down
a foot or two, here sow him in corruption, to be raised in
corruption: an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside, a shameful
testimony to future ages how civilization and barbarism walked this
boastful island together.

Come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon or stay too
long by such a place as this! Come, straggling lights into the
windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at
least with this dread scene shut out! Come, flame of gas, burning so
sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its
witch-ointment slimy to the touch! It is well that you should call to
every passerby, "Look here!"

With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court to
the outside of the iron gate. It holds the gate with its hands and
looks in between the bars, stands looking in for a little while.

It then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step and
makes the archway clean. It does so very busily and trimly, looks in
again a little while, and so departs.

Jo, is it thou? Well, well! Though a rejected witness, who "can't
exactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands than men's,
thou art not quite in outer darkness. There is something like a
distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: "He wos wery
good to me, he wos!"




CHAPTER XII

On the Watch


It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and Chesney
Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares,
for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The
fashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad
tidings to benighted England. It has also found out that they will
entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the ELITE of the
BEAU MONDE (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but a
giant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seat
in Lincolnshire.

For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and
of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in
the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper
limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect
from the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle
woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves
and drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving shadows
of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. It
looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with bars
and patches of brightness never contemplated by the painters. Athwart
the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a
broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the
hearth and seems to rend it.

Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady and
Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and Sir
Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With a
considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging
demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs
with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they
rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendome and
canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the Rue de
Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and
queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the
Gate of the Star, out of Paris.

Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my Lady
Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre,
drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Only
last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay--within the walls playing
with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace
Garden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more
Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles
filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say a
word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little
gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing
Paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking,
tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and
much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate--only last Sunday, my
Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair,
almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.

She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies
before her, as it lies behind--her Ariel has put a girdle of it round
the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfect remedy
is always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced.
Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless
avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, when next beheld, let
it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck
glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain--two dark
square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it
aslant, like the angels in Jacob's dream!

Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored.
When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own
greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so
inexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in
his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance to
society.

"You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says my
Lady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almost read
a page in twenty miles.

"Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever."

"I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's long effusions, I think?"

"You see everything," says Sir Leicester with admiration.

"Ha!" sighs my Lady. "He is the most tiresome of men!"

"He sends--I really beg your pardon--he sends," says Sir Leicester,
selecting the letter and unfolding it, "a message to you. Our
stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out of
my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says--" Sir Leicester is so
long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Lady looks
a little irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right of way--' I
beg your pardon, that's not the place. He says--yes! Here I have it!
He says, 'I beg my respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope,
has benefited by the change. Will you do me the favour to mention (as
it may interest her) that I have something to tell her on her return
in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery
suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen
him.'"

My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.

"That's the message," observes Sir Leicester.

"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, still looking out of
her window.

"Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of surprise.

"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady with unmistakable
distinctness. "Please to stop the carriage."

The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the
rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an
impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly and
walks away so quickly that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulous
politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space of a
minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She smiles,
looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of
a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage.

The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three
days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more
or less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly
politeness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme
of general admiration. Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Lady,
says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might be
her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each
other. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing, hat in
hand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes my Lady,
how recognisant of my Lord's politeness, with an inclination of her
gracious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! It is
ravishing!

The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about like
the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, whose
countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in
whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the
Radical of Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over it
after stopping to refit, and he goes on with my Lady for Chesney
Wold, lying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.

Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, and
through the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of bare
trees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touched
at the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to
coming night, they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging in their
lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of
the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath, some agreeing
that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come down, some arguing with
malcontents who won't admit it, now all consenting to consider the
question disposed of, now all breaking out again in violent debate,
incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who will persist in putting
in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the
travelling chariot rolls on to the house, where fires gleam warmly
through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an
inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. But the
brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that.

Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir Leicester's
customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.

"How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you."

"I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, Sir
Leicester?"

"In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell."

"My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rouncewell with
another curtsy.

My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is
as wearily well as she can hope to be.

But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my Lady, who
has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she
may have conquered, asks, "Who is that girl?"

"A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa."

"Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even an appearance
of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?" she says,
touching her shoulder with her two forefingers.

Rosa, very much abashed, says, "No, if you please, my Lady!" and
glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, but looks
all the prettier.

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen, my Lady."

"Nineteen," repeats my Lady thoughtfully. "Take care they don't spoil
you by flattery."

"Yes, my Lady."

My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers
and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicester
pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a
panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what
to make of it, which was probably his general state of mind in the
days of Queen Elizabeth.

That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do nothing but
murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so graceful, so
beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling
touch that Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this,
not without personal pride, reserving only the one point of
affability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. Heaven
forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of
that excellent family, above all, of my Lady, whom the whole world
admires; but if my Lady would only be "a little more free," not quite
so cold and distant, Mrs. Rouncewell thinks she would be more
affable.

"'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds--only "almost" because it
borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than it
is, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock affairs--"that my
Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown young
lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind of
excellence she wants."

"Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" says
Watt, who has been home and come back again, he is such a good
grandson.

"More and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with dignity, "are
words it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied to
any drawback on my Lady."

"I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not?"

"If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have always
reason to be."

"Well," says Watt, "it's to be hoped they line out of their
prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride and
vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!"

"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for
joking."

"Sir Leicester is no joke by any means," says Watt, "and I humbly ask
his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the family and
their guests down here, there is no objection to my prolonging my
stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller
might?"

"Surely, none in the world, child."

"I am glad of that," says Watt, "because I have an inexpressible
desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood."

He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very shy indeed.
But according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa's ears that
burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Lady's maid is holding
forth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.

My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from somewhere in
the southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-eyed brown
woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certain feline
mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws
too eager and the skull too prominent. There is something indefinably
keen and wan about her anatomy, and she has a watchful way of looking
out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head which could
be pleasantly dispensed with, especially when she is in an ill humour
and near knives. Through all the good taste of her dress and little
adornments, these objections so express themselves that she seems to
go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides being
accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is
almost an Englishwoman in her acquaintance with the language;
consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon Rosa for
having attracted my Lady's attention, and she pours them out with
such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner that her companion, the
affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon
stage of that performance.

Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service since five years
and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet,
caressed--absolutely caressed--by my Lady on the moment of her
arriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! "And do you know how pretty you
are, child?" "No, my Lady." You are right there! "And how old are
you, child! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!"
Oh, how droll! It is the BEST thing altogether.

In short, it is such an admirable thing that Mademoiselle Hortense
can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her
countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of
visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoyment
expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of
face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look, which
intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my Lady's
mirrors when my Lady is not among them.

All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many of
them after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simpering
faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will not
submit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come to
pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which the fashionable
intelligence, a mighty hunter before the Lord, hunts with a keen
scent, from their breaking cover at the Court of St. James's to their
being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshire is all alive. By
day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and
carriages enliven the park roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the
village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by night from distant openings in
the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-room, where my
Lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of
jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday the chill little church is
almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavour of
the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes.

The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no
contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and
virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite of
its immense advantages. What can it be?

Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more the pity) to
set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel
neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. There
are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed,
swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived by
other dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at their
noses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into
his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who is
troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is
there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle
notwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has got
below the surface and is doing less harmless things than
jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no
rational person need particularly object?

Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney Wold this
January week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who
have set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. Who in mere
lackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy talk
about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning in the
things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow
should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling after finding it
out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful by
putting back the hands upon the clock of time and cancelling a few
hundred years of history.

There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new,
but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world
and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must be
languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Who
are to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to be
disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine arts, attending in powder
and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must array themselves
in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past generations and be
particularly careful not to be in earnest or to receive any impress
from the moving age.

Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with his
party, who has known what office is and who tells Sir Leicester
Dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see
to what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debate
used to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even a
Cabinet is not what it formerly was. He perceives with astonishment
that supposing the present government to be overthrown, the limited
choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie
between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle--supposing it to be
impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may be
assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of
that affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and the
leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to
Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,
what are you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Presidency of
the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him in the
Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What
follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces
(as is made manifest to the patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock)
because you can't provide for Noodle!

On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P., contends
across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of the
country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it
that is in question--is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done with
Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into Parliament,
and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, you would have got
him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have had with you the weight
attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would have brought to bear
upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you would have got in for
three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and you would have
strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the
business habits of Muffy. All this, instead of being as you now are,
dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!

As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences
of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and
distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but
Boodle and his retinue, and Buffy and HIS retinue. These are the
great actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no
doubt--a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be
occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as
on the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers and
families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are
the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can
appear upon the scene for ever and ever.

In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold than the
brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the
long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as
with the circle the necromancer draws around him--very strange
appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this
difference, that being realities and not phantoms, there is the
greater danger of their breaking in.

Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense of
injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and is not
to be extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber of
the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished and
having an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room,
and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time.
He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the park
from the village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if he had
never been out of it since he was last seen there, to request a
servant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he should
be wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of
the library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining
flag-staff over his head, and has some leads outside on which, any
fine morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen
walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook.

Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of the
library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glances
down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive
him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night
my Lady casually asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?"

Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not yet."

One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself in
deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding face in
the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her.

"Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, addressing the
reflection of Hortense, "to your business. You can contemplate your
beauty at another time."

"Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty."

"That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate at all."

At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright
groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the
Ghost's Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Lady
remain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards
them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never
slackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a
mask--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and every
crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great
or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is his
personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients;
he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself.

"How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his
hand.

Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My Lady
is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands
behind him, walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace. My Lady
walks upon the other side.

"We expected you before," says Sir Leicester. A gracious observation.
As much as to say, "Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember your existence when
you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. We bestow a
fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he is
much obliged.

"I should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that I have been
much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yourself
and Boythorn."

"A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir Leicester with
severity. "An extremely dangerous person in any community. A man of a
very low character of mind."

"He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, looking
most profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all surprised to hear
it."

"The only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will give up
anything."

"No, sir," replies Sir Leicester. "Nothing. I give up?"

"I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know you
would not abandon. I mean any minor point."

"Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, "there can be no minor
point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observe
that I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minor
point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual as
in reference to the family position I have it in charge to maintain."

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "I have now my
instructions," he says. "Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of
trouble--"

"It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir Leicester
interrupts him, "TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,
levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably have
been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and
severely punished--if not," adds Sir Leicester after a moment's
pause, "if not hanged, drawn, and quartered."

Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in
passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory
thing to having the sentence executed.

"But night is coming on," says he, "and my Lady will take cold. My
dear, let us go in."

As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr.
Tulkinghorn for the first time.

"You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I happened
to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circumstance; I had
quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can't
imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely
had some."

"You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.

"Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have had some.
And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that
actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?"

"Yes."

"How very odd!"

They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted
in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows
brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,
through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape
shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller
besides the waste of clouds.

My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir
Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands
before the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face.
He looks across his arm at my Lady.

"Yes," he says, "I inquired about the man, and found him. And, what
is very strange, I found him--"

"Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!" Lady Dedlock
languidly anticipates.

"I found him dead."

"Oh, dear me!" remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by the
fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.

"I was directed to his lodging--a miserable, poverty-stricken
place--and I found him dead."

"You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. "I
think the less said--"

"Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my Lady
speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking!
Dead?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head.
"Whether by his own hand--"

"Upon my honour!" cries Sir Leicester. "Really!"

"Do let me hear the story!" says my Lady.

"Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say--"

"No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn."

Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels
that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is
really--really--

"I was about to say," resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness,
"that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my
power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying
that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his
own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be
known. The coroner's jury found that he took the poison
accidentally."

"And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was this deplorable creature?"

"Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "He
had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour
and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him
the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had
once been something better, both in appearance and condition."

"What did they call the wretched being?"

"They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his
name."

"Not even any one who had attended on him?"

"No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found
him."

"Without any clue to anything more?"

"Without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an old
portmanteau, but--No, there were no papers."

During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady
Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their
customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as
was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir
Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the
Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately
protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my
Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he
was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a
subject so far removed from my Lady's station.

"Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up her
mantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have the
kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."

Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she
passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner
and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner--again, next
day--again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the
same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable
to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble
confidences, so oddly out of place and yet so perfectly at home. They
appear to take as little note of one another as any two people
enclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore
watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great
reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the
other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know
how much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in their
own hearts.




CHAPTER XIII

Esther's Narrative


We held many consultations about what Richard was to be, first
without Mr. Jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him,
but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. Richard
said he was ready for anything. When Mr. Jarndyce doubted whether he
might not already be too old to enter the Navy, Richard said he had
thought of that, and perhaps he was. When Mr. Jarndyce asked him what
he thought of the Army, Richard said he had thought of that, too, and
it wasn't a bad idea. When Mr. Jarndyce advised him to try and decide
within himself whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary
boyish inclination or a strong impulse, Richard answered, Well he
really HAD tried very often, and he couldn't make out.

"How much of this indecision of character," Mr. Jarndyce said to me,
"is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and
procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, I don't
pretend to say; but that Chancery, among its other sins, is
responsible for some of it, I can plainly see. It has engendered or
confirmed in him a habit of putting off--and trusting to this, that,
and the other chance, without knowing what chance--and dismissing
everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. The character of
much older and steadier people may be even changed by the
circumstances surrounding them. It would be too much to expect that a
boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences and
escape them."

I felt this to be true; though if I may venture to mention what I
thought besides, I thought it much to be regretted that Richard's
education had not counteracted those influences or directed his
character. He had been eight years at a public school and had learnt,
I understood, to make Latin verses of several sorts in the most
admirable manner. But I never heard that it had been anybody's
business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings
lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to HIM. HE had been adapted to
the verses and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection
that if he had remained at school until he was of age, I suppose he
could only have gone on making them over and over again unless he had
enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it. Still, although I
had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very improving, and
very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always
remembered all through life, I did doubt whether Richard would not
have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his
studying them quite so much.

To be sure, I knew nothing of the subject and do not even now know
whether the young gentlemen of classic Rome or Greece made verses to
the same extent--or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever
did.

"I haven't the least idea," said Richard, musing, "what I had better
be. Except that I am quite sure I don't want to go into the Church,
it's a toss-up."

"You have no inclination in Mr. Kenge's way?" suggested Mr. Jarndyce.

"I don't know that, sir!" replied Richard. "I am fond of boating.
Articled clerks go a good deal on the water. It's a capital
profession!"

"Surgeon--" suggested Mr. Jarndyce.

"That's the thing, sir!" cried Richard.

I doubt if he had ever once thought of it before.

"That's the thing, sir," repeated Richard with the greatest
enthusiasm. "We have got it at last. M.R.C.S.!"

He was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily.
He said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it,
the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art of healing was
the art of all others for him. Mistrusting that he only came to this
conclusion because, having never had much chance of finding out for
himself what he was fitted for and having never been guided to the
discovery, he was taken by the newest idea and was glad to get rid of
the trouble of consideration, I wondered whether the Latin verses
often ended in this or whether Richard's was a solitary case.

Mr. Jarndyce took great pains to talk with him seriously and to put
it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a matter.
Richard was a little grave after these interviews, but invariably
told Ada and me that it was all right, and then began to talk about
something else.

"By heaven!" cried Mr. Boythorn, who interested himself strongly in
the subject--though I need not say that, for he could do nothing
weakly; "I rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry
devoting himself to that noble profession! The more spirit there is
in it, the better for mankind and the worse for those mercenary
task-masters and low tricksters who delight in putting that
illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. By all that is base
and despicable," cried Mr. Boythorn, "the treatment of surgeons
aboard ship is such that I would submit the legs--both legs--of every
member of the Admiralty Board to a compound fracture and render it a
transportable offence in any qualified practitioner to set them if
the system were not wholly changed in eight and forty hours!"

"Wouldn't you give them a week?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.

"No!" cried Mr. Boythorn firmly. "Not on any consideration! Eight and
forty hours! As to corporations, parishes, vestry-boards, and similar
gatherings of jolter-headed clods who assemble to exchange such
speeches that, by heaven, they ought to be worked in quicksilver
mines for the short remainder of their miserable existence, if it
were only to prevent their detestable English from contaminating a
language spoken in the presence of the sun--as to those fellows, who
meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentlemen in the pursuit of
knowledge to recompense the inestimable services of the best years of
their lives, their long study, and their expensive education with
pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, I would have the
necks of every one of them wrung and their skulls arranged in
Surgeons' Hall for the contemplation of the whole profession in order
that its younger members might understand from actual measurement, in
early life, HOW thick skulls may become!"

He wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us with a
most agreeable smile and suddenly thundering, "Ha, ha, ha!" over and
over again, until anybody else might have been expected to be quite
subdued by the exertion.

As Richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice
after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by Mr.
Jarndyce and had expired, and he still continued to assure Ada and me
in the same final manner that it was "all right," it became advisable
to take Mr. Kenge into council. Mr. Kenge, therefore, came down to
dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his
eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did
exactly what I remembered to have seen him do when I was a little
girl.

"Ah!" said Mr. Kenge. "Yes. Well! A very good profession, Mr.
Jarndyce, a very good profession."

"The course of study and preparation requires to be diligently
pursued," observed my guardian with a glance at Richard.

"Oh, no doubt," said Mr. Kenge. "Diligently."

"But that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits that are
worth much," said Mr. Jarndyce, "it is not a special consideration
which another choice would be likely to escape."

"Truly," said Mr. Kenge. "And Mr. Richard Carstone, who has so
meritoriously acquitted himself in the--shall I say the classic
shades?--in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply
the habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification in
that tongue in which a poet was said (unless I mistake) to be born,
not made, to the more eminently practical field of action on which he
enters."

"You may rely upon it," said Richard in his off-hand manner, "that I
shall go at it and do my best."

"Very well, Mr. Jarndyce!" said Mr. Kenge, gently nodding his head.
"Really, when we are assured by Mr. Richard that he means to go at it
and to do his best," nodding feelingly and smoothly over those
expressions, "I would submit to you that we have only to inquire into
the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. Now, with
reference to placing Mr. Richard with some sufficiently eminent
practitioner. Is there any one in view at present?"

"No one, Rick, I think?" said my guardian.

"No one, sir," said Richard.

"Quite so!" observed Mr. Kenge. "As to situation, now. Is there any
particular feeling on that head?"

"N--no," said Richard.

"Quite so!" observed Mr. Kenge again.

"I should like a little variety," said Richard; "I mean a good range
of experience."

"Very requisite, no doubt," returned Mr. Kenge. "I think this may be
easily arranged, Mr. Jarndyce? We have only, in the first place, to
discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and as soon as we make
our want--and shall I add, our ability to pay a premium?--known, our
only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a large number.
We have only, in the second place, to observe those little
formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of life and our
being under the guardianship of the court. We shall soon be--shall I
say, in Mr. Richard's own light-hearted manner, 'going at it'--to our
heart's content. It is a coincidence," said Mr. Kenge with a tinge of
melancholy in his smile, "one of those coincidences which may or may
not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that
I have a cousin in the medical profession. He might be deemed
eligible by you and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. I
can answer for him as little as for you, but he MIGHT!"

As this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that Mr.
Kenge should see his cousin. And as Mr. Jarndyce had before proposed
to take us to London for a few weeks, it was settled next day that we
should make our visit at once and combine Richard's business with it.

Mr. Boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at a
cheerful lodging near Oxford Street over an upholsterer's shop.
London was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hours
at a time, seeing the sights, which appeared to be less capable of
exhaustion than we were. We made the round of the principal theatres,
too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that were worth
seeing. I mention this because it was at the theatre that I began to
be made uncomfortable again by Mr. Guppy.

I was sitting in front of the box one night with Ada, and Richard was
in the place he liked best, behind Ada's chair, when, happening to
look down into the pit, I saw Mr. Guppy, with his hair flattened down
upon his head and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me. I felt
all through the performance that he never looked at the actors but
constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully prepared
expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest dejection.

It quite spoiled my pleasure for that night because it was so very
embarrassing and so very ridiculous. But from that time forth, we
never went to the play without my seeing Mr. Guppy in the pit, always
with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turned down, and a
general feebleness about him. If he were not there when we went in,
and I began to hope he would not come and yielded myself for a little
while to the interest of the scene, I was certain to encounter his
languishing eyes when I least expected it and, from that time, to be
quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the evening.

I really cannot express how uneasy this made me. If he would only
have brushed up his hair or turned up his collar, it would have been
bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing at
me, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put such a
constraint upon me that I did not like to laugh at the play, or to
cry at it, or to move, or to speak. I seemed able to do nothing
naturally. As to escaping Mr. Guppy by going to the back of the box,
I could not bear to do that because I knew Richard and Ada relied on
having me next them and that they could never have talked together so
happily if anybody else had been in my place. So there I sat, not
knowing where to look--for wherever I looked, I knew Mr. Guppy's eyes
were following me--and thinking of the dreadful expense to which this
young man was putting himself on my account.

Sometimes I thought of telling Mr. Jarndyce. Then I feared that the
young man would lose his situation and that I might ruin him.
Sometimes I thought of confiding in Richard, but was deterred by the
possibility of his fighting Mr. Guppy and giving him black eyes.
Sometimes I thought, should I frown at him or shake my head. Then I
felt I could not do it. Sometimes I considered whether I should write
to his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that to open a
correspondence would be to make the matter worse. I always came to
the conclusion, finally, that I could do nothing. Mr. Guppy's
perseverance, all this time, not only produced him regularly at any
theatre to which we went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we
were coming out, and even to get up behind our fly--where I am sure I
saw him, two or three times, struggling among the most dreadful
spikes. After we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. The
upholsterer's where we lodged being at the corner of two streets, and
my bedroom window being opposite the post, I was afraid to go near
the window when I went upstairs, lest I should see him (as I did one
moonlight night) leaning against the post and evidently catching
cold. If Mr. Guppy had not been, fortunately for me, engaged in the
daytime, I really should have had no rest from him.

While we were making this round of gaieties, in which Mr. Guppy so
extraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bring
us to town was not neglected. Mr. Kenge's cousin was a Mr. Bayham
Badger, who had a good practice at Chelsea and attended a large
public institution besides. He was quite willing to receive Richard
into his house and to superintend his studies, and as it seemed that
those could be pursued advantageously under Mr. Badger's roof, and
Mr. Badger liked Richard, and as Richard said he liked Mr. Badger
"well enough," an agreement was made, the Lord Chancellor's consent
was obtained, and it was all settled.

On the day when matters were concluded between Richard and Mr.
Badger, we were all under engagement to dine at Mr. Badger's house.
We were to be "merely a family party," Mrs. Badger's note said; and
we found no lady there but Mrs. Badger herself. She was surrounded in
the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a
little, playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little,
playing the harp a little, singing a little, working a little,
reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanizing a little.
She was a lady of about fifty, I should think, youthfully dressed,
and of a very fine complexion. If I add to the little list of her
accomplishments that she rouged a little, I do not mean that there
was any harm in it.

Mr. Bayham Badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking
gentleman with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised
eyes, some years younger, I should say, than Mrs. Bayham Badger. He
admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the
curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands.
We had barely taken our seats when he said to Mr. Jarndyce quite
triumphantly, "You would hardly suppose that I am Mrs. Bayham
Badger's third!"

"Indeed?" said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Her third!" said Mr. Badger. "Mrs. Bayham Badger has not the
appearance, Miss Summerson, of a lady who has had two former
husbands?"

I said "Not at all!"

"And most remarkable men!" said Mr. Badger in a tone of confidence.
"Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy, who was Mrs. Badger's first
husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. The name of
Professor Dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of European
reputation."

Mrs. Badger overheard him and smiled.

"Yes, my dear!" Mr. Badger replied to the smile, "I was observing to
Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson that you had had two former
husbands--both very distinguished men. And they found it, as people
generally do, difficult to believe."

"I was barely twenty," said Mrs. Badger, "when I married Captain
Swosser of the Royal Navy. I was in the Mediterranean with him; I am
quite a sailor. On the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, I
became the wife of Professor Dingo."

"Of European reputation," added Mr. Badger in an undertone.

"And when Mr. Badger and myself were married," pursued Mrs. Badger,
"we were married on the same day of the year. I had become attached
to the day."

"So that Mrs. Badger has been married to three husbands--two of them
highly distinguished men," said Mr. Badger, summing up the facts,
"and each time upon the twenty-first of March at eleven in the
forenoon!"

We all expressed our admiration.

"But for Mr. Badger's modesty," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I would take
leave to correct him and say three distinguished men."

"Thank you, Mr. Jarndyce! What I always tell him!" observed Mrs.
Badger.

"And, my dear," said Mr. Badger, "what do I always tell you? That
without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction
as I may have attained (which our friend Mr. Carstone will have many
opportunities of estimating), I am not so weak--no, really," said Mr.
Badger to us generally, "so unreasonable--as to put my reputation on
the same footing with such first-rate men as Captain Swosser and
Professor Dingo. Perhaps you may be interested, Mr. Jarndyce,"
continued Mr. Bayham Badger, leading the way into the next
drawing-room, "in this portrait of Captain Swosser. It was taken on
his return home from the African station, where he had suffered from
the fever of the country. Mrs. Badger considers it too yellow. But
it's a very fine head. A very fine head!"

We all echoed, "A very fine head!"

"I feel when I look at it," said Mr. Badger, "'That's a man I should
like to have seen!' It strikingly bespeaks the first-class man that
Captain Swosser pre-eminently was. On the other side, Professor
Dingo. I knew him well--attended him in his last illness--a speaking
likeness! Over the piano, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Swosser. Over
the sofa, Mrs. Bayham Badger when Mrs. Dingo. Of Mrs. Bayham Badger
IN ESSE, I possess the original and have no copy."

Dinner was now announced, and we went downstairs. It was a very
genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. But the captain and
the professor still ran in Mr. Badger's head, and as Ada and I had
the honour of being under his particular care, we had the full
benefit of them.

"Water, Miss Summerson? Allow me! Not in that tumbler, pray. Bring me
the professor's goblet, James!"

Ada very much admired some artificial flowers under a glass.

"Astonishing how they keep!" said Mr. Badger. "They were presented to
Mrs. Bayham Badger when she was in the Mediterranean."

He invited Mr. Jarndyce to take a glass of claret.

"Not that claret!" he said. "Excuse me! This is an occasion, and ON
an occasion I produce some very special claret I happen to have.
(James, Captain Swosser's wine!) Mr. Jarndyce, this is a wine that
was imported by the captain, we will not say how many years ago. You
will find it very curious. My dear, I shall be happy to take some of
this wine with you. (Captain Swosser's claret to your mistress,
James!) My love, your health!"

After dinner, when we ladies retired, we took Mrs. Badger's first and
second husband with us. Mrs. Badger gave us in the drawing-room a
biographical sketch of the life and services of Captain Swosser
before his marriage and a more minute account of him dating from the
time when he fell in love with her at a ball on board the Crippler,
given to the officers of that ship when she lay in Plymouth Harbour.

"The dear old Crippler!" said Mrs. Badger, shaking her head. "She was
a noble vessel. Trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as Captain Swosser
used to say. You must excuse me if I occasionally introduce a
nautical expression; I was quite a sailor once. Captain Swosser loved
that craft for my sake. When she was no longer in commission, he
frequently said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk, he
would have an inscription let into the timbers of the quarter-deck
where we stood as partners in the dance to mark the spot where he
fell--raked fore and aft (Captain Swosser used to say) by the fire
from my tops. It was his naval way of mentioning my eyes."

Mrs. Badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass.

"It was a great change from Captain Swosser to Professor Dingo," she
resumed with a plaintive smile. "I felt it a good deal at first. Such
an entire revolution in my mode of life! But custom, combined with
science--particularly science--inured me to it. Being the professor's
sole companion in his botanical excursions, I almost forgot that I
had ever been afloat, and became quite learned. It is singular that
the professor was the antipodes of Captain Swosser and that Mr.
Badger is not in the least like either!"

We then passed into a narrative of the deaths of Captain Swosser and
Professor Dingo, both of whom seem to have had very bad complaints.
In the course of it, Mrs. Badger signified to us that she had never
madly loved but once and that the object of that wild affection,
never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, was Captain Swosser.
The professor was yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, and
Mrs. Badger was giving us imitations of his way of saying, with great
difficulty, "Where is Laura? Let Laura give me my toast and water!"
when the entrance of the gentlemen consigned him to the tomb.

Now, I observed that evening, as I had observed for some days past,
that Ada and Richard were more than ever attached to each other's
society, which was but natural, seeing that they were going to be
separated so soon. I was therefore not very much surprised when we
got home, and Ada and I retired upstairs, to find Ada more silent
than usual, though I was not quite prepared for her coming into my
arms and beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden.

"My darling Esther!" murmured Ada. "I have a great secret to tell
you!"

A mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt!

"What is it, Ada?"

"Oh, Esther, you would never guess!"

"Shall I try to guess?" said I.

"Oh, no! Don't! Pray don't!" cried Ada, very much startled by the
idea of my doing so.

"Now, I wonder who it can be about?" said I, pretending to consider.

"It's about--" said Ada in a whisper. "It's about--my cousin
Richard!"

"Well, my own!" said I, kissing her bright hair, which was all I
could see. "And what about him?"

"Oh, Esther, you would never guess!"

It was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding her
face, and to know that she was not crying in sorrow but in a little
glow of joy, and pride, and hope, that I would not help her just yet.

"He says--I know it's very foolish, we are both so young--but he
says," with a burst of tears, "that he loves me dearly, Esther."

"Does he indeed?" said I. "I never heard of such a thing! Why, my pet
of pets, I could have told you that weeks and weeks ago!"

To see Ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold me
round the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, was so pleasant!

"Why, my darling," said I, "what a goose you must take me for! Your
cousin Richard has been loving you as plainly as he could for I don't
know how long!"

"And yet you never said a word about it!" cried Ada, kissing me.

"No, my love," said I. "I waited to be told."

"But now I have told you, you don't think it wrong of me, do you?"
returned Ada. She might have coaxed me to say no if I had been the
hardest-hearted duenna in the world. Not being that yet, I said no
very freely.

"And now," said I, "I know the worst of it."

"Oh, that's not quite the worst of it, Esther dear!" cried Ada,
holding me tighter and laying down her face again upon my breast.

"No?" said I. "Not even that?"

"No, not even that!" said Ada, shaking her head.

"Why, you never mean to say--" I was beginning in joke.

But Ada, looking up and smiling through her tears, cried, "Yes, I do!
You know, you know I do!" And then sobbed out, "With all my heart I
do! With all my whole heart, Esther!"

I told her, laughing, why I had known that, too, just as well as I
had known the other! And we sat before the fire, and I had all the
talking to myself for a little while (though there was not much of
it); and Ada was soon quiet and happy.

"Do you think my cousin John knows, dear Dame Durden?" she asked.

"Unless my cousin John is blind, my pet," said I, "I should think my
cousin John knows pretty well as much as we know."

"We want to speak to him before Richard goes," said Ada timidly, "and
we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. Perhaps you wouldn't
mind Richard's coming in, Dame Durden?"

"Oh! Richard is outside, is he, my dear?" said I.

"I am not quite certain," returned Ada with a bashful simplicity that
would have won my heart if she had not won it long before, "but I
think he's waiting at the door."

There he was, of course. They brought a chair on either side of me,
and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in love
with me instead of one another, they were so confiding, and so
trustful, and so fond of me. They went on in their own wild way for a
little while--I never stopped them; I enjoyed it too much myself--and
then we gradually fell to considering how young they were, and how
there must be a lapse of several years before this early love could
come to anything, and how it could come to happiness only if it were
real and lasting and inspired them with a steady resolution to do
their duty to each other, with constancy, fortitude, and
perseverance, each always for the other's sake. Well! Richard said
that he would work his fingers to the bone for Ada, and Ada said that
she would work her fingers to the bone for Richard, and they called
me all sorts of endearing and sensible names, and we sat there,
advising and talking, half the night. Finally, before we parted, I
gave them my promise to speak to their cousin John to-morrow.

So, when to-morrow came, I went to my guardian after breakfast, in
the room that was our town-substitute for the growlery, and told him
that I had it in trust to tell him something.

"Well, little woman," said he, shutting up his book, "if you have
accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it."

"I hope not, guardian," said I. "I can guarantee that there is no
secrecy in it. For it only happened yesterday."

"Aye? And what is it, Esther?"

"Guardian," said I, "you remember the happy night when first we came
down to Bleak House? When Ada was singing in the dark room?"

I wished to call to his remembrance the look he had given me then.
Unless I am much mistaken, I saw that I did so.

"Because--" said I with a little hesitation.

"Yes, my dear!" said he. "Don't hurry."

"Because," said I, "Ada and Richard have fallen in love. And have
told each other so."

"Already!" cried my guardian, quite astonished.

"Yes!" said I. "And to tell you the truth, guardian, I rather
expected it."

"The deuce you did!" said he.

He sat considering for a minute or two, with his smile, at once so
handsome and so kind, upon his changing face, and then requested me
to let them know that he wished to see them. When they came, he
encircled Ada with one arm in his fatherly way and addressed himself
to Richard with a cheerful gravity.

"Rick," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am glad to have won your confidence. I
hope to preserve it. When I contemplated these relations between us
four which have so brightened my life and so invested it with new
interests and pleasures, I certainly did contemplate, afar off, the
possibility of you and your pretty cousin here (don't be shy, Ada,
don't be shy, my dear!) being in a mind to go through life together.
I saw, and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. But that was
afar off, Rick, afar off!"

"We look afar off, sir," returned Richard.

"Well!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "That's rational. Now, hear me, my dears!
I might tell you that you don't know your own minds yet, that a
thousand things may happen to divert you from one another, that it is
well this chain of flowers you have taken up is very easily broken,
or it might become a chain of lead. But I will not do that. Such
wisdom will come soon enough, I dare say, if it is to come at all. I
will assume that a few years hence you will be in your hearts to one
another what you are to-day. All I say before speaking to you
according to that assumption is, if you DO change--if you DO come to
find that you are more commonplace cousins to each other as man and
woman than you were as boy and girl (your manhood will excuse me,
Rick!)--don't be ashamed still to confide in me, for there will be
nothing monstrous or uncommon in it. I am only your friend and
distant kinsman. I have no power over you whatever. But I wish and
hope to retain your confidence if I do nothing to forfeit it."

"I am very sure, sir," returned Richard, "that I speak for Ada too
when I say that you have the strongest power over us both--rooted in
respect, gratitude, and affection--strengthening every day."

"Dear cousin John," said Ada, on his shoulder, "my father's place can
never be empty again. All the love and duty I could ever have
rendered to him is transferred to you."

"Come!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "Now for our assumption. Now we lift our
eyes up and look hopefully at the distance! Rick, the world is before
you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it will receive
you. Trust in nothing but in Providence and your own efforts. Never
separate the two, like the heathen waggoner. Constancy in love is a
good thing, but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy
in every kind of effort. If you had the abilities of all the great
men, past and present, you could do nothing well without sincerely
meaning it and setting about it. If you entertain the supposition
that any real success, in great things or in small, ever was or could
be, ever will or can be, wrested from Fortune by fits and starts,
leave that wrong idea here or leave your cousin Ada here."

"I will leave IT here, sir," replied Richard smiling, "if I brought
it here just now (but I hope I did not), and will work my way on to
my cousin Ada in the hopeful distance."

"Right!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "If you are not to make her happy, why
should you pursue her?"

"I wouldn't make her unhappy--no, not even for her love," retorted
Richard proudly.

"Well said!" cried Mr. Jarndyce. "That's well said! She remains here,
in her home with me. Love her, Rick, in your active life, no less
than in her home when you revisit it, and all will go well.
Otherwise, all will go ill. That's the end of my preaching. I think
you and Ada had better take a walk."

Ada tenderly embraced him, and Richard heartily shook hands with him,
and then the cousins went out of the room, looking back again
directly, though, to say that they would wait for me.

The door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes as they
passed down the adjoining room, on which the sun was shining, and out
at its farther end. Richard with his head bent, and her hand drawn
through his arm, was talking to her very earnestly; and she looked up
in his face, listening, and seemed to see nothing else. So young, so
beautiful, so full of hope and promise, they went on lightly through
the sunlight as their own happy thoughts might then be traversing the
years to come and making them all years of brightness. So they passed
away into the shadow and were gone. It was only a burst of light that
had been so radiant. The room darkened as they went out, and the sun
was clouded over.

"Am I right, Esther?" said my guardian when they were gone.

He was so good and wise to ask ME whether he was right!

"Rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. Wants, at the core
of so much that is good!" said Mr. Jarndyce, shaking his head. "I
have said nothing to Ada, Esther. She has her friend and counsellor
always near." And he laid his hand lovingly upon my head.

I could not help showing that I was a little moved, though I did all
I could to conceal it.

"Tut tut!" said he. "But we must take care, too, that our little
woman's life is not all consumed in care for others."

"Care? My dear guardian, I believe I am the happiest creature in the
world!"

"I believe so, too," said he. "But some one may find out what Esther
never will--that the little woman is to be held in remembrance above
all other people!"

I have omitted to mention in its place that there was some one else
at the family dinner party. It was not a lady. It was a gentleman. It
was a gentleman of a dark complexion--a young surgeon. He was rather
reserved, but I thought him very sensible and agreeable. At least,
Ada asked me if I did not, and I said yes.




CHAPTER XIV

Deportment


Richard left us on the very next evening to begin his new career, and
committed Ada to my charge with great love for her and great trust in
me. It touched me then to reflect, and it touches me now, more
nearly, to remember (having what I have to tell) how they both
thought of me, even at that engrossing time. I was a part of all
their plans, for the present and the future. I was to write Richard
once a week, making my faithful report of Ada, who was to write to
him every alternate day. I was to be informed, under his own hand, of
all his labours and successes; I was to observe how resolute and
persevering he would be; I was to be Ada's bridesmaid when they were
married; I was to live with them afterwards; I was to keep all the
keys of their house; I was to be made happy for ever and a day.

"And if the suit SHOULD make us rich, Esther--which it may, you
know!" said Richard to crown all.

A shade crossed Ada's face.

"My dearest Ada," asked Richard, "why not?"

"It had better declare us poor at once," said Ada.

"Oh! I don't know about that," returned Richard, "but at all events,
it won't declare anything at once. It hasn't declared anything in
heaven knows how many years."

"Too true," said Ada.

"Yes, but," urged Richard, answering what her look suggested rather
than her words, "the longer it goes on, dear cousin, the nearer it
must be to a settlement one way or other. Now, is not that
reasonable?"

"You know best, Richard. But I am afraid if we trust to it, it will
make us unhappy."

"But, my Ada, we are not going to trust to it!" cried Richard gaily.
"We know it better than to trust to it. We only say that if it SHOULD
make us rich, we have no constitutional objection to being rich. The
court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim old guardian, and we
are to suppose that what it gives us (when it gives us anything) is
our right. It is not necessary to quarrel with our right."

"No," said Ada, "but it may be better to forget all about it."

"Well, well," cried Richard, "then we will forget all about it! We
consign the whole thing to oblivion. Dame Durden puts on her
approving face, and it's done!"

"Dame Durden's approving face," said I, looking out of the box in
which I was packing his books, "was not very visible when you called
it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks you can't do
better."

So, Richard said there was an end of it, and immediately began, on no
other foundation, to build as many castles in the air as would man
the Great Wall of China. He went away in high spirits. Ada and I,
prepared to miss him very much, commenced our quieter career.

On our arrival in London, we had called with Mr. Jarndyce at Mrs.
Jellyby's but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home. It
appeared that she had gone somewhere to a tea-drinking and had taken
Miss Jellyby with her. Besides the tea-drinking, there was to be some
considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the general merits
of the cultivation of coffee, conjointly with natives, at the
Settlement of Borrioboola-Gha. All this involved, no doubt,
sufficient active exercise of pen and ink to make her daughter's part
in the proceedings anything but a holiday.

It being now beyond the time appointed for Mrs. Jellyby's return, we
called again. She was in town, but not at home, having gone to Mile
End directly after breakfast on some Borrioboolan business, arising
out of a society called the East London Branch Aid Ramification. As I
had not seen Peepy on the occasion of our last call (when he was not
to be found anywhere, and when the cook rather thought he must have
strolled away with the dustman's cart), I now inquired for him again.
The oyster shells he had been building a house with were still in the
passage, but he was nowhere discoverable, and the cook supposed that
he had "gone after the sheep." When we repeated, with some surprise,
"The sheep?" she said, Oh, yes, on market days he sometimes followed
them quite out of town and came back in such a state as never was!

I was sitting at the window with my guardian on the following
morning, and Ada was busy writing--of course to Richard--when Miss
Jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identical Peepy, whom
she had made some endeavours to render presentable by wiping the dirt
into corners of his face and hands and making his hair very wet and
then violently frizzling it with her fingers. Everything the dear
child wore was either too large for him or too small. Among his other
contradictory decorations he had the hat of a bishop and the little
gloves of a baby. His boots were, on a small scale, the boots of a
ploughman, while his legs, so crossed and recrossed with scratches
that they looked like maps, were bare below a very short pair of
plaid drawers finished off with two frills of perfectly different
patterns. The deficient buttons on his plaid frock had evidently been
supplied from one of Mr. Jellyby's coats, they were so extremely
brazen and so much too large. Most extraordinary specimens of
needlework appeared on several parts of his dress, where it had been
hastily mended, and I recognized the same hand on Miss Jellyby's. She
was, however, unaccountably improved in her appearance and looked
very pretty. She was conscious of poor little Peepy being but a
failure after all her trouble, and she showed it as she came in by
the way in which she glanced first at him and then at us.

"Oh, dear me!" said my guardian. "Due east!"

Ada and I gave her a cordial welcome and presented her to Mr.
Jarndyce, to whom she said as she sat down, "Ma's compliments, and
she hopes you'll excuse her, because she's correcting proofs of the
plan. She's going to put out five thousand new circulars, and she
knows you'll be interested to hear that. I have brought one of them
with me. Ma's compliments." With which she presented it sulkily
enough.

"Thank you," said my guardian. "I am much obliged to Mrs. Jellyby.
Oh, dear me! This is a very trying wind!"

We were busy with Peepy, taking off his clerical hat, asking him if
he remembered us, and so on. Peepy retired behind his elbow at first,
but relented at the sight of sponge-cake and allowed me to take him
on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. Mr. Jarndyce then
withdrawing into the temporary growlery, Miss Jellyby opened a
conversation with her usual abruptness.

"We are going on just as bad as ever in Thavies Inn," said she. "I
have no peace of my life. Talk of Africa! I couldn't be worse off if
I was a what's-his-name--man and a brother!"

I tried to say something soothing.

"Oh, it's of no use, Miss Summerson," exclaimed Miss Jellyby, "though
I thank you for the kind intention all the same. I know how I am
used, and I am not to be talked over. YOU wouldn't be talked over if
you were used so. Peepy, go and play at Wild Beasts under the piano!"

"I shan't!" said Peepy.

"Very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!" returned Miss
Jellyby with tears in her eyes. "I'll never take pains to dress you
any more."

"Yes, I will go, Caddy!" cried Peepy, who was really a good child and
who was so moved by his sister's vexation that he went at once.

"It seems a little thing to cry about," said poor Miss Jellyby
apologetically, "but I am quite worn out. I was directing the new
circulars till two this morning. I detest the whole thing so that
that alone makes my head ache till I can't see out of my eyes. And
look at that poor unfortunate child! Was there ever such a fright as
he is!"

Peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, sat on
the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmly out of
his den at us while he ate his cake.

"I have sent him to the other end of the room," observed Miss
Jellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, "because I don't want him to
hear the conversation. Those little things are so sharp! I was going
to say, we really are going on worse than ever. Pa will be a bankrupt
before long, and then I hope Ma will be satisfied. There'll he nobody
but Ma to thank for it."

We said we hoped Mr. Jellyby's affairs were not in so bad a state as
that.

"It's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of you," returned Miss
Jellyby, shaking her head. "Pa told me only yesterday morning (and
dreadfully unhappy he is) that he couldn't weather the storm. I
should be surprised if he could. When all our tradesmen send into our
house any stuff they like, and the servants do what they like with
it, and I have no time to improve things if I knew how, and Ma don't
care about anything, I should like to make out how Pa is to weather
the storm. I declare if I was Pa, I'd run away."

"My dear!" said I, smiling. "Your papa, no doubt, considers his
family."

"Oh, yes, his family is all very fine, Miss Summerson," replied Miss
Jellyby; "but what comfort is his family to him? His family is
nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles downstairs, confusion,
and wretchedness. His scrambling home, from week's end to week's end,
is like one great washing-day--only nothing's washed!"

Miss Jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor and wiped her eyes.

"I am sure I pity Pa to that degree," she said, "and am so angry with
Ma that I can't find words to express myself! However, I am not going
to bear it, I am determined. I won't be a slave all my life, and I
won't submit to be proposed to by Mr. Quale. A pretty thing, indeed,
to marry a philanthropist. As if I hadn't had enough of THAT!" said
poor Miss Jellyby.

I must confess that I could not help feeling rather angry with Mrs.
Jellyby myself, seeing and hearing this neglected girl and knowing
how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she said.

"If it wasn't that we had been intimate when you stopped at our
house," pursued Miss Jellyby, "I should have been ashamed to come
here to-day, for I know what a figure I must seem to you two. But as
it is, I made up my mind to call, especially as I am not likely to
see you again the next time you come to town."

She said this with such great significance that Ada and I glanced at
one another, foreseeing something more.

"No!" said Miss Jellyby, shaking her head. "Not at all likely! I know
I may trust you two. I am sure you won't betray me. I am engaged."

"Without their knowledge at home?" said I.

"Why, good gracious me, Miss Summerson," she returned, justifying
herself in a fretful but not angry manner, "how can it be otherwise?
You know what Ma is--and I needn't make poor Pa more miserable by
telling HIM."

"But would it not be adding to his unhappiness to marry without his
knowledge or consent, my dear?" said I.

"No," said Miss Jellyby, softening. "I hope not. I should try to make
him happy and comfortable when he came to see me, and Peepy and the
others should take it in turns to come and stay with me, and they
should have some care taken of them then."

There was a good deal of affection in poor Caddy. She softened more
and more while saying this and cried so much over the unwonted little
home-picture she had raised in her mind that Peepy, in his cave under
the piano, was touched, and turned himself over on his back with loud
lamentations. It was not until I had brought him to kiss his sister,
and had restored him to his place on my lap, and had shown him that
Caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the purpose), that we
could recall his peace of mind; even then it was for some time
conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin and smoothing our
faces all over with his hand. At last, as his spirits were not equal
to the piano, we put him on a chair to look out of window; and Miss
Jellyby, holding him by one leg, resumed her confidence.

"It began in your coming to our house," she said.

We naturally asked how.

"I felt I was so awkward," she replied, "that I made up my mind to be
improved in that respect at all events and to learn to dance. I told
Ma I was ashamed of myself, and I must be taught to dance. Ma looked
at me in that provoking way of hers as if I wasn't in sight, but I
was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so I went to Mr.
Turveydrop's Academy in Newman Street."

"And was it there, my dear--" I began.

"Yes, it was there," said Caddy, "and I am engaged to Mr. Turveydrop.
There are two Mr. Turveydrops, father and son. My Mr. Turveydrop is
the son, of course. I only wish I had been better brought up and was
likely to make him a better wife, for I am very fond of him."

"I am sorry to hear this," said I, "I must confess."

"I don't know why you should be sorry," she retorted a little
anxiously, "but I am engaged to Mr. Turveydrop, whether or no, and he
is very fond of me. It's a secret as yet, even on his side, because
old Mr. Turveydrop has a share in the connexion and it might break
his heart or give him some other shock if he was told of it abruptly.
Old Mr. Turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man indeed--very
gentlemanly."

"Does his wife know of it?" asked Ada.

"Old Mr. Turveydrop's wife, Miss Clare?" returned Miss Jellyby,
opening her eyes. "There's no such person. He is a widower."

We were here interrupted by Peepy, whose leg had undergone so much on
account of his sister's unconsciously jerking it like a bell-rope
whenever she was emphatic that the afflicted child now bemoaned his
sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. As he appealed to me for
compassion, and as I was only a listener, I undertook to hold him.
Miss Jellyby proceeded, after begging Peepy's pardon with a kiss and
assuring him that she hadn't meant to do it.

"That's the state of the case," said Caddy. "If I ever blame myself,
I still think it's Ma's fault. We are to be married whenever we can,
and then I shall go to Pa at the office and write to Ma. It won't
much agitate Ma; I am only pen and ink to HER. One great comfort is,"
said Caddy with a sob, "that I shall never hear of Africa after I am
married. Young Mr. Turveydrop hates it for my sake, and if old Mr.
Turveydrop knows there is such a place, it's as much as he does."

"It was he who was very gentlemanly, I think!" said I.

"Very gentlemanly indeed," said Caddy. "He is celebrated almost
everywhere for his deportment."

"Does he teach?" asked Ada.

"No, he don't teach anything in particular," replied Caddy. "But his
deportment is beautiful."

Caddy went on to say with considerable hesitation and reluctance that
there was one thing more she wished us to know, and felt we ought to
know, and which she hoped would not offend us. It was that she had
improved her acquaintance with Miss Flite, the little crazy old lady,
and that she frequently went there early in the morning and met her
lover for a few minutes before breakfast--only for a few minutes. "I
go there at other times," said Caddy, "but Prince does not come then.
Young Mr. Turveydrop's name is Prince; I wish it wasn't, because it
sounds like a dog, but of course he didn't christen himself. Old Mr.
Turveydrop had him christened Prince in remembrance of the Prince
Regent. Old Mr. Turveydrop adored the Prince Regent on account of his
deportment. I hope you won't think the worse of me for having made
these little appointments at Miss Flite's, where I first went with
you, because I like the poor thing for her own sake and I believe she
likes me. If you could see young Mr. Turveydrop, I am sure you would
think well of him--at least, I am sure you couldn't possibly think
any ill of him. I am going there now for my lesson. I couldn't ask
you to go with me, Miss Summerson; but if you would," said Caddy, who
had said all this earnestly and tremblingly, "I should be very
glad--very glad."

It happened that we had arranged with my guardian to go to Miss
Flite's that day. We had told him of our former visit, and our
account had interested him; but something had always happened to
prevent our going there again. As I trusted that I might have
sufficient influence with Miss Jellyby to prevent her taking any very
rash step if I fully accepted the confidence she was so willing to
place in me, poor girl, I proposed that she and I and Peepy should go
to the academy and afterwards meet my guardian and Ada at Miss
Flite's, whose name I now learnt for the first time. This was on
condition that Miss Jellyby and Peepy should come back with us to
dinner. The last article of the agreement being joyfully acceded to
by both, we smartened Peepy up a little with the assistance of a few
pins, some soap and water, and a hair-brush, and went out, bending
our steps towards Newman Street, which was very near.

I found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at the
corner of an archway, with busts in all the staircase windows. In the
same house there were also established, as I gathered from the plates
on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there was, certainly,
no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. On the plate
which, in size and situation, took precedence of all the rest, I
read, MR. TURVEYDROP. The door was open, and the hall was blocked up
by a grand piano, a harp, and several other musical instruments in
cases, all in progress of removal, and all looking rakish in the
daylight. Miss Jellyby informed me that the academy had been lent,
last night, for a concert.

We went upstairs--it had been quite a fine house once, when it was
anybody's business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody's business
to smoke in it all day--and into Mr. Turveydrop's great room, which
was built out into a mews at the back and was lighted by a skylight.
It was a bare, resounding room smelling of stables, with cane forms
along the walls, and the walls ornamented at regular intervals with
painted lyres and little cut-glass branches for candles, which seemed
to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other branches might shed
autumn leaves. Several young lady pupils, ranging from thirteen or
fourteen years of age to two or three and twenty, were assembled; and
I was looking among them for their instructor when Caddy, pinching my
arm, repeated the ceremony of introduction. "Miss Summerson, Mr.
Prince Turveydrop!"

I curtsied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance with
flaxen hair parted in the middle and curling at the ends all round
his head. He had a little fiddle, which we used to call at school a
kit, under his left arm, and its little bow in the same hand. His
little dancing-shoes were particularly diminutive, and he had a
little innocent, feminine manner which not only appealed to me in an
amiable way, but made this singular effect upon me, that I received
the impression that he was like his mother and that his mother had
not been much considered or well used.

"I am very happy to see Miss Jellyby's friend," he said, bowing low
to me. "I began to fear," with timid tenderness, "as it was past the
usual time, that Miss Jellyby was not coming."

"I beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have
detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir," said I.

"Oh, dear!" said he.

"And pray," I entreated, "do not allow me to be the cause of any more
delay."

With that apology I withdrew to a seat between Peepy (who, being well
used to it, had already climbed into a corner place) and an old lady
of a censorious countenance whose two nieces were in the class and
who was very indignant with Peepy's boots. Prince Turveydrop then
tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, and the young ladies
stood up to dance. Just then there appeared from a side-door old Mr.
Turveydrop, in the full lustre of his deportment.

He was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth,
false whiskers, and a wig. He had a fur collar, and he had a padded
breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon
to be complete. He was pinched in, and swelled out, and got up, and
strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. He had such a
neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their natural shape), and
his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though
he must inevitably double up if it were cast loose. He had under his
arm a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward from the crown
to the brim, and in his hand a pair of white gloves with which he
flapped it as he stood poised on one leg in a high-shouldered,
round-elbowed state of elegance not to be surpassed. He had a cane,
he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box, he had rings, he had
wristbands, he had everything but any touch of nature; he was not
like youth, he was not like age, he was not like anything in the
world but a model of deportment.

"Father! A visitor. Miss Jellyby's friend, Miss Summerson."

"Distinguished," said Mr. Turveydrop, "by Miss Summerson's presence."
As he bowed to me in that tight state, I almost believe I saw creases
come into the whites of his eyes.

"My father," said the son, aside, to me with quite an affecting
belief in him, "is a celebrated character. My father is greatly
admired."

"Go on, Prince! Go on!" said Mr. Turveydrop, standing with his back
to the fire and waving his gloves condescendingly. "Go on, my son!"

At this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went on.
Prince Turveydrop sometimes played the kit, dancing; sometimes played
the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what little
breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always
conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step
and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. His
distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the fire,
a model of deportment.

"And he never does anything else," said the old lady of the
censorious countenance. "Yet would you believe that it's HIS name on
the door-plate?"

"His son's name is the same, you know," said I.

"He wouldn't let his son have any name if he could take it from him,"
returned the old lady. "Look at the son's dress!" It certainly was
plain--threadbare--almost shabby. "Yet the father must be garnished
and tricked out," said the old lady, "because of his deportment. I'd
deport him! Transport him would be better!"

I felt curious to know more concerning this person. I asked, "Does he
give lessons in deportment now?"

"Now!" returned the old lady shortly. "Never did."

After a moment's consideration, I suggested that perhaps fencing had
been his accomplishment.

"I don't believe he can fence at all, ma'am," said the old lady.

I looked surprised and inquisitive. The old lady, becoming more and
more incensed against the master of deportment as she dwelt upon the
subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with strong
assurances that they were mildly stated.

He had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable
connexion (having never in his life before done anything but deport
himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered
her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses which
were indispensable to his position. At once to exhibit his deportment
to the best models and to keep the best models constantly before
himself, he had found it necessary to frequent all public places of
fashionable and lounging resort, to be seen at Brighton and elsewhere
at fashionable times, and to lead an idle life in the very best
clothes. To enable him to do this, the affectionate little
dancing-mistress had toiled and laboured and would have toiled and
laboured to that hour if her strength had lasted so long. For the
mainspring of the story was that in spite of the man's absorbing
selfishness, his wife (overpowered by his deportment) had, to the
last, believed in him and had, on her death-bed, in the most moving
terms, confided him to their son as one who had an inextinguishable
claim upon him and whom he could never regard with too much pride and
deference. The son, inheriting his mother's belief, and having the
deportment always before him, had lived and grown in the same faith,
and now, at thirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a
day and looked up to him with veneration on the old imaginary
pinnacle.

"The airs the fellow gives himself!" said my informant, shaking her
head at old Mr. Turveydrop with speechless indignation as he drew on
his tight gloves, of course unconscious of the homage she was
rendering. "He fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! And he is
so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes that you might
suppose him the most virtuous of parents. Oh!" said the old lady,
apostrophizing him with infinite vehemence. "I could bite you!"

I could not help being amused, though I heard the old lady out with
feelings of real concern. It was difficult to doubt her with the
father and son before me. What I might have thought of them without
the old lady's account, or what I might have thought of the old
lady's account without them, I cannot say. There was a fitness of
things in the whole that carried conviction with it.

My eyes were yet wandering, from young Mr. Turveydrop working so
hard, to old Mr. Turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when
the latter came ambling up to me and entered into conversation.

He asked me, first of all, whether I conferred a charm and a
distinction on London by residing in it? I did not think it necessary
to reply that I was perfectly aware I should not do that, in any
case, but merely told him where I did reside.

"A lady so graceful and accomplished," he said, kissing his
right glove and afterwards extending it towards the pupils,
"will look leniently on the deficiencies here. We do our best to
polish--polish--polish!"

He sat down beside me, taking some pains to sit on the form, I
thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the
sofa. And really he did look very like it.

"To polish--polish--polish!" he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff and
gently fluttering his fingers. "But we are not, if I may say so to
one formed to be graceful both by Nature and Art--" with the
high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make
without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes "--we are not
what we used to be in point of deportment."

"Are we not, sir?" said I.

"We have degenerated," he returned, shaking his head, which he could
do to a very limited extent in his cravat. "A levelling age is not
favourable to deportment. It develops vulgarity. Perhaps I speak with
some little partiality. It may not be for me to say that I have been
called, for some years now, Gentleman Turveydrop, or that his Royal
Highness the Prince Regent did me the honour to inquire, on my
removing my hat as he drove out of the Pavilion at Brighton (that
fine building), 'Who is he? Who the devil is he? Why don't I know
him? Why hasn't he thirty thousand a year?' But these are little
matters of anecdote--the general property, ma'am--still repeated
occasionally among the upper classes."

"Indeed?" said I.

He replied with the high-shouldered bow. "Where what is left among us
of deportment," he added, "still lingers. England--alas, my
country!--has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day.
She has not many gentlemen left. We are few. I see nothing to succeed
us but a race of weavers."

"One might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated
here," said I.

"You are very good." He smiled with a high-shouldered bow again. "You
flatter me. But, no--no! I have never been able to imbue my poor boy
with that part of his art. Heaven forbid that I should disparage my
dear child, but he has--no deportment."

"He appears to be an excellent master," I observed.

"Understand me, my dear madam, he IS an excellent master. All that
can be acquired, he has acquired. All that can be imparted, he can
impart. But there ARE things--" He took another pinch of snuff and
made the bow again, as if to add, "This kind of thing, for instance."

I glanced towards the centre of the room, where Miss Jellyby's lover,
now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery than
ever.

"My amiable child," murmured Mr. Turveydrop, adjusting his cravat.

"Your son is indefatigable," said I.

"It is my reward," said Mr. Turveydrop, "to hear you say so. In some
respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. She was a
devoted creature. But wooman, lovely wooman," said Mr. Turveydrop
with very disagreeable gallantry, "what a sex you are!"

I rose and joined Miss Jellyby, who was by this time putting on her
bonnet. The time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed, there was
a general putting on of bonnets. When Miss Jellyby and the
unfortunate Prince found an opportunity to become betrothed I don't
know, but they certainly found none on this occasion to exchange a
dozen words.

"My dear," said Mr. Turveydrop benignly to his son, "do you know the
hour?"

"No, father." The son had no watch. The father had a handsome gold
one, which he pulled out with an air that was an example to mankind.

"My son," said he, "it's two o'clock. Recollect your school at
Kensington at three."

"That's time enough for me, father," said Prince. "I can take a
morsel of dinner standing and be off."

"My dear boy," returned his father, "you must be very quick. You will
find the cold mutton on the table."

"Thank you, father. Are YOU off now, father?"

"Yes, my dear. I suppose," said Mr. Turveydrop, shutting his eyes and
lifting up his shoulders with modest consciousness, "that I must show
myself, as usual, about town."

"You had better dine out comfortably somewhere," said his son.

"My dear child, I intend to. I shall take my little meal, I think, at
the French house, in the Opera Colonnade."

"That's right. Good-bye, father!" said Prince, shaking hands.

"Good-bye, my son. Bless you!"

Mr. Turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to do
his son good, who, in parting from him, was so pleased with him, so
dutiful to him, and so proud of him that I almost felt as if it were
an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe implicitly
in the elder. The few moments that were occupied by Prince in taking
leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as I saw, being in the
secret), enhanced my favourable impression of his almost childish
character. I felt a liking for him and a compassion for him as he put
his little kit in his pocket--and with it his desire to stay a little
while with Caddy--and went away good-humouredly to his cold mutton
and his school at Kensington, that made me scarcely less irate with
his father than the censorious old lady.

The father opened the room door for us and bowed us out in a manner,
I must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. In the same style
he presently passed us on the other side of the street, on his way to
the aristocratic part of the town, where he was going to show himself
among the few other gentlemen left. For some moments, I was so lost
in reconsidering what I had heard and seen in Newman Street that I
was quite unable to talk to Caddy or even to fix my attention on what
she said to me, especially when I began to inquire in my mind whether
there were, or ever had been, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing
profession, who lived and founded a reputation entirely on their
deportment. This became so bewildering and suggested the possibility
of so many Mr. Turveydrops that I said, "Esther, you must make up
your mind to abandon this subject altogether and attend to Caddy." I
accordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way to
Lincoln's Inn.

Caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neglected that
it was not always easy to read his notes. She said if he were not so
anxious about his spelling and took less pains to make it clear, he
would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into short
words that they sometimes quite lost their English appearance. "He
does it with the best intention," observed Caddy, "but it hasn't the
effect he means, poor fellow!" Caddy then went on to reason, how
could he be expected to be a scholar when he had passed his whole
life in the dancing-school and had done nothing but teach and fag,
fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! And what did it matter? She
could write letters enough for both, as she knew to her cost, and it
was far better for him to be amiable than learned. "Besides, it's not
as if I was an accomplished girl who had any right to give herself
airs," said Caddy. "I know little enough, I am sure, thanks to Ma!

"There's another thing I want to tell you, now we are alone,"
continued Caddy, "which I should not have liked to mention unless you
had seen Prince, Miss Summerson. You know what a house ours is. It's
of no use my trying to learn anything that it would be useful for
Prince's wife to know in OUR house. We live in such a state of muddle
that it's impossible, and I have only been more disheartened whenever
I have tried. So I get a little practice with--who do you think? Poor
Miss Flite! Early in the morning I help her to tidy her room and
clean her birds, and I make her cup of coffee for her (of course she
taught me), and I have learnt to make it so well that Prince says
it's the very best coffee he ever tasted, and would quite delight old
Mr. Turveydrop, who is very particular indeed about his coffee. I can
make little puddings too; and I know how to buy neck of mutton, and
tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many housekeeping things. I am
not clever at my needle, yet," said Caddy, glancing at the repairs on
Peepy's frock, "but perhaps I shall improve, and since I have been
engaged to Prince and have been doing all this, I have felt
better-tempered, I hope, and more forgiving to Ma. It rather put me
out at first this morning to see you and Miss Clare looking so neat
and pretty and to feel ashamed of Peepy and myself too, but on the
whole I hope I am better-tempered than I was and more forgiving to
Ma."

The poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched
mine. "Caddy, my love," I replied, "I begin to have a great affection
for you, and I hope we shall become friends."

"Oh, do you?" cried Caddy. "How happy that would make me!"

"My dear Caddy," said I, "let us be friends from this time, and let
us often have a chat about these matters and try to find the right
way through them." Caddy was overjoyed. I said everything I could in
my old-fashioned way to comfort and encourage her, and I would not
have objected to old Mr. Turveydrop that day for any smaller
consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law.

By this time we were come to Mr. Krook's, whose private door stood
open. There was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcing a room to
let on the second floor. It reminded Caddy to tell me as we proceeded
upstairs that there had been a sudden death there and an inquest and
that our little friend had been ill of the fright. The door and
window of the vacant room being open, we looked in. It was the room
with the dark door to which Miss Flite had secretly directed my
attention when I was last in the house. A sad and desolate place it
was, a gloomy, sorrowful place that gave me a strange sensation of
mournfulness and even dread. "You look pale," said Caddy when we came
out, "and cold!" I felt as if the room had chilled me.

We had walked slowly while we were talking, and my guardian and Ada
were here before us. We found them in Miss Flite's garret. They were
looking at the birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good as to
attend Miss Flite with much solicitude and compassion spoke with her
cheerfully by the fire.

"I have finished my professional visit," he said, coming forward.
"Miss Flite is much better and may appear in court (as her mind is
set upon it) to-morrow. She has been greatly missed there, I
understand."

Miss Flite received the compliment with complacency and dropped a
general curtsy to us.

"Honoured, indeed," said she, "by another visit from the wards in
Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy to receive Jarndyce of Bleak House beneath my
humble roof!" with a special curtsy. "Fitz-Jarndyce, my dear"--she
had bestowed that name on Caddy, it appeared, and always called her
by it--"a double welcome!"

"Has she been very ill?" asked Mr. Jarndyce of the gentleman whom we
had found in attendance on her. She answered for herself directly,
though he had put the question in a whisper.

"Oh, decidedly unwell! Oh, very unwell indeed," she said
confidentially. "Not pain, you know--trouble. Not bodily so much as
nervous, nervous! The truth is," in a subdued voice and trembling,
"we have had death here. There was poison in the house. I am very
susceptible to such horrid things. It frightened me. Only Mr.
Woodcourt knows how much. My physician, Mr. Woodcourt!" with
great stateliness. "The wards in Jarndyce--Jarndyce of Bleak
House--Fitz-Jarndyce!"

"Miss Flite," said Mr. Woodcourt in a grave kind of voice, as if he
were appealing to her while speaking to us, and laying his hand
gently on her arm, "Miss Flite describes her illness with her usual
accuracy. She was alarmed by an occurrence in the house which might
have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by the distress and
agitation. She brought me here in the first hurry of the discovery,
though too late for me to be of any use to the unfortunate man. I
have compensated myself for that disappointment by coming here since
and being of some small use to her."

"The kindest physician in the college," whispered Miss Flite to me.
"I expect a judgment. On the day of judgment. And shall then confer
estates."

"She will be as well in a day or two," said Mr. Woodcourt, looking at
her with an observant smile, "as she ever will be. In other words,
quite well of course. Have you heard of her good fortune?"

"Most extraordinary!" said Miss Flite, smiling brightly. "You never
heard of such a thing, my dear! Every Saturday, Conversation Kenge or
Guppy (clerk to Conversation K.) places in my hand a paper of
shillings. Shillings. I assure you! Always the same number in the
paper. Always one for every day in the week. Now you know, really! So
well-timed, is it not? Ye-es! From whence do these papers come, you
say? That is the great question. Naturally. Shall I tell you what I
think? I think," said Miss Flite, drawing herself back with a very
shrewd look and shaking her right forefinger in a most significant
manner, "that the Lord Chancellor, aware of the length of time during
which the Great Seal has been open (for it has been open a long
time!), forwards them. Until the judgment I expect is given. Now
that's very creditable, you know. To confess in that way that he IS a
little slow for human life. So delicate! Attending court the other
day--I attend it regularly, with my documents--I taxed him with it,
and he almost confessed. That is, I smiled at him from my bench, and
HE smiled at me from his bench. But it's great good fortune, is it
not? And Fitz-Jarndyce lays the money out for me to great advantage.
Oh, I assure you to the greatest advantage!"

I congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this
fortunate addition to her income and wished her a long continuance of
it. I did not speculate upon the source from which it came or wonder
whose humanity was so considerate. My guardian stood before me,
contemplating the birds, and I had no need to look beyond him.

"And what do you call these little fellows, ma'am?" said he in his
pleasant voice. "Have they any names?"

"I can answer for Miss Flite that they have," said I, "for she
promised to tell us what they were. Ada remembers?"

Ada remembered very well.

"Did I?" said Miss Flite. "Who's that at my door? What are you
listening at my door for, Krook?"

The old man of the house, pushing it open before him, appeared there
with his fur cap in his hand and his cat at his heels.

"I warn't listening, Miss Flite," he said, "I was going to give a rap
with my knuckles, only you're so quick!"

"Make your cat go down. Drive her away!" the old lady angrily
exclaimed.

"Bah, bah! There ain't no danger, gentlefolks," said Mr. Krook,
looking slowly and sharply from one to another until he had looked at
all of us; "she'd never offer at the birds when I was here unless I
told her to it."

"You will excuse my landlord," said the old lady with a dignified
air. "M, quite M! What do you want, Krook, when I have company?"

"Hi!" said the old man. "You know I am the Chancellor."

"Well?" returned Miss Flite. "What of that?"

"For the Chancellor," said the old man with a chuckle, "not to be
acquainted with a Jarndyce is queer, ain't it, Miss Flite? Mightn't I
take the liberty? Your servant, sir. I know Jarndyce and Jarndyce
a'most as well as you do, sir. I knowed old Squire Tom, sir. I never
to my knowledge see you afore though, not even in court. Yet, I go
there a mortal sight of times in the course of the year, taking one
day with another."

"I never go there," said Mr. Jarndyce (which he never did on any
consideration). "I would sooner go--somewhere else."

"Would you though?" returned Krook, grinning. "You're bearing hard
upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning, sir, though
perhaps it is but nat'ral in a Jarndyce. The burnt child, sir! What,
you're looking at my lodger's birds, Mr. Jarndyce?" The old man had
come by little and little into the room until he now touched my
guardian with his elbow and looked close up into his face with his
spectacled eyes. "It's one of her strange ways that she'll never tell
the names of these birds if she can help it, though she named 'em
all." This was in a whisper. "Shall I run 'em over, Flite?" he asked
aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as she turned away,
affecting to sweep the grate.

"If you like," she answered hurriedly.

The old man, looking up at the cages after another look at us, went
through the list.

"Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust, Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin,
Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly, Words, Wigs, Rags,
Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and Spinach. That's
the whole collection," said the old man, "all cooped up together, by
my noble and learned brother."

"This is a bitter wind!" muttered my guardian.

"When my noble and learned brother gives his judgment, they're to be
let go free," said Krook, winking at us again. "And then," he added,
whispering and grinning, "if that ever was to happen--which it
won't--the birds that have never been caged would kill 'em."

"If ever the wind was in the east," said my guardian, pretending to
look out of the window for a weathercock, "I think it's there
to-day!"

We found it very difficult to get away from the house. It was not
Miss Flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creature
in consulting the convenience of others as there possibly could be.
It was Mr. Krook. He seemed unable to detach himself from Mr.
Jarndyce. If he had been linked to him, he could hardly have attended
him more closely. He proposed to show us his Court of Chancery and
all the strange medley it contained; during the whole of our
inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to Mr. Jarndyce and
sometimes detained him under one pretence or other until we had
passed on, as if he were tormented by an inclination to enter upon
some secret subject which he could not make up his mind to approach.
I cannot imagine a countenance and manner more singularly expressive
of caution and indecision, and a perpetual impulse to do something he
could not resolve to venture on, than Mr. Krook's was that day. His
watchfulness of my guardian was incessant. He rarely removed his eyes
from his face. If he went on beside him, he observed him with the
slyness of an old white fox. If he went before, he looked back. When
we stood still, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across
and across his open mouth with a curious expression of a sense of
power, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey eyebrows until
they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every lineament of his face.

At last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over the house
and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber, which was
certainly curious, we came into the back part of the shop. Here on
the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an ink-bottle, some old
stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall were
pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands.

"What are you doing here?" asked my guardian.

"Trying to learn myself to read and write," said Krook.

"And how do you get on?"

"Slow. Bad," returned the old man impatiently. "It's hard at my time
of life."

"It would be easier to be taught by some one," said my guardian.

"Aye, but they might teach me wrong!" returned the old man with a
wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. "I don't know what I may
have lost by not being learned afore. I wouldn't like to lose
anything by being learned wrong now."

"Wrong?" said my guardian with his good-humoured smile. "Who do you
suppose would teach you wrong?"

"I don't know, Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House!" replied the old man,
turning up his spectacles on his forehead and rubbing his hands. "I
don't suppose as anybody would, but I'd rather trust my own self than
another!"

These answers and his manner were strange enough to cause my guardian
to inquire of Mr. Woodcourt, as we all walked across Lincoln's Inn
together, whether Mr. Krook were really, as his lodger represented
him, deranged. The young surgeon replied, no, he had seen no reason
to think so. He was exceedingly distrustful, as ignorance usually
was, and he was always more or less under the influence of raw gin,
of which he drank great quantities and of which he and his back-shop,
as we might have observed, smelt strongly; but he did not think him
mad as yet.

On our way home, I so conciliated Peepy's affections by buying him a
windmill and two flour-sacks that he would suffer nobody else to take
off his hat and gloves and would sit nowhere at dinner but at my
side. Caddy sat upon the other side of me, next to Ada, to whom we
imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as we got back.
We made much of Caddy, and Peepy too; and Caddy brightened
exceedingly; and my guardian was as merry as we were; and we were all
very happy indeed until Caddy went home at night in a hackney-coach,
with Peepy fast asleep, but holding tight to the windmill.

I have forgotten to mention--at least I have not mentioned--that Mr.
Woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom we had met at Mr.
Badger's. Or that Mr. Jarndyce invited him to dinner that day. Or
that he came. Or that when they were all gone and I said to Ada,
"Now, my darling, let us have a little talk about Richard!" Ada
laughed and said--

But I don't think it matters what my darling said. She was always
merry.




CHAPTER XV

Bell Yard


While we were in London Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset by the
crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had so much
astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself soon after our
arrival, was in all such excitements. He seemed to project those two
shining knobs of temples of his into everything that went on and to
brush his hair farther and farther back, until the very roots were
almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable philanthropy. All
objects were alike to him, but he was always particularly ready for
anything in the way of a testimonial to any one. His great power
seemed to be his power of indiscriminate admiration. He would sit for
any length of time, with the utmost enjoyment, bathing his temples in
the light of any order of luminary. Having first seen him perfectly
swallowed up in admiration of Mrs. Jellyby, I had supposed her to be
the absorbing object of his devotion. I soon discovered my mistake
and found him to be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole
procession of people.

Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to something, and with
her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. Quale repeated to
us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, he drew Mrs. Pardiggle
out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to my guardian in
behalf of her eloquent friend Mr. Gusher. With Mr. Gusher appeared
Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, being a flabby gentleman with a moist
surface and eyes so much too small for his moon of a face that they
seemed to have been originally made for somebody else, was not at
first sight prepossessing; yet he was scarcely seated before Mr.
Quale asked Ada and me, not inaudibly, whether he was not a great
creature--which he certainly was, flabbily speaking, though Mr. Quale
meant in intellectual beauty--and whether we were not struck by his
massive configuration of brow. In short, we heard of a great many
missions of various sorts among this set of people, but nothing
respecting them was half so clear to us as that it was Mr. Quale's
mission to be in ecstasies with everybody else's mission and that it
was the most popular mission of all.

Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company in the tenderness of his
heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; but
that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, where
benevolence took spasmodic forms, where charity was assumed as a
regular uniform by loud professors and speculators in cheap
notoriety, vehement in profession, restless and vain in action,
servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory of one
another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to help
the weak from failing rather than with a great deal of bluster and
self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they were down, he
plainly told us. When a testimonial was originated to Mr. Quale by
Mr. Gusher (who had already got one, originated by Mr. Quale), and
when Mr. Gusher spoke for an hour and a half on the subject to a
meeting, including two charity schools of small boys and girls, who
were specially reminded of the widow's mite, and requested to come
forward with halfpence and be acceptable sacrifices, I think the wind
was in the east for three whole weeks.

I mention this because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole again. It seemed
to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and carelessness
were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast with such things, and
were the more readily believed in since to find one perfectly
undesigning and candid man among many opposites could not fail to
give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr. Skimpole
divined this and was politic; I really never understood him well
enough to know. What he was to my guardian, he certainly was to the
rest of the world.

He had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in London, we
had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning in his
usual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.

Well, he said, here he was! He had been bilious, but rich men were
often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that he
was a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of view--in his
expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medical attendant in
the most lavish manner. He had always doubled, and sometimes
quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the doctor, "Now, my dear
doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that you
attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money--in my
expansive intentions--if you only knew it!" And really (he said) he
meant it to that degree that he thought it much the same as doing it.
If he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to which mankind
attached so much importance to put in the doctor's hand, he would
have put them in the doctor's hand. Not having them, he substituted
the will for the deed. Very well! If he really meant it--if his will
were genuine and real, which it was--it appeared to him that it was
the same as coin, and cancelled the obligation.

"It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,"
said Mr. Skimpole, "but I often feel this. It seems so reasonable! My
butcher says to me he wants that little bill. It's a part of the
pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature that he always calls
it a 'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to both of us. I
reply to the butcher, 'My good friend, if you knew it, you are paid.
You haven't had the trouble of coming to ask for the little bill. You
are paid. I mean it.'"

"But, suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "he had meant the meat in
the bill, instead of providing it?"

"My dear Jarndyce," he returned, "you surprise me. You take the
butcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with occupied that very
ground. Says he, 'Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen pence
a pound?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound, my
honest friend?' said I, naturally amazed by the question. 'I like
spring lamb!' This was so far convincing. 'Well, sir,' says he, 'I
wish I had meant the lamb as you mean the money!' 'My good fellow,'
said I, 'pray let us reason like intellectual beings. How could that
be? It was impossible. You HAD got the lamb, and I have NOT got the
money. You couldn't really mean the lamb without sending it in,
whereas I can, and do, really mean the money without paying it!' He
had not a word. There was an end of the subject."

"Did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired my guardian.

"Yes, he took legal proceedings," said Mr. Skimpole. "But in that he
was influenced by passion, not by reason. Passion reminds me of
Boythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a
short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire."

"He is a great favourite with my girls," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and I
have promised for them."

"Nature forgot to shade him off, I think," observed Mr. Skimpole to
Ada and me. "A little too boisterous--like the sea. A little too
vehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every
colour scarlet. But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!"

I should have been surprised if those two could have thought very
highly of one another, Mr. Boythorn attaching so much importance to
many things and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything. Besides
which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on the point of
breaking out into some strong opinion when Mr. Skimpole was referred
to. Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that we had been greatly
pleased with him.

"He has invited me," said Mr. Skimpole; "and if a child may trust
himself in such hands--which the present child is encouraged to do,
with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him--I shall go. He
proposes to frank me down and back again. I suppose it will cost
money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of that sort? By
the by, Coavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses, Miss
Summerson?"

He asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful,
light-hearted manner and without the least embarrassment.

"Oh, yes!" said I.

"Coavinses has been arrested by the Great Bailiff," said Mr.
Skimpole. "He will never do violence to the sunshine any more."

It quite shocked me to hear it, for I had already recalled with
anything but a serious association the image of the man sitting on
the sofa that night wiping his head.

"His successor informed me of it yesterday," said Mr. Skimpole. "His
successor is in my house now--in possession, I think he calls it. He
came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday. I put it to him,
'This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had a blue-eyed
daughter you wouldn't like ME to come, uninvited, on HER birthday?'
But he stayed."

Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity and lightly touched
the piano by which he was seated.

"And he told me," he said, playing little chords where I shall put
full stops, "The Coavinses had left. Three children. No mother. And
that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The rising Coavinses.
Were at a considerable disadvantage."

Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about. Mr.
Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's favourite songs. Ada and I
both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, thinking that we knew what was passing
in his mind.

After walking and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbing his
head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon the keys and
stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. "I don't like this, Skimpole," he
said thoughtfully.

Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up
surprised.

"The man was necessary," pursued my guardian, walking backward and
forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of the
room and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high
east wind had blown it into that form. "If we make such men necessary
by our faults and follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by
our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon them. There was
no harm in his trade. He maintained his children. One would like to
know more about this."

"Oh! Coavinses?" cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving what he
meant. "Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses' headquarters, and you
can know what you will."

Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal.
"Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way as soon as
another!" We were quickly ready and went out. Mr. Skimpole went with
us and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new and so refreshing,
he said, for him to want Coavinses instead of Coavinses wanting him!

He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where there was
a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses' Castle. On
our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy came
out of a sort of office and looked at us over a spiked wicket.

"Who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into his
chin.

"There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here," said Mr.
Jarndyce, "who is dead."

"Yes?" said the boy. "Well?"

"I want to know his name, if you please?"

"Name of Neckett," said the boy.

"And his address?"

"Bell Yard," said the boy. "Chandler's shop, left hand side, name of
Blinder."

"Was he--I don't know how to shape the question--" murmured my
guardian, "industrious?"

"Was Neckett?" said the boy. "Yes, wery much so. He was never tired
of watching. He'd set upon a post at a street corner eight or ten
hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it."

"He might have done worse," I heard my guardian soliloquize. "He
might have undertaken to do it and not done it. Thank you. That's all
I want."

We left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms on the gate,
fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln's Inn,
where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer Coavinses,
awaited us. Then we all went to Bell Yard, a narrow alley at a very
short distance. We soon found the chandler's shop. In it was a
good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsy, or an asthma, or
perhaps both.

"Neckett's children?" said she in reply to my inquiry. "Yes, Surely,
miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the stairs." And
she handed me the key across the counter.

I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it for granted
that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for the
children's door, I came out without asking any more questions and led
the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly as we could, but four
of us made some noise on the aged boards, and when we came to the
second story we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there
looking out of his room.

"Is it Gridley that's wanted?" he said, fixing his eyes on me with an
angry stare.

"No, sir," said I; "I am going higher up."

He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skimpole, fixing
the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and
followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. "Good day!" he said
abruptly and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man with a careworn head
on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent
eyes. He had a combative look and a chafing, irritable manner which,
associated with his figure--still large and powerful, though
evidently in its decline--rather alarmed me. He had a pen in his
hand, and in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, I saw that
it was covered with a litter of papers.

Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I tapped at
the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, "We are locked in.
Mrs. Blinder's got the key!"

I applied the key on hearing this and opened the door. In a poor room
with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniture was a
mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a
heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire, though the weather
was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets
as a substitute. Their clothing was not so warm, however, but that
their noses looked red and pinched and their small figures shrunken
as the boy walked up and down nursing and hushing the child with its
head on his shoulder.

"Who has locked you up here alone?" we naturally asked.

"Charley," said the boy, standing still to gaze at us.

"Is Charley your brother?"

"No. She's my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley."

"Are there any more of you besides Charley?"

"Me," said the boy, "and Emma," patting the limp bonnet of the child
he was nursing. "And Charley."

"Where is Charley now?"

"Out a-washing," said the boy, beginning to walk up and down again
and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead by trying to
gaze at us at the same time.

We were looking at one another and at these two children when there
came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but shrewd
and older-looking in the face--pretty-faced too--wearing a womanly
sort of bonnet much too large for her and drying her bare arms on a
womanly sort of apron. Her fingers were white and wrinkled with
washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which she wiped off her
arms. But for this, she might have been a child playing at washing
and imitating a poor working-woman with a quick observation of the
truth.

She had come running from some place in the neighbourhood and had
made all the haste she could. Consequently, though she was very
light, she was out of breath and could not speak at first, as she
stood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us.

"Oh, here's Charley!" said the boy.

The child he was nursing stretched forth its arms and cried out to be
taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort of
manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at us
over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.

"Is it possible," whispered my guardian as we put a chair for the
little creature and got her to sit down with her load, the boy
keeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that this child works
for the rest? Look at this! For God's sake, look at this!"

It was a thing to look at. The three children close together, and two
of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young and yet
with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the
childish figure.

"Charley, Charley!" said my guardian. "How old are you?"

"Over thirteen, sir," replied the child.

"Oh! What a great age," said my guardian. "What a great age,
Charley!"

I cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her, half
playfully yet all the more compassionately and mournfully.

"And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley?" said my
guardian.

"Yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face with perfect
confidence, "since father died."

"And how do you live, Charley? Oh! Charley," said my guardian,
turning his face away for a moment, "how do you live?"

"Since father died, sir, I've gone out to work. I'm out washing
to-day."

"God help you, Charley!" said my guardian. "You're not tall enough to
reach the tub!"

"In pattens I am, sir," she said quickly. "I've got a high pair as
belonged to mother."

"And when did mother die? Poor mother!"

"Mother died just after Emma was born," said the child, glancing at
the face upon her bosom. "Then father said I was to be as good a
mother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at home and
did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before I began
to go out. And that's how I know how; don't you see, sir?"

"And do you often go out?"

"As often as I can," said Charley, opening her eyes and smiling,
"because of earning sixpences and shillings!"

"And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?"

"To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs. Blinder
comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes, and
perhaps I can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, and Tom
an't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom?"

"No-o!" said Tom stoutly.

"When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court, and
they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. Don't they,
Tom?"

"Yes, Charley," said Tom, "almost quite bright."

"Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature--Oh, in such a
motherly, womanly way! "And when Emma's tired, he puts her to bed.
And when he's tired he goes to bed himself. And when I come home and
light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it
with me. Don't you, Tom?"

"Oh, yes, Charley!" said Tom. "That I do!" And either in this glimpse
of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and love for
Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among the scanty
folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.

It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shed among
these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their father and
their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of
taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work,
and by her bustling busy way. But now, when Tom cried, although she
sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and did not by any
movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her little charges,
I saw two silent tears fall down her face.

I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at the housetops,
and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poor plants, and the
birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours, when I found that
Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it had taken
her all this time to get upstairs) and was talking to my guardian.

"It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said; "who could
take it from them!"

"Well, well!" said my guardian to us two. "It is enough that the time
will come when this good woman will find that it WAS much, and that
forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--This child," he
added after a few moments, "could she possibly continue this?"

"Really, sir, I think she might," said Mrs. Blinder, getting her
heavy breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as it's possible to
be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children after the
mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to see her
with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'Mrs. Blinder,' he
said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there--'Mrs.
Blinder, whatever my calling may have been, I see a angel sitting in
this room last night along with my child, and I trust her to Our
Father!'"

"He had no other calling?" said my guardian.

"No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder, "he was nothing but a follerers.
When he first came to lodge here, I didn't know what he was, and I
confess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't liked in
the yard. It wasn't approved by the other lodgers. It is NOT a
genteel calling," said Mrs. Blinder, "and most people do object to
it. Mr. Gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a good lodger,
though his temper has been hard tried."

"So you gave him notice?" said my guardian.

"So I gave him notice," said Mrs. Blinder. "But really when the time
came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. He was
punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said Mrs.
Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, "and it's
something in this world even to do that."

"So you kept him after all?"

"Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I could
arrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind its
being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent
gruff--but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has been
kind to the children since. A person is never known till a person is
proved."

"Have many people been kind to the children?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.

"Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs. Blinder; "but certainly
not so many as would have been if their father's calling had been
different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made up a
little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that had always joked and
tapped their shoulders when he went by came forward with a little
subscription, and--in general--not so bad. Similarly with Charlotte.
Some people won't employ her because she was a follerer's child; some
people that do employ her cast it at her; some make a merit of having
her to work for them, with that and all her draw-backs upon her, and
perhaps pay her less and put upon her more. But she's patienter than
others would be, and is clever too, and always willing, up to the
full mark of her strength and over. So I should say, in general, not
so bad, sir, but might be better."

Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable opportunity
of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking before it
was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to us when his
attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of the
Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned and whom we had seen on our way
up.

"I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," he
said, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse my coming
in. I don't come in to stare about me. Well, Charley! Well, Tom!
Well, little one! How is it with us all to-day?"

He bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly was regarded as
a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern
character and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. My
guardian noticed it and respected it.

"No one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he said mildly.

"May be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking Tom upon his
knee and waving him off impatiently. "I don't want to argue with
ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to last one man
his life."

"You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr. Jarndyce, "for
being chafed and irritated--"

"There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. "I am of
a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!"

"Not very, I think."

"Sir," said Gridley, putting down the child and going up to him as if
he meant to strike him, "do you know anything of Courts of Equity?"

"Perhaps I do, to my sorrow."

"To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath, "if so, I beg
your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your pardon! Sir," with
renewed violence, "I have been dragged for five and twenty years over
burning iron, and I have lost the habit of treading upon velvet. Go
into the Court of Chancery yonder and ask what is one of the standing
jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and they will tell
you that the best joke they have is the man from Shropshire. I," he
said, beating one hand on the other passionately, "am the man from
Shropshire."

"I believe I and my family have also had the honour of furnishing
some entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardian
composedly. "You may have heard my name--Jarndyce."

"Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley with a rough sort of salutation, "you
bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More than that, I
tell you--and I tell this gentleman, and these young ladies, if they
are friends of yours--that if I took my wrongs in any other way, I
should be driven mad! It is only by resenting them, and by revenging
them in my mind, and by angrily demanding the justice I never get,
that I am able to keep my wits together. It is only that!" he said,
speaking in a homely, rustic way and with great vehemence. "You may
tell me that I over-excite myself. I answer that it's in my nature to
do it, under wrong, and I must do it. There's nothing between doing
it, and sinking into the smiling state of the poor little mad woman
that haunts the court. If I was once to sit down under it, I should
become imbecile."

The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which his
face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied what
he said, were most painful to see.

"Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. As true as there is a
heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. My father
(a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and so forth to my
mother for her life. After my mother's death, all was to come to me
except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I was then to pay my
brother. My mother died. My brother some time afterwards claimed his
legacy. I and some of my relations said that he had had a part of it
already in board and lodging and some other things. Now mind! That
was the question, and nothing else. No one disputed the will; no one
disputed anything but whether part of that three hundred pounds had
been already paid or not. To settle that question, my brother filing
a bill, I was obliged to go into this accursed Chancery; I was forced
there because the law forced me and would let me go nowhere else.
Seventeen people were made defendants to that simple suit! It first
came on after two years. It was then stopped for another two years
while the master (may his head rot off!) inquired whether I was my
father's son, about which there was no dispute at all with any mortal
creature. He then found out that there were not defendants
enough--remember, there were only seventeen as yet!--but that we must
have another who had been left out and must begin all over again. The
costs at that time--before the thing was begun!--were three times the
legacy. My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to
escape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of my
father's, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has fallen
into rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything else--and here I
stand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there are thousands
and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine
less hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my whole living was
in it and has been thus shamefully sucked away?"

Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart and
that he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated by this
monstrous system.

"There again!" said Mr. Gridley with no diminution of his rage. "The
system! I am told on all hands, it's the system. I mustn't look to
individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into court and say, 'My
Lord, I beg to know this from you--is this right or wrong? Have you
the face to tell me I have received justice and therefore am
dismissed?' My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there to administer
the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, the solicitor in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes me furious by
being so cool and satisfied--as they all do, for I know they gain by
it while I lose, don't I?--I mustn't say to him, 'I will have
something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul!' HE is
not responsible. It's the system. But, if I do no violence to any of
them, here--I may! I don't know what may happen if I am carried
beyond myself at last! I will accuse the individual workers of that
system against me, face to face, before the great eternal bar!"

His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such rage
without seeing it.

"I have done!" he said, sitting down and wiping his face. "Mr.
Jarndyce, I have done! I am violent, I know. I ought to know it. I
have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prison for
threatening the solicitor. I have been in this trouble, and that
trouble, and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire, and I
sometimes go beyond amusing them, though they have found it amusing,
too, to see me committed into custody and brought up in custody and
all that. It would be better for me, they tell me, if I restrained
myself. I tell them that if I did restrain myself I should become
imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, I believe. People in
my part of the country say they remember me so, but now I must have
this vent under my sense of injury or nothing could hold my wits
together. It would be far better for you, Mr. Gridley,' the Lord
Chancellor told me last week, 'not to waste your time here, and to
stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.' 'My Lord, my Lord, I
know it would,' said I to him, 'and it would have been far better for
me never to have heard the name of your high office, but unhappily
for me, I can't undo the past, and the past drives me here!'
Besides," he added, breaking fiercely out, "I'll shame them. To the
last, I'll show myself in that court to its shame. If I knew when I
was going to die, and could be carried there, and had a voice to
speak with, I would die there, saying, 'You have brought me here and
sent me from here many and many a time. Now send me out feet
foremost!'"

His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its
contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was
quiet.

"I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said,
going to them again, "and let them play about. I didn't mean to say
all this, but it don't much signify. You're not afraid of me, Tom,
are you?"

"No!" said Tom. "You ain't angry with ME."

"You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley? Aye? Come then,
little one!" He took the youngest child on his arm, where she was
willing enough to be carried. "I shouldn't wonder if we found a
ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let's go and look for him!"

He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in a
certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, went
downstairs to his room.

Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since our
arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was really very
pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes.
Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will and surprising
energy--intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious
blacksmith--and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was, years
ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his superfluous
combativeness upon--a sort of Young Love among the thorns--when the
Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodated him with the exact
thing he wanted. There they were, matched, ever afterwards! Otherwise
he might have been a great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or
he might have been a great politician, dealing in all sorts of
parliamentary rhetoric; but as it was, he and the Court of Chancery
had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was
much the worse, and Gridley was, so to speak, from that hour provided
for. Then look at Coavinses! How delightfully poor Coavinses (father
of these charming children) illustrated the same principle! He, Mr.
Skimpole, himself, had sometimes repined at the existence of
Coavinses. He had found Coavinses in his way. He could had dispensed
with Coavinses. There had been times when, if he had been a sultan,
and his grand vizier had said one morning, "What does the Commander
of the Faithful require at the hands of his slave?" he might have
even gone so far as to reply, "The head of Coavinses!" But what
turned out to be the case? That, all that time, he had been giving
employment to a most deserving man, that he had been a benefactor to
Coavinses, that he had actually been enabling Coavinses to bring up
these charming children in this agreeable way, developing these
social virtues! Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled and the
tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the room and
thought, "I was the great patron of Coavinses, and his little
comforts were MY work!"

There was something so captivating in his light way of touching these
fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the side of
the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardian smile even
as he turned towards us from a little private talk with Mrs. Blinder.
We kissed Charley, and took her downstairs with us, and stopped
outside the house to see her run away to her work. I don't know where
she was going, but we saw her run, such a little, little creature in
her womanly bonnet and apron, through a covered way at the bottom of
the court and melt into the city's strife and sound like a dewdrop in
an ocean.




CHAPTER XVI

Tom-all-Alone's


My Lady Dedlock is restless, very restless. The astonished
fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-day she
is at Chesney Wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; to-morrow
she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligence can with
confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester's gallantry has some trouble
to keep pace with her. It would have more but that his other faithful
ally, for better and for worse--the gout--darts into the old oak
bed-chamber at Chesney Wold and grips him by both legs.

Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a
demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in the direct male
line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of
man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. It can be proved,
sir. Other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism or may have
taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar, but
the Dedlock family have communicated something exclusive even to the
levelling process of dying by dying of their own family gout. It has
come down through the illustrious line like the plate, or the
pictures, or the place in Lincolnshire. It is among their dignities.
Sir Leicester is perhaps not wholly without an impression, though he
has never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the
discharge of his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the
aristocracy, "My lords and gentlemen, I have the honour to present to
you another Dedlock certified to have arrived per the family gout."

Hence Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family disorder
as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. He feels
that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodically
twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty taken somewhere,
but he thinks, "We have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has
for some hundreds of years been understood that we are not to make
the vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and I
submit myself to the compromise."

And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold in
the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture of
my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long
perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with
soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in
the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a
chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and rode
a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness. Inside,
his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, "Each of us was
a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow of himself and
melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks
now lulling you to rest," and hear their testimony to his greatness
too. And he is very great this day. And woe to Boythorn or other
daring wight who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him!

My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by her
portrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention of
remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of
the fashionable intelligence. The house in town is not prepared for
her reception. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury in powder
gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to
another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society,
that if that sort of thing was to last--which it couldn't, for a man
of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of his figure couldn't be
expected to bear it--there would be no resource for him, upon his
honour, but to cut his throat!

What connexion can there be between the place in Lincolnshire, the
house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of Jo the
outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him
when he swept the churchyard-step? What connexion can there have been
between many people in the innumerable histories of this world who
from opposite sides of great gulfs have, nevertheless, been very
curiously brought together!

Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any
link there be. He sums up his mental condition when asked a question
by replying that he "don't know nothink." He knows that it's hard to
keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to
live by doing it. Nobody taught him even that much; he found it out.

Jo lives--that is to say, Jo has not yet died--in a ruinous place
known to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-Alone's. It is a
black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people, where the
crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by
some bold vagrants who after establishing their own possession took
to letting them out in lodgings. Now, these tumbling tenements
contain, by night, a swarm of misery. As on the ruined human wretch
vermin parasites appear, so these ruined shelters have bred a crowd
of foul existence that crawls in and out of gaps in walls and boards;
and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers, where the rain drips
in; and comes and goes, fetching and carrying fever and sowing more
evil in its every footprint than Lord Coodle, and Sir Thomas Doodle,
and the Duke of Foodle, and all the fine gentlemen in office, down to
Zoodle, shall set right in five hundred years--though born expressly
to do it.

Twice lately there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like the
springing of a mine, in Tom-all-Alone's; and each time a house has
fallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers and
have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gaps remain,
and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. As several
more houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in Tom-all-Alone's
may be expected to be a good one.

This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would be an
insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye to tell him so.
Whether "Tom" is the popular representative of the original plaintiff
or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, or whether Tom lived here when
the suit had laid the street waste, all alone, until other settlers
came to join him, or whether the traditional title is a comprehensive
name for a retreat cut off from honest company and put out of the
pale of hope, perhaps nobody knows. Certainly Jo don't know.

"For I don't," says Jo, "I don't know nothink."

It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle through the
streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to the
meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the shops, and
at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the windows! To
see people read, and to see people write, and to see the postmen
deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all that
language--to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb! It must
be very puzzling to see the good company going to the churches on
Sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think (for perhaps
Jo DOES think at odd times) what does it all mean, and if it means
anything to anybody, how comes it that it means nothing to me? To be
hustled, and jostled, and moved on; and really to feel that it would
appear to be perfectly true that I have no business here, or there,
or anywhere; and yet to be perplexed by the consideration that I AM
here somehow, too, and everybody overlooked me until I became the
creature that I am! It must be a strange state, not merely to be told
that I am scarcely human (as in the case of my offering myself for a
witness), but to feel it of my own knowledge all my life! To see the
horses, dogs, and cattle go by me and to know that in ignorance I
belong to them and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose
delicacy I offend! Jo's ideas of a criminal trial, or a judge, or a
bishop, or a government, or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only
knew it) the Constitution, should be strange! His whole material and
immaterial life is wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest
thing of all.

Jo comes out of Tom-all-Alone's, meeting the tardy morning which is
always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of bread
as he comes along. His way lying through many streets, and the houses
not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the door-step of the
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts and gives
it a brush when he has finished as an acknowledgment of the
accommodation. He admires the size of the edifice and wonders what
it's all about. He has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual
destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific or what it costs to look
up the precious souls among the coco-nuts and bread-fruit.

He goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. The
town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and
whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been
suspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo and the other lower
animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is
market-day. The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guided,
run into wrong places and are beaten out, and plunge red-eyed and
foaming at stone walls, and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often
sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his order; very, very like!

A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog--a
drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop, and
evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for
some hours and is happily rid of. He seems perplexed respecting three
or four, can't remember where he left them, looks up and down the
street as half expecting to see them astray, suddenly pricks up his
ears and remembers all about it. A thoroughly vagabond dog,
accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep,
ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs and tear out mouthfuls
of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog who has been
taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. He and Jo listen
to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal
satisfaction; likewise as to awakened association, aspiration, or
regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses,
they are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above the human
listener is the brute!

Turn that dog's descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very few years
they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--but not
their bite.

The day changes as it wears itself away and becomes dark and drizzly.
Jo fights it out at his crossing among the mud and wheels, the
horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for
the unsavoury shelter of Tom-all-Alone's. Twilight comes on; gas
begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter, with his ladder,
runs along the margin of the pavement. A wretched evening is
beginning to close in.

In his chambers Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the
nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Gridley, a
disappointed suitor, has been here to-day and has been alarming. We
are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow
shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling, foreshortened
Allegory, in the person of one impossible Roman upside down, points
with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively
toward the window. Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no reason,
look out of window? Is the hand not always pointing there? So he does
not look out of window.

And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? There are
women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks--too many; they are
at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of
that, they create business for lawyers. What would it be to see a
woman going by, even though she were going secretly? They are all
secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that very well.

But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house
behind, between whose plain dress and her refined manner there is
something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an upper servant by
her attire, yet in her air and step, though both are hurried and
assumed--as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she
treads with an unaccustomed foot--she is a lady. Her face is veiled,
and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of
those who pass her look round sharply.

She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a purpose in her
and can follow it. She never turns her head until she comes to the
crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with her and begs.
Still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other
side. Then she slightly beckons to him and says, "Come here!"

Jo follows her a pace or two into a quiet court.

"Are you the boy I've read of in the papers?" she asked behind her
veil.

"I don't know," says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, "nothink about
no papers. I don't know nothink about nothink at all."

"Were you examined at an inquest?"

"I don't know nothink about no--where I was took by the beadle, do
you mean?" says Jo. "Was the boy's name at the inkwhich Jo?"

"Yes."

"That's me!" says Jo.

"Come farther up."

"You mean about the man?" says Jo, following. "Him as wos dead?"

"Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, when he was living, so
very ill and poor?"

"Oh, jist!" says Jo.

"Did he look like--not like YOU?" says the woman with abhorrence.

"Oh, not so bad as me," says Jo. "I'm a reg'lar one I am! You didn't
know him, did you?"

"How dare you ask me if I knew him?"

"No offence, my lady," says Jo with much humility, for even he has
got at the suspicion of her being a lady.

"I am not a lady. I am a servant."

"You are a jolly servant!" says Jo without the least idea of saying
anything offensive, merely as a tribute of admiration.

"Listen and be silent. Don't talk to me, and stand farther from me!
Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account I
read? The place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place where
you were taken to, and the place where he was buried? Do you know the
place where he was buried?"

Jo answers with a nod, having also nodded as each other place was
mentioned.

"Go before me and show me all those dreadful places. Stop opposite to
each, and don't speak to me unless I speak to you. Don't look back.
Do what I want, and I will pay you well."

Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off
on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider
their meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head.

"I'm fly," says Jo. "But fen larks, you know. Stow hooking it!"

"What does the horrible creature mean?" exclaims the servant,
recoiling from him.

"Stow cutting away, you know!" says Jo.

"I don't understand you. Go on before! I will give you more money
than you ever had in your life."

Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub,
takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way, passing deftly with
his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud and mire.

Cook's Court. Jo stops. A pause.

"Who lives here?"

"Him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull," says Jo in a
whisper without looking over his shoulder.

"Go on to the next."

Krook's house. Jo stops again. A longer pause.

"Who lives here?"

"HE lived here," Jo answers as before.

After a silence he is asked, "In which room?"

"In the back room up there. You can see the winder from this corner.
Up there! That's where I see him stritched out. This is the
public-ouse where I was took to."

"Go on to the next!"

It is a longer walk to the next, but Jo, relieved of his first
suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not look
round. By many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds, they
come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted
now), and to the iron gate.

"He was put there," says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in.

"Where? Oh, what a scene of horror!"

"There!" says Jo, pointing. "Over yinder. Among them piles of bones,
and close to that there kitchin winder! They put him wery nigh the
top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver
it for you with my broom if the gate was open. That's why they locks
it, I s'pose," giving it a shake. "It's always locked. Look at the
rat!" cries Jo, excited. "Hi! Look! There he goes! Ho! Into the
ground!"

The servant shrinks into a corner, into a corner of that hideous
archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting
out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep away from her,
for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. Jo stands
staring and is still staring when she recovers herself.

"Is this place of abomination consecrated ground?"

"I don't know nothink of consequential ground," says Jo, still
staring.

"Is it blessed?"

"Which?" says Jo, in the last degree amazed.

"Is it blessed?"

"I'm blest if I know," says Jo, staring more than ever; "but I
shouldn't think it warn't. Blest?" repeats Jo, something troubled in
his mind. "It an't done it much good if it is. Blest? I should think
it was t'othered myself. But I don't know nothink!"

The servant takes as little heed of what he says as she seems to take
of what she has said herself. She draws off her glove to get some
money from her purse. Jo silently notices how white and small her
hand is and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such sparkling
rings.

She drops a piece of money in his hand without touching it, and
shuddering as their hands approach. "Now," she adds, "show me the
spot again!"

Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate, and
with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. At length,
looking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible, he finds
that he is alone.

His first proceeding is to hold the piece of money to the gas-light
and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow--gold. His next is
to give it a one-sided bite at the edge as a test of its quality.
His next, to put it in his mouth for safety and to sweep the
step and passage with great care. His job done, he sets off for
Tom-all-Alone's, stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps to
produce the piece of gold and give it another one-sided bite as a
reassurance of its being genuine.

The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my Lady
goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Leicester is
fidgety down at Chesney Wold, with no better company than the gout;
he complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes such a monotonous
pattering on the terrace that he can't read the paper even by the
fireside in his own snug dressing-room.

"Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other side of the
house, my dear," says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. "His dressing-room is
on my Lady's side. And in all these years I never heard the step upon
the Ghost's Walk more distinct than it is to-night!"




CHAPTER XVII

Esther's Narrative


Richard very often came to see us while we remained in London (though
he soon failed in his letter-writing), and with his quick abilities,
his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety and freshness, was
always delightful. But though I liked him more and more the better I
knew him, I still felt more and more how much it was to be regretted
that he had been educated in no habits of application and
concentration. The system which had addressed him in exactly the same
manner as it had addressed hundreds of other boys, all varying in
character and capacity, had enabled him to dash through his tasks,
always with fair credit and often with distinction, but in a fitful,
dazzling way that had confirmed his reliance on those very qualities
in himself which it had been most desirable to direct and train. They
were good qualities, without which no high place can be meritoriously
won, but like fire and water, though excellent servants, they were
very bad masters. If they had been under Richard's direction, they
would have been his friends; but Richard being under their direction,
they became his enemies.

I write down these opinions not because I believe that this or any
other thing was so because I thought so, but only because I did think
so and I want to be quite candid about all I thought and did. These
were my thoughts about Richard. I thought I often observed besides
how right my guardian was in what he had said, and that the
uncertainties and delays of the Chancery suit had imparted to his
nature something of the careless spirit of a gamester who felt that
he was part of a great gaming system.

Mr. and Mrs. Bayham Badger coming one afternoon when my guardian was
not at home, in the course of conversation I naturally inquired after
Richard.

"Why, Mr. Carstone," said Mrs. Badger, "is very well and is, I assure
you, a great acquisition to our society. Captain Swosser used to say
of me that I was always better than land a-head and a breeze a-starn
to the midshipmen's mess when the purser's junk had become as tough
as the fore-topsel weather earings. It was his naval way of
mentioning generally that I was an acquisition to any society. I may
render the same tribute, I am sure, to Mr. Carstone. But I--you won't
think me premature if I mention it?"

I said no, as Mrs. Badger's insinuating tone seemed to require such
an answer.

"Nor Miss Clare?" said Mrs. Bayham Badger sweetly.

Ada said no, too, and looked uneasy.

"Why, you see, my dears," said Mrs. Badger, "--you'll excuse me
calling you my dears?"

We entreated Mrs. Badger not to mention it.

"Because you really are, if I may take the liberty of saying so,"
pursued Mrs. Badger, "so perfectly charming. You see, my dears, that
although I am still young--or Mr. Bayham Badger pays me the
compliment of saying so--"

"No," Mr. Badger called out like some one contradicting at a public
meeting. "Not at all!"

"Very well," smiled Mrs. Badger, "we will say still young."

"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Badger.

"My dears, though still young, I have had many opportunities of
observing young men. There were many such on board the dear old
Crippler, I assure you. After that, when I was with Captain Swosser
in the Mediterranean, I embraced every opportunity of knowing and
befriending the midshipmen under Captain Swosser's command. YOU never
heard them called the young gentlemen, my dears, and probably would
not understand allusions to their pipe-claying their weekly accounts,
but it is otherwise with me, for blue water has been a second home to
me, and I have been quite a sailor. Again, with Professor Dingo."

"A man of European reputation," murmured Mr. Badger.

"When I lost my dear first and became the wife of my dear second,"
said Mrs. Badger, speaking of her former husbands as if they were
parts of a charade, "I still enjoyed opportunities of observing
youth. The class attendant on Professor Dingo's lectures was a large
one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminent scientific man
seeking herself in science the utmost consolation it could impart, to
throw our house open to the students as a kind of Scientific
Exchange. Every Tuesday evening there was lemonade and a mixed
biscuit for all who chose to partake of those refreshments. And there
was science to an unlimited extent."

"Remarkable assemblies those, Miss Summerson," said Mr. Badger
reverentially. "There must have been great intellectual friction
going on there under the auspices of such a man!"

"And now," pursued Mrs. Badger, "now that I am the wife of my dear
third, Mr. Badger, I still pursue those habits of observation which
were formed during the lifetime of Captain Swosser and adapted to new
and unexpected purposes during the lifetime of Professor Dingo. I
therefore have not come to the consideration of Mr. Carstone as a
neophyte. And yet I am very much of the opinion, my dears, that he
has not chosen his profession advisedly."

Ada looked so very anxious now that I asked Mrs. Badger on what she
founded her supposition.

"My dear Miss Summerson," she replied, "on Mr. Carstone's character
and conduct. He is of such a very easy disposition that probably he
would never think it worth-while to mention how he really feels, but
he feels languid about the profession. He has not that positive
interest in it which makes it his vocation. If he has any decided
impression in reference to it, I should say it was that it is a
tiresome pursuit. Now, this is not promising. Young men like Mr.
Allan Woodcourt who take it from a strong interest in all that it can
do will find some reward in it through a great deal of work for a
very little money and through years of considerable endurance and
disappointment. But I am quite convinced that this would never be the
case with Mr. Carstone."

"Does Mr. Badger think so too?" asked Ada timidly.

"Why," said Mr. Badger, "to tell the truth, Miss Clare, this view of
the matter had not occurred to me until Mrs. Badger mentioned it. But
when Mrs. Badger put it in that light, I naturally gave great
consideration to it, knowing that Mrs. Badger's mind, in addition to
its natural advantages, has had the rare advantage of being formed by
two such very distinguished (I will even say illustrious) public men
as Captain Swosser of the Royal Navy and Professor Dingo. The
conclusion at which I have arrived is--in short, is Mrs. Badger's
conclusion."

"It was a maxim of Captain Swosser's," said Mrs. Badger, "speaking in
his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you cannot
make it too hot; and that if you only have to swab a plank, you
should swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears to me that
this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as to the nautical
profession.

"To all professions," observed Mr. Badger. "It was admirably said by
Captain Swosser. Beautifully said."

"People objected to Professor Dingo when we were staying in the north
of Devon after our marriage," said Mrs. Badger, "that he disfigured
some of the houses and other buildings by chipping off fragments of
those edifices with his little geological hammer. But the professor
replied that he knew of no building save the Temple of Science. The
principle is the same, I think?"

"Precisely the same," said Mr. Badger. "Finely expressed! The
professor made the same remark, Miss Summerson, in his last illness,
when (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping his little hammer
under the pillow and chipping at the countenances of the attendants.
The ruling passion!"

Although we could have dispensed with the length at which Mr. and
Mrs. Badger pursued the conversation, we both felt that it was
disinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicated to
us and that there was a great probability of its being sound. We
agreed to say nothing to Mr. Jarndyce until we had spoken to Richard;
and as he was coming next evening, we resolved to have a very serious
talk with him.

So after he had been a little while with Ada, I went in and found my
darling (as I knew she would be) prepared to consider him thoroughly
right in whatever he said.

"And how do you get on, Richard?" said I. I always sat down on the
other side of him. He made quite a sister of me.

"Oh! Well enough!" said Richard.

"He can't say better than that, Esther, can he?" cried my pet
triumphantly.

I tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of course I
couldn't.

"Well enough?" I repeated.

"Yes," said Richard, "well enough. It's rather jog-trotty and
humdrum. But it'll do as well as anything else!"

"Oh! My dear Richard!" I remonstrated.

"What's the matter?" said Richard.

"Do as well as anything else!"

"I don't think there's any harm in that, Dame Durden," said Ada,
looking so confidingly at me across him; "because if it will do as
well as anything else, it will do very well, I hope."

"Oh, yes, I hope so," returned Richard, carelessly tossing his hair
from his forehead. "After all, it may be only a kind of probation
till our suit is--I forgot though. I am not to mention the suit.
Forbidden ground! Oh, yes, it's all right enough. Let us talk about
something else."

Ada would have done so willingly, and with a full persuasion that we
had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. But I thought
it would be useless to stop there, so I began again.

"No, but Richard," said I, "and my dear Ada! Consider how important
it is to you both, and what a point of honour it is towards your
cousin, that you, Richard, should be quite in earnest without any
reservation. I think we had better talk about this, really, Ada. It
will be too late very soon."

"Oh, yes! We must talk about it!" said Ada. "But I think Richard is
right."

What was the use of my trying to look wise when she was so pretty,
and so engaging, and so fond of him!

"Mr. and Mrs. Badger were here yesterday, Richard," said I, "and they
seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking for the
profession."

"Did they though?" said Richard. "Oh! Well, that rather alters the
case, because I had no idea that they thought so, and I should not
have liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. The fact is, I don't
care much about it. But, oh, it don't matter! It'll do as well as
anything else!"

"You hear him, Ada!" said I.

"The fact is," Richard proceeded, half thoughtfully and half
jocosely, "it is not quite in my way. I don't take to it. And I get
too much of Mrs. Bayham Badger's first and second."

"I am sure THAT'S very natural!" cried Ada, quite delighted. "The
very thing we both said yesterday, Esther!"

"Then," pursued Richard, "it's monotonous, and to-day is too like
yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day."

"But I am afraid," said I, "this is an objection to all kinds of
application--to life itself, except under some very uncommon
circumstances."

"Do you think so?" returned Richard, still considering. "Perhaps! Ha!
Why, then, you know," he added, suddenly becoming gay again, "we
travel outside a circle to what I said just now. It'll do as well as
anything else. Oh, it's all right enough! Let us talk about something
else."

But even Ada, with her loving face--and if it had seemed innocent and
trusting when I first saw it in that memorable November fog, how much
more did it seem now when I knew her innocent and trusting
heart--even Ada shook her head at this and looked serious. So I
thought it a good opportunity to hint to Richard that if he were
sometimes a little careless of himself, I was very sure he never
meant to be careless of Ada, and that it was a part of his
affectionate consideration for her not to slight the importance of a
step that might influence both their lives. This made him almost
grave.

"My dear Mother Hubbard," he said, "that's the very thing! I have
thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself
for meaning to be so much in earnest and--somehow--not exactly being
so. I don't know how it is; I seem to want something or other to
stand by. Even you have no idea how fond I am of Ada (my darling
cousin, I love you, so much!), but I don't settle down to constancy
in other things. It's such uphill work, and it takes such a time!"
said Richard with an air of vexation.

"That may be," I suggested, "because you don't like what you have
chosen."

"Poor fellow!" said Ada. "I am sure I don't wonder at it!"

No. It was not of the least use my trying to look wise. I tried
again, but how could I do it, or how could it have any effect if I
could, while Ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and while
he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at him!

"You see, my precious girl," said Richard, passing her golden curls
through and through his hand, "I was a little hasty perhaps; or I
misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. They don't seem to lie in
that direction. I couldn't tell till I tried. Now the question is
whether it's worth-while to undo all that has been done. It seems
like making a great disturbance about nothing particular."

"My dear Richard," said I, "how CAN you say about nothing
particular?"

"I don't mean absolutely that," he returned. "I mean that it MAY be
nothing particular because I may never want it."

Both Ada and I urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly
worth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone. I
then asked Richard whether he had thought of any more congenial
pursuit.

"There, my dear Mrs. Shipton," said Richard, "you touch me home. Yes,
I have. I have been thinking that the law is the boy for me."

"The law!" repeated Ada as if she were afraid of the name.

"If I went into Kenge's office," said Richard, "and if I were placed
under articles to Kenge, I should have my eye on the--hum!--the
forbidden ground--and should be able to study it, and master it, and
to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being properly
conducted. I should be able to look after Ada's interests and my own
interests (the same thing!); and I should peg away at Blackstone and
all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour."

I was not by any means so sure of that, and I saw how his hankering
after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes cast
a shade on Ada's face. But I thought it best to encourage him in any
project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to be quite sure
that his mind was made up now.

"My dear Minerva," said Richard, "I am as steady as you are. I made a
mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; I won't do so any more, and
I'll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. That is, you know,"
said Richard, relapsing into doubt, "if it really is worth-while,
after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing particular!"

This led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, all that
we had said already and to our coming to much the same conclusion
afterwards. But we so strongly advised Richard to be frank and open
with Mr. Jarndyce, without a moment's delay, and his disposition was
naturally so opposed to concealment that he sought him out at once
(taking us with him) and made a full avowal. "Rick," said my
guardian, after hearing him attentively, "we can retreat with honour,
and we will. But we must be careful--for our cousin's sake, Rick, for
our cousin's sake--that we make no more such mistakes. Therefore, in
the matter of the law, we will have a good trial before we decide. We
will look before we leap, and take plenty of time about it."

Richard's energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that he
would have liked nothing better than to have gone to Mr. Kenge's
office in that hour and to have entered into articles with him on the
spot. Submitting, however, with a good grace to the caution that we
had shown to be so necessary, he contented himself with sitting down
among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if his one unvarying
purpose in life from childhood had been that one which now held
possession of him. My guardian was very kind and cordial with him,
but rather grave, enough so to cause Ada, when he had departed and we
were going upstairs to bed, to say, "Cousin John, I hope you don't
think the worse of Richard?"

"No, my love," said he.

"Because it was very natural that Richard should be mistaken in such
a difficult case. It is not uncommon."

"No, no, my love," said he. "Don't look unhappy."

"Oh, I am not unhappy, cousin John!" said Ada, smiling cheerfully,
with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in bidding him
good night. "But I should be a little so if you thought at all the
worse of Richard."

"My dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I should think the worse of him only
if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I should be
more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poor Rick,
for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is nothing! He has
time before him, and the race to run. I think the worse of him? Not
I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!"

"No, indeed, cousin John," said Ada, "I am sure I could not--I am
sure I would not--think any ill of Richard if the whole world did. I
could, and I would, think better of him then than at any other time!"

So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his
shoulders--both hands now--and looking up into his face, like the
picture of truth!

"I think," said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, "I think it
must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall
occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the
father. Good night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman. Pleasant
slumbers! Happy dreams!"

This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes with
something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I well
remembered the look with which he had contemplated her and Richard
when she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very little while
since he had watched them passing down the room in which the sun was
shining, and away into the shade; but his glance was changed, and
even the silent look of confidence in me which now followed it once
more was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as it had originally
been.

Ada praised Richard more to me that night than ever she had praised
him yet. She went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given her
clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when I kissed
her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquil and happy
she looked.

For I was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that I sat up
working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, but I was
wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don't know why. At least I don't
think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don't think it
matters.

At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that I
would leave myself not a moment's leisure to be low-spirited. For I
naturally said, "Esther! You to be low-spirited. YOU!" And it really
was time to say so, for I--yes, I really did see myself in the glass,
almost crying. "As if you had anything to make you unhappy, instead
of everything to make you happy, you ungrateful heart!" said I.

If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done it
directly, but not being able to do that, I took out of my basket some
ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I was busy
with at that time and sat down to it with great determination. It was
necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and I resolved to
go on with it until I couldn't keep my eyes open, and then to go to
bed.

I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk downstairs in
a work-table drawer in the temporary growlery, and coming to a stop
for want of it, I took my candle and went softly down to get it. To
my great surprise, on going in I found my guardian still there, and
sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought, his book lay
unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was scattered
confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been wandering
among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face looked worn.
Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly, I stood still
for a moment and should have retired without speaking had he not, in
again passing his hand abstractedly through his hair, seen me and
started.

"Esther!"

I told him what I had come for.

"At work so late, my dear?"

"I am working late to-night," said I, "because I couldn't sleep and
wished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, and look
weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you waking?"

"None, little woman, that YOU would readily understand," said he.

He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me that I inwardly repeated,
as if that would help me to his meaning, "That I could readily
understand!"

"Remain a moment, Esther," said he, "You were in my thoughts."

"I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?"

He slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. The change
was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of so much
self-command, that I found myself again inwardly repeating, "None
that I could understand!"

"Little woman," said my guardian, "I was thinking--that is, I have
been thinking since I have been sitting here--that you ought to know
of your own history all I know. It is very little. Next to nothing."

"Dear guardian," I replied, "when you spoke to me before on that
subject--"

"But since then," he gravely interposed, anticipating what I meant to
say, "I have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and my
having anything to tell you, are different considerations, Esther. It
is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little I know."

"If you think so, guardian, it is right."

"I think so," he returned very gently, and kindly, and very
distinctly. "My dear, I think so now. If any real disadvantage can
attach to your position in the mind of any man or woman worth a
thought, it is right that you at least of all the world should not
magnify it to yourself by having vague impressions of its nature."

I sat down and said after a little effort to be as calm as I ought to
be, "One of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of these words:
'Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time
will come, and soon enough, when you will understand this better, and
will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.'" I had covered my face
with my hands in repeating the words, but I took them away now with a
better kind of shame, I hope, and told him that to him I owed the
blessing that I had from my childhood to that hour never, never,
never felt it. He put up his hand as if to stop me. I well knew that
he was never to be thanked, and said no more.

"Nine years, my dear," he said after thinking for a little while,
"have passed since I received a letter from a lady living in
seclusion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered it
unlike all other letters I have ever read. It was written to me (as
it told me in so many words), perhaps because it was the writer's
idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me, perhaps because it was mine to
justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl then twelve years
old, in some such cruel words as those which live in your
remembrance. It told me that the writer had bred her in secrecy from
her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence, and that if
the writer were to die before the child became a woman, she would be
left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It asked me to
consider if I would, in that case, finish what the writer had begun."

I listened in silence and looked attentively at him.

"Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy medium
through which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, and the
distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions of the
need there was for the child to expiate an offence of which she was
quite innocent. I felt concerned for the little creature, in her
darkened life, and replied to the letter."

I took his hand and kissed it.

"It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose to see the
writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse with the
world, but who would see a confidential agent if I would appoint one.
I accredited Mr. Kenge. The lady said, of her own accord and not of
his seeking, that her name was an assumed one. That she was, if there
were any ties of blood in such a case, the child's aunt. That more
than this she would never (and he was well persuaded of the
steadfastness of her resolution) for any human consideration
disclose. My dear, I have told you all."

I held his hand for a little while in mine.

"I saw my ward oftener than she saw me," he added, cheerily making
light of it, "and I always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy.
She repays me twenty-thousandfold, and twenty more to that, every
hour in every day!"

"And oftener still," said I, "she blesses the guardian who is a
father to her!"

At the word father, I saw his former trouble come into his face. He
subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant; but it had been
there and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I felt as if they
had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated, wondering, "That I
could readily understand. None that I could readily understand!" No,
it was true. I did not understand it. Not for many and many a day.

"Take a fatherly good night, my dear," said he, kissing me on the
forehead, "and so to rest. These are late hours for working and
thinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, little
housekeeper!"

I neither worked nor thought any more that night. I opened my
grateful heart to heaven in thankfulness for its providence to me and
its care of me, and fell asleep.

We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. He came to take
leave of us; he had settled to do so beforehand. He was going to
China and to India as a surgeon on board ship. He was to be away a
long, long time.

I believe--at least I know--that he was not rich. All his widowed
mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his
profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with very
little influence in London; and although he was, night and day, at
the service of numbers of poor people and did wonders of gentleness
and skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. He was
seven years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it hardly
seems to belong to anything.

I think--I mean, he told us--that he had been in practice three or
four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three
or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was
bound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going
away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought it a
pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in his art among
those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it
had a high opinion of him.

When he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him for
the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes,
but she seemed proud. She came from Wales and had had, a long time
ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan
ap-Kerrig--of some place that sounded like Gimlet--who was the most
illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relations
were a sort of royal family. He appeared to have passed his life
in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and
a bard whose name sounded like Crumlinwallinwer had sung his
praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it,
Mewlinnwillinwodd.

Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great
kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son Allan went he would
remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance below
it. She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in
India who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be
picked up with property, but that neither charms nor wealth would
suffice for the descendant from such a line without birth, which must
ever be the first consideration. She talked so much about birth that
for a moment I half fancied, and with pain--But what an idle fancy to
suppose that she could think or care what MINE was!

Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he was
too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring
the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guardian
for his hospitality and for the very happy hours--he called them the
very happy hours--he had passed with us. The recollection of them, he
said, would go with him wherever he went and would be always
treasured. And so we gave him our hands, one after another--at least,
they did--and I did; and so he put his lips to Ada's hand--and to
mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage!

I was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the
servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and
papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and
another. I was still busy between the lights, singing and working by
the window, when who should come in but Caddy, whom I had no
expectation of seeing!

"Why, Caddy, my dear," said I, "what beautiful flowers!"

She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand.

"Indeed, I think so, Esther," replied Caddy. "They are the loveliest
I ever saw."

"Prince, my dear?" said I in a whisper.

"No," answered Caddy, shaking her head and holding them to me to
smell. "Not Prince."

"Well, to be sure, Caddy!" said I. "You must have two lovers!"

"What? Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Caddy.

"Do they look like that sort of thing?" I repeated, pinching her
cheek.

Caddy only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come for
half an hour, at the expiration of which time Prince would be waiting
for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the window,
every now and then handing me the flowers again or trying how they
looked against my hair. At last, when she was going, she took me into
my room and put them in my dress.

"For me?" said I, surprised.

"For you," said Caddy with a kiss. "They were left behind by
somebody."

"Left behind?"

"At poor Miss Flite's," said Caddy. "Somebody who has been very good
to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left these
flowers behind. No, no! Don't take them out. Let the pretty little
things lie here," said Caddy, adjusting them with a careful hand,
"because I was present myself, and I shouldn't wonder if somebody
left them on purpose!"

"Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Ada, coming laughingly
behind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. "Oh, yes, indeed
they do, Dame Durden! They look very, very like that sort of thing.
Oh, very like it indeed, my dear!"




CHAPTER XVIII

Lady Dedlock


It was not so easy as it had appeared at first to arrange for
Richard's making a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard himself was
the chief impediment. As soon as he had it in his power to leave Mr.
Badger at any moment, he began to doubt whether he wanted to leave
him at all. He didn't know, he said, really. It wasn't a bad
profession; he couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked
it as well as he liked any other--suppose he gave it one more chance!
Upon that, he shut himself up for a few weeks with some books and
some bones and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of information
with great rapidity. His fervour, after lasting about a month, began
to cool, and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. His
vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long that midsummer
arrived before he finally separated from Mr. Badger and entered on an
experimental course of Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his
waywardness, he took great credit to himself as being determined to
be in earnest "this time." And he was so good-natured throughout, and
in such high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult
indeed to be otherwise than pleased with him.

"As to Mr. Jarndyce," who, I may mention, found the wind much given,
during this period, to stick in the east; "As to Mr. Jarndyce,"
Richard would say to me, "he is the finest fellow in the world,
Esther! I must be particularly careful, if it were only for his
satisfaction, to take myself well to task and have a regular wind-up
of this business now."

The idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing face
and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could catch and
nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. However, he told us
between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extent that he
wondered his hair didn't turn grey. His regular wind-up of the
business was (as I have said) that he went to Mr. Kenge's about
midsummer to try how he liked it.

All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described him in
a former illustration--generous, profuse, wildly careless, but fully
persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. I happened to
say to Ada, in his presence, half jestingly, half seriously, about
the time of his going to Mr. Kenge's, that he needed to have
Fortunatus' purse, he made so light of money, which he answered in
this way, "My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman! Why
does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd (or whatever it
was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days ago. Now, if
I had stayed at Badger's I should have been obliged to spend twelve
pounds at a blow for some heart-breaking lecture-fees. So I make four
pounds--in a lump--by the transaction!"

It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian what
arrangements should be made for his living in London while he
experimented on the law, for we had long since gone back to Bleak
House, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener
than once a week. My guardian told me that if Richard were to settle
down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments or chambers where
we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; "but, little
woman," he added, rubbing his head very significantly, "he hasn't
settled down there yet!" The discussions ended in our hiring for him,
by the month, a neat little furnished lodging in a quiet old house
near Queen Square. He immediately began to spend all the money he had
in buying the oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this lodging;
and so often as Ada and I dissuaded him from making any purchase that
he had in contemplation which was particularly unnecessary and
expensive, he took credit for what it would have cost and made out
that to spend anything less on something else was to save the
difference.

While these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to Mr. Boythorn's was
postponed. At length, Richard having taken possession of his lodging,
there was nothing to prevent our departure. He could have gone with
us at that time of the year very well, but he was in the full novelty
of his new position and was making most energetic attempts to unravel
the mysteries of the fatal suit. Consequently we went without him,
and my darling was delighted to praise him for being so busy.

We made a pleasant journey down into Lincolnshire by the coach and
had an entertaining companion in Mr. Skimpole. His furniture had been
all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who took possession of it
on his blue-eyed daughter's birthday, but he seemed quite relieved to
think that it was gone. Chairs and table, he said, were wearisome
objects; they were monotonous ideas, they had no variety of
expression, they looked you out of countenance, and you looked them
out of countenance. How pleasant, then, to be bound to no particular
chairs and tables, but to sport like a butterfly among all the
furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood to mahogany, and from
mahogany to walnut, and from this shape to that, as the humour took
one!

"The oddity of the thing is," said Mr. Skimpole with a quickened
sense of the ludicrous, "that my chairs and tables were not paid for,
and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as possible.
Now, that seems droll! There is something grotesque in it. The chair
and table merchant never engaged to pay my landlord my rent. Why
should my landlord quarrel with HIM? If I have a pimple on my nose
which is disagreeable to my landlord's peculiar ideas of beauty, my
landlord has no business to scratch my chair and table merchant's
nose, which has no pimple on it. His reasoning seems defective!"

"Well," said my guardian good-humouredly, "it's pretty clear that
whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have to pay
for them."

"Exactly!" returned Mr. Skimpole. "That's the crowning point of
unreason in the business! I said to my landlord, 'My good man, you
are not aware that my excellent friend Jarndyce will have to pay for
those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicate manner.
Have you no consideration for HIS property?' He hadn't the least."

"And refused all proposals," said my guardian.

"Refused all proposals," returned Mr. Skimpole. "I made him business
proposals. I had him into my room. I said, 'You are a man of
business, I believe?' He replied, 'I am,' 'Very well,' said I, 'now
let us be business-like. Here is an inkstand, here are pens and
paper, here are wafers. What do you want? I have occupied your house
for a considerable period, I believe to our mutual satisfaction until
this unpleasant misunderstanding arose; let us be at once friendly
and business-like. What do you want?' In reply to this, he made use
of the figurative expression--which has something Eastern about
it--that he had never seen the colour of my money. 'My amiable
friend,' said I, 'I never have any money. I never know anything about
money.' 'Well, sir,' said he, 'what do you offer if I give you time?'
'My good fellow,' said I, 'I have no idea of time; but you say you
are a man of business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in a
business-like way with pen, and ink, and paper--and wafers--I am
ready to do. Don't pay yourself at another man's expense (which is
foolish), but be business-like!' However, he wouldn't be, and there
was an end of it."

If these were some of the inconveniences of Mr. Skimpole's childhood,
it assuredly possessed its advantages too. On the journey he had a
very good appetite for such refreshment as came in our way (including
a basket of choice hothouse peaches), but never thought of paying for
anything. So when the coachman came round for his fee, he pleasantly
asked him what he considered a very good fee indeed, now--a liberal
one--and on his replying half a crown for a single passenger, said it
was little enough too, all things considered, and left Mr. Jarndyce
to give it him.

It was delightful weather. The green corn waved so beautifully, the
larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, the
trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields, with a light wind
blowing over them, filled the air with such a delicious fragrance!
Late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we were to
alight from the coach--a dull little town with a church-spire, and a
marketplace, and a market-cross, and one intensely sunny street, and
a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it, and a very few men
sleepily lying and standing about in narrow little bits of shade.
After the rustling of the leaves and the waving of the corn all along
the road, it looked as still, as hot, as motionless a little town as
England could produce.

At the inn we found Mr. Boythorn on horseback, waiting with an open
carriage to take us to his house, which was a few miles off. He was
overjoyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity.

"By heaven!" said he after giving us a courteous greeting. "This a
most infamous coach. It is the most flagrant example of an abominable
public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the earth. It is
twenty-five minutes after its time this afternoon. The coachman ought
to be put to death!"

"IS he after his time?" said Mr. Skimpole, to whom he happened to
address himself. "You know my infirmity."

"Twenty-five minutes! Twenty-six minutes!" replied Mr. Boythorn,
referring to his watch. "With two ladies in the coach, this scoundrel
has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty minutes.
Deliberately! It is impossible that it can be accidental! But his
father--and his uncle--were the most profligate coachmen that ever
sat upon a box."

While he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handed us
into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was all smiles
and pleasure.

"I am sorry, ladies," he said, standing bare-headed at the
carriage-door when all was ready, "that I am obliged to conduct you
nearly two miles out of the way. But our direct road lies through Sir
Leicester Dedlock's park, and in that fellow's property I have sworn
never to set foot of mine, or horse's foot of mine, pending the
present relations between us, while I breathe the breath of life!"
And here, catching my guardian's eye, he broke into one of his
tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionless little
market-town.

"Are the Dedlocks down here, Lawrence?" said my guardian as we drove
along and Mr. Boythorn trotted on the green turf by the roadside.

"Sir Arrogant Numskull is here," replied Mr. Boythorn. "Ha ha ha! Sir
Arrogant is here, and I am glad to say, has been laid by the heels
here. My Lady," in naming whom he always made a courtly gesture as if
particularly to exclude her from any part in the quarrel, "is
expected, I believe, daily. I am not in the least surprised that she
postpones her appearance as long as possible. Whatever can have
induced that transcendent woman to marry that effigy and figure-head
of a baronet is one of the most impenetrable mysteries that ever
baffled human inquiry. Ha ha ha ha!"

"I suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "WE may set foot in the park
while we are here? The prohibition does not extend to us, does it?"

"I can lay no prohibition on my guests," he said, bending his head to
Ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefully upon
him, "except in the matter of their departure. I am only sorry that I
cannot have the happiness of being their escort about Chesney Wold,
which is a very fine place! But by the light of this summer day,
Jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you stay with me, you are
likely to have but a cool reception. He carries himself like an
eight-day clock at all times, like one of a race of eight-day clocks
in gorgeous cases that never go and never went--Ha ha ha!--but he
will have some extra stiffness, I can promise you, for the friends of
his friend and neighbour Boythorn!"

"I shall not put him to the proof," said my guardian. "He is as
indifferent to the honour of knowing me, I dare say, as I am to the
honour of knowing him. The air of the grounds and perhaps such a view
of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enough for
me."

"Well!" said Mr. Boythorn. "I am glad of it on the whole. It's in
better keeping. I am looked upon about here as a second Ajax defying
the lightning. Ha ha ha ha! When I go into our little church on a
Sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderable congregation expect
to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the pavement under the
Dedlock displeasure. Ha ha ha ha! I have no doubt he is surprised
that I don't. For he is, by heaven, the most self-satisfied, and the
shallowest, and the most coxcombical and utterly brainless ass!"

Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled our
friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted his
attention from its master.

It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. Among
the trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spire of
the little church of which he had spoken. Oh, the solemn woods over
which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenly wings
were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air; the smooth
green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where the flowers were
so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richest colours, how
beautiful they looked! The house, with gable and chimney, and tower,
and turret, and dark doorway, and broad terrace-walk, twining among
the balustrades of which, and lying heaped upon the vases, there was
one great flush of roses, seemed scarcely real in its light solidity
and in the serene and peaceful hush that rested on all around it. To
Ada and to me, that above all appeared the pervading influence. On
everything, house, garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old oaks,
fern, moss, woods again, and far away across the openings in the
prospect to the distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom
upon it, there seemed to be such undisturbed repose.

When we came into the little village and passed a small inn with the
sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the road in front, Mr.
Boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on a
bench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying beside
him.

"That's the housekeeper's grandson, Mr. Rouncewell by name," said,
he, "and he is in love with a pretty girl up at the house. Lady
Dedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty girl and is going to keep her
about her own fair person--an honour which my young friend himself
does not at all appreciate. However, he can't marry just yet, even if
his Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the best of it. In
the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a day or two at a time
to--fish. Ha ha ha ha!"

"Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr. Boythorn?" asked Ada.

"Why, my dear Miss Clare," he returned, "I think they may perhaps
understand each other; but you will see them soon, I dare say, and I
must learn from you on such a point--not you from me."

Ada blushed, and Mr. Boythorn, trotting forward on his comely grey
horse, dismounted at his own door and stood ready with extended arm
and uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived.

He lived in a pretty house, formerly the parsonage house, with a lawn
in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well-stocked
orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with a venerable
wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. But, indeed, everything
about the place wore an aspect of maturity and abundance. The old
lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, the very shadows of the
cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with fruit, the
gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branches arched and rested
on the earth, the strawberries and raspberries grew in like
profusion, and the peaches basked by the hundred on the wall. Tumbled
about among the spread nets and the glass frames sparkling and
winking in the sun there were such heaps of drooping pods, and
marrows, and cucumbers, that every foot of ground appeared a
vegetable treasury, while the smell of sweet herbs and all kinds of
wholesome growth (to say nothing of the neighbouring meadows where
the hay was carrying) made the whole air a great nosegay. Such
stillness and composure reigned within the orderly precincts of the
old red wall that even the feathers hung in garlands to scare the
birds hardly stirred; and the wall had such a ripening influence that
where, here and there high up, a disused nail and scrap of list still
clung to it, it was easy to fancy that they had mellowed with the
changing seasons and that they had rusted and decayed according to
the common fate.

The house, though a little disorderly in comparison with the garden,
was a real old house with settles in the chimney of the brick-floored
kitchen and great beams across the ceilings. On one side of it was
the terrible piece of ground in dispute, where Mr. Boythorn
maintained a sentry in a smock-frock day and night, whose duty was
supposed to be, in cases of aggression, immediately to ring a large
bell hung up there for the purpose, to unchain a great bull-dog
established in a kennel as his ally, and generally to deal
destruction on the enemy. Not content with these precautions, Mr.
Boythorn had himself composed and posted there, on painted boards to
which his name was attached in large letters, the following solemn
warnings: "Beware of the bull-dog. He is most ferocious. Lawrence
Boythorn." "The blunderbus is loaded with slugs. Lawrence Boythorn."
"Man-traps and spring-guns are set here at all times of the day and
night. Lawrence Boythorn." "Take notice. That any person or persons
audaciously presuming to trespass on this property will be punished
with the utmost severity of private chastisement and prosecuted with
the utmost rigour of the law. Lawrence Boythorn." These he showed us
from the drawing-room window, while his bird was hopping about his
head, and he laughed, "Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!" to that extent as
he pointed them out that I really thought he would have hurt himself.

"But this is taking a good deal of trouble," said Mr. Skimpole in his
light way, "when you are not in earnest after all."

"Not in earnest!" returned Mr. Boythorn with unspeakable warmth. "Not
in earnest! If I could have hoped to train him, I would have bought a
lion instead of that dog and would have turned him loose upon the
first intolerable robber who should dare to make an encroachment on
my rights. Let Sir Leicester Dedlock consent to come out and decide
this question by single combat, and I will meet him with any weapon
known to mankind in any age or country. I am that much in earnest.
Not more!"

We arrived at his house on a Saturday. On the Sunday morning we all
set forth to walk to the little church in the park. Entering the
park, almost immediately by the disputed ground, we pursued a
pleasant footpath winding among the verdant turf and the beautiful
trees until it brought us to the church-porch.

The congregation was extremely small and quite a rustic one with the
exception of a large muster of servants from the house, some of whom
were already in their seats, while others were yet dropping in. There
were some stately footmen, and there was a perfect picture of an old
coachman, who looked as if he were the official representative of all
the pomps and vanities that had ever been put into his coach. There
was a very pretty show of young women, and above them, the handsome
old face and fine responsible portly figure of the housekeeper
towered pre-eminent. The pretty girl of whom Mr. Boythorn had told us
was close by her. She was so very pretty that I might have known her
by her beauty even if I had not seen how blushingly conscious she was
of the eyes of the young fisherman, whom I discovered not far off.
One face, and not an agreeable one, though it was handsome, seemed
maliciously watchful of this pretty girl, and indeed of every one and
everything there. It was a Frenchwoman's.

As the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not yet come, I
had leisure to glance over the church, which smelt as earthy as a
grave, and to think what a shady, ancient, solemn little church it
was. The windows, heavily shaded by trees, admitted a subdued light
that made the faces around me pale, and darkened the old brasses in
the pavement and the time and damp-worn monuments, and rendered the
sunshine in the little porch, where a monotonous ringer was working
at the bell, inestimably bright. But a stir in that direction, a
gathering of reverential awe in the rustic faces, and a blandly
ferocious assumption on the part of Mr. Boythorn of being resolutely
unconscious of somebody's existence forewarned me that the great
people were come and that the service was going to begin.

"'Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, for in thy
sight--'"

Shall I ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned by the
look I met as I stood up! Shall I ever forget the manner in which
those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of their languor and
to hold mine! It was only a moment before I cast mine down--released
again, if I may say so--on my book; but I knew the beautiful face
quite well in that short space of time.

And, very strangely, there was something quickened within me,
associated with the lonely days at my godmother's; yes, away even to
the days when I had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my little
glass after dressing my doll. And this, although I had never seen
this lady's face before in all my life--I was quite sure of
it--absolutely certain.

It was easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey-haired
gentleman, the only other occupant of the great pew, was Sir
Leicester Dedlock, and that the lady was Lady Dedlock. But why her
face should be, in a confused way, like a broken glass to me, in
which I saw scraps of old remembrances, and why I should be so
fluttered and troubled (for I was still) by having casually met her
eyes, I could not think.

I felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me and tried to overcome it
by attending to the words I heard. Then, very strangely, I seemed to
hear them, not in the reader's voice, but in the well-remembered
voice of my godmother. This made me think, did Lady Dedlock's face
accidentally resemble my godmother's? It might be that it did, a
little; but the expression was so different, and the stern decision
which had worn into my godmother's face, like weather into rocks, was
so completely wanting in the face before me that it could not be that
resemblance which had struck me. Neither did I know the loftiness and
haughtiness of Lady Dedlock's face, at all, in any one. And yet I--I,
little Esther Summerson, the child who lived a life apart and on
whose birthday there was no rejoicing--seemed to arise before my own
eyes, evoked out of the past by some power in this fashionable lady,
whom I not only entertained no fancy that I had ever seen, but whom I
perfectly well knew I had never seen until that hour.

It made me tremble so to be thrown into this unaccountable agitation
that I was conscious of being distressed even by the observation of
the French maid, though I knew she had been looking watchfully here,
and there, and everywhere, from the moment of her coming into the
church. By degrees, though very slowly, I at last overcame my strange
emotion. After a long time, I looked towards Lady Dedlock again. It
was while they were preparing to sing, before the sermon. She took no
heed of me, and the beating at my heart was gone. Neither did it
revive for more than a few moments when she once or twice afterwards
glanced at Ada or at me through her glass.

The service being concluded, Sir Leicester gave his arm with much
taste and gallantry to Lady Dedlock--though he was obliged to walk by
the help of a thick stick--and escorted her out of church to the pony
carriage in which they had come. The servants then dispersed, and so
did the congregation, whom Sir Leicester had contemplated all along
(Mr. Skimpole said to Mr. Boythorn's infinite delight) as if he were
a considerable landed proprietor in heaven.

"He believes he is!" said Mr. Boythorn. "He firmly believes it. So
did his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather!"

"Do you know," pursued Mr. Skimpole very unexpectedly to Mr.
Boythorn, "it's agreeable to me to see a man of that sort."

"IS it!" said Mr. Boythorn.

"Say that he wants to patronize me," pursued Mr. Skimpole. "Very
well! I don't object."

"I do," said Mr. Boythorn with great vigour.

"Do you really?" returned Mr. Skimpole in his easy light vein. "But
that's taking trouble, surely. And why should you take trouble? Here
am I, content to receive things childishly as they fall out, and I
never take trouble! I come down here, for instance, and I find a
mighty potentate exacting homage. Very well! I say 'Mighty potentate,
here IS my homage! It's easier to give it than to withhold it. Here
it is. If you have anything of an agreeable nature to show me, I
shall be happy to see it; if you have anything of an agreeable nature
to give me, I shall be happy to accept it.' Mighty potentate replies
in effect, 'This is a sensible fellow. I find him accord with my
digestion and my bilious system. He doesn't impose upon me the
necessity of rolling myself up like a hedgehog with my points
outward. I expand, I open, I turn my silver lining outward like
Milton's cloud, and it's more agreeable to both of us.' That's my
view of such things, speaking as a child!"

"But suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow," said Mr.
Boythorn, "where there was the opposite of that fellow--or of this
fellow. How then?"

"How then?" said Mr. Skimpole with an appearance of the utmost
simplicity and candour. "Just the same then! I should say, 'My
esteemed Boythorn'--to make you the personification of our imaginary
friend--'my esteemed Boythorn, you object to the mighty potentate?
Very good. So do I. I take it that my business in the social system
is to be agreeable; I take it that everybody's business in the social
system is to be agreeable. It's a system of harmony, in short.
Therefore if you object, I object. Now, excellent Boythorn, let us go
to dinner!'"

"But excellent Boythorn might say," returned our host, swelling and
growing very red, "I'll be--"

"I understand," said Mr. Skimpole. "Very likely he would."

"--if I WILL go to dinner!" cried Mr. Boythorn in a violent burst and
stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. "And he would probably
add, 'Is there such a thing as principle, Mr. Harold Skimpole?'"

"To which Harold Skimpole would reply, you know," he returned in his
gayest manner and with his most ingenuous smile, "'Upon my life I
have not the least idea! I don't know what it is you call by that
name, or where it is, or who possesses it. If you possess it and find
it comfortable, I am quite delighted and congratulate you heartily.
But I know nothing about it, I assure you; for I am a mere child, and
I lay no claim to it, and I don't want it!' So, you see, excellent
Boythorn and I would go to dinner after all!"

This was one of many little dialogues between them which I always
expected to end, and which I dare say would have ended under other
circumstances, in some violent explosion on the part of our host. But
he had so high a sense of his hospitable and responsible position as
our entertainer, and my guardian laughed so sincerely at and with Mr.
Skimpole, as a child who blew bubbles and broke them all day long,
that matters never went beyond this point. Mr. Skimpole, who always
seemed quite unconscious of having been on delicate ground, then
betook himself to beginning some sketch in the park which he never
finished, or to playing fragments of airs on the piano, or to singing
scraps of songs, or to lying down on his back under a tree and
looking at the sky--which he couldn't help thinking, he said, was
what he was meant for; it suited him so exactly.

"Enterprise and effort," he would say to us (on his back), "are
delightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have the
deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place like this and
think of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole or penetrating
to the heart of the Torrid Zone with admiration. Mercenary creatures
ask, 'What is the use of a man's going to the North Pole? What good
does it do?' I can't say; but, for anything I CAN say, he may go for
the purpose--though he don't know it--of employing my thoughts as I
lie here. Take an extreme case. Take the case of the slaves on
American plantations. I dare say they are worked hard, I dare say
they don't altogether like it. I dare say theirs is an unpleasant
experience on the whole; but they people the landscape for me, they
give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that is one of the pleasanter
objects of their existence. I am very sensible of it, if it be, and I
shouldn't wonder if it were!"

I always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of Mrs.
Skimpole and the children, and in what point of view they presented
themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. So far as I could understand,
they rarely presented themselves at all.

The week had gone round to the Saturday following that beating of my
heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and blue that
to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking down among the
transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautiful interlacings of the
shadows of the trees, while the birds poured out their songs and the
air was drowsy with the hum of insects, had been most delightful. We
had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last year's leaves, where
there were some felled trees from which the bark was all stripped
off. Seated among these, we looked through a green vista supported by
thousands of natural columns, the whitened stems of trees, upon a
distant prospect made so radiant by its contrast with the shade in
which we sat and made so precious by the arched perspective through
which we saw it that it was like a glimpse of the better land. Upon
the Saturday we sat here, Mr. Jarndyce, Ada, and I, until we heard
thunder muttering in the distance and felt the large raindrops rattle
through the leaves.

The weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the storm
broke so suddenly--upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot--that
before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and lightning
were frequent and the rain came plunging through the leaves as if
every drop were a great leaden bead. As it was not a time for
standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the
moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two
broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper's
lodge which was close at hand. We had often noticed the dark beauty
of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, and how the ivy
clustered over it, and how there was a steep hollow near, where we
had once seen the keeper's dog dive down into the fern as if it were
water.

The lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that we only
clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shelter there
and put two chairs for Ada and me. The lattice-windows were all
thrown open, and we sat just within the doorway watching the storm.
It was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove
the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the solemn
thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking with awe of the
tremendous powers by which our little lives are encompassed, to
consider how beneficent they are and how upon the smallest flower and
leaf there was already a freshness poured from all this seeming rage
which seemed to make creation new again.

"Is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place?"

"Oh, no, Esther dear!" said Ada quietly.

Ada said it to me, but I had not spoken.

The beating of my heart came back again. I had never heard the voice,
as I had never seen the face, but it affected me in the same strange
way. Again, in a moment, there arose before my mind innumerable
pictures of myself.

Lady Dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge before our arrival there
and had come out of the gloom within. She stood behind my chair with
her hand upon it. I saw her with her hand close to my shoulder when I
turned my head.

"I have frightened you?" she said.

No. It was not fright. Why should I be frightened!

"I believe," said Lady Dedlock to my guardian, "I have the pleasure
of speaking to Mr. Jarndyce."

"Your remembrance does me more honour than I had supposed it would,
Lady Dedlock," he returned.

"I recognized you in church on Sunday. I am sorry that any local
disputes of Sir Leicester's--they are not of his seeking, however, I
believe--should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty to show
you any attention here."

"I am aware of the circumstances," returned my guardian with a smile,
"and am sufficiently obliged."

She had given him her hand in an indifferent way that seemed habitual
to her and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner, though in a
very pleasant voice. She was as graceful as she was beautiful,
perfectly self-possessed, and had the air, I thought, of being able
to attract and interest any one if she had thought it worth her
while. The keeper had brought her a chair on which she sat in the
middle of the porch between us.

"Is the young gentleman disposed of whom you wrote to Sir Leicester
about and whose wishes Sir Leicester was sorry not to have it in his
power to advance in any way?" she said over her shoulder to my
guardian.

"I hope so," said he.

She seemed to respect him and even to wish to conciliate him. There
was something very winning in her haughty manner, and it became more
familiar--I was going to say more easy, but that could hardly be--as
she spoke to him over her shoulder.

"I presume this is your other ward, Miss Clare?"

He presented Ada, in form.

"You will lose the disinterested part of your Don Quixote character,"
said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce over her shoulder again, "if you
only redress the wrongs of beauty like this. But present me," and she
turned full upon me, "to this young lady too!"

"Miss Summerson really is my ward," said Mr. Jarndyce. "I am
responsible to no Lord Chancellor in her case."

"Has Miss Summerson lost both her parents?" said my Lady.

"Yes."

"She is very fortunate in her guardian."

Lady Dedlock looked at me, and I looked at her and said I was indeed.
All at once she turned from me with a hasty air, almost expressive of
displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over her shoulder again.

"Ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, Mr.
Jarndyce."

"A long time. At least I thought it was a long time, until I saw you
last Sunday," he returned.

"What! Even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to become one
to me!" she said with some disdain. "I have achieved that reputation,
I suppose."

"You have achieved so much, Lady Dedlock," said my guardian, "that
you pay some little penalty, I dare say. But none to me."

"So much!" she repeated, slightly laughing. "Yes!"

With her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and I know
not what, she seemed to regard Ada and me as little more than
children. So, as she slightly laughed and afterwards sat looking at
the rain, she was as self-possessed and as free to occupy herself
with her own thoughts as if she had been alone.

"I think you knew my sister when we were abroad together better than
you know me?" she said, looking at him again.

"Yes, we happened to meet oftener," he returned.

"We went our several ways," said Lady Dedlock, "and had little in
common even before we agreed to differ. It is to be regretted, I
suppose, but it could not be helped."

Lady Dedlock again sat looking at the rain. The storm soon began to
pass upon its way. The shower greatly abated, the lightning ceased,
the thunder rolled among the distant hills, and the sun began to
glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. As we sat there,
silently, we saw a little pony phaeton coming towards us at a merry
pace.

"The messenger is coming back, my Lady," said the keeper, "with the
carriage."

As it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside. There
alighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers, first the
Frenchwoman whom I had seen in church, and secondly the pretty girl,
the Frenchwoman with a defiant confidence, the pretty girl confused
and hesitating.

"What now?" said Lady Dedlock. "Two!"

"I am your maid, my Lady, at the present," said the Frenchwoman. "The
message was for the attendant."

"I was afraid you might mean me, my Lady," said the pretty girl.

"I did mean you, child," replied her mistress calmly. "Put that shawl
on me."

She slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the pretty girl
lightly dropped it in its place. The Frenchwoman stood unnoticed,
looking on with her lips very tightly set.

"I am sorry," said Lady Dedlock to Mr. Jarndyce, "that we are not
likely to renew our former acquaintance. You will allow me to send
the carriage back for your two wards. It shall be here directly."

But as he would on no account accept this offer, she took a graceful
leave of Ada--none of me--and put her hand upon his proffered arm,
and got into the carriage, which was a little, low, park carriage
with a hood.

"Come in, child," she said to the pretty girl; "I shall want you. Go
on!"

The carriage rolled away, and the Frenchwoman, with the wrappers she
had brought hanging over her arm, remained standing where she had
alighted.

I suppose there is nothing pride can so little bear with as pride
itself, and that she was punished for her imperious manner. Her
retaliation was the most singular I could have imagined. She remained
perfectly still until the carriage had turned into the drive, and
then, without the least discomposure of countenance, slipped off her
shoes, left them on the ground, and walked deliberately in the same
direction through the wettest of the wet grass.

"Is that young woman mad?" said my guardian.

"Oh, no, sir!" said the keeper, who, with his wife, was looking after
her. "Hortense is not one of that sort. She has as good a head-piece
as the best. But she's mortal high and passionate--powerful high and
passionate; and what with having notice to leave, and having others
put above her, she don't take kindly to it."

"But why should she walk shoeless through all that water?" said my
guardian.

"Why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down!" said the man.

"Or unless she fancies it's blood," said the woman. "She'd as soon
walk through that as anything else, I think, when her own's up!"

We passed not far from the house a few minutes afterwards. Peaceful
as it had looked when we first saw it, it looked even more so now,
with a diamond spray glittering all about it, a light wind blowing,
the birds no longer hushed but singing strongly, everything refreshed
by the late rain, and the little carriage shining at the doorway like
a fairy carriage made of silver. Still, very steadfastly and quietly
walking towards it, a peaceful figure too in the landscape, went
Mademoiselle Hortense, shoeless, through the wet grass.




CHAPTER XIX

Moving On


It is the long vacation in the regions of Chancery Lane. The good
ships Law and Equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed,
iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing
clippers are laid up in ordinary. The Flying Dutchman, with a crew of
ghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse their
papers, has drifted, for the time being, heaven knows where. The
courts are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep.
Westminster Hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales might
sing, and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found there,
walk.

The Temple, Chancery Lane, Serjeants' Inn, and Lincoln's Inn even
unto the Fields are like tidal harbours at low water, where stranded
proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop-sided
stools that will not recover their perpendicular until the current of
Term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation.
Outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score, messages and
parcels are to be left at the Porter's Lodge by the bushel. A crop of
grass would grow in the chinks of the stone pavement outside
Lincoln's Inn Hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have nothing to
do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white aprons over
their heads to keep the flies off, grub it up and eat it
thoughtfully.

There is only one judge in town. Even he only comes twice a week to
sit in chambers. If the country folks of those assize towns on his
circuit could see him now! No full-bottomed wig, no red petticoats,
no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. Merely a close-shaved
gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the
judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays
from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he
comes along and drinks iced ginger-beer!

The bar of England is scattered over the face of the earth. How
England can get on through four long summer months without its
bar--which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its only
legitimate triumph in prosperity--is beside the question; assuredly
that shield and buckler of Britannia are not in present wear. The
learned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the
unprecedented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by the
opposite party that he never seems likely to recover it is doing
infinitely better than might be expected in Switzerland. The learned
gentleman who does the withering business and who blights all
opponents with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at a French
watering-place. The learned gentleman who weeps by the pint on the
smallest provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks. The very
learned gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of his gingery
complexion in pools and fountains of law until he has become great in
knotty arguments for term-time, when he poses the drowsy bench with
legal "chaff," inexplicable to the uninitiated and to most of the
initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight in aridity
and dust, about Constantinople. Other dispersed fragments of the same
great palladium are to be found on the canals of Venice, at the
second cataract of the Nile, in the baths of Germany, and sprinkled
on the sea-sand all over the English coast. Scarcely one is to be
encountered in the deserted region of Chancery Lane. If such a lonely
member of the bar do flit across the waste and come upon a prowling
suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of his anxiety,
they frighten one another and retreat into opposite shades.

It is the hottest long vacation known for many years. All the young
clerks are madly in love, and according to their various degrees,
pine for bliss with the beloved object, at Margate, Ramsgate, or
Gravesend. All the middle-aged clerks think their families too large.
All the unowned dogs who stray into the Inns of Court and pant about
staircases and other dry places seeking water give short howls of
aggravation. All the blind men's dogs in the streets draw their
masters against pumps or trip them over buckets. A shop with a
sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of gold and silver fish
in the window, is a sanctuary. Temple Bar gets so hot that it is, to
the adjacent Strand and Fleet Street, what a heater is in an urn, and
keeps them simmering all night.

There are offices about the Inns of Court in which a man might be
cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in
dullness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside those
retirements seem to blaze. In Mr. Krook's court, it is so hot that
the people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the
pavement--Mr. Krook included, who there pursues his studies, with his
cat (who never is too hot) by his side. The Sol's Arms has
discontinued the Harmonic Meetings for the season, and Little Swills
is engaged at the Pastoral Gardens down the river, where he comes out
in quite an innocent manner and sings comic ditties of a juvenile
complexion calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the feelings of
the most fastidious mind.

Over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veil of
rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the long
vacation. Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer of Cook's Court, Cursitor
Street, is sensible of the influence not only in his mind as a
sympathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business as a
law-stationer aforesaid. He has more leisure for musing in Staple Inn
and in the Rolls Yard during the long vacation than at other seasons,
and he says to the two 'prentices, what a thing it is in such hot
weather to think that you live in an island with the sea a-rolling
and a-bowling right round you.

Guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present afternoon
in the long vacation, when Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby have it in
contemplation to receive company. The expected guests are rather
select than numerous, being Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and no more. From
Mr. Chadband's being much given to describe himself, both verbally
and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by strangers
for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is, as he expresses
it, "in the ministry." Mr. Chadband is attached to no particular
denomination and is considered by his persecutors to have nothing so
very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects as to render his
volunteering, on his own account, at all incumbent on his conscience;
but he has his followers, and Mrs. Snagsby is of the number. Mrs.
Snagsby has but recently taken a passage upward by the vessel,
Chadband; and her attention was attracted to that Bark A 1, when she
was something flushed by the hot weather.

"My little woman," says Mr. Snagsby to the sparrows in Staple Inn,
"likes to have her religion rather sharp, you see!"

So Guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as the
handmaid of Chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with the gift of
holding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the little
drawing-room for tea. All the furniture is shaken and dusted, the
portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth,
the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provision
made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin
slices of ham, tongue, and German sausage, and delicate little rows
of anchovies nestling in parsley, not to mention new-laid eggs, to be
brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. For Chadband is
rather a consuming vessel--the persecutors say a gorging vessel--and
can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife and fork remarkably
well.

Mr. Snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the preparations when
they are completed and coughing his cough of deference behind his
hand, says to Mrs. Snagsby, "At what time did you expect Mr. and Mrs.
Chadband, my love?"

"At six," says Mrs. Snagsby.

Mr. Snagsby observes in a mild and casual way that "it's gone that."

"Perhaps you'd like to begin without them," is Mrs. Snagsby's
reproachful remark.

Mr. Snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, but he says,
with his cough of mildness, "No, my dear, no. I merely named the
time."

"What's time," says Mrs. Snagsby, "to eternity?"

"Very true, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby. "Only when a person lays in
victuals for tea, a person does it with a view--perhaps--more to
time. And when a time is named for having tea, it's better to come up
to it."

"To come up to it!" Mrs. Snagsby repeats with severity. "Up to it! As
if Mr. Chadband was a fighter!"

"Not at all, my dear," says Mr. Snagsby.

Here, Guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window, comes
rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular
ghost, and falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that Mr.
and Mrs. Chadband have appeared in the court. The bell at the inner
door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is
admonished by Mrs. Snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her
patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. Much
discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order)
by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to
announce "Mr. and Mrs. Cheeseming, least which, Imeantersay,
whatsername!" and retires conscience-stricken from the presence.

Mr. Chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general
appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. Mrs.
Chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. Mr. Chadband moves
softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk
upright. He is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were
inconvenient to him and he wanted to grovel, is very much in a
perspiration about the head, and never speaks without first putting
up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is
going to edify them.

"My friends," says Mr. Chadband, "peace be on this house! On the
master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and on
the young men! My friends, why do I wish for peace? What is peace? Is
it war? No. Is it strife? No. Is it lovely, and gentle, and
beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? Oh, yes! Therefore,
my friends, I wish for peace, upon you and upon yours."

In consequence of Mrs. Snagsby looking deeply edified, Mr. Snagsby
thinks it expedient on the whole to say amen, which is well received.

"Now, my friends," proceeds Mr. Chadband, "since I am upon this
theme--"

Guster presents herself. Mrs. Snagsby, in a spectral bass voice and
without removing her eyes from Chadband, says with dreadful
distinctness, "Go away!"

"Now, my friends," says Chadband, "since I am upon this theme, and in
my lowly path improving it--"

Guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing seven hundred
and eighty-two." The spectral voice repeats more solemnly, "Go away!"

"Now, my friends," says Mr. Chadband, "we will inquire in a spirit of
love--"

Still Guster reiterates "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two."

Mr. Chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed to be
persecuted and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile,
says, "Let us hear the maiden! Speak, maiden!"

"One thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir. Which
he wish to know what the shilling ware for," says Guster, breathless.

"For?" returns Mrs. Chadband. "For his fare!"

Guster replied that "he insistes on one and eightpence or on
summonsizzing the party." Mrs. Snagsby and Mrs. Chadband are
proceeding to grow shrill in indignation when Mr. Chadband quiets the
tumult by lifting up his hand.

"My friends," says he, "I remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday. It
is right that I should be chastened in some penalty. I ought not to
murmur. Rachael, pay the eightpence!"

While Mrs. Snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at Mr. Snagsby, as
who should say, "You hear this apostle!" and while Mr. Chadband glows
with humility and train oil, Mrs. Chadband pays the money. It is Mr.
Chadband's habit--it is the head and front of his pretensions
indeed--to keep this sort of debtor and creditor account in the
smallest items and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions.

"My friends," says Chadband, "eightpence is not much; it might justly
have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half a crown.
O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be joyful!"

With which remark, which appears from its sound to be an extract in
verse, Mr. Chadband stalks to the table, and before taking a chair,
lifts up his admonitory hand.

"My friends," says he, "what is this which we now behold as being
spread before us? Refreshment. Do we need refreshment then, my
friends? We do. And why do we need refreshment, my friends? Because
we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of
the earth, because we are not of the air. Can we fly, my friends? We
cannot. Why can we not fly, my friends?"

Mr. Snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to
observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "No wings." But is
immediately frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby.

"I say, my friends," pursues Mr. Chadband, utterly rejecting and
obliterating Mr. Snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly? Is it
because we are calculated to walk? It is. Could we walk, my friends,
without strength? We could not. What should we do without strength,
my friends? Our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double
up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground.
Then from whence, my friends, in a human point of view, do we derive
the strength that is necessary to our limbs? Is it," says Chadband,
glancing over the table, "from bread in various forms, from butter
which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto us by the cow,
from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from
sausage, and from such like? It is. Then let us partake of the good
things which are set before us!"

The persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in Mr.
Chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after
this fashion. But this can only be received as a proof of their
determination to persecute, since it must be within everybody's
experience that the Chadband style of oratory is widely received and
much admired.

Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down at
Mr. Snagsby's table and lays about him prodigiously. The conversion
of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned
appears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this
exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be
described as always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or
other large factory for the production of that article on a wholesale
scale. On the present evening of the long vacation, in Cook's Court,
Cursitor Street, he does such a powerful stroke of business that the
warehouse appears to be quite full when the works cease.

At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has never recovered
her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impossible means
of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt--among which
may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly performing clashing
military music on Mr. Chadband's head with plates, and afterwards
crowning that gentleman with muffins--at which period of the
entertainment, Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby that he is wanted.

"And being wanted in the--not to put too fine a point upon it--in the
shop," says Mr. Snagsby, rising, "perhaps this good company will
excuse me for half a minute."

Mr. Snagsby descends and finds the two 'prentices intently
contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm.

"Why, bless my heart," says Mr. Snagsby, "what's the matter!"

"This boy," says the constable, "although he's repeatedly told to,
won't move on--"

"I'm always a-moving on, sar," cries the boy, wiping away his grimy
tears with his arm. "I've always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever
since I was born. Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor I do
move!"

"He won't move on," says the constable calmly, with a slight
professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his
stiff stock, "although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and
therefore I am obliged to take him into custody. He's as obstinate a
young gonoph as I know. He WON'T move on."

"Oh, my eye! Where can I move to!" cries the boy, clutching quite
desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of
Mr. Snagsby's passage.

"Don't you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work of
you!" says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. "My
instructions are that you are to move on. I have told you so five
hundred times."

"But where?" cries the boy.

"Well! Really, constable, you know," says Mr. Snagsby wistfully, and
coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity and doubt,
"really, that does seem a question. Where, you know?"

"My instructions don't go to that," replies the constable. "My
instructions are that this boy is to move on."

Do you hear, Jo? It is nothing to you or to any one else that the
great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some few years
in this business to set you the example of moving on. The one grand
recipe remains for you--the profound philosophical prescription--the
be-all and the end-all of your strange existence upon earth. Move on!
You are by no means to move off, Jo, for the great lights can't at
all agree about that. Move on!

Mr. Snagsby says nothing to this effect, says nothing at all indeed,
but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no thoroughfare in any
direction. By this time Mr. and Mrs. Chadband and Mrs. Snagsby,
hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the stairs. Guster having
never left the end of the passage, the whole household are assembled.

"The simple question is, sir," says the constable, "whether you know
this boy. He says you do."

Mrs. Snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries out, "No he don't!"

"My lit-tle woman!" says Mr. Snagsby, looking up the staircase. "My
love, permit me! Pray have a moment's patience, my dear. I do know
something of this lad, and in what I know of him, I can't say that
there's any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable." To whom the
law-stationer relates his Joful and woeful experience, suppressing
the half-crown fact.

"Well!" says the constable, "so far, it seems, he had grounds for
what he said. When I took him into custody up in Holborn, he said you
knew him. Upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said he was
acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if
I'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear. The young man don't seem
inclined to keep his word, but--Oh! Here IS the young man!"

Enter Mr. Guppy, who nods to Mr. Snagsby and touches his hat with the
chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs.

"I was strolling away from the office just now when I found this row
going on," says Mr. Guppy to the law-stationer, "and as your name was
mentioned, I thought it was right the thing should be looked into."

"It was very good-natured of you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "and I am
obliged to you." And Mr. Snagsby again relates his experience, again
suppressing the half-crown fact.

"Now, I know where you live," says the constable, then, to Jo. "You
live down in Tom-all-Alone's. That's a nice innocent place to live
in, ain't it?"

"I can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies Jo. "They
wouldn't have nothink to say to me if I wos to go to a nice innocent
place fur to live. Who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such
a reg'lar one as me!"

"You are very poor, ain't you?" says the constable.

"Yes, I am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," replies Jo. "I leave
you to judge now! I shook these two half-crowns out of him," says the
constable, producing them to the company, "in only putting my hand
upon him!"

"They're wot's left, Mr. Snagsby," says Jo, "out of a sov-ring as wos
give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as come to
my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere ouse and the
ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the berrin-ground
wot he's berrid in. She ses to me she ses 'are you the boy at the
inkwhich?' she ses. I ses 'yes' I ses. She ses to me she ses 'can you
show me all them places?' I ses 'yes I can' I ses. And she ses to me
'do it' and I dun it and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it. And I
an't had much of the sov'ring neither," says Jo, with dirty tears,
"fur I had to pay five bob, down in Tom-all-Alone's, afore they'd
square it fur to give me change, and then a young man he thieved
another five while I was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence
and the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more on it."

"You don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the
sovereign, do you?" says the constable, eyeing him aside with
ineffable disdain.

"I don't know as I do, sir," replies Jo. "I don't expect nothink at
all, sir, much, but that's the true hist'ry on it."

"You see what he is!" the constable observes to the audience. "Well,
Mr. Snagsby, if I don't lock him up this time, will you engage for
his moving on?"

"No!" cries Mrs. Snagsby from the stairs.

"My little woman!" pleads her husband. "Constable, I have no doubt
he'll move on. You know you really must do it," says Mr. Snagsby.

"I'm everyways agreeable, sir," says the hapless Jo.

"Do it, then," observes the constable. "You know what you have got to
do. Do it! And recollect you won't get off so easy next time. Catch
hold of your money. Now, the sooner you're five mile off, the better
for all parties."

With this farewell hint and pointing generally to the setting sun as
a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditors good
afternoon and makes the echoes of Cook's Court perform slow music for
him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying his iron-bound hat
in his hand for a little ventilation.

Now, Jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign has
awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. Mr. Guppy,
who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who has
been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation,
takes that interest in the case that he enters on a regular
cross-examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by
the ladies that Mrs. Snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs
and drink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of
the tea-table, consequent on their previous exertions. Mr. Guppy
yielding his assent to this proposal, Jo is requested to follow into
the drawing-room doorway, where Mr. Guppy takes him in hand as a
witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the other shape
like a butterman dealing with so much butter, and worrying him
according to the best models. Nor is the examination unlike many such
model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothing and of its
being lengthy, for Mr. Guppy is sensible of his talent, and Mrs.
Snagsby feels not only that it gratifies her inquisitive disposition,
but that it lifts her husband's establishment higher up in the law.
During the progress of this keen encounter, the vessel Chadband,
being merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground and waits to be
floated off.

"Well!" says Mr. Guppy. "Either this boy sticks to it like
cobbler's-wax or there is something out of the common here that beats
anything that ever came into my way at Kenge and Carboy's."

Mrs. Chadband whispers Mrs. Snagsby, who exclaims, "You don't say
so!"

"For years!" replied Mrs. Chadband.

"Has known Kenge and Carboy's office for years," Mrs. Snagsby
triumphantly explains to Mr. Guppy. "Mrs. Chadband--this gentleman's
wife--Reverend Mr. Chadband."

"Oh, indeed!" says Mr. Guppy.

"Before I married my present husband," says Mrs. Chadband.

"Was you a party in anything, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy, transferring
his cross-examination.

"No."

"NOT a party in anything, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy.

Mrs. Chadband shakes her head.

"Perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in
something, ma'am?" says Mr. Guppy, who likes nothing better than to
model his conversation on forensic principles.

"Not exactly that, either," replies Mrs. Chadband, humouring the joke
with a hard-favoured smile.

"Not exactly that, either!" repeats Mr. Guppy. "Very good. Pray,
ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions
(we will not at present say what transactions) with Kenge and
Carboy's office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance? Take
time, ma'am. We shall come to it presently. Man or woman, ma'am?"

"Neither," says Mrs. Chadband as before.

"Oh! A child!" says Mr. Guppy, throwing on the admiring Mrs. Snagsby
the regular acute professional eye which is thrown on British
jurymen. "Now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kindness to tell us
WHAT child."

"You have got it at last, sir," says Mrs. Chadband with another
hard-favoured smile. "Well, sir, it was before your time, most
likely, judging from your appearance. I was left in charge of a child
named Esther Summerson, who was put out in life by Messrs. Kenge and
Carboy."

"Miss Summerson, ma'am!" cries Mr. Guppy, excited.

"I call her Esther Summerson," says Mrs. Chadband with austerity.
"There was no Miss-ing of the girl in my time. It was Esther.
'Esther, do this! Esther, do that!' and she was made to do it."

"My dear ma'am," returns Mr. Guppy, moving across the small
apartment, "the humble individual who now addresses you received that
young lady in London when she first came here from the establishment
to which you have alluded. Allow me to have the pleasure of taking
you by the hand."

Mr. Chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accustomed
signal and rises with a smoking head, which he dabs with his
pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Snagsby whispers "Hush!"

"My friends," says Chadband, "we have partaken in moderation" (which
was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) "of the
comforts which have been provided for us. May this house live upon
the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentiful therein; may
it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it
proceed, may it press forward! But, my friends, have we partaken of
anything else? We have. My friends, of what else have we partaken? Of
spiritual profit? Yes. From whence have we derived that spiritual
profit? My young friend, stand forth!"

Jo, thus apostrophized, gives a slouch backward, and another slouch
forward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts the eloquent
Chadband with evident doubts of his intentions.

"My young friend," says Chadband, "you are to us a pearl, you are to
us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. And why, my
young friend?"

"I don't know," replies Jo. "I don't know nothink."

"My young friend," says Chadband, "it is because you know nothing
that you are to us a gem and jewel. For what are you, my young
friend? Are you a beast of the field? No. A bird of the air? No. A
fish of the sea or river? No. You are a human boy, my young friend. A
human boy. O glorious to be a human boy! And why glorious, my young
friend? Because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom,
because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which I now
deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a
stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar.

   O running stream of sparkling joy
   To be a soaring human boy!

And do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend? No.
Why do you not cool yourself in that stream now? Because you are in a
state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity, because
you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a state of
bondage. My young friend, what is bondage? Let us, in a spirit of
love, inquire."

At this threatening stage of the discourse, Jo, who seems to have
been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his
face and gives a terrible yawn. Mrs. Snagsby indignantly expresses
her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend.

"My friends," says Mr. Chadband with his persecuted chin folding
itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, "it is right that
I should be humbled, it is right that I should be tried, it is right
that I should be mortified, it is right that I should be corrected. I
stumbled, on Sabbath last, when I thought with pride of my three
hours' improving. The account is now favourably balanced: my creditor
has accepted a composition. O let us be joyful, joyful! O let us be
joyful!"

Great sensation on the part of Mrs. Snagsby.

"My friends," says Chadband, looking round him in conclusion, "I will
not proceed with my young friend now. Will you come to-morrow, my
young friend, and inquire of this good lady where I am to be found to
deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like the thirsty
swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that, and upon the
day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear discourses?"
(This with a cow-like lightness.)

Jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms,
gives a shuffling nod. Mr. Guppy then throws him a penny, and Mrs.
Snagsby calls to Guster to see him safely out of the house. But
before he goes downstairs, Mr. Snagsby loads him with some broken
meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms.

So, Mr. Chadband--of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder he
should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable
nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave
off, having once the audacity to begin--retires into private life
until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. Jo
moves on, through the long vacation, down to Blackfriars Bridge,
where he finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to his repast.

And there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the great
cross on the summit of St. Paul's Cathedral, glittering above a
red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke. From the boy's face one might
suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion
of the great, confused city--so golden, so high up, so far out of his
reach. There he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast, the
crowd flowing by him in two streams--everything moving on to some
purpose and to one end--until he is stirred up and told to "move on"
too.




CHAPTER XX

A New Lodger


The long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle river
very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppy
saunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade of his
penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrument into
his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk any ill will,
but he must do something, and it must be something of an unexciting
nature, which will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual
energies under too heavy contribution. He finds that nothing agrees
with him so well as to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool,
and stab his desk, and gape.

Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken
out a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and Mr. Guppy's
two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Richard
Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr. Carstone is for
the time being established in Kenge's room, whereat Mr. Guppy chafes.
So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the
confidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and lettuce
in the Old Street Road, that he is afraid the office is hardly good
enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell coming,
he would have got it painted.

Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of a stool
in Kenge and Carboy's office of entertaining, as a matter of course,
sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every such person wants
to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, or wherefore, he
shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On the strength of these
profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infinite pains
to counterplot when there is no plot, and plays the deepest games of
chess without any adversary.

It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, to find
the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyce and
Jarndyce, for he well knows that nothing but confusion and failure
can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself to a third
saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy's office, to
wit, Young Smallweed.

Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke Chick
Weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boy is
much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something under fifteen and
an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understood to entertain a
passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in the neighbourhood of Chancery
Lane and for her sake to have broken off a contract with another
lady, to whom he had been engaged some years. He is a town-made
article, of small stature and weazen features, but may be perceived
from a considerable distance by means of his very tall hat. To become
a Guppy is the object of his ambition. He dresses at that gentleman
(by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds
himself entirely on him. He is honoured with Mr. Guppy's particular
confidence and occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his
experience, on difficult points in private life.

Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning after trying
all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy, and after
several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of
cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched for effervescent
drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and
stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propounds for Mr.
Smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more you drink the
thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a
state of hopeless languor.

While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's Inn,
surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomes
conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below
and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At the same time,
a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressed voice cries,
"Hip! Gup-py!"

"Why, you don't mean it!" says Mr. Guppy, aroused. "Small! Here's
Jobling!" Small's head looks out of window too and nods to Jobling.

"Where have you sprung up from?" inquires Mr. Guppy.

"From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it any
longer. I must enlist. I say! I wish you'd lend me half a crown. Upon
my soul, I'm hungry."

Jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run to
seed in the market-gardens down by Deptford.

"I say! Just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare. I
want to get some dinner."

"Will you come and dine with me?" says Mr. Guppy, throwing out the
coin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly.

"How long should I have to hold out?" says Jobling.

"Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the enemy goes,
returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head.

"What enemy?"

"A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?"

"Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?" says Mr.
Jobling.

Smallweed suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares with much
earnestness that he "can't stand it."

"You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. "He shall bring it down.
But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on our staircase and
read. It's a quiet place."

Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagacious Smallweed
supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally drops his eye upon
him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming disgusted
with waiting and making an untimely departure. At last the enemy
retreats, and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling up.

"Well, and how are you?" says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with him.

"So, so. How are you?"

Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Jobling
ventures on the question, "How is SHE?" This Mr. Guppy resents as a
liberty, retorting, "Jobling, there ARE chords in the human mind--"
Jobling begs pardon.

"Any subject but that!" says Mr. Guppy with a gloomy enjoyment of his
injury. "For there ARE chords, Jobling--"

Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.

During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of the
dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper,
"Return immediately." This notification to all whom it may concern,
he inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tall hat at the
angle of inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his, informs his patron
that they may now make themselves scarce.

Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-house, of
the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-bang,
where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, is supposed to
have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed, of whom it
may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whom years are
nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuries of owlish
wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he must have lain
there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, has Smallweed; and he
drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and his neck is stiff in his
collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he knows all about it,
whatever it is. In short, in his bringing up he has been so nursed by
Law and Equity that he has become a kind of fossil imp, to account
for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices
that his father was John Doe and his mother the only female member of
the Roe family, also that his first long-clothes were made from a
blue bag.

Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in the window
of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets of
peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, Mr.
Smallweed leads the way. They know him there and defer to him. He has
his favourite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald
patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterwards. It is of
no use trying him with anything less than a full-sized "bread" or
proposing to him any joint in cut unless it is in the very best cut.
In the matter of gravy he is adamant.

Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread experience,
Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet, turning
an appealing look towards him as the waitress repeats the catalogue
of viands and saying "What do YOU take, Chick?" Chick, out of the
profundity of his artfulness, preferring "veal and ham and French
beans--and don't you forget the stuffing, Polly" (with an unearthly
cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling give the like
order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded. Quickly the
waitress returns bearing what is apparently a model of the Tower of
Babel but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers.
Mr. Smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys
intelligent benignity into his ancient eye and winks upon her. Then,
amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a
clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine which
brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for more
nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost
of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and
steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated
atmosphere in which the soiled knives and tablecloths seem to break
out spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the
legal triumvirate appease their appetites.

Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might require.
His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening
nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade. The same
phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at
the seams. He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed
circumstances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a
shabby air.

His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for some
little time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and
ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in
theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. "Thank you, Guppy," says Mr.
Jobling, "I really don't know but what I WILL take another."

Another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill.

Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is half
way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at
his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out his
legs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow of contentment,
Mr. Guppy says, "You are a man again, Tony!"

"Well, not quite yet," says Mr. Jobling. "Say, just born."

"Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summer cabbage?"

"Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling. "I really don't know but what I
WILL take summer cabbage."

Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) of
"Without slugs, Polly!" And cabbage produced.

"I am growing up, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife and fork
with a relishing steadiness.

"Glad to hear it."

"In fact, I have just turned into my teens," says Mr. Jobling.

He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves as
Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over the
ground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily by a
veal and ham and a cabbage.

"Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, "what would you recommend about
pastry?"

"Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed instantly.

"Aye, aye!" cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. "You're there, are
you? Thank you, Mr. Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take a marrow
pudding."

Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds in a pleasant
humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed, by command of
Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires," and to those "three small rums."
This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr. Jobling puts up
his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side of the box to
himself), leans against the wall, and says, "I am grown up now,
Guppy. I have arrived at maturity."

"What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about--you don't mind
Smallweed?"

"Not the least in the world. I have the pleasure of drinking his good
health."

"Sir, to you!" says Mr. Smallweed.

"I was saying, what do you think NOW," pursues Mr. Guppy, "of
enlisting?"

"Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, "is one
thing, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is another
thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, What am I
to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know," says Mr. Jobling,
pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixture in an
English stable. "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying, and
mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or more so."

Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so."

"If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, "even so lately as when
you and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove over
to see that house at Castle Wold--"

Mr. Smallweed corrects him--Chesney Wold.

"Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) If any
man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the present time
as I literally find myself, I should have--well, I should have
pitched into him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-water
with an air of desperate resignation; "I should have let fly at his
head."

"Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,"
remonstrates Mr. Guppy. "You were talking about nothing else in the
gig."

"Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, "I will not deny it. I was on the wrong
side of the post. But I trusted to things coming round."

That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in their
being beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round! As
though a lunatic should trust in the world's "coming" triangular!

"I had confident expectations that things would come round and be all
square," says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression and
perhaps of meaning too. "But I was disappointed. They never did. And
when it came to creditors making rows at the office and to people
that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of
borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion. And of any
new professional connexion too, for if I was to give a reference
to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up. Then what's a
fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way and living cheap
down about the market-gardens, but what's the use of living cheap
when you have got no money? You might as well live dear."

"Better," Mr. Smallweed thinks.

"Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have
been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says Mr. Jobling.
"They are great weaknesses--Damme, sir, they are great. Well,"
proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water,
"what can a fellow do, I ask you, BUT enlist?"

Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what, in
his opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressive
manner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwise than
as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.

"Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, "myself and our mutual friend Smallweed--"

Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, "Gentlemen both!" and drinks.

"--Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once since
you--"

"Say, got the sack!" cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. "Say it, Guppy. You
mean it."

"No-o-o! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.

"Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; "and I have
mentioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have lately thought
of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?"

"I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. "He was not
ours, and I am not acquainted with him."

"He IS ours, Jobling, and I AM acquainted with him," Mr. Guppy
retorts. "Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted with him
through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of
his in private life. Those circumstances it is not necessary to offer
in argument. They may--or they may not--have some reference to a
subject which may--or may not--have cast its shadow on my existence."

As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way with boastful misery to tempt his
particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it,
to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords in the
human mind, both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline the pitfall by
remaining silent.

"Such things may be," repeats Mr. Guppy, "or they may not be. They
are no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr. and
Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that Snagsby has, in
busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has all
Tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I believe if our
mutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this?"

Mr. Smallweed nods and appears greedy to be sworn.

"Now, gentlemen of the jury," says Mr. Guppy, "--I mean, now,
Jobling--you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted.
But it's better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You want
time. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. You
might live through it on much worse terms than by writing for
Snagsby."

Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious Smallweed checks
him with a dry cough and the words, "Hem! Shakspeare!"

"There are two branches to this subject, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy.
"That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy in his
encouraging cross-examination-tone, "I think you know Krook, the
Chancellor, across the lane?"

"I know him by sight," says Mr. Jobling.

"You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Flite?"

"Everybody knows her," says Mr. Jobling.

"Everybody knows her. VERY well. Now it has been one of my duties of
late to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the
amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence of
instructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly in her
presence. This has brought me into communication with Krook and into
a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a room to let.
You may live there at a very low charge under any name you like, as
quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He'll ask no questions
and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me--before the clock
strikes, if you chose. And I tell you another thing, Jobling," says
Mr. Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice and become familiar
again, "he's an extraordinary old chap--always rummaging among a
litter of papers and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and
write, without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. He is a most
extraordinary old chap, sir. I don't know but what it might be worth
a fellow's while to look him up a bit."

"You don't mean--" Mr. Jobling begins.

"I mean," returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becoming
modesty, "that I can't make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend
Smallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can't make
him out."

Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, "A few!"

"I have seen something of the profession and something of life,
Tony," says Mr. Guppy, "and it's seldom I can't make a man out, more
or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and secret
(though I don't believe he is ever sober), I never came across. Now,
he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him,
and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a
smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a
money-lender--all of which I have thought likely at different
times--it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. I
don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, when everything else
suits."

Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed all lean their elbows on
the table and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling.
After a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in
their pockets, and look at one another.

"If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy with a
sigh. "But there are chords in the human mind--"

Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-water,
Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony Jobling and
informing him that during the vacation and while things are slack,
his purse, "as far as three or four or even five pound goes," will be
at his disposal. "For never shall it be said," Mr. Guppy adds with
emphasis, "that William Guppy turned his back upon his friend!"

The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose that
Mr. Jobling says with emotion, "Guppy, my trump, your fist!" Mr.
Guppy presents it, saying, "Jobling, my boy, there it is!" Mr.
Jobling returns, "Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!" Mr.
Guppy replies, "Jobling, we have."

They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner,
"Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take another glass
for old acquaintance sake."

"Krook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy in an incidental
way.

"Did he though!" says Mr. Jobling.

"There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't mind that?"

"No," says Mr. Jobling, "I don't mind it; but he might as well have
died somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go and die at MY
place!" Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty, several times
returning to it with such remarks as, "There are places enough to die
in, I should think!" or, "He wouldn't have liked my dying at HIS
place, I dare say!"

However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes to
dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home,
as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. Mr.
Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and
conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner. He soon
returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home and that he
has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the back premises,
sleeping "like one o'clock."

"Then I'll pay," says Mr. Guppy, "and we'll go and see him. Small,
what will it be?"

Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one
hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "Four veals and
hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer
cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six
breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and four
half-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is
eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight and six in
half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out!"

Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweed
dismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take a
little admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and to
read the daily papers, which are so very large in proportion to
himself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the Times to run his
eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the night and to
have disappeared under the bedclothes.

Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, where
they find Krook still sleeping like one o'clock, that is to say,
breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quite
insensible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. On the
table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin-bottle
and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor that
even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut
and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk.

"Hold up here!" says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the old
man another shake. "Mr. Krook! Halloa, sir!"

But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with a
spirituous heat smouldering in it. "Did you ever see such a stupor as
he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says Mr. Guppy.

"If this is his regular sleep," returns Jobling, rather alarmed,
"it'll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking."

"It's always more like a fit than a nap," says Mr. Guppy, shaking him
again. "Halloa, your lordship! Why, he might be robbed fifty times
over! Open your eyes!"

After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his
visitors or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg on another,
and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched
lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible as before.

"He is alive, at any rate," says Mr. Guppy. "How are you, my Lord
Chancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter
of business."

The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without the least
consciousness. After some minutes he makes an attempt to rise. They
help him up, and he staggers against the wall and stares at them.

"How do you do, Mr. Krook?" says Mr. Guppy in some discomfiture. "How
do you do, sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hope you are
pretty well?"

The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, or at
nothing, feebly swings himself round and comes with his face against
the wall. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it,
and then staggers down the shop to the front door. The air, the
movement in the court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these
things recovers him. He comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur
cap on his head and looking keenly at them.

"Your servant, gentlemen; I've been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake,
odd times."

"Rather so, indeed, sir," responds Mr. Guppy.

"What? You've been a-trying to do it, have you?" says the suspicious
Krook.

"Only a little," Mr. Guppy explains.

The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up,
examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down.

"I say!" he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. "Somebody's been
making free here!"

"I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. "Would you allow me to
get it filled for you?"

"Yes, certainly I would!" cries Krook in high glee. "Certainly I
would! Don't mention it! Get it filled next door--Sol's Arms--the
Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know ME!"

He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy that that gentleman,
with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust and hurries out and
hurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man receives it in
his arms like a beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly.

"But, I say," he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tasting
it, "this ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This is
eighteenpenny!"

"I thought you might like that better," says Mr. Guppy.

"You're a nobleman, sir," returns Krook with another taste, and his
hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. "You're a baron
of the land."

Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy presents his
friend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle and states the object
of their visit. Krook, with his bottle under his arm (he never gets
beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time
to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve of him. "You'd
like to see the room, young man?" he says. "Ah! It's a good room!
Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. Hi! It's
worth twice the rent, letting alone my company when you want it and
such a cat to keep the mice away."

Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them
upstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be and
also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up
from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded--for
the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated as he is
with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and other famous claims
on his professional consideration--and it is agreed that Mr. Weevle
shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy then
repair to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, where the personal
introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effected and (more
important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby are secured. They
then report progress to the eminent Smallweed, waiting at the office
in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate, Mr. Guppy explaining
that he would terminate his little entertainment by standing treat at
the play but that there are chords in the human mind which would
render it a hollow mockery.

On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appears at
Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself
in his new lodging, where the two eyes in the shutters stare at him
in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. On the following day
Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow,
borrows a needle and thread of Miss Flite and a hammer of his
landlord and goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains, and
knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two teacups,
milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like
a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.

But what Mr. Weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (next
after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only
whiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection of
copper-plate impressions from that truly national work The Divinities
of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, representing ladies
of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined
with capital, is capable of producing. With these magnificent
portraits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion
among the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the
Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears every variety of fancy dress,
plays every variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of
dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every
variety of flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing.

But fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's, weakness. To
borrow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening and read
about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting
across the fashionable sky in every direction is unspeakable
consolation to him. To know what member of what brilliant and
distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished
feat of joining it yesterday or contemplates the no less brilliant
and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow gives him a thrill of
joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty is
about, and means to be about, and what Galaxy marriages are on the
tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are in circulation, is to become
acquainted with the most glorious destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle
reverts from this intelligence to the Galaxy portraits implicated,
and seems to know the originals, and to be known of them.

For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devices
as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as to
carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of
evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he is not
visited by Mr. Guppy or by a small light in his likeness quenched in
a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room--where he has inherited the
deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink--and talks to
Krook or is "very free," as they call it in the court, commendingly,
with any one disposed for conversation. Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who
leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to Mrs. Perkins:
firstly, that if her Johnny was to have whiskers, she could wish 'em
to be identically like that young man's; and secondly, "Mark my
words, Mrs. Perkins, ma'am, and don't you be surprised, Lord bless
you, if that young man comes in at last for old Krook's money!"




CHAPTER XXI

The Smallweed Family


In a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though one
of its rising grounds bears the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin
Smallweed, christened Bartholomew and known on the domestic hearth as
Bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and
its contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little narrow street,
always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like
a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree
whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the Smallweed smack of
youth.

There has been only one child in the Smallweed family for several
generations. Little old men and women there have been, but no child,
until Mr. Smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her
intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. With
such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory,
understanding, and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall
asleep over the fire and into it, Mr. Smallweed's grandmother has
undoubtedly brightened the family.

Mr. Smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. He is in a
helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper,
limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as it ever held,
the first four rules of arithmetic and a certain small collection of
the hardest facts. In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and
other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used
to be. Everything that Mr. Smallweed's grandfather ever put away in
his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. In all his life
he has never bred a single butterfly.

The father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of
Mount Pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting
species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retired
into holes until they were entrapped. The name of this old pagan's
god was Compound Interest. He lived for it, married it, died of it.
Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all
the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke
something--something necessary to his existence, therefore it
couldn't have been his heart--and made an end of his career. As his
character was not good, and he had been bred at a charity school in a
complete course, according to question and answer, of those ancient
people the Amorites and Hittites, he was frequently quoted as an
example of the failure of education.

His spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached of
"going out" early in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharp
scrivener's office at twelve years old. There the young gentleman
improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and
developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the
discounting profession. Going out early in life and marrying late, as
his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and
anxious-minded son, who in his turn, going out early in life and
marrying late, became the father of Bartholomew and Judith Smallweed,
twins. During the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this
family tree, the house of Smallweed, always early to go out and late
to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has
discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books,
fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities
whatsoever. Hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born
to it and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced
have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something
depressing on their minds.

At the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below
the level of the street--a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only
ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest
of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no
bad allegorical representation of Grandfather Smallweed's
mind--seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side
of the fire-place, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while
away the rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the
pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed's usual occupation
to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a
sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when
it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed's seat and guarded
by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain
property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion with
which he is always provided in order that he may have something to
throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she
makes an allusion to money--a subject on which he is particularly
sensitive.

"And where's Bart?" Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart's
twin sister.

"He an't come in yet," says Judy.

"It's his tea-time, isn't it?"

"No."

"How much do you mean to say it wants then?"

"Ten minutes."

"Hey?"

"Ten minutes." (Loud on the part of Judy.)

"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Ten minutes."

Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at
the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money and
screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "Ten
ten-pound notes!"

Grandfather Smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her.

"Drat you, be quiet!" says the good old man.

The effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. It not only doubles
up Mrs. Smallweed's head against the side of her porter's chair and
causes her to present, when extricated by her granddaughter, a highly
unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on Mr.
Smallweed himself, whom it throws back into HIS porter's chair like a
broken puppet. The excellent old gentleman being at these times a
mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not
present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two
operations at the hands of his granddaughter of being shaken up like
a great bottle and poked and punched like a great bolster. Some
indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and
the sharer of his life's evening again fronting one another in their
two porter's chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on
their post by the Black Serjeant, Death.

Judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. She is so
indubitably sister to Mr. Smallweed the younger that the two kneaded
into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions,
while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness
to the monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might
walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without
exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. Under existing
circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of
brown stuff.

Judy never owned a doll, never heard of Cinderella, never played at
any game. She once or twice fell into children's company when she was
about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with Judy, and
Judy couldn't get on with them. She seemed like an animal of another
species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. It is
very doubtful whether Judy knows how to laugh. She has so rarely seen
the thing done that the probabilities are strong the other way. Of
anything like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception.
If she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her way,
modelling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modelled
all its other expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. Such is
Judy.

And her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. He knows no
more of Jack the Giant Killer or of Sinbad the Sailor than he knows
of the people in the stars. He could as soon play at leap-frog or at
cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. But he is so much
the better off than his sister that on his narrow world of fact an
opening has dawned into such broader regions as lie within the ken of
Mr. Guppy. Hence his admiration and his emulation of that shining
enchanter.

Judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron
tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. The bread she
puts on in an iron basket, and the butter (and not much of it) in a
small pewter plate. Grandfather Smallweed looks hard after the tea as
it is served out and asks Judy where the girl is.

"Charley, do you mean?" says Judy.

"Hey?" from Grandfather Smallweed.

"Charley, do you mean?"

This touches a spring in Grandmother Smallweed, who, chuckling as
usual at the trivets, cries, "Over the water! Charley over the water,
Charley over the water, over the water to Charley, Charley over the
water, over the water to Charley!" and becomes quite energetic about
it. Grandfather looks at the cushion but has not sufficiently
recovered his late exertion.

"Ha!" he says when there is silence. "If that's her name. She eats a
deal. It would be better to allow her for her keep."

Judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head and purses up her
mouth into no without saying it.

"No?" returns the old man. "Why not?"

"She'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less," says Judy.

"Sure?"

Judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning and calls, as she scrapes
the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste and cuts
it into slices, "You, Charley, where are you?" Timidly obedient to
the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with
her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of
them, appears, and curtsys.

"What work are you about now?" says Judy, making an ancient snap at
her like a very sharp old beldame.

"I'm a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss," replies Charley.

"Mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. Shirking won't do for
me. Make haste! Go along!" cries Judy with a stamp upon the ground.
"You girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half."

On this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the
butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother,
looking in at the window. For whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens
the street-door.

"Aye, aye, Bart!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Here you are, hey?"

"Here I am," says Bart.

"Been along with your friend again, Bart?"

Small nods.

"Dining at his expense, Bart?"

Small nods again.

"That's right. Live at his expense as much as you can, and take
warning by his foolish example. That's the use of such a friend. The
only use you can put him to," says the venerable sage.

His grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he
might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight
wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. The four old faces
then hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, Mrs.
Smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the
trivets and Mr. Smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a
large black draught.

"Yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of
wisdom. "That's such advice as your father would have given you,
Bart. You never saw your father. More's the pity. He was my true
son." Whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly
pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear.

"He was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread
and butter on his knee, "a good accountant, and died fifteen years
ago."

Mrs. Smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with
"Fifteen hundred pound. Fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen
hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!" Her
worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately
discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her
chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. His appearance, after
visiting Mrs. Smallweed with one of these admonitions, is
particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing, firstly because
the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and
gives him an air of goblin rakishness, secondly because he mutters
violent imprecations against Mrs. Smallweed, and thirdly because the
contrast between those powerful expressions and his powerless figure
is suggestive of a baleful old malignant who would be very wicked if
he could. All this, however, is so common in the Smallweed family
circle that it produces no impression. The old gentleman is merely
shaken and has his internal feathers beaten up, the cushion is
restored to its usual place beside him, and the old lady, perhaps
with her cap adjusted and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again,
ready to be bowled down like a ninepin.

Some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentleman is
sufficiently cool to resume his discourse, and even then he mixes it
up with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious
partner of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth
but the trivets. As thus: "If your father, Bart, had lived longer, he
might have been worth a deal of money--you brimstone chatterer!--but
just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been
making the foundations for, through many a year--you jade of a
magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean!--he took ill and
died of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of
business care--I should like to throw a cat at you instead of a
cushion, and I will too if you make such a confounded fool of
yourself!--and your mother, who was a prudent woman as dry as a chip,
just dwindled away like touchwood after you and Judy were born--you
are an old pig. You are a brimstone pig. You're a head of swine!"

Judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect
in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of cups
and saucers and from the bottom of the tea-pot for the little
charwoman's evening meal. In like manner she gets together, in the
iron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels of
loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence.

"But your father and me were partners, Bart," says the old gentleman,
"and when I am gone, you and Judy will have all there is. It's rare
for you both that you went out early in life--Judy to the flower
business, and you to the law. You won't want to spend it. You'll get
your living without it, and put more to it. When I am gone, Judy will
go back to the flower business and you'll still stick to the law."

One might infer from Judy's appearance that her business rather lay
with the thorns than the flowers, but she has in her time been
apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. A
close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her
brother's, when their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone,
some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some
resentful opinion that it is time he went.

"Now, if everybody has done," says Judy, completing her preparations,
"I'll have that girl in to her tea. She would never leave off if she
took it by herself in the kitchen."

Charley is accordingly introduced, and under a heavy fire of eyes,
sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and butter. In
the active superintendence of this young person, Judy Smallweed
appears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from the
remotest periods. Her systematic manner of flying at her and pouncing
on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, is wonderful,
evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving seldom reached
by the oldest practitioners.

"Now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries Judy, shaking
her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance
which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, "but take your
victuals and get back to your work."

"Yes, miss," says Charley.

"Don't say yes," returns Miss Smallweed, "for I know what you girls
are. Do it without saying it, and then I may begin to believe you."

Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission and so
disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her not to
gormandize, which "in you girls," she observes, is disgusting.
Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the
general subject of girls but for a knock at the door.

"See who it is, and don't chew when you open it!" cries Judy.

The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, Miss
Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the
bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups
into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considers
the eating and drinking terminated.

"Now! Who is it, and what's wanted?" says the snappish Judy.

It is one Mr. George, it appears. Without other announcement or
ceremony, Mr. George walks in.

"Whew!" says Mr. George. "You are hot here. Always a fire, eh? Well!
Perhaps you do right to get used to one." Mr. George makes the latter
remark to himself as he nods to Grandfather Smallweed.

"Ho! It's you!" cries the old gentleman. "How de do? How de do?"

"Middling," replies Mr. George, taking a chair. "Your granddaughter I
have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss."

"This is my grandson," says Grandfather Smallweed. "You ha'n't seen
him before. He is in the law and not much at home."

"My service to him, too! He is like his sister. He is very like his
sister. He is devilish like his sister," says Mr. George, laying a
great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective.

"And how does the world use you, Mr. George?" Grandfather Smallweed
inquires, slowly rubbing his legs.

"Pretty much as usual. Like a football."

He is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking, with
crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. His sinewy and
powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to
a pretty rough life. What is curious about him is that he sits
forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowing space
for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside.
His step too is measured and heavy and would go well with a weighty
clash and jingle of spurs. He is close-shaved now, but his mouth is
set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great
moustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his
broad brown hand upon it is to the same effect. Altogether one might
guess Mr. George to have been a trooper once upon a time.

A special contrast Mr. George makes to the Smallweed family. Trooper
was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. It is a
broadsword to an oyster-knife. His developed figure and their stunted
forms, his large manner filling any amount of room and their little
narrow pinched ways, his sounding voice and their sharp spare tones,
are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. As he sits in the
middle of the grim parlour, leaning a little forward, with his hands
upon his thighs and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he
remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family
and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all.

"Do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?" he asks of Grandfather
Smallweed after looking round the room.

"Why, it's partly a habit, Mr. George, and--yes--it partly helps the
circulation," he replies.

"The cir-cu-la-tion!" repeats Mr. George, folding his arms upon his
chest and seeming to become two sizes larger. "Not much of that, I
should think."

"Truly I'm old, Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed. "But I can
carry my years. I'm older than HER," nodding at his wife, "and see
what she is? You're a brimstone chatterer!" with a sudden revival of
his late hostility.

"Unlucky old soul!" says Mr. George, turning his head in that
direction. "Don't scold the old lady. Look at her here, with her poor
cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. Hold up,
ma'am. That's better. There we are! Think of your mother, Mr.
Smallweed," says Mr. George, coming back to his seat from assisting
her, "if your wife an't enough."

"I suppose you were an excellent son, Mr. George?" the old man hints
with a leer.

The colour of Mr. George's face rather deepens as he replies, "Why
no. I wasn't."

"I am astonished at it."

"So am I. I ought to have been a good son, and I think I meant to
have been one. But I wasn't. I was a thundering bad son, that's the
long and the short of it, and never was a credit to anybody."

"Surprising!" cries the old man.

"However," Mr. George resumes, "the less said about it, the better
now. Come! You know the agreement. Always a pipe out of the two
months' interest! (Bosh! It's all correct. You needn't be afraid to
order the pipe. Here's the new bill, and here's the two months'
interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it
together in my business.)"

Mr. George sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and the
parlour while Grandfather Smallweed is assisted by Judy to two black
leathern cases out of a locked bureau, in one of which he secures the
document he has just received, and from the other takes another
similar document which he hands to Mr. George, who twists it up for a
pipelight. As the old man inspects, through his glasses, every
up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents before he releases them
from their leathern prison, and as he counts the money three times
over and requires Judy to say every word she utters at least twice,
and is as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible to
be, this business is a long time in progress. When it is quite
concluded, and not before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and
fingers from it and answers Mr. George's last remark by saying,
"Afraid to order the pipe? We are not so mercenary as that, sir.
Judy, see directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy-and-water
for Mr. George."

The sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them all
this time except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern
cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but
leaving him to the old man as two young cubs might leave a traveller
to the parental bear.

"And there you sit, I suppose, all the day long, eh?" says Mr. George
with folded arms.

"Just so, just so," the old man nods.

"And don't you occupy yourself at all?"

"I watch the fire--and the boiling and the roasting--"

"When there is any," says Mr. George with great expression.

"Just so. When there is any."

"Don't you read or get read to?"

The old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. "No, no. We have
never been readers in our family. It don't pay. Stuff. Idleness.
Folly. No, no!"

"There's not much to choose between your two states," says the
visitor in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing as he looks
from him to the old woman and back again. "I say!" in a louder voice.

"I hear you."

"You'll sell me up at last, I suppose, when I am a day in arrear."

"My dear friend!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, stretching out both
hands to embrace him. "Never! Never, my dear friend! But my friend in
the city that I got to lend you the money--HE might!"

"Oh! You can't answer for him?" says Mr. George, finishing the
inquiry in his lower key with the words "You lying old rascal!"

"My dear friend, he is not to be depended on. I wouldn't trust him.
He will have his bond, my dear friend."

"Devil doubt him," says Mr. George. Charley appearing with a
tray, on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the
brandy-and-water, he asks her, "How do you come here! You haven't got
the family face."

"I goes out to work, sir," returns Charley.

The trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off,
with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head.
"You give the house almost a wholesome look. It wants a bit of youth
as much as it wants fresh air." Then he dismisses her, lights his
pipe, and drinks to Mr. Smallweed's friend in the city--the one
solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman's imagination.

"So you think he might be hard upon me, eh?"

"I think he might--I am afraid he would. I have known him do it,"
says Grandfather Smallweed incautiously, "twenty times."

Incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing
over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers "Twenty
thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty
guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty--" and is then cut
short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this singular
experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from her face as it
crushes her in the usual manner.

"You're a brimstone idiot. You're a scorpion--a brimstone scorpion!
You're a sweltering toad. You're a chattering clattering broomstick
witch that ought to be burnt!" gasps the old man, prostrate in his
chair. "My dear friend, will you shake me up a little?"

Mr. George, who has been looking first at one of them and then at the
other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by
the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his
chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or
no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him and shake him
into his grave. Resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently
enough to make his head roll like a harlequin's, he puts him smartly
down in his chair again and adjusts his skull-cap with such a rub
that the old man winks with both eyes for a minute afterwards.

"O Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed. "That'll do. Thank you, my dear
friend, that'll do. Oh, dear me, I'm out of breath. O Lord!" And Mr.
Smallweed says it not without evident apprehensions of his dear
friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever.

The alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair and
falls to smoking in long puffs, consoling itself with the
philosophical reflection, "The name of your friend in the city begins
with a D, comrade, and you're about right respecting the bond."

"Did you speak, Mr. George?" inquires the old man.

The trooper shakes his head, and leaning forward with his right elbow
on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while his
other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a
martial manner, continues to smoke. Meanwhile he looks at Mr.
Smallweed with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud of
smoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly.

"I take it," he says, making just as much and as little change in his
position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips with a
round, full action, "that I am the only man alive (or dead either)
that gets the value of a pipe out of YOU?"

"Well," returns the old man, "it's true that I don't see company, Mr.
George, and that I don't treat. I can't afford to it. But as you, in
your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition--"

"Why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. It was a
fancy to get it out of you. To have something in for my money."

"Ha! You're prudent, prudent, sir!" cries Grandfather Smallweed,
rubbing his legs.

"Very. I always was." Puff. "It's a sure sign of my prudence that I
ever found the way here." Puff. "Also, that I am what I am." Puff. "I
am well known to be prudent," says Mr. George, composedly smoking. "I
rose in life that way."

"Don't be down-hearted, sir. You may rise yet."

Mr. George laughs and drinks.

"Ha'n't you no relations, now," asks Grandfather Smallweed with a
twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little principal or who
would lend you a good name or two that I could persuade my friend in
the city to make you a further advance upon? Two good names would be
sufficient for my friend in the city. Ha'n't you no such relations,
Mr. George?"

Mr. George, still composedly smoking, replies, "If I had, I shouldn't
trouble them. I have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day.
It MAY be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted
the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he
never was a credit to and live upon them, but it's not my sort. The
best kind of amends then for having gone away is to keep away, in my
opinion."

"But natural affection, Mr. George," hints Grandfather Smallweed.

"For two good names, hey?" says Mr. George, shaking his head and
still composedly smoking. "No. That's not my sort either."

Grandfather Smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair
since his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with a voice
in it calling for Judy. That houri, appearing, shakes him up in the
usual manner and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him.
For he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating
his late attentions.

"Ha!" he observes when he is in trim again. "If you could have traced
out the captain, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you. If
when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisement in the
newspapers--when I say 'our,' I'm alluding to the advertisements of
my friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital
in the same way, and are so friendly towards me as sometimes to give
me a lift with my little pittance--if at that time you could have
helped us, Mr. George, it would have been the making of you."

"I was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says Mr. George,
smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the entrance of
Judy he has been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of
the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by
her grandfather's chair, "but on the whole, I am glad I wasn't now."

"Why, Mr. George? In the name of--of brimstone, why?" says
Grandfather Smallweed with a plain appearance of exasperation.
(Brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on Mrs. Smallweed
in her slumber.)

"For two reasons, comrade."

"And what two reasons, Mr. George? In the name of the--"

"Of our friend in the city?" suggests Mr. George, composedly
drinking.

"Aye, if you like. What two reasons?"

"In the first place," returns Mr. George, but still looking at Judy
as if she being so old and so like her grandfather it is indifferent
which of the two he addresses, "you gentlemen took me in. You
advertised that Mr. Hawdon (Captain Hawdon, if you hold to the saying
'Once a captain, always a captain') was to hear of something to his
advantage."

"Well?" returns the old man shrilly and sharply.

"Well!" says Mr. George, smoking on. "It wouldn't have been much to
his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and
judgment trade of London."

"How do you know that? Some of his rich relations might have paid his
debts or compounded for 'em. Besides, he had taken US in. He owed us
immense sums all round. I would sooner have strangled him than had no
return. If I sit here thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding
up his impotent ten fingers, "I want to strangle him now." And in a
sudden access of fury, he throws the cushion at the unoffending Mrs.
Smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair.

"I don't need to be told," returns the trooper, taking his pipe from
his lips for a moment and carrying his eyes back from following the
progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl which is burning low, "that
he carried on heavily and went to ruin. I have been at his right hand
many a day when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. I was with him
when he was sick and well, rich and poor. I laid this hand upon him
after he had run through everything and broken down everything
beneath him--when he held a pistol to his head."

"I wish he had let it off," says the benevolent old man, "and blown
his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!"

"That would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper coolly;
"any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone
by, and I am glad I never found him, when he was neither, to lead to
a result so much to his advantage. That's reason number one."

"I hope number two's as good?" snarls the old man.

"Why, no. It's more of a selfish reason. If I had found him, I must
have gone to the other world to look. He was there."

"How do you know he was there?"

"He wasn't here."

"How do you know he wasn't here?"

"Don't lose your temper as well as your money," says Mr. George,
calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "He was drowned long
before. I am convinced of it. He went over a ship's side. Whether
intentionally or accidentally, I don't know. Perhaps your friend in
the city does. Do you know what that tune is, Mr. Smallweed?" he adds
after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the
empty pipe.

"Tune!" replied the old man. "No. We never have tunes here."

"That's the Dead March in Saul. They bury soldiers to it,
so it's the natural end of the subject. Now, if your pretty
granddaughter--excuse me, miss--will condescend to take care of this
pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one next time. Good
evening, Mr. Smallweed!"

"My dear friend!" the old man gives him both his hands.

"So you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if I fall
in a payment?" says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant.

"My dear friend, I am afraid he will," returns the old man, looking
up at him like a pygmy.

Mr. George laughs, and with a glance at Mr. Smallweed and a parting
salutation to the scornful Judy, strides out of the parlour, clashing
imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes.

"You're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideous
grimace at the door as he shuts it. "But I'll lime you, you dog, I'll
lime you!"

After this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting
regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to
it, and again he and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours, two
unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the Black Serjeant.

While the twain are faithful to their post, Mr. George strides
through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-enough
face. It is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawing in. He
stops hard by Waterloo Bridge and reads a playbill, decides to go to
Astley's Theatre. Being there, is much delighted with the horses and
the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical eye;
disapproves of the combats as giving evidences of unskilful
swordsmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. In the last
scene, when the Emperor of Tartary gets up into a cart and
condescends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them with the
Union Jack, his eyelashes are moistened with emotion.

The theatre over, Mr. George comes across the water again and makes
his way to that curious region lying about the Haymarket and
Leicester Square which is a centre of attraction to indifferent
foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts,
fighting-men, swordsmen, footguards, old china, gaming-houses,
exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of
sight. Penetrating to the heart of this region, he arrives by a court
and a long whitewashed passage at a great brick building composed of
bare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights, on the front of
which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted GEORGE'S
SHOOTING GALLERY, &c.

Into George's Shooting Gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there are
gaslights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for
rifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances,
and all necessaries for the British art of boxing. None of these
sports or exercises being pursued in George's Shooting Gallery
to-night, which is so devoid of company that a little grotesque man
with a large head has it all to himself and lies asleep upon the
floor.

The little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-baize
apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder and
begrimed with the loading of guns. As he lies in the light before a
glaring white target, the black upon him shines again. Not far off is
the strong, rough, primitive table with a vice upon it at which he
has been working. He is a little man with a face all crushed
together, who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance
that one of his cheeks presents, to have been blown up, in the way of
business, at some odd time or times.

"Phil!" says the trooper in a quiet voice.

"All right!" cries Phil, scrambling to his feet.

"Anything been doing?"

"Flat as ever so much swipes," says Phil. "Five dozen rifle and a
dozen pistol. As to aim!" Phil gives a howl at the recollection.

"Shut up shop, Phil!"

As Phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is
lame, though able to move very quickly. On the speckled side of his
face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black
one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather
sinister appearance. Everything seems to have happened to his hands
that could possibly take place consistently with the retention of all
the fingers, for they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over.
He appears to be very strong and lifts heavy benches about as if he
had no idea what weight was. He has a curious way of limping round
the gallery with his shoulder against the wall and tacking off at
objects he wants to lay hold of instead of going straight to them,
which has left a smear all round the four walls, conventionally
called "Phil's mark."

This custodian of George's Gallery in George's absence concludes his
proceedings, when he has locked the great doors and turned out all
the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out from
a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. These being
drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed
and Phil makes his.

"Phil!" says the master, walking towards him without his coat and
waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces. "You
were found in a doorway, weren't you?"

"Gutter," says Phil. "Watchman tumbled over me."

"Then vagabondizing came natural to YOU from the beginning."

"As nat'ral as possible," says Phil.

"Good night!"

"Good night, guv'ner."

Phil cannot even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to
shoulder round two sides of the gallery and then tack off at his
mattress. The trooper, after taking a turn or two in the
rifle-distance and looking up at the moon now shining through the
skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route and goes to
bed too.




CHAPTER XXII

Mr. Bucket


Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though the
evening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open, and
the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not be desirable
characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet or January
with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultry long
vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheeks like
peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for
calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool
to-night.

Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more
has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thick
everywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its way
takes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as
much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law--or Mr. Tulkinghorn, one
of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, in the
eyes of the laity.

In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which
his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth,
animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of
the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained
man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He
has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields,
which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as
he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken
brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the
echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and heralded by a remote
reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back encircled by an
earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant
nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to
find itself so famous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of
southern grapes.

Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys
his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and
seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever,
he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at
that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with
darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in
town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his
family history, and his money, and his will--all a mystery to every
one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and
a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was
seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving (as it is
supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold
watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked leisurely
home to the Temple and hanged himself.

But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual
length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and
uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining
man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him
fill his glass.

"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story
again."

"If you please, sir."

"You told me when you were so good as to step round here last
night--"

"For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but
I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person,
and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"

Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to
admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.
Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must ask
you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure."

"Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, that you
put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to
your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's not a matter of
such importance that it requires to be mentioned."

"Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--not
to put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. She's inquisitive. Poor
little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have
her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it--I should
say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it
concerns her or not--especially not. My little woman has a very
active mind, sir."

Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his
hand, "Dear me, very fine wine indeed!"

"Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?" says Mr.
Tulkinghorn. "And to-night too?"

"Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in--not
to put too fine a point on it--in a pious state, or in what she
considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name
they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a
great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not
quite favourable to his style myself. That's neither here nor there.
My little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to
step round in a quiet manner."

Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby."

"Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his cough of
deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!"

"It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty years
old."

"Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure. It
might be--any age almost." After rendering this general tribute to
the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his
hand for drinking anything so precious.

"Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks Mr.
Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty
smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.

"With pleasure, sir."

Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer
repeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. On
coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks
off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any other gentleman
present!"

Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face
between himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table, a
person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he
himself came in and has not since entered by the door or by either of
the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges have not
creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet this third
person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in
his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener.
He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of
about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr. Snagsby as if he
were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about
him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing.

"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way.
"This is only Mr. Bucket."

"Oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that
he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.

"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I have
half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very
intelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?"

"It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on, and
he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don't object to
go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, we can have him
here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can do it without Mr.
Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way."

"Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer in
explanation.

"Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in his
clump of hair to stand on end.

"And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the
place in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged to you
if you will do so."

In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down
to the bottom of his mind.

"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "You won't do
that. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only
bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and
he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be a good
job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent
away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; you an't going to
do that."

"Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. And
reassured, "Since that's the case--"

"Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking him aside
by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a
confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, you know, and a man of
business, and a man of sense. That's what YOU are."

"I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns
the stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--"

"That's what YOU are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an't necessary
to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a
business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his
senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in
your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man like you that
it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet.
Don't you see? Quiet!"

"Certainly, certainly," returns the other.

"I don't mind telling YOU," says Bucket with an engaging appearance
of frankness, "that as far as I can understand it, there seems to be
a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little
property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games
respecting that property, don't you see?"

"Oh!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.

"Now, what YOU want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on
the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that every
person should have their rights according to justice. That's what YOU
want."

"To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.

"On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call
it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used
to call it."

"Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby.

"You're right!" returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite
affectionately. "--On account of which, and at the same time to
oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in
confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quiet ever
afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about your
intentions, if I understand you?"

"You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby.

"Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate
with it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, I am."

They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his
unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the
streets.

"You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of
Gridley, do you?" says Bucket in friendly converse as they descend
the stairs.

"No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know anybody of that
name. Why?"

"Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only having allowed his temper to
get a little the better of him and having been threatening some
respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have
got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense should do."

As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, that however
quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some
undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is
going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed
purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply,
at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass a
police-constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both the
constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come
towards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and
to gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behind
some under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair
twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almost without
glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which the young man,
looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most part Mr. Bucket
notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great
mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch, composed of not
much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt.

When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for a
moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the
constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own
particular bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors, Mr.
Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained,
unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads
are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smells and sights that he,
who has lived in London all his life, can scarce believe his senses.
Branching from this street and its heaps of ruins are other streets
and courts so infamous that Mr. Snagsby sickens in body and mind and
feels as if he were going every moment deeper down into the infernal
gulf.

"Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabby
palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd. "Here's
the fever coming up the street!"

As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of
attraction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream of horrible
faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind walls, and
with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth
flits about them until they leave the place.

"Are those the fever-houses, Darby?" Mr. Bucket coolly asks as he
turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins.

Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, for
months and months, the people "have been down by dozens" and have
been carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucket
observing to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a little
poorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe
the dreadful air.

There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As few
people are known in Tom-all-Alone's by any Christian sign, there is
much reference to Mr. Snagsby whether he means Carrots, or the
Colonel, or Gallows, or Young Chisel, or Terrier Tip, or Lanky, or
the Brick. Mr. Snagsby describes over and over again. There are
conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. Some
think it must be Carrots, some say the Brick. The Colonel is
produced, but is not at all near the thing. Whenever Mr. Snagsby and
his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its
squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to Mr. Bucket. Whenever
they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it fades away and flits
about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behind the walls, as
before.

At last there is a lair found out where Toughy, or the Tough Subject,
lays him down at night; and it is thought that the Tough Subject may
be Jo. Comparison of notes between Mr. Snagsby and the proprietress
of the house--a drunken face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring
out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is her
private apartment--leads to the establishment of this conclusion.
Toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottle of stuff for a sick
woman but will be here anon.

"And who have we got here to-night?" says Mr. Bucket, opening another
door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "Two drunken men, eh? And
two women? The men are sound enough," turning back each sleeper's arm
from his face to look at him. "Are these your good men, my dears?"

"Yes, sir," returns one of the women. "They are our husbands."

"Brickmakers, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"What are you doing here? You don't belong to London."

"No, sir. We belong to Hertfordshire."

"Whereabouts in Hertfordshire?"

"Saint Albans."

"Come up on the tramp?"

"We walked up yesterday. There's no work down with us at present, but
we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, I expect."

"That's not the way to do much good," says Mr. Bucket, turning his
head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground.

"It an't indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. "Jenny and me knows
it full well."

The room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low
that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the
blackened ceiling if he stood upright. It is offensive to every
sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted
air. There are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of
table. The men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit
by the candle. Lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a
very young child.

"Why, what age do you call that little creature?" says Bucket. "It
looks as if it was born yesterday." He is not at all rough about it;
and as he turns his light gently on the infant, Mr. Snagsby is
strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he
has seen in pictures.

"He is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman.

"Is he your child?"

"Mine."

The other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops
down again and kisses it as it lies asleep.

"You seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," says Mr.
Bucket.

"I was the mother of one like it, master, and it died."

"Ah, Jenny, Jenny!" says the other woman to her. "Better so. Much
better to think of dead than alive, Jenny! Much better!"

"Why, you an't such an unnatural woman, I hope," returns Bucket
sternly, "as to wish your own child dead?"

"God knows you are right, master," she returns. "I am not. I'd stand
between it and death with my own life if I could, as true as any
pretty lady."

"Then don't talk in that wrong manner," says Mr. Bucket, mollified
again. "Why do you do it?"

"It's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her eyes
filling with tears, "when I look down at the child lying so. If it
was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, I should take on so. I
know that very well. I was with Jenny when she lost hers--warn't I,
Jenny?--and I know how she grieved. But look around you at this
place. Look at them," glancing at the sleepers on the ground. "Look
at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a good turn.
Think of the children that your business lays with often and often,
and that YOU see grow up!"

"Well, well," says Mr. Bucket, "you train him respectable, and he'll
be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know."

"I mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "But I have been
a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with the ague, of
all the many things that'll come in his way. My master will be
against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his
home, and perhaps to stray wild. If I work for him ever so much, and
ever so hard, there's no one to help me; and if he should be turned
bad 'spite of all I could do, and the time should come when I should
sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an't it likely I
should think of him as he lies in my lap now and wish he had died as
Jenny's child died!"

"There, there!" says Jenny. "Liz, you're tired and ill. Let me take
him."

In doing so, she displaces the mother's dress, but quickly readjusts
it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has been lying.

"It's my dead child," says Jenny, walking up and down as she nurses,
"that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my dead child that
makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken
away from her now. While she thinks that, I think what fortune would
I give to have my darling back. But we mean the same thing, if we
knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!"

As Mr. Snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, a
step is heard without. Mr. Bucket throws his light into the doorway
and says to Mr. Snagsby, "Now, what do you say to Toughy? Will HE
do?"

"That's Jo," says Mr. Snagsby.

Jo stands amazed in the disk of light, like a ragged figure in a
magic-lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against the
law in not having moved on far enough. Mr. Snagsby, however, giving
him the consolatory assurance, "It's only a job you will be paid for,
Jo," he recovers; and on being taken outside by Mr. Bucket for a
little private confabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though
out of breath.

"I have squared it with the lad," says Mr. Bucket, returning, "and
it's all right. Now, Mr. Snagsby, we're ready for you."

First, Jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing over
the physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconic
verbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." Secondly, Mr.
Snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usual panacea for
an immense variety of afflictions. Thirdly, Mr. Bucket has to take Jo
by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him on before him,
without which observance neither the Tough Subject nor any other
Subject could be professionally conducted to Lincoln's Inn Fields.
These arrangements completed, they give the women good night and come
out once more into black and foul Tom-all-Alone's.

By the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they
gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting, and whistling, and
skulking about them until they come to the verge, where restoration
of the bull's-eyes is made to Darby. Here the crowd, like a concourse
of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and is seen no more.
Through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to
Mr. Snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride until they come to Mr.
Tulkinghorn's gate.

As they ascend the dim stairs (Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers being on
the first floor), Mr. Bucket mentions that he has the key of the
outer door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. For a man
so expert in most things of that kind, Bucket takes time to open the
door and makes some noise too. It may be that he sounds a note of
preparation.

Howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning,
and so into Mr. Tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drank his
old wine to-night. He is not there, but his two old-fashioned
candlesticks are, and the room is tolerably light.

Mr. Bucket, still having his professional hold of Jo and appearing to
Mr. Snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little
way into this room, when Jo starts and stops.

"What's the matter?" says Bucket in a whisper.

"There she is!" cries Jo.

"Who!"

"The lady!"

A female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room,
where the light falls upon it. It is quite still and silent. The
front of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice of their
entrance and remains like a statue.

"Now, tell me," says Bucket aloud, "how you know that to be the
lady."

"I know the wale," replies Jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and the
gownd."

"Be quite sure of what you say, Tough," returns Bucket, narrowly
observant of him. "Look again."

"I am a-looking as hard as ever I can look," says Jo with starting
eyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd."

"What about those rings you told me of?" asks Bucket.

"A-sparkling all over here," says Jo, rubbing the fingers of his left
hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes from the
figure.

The figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand.

"Now, what do you say to that?" asks Bucket.

Jo shakes his head. "Not rings a bit like them. Not a hand like
that."

"What are you talking of?" says Bucket, evidently pleased though, and
well pleased too.

"Hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller,"
returns Jo.

"Why, you'll tell me I'm my own mother next," says Mr. Bucket. "Do
you recollect the lady's voice?"

"I think I does," says Jo.

The figure speaks. "Was it at all like this? I will speak as long as
you like if you are not sure. Was it this voice, or at all like this
voice?"

Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket. "Not a bit!"

"Then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did you
say it was the lady for?"

"Cos," says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken
in his certainty, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the
gownd. It is her and it an't her. It an't her hand, nor yet her
rings, nor yet her woice. But that there's the wale, the bonnet, and
the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and it's
her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it."

"Well!" says Mr. Bucket slightly, "we haven't got much good out of
YOU. But, however, here's five shillings for you. Take care how you
spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." Bucket stealthily
tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters--which is
a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of
skill--and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's hand and
takes him out to the door, leaving Mr. Snagsby, not by any means
comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the
veiled figure. But on Mr. Tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the
veil is raised and a sufficiently good-looking Frenchwoman is
revealed, though her expression is something of the intensest.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with his
usual equanimity. "I will give you no further trouble about this
little wager."

"You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at
present placed?" says mademoiselle.

"Certainly, certainly!"

"And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished
recommendation?"

"By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense."

"A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful."

"It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle."

"Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir."

"Good night."

Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr.
Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the
ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not
without gallantry.

"Well, Bucket?" quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.

"It's all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir. There an't a
doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on. The boy was
exact respecting colours and everything. Mr. Snagsby, I promised you
as a man that he should be sent away all right. Don't say it wasn't
done!"

"You have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer; "and if I can
be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman
will be getting anxious--"

"Thank you, Snagsby, no further use," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I am
quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already."

"Not at all, sir. I wish you good night."

"You see, Mr. Snagsby," says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door
and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what I like in you
is that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what YOU are.
When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it's
done with and gone, and there's an end of it. That's what YOU do."

"That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby.

"No, you don't do yourself justice. It an't what you endeavour to
do," says Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the
tenderest manner, "it's what you DO. That's what I estimate in a man
in your way of business."

Mr. Snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused
by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake
and out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he
goes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. He
is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable
reality of Mrs. Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect
beehive of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched Guster to
the police-station with official intelligence of her husband's being
made away with, and who within the last two hours has passed through
every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But as the little
woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!




CHAPTER XXIII

Esther's Narrative


We came home from Mr. Boythorn's after six pleasant weeks. We were
often in the park and in the woods and seldom passed the lodge where
we had taken shelter without looking in to speak to the keeper's
wife; but we saw no more of Lady Dedlock, except at church on
Sundays. There was company at Chesney Wold; and although several
beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained the same influence
on me as at first. I do not quite know even now whether it was
painful or pleasurable, whether it drew me towards her or made me
shrink from her. I think I admired her with a kind of fear, and I
know that in her presence my thoughts always wandered back, as they
had done at first, to that old time of my life.

I had a fancy, on more than one of these Sundays, that what this lady
so curiously was to me, I was to her--I mean that I disturbed her
thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some different way. But
when I stole a glance at her and saw her so composed and distant and
unapproachable, I felt this to be a foolish weakness. Indeed, I felt
the whole state of my mind in reference to her to be weak and
unreasonable, and I remonstrated with myself about it as much as I
could.

One incident that occurred before we quitted Mr. Boythorn's house, I
had better mention in this place.

I was walking in the garden with Ada when I was told that some one
wished to see me. Going into the breakfast-room where this person was
waiting, I found it to be the French maid who had cast off her shoes
and walked through the wet grass on the day when it thundered and
lightened.

"Mademoiselle," she began, looking fixedly at me with her too-eager
eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance and
speaking neither with boldness nor servility, "I have taken a great
liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being so
amiable, mademoiselle."

"No excuse is necessary," I returned, "if you wish to speak to me."

"That is my desire, mademoiselle. A thousand thanks for the
permission. I have your leave to speak. Is it not?" she said in a
quick, natural way.

"Certainly," said I.

"Mademoiselle, you are so amiable! Listen then, if you please. I have
left my Lady. We could not agree. My Lady is so high, so very high.
Pardon! Mademoiselle, you are right!" Her quickness anticipated what
I might have said presently but as yet had only thought. "It is not
for me to come here to complain of my Lady. But I say she is so high,
so very high. I will not say a word more. All the world knows that."

"Go on, if you please," said I.

"Assuredly; mademoiselle, I am thankful for your politeness.
Mademoiselle, I have an inexpressible desire to find service with a
young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. You are good,
accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. Ah, could I have the honour
of being your domestic!"

"I am sorry--" I began.

"Do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!" she said with an
involuntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. "Let me hope a
moment! Mademoiselle, I know this service would be more retired than
that which I have quitted. Well! I wish that. I know this service
would be less distinguished than that which I have quitted. Well! I
wish that, I know that I should win less, as to wages here. Good. I
am content."

"I assure you," said I, quite embarrassed by the mere idea of having
such an attendant, "that I keep no maid--"

"Ah, mademoiselle, but why not? Why not, when you can have one so
devoted to you! Who would be enchanted to serve you; who would be so
true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! Mademoiselle, I wish
with all my heart to serve you. Do not speak of money at present.
Take me as I am. For nothing!"

She was so singularly earnest that I drew back, almost afraid of her.
Without appearing to notice it, in her ardour she still pressed
herself upon me, speaking in a rapid subdued voice, though always
with a certain grace and propriety.

"Mademoiselle, I come from the South country where we are quick and
where we like and dislike very strong. My Lady was too high for me; I
was too high for her. It is done--past--finished! Receive me as your
domestic, and I will serve you well. I will do more for you than you
figure to yourself now. Chut! Mademoiselle, I will--no matter, I will
do my utmost possible in all things. If you accept my service, you
will not repent it. Mademoiselle, you will not repent it, and I will
serve you well. You don't know how well!"

There was a lowering energy in her face as she stood looking at me
while I explained the impossibility of my engaging her (without
thinking it necessary to say how very little I desired to do so),
which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the streets
of Paris in the reign of terror.

She heard me out without interruption and then said with her pretty
accent and in her mildest voice, "Hey, mademoiselle, I have received
my answer! I am sorry of it. But I must go elsewhere and seek what I
have not found here. Will you graciously let me kiss your hand?"

She looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to take
note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. "I fear I
surprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm?" she said with
a parting curtsy.

I confessed that she had surprised us all.

"I took an oath, mademoiselle," she said, smiling, "and I wanted to
stamp it on my mind so that I might keep it faithfully. And I will!
Adieu, mademoiselle!"

So ended our conference, which I was very glad to bring to a close. I
supposed she went away from the village, for I saw her no more; and
nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer pleasures until
six weeks were out and we returned home as I began just now by
saying.

At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, Richard was
constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday or Sunday and
remaining with us until Monday morning, he sometimes rode out on
horseback unexpectedly and passed the evening with us and rode back
again early next day. He was as vivacious as ever and told us he was
very industrious, but I was not easy in my mind about him. It
appeared to me that his industry was all misdirected. I could not
find that it led to anything but the formation of delusive hopes in
connexion with the suit already the pernicious cause of so much
sorrow and ruin. He had got at the core of that mystery now, he told
us, and nothing could be plainer than that the will under which he
and Ada were to take I don't know how many thousands of pounds must
be finally established if there were any sense or justice in the
Court of Chancery--but oh, what a great IF that sounded in my
ears--and that this happy conclusion could not be much longer
delayed. He proved this to himself by all the weary arguments on that
side he had read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in the
infatuation. He had even begun to haunt the court. He told us how he
saw Miss Flite there daily, how they talked together, and how he did
her little kindnesses, and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied
her from his heart. But he never thought--never, my poor, dear,
sanguine Richard, capable of so much happiness then, and with such
better things before him--what a fatal link was riveting between his
fresh youth and her faded age, between his free hopes and her caged
birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering mind.

Ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said or
did, and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the east
wind and read more than usual in the growlery, preserved a strict
silence on the subject. So I thought one day when I went to London to
meet Caddy Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would ask Richard to be in
waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have a little talk
together. I found him there when I arrived, and we walked away arm in
arm.

"Well, Richard," said I as soon as I could begin to be grave with
him, "are you beginning to feel more settled now?"

"Oh, yes, my dear!" returned Richard. "I'm all right enough."

"But settled?" said I.

"How do you mean, settled?" returned Richard with his gay laugh.

"Settled in the law," said I.

"Oh, aye," replied Richard, "I'm all right enough."

"You said that before, my dear Richard."

"And you don't think it's an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it's not.
Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?"

"Yes."

"Why, no, I can't say I am settling down," said Richard, strongly
emphasizing "down," as if that expressed the difficulty, "because one
can't settle down while this business remains in such an unsettled
state. When I say this business, of course I mean the--forbidden
subject."

"Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?" said I.

"Not the least doubt of it," answered Richard.

We walked a little way without speaking, and presently Richard
addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus: "My dear
Esther, I understand you, and I wish to heaven I were a more constant
sort of fellow. I don't mean constant to Ada, for I love her
dearly--better and better every day--but constant to myself.
(Somehow, I mean something that I can't very well express, but you'll
make it out.) If I were a more constant sort of fellow, I should have
held on either to Badger or to Kenge and Carboy like grim death, and
should have begun to be steady and systematic by this time, and
shouldn't be in debt, and--"

"ARE you in debt, Richard?"

"Yes," said Richard, "I am a little so, my dear. Also, I have taken
rather too much to billiards and that sort of thing. Now the murder's
out; you despise me, Esther, don't you?"

"You know I don't," said I.

"You are kinder to me than I often am to myself," he returned. "My
dear Esther, I am a very unfortunate dog not to be more settled, but
how CAN I be more settled? If you lived in an unfinished house, you
couldn't settle down in it; if you were condemned to leave everything
you undertook unfinished, you would find it hard to apply yourself to
anything; and yet that's my unhappy case. I was born into this
unfinished contention with all its chances and changes, and it began
to unsettle me before I quite knew the difference between a suit at
law and a suit of clothes; and it has gone on unsettling me ever
since; and here I am now, conscious sometimes that I am but a
worthless fellow to love my confiding cousin Ada."

We were in a solitary place, and he put his hands before his eyes and
sobbed as he said the words.

"Oh, Richard!" said I. "Do not be so moved. You have a noble nature,
and Ada's love may make you worthier every day."

"I know, my dear," he replied, pressing my arm, "I know all that. You
mustn't mind my being a little soft now, for I have had all this upon
my mind for a long time, and have often meant to speak to you, and
have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes courage. I know what
the thought of Ada ought to do for me, but it doesn't do it. I am too
unsettled even for that. I love her most devotedly, and yet I do her
wrong, in doing myself wrong, every day and hour. But it can't last
for ever. We shall come on for a final hearing and get judgment in
our favour, and then you and Ada shall see what I can really be!"

It had given me a pang to hear him sob and see the tears start out
between his fingers, but that was infinitely less affecting to me
than the hopeful animation with which he said these words.

"I have looked well into the papers, Esther. I have been deep in them
for months," he continued, recovering his cheerfulness in a moment,
"and you may rely upon it that we shall come out triumphant. As to
years of delay, there has been no want of them, heaven knows! And
there is the greater probability of our bringing the matter to a
speedy close; in fact, it's on the paper now. It will be all right at
last, and then you shall see!"

Recalling how he had just now placed Messrs. Kenge and Carboy in the
same category with Mr. Badger, I asked him when he intended to be
articled in Lincoln's Inn.

"There again! I think not at all, Esther," he returned with an
effort. "I fancy I have had enough of it. Having worked at Jarndyce
and Jarndyce like a galley slave, I have slaked my thirst for the law
and satisfied myself that I shouldn't like it. Besides, I find it
unsettles me more and more to be so constantly upon the scene of
action. So what," continued Richard, confident again by this time,
"do I naturally turn my thoughts to?"

"I can't imagine," said I.

"Don't look so serious," returned Richard, "because it's the best
thing I can do, my dear Esther, I am certain. It's not as if I wanted
a profession for life. These proceedings will come to a termination,
and then I am provided for. No. I look upon it as a pursuit which is
in its nature more or less unsettled, and therefore suited to my
temporary condition--I may say, precisely suited. What is it that I
naturally turn my thoughts to?"

I looked at him and shook my head.

"What," said Richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, "but the
army!"

"The army?" said I.

"The army, of course. What I have to do is to get a commission;
and--there I am, you know!" said Richard.

And then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations in his
pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say, two hundred
pounds of debt in six months out of the army; and that he contracted
no debt at all within a corresponding period in the army--as to which
he had quite made up his mind; this step must involve a saving of
four hundred pounds in a year, or two thousand pounds in five years,
which was a considerable sum. And then he spoke so ingenuously and
sincerely of the sacrifice he made in withdrawing himself for a time
from Ada, and of the earnestness with which he aspired--as in thought
he always did, I know full well--to repay her love, and to ensure her
happiness, and to conquer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire
the very soul of decision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely.
For, I thought, how would this end, how could this end, when so soon
and so surely all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal
blight that ruined everything it rested on!

I spoke to Richard with all the earnestness I felt, and all the hope
I could not quite feel then, and implored him for Ada's sake not to
put any trust in Chancery. To all I said, Richard readily assented,
riding over the court and everything else in his easy way and drawing
the brightest pictures of the character he was to settle into--alas,
when the grievous suit should loose its hold upon him! We had a long
talk, but it always came back to that, in substance.

At last we came to Soho Square, where Caddy Jellyby had appointed to
wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of Newman Street.
Caddy was in the garden in the centre and hurried out as soon as I
appeared. After a few cheerful words, Richard left us together.

"Prince has a pupil over the way, Esther," said Caddy, "and got the
key for us. So if you will walk round and round here with me, we can
lock ourselves in and I can tell you comfortably what I wanted to see
your dear good face about."

"Very well, my dear," said I. "Nothing could be better." So Caddy,
after affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she called it,
locked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk round the
garden very cosily.

"You see, Esther," said Caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a little
confidence, "after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry
without Ma's knowledge, or even to keep Ma long in the dark
respecting our engagement--though I don't believe Ma cares much for
me, I must say--I thought it right to mention your opinions to
Prince. In the first place because I want to profit by everything you
tell me, and in the second place because I have no secrets from
Prince."

"I hope he approved, Caddy?"

"Oh, my dear! I assure you he would approve of anything you could
say. You have no idea what an opinion he has of you!"

"Indeed!"

"Esther, it's enough to make anybody but me jealous," said Caddy,
laughing and shaking her head; "but it only makes me joyful, for you
are the first friend I ever had, and the best friend I ever can have,
and nobody can respect and love you too much to please me."

"Upon my word, Caddy," said I, "you are in the general conspiracy to
keep me in a good humour. Well, my dear?"

"Well! I am going to tell you," replied Caddy, crossing her hands
confidentially upon my arm. "So we talked a good deal about it, and
so I said to Prince, 'Prince, as Miss Summerson--'"

"I hope you didn't say 'Miss Summerson'?"

"No. I didn't!" cried Caddy, greatly pleased and with the brightest
of faces. "I said, 'Esther.' I said to Prince, 'As Esther is
decidedly of that opinion, Prince, and has expressed it to me, and
always hints it when she writes those kind notes, which you are so
fond of hearing me read to you, I am prepared to disclose the truth
to Ma whenever you think proper. And I think, Prince,' said I, 'that
Esther thinks that I should be in a better, and truer, and more
honourable position altogether if you did the same to your papa.'"

"Yes, my dear," said I. "Esther certainly does think so."

"So I was right, you see!" exclaimed Caddy. "Well! This troubled
Prince a good deal, not because he had the least doubt about it, but
because he is so considerate of the feelings of old Mr. Turveydrop;
and he had his apprehensions that old Mr. Turveydrop might break his
heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting
manner or other if he made such an announcement. He feared old Mr.
Turveydrop might consider it undutiful and might receive too great a
shock. For old Mr. Turveydrop's deportment is very beautiful, you
know, Esther," said Caddy, "and his feelings are extremely
sensitive."

"Are they, my dear?"

"Oh, extremely sensitive. Prince says so. Now, this has caused my
darling child--I didn't mean to use the expression to you, Esther,"
Caddy apologized, her face suffused with blushes, "but I generally
call Prince my darling child."

I laughed; and Caddy laughed and blushed, and went on.

"This has caused him, Esther--"

"Caused whom, my dear?"

"Oh, you tiresome thing!" said Caddy, laughing, with her pretty face
on fire. "My darling child, if you insist upon it! This has caused
him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delay, from day to day, in a
very anxious manner. At last he said to me, 'Caddy, if Miss
Summerson, who is a great favourite with my father, could be
prevailed upon to be present when I broke the subject, I think I
could do it.' So I promised I would ask you. And I made up my mind,
besides," said Caddy, looking at me hopefully but timidly, "that if
you consented, I would ask you afterwards to come with me to Ma. This
is what I meant when I said in my note that I had a great favour and
a great assistance to beg of you. And if you thought you could grant
it, Esther, we should both be very grateful."

"Let me see, Caddy," said I, pretending to consider. "Really, I think
I could do a greater thing than that if the need were pressing. I am
at your service and the darling child's, my dear, whenever you like."

Caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine, being, I believe,
as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as any tender
heart that ever beat in this world; and after another turn or two
round the garden, during which she put on an entirely new pair of
gloves and made herself as resplendent as possible that she might do
no avoidable discredit to the Master of Deportment, we went to Newman
Street direct.

Prince was teaching, of course. We found him engaged with a not very
hopeful pupil--a stubborn little girl with a sulky forehead, a deep
voice, and an inanimate, dissatisfied mama--whose case was certainly
not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into which we threw her
preceptor. The lesson at last came to an end, after proceeding as
discordantly as possible; and when the little girl had changed her
shoes and had had her white muslin extinguished in shawls, she was
taken away. After a few words of preparation, we then went in search
of Mr. Turveydrop, whom we found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as
a model of deportment, on the sofa in his private apartment--the only
comfortable room in the house. He appeared to have dressed at his
leisure in the intervals of a light collation, and his dressing-case,
brushes, and so forth, all of quite an elegant kind, lay about.

"Father, Miss Summerson; Miss Jellyby."

"Charmed! Enchanted!" said Mr. Turveydrop, rising with his
high-shouldered bow. "Permit me!" Handing chairs. "Be seated!"
Kissing the tips of his left fingers. "Overjoyed!" Shutting his eyes
and rolling. "My little retreat is made a paradise." Recomposing
himself on the sofa like the second gentleman in Europe.

"Again you find us, Miss Summerson," said he, "using our little arts
to polish, polish! Again the sex stimulates us and rewards us by the
condescension of its lovely presence. It is much in these times (and
we have made an awfully degenerating business of it since the days of
his Royal Highness the Prince Regent--my patron, if I may presume to
say so) to experience that deportment is not wholly trodden under
foot by mechanics. That it can yet bask in the smile of beauty, my
dear madam."

I said nothing, which I thought a suitable reply; and he took a pinch
of snuff.

"My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "you have four schools this
afternoon. I would recommend a hasty sandwich."

"Thank you, father," returned Prince, "I will be sure to be punctual.
My dear father, may I beg you to prepare your mind for what I am
going to say?"

"Good heaven!" exclaimed the model, pale and aghast as Prince and
Caddy, hand in hand, bent down before him. "What is this? Is this
lunacy! Or what is this?"

"Father," returned Prince with great submission, "I love this young
lady, and we are engaged."

"Engaged!" cried Mr. Turveydrop, reclining on the sofa and shutting
out the sight with his hand. "An arrow launched at my brain by my own
child!"

"We have been engaged for some time, father," faltered Prince, "and
Miss Summerson, hearing of it, advised that we should declare the
fact to you and was so very kind as to attend on the present
occasion. Miss Jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you,
father."

Mr. Turveydrop uttered a groan.

"No, pray don't! Pray don't, father," urged his son. "Miss Jellyby is
a young lady who deeply respects you, and our first desire is to
consider your comfort."

Mr. Turveydrop sobbed.

"No, pray don't, father!" cried his son.

"Boy," said Mr. Turveydrop, "it is well that your sainted mother is
spared this pang. Strike deep, and spare not. Strike home, sir,
strike home!"

"Pray don't say so, father," implored Prince, in tears. "It goes to
my heart. I do assure you, father, that our first wish and intention
is to consider your comfort. Caroline and I do not forget our
duty--what is my duty is Caroline's, as we have often said
together--and with your approval and consent, father, we will devote
ourselves to making your life agreeable."

"Strike home," murmured Mr. Turveydrop. "Strike home!" But he seemed
to listen, I thought, too.

"My dear father," returned Prince, "we well know what little comforts
you are accustomed to and have a right to, and it will always be our
study and our pride to provide those before anything. If you will
bless us with your approval and consent, father, we shall not think
of being married until it is quite agreeable to you; and when we ARE
married, we shall always make you--of course--our first
consideration. You must ever be the head and master here, father; and
we feel how truly unnatural it would be in us if we failed to know it
or if we failed to exert ourselves in every possible way to please
you."

Mr. Turveydrop underwent a severe internal struggle and came upright
on the sofa again with his cheeks puffing over his stiff cravat, a
perfect model of parental deportment.

"My son!" said Mr. Turveydrop. "My children! I cannot resist your
prayer. Be happy!"

His benignity as he raised his future daughter-in-law and stretched
out his hand to his son (who kissed it with affectionate respect and
gratitude) was the most confusing sight I ever saw.

"My children," said Mr. Turveydrop, paternally encircling Caddy with
his left arm as she sat beside him, and putting his right hand
gracefully on his hip. "My son and daughter, your happiness shall be
my care. I will watch over you. You shall always live with
me"--meaning, of course, I will always live with you--"this house is
henceforth as much yours as mine; consider it your home. May you long
live to share it with me!"

The power of his deportment was such that they really were as much
overcome with thankfulness as if, instead of quartering himself upon
them for the rest of his life, he were making some munificent
sacrifice in their favour.

"For myself, my children," said Mr. Turveydrop, "I am falling into
the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long the
last feeble traces of gentlemanly deportment may linger in this
weaving and spinning age. But, so long, I will do my duty to society
and will show myself, as usual, about town. My wants are few and
simple. My little apartment here, my few essentials for the toilet,
my frugal morning meal, and my little dinner will suffice. I charge
your dutiful affection with the supply of these requirements, and I
charge myself with all the rest."

They were overpowered afresh by his uncommon generosity.

"My son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "for those little points in which you
are deficient--points of deportment, which are born with a man, which
may be improved by cultivation, but can never be originated--you may
still rely on me. I have been faithful to my post since the days of
his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, and I will not desert it now.
No, my son. If you have ever contemplated your father's poor position
with a feeling of pride, you may rest assured that he will do nothing
to tarnish it. For yourself, Prince, whose character is different (we
cannot be all alike, nor is it advisable that we should), work, be
industrious, earn money, and extend the connexion as much as
possible."

"That you may depend I will do, dear father, with all my heart,"
replied Prince.

"I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Turveydrop. "Your qualities are not
shining, my dear child, but they are steady and useful. And to both
of you, my children, I would merely observe, in the spirit of a
sainted wooman on whose path I had the happiness of casting, I
believe, SOME ray of light, take care of the establishment, take care
of my simple wants, and bless you both!"

Old Mr. Turveydrop then became so very gallant, in honour of the
occasion, that I told Caddy we must really go to Thavies Inn at once
if we were to go at all that day. So we took our departure after a
very loving farewell between Caddy and her betrothed, and during our
walk she was so happy and so full of old Mr. Turveydrop's praises
that I would not have said a word in his disparagement for any
consideration.

The house in Thavies Inn had bills in the windows announcing that it
was to let, and it looked dirtier and gloomier and ghastlier than
ever. The name of poor Mr. Jellyby had appeared in the list of
bankrupts but a day or two before, and he was shut up in the
dining-room with two gentlemen and a heap of blue bags,
account-books, and papers, making the most desperate endeavours to
understand his affairs. They appeared to me to be quite beyond his
comprehension, for when Caddy took me into the dining-room by mistake
and we came upon Mr. Jellyby in his spectacles, forlornly fenced into
a corner by the great dining-table and the two gentlemen, he seemed
to have given up the whole thing and to be speechless and insensible.

Going upstairs to Mrs. Jellyby's room (the children were all
screaming in the kitchen, and there was no servant to be seen), we
found that lady in the midst of a voluminous correspondence, opening,
reading, and sorting letters, with a great accumulation of torn
covers on the floor. She was so preoccupied that at first she did not
know me, though she sat looking at me with that curious, bright-eyed,
far-off look of hers.

"Ah! Miss Summerson!" she said at last. "I was thinking of something
so different! I hope you are well. I am happy to see you. Mr.
Jarndyce and Miss Clare quite well?"

I hoped in return that Mr. Jellyby was quite well.

"Why, not quite, my dear," said Mrs. Jellyby in the calmest manner.
"He has been unfortunate in his affairs and is a little out of
spirits. Happily for me, I am so much engaged that I have no time to
think about it. We have, at the present moment, one hundred and
seventy families, Miss Summerson, averaging five persons in each,
either gone or going to the left bank of the Niger."

I thought of the one family so near us who were neither gone nor
going to the left bank of the Niger, and wondered how she could be so
placid.

"You have brought Caddy back, I see," observed Mrs. Jellyby with a
glance at her daughter. "It has become quite a novelty to see her
here. She has almost deserted her old employment and in fact obliges
me to employ a boy."

"I am sure, Ma--" began Caddy.

"Now you know, Caddy," her mother mildly interposed, "that I DO
employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. What is the use of your
contradicting?"

"I was not going to contradict, Ma," returned Caddy. "I was only
going to say that surely you wouldn't have me be a mere drudge all my
life."

"I believe, my dear," said Mrs. Jellyby, still opening her letters,
casting her bright eyes smilingly over them, and sorting them as she
spoke, "that you have a business example before you in your mother.
Besides. A mere drudge? If you had any sympathy with the destinies of
the human race, it would raise you high above any such idea. But you
have none. I have often told you, Caddy, you have no such sympathy."

"Not if it's Africa, Ma, I have not."

"Of course you have not. Now, if I were not happily so much engaged,
Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, sweetly casting her eyes for a
moment on me and considering where to put the particular letter she
had just opened, "this would distress and disappoint me. But I have
so much to think of, in connexion with Borrioboola-Gha and it is so
necessary I should concentrate myself that there is my remedy, you
see."

As Caddy gave me a glance of entreaty, and as Mrs. Jellyby was
looking far away into Africa straight through my bonnet and head, I
thought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visit and
to attract Mrs. Jellyby's attention.

"Perhaps," I began, "you will wonder what has brought me here to
interrupt you."

"I am always delighted to see Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby,
pursuing her employment with a placid smile. "Though I wish," and she
shook her head, "she was more interested in the Borrioboolan
project."

"I have come with Caddy," said I, "because Caddy justly thinks she
ought not to have a secret from her mother and fancies I shall
encourage and aid her (though I am sure I don't know how) in
imparting one."

"Caddy," said Mrs. Jellyby, pausing for a moment in her occupation
and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her head, "you are going
to tell me some nonsense."

Caddy untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bonnet off, and
letting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and crying heartily,
said, "Ma, I am engaged."

"Oh, you ridiculous child!" observed Mrs. Jellyby with an abstracted
air as she looked over the dispatch last opened; "what a goose you
are!"

"I am engaged, Ma," sobbed Caddy, "to young Mr. Turveydrop, at the
academy; and old Mr. Turveydrop (who is a very gentlemanly man
indeed) has given his consent, and I beg and pray you'll give us
yours, Ma, because I never could be happy without it. I never, never
could!" sobbed Caddy, quite forgetful of her general complainings and
of everything but her natural affection.

"You see again, Miss Summerson," observed Mrs. Jellyby serenely,
"what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as I am and to have
this necessity for self-concentration that I have. Here is Caddy
engaged to a dancing-master's son--mixed up with people who have no
more sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she has
herself! This, too, when Mr. Quale, one of the first philanthropists
of our time, has mentioned to me that he was really disposed to be
interested in her!"

"Ma, I always hated and detested Mr. Quale!" sobbed Caddy.

"Caddy, Caddy!" returned Mrs. Jellyby, opening another letter with
the greatest complacency. "I have no doubt you did. How could you do
otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympathies with which he
overflows! Now, if my public duties were not a favourite child to me,
if I were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale, these
petty details might grieve me very much, Miss Summerson. But can I
permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of Caddy (from whom
I expect nothing else) to interpose between me and the great African
continent? No. No," repeated Mrs. Jellyby in a calm clear voice, and
with an agreeable smile, as she opened more letters and sorted them.
"No, indeed."

I was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception,
though I might have expected it, that I did not know what to say.
Caddy seemed equally at a loss. Mrs. Jellyby continued to open and
sort letters and to repeat occasionally in quite a charming tone of
voice and with a smile of perfect composure, "No, indeed."

"I hope, Ma," sobbed poor Caddy at last, "you are not angry?"

"Oh, Caddy, you really are an absurd girl," returned Mrs. Jellyby,
"to ask such questions after what I have said of the preoccupation of
my mind."

"And I hope, Ma, you give us your consent and wish us well?" said
Caddy.

"You are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind,"
said Mrs. Jellyby; "and a degenerate child, when you might have
devoted yourself to the great public measure. But the step is taken,
and I have engaged a boy, and there is no more to be said. Now, pray,
Caddy," said Mrs. Jellyby, for Caddy was kissing her, "don't delay me
in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batch of papers before
the afternoon post comes in!"

I thought I could not do better than take my leave; I was detained
for a moment by Caddy's saying, "You won't object to my bringing him
to see you, Ma?"

"Oh, dear me, Caddy," cried Mrs. Jellyby, who had relapsed into that
distant contemplation, "have you begun again? Bring whom?"

"Him, Ma."

"Caddy, Caddy!" said Mrs. Jellyby, quite weary of such little
matters. "Then you must bring him some evening which is not a Parent
Society night, or a Branch night, or a Ramification night. You must
accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. My dear Miss
Summerson, it was very kind of you to come here to help out this
silly chit. Good-bye! When I tell you that I have fifty-eight new
letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand the details
of the native and coffee-cultivation question this morning, I need
not apologize for having very little leisure."

I was not surprised by Caddy's being in low spirits when we went
downstairs, or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, or by her saying she
would far rather have been scolded than treated with such
indifference, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor in
clothes that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn't
know. I gradually cheered her up by dwelling on the many things she
would do for her unfortunate father and for Peepy when she had a home
of her own; and finally we went downstairs into the damp dark
kitchen, where Peepy and his little brothers and sisters were
grovelling on the stone floor and where we had such a game of play
with them that to prevent myself from being quite torn to pieces I
was obliged to fall back on my fairy-tales. From time to time I heard
loud voices in the parlour overhead, and occasionally a violent
tumbling about of the furniture. The last effect I am afraid was
caused by poor Mr. Jellyby's breaking away from the dining-table and
making rushes at the window with the intention of throwing himself
into the area whenever he made any new attempt to understand his
affairs.

As I rode quietly home at night after the day's bustle, I thought a
good deal of Caddy's engagement and felt confirmed in my hopes (in
spite of the elder Mr. Turveydrop) that she would be the happier and
better for it. And if there seemed to be but a slender chance of her
and her husband ever finding out what the model of deportment really
was, why that was all for the best too, and who would wish them to be
wiser? I did not wish them to be any wiser and indeed was half
ashamed of not entirely believing in him myself. And I looked up at
the stars, and thought about travellers in distant countries and the
stars THEY saw, and hoped I might always be so blest and happy as to
be useful to some one in my small way.

They were so glad to see me when I got home, as they always were,
that I could have sat down and cried for joy if that had not been a
method of making myself disagreeable. Everybody in the house, from
the lowest to the highest, showed me such a bright face of welcome,
and spoke so cheerily, and was so happy to do anything for me, that I
suppose there never was such a fortunate little creature in the
world.

We got into such a chatty state that night, through Ada and my
guardian drawing me out to tell them all about Caddy, that I went on
prose, prose, prosing for a length of time. At last I got up to my
own room, quite red to think how I had been holding forth, and then I
heard a soft tap at my door. So I said, "Come in!" and there came in
a pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourning, who dropped a
curtsy.

"If you please, miss," said the little girl in a soft voice, "I am
Charley."

"Why, so you are," said I, stooping down in astonishment and giving
her a kiss. "How glad am I to see you, Charley!"

"If you please, miss," pursued Charley in the same soft voice, "I'm
your maid."

"Charley?"

"If you please, miss, I'm a present to you, with Mr. Jarndyce's
love."

I sat down with my hand on Charley's neck and looked at Charley.

"And oh, miss," says Charley, clapping her hands, with the tears
starting down her dimpled cheeks, "Tom's at school, if you please,
and learning so good! And little Emma, she's with Mrs. Blinder, miss,
a-being took such care of! And Tom, he would have been at school--and
Emma, she would have been left with Mrs. Blinder--and me, I should
have been here--all a deal sooner, miss; only Mr. Jarndyce thought
that Tom and Emma and me had better get a little used to parting
first, we was so small. Don't cry, if you please, miss!"

"I can't help it, Charley."

"No, miss, nor I can't help it," says Charley. "And if you please,
miss, Mr. Jarndyce's love, and he thinks you'll like to teach me now
and then. And if you please, Tom and Emma and me is to see each other
once a month. And I'm so happy and so thankful, miss," cried Charley
with a heaving heart, "and I'll try to be such a good maid!"

"Oh, Charley dear, never forget who did all this!"

"No, miss, I never will. Nor Tom won't. Nor yet Emma. It was all you,
miss."

"I have known nothing of it. It was Mr. Jarndyce, Charley."

"Yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you and that you
might be my mistress. If you please, miss, I am a little present with
his love, and it was all done for the love of you. Me and Tom was to
be sure to remember it."

Charley dried her eyes and entered on her functions, going in her
matronly little way about and about the room and folding up
everything she could lay her hands upon. Presently Charley came
creeping back to my side and said, "Oh, don't cry, if you please,
miss."

And I said again, "I can't help it, Charley."

And Charley said again, "No, miss, nor I can't help it." And so,
after all, I did cry for joy indeed, and so did she.




CHAPTER XXIV

An Appeal Case


As soon as Richard and I had held the conversation of which I have
given an account, Richard communicated the state of his mind to Mr.
Jarndyce. I doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by surprise
when he received the representation, though it caused him much
uneasiness and disappointment. He and Richard were often closeted
together, late at night and early in the morning, and passed whole
days in London, and had innumerable appointments with Mr. Kenge, and
laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. While they were
thus employed, my guardian, though he underwent considerable
inconvenience from the state of the wind and rubbed his head so
constantly that not a single hair upon it ever rested in its right
place, was as genial with Ada and me as at any other time, but
maintained a steady reserve on these matters. And as our utmost
endeavours could only elicit from Richard himself sweeping assurances
that everything was going on capitally and that it really was all
right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved by him.

We learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application was
made to the Lord Chancellor on Richard's behalf as an infant and a
ward, and I don't know what, and that there was a quantity of
talking, and that the Lord Chancellor described him in open court as
a vexatious and capricious infant, and that the matter was adjourned
and readjourned, and referred, and reported on, and petitioned about
until Richard began to doubt (as he told us) whether, if he entered
the army at all, it would not be as a veteran of seventy or eighty
years of age. At last an appointment was made for him to see the Lord
Chancellor again in his private room, and there the Lord Chancellor
very seriously reproved him for trifling with time and not knowing
his mind--"a pretty good joke, I think," said Richard, "from that
quarter!"--and at last it was settled that his application should be
granted. His name was entered at the Horse Guards as an applicant for
an ensign's commission; the purchase-money was deposited at an
agent's; and Richard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a
violent course of military study and got up at five o'clock every
morning to practise the broadsword exercise.

Thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. We
sometimes heard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce as being in the paper or out
of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being to be spoken
to; and it came on, and it went off. Richard, who was now in a
professor's house in London, was able to be with us less frequently
than before; my guardian still maintained the same reserve; and so
time passed until the commission was obtained and Richard received
directions with it to join a regiment in Ireland.

He arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had a
long conference with my guardian. Upwards of an hour elapsed before
my guardian put his head into the room where Ada and I were sitting
and said, "Come in, my dears!" We went in and found Richard, whom we
had last seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-piece looking
mortified and angry.

"Rick and I, Ada," said Mr. Jarndyce, "are not quite of one mind.
Come, come, Rick, put a brighter face upon it!"

"You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "The harder because
you have been so considerate to me in all other respects and have
done me kindnesses that I can never acknowledge. I never could have
been set right without you, sir."

"Well, well!" said Mr. Jarndyce. "I want to set you more right yet. I
want to set you more right with yourself."

"I hope you will excuse my saying, sir," returned Richard in a fiery
way, but yet respectfully, "that I think I am the best judge about
myself."

"I hope you will excuse my saying, my dear Rick," observed Mr.
Jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, "that it's
quite natural in you to think so, but I don't think so. I must do my
duty, Rick, or you could never care for me in cool blood; and I hope
you will always care for me, cool and hot."

Ada had turned so pale that he made her sit down in his reading-chair
and sat beside her.

"It's nothing, my dear," he said, "it's nothing. Rick and I have only
had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are
the theme. Now you are afraid of what's coming."

"I am not indeed, cousin John," replied Ada with a smile, "if it is
to come from you."

"Thank you, my dear. Do you give me a minute's calm attention,
without looking at Rick. And, little woman, do you likewise. My dear
girl," putting his hand on hers as it lay on the side of the
easy-chair, "you recollect the talk we had, we four when the little
woman told me of a little love affair?"

"It is not likely that either Richard or I can ever forget your
kindness that day, cousin John."

"I can never forget it," said Richard.

"And I can never forget it," said Ada.

"So much the easier what I have to say, and so much the easier for us
to agree," returned my guardian, his face irradiated by the
gentleness and honour of his heart. "Ada, my bird, you should know
that Rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. All that
he has of certainty will be expended when he is fully equipped. He
has exhausted his resources and is bound henceforward to the tree he
has planted."

"Quite true that I have exhausted my present resources, and I am
quite content to know it. But what I have of certainty, sir," said
Richard, "is not all I have."

"Rick, Rick!" cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his manner,
and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he would have
stopped his ears. "For the love of God, don't found a hope or
expectation on the family curse! Whatever you do on this side the
grave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantom
that has haunted us so many years. Better to borrow, better to beg,
better to die!"

We were all startled by the fervour of this warning. Richard bit his
lip and held his breath, and glanced at me as if he felt, and knew
that I felt too, how much he needed it.

"Ada, my dear," said Mr. Jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness,
"these are strong words of advice, but I live in Bleak House and have
seen a sight here. Enough of that. All Richard had to start him in
the race of life is ventured. I recommend to him and you, for his
sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the
understanding that there is no sort of contract between you. I must
go further. I will be plain with you both. You were to confide freely
in me, and I will confide freely in you. I ask you wholly to
relinquish, for the present, any tie but your relationship."

"Better to say at once, sir," returned Richard, "that you renounce
all confidence in me and that you advise Ada to do the same."

"Better to say nothing of the sort, Rick, because I don't mean it."

"You think I have begun ill, sir," retorted Richard. "I HAVE, I
know."

"How I hoped you would begin, and how go on, I told you when we spoke
of these things last," said Mr. Jarndyce in a cordial and encouraging
manner. "You have not made that beginning yet, but there is a time
for all things, and yours is not gone by; rather, it is just now
fully come. Make a clear beginning altogether. You two (very young,
my dears) are cousins. As yet, you are nothing more. What more may
come must come of being worked out, Rick, and no sooner."

"You are very hard with me, sir," said Richard. "Harder than I could
have supposed you would be."

"My dear boy," said Mr. Jarndyce, "I am harder with myself when I do
anything that gives you pain. You have your remedy in your own hands.
Ada, it is better for him that he should be free and that there
should be no youthful engagement between you. Rick, it is better for
her, much better; you owe it to her. Come! Each of you will do what
is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves."

"Why is it best, sir?" returned Richard hastily. "It was not when we
opened our hearts to you. You did not say so then."

"I have had experience since. I don't blame you, Rick, but I have had
experience since."

"You mean of me, sir."

"Well! Yes, of both of you," said Mr. Jarndyce kindly. "The time is
not come for your standing pledged to one another. It is not right,
and I must not recognize it. Come, come, my young cousins, begin
afresh! Bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to
write your lives in."

Richard gave an anxious glance at Ada but said nothing.

"I have avoided saying one word to either of you or to Esther," said
Mr. Jarndyce, "until now, in order that we might be open as the day,
and all on equal terms. I now affectionately advise, I now most
earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here. Leave all else
to time, truth, and steadfastness. If you do otherwise, you will do
wrong, and you will have made me do wrong in ever bringing you
together."

A long silence succeeded.

"Cousin Richard," said Ada then, raising her blue eyes tenderly to
his face, "after what our cousin John has said, I think no choice is
left us. Your mind may be quite at ease about me, for you will leave
me here under his care and will be sure that I can have nothing to
wish for--quite sure if I guide myself by his advice. I--I don't
doubt, cousin Richard," said Ada, a little confused, "that you are
very fond of me, and I--I don't think you will fall in love with
anybody else. But I should like you to consider well about it too, as
I should like you to be in all things very happy. You may trust in
me, cousin Richard. I am not at all changeable; but I am not
unreasonable, and should never blame you. Even cousins may be sorry
to part; and in truth I am very, very sorry, Richard, though I know
it's for your welfare. I shall always think of you affectionately,
and often talk of you with Esther, and--and perhaps you will
sometimes think a little of me, cousin Richard. So now," said Ada,
going up to him and giving him her trembling hand, "we are only
cousins again, Richard--for the time perhaps--and I pray for a
blessing on my dear cousin, wherever he goes!"

It was strange to me that Richard should not be able to forgive my
guardian for entertaining the very same opinion of him which he
himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. But it
was certainly the case. I observed with great regret that from this
hour he never was as free and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had been
before. He had every reason given him to be so, but he was not; and
solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise between them.

In the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost himself,
and even his grief at parting from Ada, who remained in Hertfordshire
while he, Mr. Jarndyce, and I went up to London for a week. He
remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of tears, and at
such times would confide to me the heaviest self-reproaches. But in a
few minutes he would recklessly conjure up some undefinable means by
which they were both to be made rich and happy for ever, and would
become as gay as possible.

It was a busy time, and I trotted about with him all day long, buying
a variety of things of which he stood in need. Of the things he would
have bought if he had been left to his own ways I say nothing. He was
perfectly confidential with me, and often talked so sensibly and
feelingly about his faults and his vigorous resolutions, and dwelt so
much upon the encouragement he derived from these conversations that
I could never have been tired if I had tried.

There used, in that week, to come backward and forward to our lodging
to fence with Richard a person who had formerly been a cavalry
soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free bearing,
with whom Richard had practised for some months. I heard so much
about him, not only from Richard, but from my guardian too, that I
was purposely in the room with my work one morning after breakfast
when he came.

"Good morning, Mr. George," said my guardian, who happened to be
alone with me. "Mr. Carstone will be here directly. Meanwhile, Miss
Summerson is very happy to see you, I know. Sit down."

He sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, I thought, and
without looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across and across
his upper lip.

"You are as punctual as the sun," said Mr. Jarndyce.

"Military time, sir," he replied. "Force of habit. A mere habit in
me, sir. I am not at all business-like."

"Yet you have a large establishment, too, I am told?" said Mr.
Jarndyce.

"Not much of a one, sir. I keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a
one."

"And what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make of
Mr. Carstone?" said my guardian.

"Pretty good, sir," he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest
and looking very large. "If Mr. Carstone was to give his full mind to
it, he would come out very good."

"But he don't, I suppose?" said my guardian.

"He did at first, sir, but not afterwards. Not his full mind. Perhaps
he has something else upon it--some young lady, perhaps." His bright
dark eyes glanced at me for the first time.

"He has not me upon his mind, I assure you, Mr. George," said I,
laughing, "though you seem to suspect me."

He reddened a little through his brown and made me a trooper's bow.
"No offence, I hope, miss. I am one of the roughs."

"Not at all," said I. "I take it as a compliment."

If he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now in three or
four quick successive glances. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said to
my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, "but you did me the
honour to mention the young lady's name--"

"Miss Summerson."

"Miss Summerson," he repeated, and looked at me again.

"Do you know the name?" I asked.

"No, miss. To my knowledge I never heard it. I thought I had seen you
somewhere."

"I think not," I returned, raising my head from my work to look at
him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and manner that
I was glad of the opportunity. "I remember faces very well."

"So do I, miss!" he returned, meeting my look with the fullness of
his dark eyes and broad forehead. "Humph! What set me off, now, upon
that!"

His once more reddening through his brown and being disconcerted by
his efforts to remember the association brought my guardian to his
relief.

"Have you many pupils, Mr. George?"

"They vary in their number, sir. Mostly they're but a small lot to
live by."

"And what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?"

"All sorts, sir. Natives and foreigners. From gentlemen to
'prentices. I have had Frenchwomen come, before now, and show
themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. Mad people out of number, of
course, but THEY go everywhere where the doors stand open."

"People don't come with grudges and schemes of finishing their
practice with live targets, I hope?" said my guardian, smiling.

"Not much of that, sir, though that HAS happened. Mostly they come
for skill--or idleness. Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other. I
beg your pardon," said Mr. George, sitting stiffly upright and
squaring an elbow on each knee, "but I believe you're a Chancery
suitor, if I have heard correct?"

"I am sorry to say I am."

"I have had one of YOUR compatriots in my time, sir."

"A Chancery suitor?" returned my guardian. "How was that?"

"Why, the man was so badgered and worried and tortured by being
knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post," said Mr.
George, "that he got out of sorts. I don't believe he had any idea of
taking aim at anybody, but he was in that condition of resentment and
violence that he would come and pay for fifty shots and fire away
till he was red hot. One day I said to him when there was nobody by
and he had been talking to me angrily about his wrongs, 'If this
practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well and good; but I don't
altogether like your being so bent upon it in your present state of
mind; I'd rather you took to something else.' I was on my guard for a
blow, he was that passionate; but he received it in very good part
and left off directly. We shook hands and struck up a sort of
friendship."

"What was that man?" asked my guardian in a new tone of interest.

"Why, he began by being a small Shropshire farmer before they made a
baited bull of him," said Mr. George.

"Was his name Gridley?"

"It was, sir."

Mr. George directed another succession of quick bright glances at me
as my guardian and I exchanged a word or two of surprise at the
coincidence, and I therefore explained to him how we knew the name.
He made me another of his soldierly bows in acknowledgment of what he
called my condescension.

"I don't know," he said as he looked at me, "what it is that sets me
off again--but--bosh! What's my head running against!" He passed one
of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if to sweep the broken
thoughts out of his mind and sat a little forward, with one arm
akimbo and the other resting on his leg, looking in a brown study at
the ground.

"I am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this Gridley
into new troubles and that he is in hiding," said my guardian.

"So I am told, sir," returned Mr. George, still musing and looking on
the ground. "So I am told."

"You don't know where?"

"No, sir," returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming out
of his reverie. "I can't say anything about him. He will be worn out
soon, I expect. You may file a strong man's heart away for a good
many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last."

Richard's entrance stopped the conversation. Mr. George rose, made me
another of his soldierly bows, wished my guardian a good day, and
strode heavily out of the room.

This was the morning of the day appointed for Richard's departure. We
had no more purchases to make now; I had completed all his packing
early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged until night, when
he was to go to Liverpool for Holyhead. Jarndyce and Jarndyce being
again expected to come on that day, Richard proposed to me that we
should go down to the court and hear what passed. As it was his last
day, and he was eager to go, and I had never been there, I gave my
consent and we walked down to Westminster, where the court was then
sitting. We beguiled the way with arrangements concerning the letters
that Richard was to write to me and the letters that I was to write
to him and with a great many hopeful projects. My guardian knew where
we were going and therefore was not with us.

When we came to the court, there was the Lord Chancellor--the same
whom I had seen in his private room in Lincoln's Inn--sitting in
great state and gravity on the bench, with the mace and seals on a
red table below him and an immense flat nosegay, like a little
garden, which scented the whole court. Below the table, again, was a
long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers on the matting at
their feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and
gowns--some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobody paying
much attention to what he said. The Lord Chancellor leaned back in
his very easy chair with his elbow on the cushioned arm and his
forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were present dozed;
some read the newspapers; some walked about or whispered in groups:
all seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very
unconcerned, and extremely comfortable.

To see everything going on so smoothly and to think of the roughness
of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that full dress and
ceremony and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared misery it
represented; to consider that while the sickness of hope deferred was
raging in so many hearts this polite show went calmly on from day to
day, and year to year, in such good order and composure; to behold
the Lord Chancellor and the whole array of practitioners under him
looking at one another and at the spectators as if nobody had ever
heard that all over England the name in which they were assembled was
a bitter jest, was held in universal horror, contempt, and
indignation, was known for something so flagrant and bad that little
short of a miracle could bring any good out of it to any one--this
was so curious and self-contradictory to me, who had no experience of
it, that it was at first incredible, and I could not comprehend it. I
sat where Richard put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me;
but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor
little Miss Flite, the madwoman, standing on a bench and nodding at
it.

Miss Flite soon espied us and came to where we sat. She gave me a
gracious welcome to her domain and indicated, with much gratification
and pride, its principal attractions. Mr. Kenge also came to speak to
us and did the honours of the place in much the same way, with the
bland modesty of a proprietor. It was not a very good day for a
visit, he said; he would have preferred the first day of term; but it
was imposing, it was imposing.

When we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress--if I
may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connexion--seemed to die out
of its own vapidity, without coming, or being by anybody expected to
come, to any result. The Lord Chancellor then threw down a bundle of
papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him, and somebody said,
"Jarndyce and Jarndyce." Upon this there was a buzz, and a laugh, and
a general withdrawal of the bystanders, and a bringing in of great
heaps, and piles, and bags and bags full of papers.

I think it came on "for further directions"--about some bill of
costs, to the best of my understanding, which was confused enough.
But I counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were "in
it," and none of them appeared to understand it much better than I.
They chatted about it with the Lord Chancellor, and contradicted and
explained among themselves, and some of them said it was this way,
and some of them said it was that way, and some of them jocosely
proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there was more
buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a state of idle
entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by anybody. After an
hour or so of this, and a good many speeches being begun and cut
short, it was "referred back for the present," as Mr. Kenge said, and
the papers were bundled up again before the clerks had finished
bringing them in.

I glanced at Richard on the termination of these hopeless proceedings
and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome young face. "It
can't last for ever, Dame Durden. Better luck next time!" was all he
said.

I had seen Mr. Guppy bringing in papers and arranging them for Mr.
Kenge; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bow, which rendered
me desirous to get out of the court. Richard had given me his arm and
was taking me away when Mr. Guppy came up.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstone," said he in a whisper, "and Miss
Summerson's also, but there's a lady here, a friend of mine, who
knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands." As he
spoke, I saw before me, as if she had started into bodily shape from
my remembrance, Mrs. Rachael of my godmother's house.

"How do you do, Esther?" said she. "Do you recollect me?"

I gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very little
altered.

"I wonder you remember those times, Esther," she returned with her
old asperity. "They are changed now. Well! I am glad to see you, and
glad you are not too proud to know me." But indeed she seemed
disappointed that I was not.

"Proud, Mrs. Rachael!" I remonstrated.

"I am married, Esther," she returned, coldly correcting me, "and am
Mrs. Chadband. Well! I wish you good day, and I hope you'll do well."

Mr. Guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved a
sigh in my ear and elbowed his own and Mrs. Rachael's way through the
confused little crowd of people coming in and going out, which we
were in the midst of and which the change in the business had brought
together. Richard and I were making our way through it, and I was yet
in the first chill of the late unexpected recognition when I saw,
coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a person than Mr.
George. He made nothing of the people about him as he tramped on,
staring over their heads into the body of the court.

"George!" said Richard as I called his attention to him.

"You are well met, sir," he returned. "And you, miss. Could you point
a person out for me, I want? I don't understand these places."

Turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped when we
were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain.

"There's a little cracked old woman," he began, "that--"

I put up my finger, for Miss Flite was close by me, having kept
beside me all the time and having called the attention of several of
her legal acquaintance to me (as I had overheard to my confusion) by
whispering in their ears, "Hush! Fitz Jarndyce on my left!"

"Hem!" said Mr. George. "You remember, miss, that we passed some
conversation on a certain man this morning? Gridley," in a low
whisper behind his hand.

"Yes," said I.

"He is hiding at my place. I couldn't mention it. Hadn't his
authority. He is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her.
He says they can feel for one another, and she has been almost as
good as a friend to him here. I came down to look for her, for when I
sat by Gridley this afternoon, I seemed to hear the roll of the
muffled drums."

"Shall I tell her?" said I.

"Would you be so good?" he returned with a glance of something like
apprehension at Miss Flite. "It's a providence I met you, miss; I
doubt if I should have known how to get on with that lady." And he
put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude as
I informed little Miss Flite, in her ear, of the purport of his kind
errand.

"My angry friend from Shropshire! Almost as celebrated as myself!"
she exclaimed. "Now really! My dear, I will wait upon him with the
greatest pleasure."

"He is living concealed at Mr. George's," said I. "Hush! This is Mr.
George."

"In--deed!" returned Miss Flite. "Very proud to have the honour! A
military man, my dear. You know, a perfect general!" she whispered to
me.

Poor Miss Flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, as a
mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very often that it
was no easy matter to get her out of the court. When this was at last
done, and addressing Mr. George as "General," she gave him her arm,
to the great entertainment of some idlers who were looking on, he was
so discomposed and begged me so respectfully "not to desert him" that
I could not make up my mind to do it, especially as Miss Flite was
always tractable with me and as she too said, "Fitz Jarndyce, my
dear, you will accompany us, of course." As Richard seemed quite
willing, and even anxious, that we should see them safely to their
destination, we agreed to do so. And as Mr. George informed us that
Gridley's mind had run on Mr. Jarndyce all the afternoon after
hearing of their interview in the morning, I wrote a hasty note in
pencil to my guardian to say where we were gone and why. Mr. George
sealed it at a coffee-house, that it might lead to no discovery, and
we sent it off by a ticket-porter.

We then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood of
Leicester Square. We walked through some narrow courts, for which Mr.
George apologized, and soon came to the shooting gallery, the door of
which was closed. As he pulled a bell-handle which hung by a chain to
the door-post, a very respectable old gentleman with grey hair,
wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black spencer and gaiters and a
broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold-beaded cane, addressed
him.

"I ask your pardon, my good friend," said he, "but is this George's
Shooting Gallery?"

"It is, sir," returned Mr. George, glancing up at the great letters
in which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall.

"Oh! To be sure!" said the old gentleman, following his eyes. "Thank
you. Have you rung the bell?"

"My name is George, sir, and I have rung the bell."

"Oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "Your name is George? Then I am
here as soon as you, you see. You came for me, no doubt?"

"No, sir. You have the advantage of me."

"Oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "Then it was your young man who
came for me. I am a physician and was requested--five minutes ago--to
come and visit a sick man at George's Shooting Gallery."

"The muffled drums," said Mr. George, turning to Richard and me and
gravely shaking his head. "It's quite correct, sir. Will you please
to walk in."

The door being at that moment opened by a very singular-looking
little man in a green-baize cap and apron, whose face and hands and
dress were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary passage into
a large building with bare brick walls where there were targets, and
guns, and swords, and other things of that kind. When we had all
arrived here, the physician stopped, and taking off his hat, appeared
to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite a different man in
his place.

"Now lookee here, George," said the man, turning quickly round upon
him and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. "You know
me, and I know you. You're a man of the world, and I'm a man of the
world. My name's Bucket, as you are aware, and I have got a
peace-warrant against Gridley. You have kept him out of the way a
long time, and you have been artful in it, and it does you credit."

Mr. George, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook his head.

"Now, George," said the other, keeping close to him, "you're a
sensible man and a well-conducted man; that's what YOU are, beyond a
doubt. And mind you, I don't talk to you as a common character,
because you have served your country and you know that when duty
calls we must obey. Consequently you're very far from wanting to give
trouble. If I required assistance, you'd assist me; that's what YOU'D
do. Phil Squod, don't you go a-sidling round the gallery like
that"--the dirty little man was shuffling about with his shoulder
against the wall, and his eyes on the intruder, in a manner that
looked threatening--"because I know you and won't have it."

"Phil!" said Mr. George.

"Yes, guv'ner."

"Be quiet."

The little man, with a low growl, stood still.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Mr. Bucket, "you'll excuse anything that
may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name's Inspector Bucket
of the Detective, and I have a duty to perform. George, I know where
my man is because I was on the roof last night and saw him through
the skylight, and you along with him. He is in there, you know,"
pointing; "that's where HE is--on a sofy. Now I must see my man, and
I must tell my man to consider himself in custody; but you know me,
and you know I don't want to take any uncomfortable measures. You
give me your word, as from one man to another (and an old soldier,
mind you, likewise), that it's honourable between us two, and I'll
accommodate you to the utmost of my power."

"I give it," was the reply. "But it wasn't handsome in you, Mr.
Bucket."

"Gammon, George! Not handsome?" said Mr. Bucket, tapping him on his
broad breast again and shaking hands with him. "I don't say it wasn't
handsome in you to keep my man so close, do I? Be equally
good-tempered to me, old boy! Old William Tell, Old Shaw, the Life
Guardsman! Why, he's a model of the whole British army in himself,
ladies and gentlemen. I'd give a fifty-pun' note to be such a figure
of a man!"

The affair being brought to this head, Mr. George, after a little
consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called
him), taking Miss Flite with him. Mr. Bucket agreeing, they went away
to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting and standing by
a table covered with guns. Mr. Bucket took this opportunity of
entering into a little light conversation, asking me if I were afraid
of fire-arms, as most young ladies were; asking Richard if he were a
good shot; asking Phil Squod which he considered the best of those
rifles and what it might be worth first-hand, telling him in return
that it was a pity he ever gave way to his temper, for he was
naturally so amiable that he might have been a young woman, and
making himself generally agreeable.

After a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, and
Richard and I were going quietly away when Mr. George came after us.
He said that if we had no objection to see his comrade, he would take
a visit from us very kindly. The words had hardly passed his lips
when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared, "on the chance," he
slightly observed, "of being able to do any little thing for a poor
fellow involved in the same misfortune as himself." We all four went
back together and went into the place where Gridley was.

It was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpainted
wood. As the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high and
only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the high gallery
roof were overhead, and the skylight through which Mr. Bucket had
looked down. The sun was low--near setting--and its light came redly
in above, without descending to the ground. Upon a plain
canvas-covered sofa lay the man from Shropshire, dressed much as we
had seen him last, but so changed that at first I recognized no
likeness in his colourless face to what I recollected.

He had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on
his grievances, hour after hour. A table and some shelves were
covered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of
such tokens. Touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and the little
mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone. She sat on a
chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them.

His voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with his
strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that had
at last subdued him. The faintest shadow of an object full of form
and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from
Shropshire whom we had spoken with before.

He inclined his head to Richard and me and spoke to my guardian.

"Mr. Jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. I am not
long to be seen, I think. I am very glad to take your hand, sir. You
are a good man, superior to injustice, and God knows I honour you."

They shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some words of
comfort to him.

"It may seem strange to you, sir," returned Gridley; "I should not
have liked to see you if this had been the first time of our meeting.
But you know I made a fight for it, you know I stood up with my
single hand against them all, you know I told them the truth to the
last, and told them what they were, and what they had done to me; so
I don't mind your seeing me, this wreck."

"You have been courageous with them many and many a time," returned
my guardian.

"Sir, I have been," with a faint smile. "I told you what would come
of it when I ceased to be so, and see here! Look at us--look at us!"
He drew the hand Miss Flite held through her arm and brought her
something nearer to him.

"This ends it. Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and
hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul alone
comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many
suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on
earth that Chancery has not broken."

"Accept my blessing, Gridley," said Miss Flite in tears. "Accept my
blessing!"

"I thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, Mr.
Jarndyce. I was resolved that they should not. I did believe that I
could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they were until
I died of some bodily disorder. But I am worn out. How long I have
been wearing out, I don't know; I seemed to break down in an hour. I
hope they may never come to hear of it. I hope everybody here will
lead them to believe that I died defying them, consistently and
perseveringly, as I did through so many years."

Here Mr. Bucket, who was sitting in a corner by the door,
good-naturedly offered such consolation as he could administer.

"Come, come!" he said from his corner. "Don't go on in that way, Mr.
Gridley. You are only a little low. We are all of us a little low
sometimes. I am. Hold up, hold up! You'll lose your temper with the
whole round of 'em, again and again; and I shall take you on a score
of warrants yet, if I have luck."

He only shook his head.

"Don't shake your head," said Mr. Bucket. "Nod it; that's what I want
to see you do. Why, Lord bless your soul, what times we have had
together! Haven't I seen you in the Fleet over and over again for
contempt? Haven't I come into court, twenty afternoons for no other
purpose than to see you pin the Chancellor like a bull-dog? Don't you
remember when you first began to threaten the lawyers, and the peace
was sworn against you two or three times a week? Ask the little old
lady there; she has been always present. Hold up, Mr. Gridley, hold
up, sir!"

"What are you going to do about him?" asked George in a low voice.

"I don't know yet," said Bucket in the same tone. Then resuming his
encouragement, he pursued aloud: "Worn out, Mr. Gridley? After
dodging me for all these weeks and forcing me to climb the roof here
like a tom cat and to come to see you as a doctor? That ain't like
being worn out. I should think not! Now I tell you what you want. You
want excitement, you know, to keep YOU up; that's what YOU want.
You're used to it, and you can't do without it. I couldn't myself.
Very well, then; here's this warrant got by Mr. Tulkinghorn of
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and backed into half-a-dozen counties since.
What do you say to coming along with me, upon this warrant, and
having a good angry argument before the magistrates? It'll do you
good; it'll freshen you up and get you into training for another turn
at the Chancellor. Give in? Why, I am surprised to hear a man of your
energy talk of giving in. You mustn't do that. You're half the fun of
the fair in the Court of Chancery. George, you lend Mr. Gridley a
hand, and let's see now whether he won't be better up than down."

"He is very weak," said the trooper in a low voice.

"Is he?" returned Bucket anxiously. "I only want to rouse him. I
don't like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. It would
cheer him up more than anything if I could make him a little waxy
with me. He's welcome to drop into me, right and left, if he likes. I
shall never take advantage of it."

The roof rang with a scream from Miss Flite, which still rings in my
ears.

"Oh, no, Gridley!" she cried as he fell heavily and calmly back from
before her. "Not without my blessing. After so many years!"

The sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof, and
the shadow had crept upward. But to me the shadow of that pair, one
living and one dead, fell heavier on Richard's departure than the
darkness of the darkest night. And through Richard's farewell words I
heard it echoed: "Of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits
and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul
alone comes natural to me, and I am fit for. There is a tie of many
suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie I ever had on
earth that Chancery has not broken!"




CHAPTER XXV

Mrs. Snagsby Sees It All


There is disquietude in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Black
suspicion hides in that peaceful region. The mass of Cook's Courtiers
are in their usual state of mind, no better and no worse; but Mr.
Snagsby is changed, and his little woman knows it.

For Tom-all-Alone's and Lincoln's Inn Fields persist in harnessing
themselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of Mr.
Snagsby's imagination; and Mr. Bucket drives; and the passengers are
Jo and Mr. Tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls though the
law-stationery business at wild speed all round the clock. Even in
the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken, it rattles
away at a smoking pace from the dinner-table, when Mr. Snagsby pauses
in carving the first slice of the leg of mutton baked with potatoes
and stares at the kitchen wall.

Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to do with.
Something is wrong somewhere, but what something, what may come of
it, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and unheard of quarter
is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions of the robes and
coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through the
surface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers; his veneration for the
mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers,
whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, and all the legal
neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of Detective Mr.
Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner, impossible to
be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is a party to some
dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And it is the fearful
peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour of his daily life, at
any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, at any
entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may
take air and fire, explode, and blow up--Mr. Bucket only knows whom.

For which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the shop (as many
men unknown do) and says, "Is Mr. Snagsby in?" or words to that
innocent effect, Mr. Snagsby's heart knocks hard at his guilty
breast. He undergoes so much from such inquiries that when they are
made by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears over the
counter and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and why they
can't speak out at once? More impracticable men and boys persist in
walking into Mr. Snagsby's sleep and terrifying him with
unaccountable questions, so that often when the cock at the little
dairy in Cursitor Street breaks out in his usual absurd way about the
morning, Mr. Snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare, with his
little woman shaking him and saying "What's the matter with the man!"

The little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty. To
know that he is always keeping a secret from her, that he has under
all circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender double tooth,
which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head, gives Mr.
Snagsby, in her dentistical presence, much of the air of a dog who
has a reservation from his master and will look anywhere rather than
meet his eye.

These various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, are not
lost upon her. They impel her to say, "Snagsby has something on his
mind!" And thus suspicion gets into Cook's Court, Cursitor Street.
From suspicion to jealousy, Mrs. Snagsby finds the road as natural
and short as from Cook's Court to Chancery Lane. And thus jealousy
gets into Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. Once there (and it was
always lurking thereabout), it is very active and nimble in Mrs.
Snagsby's breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations of Mr.
Snagsby's pockets; to secret perusals of Mr. Snagsby's letters; to
private researches in the day book and ledger, till, cash-box, and
iron safe; to watchings at windows, listenings behind doors, and a
general putting of this and that together by the wrong end.

Mrs. Snagsby is so perpetually on the alert that the house becomes
ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. The 'prentices
think somebody may have been murdered there in bygone times. Guster
holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked up at Tooting, where
they were found floating among the orphans) that there is buried
money underneath the cellar, guarded by an old man with a white
beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand years because he said
the Lord's Prayer backwards.

"Who was Nimrod?" Mrs. Snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself. "Who
was that lady--that creature? And who is that boy?" Now, Nimrod being
as dead as the mighty hunter whose name Mrs. Snagsby has
appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she directs her mental
eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the boy. "And who,"
quoth Mrs. Snagsby for the thousand and first time, "is that boy? Who
is that--!" And there Mrs. Snagsby is seized with an inspiration.

He has no respect for Mr. Chadband. No, to be sure, and he wouldn't
have, of course. Naturally he wouldn't, under those contagious
circumstances. He was invited and appointed by Mr. Chadband--why,
Mrs. Snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!--to come back, and
be told where he was to go, to be addressed by Mr. Chadband; and he
never came! Why did he never come? Because he was told not to come.
Who told him not to come? Who? Ha, ha! Mrs. Snagsby sees it all.

But happily (and Mrs. Snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightly
smiles) that boy was met by Mr. Chadband yesterday in the streets;
and that boy, as affording a subject which Mr. Chadband desires to
improve for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, was
seized by Mr. Chadband and threatened with being delivered over to
the police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived and
unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appear in
Cook's Court to-morrow night, "to--mor--row--night," Mrs. Snagsby
repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile and another tight
shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy will be here, and
to-morrow night Mrs. Snagsby will have her eye upon him and upon some
one else; and oh, you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says
Mrs. Snagsby with haughtiness and scorn), but you can't blind ME!

Mrs. Snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds her
purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. To-morrow comes, the savoury
preparations for the Oil Trade come, the evening comes. Comes Mr.
Snagsby in his black coat; come the Chadbands; come (when the gorging
vessel is replete) the 'prentices and Guster, to be edified; comes at
last, with his slouching head, and his shuffle backward, and his
shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right, and his shuffle to the
left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, which he picks as if
it were some mangy bird he had caught and was plucking before eating
raw, Jo, the very, very tough subject Mr. Chadband is to improve.

Mrs. Snagsby screws a watchful glance on Jo as he is brought into the
little drawing-room by Guster. He looks at Mr. Snagsby the moment he
comes in. Aha! Why does he look at Mr. Snagsby? Mr. Snagsby looks at
him. Why should he do that, but that Mrs. Snagsby sees it all? Why
else should that look pass between them, why else should Mr. Snagsby
be confused and cough a signal cough behind his hand? It is as clear
as crystal that Mr. Snagsby is that boy's father.

"Peace, my friends," says Chadband, rising and wiping the oily
exudations from his reverend visage. "Peace be with us! My friends,
why with us? Because," with his fat smile, "it cannot be against us,
because it must be for us; because it is not hardening, because it is
softening; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes home
unto us like the dove. Therefore, my friends, peace be with us! My
human boy, come forward!"

Stretching forth his flabby paw, Mr. Chadband lays the same on Jo's
arm and considers where to station him. Jo, very doubtful of his
reverend friend's intentions and not at all clear but that something
practical and painful is going to be done to him, mutters, "You let
me alone. I never said nothink to you. You let me alone."

"No, my young friend," says Chadband smoothly, "I will not let you
alone. And why? Because I am a harvest-labourer, because I am a
toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and are
become as a precious instrument in my hands. My friends, may I so
employ this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to your
profit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! My young
friend, sit upon this stool."

Jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend gentleman
wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms and is got
into the required position with great difficulty and every possible
manifestation of reluctance.

When he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, Mr. Chadband, retiring
behind the table, holds up his bear's-paw and says, "My friends!"
This is the signal for a general settlement of the audience. The
'prentices giggle internally and nudge each other. Guster falls into
a staring and vacant state, compounded of a stunned admiration of Mr.
Chadband and pity for the friendless outcast whose condition touches
her nearly. Mrs. Snagsby silently lays trains of gunpowder. Mrs.
Chadband composes herself grimly by the fire and warms her knees,
finding that sensation favourable to the reception of eloquence.

It happens that Mr. Chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some member
of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing his points with
that particular person, who is understood to be expected to be moved
to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or other audible expression of
inward working, which expression of inward working, being echoed by
some elderly lady in the next pew and so communicated like a game of
forfeits through a circle of the more fermentable sinners present,
serves the purpose of parliamentary cheering and gets Mr. Chadband's
steam up. From mere force of habit, Mr. Chadband in saying "My
friends!" has rested his eye on Mr. Snagsby and proceeds to make that
ill-starred stationer, already sufficiently confused, the immediate
recipient of his discourse.

"We have here among us, my friends," says Chadband, "a Gentile and a
heathen, a dweller in the tents of Tom-all-Alone's and a mover-on
upon the surface of the earth. We have here among us, my friends,"
and Mr. Chadband, untwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail,
bestows an oily smile on Mr. Snagsby, signifying that he will throw
him an argumentative back-fall presently if he be not already down,
"a brother and a boy. Devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid
of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of precious
stones. Now, my friends, why do I say he is devoid of these
possessions? Why? Why is he?" Mr. Chadband states the question as if
he were propounding an entirely new riddle of much ingenuity and
merit to Mr. Snagsby and entreating him not to give it up.

Mr. Snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he received
just now from his little woman--at about the period when Mr. Chadband
mentioned the word parents--is tempted into modestly remarking, "I
don't know, I'm sure, sir." On which interruption Mrs. Chadband
glares and Mrs. Snagsby says, "For shame!"

"I hear a voice," says Chadband; "is it a still small voice, my
friends? I fear not, though I fain would hope so--"

"Ah--h!" from Mrs. Snagsby.

"Which says, 'I don't know.' Then I will tell you why. I say this
brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of
relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, and
of precious stones because he is devoid of the light that shines in
upon some of us. What is that light? What is it? I ask you, what is
that light?"

Mr. Chadband draws back his head and pauses, but Mr. Snagsby is not
to be lured on to his destruction again. Mr. Chadband, leaning
forward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow directly
into Mr. Snagsby with the thumb-nail already mentioned.

"It is," says Chadband, "the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon
of moons, the star of stars. It is the light of Terewth."

Mr. Chadband draws himself up again and looks triumphantly at Mr.
Snagsby as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that.

"Of Terewth," says Mr. Chadband, hitting him again. "Say not to me
that it is NOT the lamp of lamps. I say to you it is. I say to you, a
million of times over, it is. It is! I say to you that I will
proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that the less
you like it, the more I will proclaim it to you. With a
speaking-trumpet! I say to you that if you rear yourself against it,
you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered, you
shall be flawed, you shall be smashed."

The present effect of this flight of oratory--much admired for its
general power by Mr. Chadband's followers--being not only to make Mr.
Chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent Mr. Snagsby
in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, with a forehead of
brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunate tradesman becomes yet
more disconcerted and is in a very advanced state of low spirits and
false position when Mr. Chadband accidentally finishes him.

"My friends," he resumes after dabbing his fat head for some
time--and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his
pocket-handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after every dab--"to
pursue the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to
improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that Terewth to
which I have alluded. For, my young friends," suddenly addressing the
'prentices and Guster, to their consternation, "if I am told by the
doctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, I may naturally ask
what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. I may wish to be informed of
that before I dose myself with either or with both. Now, my young
friends, what is this Terewth then? Firstly (in a spirit of love),
what is the common sort of Terewth--the working clothes--the
every-day wear, my young friends? Is it deception?"

"Ah--h!" from Mrs. Snagsby.

"Is it suppression?"

A shiver in the negative from Mrs. Snagsby.

"Is it reservation?"

A shake of the head from Mrs. Snagsby--very long and very tight.

"No, my friends, it is neither of these. Neither of these names
belongs to it. When this young heathen now among us--who is now, my
friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being set
upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that I should
have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and to conquer, for
his sake--when this young hardened heathen told us a story of a cock,
and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign, was THAT the
Terewth? No. Or if it was partly, was it wholly and entirely? No, my
friends, no!"

If Mr. Snagsby could withstand his little woman's look as it enters
at his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the whole
tenement, he were other than the man he is. He cowers and droops.

"Or, my juvenile friends," says Chadband, descending to the level of
their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in his
greasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for the purpose,
"if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and there
see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call unto him the
mistress of this house, and was to say, 'Sarah, rejoice with me, for
I have seen an elephant!' would THAT be Terewth?"

Mrs. Snagsby in tears.

"Or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and
returning said 'Lo, the city is barren, I have seen but an eel,'
would THAT be Terewth?"

Mrs. Snagsby sobbing loudly.

"Or put it, my juvenile friends," said Chadband, stimulated by the
sound, "that the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen--for
parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt--after casting
him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and the
young gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings and
had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and their
dancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher's meat and
poultry, would THAT be Terewth?"

Mrs. Snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms, not an
unresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that Cook's
Court re-echoes with her shrieks. Finally, becoming cataleptic, she
has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano. After
unspeakable suffering, productive of the utmost consternation, she is
pronounced, by expresses from the bedroom, free from pain, though
much exhausted, in which state of affairs Mr. Snagsby, trampled and
crushed in the piano-forte removal, and extremely timid and feeble,
ventures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room.

All this time Jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up, ever
picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. He spits them
out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in his nature to
be an unimprovable reprobate and that it's no good HIS trying to keep
awake, for HE won't never know nothink. Though it may be, Jo, that
there is a history so interesting and affecting even to minds as near
the brutes as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for common
men, that if the Chadbands, removing their own persons from the
light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but leave it
unimproved, would but regard it as being eloquent enough without
their modest aid--it might hold thee awake, and thou might learn from
it yet!

Jo never heard of any such book. Its compilers and the Reverend
Chadband are all one to him, except that he knows the Reverend
Chadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than hear him
talk for five minutes. "It an't no good my waiting here no longer,"
thinks Jo. "Mr. Snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to me to-night."
And downstairs he shuffles.

But downstairs is the charitable Guster, holding by the handrail of
the kitchen stairs and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, the same
having been induced by Mrs. Snagsby's screaming. She has her own
supper of bread and cheese to hand to Jo, with whom she ventures to
interchange a word or so for the first time.

"Here's something to eat, poor boy," says Guster.

"Thank'ee, mum," says Jo.

"Are you hungry?"

"Jist!" says Jo.

"What's gone of your father and your mother, eh?"

Jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. For this orphan
charge of the Christian saint whose shrine was at Tooting has patted
him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in his life that any
decent hand has been so laid upon him.

"I never know'd nothink about 'em," says Jo.

"No more didn't I of mine," cries Guster. She is repressing symptoms
favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm at something and
vanishes down the stairs.

"Jo," whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on the
step.

"Here I am, Mr. Snagsby!"

"I didn't know you were gone--there's another half-crown, Jo. It was
quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other night when
we were out together. It would breed trouble. You can't be too quiet,
Jo."

"I am fly, master!"

And so, good night.

A ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-stationer
to the room he came from and glides higher up. And henceforth he
begins, go where he will, to be attended by another shadow than his
own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly less quiet than his
own. And into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy his own shadow may
pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! For the watchful Mrs.
Snagsby is there too--bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of
his shadow.




CHAPTER XXVI

Sharpshooters


Wintry morning, looking with dull eyes and sallow face upon the
neighbourhood of Leicester Square, finds its inhabitants unwilling to
get out of bed. Many of them are not early risers at the brightest of
times, being birds of night who roost when the sun is high and are
wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine out. Behind dingy
blind and curtain, in upper story and garret, skulking more or less
under false names, false hair, false titles, false jewellery, and
false histories, a colony of brigands lie in their first sleep.
Gentlemen of the green-baize road who could discourse from personal
experience of foreign galleys and home treadmills; spies of strong
governments that eternally quake with weakness and miserable fear,
broken traitors, cowards, bullies, gamesters, shufflers, swindlers,
and false witnesses; some not unmarked by the branding-iron beneath
their dirty braid; all with more cruelty in them than was in Nero,
and more crime than is in Newgate. For howsoever bad the devil can be
in fustian or smock-frock (and he can be very bad in both), he is a
more designing, callous, and intolerable devil when he sticks a pin
in his shirt-front, calls himself a gentleman, backs a card or
colour, plays a game or so of billiards, and knows a little about
bills and promissory notes than in any other form he wears. And in
such form Mr. Bucket shall find him, when he will, still pervading
the tributary channels of Leicester Square.

But the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. It wakes Mr.
George of the shooting gallery and his familiar. They arise, roll up
and stow away their mattresses. Mr. George, having shaved himself
before a looking-glass of minute proportions, then marches out,
bare-headed and bare-chested, to the pump in the little yard and anon
comes back shining with yellow soap, friction, drifting rain, and
exceedingly cold water. As he rubs himself upon a large jack-towel,
blowing like a military sort of diver just come up, his hair curling
tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the more he rubs it so
that it looks as if it never could be loosened by any less coercive
instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb--as he rubs, and puffs,
and polishes, and blows, turning his head from side to side the more
conveniently to excoriate his throat, and standing with his body well
bent forward to keep the wet from his martial legs, Phil, on his
knees lighting a fire, looks round as if it were enough washing for
him to see all that done, and sufficient renovation for one day to
take in the superfluous health his master throws off.

When Mr. George is dry, he goes to work to brush his head with two
hard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that Phil,
shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it,
winks with sympathy. This chafing over, the ornamental part of Mr.
George's toilet is soon performed. He fills his pipe, lights it, and
marches up and down smoking, as his custom is, while Phil, raising a
powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares breakfast. He smokes
gravely and marches in slow time. Perhaps this morning's pipe is
devoted to the memory of Gridley in his grave.

"And so, Phil," says George of the shooting gallery after several
turns in silence, "you were dreaming of the country last night?"

Phil, by the by, said as much in a tone of surprise as he scrambled
out of bed.

"Yes, guv'ner."

"What was it like?"

"I hardly know what it was like, guv'ner," said Phil, considering.

"How did you know it was the country?"

"On account of the grass, I think. And the swans upon it," says Phil
after further consideration.

"What were the swans doing on the grass?"

"They was a-eating of it, I expect," says Phil.

The master resumes his march, and the man resumes his preparation of
breakfast. It is not necessarily a lengthened preparation, being
limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfast requisites for
two and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at the fire in the rusty
grate; but as Phil has to sidle round a considerable part of the
gallery for every object he wants, and never brings two objects at
once, it takes time under the circumstances. At length the breakfast
is ready. Phil announcing it, Mr. George knocks the ashes out of his
pipe on the hob, stands his pipe itself in the chimney corner, and
sits down to the meal. When he has helped himself, Phil follows suit,
sitting at the extreme end of the little oblong table and taking his
plate on his knees. Either in humility, or to hide his blackened
hands, or because it is his natural manner of eating.

"The country," says Mr. George, plying his knife and fork; "why, I
suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, Phil?"

"I see the marshes once," says Phil, contentedly eating his
breakfast.

"What marshes?"

"THE marshes, commander," returns Phil.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know where they are," says Phil; "but I see 'em, guv'ner.
They was flat. And miste."

Governor and commander are interchangeable terms with Phil,
expressive of the same respect and deference and applicable to nobody
but Mr. George.

"I was born in the country, Phil."

"Was you indeed, commander?"

"Yes. And bred there."

Phil elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring at his
master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still
staring at him.

"There's not a bird's note that I don't know," says Mr. George. "Not
many an English leaf or berry that I couldn't name. Not many a tree
that I couldn't climb yet if I was put to it. I was a real country
boy, once. My good mother lived in the country."

"She must have been a fine old lady, guv'ner," Phil observes.

"Aye! And not so old either, five and thirty years ago," says Mr.
George. "But I'll wager that at ninety she would be near as upright
as me, and near as broad across the shoulders."

"Did she die at ninety, guv'ner?" inquires Phil.

"No. Bosh! Let her rest in peace, God bless her!" says the
trooper. "What set me on about country boys, and runaways, and
good-for-nothings? You, to be sure! So you never clapped your eyes
upon the country--marshes and dreams excepted. Eh?"

Phil shakes his head.

"Do you want to see it?"

"N-no, I don't know as I do, particular," says Phil.

"The town's enough for you, eh?"

"Why, you see, commander," says Phil, "I ain't acquainted with
anythink else, and I doubt if I ain't a-getting too old to take to
novelties."

"How old ARE you, Phil?" asks the trooper, pausing as he conveys his
smoking saucer to his lips.

"I'm something with a eight in it," says Phil. "It can't be eighty.
Nor yet eighteen. It's betwixt 'em, somewheres."

Mr. George, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting its
contents, is laughingly beginning, "Why, what the deuce, Phil--" when
he stops, seeing that Phil is counting on his dirty fingers.

"I was just eight," says Phil, "agreeable to the parish calculation,
when I went with the tinker. I was sent on a errand, and I see him
a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all to himself wery
comfortable, and he says, 'Would you like to come along a me, my
man?' I says 'Yes,' and him and me and the fire goes home to
Clerkenwell together. That was April Fool Day. I was able to count up
to ten; and when April Fool Day come round again, I says to myself,
'Now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.' April Fool Day after
that, I says, 'Now, old chap, you're two and a eight in it.' In
course of time, I come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight
in it. When it got so high, it got the upper hand of me, but this is
how I always know there's a eight in it."

"Ah!" says Mr. George, resuming his breakfast. "And where's the
tinker?"

"Drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner, and the hospital put him--in
a glass-case, I HAVE heerd," Phil replies mysteriously.

"By that means you got promotion? Took the business, Phil?"

"Yes, commander, I took the business. Such as it was. It wasn't much
of a beat--round Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, Clerkenwell, Smiffeld,
and there--poor neighbourhood, where they uses up the kettles till
they're past mending. Most of the tramping tinkers used to come and
lodge at our place; that was the best part of my master's earnings.
But they didn't come to me. I warn't like him. He could sing 'em a
good song. I couldn't! He could play 'em a tune on any sort of pot
you please, so as it was iron or block tin. I never could do nothing
with a pot but mend it or bile it--never had a note of music in me.
Besides, I was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of me."

"They were mighty particular. You would pass muster in a crowd,
Phil!" says the trooper with a pleasant smile.

"No, guv'ner," returns Phil, shaking his head. "No, I shouldn't. I
was passable enough when I went with the tinker, though nothing to
boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth when I
was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off, and
swallering the smoke, and what with being nat'rally unfort'nate in
the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sich
means, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as I got older,
almost whenever he was too far gone in drink--which was almost
always--my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time. As to
since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the men was
given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident at a
gas-works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-filling at
the firework business, I am ugly enough to be made a show on!"

Resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfied
manner, Phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. While drinking
it, he says, "It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see
you, commander. You remember?"

"I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun."

"Crawling, guv'ner, again a wall--"

"True, Phil--shouldering your way on--"

"In a night-cap!" exclaims Phil, excited.

"In a night-cap--"

"And hobbling with a couple of sticks!" cries Phil, still more
excited.

"With a couple of sticks. When--"

"When you stops, you know," cries Phil, putting down his cup and
saucer and hastily removing his plate from his knees, "and says to
me, 'What, comrade! You have been in the wars!' I didn't say much to
you, commander, then, for I was took by surprise that a person so
strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a
limping bag of bones as I was. But you says to me, says you,
delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was
like a glass of something hot, 'What accident have you met with? You
have been badly hurt. What's amiss, old boy? Cheer up, and tell us
about it!' Cheer up! I was cheered already! I says as much to you,
you says more to me, I says more to you, you says more to me, and
here I am, commander! Here I am, commander!" cries Phil, who has
started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. "If a
mark's wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers
take aim at me. They can't spoil MY beauty. I'M all right. Come on!
If they want a man to box at, let 'em box at me. Let 'em knock me
well about the head. I don't mind. If they want a light-weight to be
throwed for practice, Cornwall, Devonshire, or Lancashire, let 'em
throw me. They won't hurt ME. I have been throwed, all sorts of
styles, all my life!"

With this unexpected speech, energetically delivered and accompanied
by action illustrative of the various exercises referred to, Phil
Squod shoulders his way round three sides of the gallery, and
abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt at him with his
head, intended to express devotion to his service. He then begins to
clear away the breakfast.

Mr. George, after laughing cheerfully and clapping him on the
shoulder, assists in these arrangements and helps to get the gallery
into business order. That done, he takes a turn at the dumb-bells,
and afterwards weighing himself and opining that he is getting "too
fleshy," engages with great gravity in solitary broadsword practice.
Meanwhile Phil has fallen to work at his usual table, where he screws
and unscrews, and cleans, and files, and whistles into small
apertures, and blackens himself more and more, and seems to do and
undo everything that can be done and undone about a gun.

Master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the passage,
where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of unusual
company. These steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the gallery,
bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with any
day in the year but the fifth of November.

It consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by two
bearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched
mask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popular verses
commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow Old England
up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantly closed as
the chair is put down. At which point the figure in it gasping, "O
Lord! Oh, dear me! I am shaken!" adds, "How de do, my dear friend,
how de do?" Mr. George then descries, in the procession, the
venerable Mr. Smallweed out for an airing, attended by his
granddaughter Judy as body-guard.

"Mr. George, my dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed, removing
his right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom he has nearly
throttled coming along, "how de do? You're surprised to see me, my
dear friend."

"I should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend in
the city," returns Mr. George.

"I am very seldom out," pants Mr. Smallweed. "I haven't been out for
many months. It's inconvenient--and it comes expensive. But I longed
so much to see you, my dear Mr. George. How de do, sir?"

"I am well enough," says Mr. George. "I hope you are the same."

"You can't be too well, my dear friend." Mr. Smallweed takes him by
both hands. "I have brought my granddaughter Judy. I couldn't keep
her away. She longed so much to see you."

"Hum! She bears it calmly!" mutters Mr. George.

"So we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the
corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried
me here that I might see my dear friend in his own establishment!
This," says Grandfather Smallweed, alluding to the bearer, who has
been in danger of strangulation and who withdraws adjusting his
windpipe, "is the driver of the cab. He has nothing extra. It is by
agreement included in his fare. This person," the other bearer, "we
engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. Which is twopence.
Judy, give the person twopence. I was not sure you had a workman of
your own here, my dear friend, or we needn't have employed this
person."

Grandfather Smallweed refers to Phil with a glance of considerable
terror and a half-subdued "O Lord! Oh, dear me!" Nor in his
apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for
Phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap
before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air
of a dead shot intent on picking Mr. Smallweed off as an ugly old
bird of the crow species.

"Judy, my child," says Grandfather Smallweed, "give the person his
twopence. It's a great deal for what he has done."

The person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of human
fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of London,
ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a "mission" for holding
horses and calling coaches, received his twopence with anything but
transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it over-handed, and
retires.

"My dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, "would you be so
kind as help to carry me to the fire? I am accustomed to a fire, and
I am an old man, and I soon chill. Oh, dear me!"

His closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman by
the suddenness with which Mr. Squod, like a genie, catches him up,
chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone.

"O Lord!" says Mr. Smallweed, panting. "Oh, dear me! Oh, my stars! My
dear friend, your workman is very strong--and very prompt. O Lord, he
is very prompt! Judy, draw me back a little. I'm being scorched in
the legs," which indeed is testified to the noses of all present by
the smell of his worsted stockings.

The gentle Judy, having backed her grandfather a little way from the
fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having released his
overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, Mr. Smallweed
again says, "Oh, dear me! O Lord!" and looking about and meeting Mr.
George's glance, again stretches out both hands.

"My dear friend! So happy in this meeting! And this is your
establishment? It's a delightful place. It's a picture! You never
find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear
friend?" adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill at ease.

"No, no. No fear of that."

"And your workman. He--Oh, dear me!--he never lets anything off
without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?"

"He has never hurt anybody but himself," says Mr. George, smiling.

"But he might, you know. He seems to have hurt himself a good deal,
and he might hurt somebody else," the old gentleman returns. "He
mightn't mean it--or he even might. Mr. George, will you order him to
leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away?"

Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty-handed, to
the other end of the gallery. Mr. Smallweed, reassured, falls to
rubbing his legs.

"And you're doing well, Mr. George?" he says to the trooper, squarely
standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in his hand.
"You are prospering, please the Powers?"

Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, "Go on. You have not come
to say that, I know."

"You are so sprightly, Mr. George," returns the venerable
grandfather. "You are such good company."

"Ha ha! Go on!" says Mr. George.

"My dear friend! But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. It
might cut somebody, by accident. It makes me shiver, Mr. George.
Curse him!" says the excellent old gentleman apart to Judy as the
trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. "He owes me money,
and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. I
wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he'd shave her head
off."

Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the old
man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says quietly,
"Now for it!"

"Ho!" cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful chuckle.
"Yes. Now for it. Now for what, my dear friend?"

"For a pipe," says Mr. George, who with great composure sets his
chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills it
and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully.

This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds it so
difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes
exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent
vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the
visage of Mr. George. As the excellent old gentleman's nails are long
and leaden, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and
watery; and, over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, to
slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he
becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of
Judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with something more than
the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats and pokes him
in divers parts of his body, but particularly in that part which the
science of self-defence would call his wind, that in his grievous
distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour's rammer.

When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, with a
white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches out
her weazen forefinger and gives Mr. George one poke in the back. The
trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her esteemed
grandfather, and having thus brought them together, stares rigidly at
the fire.

"Aye, aye! Ho, ho! U--u--u--ugh!" chatters Grandfather Smallweed,
swallowing his rage. "My dear friend!" (still clawing).

"I tell you what," says Mr. George. "If you want to converse with me,
you must speak out. I am one of the roughs, and I can't go about and
about. I haven't the art to do it. I am not clever enough. It don't
suit me. When you go winding round and round me," says the trooper,
putting his pipe between his lips again, "damme, if I don't feel as
if I was being smothered!"

And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to assure
himself that he is not smothered yet.

"If you have come to give me a friendly call," continues Mr. George,
"I am obliged to you; how are you? If you have come to see whether
there's any property on the premises, look about you; you are
welcome. If you want to out with something, out with it!"

The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the fire, gives her
grandfather one ghostly poke.

"You see! It's her opinion too. And why the devil that young woman
won't sit down like a Christian," says Mr. George with his eyes
musingly fixed on Judy, "I can't comprehend."

"She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir," says Grandfather
Smallweed. "I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need some
attention. I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot"
(snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), "but I need
attention, my dear friend."

"Well!" returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old man.
"Now then?"

"My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business with a
pupil of yours."

"Has he?" says Mr. George. "I am sorry to hear it."

"Yes, sir." Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs. "He is a fine young
soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone. Friends came
forward and paid it all up, honourable."

"Did they?" returns Mr. George. "Do you think your friend in the city
would like a piece of advice?"

"I think he would, my dear friend. From you."

"I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. There's
no more to be got by it. The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is
brought to a dead halt."

"No, no, my dear friend. No, no, Mr. George. No, no, no, sir,"
remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly rubbing his spare legs.
"Not quite a dead halt, I think. He has good friends, and he is good
for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission,
and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his
chance in a wife, and--oh, do you know, Mr. George, I think my friend
would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?" says
Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvet cap and scratching his
ear like a monkey.

Mr. George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his
chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as if he
were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has
taken.

"But to pass from one subject to another," resumes Mr. Smallweed.
"'To promote the conversation,' as a joker might say. To pass, Mr.
George, from the ensign to the captain."

"What are you up to, now?" asks Mr. George, pausing with a frown in
stroking the recollection of his moustache. "What captain?"

"Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon."

"Oh! That's it, is it?" says Mr. George with a low whistle as he sees
both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. "You are
there! Well? What about it? Come, I won't be smothered any more.
Speak!"

"My dear friend," returns the old man, "I was applied--Judy, shake me
up a little!--I was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my
opinion still is that the captain is not dead."

"Bosh!" observes Mr. George.

"What was your remark, my dear friend?" inquires the old man with his
hand to his ear.

"Bosh!"

"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "Mr. George, of my opinion you can
judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me and the
reasons given for asking 'em. Now, what do you think the lawyer
making the inquiries wants?"

"A job," says Mr. George.

"Nothing of the kind!"

"Can't be a lawyer, then," says Mr. George, folding his arms with an
air of confirmed resolution.

"My dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. He wants to see
some fragment in Captain Hawdon's writing. He don't want to keep it.
He only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his
possession."

"Well?"

"Well, Mr. George. Happening to remember the advertisement concerning
Captain Hawdon and any information that could be given respecting
him, he looked it up and came to me--just as you did, my dear friend.
WILL you shake hands? So glad you came that day! I should have missed
forming such a friendship if you hadn't come!"

"Well, Mr. Smallweed?" says Mr. George again after going through the
ceremony with some stiffness.

"I had no such thing. I have nothing but his signature. Plague
pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him," says
the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remembrances of a
prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry hands, "I
have half a million of his signatures, I think! But you,"
breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as Judy re-adjusts the
cap on his skittle-ball of a head, "you, my dear Mr. George, are
likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose.
Anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand."

"Some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering; "may be, I
have."

"My dearest friend!"

"May be, I have not."

"Ho!" says Grandfather Smallweed, crest-fallen.

"But if I had bushels of it, I would not show as much as would make a
cartridge without knowing why."

"Sir, I have told you why. My dear Mr. George, I have told you why."

"Not enough," says the trooper, shaking his head. "I must know more,
and approve it."

"Then, will you come to the lawyer? My dear friend, will you come and
see the gentleman?" urges Grandfather Smallweed, pulling out a lean
old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. "I told him
it was probable I might call upon him between ten and eleven this
forenoon, and it's now half after ten. Will you come and see the
gentleman, Mr. George?"

"Hum!" says he gravely. "I don't mind that. Though why this should
concern you so much, I don't know."

"Everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing anything
to light about him. Didn't he take us all in? Didn't he owe us
immense sums, all round? Concern me? Who can anything about him
concern more than me? Not, my dear friend," says Grandfather
Smallweed, lowering his tone, "that I want YOU to betray anything.
Far from it. Are you ready to come, my dear friend?"

"Aye! I'll come in a moment. I promise nothing, you know."

"No, my dear Mr. George; no."

"And you mean to say you're going to give me a lift to this place,
wherever it is, without charging for it?" Mr. George inquires,
getting his hat and thick wash-leather gloves.

This pleasantry so tickles Mr. Smallweed that he laughs, long and
low, before the fire. But ever while he laughs, he glances over his
paralytic shoulder at Mr. George and eagerly watches him as he
unlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end of the
gallery, looks here and there upon the higher shelves, and ultimately
takes something out with a rustling of paper, folds it, and puts it
in his breast. Then Judy pokes Mr. Smallweed once, and Mr. Smallweed
pokes Judy once.

"I am ready," says the trooper, coming back. "Phil, you can carry
this old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing of him."

"Oh, dear me! O Lord! Stop a moment!" says Mr. Smallweed. "He's so
very prompt! Are you sure you can do it carefully, my worthy man?"

Phil makes no reply, but seizing the chair and its load, sidles away,
tightly hugged by the now speechless Mr. Smallweed, and bolts along
the passage as if he had an acceptable commission to carry the old
gentleman to the nearest volcano. His shorter trust, however,
terminating at the cab, he deposits him there; and the fair Judy
takes her place beside him, and the chair embellishes the roof, and
Mr. George takes the vacant place upon the box.

Mr. George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds from time
to time as he peeps into the cab through the window behind him, where
the grim Judy is always motionless, and the old gentleman with his
cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat into the straw and
looking upward at him out of his other eye with a helpless expression
of being jolted in the back.




CHAPTER XXVII

More Old Soldiers Than One


Mr. George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, for
their destination is Lincoln's Inn Fields. When the driver stops his
horses, Mr. George alights, and looking in at the window, says,
"What, Mr. Tulkinghorn's your man, is he?"

"Yes, my dear friend. Do you know him, Mr. George?"

"Why, I have heard of him--seen him too, I think. But I don't know
him, and he don't know me."

There ensues the carrying of Mr. Smallweed upstairs, which is done to
perfection with the trooper's help. He is borne into Mr.
Tulkinghorn's great room and deposited on the Turkey rug before the
fire. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but will be
back directly. The occupant of the pew in the hall, having said thus
much, stirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves.

Mr. George is mightily curious in respect of the room. He looks up at
the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books, contemplates
the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names on the
boxes.

"'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,'" Mr. George reads thoughtfully.
"Ha! 'Manor of Chesney Wold.' Humph!" Mr. George stands looking at
these boxes a long while--as if they were pictures--and comes back to
the fire repeating, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and Manor of
Chesney Wold, hey?"

"Worth a mint of money, Mr. George!" whispers Grandfather Smallweed,
rubbing his legs. "Powerfully rich!"

"Who do you mean? This old gentleman, or the Baronet?"

"This gentleman, this gentleman."

"So I have heard; and knows a thing or two, I'll hold a wager. Not
bad quarters, either," says Mr. George, looking round again. "See the
strong-box yonder!"

This reply is cut short by Mr. Tulkinghorn's arrival. There is no
change in him, of course. Rustily drest, with his spectacles in his
hand, and their very case worn threadbare. In manner, close and dry.
In voice, husky and low. In face, watchful behind a blind; habitually
not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. The peerage may have
warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than Mr. Tulkinghorn,
after all, if everything were known.

"Good morning, Mr. Smallweed, good morning!" he says as he comes in.
"You have brought the sergeant, I see. Sit down, sergeant."

As Mr. Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat, he
looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooper
stands and says within himself perchance, "You'll do, my friend!"

"Sit down, sergeant," he repeats as he comes to his table, which is
set on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. "Cold and raw
this morning, cold and raw!" Mr. Tulkinghorn warms before the bars,
alternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands and looks (from
behind that blind which is always down) at the trio sitting in a
little semicircle before him.

"Now, I can feel what I am about" (as perhaps he can in two senses),
"Mr. Smallweed." The old gentleman is newly shaken up by Judy to bear
his part in the conversation. "You have brought our good friend the
sergeant, I see."

"Yes, sir," returns Mr. Smallweed, very servile to the lawyer's
wealth and influence.

"And what does the sergeant say about this business?"

"Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed with a tremulous wave of his
shrivelled hand, "this is the gentleman, sir."

Mr. George salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt upright and
profoundly silent--very forward in his chair, as if the full
complement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him.

Mr. Tulkinghorn proceeds, "Well, George--I believe your name is
George?"

"It is so, Sir."

"What do you say, George?"

"I ask your pardon, sir," returns the trooper, "but I should wish to
know what YOU say?"

"Do you mean in point of reward?"

"I mean in point of everything, sir."

This is so very trying to Mr. Smallweed's temper that he suddenly
breaks out with "You're a brimstone beast!" and as suddenly asks
pardon of Mr. Tulkinghorn, excusing himself for this slip of the
tongue by saying to Judy, "I was thinking of your grandmother, my
dear."

"I supposed, sergeant," Mr. Tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on one
side of his chair and crosses his legs, "that Mr. Smallweed might
have sufficiently explained the matter. It lies in the smallest
compass, however. You served under Captain Hawdon at one time, and
were his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little services,
and were rather in his confidence, I am told. That is so, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, that is so," says Mr. George with military brevity.

"Therefore you may happen to have in your possession
something--anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders,
a letter, anything--in Captain Hawdon's writing. I wish to compare
his writing with some that I have. If you can give me the
opportunity, you shall be rewarded for your trouble. Three, four,
five, guineas, you would consider handsome, I dare say."

"Noble, my dear friend!" cries Grandfather Smallweed, screwing up his
eyes.

"If not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, you can
demand. There is no need for you to part with the writing, against
your inclination--though I should prefer to have it."

Mr. George sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at the
painted ceiling, and says never a word. The irascible Mr. Smallweed
scratches the air.

"The question is," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued,
uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of Captain Hawdon's
writing?"

"First, whether I have any of Captain Hawdon's writing, sir," repeats
Mr. George.

"Secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?"

"Secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it,
sir," repeats Mr. George.

"Thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like that,"
says Mr. Tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets of written
paper tied together.

"Whether it is at all like that, sir. Just so," repeats Mr. George.

All three repetitions Mr. George pronounces in a mechanical manner,
looking straight at Mr. Tulkinghorn; nor does he so much as glance at
the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, that has been given to him
for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand), but
continues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation.

"Well?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "What do you say?"

"Well, sir," replies Mr. George, rising erect and looking immense, "I
would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do with this."

Mr. Tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands, "Why not?"

"Why, sir," returns the trooper. "Except on military compulsion, I am
not a man of business. Among civilians I am what they call in
Scotland a ne'er-do-weel. I have no head for papers, sir. I can stand
any fire better than a fire of cross questions. I mentioned to Mr.
Smallweed, only an hour or so ago, that when I come into things of
this kind I feel as if I was being smothered. And that is my
sensation," says Mr. George, looking round upon the company, "at the
present moment."

With that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers on
the lawyer's table and three strides backward to resume his former
station, where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at the ground
and now at the painted ceiling, with his hands behind him as if to
prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever.

Under this provocation, Mr. Smallweed's favourite adjective of
disparagement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words "my
dear friend" with the monosyllable "brim," thus converting the
possessive pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impediment in
his speech. Once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts his dear
friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do what so
eminent a gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace,
confident that it must be unobjectionable as well as profitable. Mr.
Tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, as, "You are the
best judge of your own interest, sergeant." "Take care you do no harm
by this." "Please yourself, please yourself." "If you know what you
mean, that's quite enough." These he utters with an appearance of
perfect indifference as he looks over the papers on his table and
prepares to write a letter.

Mr. George looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the
ground, from the ground to Mr. Smallweed, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr.
Tulkinghorn, and from Mr. Tulkinghorn to the painted ceiling again,
often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he rests.

"I do assure you, sir," says Mr. George, "not to say it offensively,
that between you and Mr. Smallweed here, I really am being smothered
fifty times over. I really am, sir. I am not a match for you
gentlemen. Will you allow me to ask why you want to see the captain's
hand, in the case that I could find any specimen of it?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. "No. If you were a man of
business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that there are
confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for many such
wants in the profession to which I belong. But if you are afraid of
doing any injury to Captain Hawdon, you may set your mind at rest
about that."

"Aye! He is dead, sir."

"IS he?" Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.

"Well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat after another
disconcerted pause, "I am sorry not to have given you more
satisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one that I
should be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothing
to do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head for
business than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing to
consult with him. I--I really am so completely smothered myself at
present," says Mr. George, passing his hand hopelessly across his
brow, "that I don't know but what it might be a satisfaction to me."

Mr. Smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, so
strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counsel
with him, and particularly informing him of its being a question of
five guineas or more, that Mr. George engages to go and see him. Mr.
Tulkinghorn says nothing either way.

"I'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir," says the trooper,
"and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with the final answer
in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wish to be carried
downstairs--"

"In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let me
speak half a word with this gentleman in private?"

"Certainly, sir. Don't hurry yourself on my account." The trooper
retires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curious
inspection of the boxes, strong and otherwise.

"If I wasn't as weak as a brimstone baby, sir," whispers Grandfather
Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the lapel of his
coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out of his angry
eyes, "I'd tear the writing away from him. He's got it buttoned in
his breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him put it there. Speak
up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say
you saw him put it there!"

This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such a
thrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength, and
he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn with him,
until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken.

"Violence will not do for me, my friend," Mr. Tulkinghorn then
remarks coolly.

"No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it's chafing and
galling--it's--it's worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a
grandmother," to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks at the fire,
"to know he has got what's wanted and won't give it up. He, not to
give it up! HE! A vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind. At the
most, he has only his own way for a little while. I have him
periodically in a vice. I'll twist him, sir. I'll screw him, sir. If
he won't do it with a good grace, I'll make him do it with a bad one,
sir! Now, my dear Mr. George," says Grandfather Smallweed, winking at
the lawyer hideously as he releases him, "I am ready for your kind
assistance, my excellent friend!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement manifesting
itself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug with his
back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweed and
acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one slight nod.

It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. George
finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him downstairs, for when he is
replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subject of the
guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button--having,
in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and rob him--that
some degree of force is necessary on the trooper's part to effect a
separation. It is accomplished at last, and he proceeds alone in
quest of his adviser.

By the cloisterly Temple, and by Whitefriars (there, not without a
glance at Hanging-Sword Alley, which would seem to be something in
his way), and by Blackfriars Bridge, and Blackfriars Road, Mr. George
sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewhere in that
ganglion of roads from Kent and Surrey, and of streets from the
bridges of London, centring in the far-famed elephant who has lost
his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to a stronger iron
monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meat any day he dares.
To one of the little shops in this street, which is a musician's
shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and some Pan's pipes and a
tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongated scraps of music,
Mr. George directs his massive tread. And halting at a few paces from
it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, with her outer skirts
tucked up, come forth with a small wooden tub, and in that tub
commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin of the pavement,
Mr. George says to himself, "She's as usual, washing greens. I never
saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she wasn't washing
greens!"

The subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in
washing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of Mr.
George's approach until, lifting up herself and her tub together when
she has poured the water off into the gutter, she finds him standing
near her. Her reception of him is not flattering.

"George, I never see you but I wish you was a hundred mile away!"

The trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into the
musical-instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greens upon
the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms upon
it.

"I never," she says, "George, consider Matthew Bagnet safe a minute
when you're near him. You are that restless and that roving--"

"Yes! I know I am, Mrs. Bagnet. I know I am."

"You know you are!" says Mrs. Bagnet. "What's the use of that? WHY
are you?"

"The nature of the animal, I suppose," returns the trooper
good-humouredly.

"Ah!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, something shrilly. "But what satisfaction
will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have
tempted my Mat away from the musical business to New Zealand or
Australey?"

Mrs. Bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. Rather large-boned, a
little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun and wind which
have tanned her hair upon the forehead, but healthy, wholesome, and
bright-eyed. A strong, busy, active, honest-faced woman of from
forty-five to fifty. Clean, hardy, and so economically dressed
(though substantially) that the only article of ornament of which she
stands possessed appear's to be her wedding-ring, around which her
finger has grown to be so large since it was put on that it will
never come off again until it shall mingle with Mrs. Bagnet's dust.

"Mrs. Bagnet," says the trooper, "I am on my parole with you. Mat
will get no harm from me. You may trust me so far."

"Well, I think I may. But the very looks of you are unsettling," Mrs.
Bagnet rejoins. "Ah, George, George! If you had only settled down and
married Joe Pouch's widow when he died in North America, SHE'D have
combed your hair for you."

"It was a chance for me, certainly," returns the trooper half
laughingly, half seriously, "but I shall never settle down into a
respectable man now. Joe Pouch's widow might have done me good--there
was something in her, and something of her--but I couldn't make up my
mind to it. If I had had the luck to meet with such a wife as Mat
found!"

Mrs. Bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little reserve
with a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of fellow
herself for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking Mr.
George in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into the
little room behind the shop.

"Why, Quebec, my poppet," says George, following, on invitation, into
that department. "And little Malta, too! Come and kiss your Bluffy!"

These young ladies--not supposed to have been actually christened by
the names applied to them, though always so called in the family from
the places of their birth in barracks--are respectively employed on
three-legged stools, the younger (some five or six years old) in
learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder (eight or nine
perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with great assiduity. Both hail
Mr. George with acclamations as an old friend and after some kissing
and romping plant their stools beside him.

"And how's young Woolwich?" says Mr. George.

"Ah! There now!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning about from her saucepans
(for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her face. "Would
you believe it? Got an engagement at the theayter, with his father,
to play the fife in a military piece."

"Well done, my godson!" cries Mr. George, slapping his thigh.

"I believe you!" says Mrs. Bagnet. "He's a Briton. That's what
Woolwich is. A Briton!"

"And Mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectable civilians
one and all," says Mr. George. "Family people. Children growing up.
Mat's old mother in Scotland, and your old father somewhere else,
corresponded with, and helped a little, and--well, well! To be sure,
I don't know why I shouldn't be wished a hundred mile away, for I
have not much to do with all this!"

Mr. George is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the
whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and
contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or
dust in it, from the faces of Quebec and Malta to the bright tin pots
and pannikins upon the dresser shelves--Mr. George is becoming
thoughtful, sitting here while Mrs. Bagnet is busy, when Mr. Bagnet
and young Woolwich opportunely come home. Mr. Bagnet is an
ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers
like the fibres of a coco-nut, not a hair upon his head, and a torrid
complexion. His voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not at all
unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted. Indeed
there may be generally observed in him an unbending, unyielding,
brass-bound air, as if he were himself the bassoon of the human
orchestra. Young Woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer.

Both father and son salute the trooper heartily. He saying, in due
season, that he has come to advise with Mr. Bagnet, Mr. Bagnet
hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until after
dinner and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel without
first partaking of boiled pork and greens. The trooper yielding to
this invitation, he and Mr. Bagnet, not to embarrass the domestic
preparations, go forth to take a turn up and down the little street,
which they promenade with measured tread and folded arms, as if it
were a rampart.

"George," says Mr. Bagnet. "You know me. It's my old girl that
advises. She has the head. But I never own to it before her.
Discipline must be maintained. Wait till the greens is off her mind.
Then we'll consult. Whatever the old girl says, do--do it!"

"I intend to, Mat," replies the other. "I would sooner take her
opinion than that of a college."

"College," returns Mr. Bagnet in short sentences, bassoon-like. "What
college could you leave--in another quarter of the world--with
nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella--to make its way home to
Europe? The old girl would do it to-morrow. Did it once!"

"You are right," says Mr. George.

"What college," pursues Bagnet, "could you set up in life--with two
penn'orth of white lime--a penn'orth of fuller's earth--a ha'porth of
sand--and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money? That's
what the old girl started on. In the present business."

"I am rejoiced to hear it's thriving, Mat."

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, acquiescing, "saves. Has a stocking
somewhere. With money in it. I never saw it. But I know she's got it.
Wait till the greens is off her mind. Then she'll set you up."

"She is a treasure!" exclaims Mr. George.

"She's more. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be
maintained. It was the old girl that brought out my musical
abilities. I should have been in the artillery now but for the old
girl. Six years I hammered at the fiddle. Ten at the flute. The old
girl said it wouldn't do; intention good, but want of flexibility;
try the bassoon. The old girl borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster
of the Rifle Regiment. I practised in the trenches. Got on, got
another, get a living by it!"

George remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose and as sound as an
apple.

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet in reply, "is a thoroughly fine
woman. Consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day. Gets finer as
she gets on. I never saw the old girl's equal. But I never own to it
before her. Discipline must be maintained!"

Proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up and down
the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned by Quebec
and Malta to do justice to the pork and greens, over which Mrs.
Bagnet, like a military chaplain, says a short grace. In the
distribution of these comestibles, as in every other household duty,
Mrs. Bagnet developes an exact system, sitting with every dish before
her, allotting to every portion of pork its own portion of
pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and even mustard, and serving it out
complete. Having likewise served out the beer from a can and thus
supplied the mess with all things necessary, Mrs. Bagnet proceeds to
satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state. The kit of the
mess, if the table furniture may be so denominated, is chiefly
composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done duty in several
parts of the world. Young Woolwich's knife, in particular, which is
of the oyster kind, with the additional feature of a strong
shutting-up movement which frequently balks the appetite of that
young musician, is mentioned as having gone in various hands the
complete round of foreign service.

The dinner done, Mrs. Bagnet, assisted by the younger branches (who
polish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), makes all the
dinner garniture shine as brightly as before and puts it all away,
first sweeping the hearth, to the end that Mr. Bagnet and the visitor
may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes. These household
cares involve much pattening and counter-pattening in the backyard
and considerable use of a pail, which is finally so happy as to
assist in the ablutions of Mrs. Bagnet herself. That old girl
reappearing by and by, quite fresh, and sitting down to her
needlework, then and only then--the greens being only then to be
considered as entirely off her mind--Mr. Bagnet requests the trooper
to state his case.

This Mr. George does with great discretion, appearing to address
himself to Mr. Bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old girl all
the time, as Bagnet has himself. She, equally discreet, busies
herself with her needlework. The case fully stated, Mr. Bagnet
resorts to his standard artifice for the maintenance of discipline.

"That's the whole of it, is it, George?" says he.

"That's the whole of it."

"You act according to my opinion?"

"I shall be guided," replies George, "entirely by it."

"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "give him my opinion. You know it. Tell
him what it is."

It is that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too
deep for him and cannot be too careful of interference with matters
he does not understand--that the plain rule is to do nothing in the
dark, to be a party to nothing underhanded or mysterious, and never
to put his foot where he cannot see the ground. This, in effect, is
Mr. Bagnet's opinion, as delivered through the old girl, and it so
relieves Mr. George's mind by confirming his own opinion and
banishing his doubts that he composes himself to smoke another pipe
on that exceptional occasion and to have a talk over old times with
the whole Bagnet family, according to their various ranges of
experience.

Through these means it comes to pass that Mr. George does not again
rise to his full height in that parlour until the time is drawing on
when the bassoon and fife are expected by a British public at the
theatre; and as it takes time even then for Mr. George, in his
domestic character of Bluffy, to take leave of Quebec and Malta and
insinuate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson with
felicitations on his success in life, it is dark when Mr. George
again turns his face towards Lincoln's Inn Fields.

"A family home," he ruminates as he marches along, "however small it
is, makes a man like me look lonely. But it's well I never made that
evolution of matrimony. I shouldn't have been fit for it. I am such a
vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that I couldn't hold
to the gallery a month together if it was a regular pursuit or if I
didn't camp there, gipsy fashion. Come! I disgrace nobody and cumber
nobody; that's something. I have not done that for many a long year!"

So he whistles it off and marches on.

Arrived in Lincoln's Inn Fields and mounting Mr. Tulkinghorn's stair,
he finds the outer door closed and the chambers shut, but the trooper
not knowing much about outer doors, and the staircase being dark
besides, he is yet fumbling and groping about, hoping to discover a
bell-handle or to open the door for himself, when Mr. Tulkinghorn
comes up the stairs (quietly, of course) and angrily asks, "Who is
that? What are you doing there?"

"I ask your pardon, sir. It's George. The sergeant."

"And couldn't George, the sergeant, see that my door was locked?"

"Why, no, sir, I couldn't. At any rate, I didn't," says the trooper,
rather nettled.

"Have you changed your mind? Or are you in the same mind?" Mr.
Tulkinghorn demands. But he knows well enough at a glance.

"In the same mind, sir."

"I thought so. That's sufficient. You can go. So you are the man,"
says Mr. Tulkinghorn, opening his door with the key, "in whose
hiding-place Mr. Gridley was found?"

"Yes, I AM the man," says the trooper, stopping two or three stairs
down. "What then, sir?"

"What then? I don't like your associates. You should not have seen
the inside of my door this morning if I had thought of your being
that man. Gridley? A threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow."

With these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for him, the
lawyer goes into his rooms and shuts the door with a thundering
noise.

Mr. George takes his dismissal in great dudgeon, the greater because
a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words of all and
evidently applies them to him. "A pretty character to bear," the
trooper growls with a hasty oath as he strides downstairs. "A
threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow!" And looking up, he sees
the clerk looking down at him and marking him as he passes a lamp.
This so intensifies his dudgeon that for five minutes he is in an ill
humour. But he whistles that off like the rest of it and marches home
to the shooting gallery.




CHAPTER XXVIII

The Ironmaster


Sir Leicester Dedlock has got the better, for the time being, of the
family gout and is once more, in a literal no less than in a
figurative point of view, upon his legs. He is at his place in
Lincolnshire; but the waters are out again on the low-lying grounds,
and the cold and damp steal into Chesney Wold, though well defended,
and eke into Sir Leicester's bones. The blazing fires of faggot and
coal--Dedlock timber and antediluvian forest--that blaze upon the
broad wide hearths and wink in the twilight on the frowning woods,
sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do not exclude the enemy. The
hot-water pipes that trail themselves all over the house, the
cushioned doors and windows, and the screens and curtains fail to
supply the fires' deficiencies and to satisfy Sir Leicester's need.
Hence the fashionable intelligence proclaims one morning to the
listening earth that Lady Dedlock is expected shortly to return to
town for a few weeks.

It is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor
relations. Indeed great men have often more than their fair share of
poor relations, inasmuch as very red blood of the superior quality,
like inferior blood unlawfully shed, WILL cry aloud and WILL be
heard. Sir Leicester's cousins, in the remotest degree, are so many
murders in the respect that they "will out." Among whom there are
cousins who are so poor that one might almost dare to think it would
have been the happier for them never to have been plated links upon
the Dedlock chain of gold, but to have been made of common iron at
first and done base service.

Service, however (with a few limited reservations, genteel but not
profitable), they may not do, being of the Dedlock dignity. So they
visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can, and live
but shabbily when they can't, and find--the women no husbands, and
the men no wives--and ride in borrowed carriages, and sit at feasts
that are never of their own making, and so go through high life. The
rich family sum has been divided by so many figures, and they are the
something over that nobody knows what to do with.

Everybody on Sir Leicester Dedlock's side of the question and of his
way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less. From my
Lord Boodle, through the Duke of Foodle, down to Noodle, Sir
Leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads of
relationship. But while he is stately in the cousinship of the
Everybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to his dignified
way, in the cousinship of the Nobodys; and at the present time, in
despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of several such cousins
at Chesney Wold with the constancy of a martyr.

Of these, foremost in the front rank stands Volumnia Dedlock, a young
lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having the honour to be
a poor relation, by the mother's side, to another great family. Miss
Volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty talent for cutting
ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to the guitar
in the Spanish tongue, and propounding French conundrums in country
houses, passed the twenty years of her existence between twenty and
forty in a sufficiently agreeable manner. Lapsing then out of date
and being considered to bore mankind by her vocal performances in the
Spanish language, she retired to Bath, where she lives slenderly on
an annual present from Sir Leicester and whence she makes occasional
resurrections in the country houses of her cousins. She has an
extensive acquaintance at Bath among appalling old gentlemen with
thin legs and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that
dreary city. But she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of
an indiscreet profusion in the article of rouge and persistency in an
obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird's-eggs.

In any country in a wholesome state, Volumnia would be a clear case
for the pension list. Efforts have been made to get her on it, and
when William Buffy came in, it was fully expected that her name would
be put down for a couple of hundred a year. But William Buffy somehow
discovered, contrary to all expectation, that these were not the
times when it could be done, and this was the first clear indication
Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the country was going
to pieces.

There is likewise the Honourable Bob Stables, who can make warm
mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot
than most gamekeepers. He has been for some time particularly
desirous to serve his country in a post of good emoluments,
unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. In a well-regulated
body politic this natural desire on the part of a spirited young
gentleman so highly connected would be speedily recognized, but
somehow William Buffy found when he came in that these were not times
in which he could manage that little matter either, and this was the
second indication Sir Leicester Dedlock had conveyed to him that the
country was going to pieces.

The rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages and
capacities, the major part amiable and sensible and likely to have
done well enough in life if they could have overcome their
cousinship; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it, and
lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quite as
much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else can be
how to dispose of them.

In this society, and where not, my Lady Dedlock reigns supreme.
Beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her little world
(for the world of fashion does not stretch ALL the way from pole to
pole), her influence in Sir Leicester's house, however haughty and
indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it. The
cousins, even those older cousins who were paralysed when Sir
Leicester married her, do her feudal homage; and the Honourable Bob
Stables daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast and
lunch his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomed
woman in the whole stud.

Such the guests in the long drawing-room at Chesney Wold this dismal
night when the step on the Ghost's Walk (inaudible here, however)
might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the cold. It is
near bed-time. Bedroom fires blaze brightly all over the house,
raising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling. Bedroom
candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, and cousins
yawn on ottomans. Cousins at the piano, cousins at the soda-water
tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousins gathered round the
fire. Standing on one side of his own peculiar fire (for there are
two), Sir Leicester. On the opposite side of the broad hearth, my
Lady at her table. Volumnia, as one of the more privileged cousins,
in a luxurious chair between them. Sir Leicester glancing, with
magnificent displeasure, at the rouge and the pearl necklace.

"I occasionally meet on my staircase here," drawls Volumnia, whose
thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a long
evening of very desultory talk, "one of the prettiest girls, I think,
that I ever saw in my life."

"A PROTEGEE of my Lady's," observes Sir Leicester.

"I thought so. I felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked
that girl out. She really is a marvel. A dolly sort of beauty
perhaps," says Miss Volumnia, reserving her own sort, "but in its
way, perfect; such bloom I never saw!"

Sir Leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the
rouge, appears to say so too.

"Indeed," remarks my Lady languidly, "if there is any uncommon eye in
the case, it is Mrs. Rouncewell's, and not mine. Rosa is her
discovery."

"Your maid, I suppose?"

"No. My anything; pet--secretary--messenger--I don't know what."

"You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower,
or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle--no, not a poodle, though--or
anything else that was equally pretty?" says Volumnia, sympathizing.
"Yes, how charming now! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs.
Rouncewell is looking. She must be an immense age, and yet she is as
active and handsome! She is the dearest friend I have, positively!"

Sir Leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper
of Chesney Wold should be a remarkable person. Apart from that, he
has a real regard for Mrs. Rouncewell and likes to hear her praised.
So he says, "You are right, Volumnia," which Volumnia is extremely
glad to hear.

"She has no daughter of her own, has she?"

"Mrs. Rouncewell? No, Volumnia. She has a son. Indeed, she had two."

My Lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravated by
Volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candlesticks and
heaves a noiseless sigh.

"And it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the
present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the opening
of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions," says Sir Leicester
with stately gloom, "that I have been informed by Mr. Tulkinghorn
that Mrs. Rouncewell's son has been invited to go into Parliament."

Miss Volumnia utters a little sharp scream.

"Yes, indeed," repeats Sir Leicester. "Into Parliament."

"I never heard of such a thing! Good gracious, what is the man?"
exclaims Volumnia.

"He is called, I believe--an--ironmaster." Sir Leicester says it
slowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is
called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other word
expressive of some other relationship to some other metal.

Volumnia utters another little scream.

"He has declined the proposal, if my information from Mr. Tulkinghorn
be correct, as I have no doubt it is. Mr. Tulkinghorn being always
correct and exact; still that does not," says Sir Leicester, "that
does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange
considerations--startling considerations, as it appears to me."

Miss Volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, Sir Leicester
politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one, and
lights it at my Lady's shaded lamp.

"I must beg you, my Lady," he says while doing so, "to remain a few
moments, for this individual of whom I speak arrived this evening
shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note"--Sir
Leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it--"I am
bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour
of a short interview with yourself and MYself on the subject of this
young girl. As it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, I
replied that we would see him before retiring."

Miss Volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her
hosts--O Lud!--well rid of the--what is it?--ironmaster!

The other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. Sir
Leicester rings the bell, "Make my compliments to Mr. Rouncewell, in
the housekeeper's apartments, and say I can receive him now."

My Lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly,
looks towards Mr. Rouncewell as he comes in. He is a little over
fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear
voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a
shrewd though open face. He is a responsible-looking gentleman
dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. Has a
perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed by
the great presence into which he comes.

"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, as I have already apologized for
intruding on you, I cannot do better than be very brief. I thank you,
Sir Leicester."

The head of the Dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between himself
and my Lady. Mr. Rouncewell quietly takes his seat there.

"In these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in
progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places
that we are always on the flight."

Sir Leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that
there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted in that
quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to mature, and
the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks stand deep in the
fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the
terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time which was as much
the property of every Dedlock--while he lasted--as the house and
lands. Sir Leicester sits down in an easy-chair, opposing his repose
and that of Chesney Wold to the restless flights of ironmasters.

"Lady Dedlock has been so kind," proceeds Mr. Rouncewell with a
respectful glance and a bow that way, "as to place near her a young
beauty of the name of Rosa. Now, my son has fallen in love with Rosa
and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and to
their becoming engaged if she will take him--which I suppose she
will. I have never seen Rosa until to-day, but I have some confidence
in my son's good sense--even in love. I find her what he represents
her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with
great commendation."

"She in all respects deserves it," says my Lady.

"I am happy, Lady Dedlock, that you say so, and I need not comment on
the value to me of your kind opinion of her."

"That," observes Sir Leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for he
thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, "must be quite unnecessary."

"Quite unnecessary, Sir Leicester. Now, my son is a very young man,
and Rosa is a very young woman. As I made my way, so my son must make
his; and his being married at present is out of the question. But
supposing I gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty
girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to him, I think it a
piece of candour to say at once--I am sure, Sir Leicester and Lady
Dedlock, you will understand and excuse me--I should make it a
condition that she did not remain at Chesney Wold. Therefore, before
communicating further with my son, I take the liberty of saying that
if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, I
will hold the matter over with him for any reasonable time and leave
it precisely where it is."

Not remain at Chesney Wold! Make it a condition! All Sir Leicester's
old misgivings relative to Wat Tyler and the people in the iron
districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come in a shower
upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as of his
whiskers, actually stirs with indignation.

"Am I to understand, sir," says Sir Leicester, "and is my Lady to
understand"--he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of
gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance on
her sense--"am I to understand, Mr. Rouncewell, and is my Lady to
understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for
Chesney Wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?"

"Certainly not, Sir Leicester,"

"I am glad to hear it." Sir Leicester very lofty indeed.

"Pray, Mr. Rouncewell," says my Lady, warning Sir Leicester off with
the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly,
"explain to me what you mean."

"Willingly, Lady Dedlock. There is nothing I could desire more."

Addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too
quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness,
however habitual, to the strong Saxon face of the visitor, a picture
of resolution and perseverance, my Lady listens with attention,
occasionally slightly bending her head.

"I am the son of your housekeeper, Lady Dedlock, and passed my
childhood about this house. My mother has lived here half a
century and will die here I have no doubt. She is one of those
examples--perhaps as good a one as there is--of love, and attachment,
and fidelity in such a nation, which England may well be proud of,
but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole
merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides--on
the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly."

Sir Leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this way,
but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though silently,
admits the justice of the ironmaster's proposition.

"Pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but I wouldn't have it
hastily supposed," with the least turn of his eyes towards Sir
Leicester, "that I am ashamed of my mother's position here, or
wanting in all just respect for Chesney Wold and the family.
I certainly may have desired--I certainly have desired, Lady
Dedlock--that my mother should retire after so many years and end
her days with me. But as I have found that to sever this strong bond
would be to break her heart, I have long abandoned that idea."

Sir Leicester very magnificent again at the notion of Mrs. Rouncewell
being spirited off from her natural home to end her days with an
ironmaster.

"I have been," proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, "an
apprentice and a workman. I have lived on workman's wages, years and
years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. My wife
was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. We have three
daughters besides this son of whom I have spoken, and being
fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had
ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. It has been one of
our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station."

A little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in
his heart, "even of the Chesney Wold station." Not a little more
magnificence, therefore, on the part of Sir Leicester.

"All this is so frequent, Lady Dedlock, where I live, and among the
class to which I belong, that what would be generally called unequal
marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as elsewhere. A son
will sometimes make it known to his father that he has fallen in
love, say, with a young woman in the factory. The father, who once
worked in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first
very possibly. It may be that he had other views for his son.
However, the chances are that having ascertained the young woman to
be of unblemished character, he will say to his son, 'I must be quite
sure you are in earnest here. This is a serious matter for both of
you. Therefore I shall have this girl educated for two years,' or it
may be, 'I shall place this girl at the same school with your sisters
for such a time, during which you will give me your word and honour
to see her only so often. If at the expiration of that time, when she
has so far profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair
equality, you are both in the same mind, I will do my part to make
you happy.' I know of several cases such as I describe, my Lady, and
I think they indicate to me my own course now."

Sir Leicester's magnificence explodes. Calmly, but terribly.

"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with his right hand in the
breast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he is painted
in the gallery, "do you draw a parallel between Chesney Wold and a--"
Here he resists a disposition to choke, "a factory?"

"I need not reply, Sir Leicester, that the two places are very
different; but for the purposes of this case, I think a parallel may
be justly drawn between them."

Sir Leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the long
drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is awake.

"Are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my Lady--my Lady--has
placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside
the gates?"

"Sir Leicester, I am quite aware of it. A very good school it is, and
handsomely supported by this family."

"Then, Mr. Rouncewell," returns Sir Leicester, "the application of
what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible."

"Will it be more comprehensible, Sir Leicester, if I say," the
ironmaster is reddening a little, "that I do not regard the village
school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's
wife?"

From the village school of Chesney Wold, intact as it is this minute,
to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework of
society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in
consequence of people (iron-masters, lead-mistresses, and what not)
not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station unto
which they are called--necessarily and for ever, according to Sir
Leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to
find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out
of THEIR stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the
floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the
Dedlock mind.

"My Lady, I beg your pardon. Permit me, for one moment!" She has
given a faint indication of intending to speak. "Mr. Rouncewell, our
views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of education,
and our views of--in short, ALL our views--are so diametrically
opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to your
feelings and repellent to my own. This young woman is honoured with
my Lady's notice and favour. If she wishes to withdraw herself from
that notice and favour or if she chooses to place herself under the
influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions--you will allow
me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though I readily admit that he
is not accountable for them to me--who may, in his peculiar opinions,
withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at
liberty to do so. We are obliged to you for the plainness with which
you have spoken. It will have no effect of itself, one way or other,
on the young woman's position here. Beyond this, we can make no
terms; and here we beg--if you will be so good--to leave the
subject."

The visitor pauses a moment to give my Lady an opportunity, but she
says nothing. He then rises and replies, "Sir Leicester and Lady
Dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to observe
that I shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present
inclinations. Good night!"

"Mr. Rouncewell," says Sir Leicester with all the nature of a
gentleman shining in him, "it is late, and the roads are dark. I hope
your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady and
myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at
least."

"I hope so," adds my Lady.

"I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to
reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time
in the morning."

Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Leicester ringing
the bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.

When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the
fire, and inattentive to the Ghost's Walk, looks at Rosa, writing in
an inner room. Presently my Lady calls her.

"Come to me, child. Tell me the truth. Are you in love?"

"Oh! My Lady!"

My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling,
"Who is it? Is it Mrs. Rouncewell's grandson?"

"Yes, if you please, my Lady. But I don't know that I am in love with
him--yet."

"Yet, you silly little thing! Do you know that he loves YOU, yet?"

"I think he likes me a little, my Lady." And Rosa bursts into tears.

Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing
her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so
full of musing interest? Aye, indeed it is!

"Listen to me, child. You are young and true, and I believe you are
attached to me."

"Indeed I am, my Lady. Indeed there is nothing in the world I
wouldn't do to show how much."

"And I don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even
for a lover?"

"No, my Lady! Oh, no!" Rosa looks up for the first time, quite
frightened at the thought.

"Confide in me, my child. Don't fear me. I wish you to be happy, and
will make you so--if I can make anybody happy on this earth."

Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. My
Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with
her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own
two hands, and gradually lets it fall. Seeing her so absorbed, Rosa
softly withdraws; but still my Lady's eyes are on the fire.

In search of what? Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that
never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life?
Or does she listen to the Ghost's Walk and think what step does it
most resemble? A man's? A woman's? The pattering of a little child's
feet, ever coming on--on--on? Some melancholy influence is upon her,
or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the
hearth so desolate?

Volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before
dinner. Not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from Sir
Leicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, and
opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society,
manifested through Mrs. Rouncewell's son. Not a cousin of the batch
but is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness of
William Buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a
stake in the country--or the pension list--or something--by fraud and
wrong. As to Volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by Sir
Leicester, as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general
rising in the north of England to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl
necklace. And thus, with a clatter of maids and valets--for it is one
appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficult they may find
it to keep themselves, they MUST keep maids and valets--the cousins
disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that
blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house,
as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves.




CHAPTER XXIX

The Young Man


Chesney Wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls in
corners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in brown
holland, carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the Dedlock
ancestors retire from the light of day again. Around and around the
house the leaves fall thick, but never fast, for they come circling
down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Let the gardener
sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves into full
barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep. Howls the
shrill wind round Chesney Wold; the sharp rain beats, the windows
rattle, and the chimneys growl. Mists hide in the avenues, veil the
points of view, and move in funeral-wise across the rising grounds.
On all the house there is a cold, blank smell like the smell of a
little church, though something dryer, suggesting that the dead and
buried Dedlocks walk there in the long nights and leave the flavour
of their graves behind them.

But the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as Chesney
Wold at the same time, seldom rejoicing when it rejoices or mourning
when it mourns, excepting when a Dedlock dies--the house in town
shines out awakened. As warm and bright as so much state may be, as
delicately redolent of pleasant scents that bear no trace of winter
as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed so that the ticking
of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone disturb the
stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap those chilled bones of Sir
Leicester's in rainbow-coloured wool. And Sir Leicester is glad to
repose in dignified contentment before the great fire in the library,
condescendingly perusing the backs of his books or honouring the fine
arts with a glance of approbation. For he has his pictures, ancient
and modern. Some of the Fancy Ball School in which art occasionally
condescends to become a master, which would be best catalogued like
the miscellaneous articles in a sale. As "Three high-backed chairs, a
table and cover, long-necked bottle (containing wine), one flask, one
Spanish female's costume, three-quarter face portrait of Miss Jogg
the model, and a suit of armour containing Don Quixote." Or "One
stone terrace (cracked), one gondola in distance, one Venetian
senator's dress complete, richly embroidered white satin costume with
profile portrait of Miss Jogg the model, one Scimitar superbly
mounted in gold with jewelled handle, elaborate Moorish dress (very
rare), and Othello."

Mr. Tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often, there being estate
business to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. He sees my Lady
pretty often, too; and he and she are as composed, and as
indifferent, and take as little heed of one another, as ever. Yet it
may be that my Lady fears this Mr. Tulkinghorn and that he knows it.
It may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch of
compunction, remorse, or pity. It may be that her beauty and all the
state and brilliancy surrounding her only gives him the greater zest
for what he is set upon and makes him the more inflexible in it.
Whether he be cold and cruel, whether immovable in what he has made
his duty, whether absorbed in love of power, whether determined
to have nothing hidden from him in ground where he has burrowed
among secrets all his life, whether he in his heart despises the
splendour of which he is a distant beam, whether he is always
treasuring up slights and offences in the affability of his gorgeous
clients--whether he be any of this, or all of this, it may be that my
Lady had better have five thousand pairs of fashionable eyes upon
her, in distrustful vigilance, than the two eyes of this rusty lawyer
with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull black breeches tied with
ribbons at the knees.

Sir Leicester sits in my Lady's room--that room in which Mr.
Tulkinghorn read the affidavit in Jarndyce and Jarndyce--particularly
complacent. My Lady, as on that day, sits before the fire with her
screen in her hand. Sir Leicester is particularly complacent because
he has found in his newspaper some congenial remarks bearing directly
on the floodgates and the framework of society. They apply so happily
to the late case that Sir Leicester has come from the library to my
Lady's room expressly to read them aloud. "The man who wrote this
article," he observes by way of preface, nodding at the fire as if he
were nodding down at the man from a mount, "has a well-balanced
mind."

The man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my Lady,
who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a languid
resignation of herself to a show of listening, becomes distraught and
falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fire at
Chesney Wold, and she had never left it. Sir Leicester, quite
unconscious, reads on through his double eye-glass, occasionally
stopping to remove his glass and express approval, as "Very true
indeed," "Very properly put," "I have frequently made the same remark
myself," invariably losing his place after each observation, and
going up and down the column to find it again.

Sir Leicester is reading with infinite gravity and state when the
door opens, and the Mercury in powder makes this strange
announcement, "The young man, my Lady, of the name of Guppy."

Sir Leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice, "The young
man of the name of Guppy?"

Looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of Guppy, much
discomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter of
introduction in his manner and appearance.

"Pray," says Sir Leicester to Mercury, "what do you mean by
announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name of Guppy?"

"I beg your pardon, Sir Leicester, but my Lady said she would see the
young man whenever he called. I was not aware that you were here, Sir
Leicester."

With this apology, Mercury directs a scornful and indignant look at
the young man of the name of Guppy which plainly says, "What do you
come calling here for and getting ME into a row?"

"It's quite right. I gave him those directions," says my Lady. "Let
the young man wait."

"By no means, my Lady. Since he has your orders to come, I will not
interrupt you." Sir Leicester in his gallantry retires, rather
declining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out and
majestically supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusive
appearance.

Lady Dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant has
left the room, casting her eyes over him from head to foot. She
suffers him to stand by the door and asks him what he wants.

"That your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a
little conversation," returns Mr. Guppy, embarrassed.

"You are, of course, the person who has written me so many letters?"

"Several, your ladyship. Several before your ladyship condescended to
favour me with an answer."

"And could you not take the same means of rendering a Conversation
unnecessary? Can you not still?"

Mr. Guppy screws his mouth into a silent "No!" and shakes his head.

"You have been strangely importunate. If it should appear, after all,
that what you have to say does not concern me--and I don't know how
it can, and don't expect that it will--you will allow me to cut you
short with but little ceremony. Say what you have to say, if you
please."

My Lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towards
the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man of the
name of Guppy.

"With your ladyship's permission, then," says the young man, "I will
now enter on my business. Hem! I am, as I told your ladyship in my
first letter, in the law. Being in the law, I have learnt the habit
of not committing myself in writing, and therefore I did not mention
to your ladyship the name of the firm with which I am connected and
in which my standing--and I may add income--is tolerably good. I may
now state to your ladyship, in confidence, that the name of that firm
is Kenge and Carboy, of Lincoln's Inn, which may not be altogether
unknown to your ladyship in connexion with the case in Chancery of
Jarndyce and Jarndyce."

My Lady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. She has
ceased to toss the screen and holds it as if she were listening.

"Now, I may say to your ladyship at once," says Mr. Guppy, a little
emboldened, "it is no matter arising out of Jarndyce and Jarndyce
that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct I
have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive--in fact, almost
blackguardly."

After waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the contrary,
and not receiving any, Mr. Guppy proceeds, "If it had been Jarndyce
and Jarndyce, I should have gone at once to your ladyship's
solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, of the Fields. I have the pleasure of
being acquainted with Mr. Tulkinghorn--at least we move when we meet
one another--and if it had been any business of that sort, I should
have gone to him."

My Lady turns a little round and says, "You had better sit down."

"Thank your ladyship." Mr. Guppy does so. "Now, your ladyship"--Mr.
Guppy refers to a little slip of paper on which he has made small
notes of his line of argument and which seems to involve him in the
densest obscurity whenever he looks at it--"I--Oh, yes!--I place
myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. If your ladyship was to
make any complaint to Kenge and Carboy or to Mr. Tulkinghorn of the
present visit, I should be placed in a very disagreeable situation.
That, I openly admit. Consequently, I rely upon your ladyship's
honour."

My Lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the screen,
assures him of his being worth no complaint from her.

"Thank your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy; "quite satisfactory.
Now--I--dash it!--The fact is that I put down a head or two here of
the order of the points I thought of touching upon, and they're
written short, and I can't quite make out what they mean. If your
ladyship will excuse me taking it to the window half a moment, I--"

Mr. Guppy, going to the window, tumbles into a pair of love-birds, to
whom he says in his confusion, "I beg your pardon, I am sure." This
does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. He murmurs,
growing warm and red and holding the slip of paper now close to his
eyes, now a long way off, "C.S. What's C.S. for? Oh! C.S.! Oh, I
know! Yes, to be sure!" And comes back enlightened.

"I am not aware," says Mr. Guppy, standing midway between my Lady and
his chair, "whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or to
see, a young lady of the name of Miss Esther Summerson."

My Lady's eyes look at him full. "I saw a young lady of that name not
long ago. This past autumn."

"Now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?" asks
Mr. Guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, and
scratching the corner of his mouth with his memoranda.

My Lady removes her eyes from him no more.

"No."

"Not like your ladyship's family?"

"No."

"I think your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "can hardly remember Miss
Summerson's face?"

"I remember the young lady very well. What has this to do with me?"

"Your ladyship, I do assure you that having Miss Summerson's image
imprinted on my 'eart--which I mention in confidence--I found, when I
had the honour of going over your ladyship's mansion of Chesney Wold
while on a short out in the county of Lincolnshire with a friend,
such a resemblance between Miss Esther Summerson and your ladyship's
own portrait that it completely knocked me over, so much so that I
didn't at the moment even know what it WAS that knocked me over. And
now I have the honour of beholding your ladyship near (I have often,
since that, taken the liberty of looking at your ladyship in your
carriage in the park, when I dare say you was not aware of me, but I
never saw your ladyship so near), it's really more surprising than I
thought it."

Young man of the name of Guppy! There have been times, when ladies
lived in strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within call,
when that poor life of yours would NOT have been worth a minute's
purchase, with those beautiful eyes looking at you as they look at
this moment.

My Lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks him again
what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do with her.

"Your ladyship," replies Mr. Guppy, again referring to his paper, "I
am coming to that. Dash these notes! Oh! 'Mrs. Chadband.' Yes." Mr.
Guppy draws his chair a little forward and seats himself again. My
Lady reclines in her chair composedly, though with a trifle less of
graceful ease than usual perhaps, and never falters in her steady
gaze. "A--stop a minute, though!" Mr. Guppy refers again. "E.S.
twice? Oh, yes! Yes, I see my way now, right on."

Rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech
with, Mr. Guppy proceeds.

"Your ladyship, there is a mystery about Miss Esther Summerson's
birth and bringing up. I am informed of that fact because--which I
mention in confidence--I know it in the way of my profession at Kenge
and Carboy's. Now, as I have already mentioned to your ladyship, Miss
Summerson's image is imprinted on my 'eart. If I could clear this
mystery for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that having
the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship's family she had a
right to be made a party in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, why, I might make
a sort of a claim upon Miss Summerson to look with an eye of more
dedicated favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. In
fact, as yet she hasn't favoured them at all."

A kind of angry smile just dawns upon my Lady's face.

"Now, it's a very singular circumstance, your ladyship," says Mr.
Guppy, "though one of those circumstances that do fall in the way of
us professional men--which I may call myself, for though not
admitted, yet I have had a present of my articles made to me by Kenge
and Carboy, on my mother's advancing from the principal of her little
income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy--that I have
encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady who brought
Miss Summerson up before Mr. Jarndyce took charge of her. That lady
was a Miss Barbary, your ladyship."

Is the dead colour on my Lady's face reflected from the screen which
has a green silk ground and which she holds in her raised hand as if
she had forgotten it, or is it a dreadful paleness that has fallen on
her?

"Did your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "ever happen to hear of Miss
Barbary?"

"I don't know. I think so. Yes."

"Was Miss Barbary at all connected with your ladyship's family?"

My Lady's lips move, but they utter nothing. She shakes her head.

"NOT connected?" says Mr. Guppy. "Oh! Not to your ladyship's
knowledge, perhaps? Ah! But might be? Yes." After each of these
interrogatories, she has inclined her head. "Very good! Now, this
Miss Barbary was extremely close--seems to have been extraordinarily
close for a female, females being generally (in common life at least)
rather given to conversation--and my witness never had an idea
whether she possessed a single relative. On one occasion, and only
one, she seems to have been confidential to my witness on a single
point, and she then told her that the little girl's real name was not
Esther Summerson, but Esther Hawdon."

"My God!"

Mr. Guppy stares. Lady Dedlock sits before him looking him through,
with the same dark shade upon her face, in the same attitude even to
the holding of the screen, with her lips a little apart, her brow a
little contracted, but for the moment dead. He sees her consciousness
return, sees a tremor pass across her frame like a ripple over water,
sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by a great effort, sees
her force herself back to the knowledge of his presence and of what
he has said. All this, so quickly, that her exclamation and her dead
condition seem to have passed away like the features of those
long-preserved dead bodies sometimes opened up in tombs, which,
struck by the air like lightning, vanish in a breath.

"Your ladyship is acquainted with the name of Hawdon?"

"I have heard it before."

"Name of any collateral or remote branch of your ladyship's family?"

"No."

"Now, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy, "I come to the last point of
the case, so far as I have got it up. It's going on, and I shall
gather it up closer and closer as it goes on. Your ladyship must
know--if your ladyship don't happen, by any chance, to know
already--that there was found dead at the house of a person named
Krook, near Chancery Lane, some time ago, a law-writer in great
distress. Upon which law-writer there was an inquest, and which
law-writer was an anonymous character, his name being unknown. But,
your ladyship, I have discovered very lately that that law-writer's
name was Hawdon."

"And what is THAT to me?"

"Aye, your ladyship, that's the question! Now, your ladyship, a queer
thing happened after that man's death. A lady started up, a disguised
lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the scene of action and went
to look at his grave. She hired a crossing-sweeping boy to show it
her. If your ladyship would wish to have the boy produced in
corroboration of this statement, I can lay my hand upon him at any
time."

The wretched boy is nothing to my Lady, and she does NOT wish to have
him produced.

"Oh, I assure your ladyship it's a very queer start indeed," says Mr.
Guppy. "If you was to hear him tell about the rings that sparkled on
her fingers when she took her glove off, you'd think it quite
romantic."

There are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen. My
Lady trifles with the screen and makes them glitter more, again with
that expression which in other times might have been so dangerous to
the young man of the name of Guppy.

"It was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap behind
him by which he could be possibly identified. But he did. He left a
bundle of old letters."

The screen still goes, as before. All this time her eyes never once
release him.

"They were taken and secreted. And to-morrow night, your ladyship,
they will come into my possession."

"Still I ask you, what is this to me?"

"Your ladyship, I conclude with that." Mr. Guppy rises. "If you think
there's enough in this chain of circumstances put together--in the
undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to your ladyship, which
is a positive fact for a jury; in her having been brought up by Miss
Barbary; in Miss Barbary stating Miss Summerson's real name to be
Hawdon; in your ladyship's knowing both these names VERY WELL; and in
Hawdon's dying as he did--to give your ladyship a family interest in
going further into the case, I will bring these papers here. I don't
know what they are, except that they are old letters: I have never
had them in my possession yet. I will bring those papers here as soon
as I get them and go over them for the first time with your ladyship.
I have told your ladyship my object. I have told your ladyship that I
should be placed in a very disagreeable situation if any complaint
was made, and all is in strict confidence."

Is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of Guppy, or
has he any other? Do his words disclose the length, breadth, depth,
of his object and suspicion in coming here; or if not, what do they
hide? He is a match for my Lady there. She may look at him, but he
can look at the table and keep that witness-box face of his from
telling anything.

"You may bring the letters," says my Lady, "if you choose."

"Your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and honour,"
says Mr. Guppy, a little injured.

"You may bring the letters," she repeats in the same tone, "if
you--please."

"It shall be done. I wish your ladyship good day."

On a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and clasped
like an old strong-chest. She, looking at him still, takes it to her
and unlocks it.

"Oh! I assure your ladyship I am not actuated by any motives of that
sort," says Mr. Guppy, "and I couldn't accept anything of the kind. I
wish your ladyship good day, and am much obliged to you all the
same."

So the young man makes his bow and goes downstairs, where the
supercilious Mercury does not consider himself called upon to leave
his Olympus by the hall-fire to let the young man out.

As Sir Leicester basks in his library and dozes over his newspaper,
is there no influence in the house to startle him, not to say to make
the very trees at Chesney Wold fling up their knotted arms, the very
portraits frown, the very armour stir?

No. Words, sobs, and cries are but air, and air is so shut in and
shut out throughout the house in town that sounds need be uttered
trumpet-tongued indeed by my Lady in her chamber to carry any faint
vibration to Sir Leicester's ears; and yet this cry is in the house,
going upward from a wild figure on its knees.

"O my child, my child! Not dead in the first hours of her life, as my
cruel sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she had
renounced me and my name! O my child, O my child!"




CHAPTER XXX

Esther's Narrative


Richard had been gone away some time when a visitor came to pass a
few days with us. It was an elderly lady. It was Mrs. Woodcourt, who,
having come from Wales to stay with Mrs. Bayham Badger and having
written to my guardian, "by her son Allan's desire," to report that
she had heard from him and that he was well "and sent his kind
remembrances to all of us," had been invited by my guardian to make a
visit to Bleak House. She stayed with us nearly three weeks. She took
very kindly to me and was extremely confidential, so much so that
sometimes she almost made me uncomfortable. I had no right, I knew
very well, to be uncomfortable because she confided in me, and I felt
it was unreasonable; still, with all I could do, I could not quite
help it.

She was such a sharp little lady and used to sit with her hands
folded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked to me
that perhaps I found that rather irksome. Or perhaps it was her being
so upright and trim, though I don't think it was that, because I
thought that quaintly pleasant. Nor can it have been the general
expression of her face, which was very sparkling and pretty for an
old lady. I don't know what it was. Or at least if I do now, I
thought I did not then. Or at least--but it don't matter.

Of a night when I was going upstairs to bed, she would invite me
into her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair;
and, dear me, she would tell me about Morgan ap-Kerrig until I
was quite low-spirited! Sometimes she recited a few verses from
Crumlinwallinwer and the Mewlinnwillinwodd (if those are the right
names, which I dare say they are not), and would become quite fiery
with the sentiments they expressed. Though I never knew what they
were (being in Welsh), further than that they were highly eulogistic
of the lineage of Morgan ap-Kerrig.

"So, Miss Summerson," she would say to me with stately triumph,
"this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. Wherever my son
goes, he can claim kindred with Ap-Kerrig. He may not have money, but
he always has what is much better--family, my dear."

I had my doubts of their caring so very much for Morgan ap-Kerrig in
India and China, but of course I never expressed them. I used to say
it was a great thing to be so highly connected.

"It IS, my dear, a great thing," Mrs. Woodcourt would reply. "It has
its disadvantages; my son's choice of a wife, for instance, is
limited by it, but the matrimonial choice of the royal family is
limited in much the same manner."

Then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as much as to
assure me that she had a good opinion of me, the distance between us
notwithstanding.

"Poor Mr. Woodcourt, my dear," she would say, and always with some
emotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionate
heart, "was descended from a great Highland family, the MacCoorts of
MacCoort. He served his king and country as an officer in the Royal
Highlanders, and he died on the field. My son is one of the last
representatives of two old families. With the blessing of heaven he
will set them up again and unite them with another old family."

It was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as I used to try,
only for the sake of novelty or perhaps because--but I need not be so
particular. Mrs. Woodcourt never would let me change it.

"My dear," she said one night, "you have so much sense and you look
at the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of life that
it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these family matters of
mine. You don't know much of my son, my dear; but you know enough of
him, I dare say, to recollect him?"

"Yes, ma'am. I recollect him."

"Yes, my dear. Now, my dear, I think you are a judge of character,
and I should like to have your opinion of him."

"Oh, Mrs. Woodcourt," said I, "that is so difficult!"

"Why is it so difficult, my dear?" she returned. "I don't see it
myself."

"To give an opinion--"

"On so slight an acquaintance, my dear. THAT'S true."

I didn't mean that, because Mr. Woodcourt had been at our house a
good deal altogether and had become quite intimate with my guardian.
I said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever in his
profession--we thought--and that his kindness and gentleness to Miss
Flite were above all praise.

"You do him justice!" said Mrs. Woodcourt, pressing my hand. "You
define him exactly. Allan is a dear fellow, and in his profession
faultless. I say it, though I am his mother. Still, I must confess he
is not without faults, love."

"None of us are," said I.

"Ah! But his really are faults that he might correct, and ought to
correct," returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her head. "I
am so much attached to you that I may confide in you, my dear, as a
third party wholly disinterested, that he is fickleness itself."

I said I should have thought it hardly possible that he could have
been otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in the
pursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned.

"You are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted, "but I don't
refer to his profession, look you."

"Oh!" said I.

"No," said she. "I refer, my dear, to his social conduct. He is
always paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always has
been, ever since he was eighteen. Now, my dear, he has never really
cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing this to do any
harm or to express anything but politeness and good nature. Still,
it's not right, you know; is it?"

"No," said I, as she seemed to wait for me.

"And it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear."

I supposed it might.

"Therefore, I have told him many times that he really should be more
careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others. And he
has always said, 'Mother, I will be; but you know me better than
anybody else does, and you know I mean no harm--in short, mean
nothing.' All of which is very true, my dear, but is no
justification. However, as he is now gone so far away and for an
indefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities and
introductions, we may consider this past and gone. And you, my dear,"
said the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles, "regarding your
dear self, my love?"

"Me, Mrs. Woodcourt?"

"Not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seek
his fortune and to find a wife--when do you mean to seek YOUR fortune
and to find a husband, Miss Summerson? Hey, look you! Now you blush!"

I don't think I did blush--at all events, it was not important if I
did--and I said my present fortune perfectly contented me and I had
no wish to change it.

"Shall I tell you what I always think of you and the fortune yet to
come for you, my love?" said Mrs. Woodcourt.

"If you believe you are a good prophet," said I.

"Why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and very
worthy, much older--five and twenty years, perhaps--than yourself.
And you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and very happy."

"That is a good fortune," said I. "But why is it to be mine?"

"My dear," she returned, "there's suitability in it--you are so busy,
and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether that there's
suitability in it, and it will come to pass. And nobody, my love,
will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage than I
shall."

It was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but I think it
did. I know it did. It made me for some part of that night
uncomfortable. I was so ashamed of my folly that I did not like to
confess it even to Ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still. I
would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright old
lady's confidence if I could have possibly declined it. It gave me
the most inconsistent opinions of her. At one time I thought she was
a story-teller, and at another time that she was the pink of truth.
Now I suspected that she was very cunning, next moment I believed her
honest Welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple. And after
all, what did it matter to me, and why did it matter to me? Why could
not I, going up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit down by
her fire and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at least
as well as to anybody else, and not trouble myself about the harmless
things she said to me? Impelled towards her, as I certainly was, for
I was very anxious that she should like me and was very glad indeed
that she did, why should I harp afterwards, with actual distress and
pain, on every word she said and weigh it over and over again in
twenty scales? Why was it so worrying to me to have her in our house,
and confidential to me every night, when I yet felt that it was
better and safer somehow that she should be there than anywhere else?
These were perplexities and contradictions that I could not account
for. At least, if I could--but I shall come to all that by and by,
and it is mere idleness to go on about it now.

So when Mrs. Woodcourt went away, I was sorry to lose her but was
relieved too. And then Caddy Jellyby came down, and Caddy brought
such a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant occupation.

First Caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) that I
was the best adviser that ever was known. This, my pet said, was no
news at all; and this, I said, of course, was nonsense. Then Caddy
told us that she was going to be married in a month and that if Ada
and I would be her bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl in the
world. To be sure, this was news indeed; and I thought we never
should have done talking about it, we had so much to say to Caddy,
and Caddy had so much to say to us.

It seemed that Caddy's unfortunate papa had got over his
bankruptcy--"gone through the Gazette," was the expression Caddy
used, as if it were a tunnel--with the general clemency and
commiseration of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs in
some blessed manner without succeeding in understanding them, and had
given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, I should
think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and had satisfied
every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man. So, he had
been honourably dismissed to "the office" to begin the world again.
What he did at the office, I never knew; Caddy said he was a
"custom-house and general agent," and the only thing I ever
understood about that business was that when he wanted money more
than usual he went to the docks to look for it, and hardly ever found
it.

As soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming this shorn
lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in Hatton Garden
(where I found the children, when I afterwards went there, cutting
the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and choking themselves
with it), Caddy had brought about a meeting between him and old Mr.
Turveydrop; and poor Mr. Jellyby, being very humble and meek, had
deferred to Mr. Turveydrop's deportment so submissively that they had
become excellent friends. By degrees, old Mr. Turveydrop, thus
familiarized with the idea of his son's marriage, had worked up his
parental feelings to the height of contemplating that event as being
near at hand and had given his gracious consent to the young couple
commencing housekeeping at the academy in Newman Street when they
would.

"And your papa, Caddy. What did he say?"

"Oh! Poor Pa," said Caddy, "only cried and said he hoped we might get
on better than he and Ma had got on. He didn't say so before Prince,
he only said so to me. And he said, 'My poor girl, you have not been
very well taught how to make a home for your husband, but unless you
mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you had better murder
him than marry him--if you really love him.'"

"And how did you reassure him, Caddy?"

"Why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor Pa so low and
hear him say such terrible things, and I couldn't help crying myself.
But I told him that I DID mean it with all my heart and that I hoped
our house would be a place for him to come and find some comfort in
of an evening and that I hoped and thought I could be a better
daughter to him there than at home. Then I mentioned Peepy's coming
to stay with me, and then Pa began to cry again and said the children
were Indians."

"Indians, Caddy?"

"Yes," said Caddy, "wild Indians. And Pa said"--here she began to
sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world--"that
he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them was their
being all tomahawked together."

Ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that Mr. Jellyby did
not mean these destructive sentiments.

"No, of course I know Pa wouldn't like his family to be weltering in
their blood," said Caddy, "but he means that they are very
unfortunate in being Ma's children and that he is very unfortunate in
being Ma's husband; and I am sure that's true, though it seems
unnatural to say so."

I asked Caddy if Mrs. Jellyby knew that her wedding-day was fixed.

"Oh! You know what Ma is, Esther," she returned. "It's impossible to
say whether she knows it or not. She has been told it often enough;
and when she IS told it, she only gives me a placid look, as if I was
I don't know what--a steeple in the distance," said Caddy with a
sudden idea; "and then she shakes her head and says 'Oh, Caddy,
Caddy, what a tease you are!' and goes on with the Borrioboola
letters."

"And about your wardrobe, Caddy?" said I. For she was under no
restraint with us.

"Well, my dear Esther," she returned, drying her eyes, "I must do the
best I can and trust to my dear Prince never to have an unkind
remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. If the question
concerned an outfit for Borrioboola, Ma would know all about it and
would be quite excited. Being what it is, she neither knows nor
cares."

Caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother,
but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which I am
afraid it was. We were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much
to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such
discouragement that we both at once (I mean Ada and I) proposed a
little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. This was her staying
with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all
three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and
saving, and doing the very best we could think of to make the most of
her stock. My guardian being as pleased with the idea as Caddy was,
we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her out
again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could be
squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which Mr. Jellyby had found in the
docks I suppose, but which he at all events gave her. What my
guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it would
be difficult to say, but we thought it right to compound for no more
than her wedding-dress and bonnet. He agreed to this compromise, and
if Caddy had ever been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat
down to work.

She was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her
fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. She could not help
reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart and partly
with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soon got over
that and began to improve rapidly. So day after day she, and my
darling, and my little maid Charley, and a milliner out of the town,
and I, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible.

Over and above this, Caddy was very anxious "to learn housekeeping,"
as she said. Now, mercy upon us! The idea of her learning
housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke that I
laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical confusion when she
proposed it. However, I said, "Caddy, I am sure you are very welcome
to learn anything that you can learn of ME, my dear," and I showed
her all my books and methods and all my fidgety ways. You would have
supposed that I was showing her some wonderful inventions, by her
study of them; and if you had seen her, whenever I jingled my
housekeeping keys, get up and attend me, certainly you might have
thought that there never was a greater imposter than I with a blinder
follower than Caddy Jellyby.

So what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to Charley, and
backgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with Ada, the
three weeks slipped fast away. Then I went home with Caddy to see
what could be done there, and Ada and Charley remained behind to take
care of my guardian.

When I say I went home with Caddy, I mean to the furnished lodging in
Hatton Garden. We went to Newman Street two or three times, where
preparations were in progress too--a good many, I observed, for
enhancing the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop, and a few for putting
the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the house--but
our great point was to make the furnished lodging decent for the
wedding-breakfast and to imbue Mrs. Jellyby beforehand with some
faint sense of the occasion.

The latter was the more difficult thing of the two because Mrs.
Jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (the
back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with
waste-paper and Borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be
littered with straw. Mrs. Jellyby sat there all day drinking strong
coffee, dictating, and holding Borrioboolan interviews by
appointment. The unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a
decline, took his meals out of the house. When Mr. Jellyby came home,
he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen. There he got
something to eat if the servant would give him anything, and then,
feeling that he was in the way, went out and walked about Hatton
Garden in the wet. The poor children scrambled up and tumbled down
the house as they had always been accustomed to do.

The production of these devoted little sacrifices in any presentable
condition being quite out of the question at a week's notice, I
proposed to Caddy that we should make them as happy as we could on
her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept, and should
confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama's room, and a
clean breakfast. In truth Mrs. Jellyby required a good deal of
attention, the lattice-work up her back having widened considerably
since I first knew her and her hair looking like the mane of a
dustman's horse.

Thinking that the display of Caddy's wardrobe would be the best means
of approaching the subject, I invited Mrs. Jellyby to come and look
at it spread out on Caddy's bed in the evening after the unwholesome
boy was gone.

"My dear Miss Summerson," said she, rising from her desk with her
usual sweetness of temper, "these are really ridiculous preparations,
though your assisting them is a proof of your kindness. There is
something so inexpressibly absurd to me in the idea of Caddy being
married! Oh, Caddy, you silly, silly, silly puss!"

She came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothes
in her customary far-off manner. They suggested one distinct idea to
her, for she said with her placid smile, and shaking her head, "My
good Miss Summerson, at half the cost, this weak child might have
been equipped for Africa!"

On our going downstairs again, Mrs. Jellyby asked me whether this
troublesome business was really to take place next Wednesday. And on
my replying yes, she said, "Will my room be required, my dear Miss
Summerson? For it's quite impossible that I can put my papers away."

I took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be wanted
and that I thought we must put the papers away somewhere. "Well, my
dear Miss Summerson," said Mrs. Jellyby, "you know best, I dare say.
But by obliging me to employ a boy, Caddy has embarrassed me to that
extent, overwhelmed as I am with public business, that I don't know
which way to turn. We have a Ramification meeting, too, on Wednesday
afternoon, and the inconvenience is very serious."

"It is not likely to occur again," said I, smiling. "Caddy will be
married but once, probably."

"That's true," Mrs. Jellyby replied; "that's true, my dear. I suppose
we must make the best of it!"

The next question was how Mrs. Jellyby should be dressed on the
occasion. I thought it very curious to see her looking on serenely
from her writing-table while Caddy and I discussed it, occasionally
shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like a superior
spirit who could just bear with our trifling.

The state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary confusion
in which she kept them, added not a little to our difficulty; but at
length we devised something not very unlike what a common-place
mother might wear on such an occasion. The abstracted manner in which
Mrs. Jellyby would deliver herself up to having this attire tried on
by the dressmaker, and the sweetness with which she would then
observe to me how sorry she was that I had not turned my thoughts to
Africa, were consistent with the rest of her behaviour.

The lodging was rather confined as to space, but I fancied that if
Mrs. Jellyby's household had been the only lodgers in Saint Paul's or
Saint Peter's, the sole advantage they would have found in the size
of the building would have been its affording a great deal of room to
be dirty in. I believe that nothing belonging to the family which it
had been possible to break was unbroken at the time of those
preparations for Caddy's marriage, that nothing which it had been
possible to spoil in any way was unspoilt, and that no domestic
object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child's knee
to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could well accumulate
upon it.

Poor Mr. Jellyby, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat when he
was at home with his head against the wall, became interested when he
saw that Caddy and I were attempting to establish some order among
all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help. But such
wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets when they were
opened--bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, Mrs. Jellyby's caps,
letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, firewood,
wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of paper bags,
footstools, blacklead brushes, bread, Mrs. Jellyby's bonnets, books
with butter sticking to the binding, guttered candle ends put out
by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks, nutshells,
heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds,
umbrellas--that he looked frightened, and left off again. But he came
regularly every evening and sat without his coat, with his head
against the wall, as though he would have helped us if he had known
how.

"Poor Pa!" said Caddy to me on the night before the great day, when
we really had got things a little to rights. "It seems unkind to
leave him, Esther. But what could I do if I stayed! Since I first
knew you, I have tidied and tidied over and over again, but it's
useless. Ma and Africa, together, upset the whole house directly. We
never have a servant who don't drink. Ma's ruinous to everything."

Mr. Jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed very low
indeed and shed tears, I thought.

"My heart aches for him; that it does!" sobbed Caddy. "I can't help
thinking to-night, Esther, how dearly I hope to be happy with Prince,
and how dearly Pa hoped, I dare say, to be happy with Ma. What a
disappointed life!"

"My dear Caddy!" said Mr. Jellyby, looking slowly round from the
wail. It was the first time, I think, I ever heard him say three
words together.

"Yes, Pa!" cried Caddy, going to him and embracing him
affectionately.

"My dear Caddy," said Mr. Jellyby. "Never have--"

"Not Prince, Pa?" faltered Caddy. "Not have Prince?"

"Yes, my dear," said Mr. Jellyby. "Have him, certainly. But, never
have--"

I mentioned in my account of our first visit in Thavies Inn that
Richard described Mr. Jellyby as frequently opening his mouth after
dinner without saying anything. It was a habit of his. He opened his
mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholy
manner.

"What do you wish me not to have? Don't have what, dear Pa?" asked
Caddy, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck.

"Never have a mission, my dear child."

Mr. Jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall again, and
this was the only time I ever heard him make any approach to
expressing his sentiments on the Borrioboolan question. I suppose he
had been more talkative and lively once, but he seemed to have been
completely exhausted long before I knew him.

I thought Mrs. Jellyby never would have left off serenely looking
over her papers and drinking coffee that night. It was twelve o'clock
before we could obtain possession of the room, and the clearance it
required then was so discouraging that Caddy, who was almost tired
out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried. But she soon
cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we went to bed.

In the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a quantity
of soap and water and a little arrangement, quite gay. The plain
breakfast made a cheerful show, and Caddy was perfectly charming. But
when my darling came, I thought--and I think now--that I never had
seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet's.

We made a little feast for the children upstairs, and we put Peepy at
the head of the table, and we showed them Caddy in her bridal dress,
and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and Caddy cried to think
that she was going away from them and hugged them over and over again
until we brought Prince up to fetch her away--when, I am sorry to
say, Peepy bit him. Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop downstairs, in
a state of deportment not to be expressed, benignly blessing Caddy
and giving my guardian to understand that his son's happiness was his
own parental work and that he sacrificed personal considerations to
ensure it. "My dear sir," said Mr. Turveydrop, "these young people
will live with me; my house is large enough for their accommodation,
and they shall not want the shelter of my roof. I could have
wished--you will understand the allusion, Mr. Jarndyce, for you
remember my illustrious patron the Prince Regent--I could have
wished that my son had married into a family where there was more
deportment, but the will of heaven be done!"

Mr. and Mrs. Pardiggle were of the party--Mr. Pardiggle, an
obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, who
was always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or Mrs.
Pardiggle's mite, or their five boys' mites. Mr. Quale, with his hair
brushed back as usual and his knobs of temples shining very much, was
also there, not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as the
accepted of a young--at least, an unmarried--lady, a Miss Wisk, who
was also there. Miss Wisk's mission, my guardian said, was to show
the world that woman's mission was man's mission and that the only
genuine mission of both man and woman was to be always moving
declaratory resolutions about things in general at public meetings.
The guests were few, but were, as one might expect at Mrs. Jellyby's,
all devoted to public objects only. Besides those I have mentioned,
there was an extremely dirty lady with her bonnet all awry and the
ticketed price of her dress still sticking on it, whose neglected
home, Caddy told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but whose church
was like a fancy fair. A very contentious gentleman, who said it was
his mission to be everybody's brother but who appeared to be on terms
of coolness with the whole of his large family, completed the party.

A party, having less in common with such an occasion, could hardly
have been got together by any ingenuity. Such a mean mission as the
domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured among them;
indeed, Miss Wisk informed us, with great indignation, before we sat
down to breakfast, that the idea of woman's mission lying chiefly in
the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander on the part of
her tyrant, man. One other singularity was that nobody with a
mission--except Mr. Quale, whose mission, as I think I have formerly
said, was to be in ecstasies with everybody's mission--cared at all
for anybody's mission. Mrs. Pardiggle being as clear that the only
one infallible course was her course of pouncing upon the poor and
applying benevolence to them like a strait-waistcoat; as Miss Wisk
was that the only practical thing for the world was the emancipation
of woman from the thraldom of her tyrant, man. Mrs. Jellyby, all the
while, sat smiling at the limited vision that could see anything but
Borrioboola-Gha.

But I am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on the ride
home instead of first marrying Caddy. We all went to church, and Mr.
Jellyby gave her away. Of the air with which old Mr. Turveydrop, with
his hat under his left arm (the inside presented at the clergyman
like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves up into his wig,
stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids during the
ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, I could never say enough to do
it justice. Miss Wisk, whom I cannot report as prepossessing in
appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened to the proceedings,
as part of woman's wrongs, with a disdainful face. Mrs. Jellyby, with
her calm smile and her bright eyes, looked the least concerned of all
the company.

We duly came back to breakfast, and Mrs. Jellyby sat at the head of
the table and Mr. Jellyby at the foot. Caddy had previously stolen
upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was
Turveydrop. But this piece of information, instead of being an
agreeable surprise to Peepy, threw him on his back in such transports
of kicking grief that I could do nothing on being sent for but accede
to the proposal that he should be admitted to the breakfast table. So
he came down and sat in my lap; and Mrs. Jellyby, after saying, in
reference to the state of his pinafore, "Oh, you naughty Peepy, what
a shocking little pig you are!" was not at all discomposed. He was
very good except that he brought down Noah with him (out of an ark I
had given him before we went to church) and WOULD dip him head first
into the wine-glasses and then put him in his mouth.

My guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception and his
amiable face, made something agreeable even out of the ungenial
company. None of them seemed able to talk about anything but his, or
her, own one subject, and none of them seemed able to talk about even
that as part of a world in which there was anything else; but my
guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of Caddy and the
honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfast nobly.
What we should have done without him, I am afraid to think, for all
the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old Mr.
Turveydrop--and old Mr. Thurveydrop, in virtue of his deportment,
considering himself vastly superior to all the company--it was a very
unpromising case.

At last the time came when poor Caddy was to go and when all her
property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to take her
and her husband to Gravesend. It affected us to see Caddy clinging,
then, to her deplorable home and hanging on her mother's neck with
the greatest tenderness.

"I am very sorry I couldn't go on writing from dictation, Ma," sobbed
Caddy. "I hope you forgive me now."

"Oh, Caddy, Caddy!" said Mrs. Jellyby. "I have told you over and over
again that I have engaged a boy, and there's an end of it."

"You are sure you are not the least angry with me, Ma? Say you are
sure before I go away, Ma?"

"You foolish Caddy," returned Mrs. Jellyby, "do I look angry, or have
I inclination to be angry, or time to be angry? How CAN you?"

"Take a little care of Pa while I am gone, Mama!"

Mrs. Jellyby positively laughed at the fancy. "You romantic child,"
said she, lightly patting Caddy's back. "Go along. I am excellent
friends with you. Now, good-bye, Caddy, and be very happy!"

Then Caddy hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against hers as
if he were some poor dull child in pain. All this took place in the
hall. Her father released her, took out his pocket handkerchief, and
sat down on the stairs with his head against the wall. I hope he
found some consolation in walls. I almost think he did.

And then Prince took her arm in his and turned with great emotion and
respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment was
overwhelming.

"Thank you over and over again, father!" said Prince, kissing his
hand. "I am very grateful for all your kindness and consideration
regarding our marriage, and so, I can assure you, is Caddy."

"Very," sobbed Caddy. "Ve-ry!"

"My dear son," said Mr. Turveydrop, "and dear daughter, I have done
my duty. If the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us and looks
down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, will be my
recompense. You will not fail in YOUR duty, my son and daughter, I
believe?"

"Dear father, never!" cried Prince.

"Never, never, dear Mr. Turveydrop!" said Caddy.

"This," returned Mr. Turveydrop, "is as it should be. My children, my
home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. I will never leave
you; nothing but death shall part us. My dear son, you contemplate an
absence of a week, I think?"

"A week, dear father. We shall return home this day week."

"My dear child," said Mr. Turveydrop, "let me, even under the present
exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality. It is highly
important to keep the connexion together; and schools, if at all
neglected, are apt to take offence."

"This day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner."

"Good!" said Mr. Turveydrop. "You will find fires, my dear Caroline,
in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment. Yes, yes,
Prince!" anticipating some self-denying objection on his son's part
with a great air. "You and our Caroline will be strange in the upper
part of the premises and will, therefore, dine that day in my
apartment. Now, bless ye!"

They drove away, and whether I wondered most at Mrs. Jellyby or at
Mr. Turveydrop, I did not know. Ada and my guardian were in the same
condition when we came to talk it over. But before we drove away too,
I received a most unexpected and eloquent compliment from Mr.
Jellyby. He came up to me in the hall, took both my hands, pressed
them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice. I was so sure of his
meaning that I said, quite flurried, "You are very welcome, sir. Pray
don't mention it!"

"I hope this marriage is for the best, guardian," said I when we
three were on our road home.

"I hope it is, little woman. Patience. We shall see."

"Is the wind in the east to-day?" I ventured to ask him.

He laughed heartily and answered, "No."

"But it must have been this morning, I think," said I.

He answered "No" again, and this time my dear girl confidently
answered "No" too and shook the lovely head which, with its blooming
flowers against the golden hair, was like the very spring. "Much YOU
know of east winds, my ugly darling," said I, kissing her in my
admiration--I couldn't help it.

Well! It was only their love for me, I know very well, and it is a
long time ago. I must write it even if I rub it out again, because it
gives me so much pleasure. They said there could be no east wind
where Somebody was; they said that wherever Dame Durden went, there
was sunshine and summer air.




CHAPTER XXXI

Nurse and Patient


I had not been at home again many days when one evening I went
upstairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley's shoulder and
see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was a trying
business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural power over a pen,
but in whose hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated,
and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash, and sidle into
corners like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd to see what old letters
Charley's young hand had made, they so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and
tottering, it so plump and round. Yet Charley was uncommonly expert
at other things and had as nimble little fingers as I ever watched.

"Well, Charley," said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in which
it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and collapsed
in all kinds of ways, "we are improving. If we only get to make it
round, we shall be perfect, Charley."

Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn't join
Charley's neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.

"Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time."

Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shut
her cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in pride
and half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.

"Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor person of
the name of Jenny?"

"A brickmaker's wife, Charley? Yes."

"She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and said
you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't the young lady's little
maid--meaning you for the young lady, miss--and I said yes, miss."

"I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley."

"So she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she used to
live--she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name of
Liz, miss?"

"I think I do, Charley, though not by name."

"That's what she said!" returned Charley. "They have both come back,
miss, and have been tramping high and low."

"Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?"

"Yes, miss." If Charley could only have made the letters in her copy
as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they would
have been excellent. "And this poor person came about the house three
or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss--all she wanted,
she said--but you were away. That was when she saw me. She saw me
a-going about, miss," said Charley with a short laugh of the greatest
delight and pride, "and she thought I looked like your maid!"

"Did she though, really, Charley?"

"Yes, miss!" said Charley. "Really and truly." And Charley, with
another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round
again and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tired of
seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity, standing
before me with her youthful face and figure, and her steady manner,
and her childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the
pleasantest way.

"And where did you see her, Charley?" said I.

My little maid's countenance fell as she replied, "By the doctor's
shop, miss." For Charley wore her black frock yet.

I asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but Charley said no. It
was some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down to
Saint Albans and was tramping he didn't know where. A poor boy,
Charley said. No father, no mother, no any one. "Like as Tom might
have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father," said Charley,
her round eyes filling with tears.

"And she was getting medicine for him, Charley?"

"She said, miss," returned Charley, "how that he had once done as
much for her."

My little maid's face was so eager and her quiet hands were folded so
closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had no great
difficulty in reading her thoughts. "Well, Charley," said I, "it
appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round to
Jenny's and see what's the matter."

The alacrity with which Charley brought my bonnet and veil, and
having dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl and
made herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently expressed her
readiness. So Charley and I, without saying anything to any one, went
out.

It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind. The
rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with little intermission
for many days. None was falling just then, however. The sky had
partly cleared, but was very gloomy--even above us, where a few stars
were shining. In the north and north-west, where the sun had set
three hours before, there was a pale dead light both beautiful and
awful; and into it long sullen lines of cloud waved up like a sea
stricken immovable as it was heaving. Towards London a lurid glare
overhung the whole dark waste, and the contrast between these two
lights, and the fancy which the redder light engendered of an
unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseen buildings of the city and
on all the faces of its many thousands of wondering inhabitants, was
as solemn as might be.

I had no thought that night--none, I am quite sure--of what was soon
to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that when we had
stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and when we went
upon our way, I had for a moment an undefinable impression of myself
as being something different from what I then was. I know it was then
and there that I had it. I have ever since connected the feeling with
that spot and time and with everything associated with that spot and
time, to the distant voices in the town, the barking of a dog, and
the sound of wheels coming down the miry hill.

It was Saturday night, and most of the people belonging to the place
where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found it quieter than
I had previously seen it, though quite as miserable. The kilns were
burning, and a stifling vapour set towards us with a pale-blue glare.

We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in the
patched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother of the
little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side of the
poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy, supported
by the chimney-piece, was cowering on the floor. He held under his
arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; and as he tried
to warm himself, he shook until the crazy door and window shook. The
place was closer than before and had an unhealthy and a very peculiar
smell.

I had not lifted my veil when I first spoke to the woman, which was
at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly and
stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror.

His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evident
that I stood still instead of advancing nearer.

"I won't go no more to the berryin ground," muttered the boy; "I
ain't a-going there, so I tell you!"

I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a low
voice, "Don't mind him, ma'am. He'll soon come back to his head," and
said to him, "Jo, Jo, what's the matter?"

"I know wot she's come for!" cried the boy.

"Who?"

"The lady there. She's come to get me to go along with her to the
berryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. I don't like the
name on it. She might go a-berryin ME." His shivering came on again,
and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel.

"He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma'am," said
Jenny softly. "Why, how you stare! This is MY lady, Jo."

"Is it?" returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his arm
held out above his burning eyes. "She looks to me the t'other one. It
ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't the gownd, but she looks to me the
t'other one."

My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness and
trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly up
to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick nurse.
Except that no such attendant could have shown him Charley's youthful
face, which seemed to engage his confidence.

"I say!" said the boy. "YOU tell me. Ain't the lady the t'other
lady?"

Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about him
and made him as warm as she could.

"Oh!" the boy muttered. "Then I s'pose she ain't."

"I came to see if I could do you any good," said I. "What is the
matter with you?"

"I'm a-being froze," returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggard gaze
wandering about me, "and then burnt up, and then froze, and then
burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head's all sleepy, and
all a-going mad-like--and I'm so dry--and my bones isn't half so much
bones as pain.

"When did he come here?" I asked the woman.

"This morning, ma'am, I found him at the corner of the town. I had
known him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo?"

"Tom-all-Alone's," the boy replied.

Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a very
little while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll it
heavily, and speak as if he were half awake.

"When did he come from London?" I asked.

"I come from London yes'day," said the boy himself, now flushed and
hot. "I'm a-going somewheres."

"Where is he going?" I asked.

"Somewheres," repeated the boy in a louder tone. "I have been moved
on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since the t'other one
give me the sov'ring. Mrs. Snagsby, she's always a-watching, and
a-driving of me--what have I done to her?--and they're all a-watching
and a-driving of me. Every one of 'em's doing of it, from the time
when I don't get up, to the time when I don't go to bed. And I'm
a-going somewheres. That's where I'm a-going. She told me, down in
Tom-all-Alone's, as she came from Stolbuns, and so I took the
Stolbuns Road. It's as good as another."

He always concluded by addressing Charley.

"What is to be done with him?" said I, taking the woman aside. "He
could not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knew
where he was going!"

"I know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, glancing
compassionately at him. "Perhaps the dead know better, if they could
only tell us. I've kept him here all day for pity's sake, and I've
given him broth and physic, and Liz has gone to try if any one will
take him in (here's my pretty in the bed--her child, but I call it
mine); but I can't keep him long, for if my husband was to come home
and find him here, he'd be rough in putting him out and might do him
a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!"

The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got up
with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. When the
little child awoke, and when and how Charley got at it, took it out
of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don't know. There she
was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if she were living
in Mrs. Blinder's attic with Tom and Emma again.

The friend had been here and there, and had been played about from
hand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it was too
early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and at last
it was too late. One official sent her to another, and the other sent
her back again to the first, and so backward and forward, until it
appeared to me as if both must have been appointed for their skill in
evading their duties instead of performing them. And now, after all,
she said, breathing quickly, for she had been running and was
frightened too, "Jenny, your master's on the road home, and mine's
not far behind, and the Lord help the boy, for we can do no more for
him!" They put a few halfpence together and hurried them into his
hand, and so, in an oblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he
shuffled out of the house.

"Give me the child, my dear," said its mother to Charley, "and thank
you kindly too! Jenny, woman dear, good night! Young lady, if my
master don't fall out with me, I'll look down by the kiln by and by,
where the boy will be most like, and again in the morning!" She
hurried off, and presently we passed her hushing and singing to her
child at her own door and looking anxiously along the road for her
drunken husband.

I was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest I should
bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we must not leave
the boy to die. Charley, who knew what to do much better than I did,
and whose quickness equalled her presence of mind, glided on before
me, and presently we came up with Jo, just short of the brick-kiln.

I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle under
his arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he still carried
his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though he went
bare-headed through the rain, which now fell fast. He stopped when we
called to him and again showed a dread of me when I came up, standing
with his lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and even arrested in his
shivering fit.

I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he had some
shelter for the night.

"I don't want no shelter," he said; "I can lay amongst the warm
bricks."

"But don't you know that people die there?" replied Charley.

"They dies everywheres," said the boy. "They dies in their
lodgings--she knows where; I showed her--and they dies down in
Tom-all-Alone's in heaps. They dies more than they lives, according
to what I see." Then he hoarsely whispered Charley, "If she ain't the
t'other one, she ain't the forrenner. Is there THREE of 'em then?"

Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightened at
myself when the boy glared on me so.

But he turned and followed when I beckoned to him, and finding that
he acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way straight home. It
was not far, only at the summit of the hill. We passed but one man. I
doubted if we should have got home without assistance, the boy's
steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no complaint, however,
and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I may say so strange
a thing.

Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of the
window-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could be
called wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, I went into
the drawing-room to speak to my guardian. There I found Mr. Skimpole,
who had come down by the coach, as he frequently did without notice,
and never bringing any clothes with him, but always borrowing
everything he wanted.

They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servants had
gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seat with
Charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that had been found
in a ditch.

"This is a sorrowful case," said my guardian after asking him a
question or two and touching him and examining his eyes. "What do you
say, Harold?"

"You had better turn him out," said Mr. Skimpole.

"What do you mean?" inquired my guardian, almost sternly.

"My dear Jarndyce," said Mr. Skimpole, "you know what I am: I am a
child. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have a constitutional
objection to this sort of thing. I always had, when I was a medical
man. He's not safe, you know. There's a very bad sort of fever about
him."

Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room again
and said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as we stood
by.

"You'll say it's childish," observed Mr. Skimpole, looking gaily at
us. "Well, I dare say it may be; but I AM a child, and I never
pretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the road, you only
put him where he was before. He will be no worse off than he was, you
know. Even make him better off, if you like. Give him sixpence, or
five shillings, or five pound ten--you are arithmeticians, and I am
not--and get rid of him!"

"And what is he to do then?" asked my guardian.

"Upon my life," said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his shoulders with his
engaging smile, "I have not the least idea what he is to do then. But
I have no doubt he'll do it."

"Now, is it not a horrible reflection," said my guardian, to whom I
had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, "is it
not a horrible reflection," walking up and down and rumpling his
hair, "that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner, his
hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as well taken
care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?"

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "you'll pardon the
simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature who is
perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why ISN'T he a prisoner
then?"

My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture of
amusement and indignation in his face.

"Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I should
imagine," said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid. "It seems to me
that it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way more
respectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him into
prison. There would be more of an adventurous spirit in it, and
consequently more of a certain sort of poetry."

"I believe," returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, "that
there is not such another child on earth as yourself."

"Do you really?" said Mr. Skimpole. "I dare say! But I confess I
don't see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek to
invest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubt
born with an appetite--probably, when he is in a safer state of
health, he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our young
friend's natural dinner hour, most likely about noon, our young
friend says in effect to society, 'I am hungry; will you have the
goodness to produce your spoon and feed me?' Society, which has taken
upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system of spoons and
professes to have a spoon for our young friend, does NOT produce that
spoon; and our young friend, therefore, says 'You really must excuse
me if I seize it.' Now, this appears to me a case of misdirected
energy, which has a certain amount of reason in it and a certain
amount of romance; and I don't know but what I should be more
interested in our young friend, as an illustration of such a case,
than merely as a poor vagabond--which any one can be."

"In the meantime," I ventured to observe, "he is getting worse."

"In the meantime," said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, "as Miss Summerson,
with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting worse.
Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he gets still
worse."

The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall never forget.

"Of course, little woman," observed my guardian, turning to me, "I
can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going there
to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in his
condition, that is necessary. But it's growing late, and is a very
bad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in the
wholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there till
morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll do that."

"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the piano as
we moved away. "Are you going back to our young friend?"

"Yes," said my guardian.

"How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!" returned Mr. Skimpole
with playful admiration. "You don't mind these things; neither does
Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go anywhere, and do
anything. Such is will! I have no will at all--and no won't--simply
can't."

"You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?" said my
guardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half
angrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole an accountable
being.

"My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his
pocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. You
can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he
sleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. But it
is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. Miss
Summerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for the
administration of detail that she knows all about it."

We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed to
do, which Charley explained to him again and which he received with
the languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking on at
what was done as if it were for somebody else. The servants
compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help,
we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the house
carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It was pleasant to
observe how kind they were to him and how there appeared to be a
general impression among them that frequently calling him "Old Chap"
was likely to revive his spirits. Charley directed the operations and
went to and fro between the loft-room and the house with such little
stimulants and comforts as we thought it safe to give him. My
guardian himself saw him before he was left for the night and
reported to me when he returned to the growlery to write a letter on
the boy's behalf, which a messenger was charged to deliver at
day-light in the morning, that he seemed easier and inclined to
sleep. They had fastened his door on the outside, he said, in case of
his being delirious, but had so arranged that he could not make any
noise without being heard.

Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left alone all
this time and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic
airs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) with
great expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the
drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad which had come
into his head "apropos of our young friend," and he sang one about a
peasant boy,

   "Thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam,
    Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home."

quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cry, he told
us.

He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutely
chirped--those were his delighted words--when he thought by what a
happy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave us, in his glass
of negus, "Better health to our young friend!" and supposed and gaily
pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittington to become
Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, he would establish the
Jarndyce Institution and the Summerson Almshouses, and a little
annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He had no doubt, he
said, that our young friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his
way was not the Harold Skimpole way; what Harold Skimpole was, Harold
Skimpole had found himself, to his considerable surprise, when he
first made his own acquaintance; he had accepted himself with all his
failings and had thought it sound philosophy to make the best of the
bargain; and he hoped we would do the same.

Charley's last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see, from
my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; and I went
to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.

There was more movement and more talking than usual a little before
daybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, I looked out of my
window and asked one of our men who had been among the active
sympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about the
house. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window.

"It's the boy, miss," said he.

"Is he worse?" I inquired.

"Gone, miss.

"Dead!"

"Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off."

At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemed
hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left, and
the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposed that he
had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated with an empty
cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, if that were so; and
it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing of any kind was
missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained, we all yielded to
the painful belief that delirium had come upon him in the night and
that, allured by some imaginary object or pursued by some imaginary
horror, he had strayed away in that worse than helpless state; all of
us, that is to say, but Mr. Skimpole, who repeatedly suggested, in
his usual easy light style, that it had occurred to our young friend
that he was not a safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever upon him,
and that he had with great natural politeness taken himself off.

Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. The
brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two women
were particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, and
nobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather had for
some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet to admit
of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, and rick and
stack, were examined by our men for a long distance round, lest the
boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead; but nothing
was seen to indicate that he had ever been near. From the time when
he was left in the loft-room, he vanished.

The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased even
then, but that my attention was then diverted into a current very
memorable to me.

As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening, and as
I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble. Looking up,
I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.

"Charley," said I, "are you so cold?"

"I think I am, miss," she replied. "I don't know what it is. I can't
hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this same time, miss.
Don't be uneasy, I think I'm ill."

I heard Ada's voice outside, and I hurried to the door of
communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and locked
it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was yet upon the
key.

Ada called to me to let her in, but I said, "Not now, my dearest. Go
away. There's nothing the matter; I will come to you presently." Ah!
It was a long, long time before my darling girl and I were companions
again.

Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved her to my
room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurse her. I
told my guardian all about it, and why I felt it was necessary that I
should seclude myself, and my reason for not seeing my darling above
all. At first she came very often to the door, and called to me, and
even reproached me with sobs and tears; but I wrote her a long letter
saying that she made me anxious and unhappy and imploring her, as she
loved me and wished my mind to be at peace, to come no nearer than
the garden. After that she came beneath the window even oftener than
she had come to the door, and if I had learnt to love her dear sweet
voice before when we were hardly ever apart, how did I learn to love
it then, when I stood behind the window-curtain listening and
replying, but not so much as looking out! How did I learn to love it
afterwards, when the harder time came!

They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the door
wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada had vacated
that part of the house, and kept them always fresh and airy. There
was not a servant in or about the house but was so good that they
would all most gladly have come to me at any hour of the day or night
without the least fear or unwillingness, but I thought it best to
choose one worthy woman who was never to see Ada and whom I could
trust to come and go with all precaution. Through her means I got out
to take the air with my guardian when there was no fear of meeting
Ada, and wanted for nothing in the way of attendance, any more than
in any other respect.

And thus poor Charley sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavy
danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of day
and night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired by such
a gentle fortitude that very often as I sat by Charley holding her
head in my arms--repose would come to her, so, when it would come to
her in no other attitude--I silently prayed to our Father in heaven
that I might not forget the lesson which this little sister taught
me.

I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks would
change and be disfigured, even if she recovered--she was such a child
with her dimpled face--but that thought was, for the greater part,
lost in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, and her mind
rambled again to the cares of her father's sick bed and the little
children, she still knew me so far as that she would be quiet in my
arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur out the
wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times I used to
think, how should I ever tell the two remaining babies that the baby
who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother to them in their
need was dead!

There were other times when Charley knew me well and talked to me,
telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma and that she was
sure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times Charley would
speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as she could
to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buried who was
the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of the ruler's
daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of death. And
Charley told me that when her father died she had kneeled down and
prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might be raised up and
given back to his poor children, and that if she should never get
better and should die too, she thought it likely that it might come
into Tom's mind to offer the same prayer for her. Then would I show
Tom how these people of old days had been brought back to life on
earth, only that we might know our hope to be restored to heaven!

But of all the various times there were in Charley's illness, there
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of. And
there were many, many when I thought in the night of the last high
belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust in God, on
the part of her poor despised father.

And Charley did not die. She flutteringly and slowly turned the
dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to mend.
The hope that never had been given, from the first, of Charley being
in outward appearance Charley any more soon began to be encouraged;
and even that prospered, and I saw her growing into her old childish
likeness again.

It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stood
out in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I at
last took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening, I
felt that I was stricken cold.

Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bed
again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of her
illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I felt at
tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew that I was
rapidly following in Charley's steps.

I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to
return my darling's cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk
with her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impression that
I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little beside
myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused at
times--with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming too
large altogether.

In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare
Charley, with which view I said, "You're getting quite strong,
Charley, are you not?'

"Oh, quite!" said Charley.

"Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?"

"Quite strong enough for that, miss!" cried Charley. But Charley's
face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in MY
face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my bosom,
and said "Oh, miss, it's my doing! It's my doing!" and a great deal
more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.

"Now, Charley," said I after letting her go on for a little while,
"if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you. And
unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were for
yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley."

"If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said Charley. "Oh, my
dear, my dear! If you'll only let me cry a little longer. Oh, my
dear!"--how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as she
clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears--"I'll be good."

So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.

"Trust in me now, if you please, miss," said Charley quietly. "I am
listening to everything you say."

"It's very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor
to-night that I don't think I am well and that you are going to nurse
me."

For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. "And in the
morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not be
quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, Charley,
and say I am asleep--that I have rather tired myself, and am asleep.
At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley, and let no one
come."

Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw the
doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask
relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet. I
have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day,
and of day melting into night again; but I was just able on the first
morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.

On the second morning I heard her dear voice--Oh, how dear
now!--outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech
being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer
softly, "Don't disturb her, Charley, for the world!"

"How does my own Pride look, Charley?" I inquired.

"Disappointed, miss," said Charley, peeping through the curtain.

"But I know she is very beautiful this morning."

"She is indeed, miss," answered Charley, peeping. "Still looking up
at the window."

With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when
raised like that!

I called Charley to me and gave her her last charge.

"Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make her way
into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, to the
last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look upon me for
one moment as I lie here, I shall die."

"I never will! I never will!" she promised me.

"I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside me for a
little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,
Charley; I am blind."




CHAPTER XXXII

The Appointed Time


It is night in Lincoln's Inn--perplexed and troublous valley of the
shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day--and
fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattled down
the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. The bell that rings at nine
o'clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; the gates are
shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mighty power of
sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircase windows
clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared Argus with a
fathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink at
the stars. In dirty upper casements, here and there, hazy little
patches of candlelight reveal where some wise draughtsman and
conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshes
of sheep-skin, in the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to an
acre of land. Over which bee-like industry these benefactors of their
species linger yet, though office-hours be past, that they may give,
for every day, some good account at last.

In the neighbouring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the rag and
bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer and
supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, whose respective sons, engaged
with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek, have been
lying in ambush about the by-ways of Chancery Lane for some hours and
scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the confusion of
passengers--Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but now exchanged
congratulations on the children being abed, and they still linger on
a door-step over a few parting words. Mr. Krook and his lodger, and
the fact of Mr. Krook's being "continually in liquor," and the
testamentary prospects of the young man are, as usual, the staple of
their conversation. But they have something to say, likewise, of the
Harmonic Meeting at the Sol's Arms, where the sound of the piano
through the partly opened windows jingles out into the court, and
where Little Swills, after keeping the lovers of harmony in a roar
like a very Yorick, may now be heard taking the gruff line in a
concerted piece and sentimentally adjuring his friends and patrons to
"Listen, listen, listen, tew the wa-ter fall!" Mrs. Perkins and Mrs.
Piper compare opinions on the subject of the young lady of
professional celebrity who assists at the Harmonic Meetings and who
has a space to herself in the manuscript announcement in the window,
Mrs. Perkins possessing information that she has been married a year
and a half, though announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted siren,
and that her baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol's Arms every
night to receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments.
"Sooner than which, myself," says Mrs. Perkins, "I would get my
living by selling lucifers." Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the
same opinion, holding that a private station is better than public
applause, and thanking heaven for her own (and, by implication, Mrs.
Perkins') respectability. By this time the pot-boy of the Sol's Arms
appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, Mrs. Piper accepts that
tankard and retires indoors, first giving a fair good night to Mrs.
Perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand ever since it was
fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins before he was sent to
bed. Now there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters in the court
and a smell as of the smoking of pipes; and shooting stars are seen
in upper windows, further indicating retirement to rest. Now, too,
the policeman begins to push at doors; to try fastenings; to be
suspicious of bundles; and to administer his beat, on the hypothesis
that every one is either robbing or being robbed.

It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too, and there
is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine steaming
night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesome trades, the
sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, and give the
registrar of deaths some extra business. It may be something in the
air--there is plenty in it--or it may be something in himself that is
in fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Jobling, is very ill at ease. He
comes and goes between his own room and the open street door twenty
times an hour. He has been doing so ever since it fell dark. Since
the Chancellor shut up his shop, which he did very early to-night,
Mr. Weevle has been down and up, and down and up (with a cheap tight
velvet skull-cap on his head, making his whiskers look out of all
proportion), oftener than before.

It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease too, for
he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of the
secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery of which he is a
partaker and yet in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Snagsby haunts what
seems to be its fountain-head--the rag and bottle shop in the court.
It has an irresistible attraction for him. Even now, coming round by
the Sol's Arms with the intention of passing down the court, and out
at the Chancery Lane end, and so terminating his unpremeditated
after-supper stroll of ten minutes' long from his own door and back
again, Mr. Snagsby approaches.

"What, Mr. Weevle?" says the stationer, stopping to speak. "Are YOU
there?"

"Aye!" says Weevle, "Here I am, Mr. Snagsby."

"Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed?" the stationer
inquires.

"Why, there's not much air to be got here; and what there is, is not
very freshening," Weevle answers, glancing up and down the court.

"Very true, sir. Don't you observe," says Mr. Snagsby, pausing to
sniff and taste the air a little, "don't you observe, Mr. Weevle,
that you're--not to put too fine a point upon it--that you're rather
greasy here, sir?"

"Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour in
the place to-night," Mr. Weevle rejoins. "I suppose it's chops at the
Sol's Arms."

"Chops, do you think? Oh! Chops, eh?" Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes
again. "Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say their cook at
the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been burning 'em, sir!
And I don't think"--Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes again and then
spits and wipes his mouth--"I don't think--not to put too fine a
point upon it--that they were quite fresh when they were shown the
gridiron."

"That's very likely. It's a tainting sort of weather."

"It IS a tainting sort of weather," says Mr. Snagsby, "and I find it
sinking to the spirits."

"By George! I find it gives me the horrors," returns Mr. Weevle.

"Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome room,
with a black circumstance hanging over it," says Mr. Snagsby, looking
in past the other's shoulder along the dark passage and then falling
back a step to look up at the house. "I couldn't live in that room
alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety and worried of an
evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to come to the door and
stand here sooner than sit there. But then it's very true that you
didn't see, in your room, what I saw there. That makes a difference."

"I know quite enough about it," returns Tony.

"It's not agreeable, is it?" pursues Mr. Snagsby, coughing his cough
of mild persuasion behind his hand. "Mr. Krook ought to consider it
in the rent. I hope he does, I am sure."

"I hope he does," says Tony. "But I doubt it."

"You find the rent too high, do you, sir?" returns the stationer.
"Rents ARE high about here. I don't know how it is exactly, but the
law seems to put things up in price. Not," adds Mr. Snagsby with his
apologetic cough, "that I mean to say a word against the profession I
get my living by."

Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks at the
stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks upward for a
star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly seeing his
way out of this conversation.

"It's a curious fact, sir," he observes, slowly rubbing his hands,
"that he should have been--"

"Who's he?" interrupts Mr. Weevle.

"The deceased, you know," says Mr. Snagsby, twitching his head and
right eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance on
the button.

"Ah, to be sure!" returns the other as if he were not over-fond of
the subject. "I thought we had done with him."

"I was only going to say it's a curious fact, sir, that he should
have come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then that
you should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. Which
there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation,"
says Mr. Snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he may have
unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in Mr. Weevle, "because
I have known writers that have gone into brewers' houses and done
really very respectable indeed. Eminently respectable, sir," adds Mr.
Snagsby with a misgiving that he has not improved the matter.

"It's a curious coincidence, as you say," answers Weevle, once more
glancing up and down the court.

"Seems a fate in it, don't there?" suggests the stationer.

"There does."

"Just so," observes the stationer with his confirmatory cough. "Quite
a fate in it. Quite a fate. Well, Mr. Weevle, I am afraid I must bid
you good night"--Mr. Snagsby speaks as if it made him desolate to go,
though he has been casting about for any means of escape ever since
he stopped to speak--"my little woman will be looking for me else.
Good night, sir!"

If Mr. Snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble of
looking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. His
little woman has had her eye upon him round the Sol's Arms all this
time and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrapped over
her head, honouring Mr. Weevle and his doorway with a searching
glance as she goes past.

"You'll know me again, ma'am, at all events," says Mr. Weevle to
himself; "and I can't compliment you on your appearance, whoever you
are, with your head tied up in a bundle. Is this fellow NEVER
coming!"

This fellow approaches as he speaks. Mr. Weevle softly holds up his
finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the street door.
Then they go upstairs, Mr. Weevle heavily, and Mr. Guppy (for it is
he) very lightly indeed. When they are shut into the back room, they
speak low.

"I thought you had gone to Jericho at least instead of coming here,"
says Tony.

"Why, I said about ten."

"You said about ten," Tony repeats. "Yes, so you did say about ten.
But according to my count, it's ten times ten--it's a hundred
o'clock. I never had such a night in my life!"

"What has been the matter?"

"That's it!" says Tony. "Nothing has been the matter. But here have I
been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till I have had the
horrors falling on me as thick as hail. THERE'S a blessed-looking
candle!" says Tony, pointing to the heavily burning taper on his
table with a great cabbage head and a long winding-sheet.

"That's easily improved," Mr. Guppy observes as he takes the snuffers
in hand.

"IS it?" returns his friend. "Not so easily as you think. It has been
smouldering like that ever since it was lighted."

"Why, what's the matter with you, Tony?" inquires Mr. Guppy, looking
at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow on the
table.

"William Guppy," replies the other, "I am in the downs. It's this
unbearably dull, suicidal room--and old Boguey downstairs, I
suppose." Mr. Weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from him with
his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on the fender,
and looks at the fire. Mr. Guppy, observing him, slightly tosses his
head and sits down on the other side of the table in an easy
attitude.

"Wasn't that Snagsby talking to you, Tony?"

"Yes, and he--yes, it was Snagsby," said Mr. Weevle, altering the
construction of his sentence.

"On business?"

"No. No business. He was only sauntering by and stopped to prose."

"I thought it was Snagsby," says Mr. Guppy, "and thought it as well
that he shouldn't see me, so I waited till he was gone."

"There we go again, William G.!" cried Tony, looking up for an
instant. "So mysterious and secret! By George, if we were going to
commit a murder, we couldn't have more mystery about it!"

Mr. Guppy affects to smile, and with the view of changing the
conversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, round the
room at the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, terminating his survey
with the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the mantelshelf, in which she
is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon the terrace, and a
vase upon the pedestal, and her shawl upon the vase, and a prodigious
piece of fur upon the shawl, and her arm on the prodigious piece of
fur, and a bracelet on her arm.

"That's very like Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Guppy. "It's a speaking
likeness."

"I wish it was," growls Tony, without changing his position. "I
should have some fashionable conversation, here, then."

Finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into a
more sociable humour, Mr. Guppy puts about upon the ill-used tack and
remonstrates with him.

"Tony," says he, "I can make allowances for lowness of spirits, for
no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than I
do, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man who
has an unrequited image imprinted on his 'eart. But there are bounds
to these things when an unoffending party is in question, and I will
acknowledge to you, Tony, that I don't think your manner on the
present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly."

"This is strong language, William Guppy," returns Mr. Weevle.

"Sir, it may be," retorts Mr. William Guppy, "but I feel strongly
when I use it."

Mr. Weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs Mr. William Guppy
to think no more about it. Mr. William Guppy, however, having got the
advantage, cannot quite release it without a little more injured
remonstrance.

"No! Dash it, Tony," says that gentleman, "you really ought to be
careful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequited
image imprinted on his 'eart and who is NOT altogether happy in those
chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. You, Tony, possess in
yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye and allure the
taste. It is not--happily for you, perhaps, and I may wish that I
could say the same--it is not your character to hover around one
flower. The ole garden is open to you, and your airy pinions carry
you through it. Still, Tony, far be it from me, I am sure, to wound
even your feelings without a cause!"

Tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued, saying
emphatically, "William Guppy, drop it!" Mr. Guppy acquiesces, with
the reply, "I never should have taken it up, Tony, of my own accord."

"And now," says Tony, stirring the fire, "touching this same bundle
of letters. Isn't it an extraordinary thing of Krook to have
appointed twelve o'clock to-night to hand 'em over to me?"

"Very. What did he do it for?"

"What does he do anything for? HE don't know. Said to-day was his
birthday and he'd hand 'em over to-night at twelve o'clock. He'll
have drunk himself blind by that time. He has been at it all day."

"He hasn't forgotten the appointment, I hope?"

"Forgotten? Trust him for that. He never forgets anything. I saw him
to-night, about eight--helped him to shut up his shop--and he had got
the letters then in his hairy cap. He pulled it off and showed 'em
me. When the shop was closed, he took them out of his cap, hung his
cap on the chair-back, and stood turning them over before the fire. I
heard him a little while afterwards, through the floor here, humming
like the wind, the only song he knows--about Bibo, and old Charon,
and Bibo being drunk when he died, or something or other. He has been
as quiet since as an old rat asleep in his hole."

"And you are to go down at twelve?"

"At twelve. And as I tell you, when you came it seemed to me a
hundred."

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy after considering a little with his legs
crossed, "he can't read yet, can he?"

"Read! He'll never read. He can make all the letters separately, and
he knows most of them separately when he sees them; he has got on
that much, under me; but he can't put them together. He's too old to
acquire the knack of it now--and too drunk."

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, "how do
you suppose he spelt out that name of Hawdon?"

"He never spelt it out. You know what a curious power of eye he has
and how he has been used to employ himself in copying things by eye
alone. He imitated it, evidently from the direction of a letter, and
asked me what it meant."

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs again,
"should you say that the original was a man's writing or a woman's?"

"A woman's. Fifty to one a lady's--slopes a good deal, and the end of
the letter 'n,' long and hasty."

Mr. Guppy has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue,
generally changing the thumb when he has changed the cross leg. As he
is going to do so again, he happens to look at his coat-sleeve. It
takes his attention. He stares at it, aghast.

"Why, Tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night? Is
there a chimney on fire?"

"Chimney on fire!"

"Ah!" returns Mr. Guppy. "See how the soot's falling. See here, on my
arm! See again, on the table here! Confound the stuff, it won't blow
off--smears like black fat!"

They look at one another, and Tony goes listening to the door, and a
little way upstairs, and a little way downstairs. Comes back and says
it's all right and all quiet, and quotes the remark he lately made to
Mr. Snagsby about their cooking chops at the Sol's Arms.

"And it was then," resumes Mr. Guppy, still glancing with remarkable
aversion at the coat-sleeve, as they pursue their conversation before
the fire, leaning on opposite sides of the table, with their heads
very near together, "that he told you of his having taken the bundle
of letters from his lodger's portmanteau?"

"That was the time, sir," answers Tony, faintly adjusting his
whiskers. "Whereupon I wrote a line to my dear boy, the Honourable
William Guppy, informing him of the appointment for to-night and
advising him not to call before, Boguey being a slyboots."

The light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually assumed
by Mr. Weevle sits so ill upon him to-night that he abandons that and
his whiskers together, and after looking over his shoulder, appears
to yield himself up a prey to the horrors again.

"You are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare, and
to get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. That's
the arrangement, isn't it, Tony?" asks Mr. Guppy, anxiously biting
his thumb-nail.

"You can't speak too low. Yes. That's what he and I agreed."

"I tell you what, Tony--"

"You can't speak too low," says Tony once more. Mr. Guppy nods his
sagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a whisper.

"I tell you what. The first thing to be done is to make another
packet like the real one so that if he should ask to see the real one
while it's in my possession, you can show him the dummy."

"And suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees it, which with
his biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times more likely
than not," suggests Tony.

"Then we'll face it out. They don't belong to him, and they never
did. You found that, and you placed them in my hands--a legal friend
of yours--for security. If he forces us to it, they'll be producible,
won't they?"

"Ye-es," is Mr. Weevle's reluctant admission.

"Why, Tony," remonstrates his friend, "how you look! You don't doubt
William Guppy? You don't suspect any harm?"

"I don't suspect anything more than I know, William," returns the
other gravely.

"And what do you know?" urges Mr. Guppy, raising his voice a little;
but on his friend's once more warning him, "I tell you, you can't
speak too low," he repeats his question without any sound at all,
forming with his lips only the words, "What do you know?"

"I know three things. First, I know that here we are whispering in
secrecy, a pair of conspirators."

"Well!" says Mr. Guppy. "And we had better be that than a pair of
noodles, which we should be if we were doing anything else, for it's
the only way of doing what we want to do. Secondly?"

"Secondly, it's not made out to me how it's likely to be profitable,
after all."

Mr. Guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of Lady Dedlock over the
mantelshelf and replies, "Tony, you are asked to leave that to the
honour of your friend. Besides its being calculated to serve that
friend in those chords of the human mind which--which need not be
called into agonizing vibration on the present occasion--your friend
is no fool. What's that?"

"It's eleven o'clock striking by the bell of Saint Paul's. Listen and
you'll hear all the bells in the city jangling."

Both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant,
resounding from towers of various heights, in tones more various than
their situations. When these at length cease, all seems more
mysterious and quiet than before. One disagreeable result of
whispering is that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence,
haunted by the ghosts of sound--strange cracks and tickings, the
rustling of garments that have no substance in them, and the tread of
dreadful feet that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or the winter
snow. So sensitive the two friends happen to be that the air is full
of these phantoms, and the two look over their shoulders by one
consent to see that the door is shut.

"Yes, Tony?" says Mr. Guppy, drawing nearer to the fire and biting
his unsteady thumb-nail. "You were going to say, thirdly?"

"It's far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man in
the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it."

"But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony."

"May be not, still I don't like it. Live here by yourself and see how
YOU like it."

"As to dead men, Tony," proceeds Mr. Guppy, evading this proposal,
"there have been dead men in most rooms."

"I know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and--and
they let you alone," Tony answers.

The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried remark to
the effect that they may be doing the deceased a service, that he
hopes so. There is an oppressive blank until Mr. Weevle, by stirring
the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Guppy start as if his heart had been
stirred instead.

"Fah! Here's more of this hateful soot hanging about," says he. "Let
us open the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. It's too close."

He raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill, half in
and half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near to
admit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and looking
up, but lights in frowsy windows here and there, and the rolling of
distant carriages, and the new expression that there is of the stir
of men, they find to be comfortable. Mr. Guppy, noiselessly tapping
on the window-sill, resumes his whispering in quite a light-comedy
tone.

"By the by, Tony, don't forget old Smallweed," meaning the younger of
that name. "I have not let him into this, you know. That grandfather
of his is too keen by half. It runs in the family."

"I remember," says Tony. "I am up to all that."

"And as to Krook," resumes Mr. Guppy. "Now, do you suppose he really
has got hold of any other papers of importance, as he has boasted to
you, since you have been such allies?"

Tony shakes his head. "I don't know. Can't Imagine. If we get through
this business without rousing his suspicions, I shall be better
informed, no doubt. How can I know without seeing them, when he don't
know himself? He is always spelling out words from them, and chalking
them over the table and the shop-wall, and asking what this is and
what that is; but his whole stock from beginning to end may easily be
the waste-paper he bought it as, for anything I can say. It's a
monomania with him to think he is possessed of documents. He has been
going to learn to read them this last quarter of a century, I should
judge, from what he tells me."

"How did he first come by that idea, though? That's the question,"
Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensic
meditation. "He may have found papers in something he bought, where
papers were not supposed to be, and may have got it into his shrewd
head from the manner and place of their concealment that they are
worth something."

"Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. Or he may
have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he HAS got,
and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor's Court and
hearing of documents for ever," returns Mr. Weevle.

Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and balancing
all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully to tap
it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until he hastily
draws his hand away.

"What, in the devil's name," he says, "is this! Look at my fingers!"

A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the touch
and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant, sickening oil
with some natural repulsion in it that makes them both shudder.

"What have you been doing here? What have you been pouring out of
window?"

"I pouring out of window! Nothing, I swear! Never, since I have been
here!" cries the lodger.

And yet look here--and look here! When he brings the candle here,
from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips and creeps away
down the bricks, here lies in a little thick nauseous pool.

"This is a horrible house," says Mr. Guppy, shutting down the window.
"Give me some water or I shall cut my hand off."

He so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes, that he
has not long restored himself with a glass of brandy and stood
silently before the fire when Saint Paul's bell strikes twelve and
all those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various
heights in the dark air, and in their many tones. When all is quiet
again, the lodger says, "It's the appointed time at last. Shall I
go?"

Mr. Guppy nods and gives him a "lucky touch" on the back, but not
with the washed hand, though it is his right hand.

He goes downstairs, and Mr. Guppy tries to compose himself before the
fire for waiting a long time. But in no more than a minute or two the
stairs creak and Tony comes swiftly back.

"Have you got them?"

"Got them! No. The old man's not there."

He has been so horribly frightened in the short interval that his
terror seizes the other, who makes a rush at him and asks loudly,
"What's the matter?"

"I couldn't make him hear, and I softly opened the door and looked
in. And the burning smell is there--and the soot is there, and the
oil is there--and he is not there!" Tony ends this with a groan.

Mr. Guppy takes the light. They go down, more dead than alive, and
holding one another, push open the door of the back shop. The cat has
retreated close to it and stands snarling, not at them, at something
on the ground before the fire. There is a very little fire left in
the grate, but there is a smouldering, suffocating vapour in the room
and a dark, greasy coating on the walls and ceiling. The chairs and
table, and the bottle so rarely absent from the table, all stand as
usual. On one chair-back hang the old man's hairy cap and coat.

"Look!" whispers the lodger, pointing his friend's attention to these
objects with a trembling finger. "I told you so. When I saw him last,
he took his cap off, took out the little bundle of old letters, hung
his cap on the back of the chair--his coat was there already, for he
had pulled that off before he went to put the shutters up--and I left
him turning the letters over in his hand, standing just where that
crumbled black thing is upon the floor."

Is he hanging somewhere? They look up. No.

"See!" whispers Tony. "At the foot of the same chair there lies a
dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. That went
round the letters. He undid it slowly, leering and laughing at me,
before he began to turn them over, and threw it there. I saw it
fall."

"What's the matter with the cat?" says Mr. Guppy. "Look at her!"

"Mad, I think. And no wonder in this evil place."

They advance slowly, looking at all these things. The cat remains
where they found her, still snarling at the something on the ground
before the fire and between the two chairs. What is it? Hold up the
light.

Here is a small burnt patch of flooring; here is the tinder from a
little bundle of burnt paper, but not so light as usual, seeming to
be steeped in something; and here is--is it the cinder of a small
charred and broken log of wood sprinkled with white ashes, or is it
coal? Oh, horror, he IS here! And this from which we run away,
striking out the light and overturning one another into the street,
is all that represents him.

Help, help, help! Come into this house for heaven's sake! Plenty will
come in, but none can help. The Lord Chancellor of that court, true
to his title in his last act, has died the death of all lord
chancellors in all courts and of all authorities in all places under
all names soever, where false pretences are made, and where injustice
is done. Call the death by any name your Highness will, attribute
it to whom you will, or say it might have been prevented how you
will, it is the same death eternally--inborn, inbred, engendered
in the corrupted humours of the vicious body itself, and that
only--spontaneous combustion, and none other of all the deaths that
can be died.




CHAPTER XXXIII

Interlopers


Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons
who attended the last coroner's inquest at the Sol's Arms reappear in
the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, in fact, breathlessly
fetched by the active and intelligent beadle), and institute
perquisitions through the court, and dive into the Sol's parlour, and
write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper. Now do they note
down, in the watches of the night, how the neighbourhood of Chancery
Lane was yesterday, at about midnight, thrown into a state of the
most intense agitation and excitement by the following alarming and
horrible discovery. Now do they set forth how it will doubtless be
remembered that some time back a painful sensation was created in the
public mind by a case of mysterious death from opium occurring in the
first floor of the house occupied as a rag, bottle, and general
marine store shop, by an eccentric individual of intemperate habits,
far advanced in life, named Krook; and how, by a remarkable
coincidence, Krook was examined at the inquest, which it may be
recollected was held on that occasion at the Sol's Arms, a
well-conducted tavern immediately adjoining the premises in question
on the west side and licensed to a highly respectable landlord, Mr.
James George Bogsby. Now do they show (in as many words as possible)
how during some hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was
observed by the inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical
occurrence which forms the subject of that present account
transpired; and which odour was at one time so powerful that Mr.
Swills, a comic vocalist professionally engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby,
has himself stated to our reporter that he mentioned to Miss M.
Melvilleson, a lady of some pretensions to musical ability, likewise
engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby to sing at a series of concerts called
Harmonic Assemblies, or Meetings, which it would appear are held at
the Sol's Arms under Mr. Bogsby's direction pursuant to the Act of
George the Second, that he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriously
affected by the impure state of the atmosphere, his jocose expression
at the time being that he was like an empty post-office, for he
hadn't a single note in him. How this account of Mr. Swills is
entirely corroborated by two intelligent married females residing in
the same court and known respectively by the names of Mrs. Piper and
Mrs. Perkins, both of whom observed the foetid effluvia and regarded
them as being emitted from the premises in the occupation of Krook,
the unfortunate deceased. All this and a great deal more the two
gentlemen who have formed an amicable partnership in the melancholy
catastrophe write down on the spot; and the boy population of the
court (out of bed in a moment) swarm up the shutters of the Sol's
Arms parlour, to behold the tops of their heads while they are about
it.

The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night,
and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of the
ill-fated house, and look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely rescued
from her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with a
bed at the Sol's Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor shuts
its door all night, for any kind of public excitement makes good for
the Sol and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. The house
has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves or in
brandy-and-water warm since the inquest. The moment the pot-boy heard
what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to his
shoulders and said, "There'll be a run upon us!" In the first outcry,
young Piper dashed off for the fire-engines and returned in triumph
at a jolting gallop perched up aloft on the Phoenix and holding on to
that fabulous creature with all his might in the midst of helmets and
torches. One helmet remains behind after careful investigation of all
chinks and crannies and slowly paces up and down before the house in
company with one of the two policemen who have likewise been left in
charge thereof. To this trio everybody in the court possessed of
sixpence has an insatiate desire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid
form.

Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at the Sol and
are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains if they will only
stay there. "This is not a time," says Mr. Bogsby, "to haggle about
money," though he looks something sharply after it, over the counter;
"give your orders, you two gentlemen, and you're welcome to whatever
you put a name to."

Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put names
to so many things that in course of time they find it difficult to
put a name to anything quite distinctly, though they still relate to
all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it, and of
what they said, and what they thought, and what they saw. Meanwhile,
one or other of the policemen often flits about the door, and pushing
it open a little way at the full length of his arm, looks in from
outer gloom. Not that he has any suspicions, but that he may as well
know what they are up to in there.

Thus night pursues its leaden course, finding the court still out of
bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being treated,
still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a little
money left it unexpectedly. Thus night at length with slow-retreating
steps departs, and the lamp-lighter going his rounds, like an
executioner to a despotic king, strikes off the little heads of fire
that have aspired to lessen the darkness. Thus the day cometh,
whether or no.

And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that the court
has been up all night. Over and above the faces that have fallen
drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hard floors
instead of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of the very court
itself looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbourhood, waking up and
beginning to hear of what has happened, comes streaming in, half
dressed, to ask questions; and the two policemen and the helmet (who
are far less impressible externally than the court) have enough to do
to keep the door.

"Good gracious, gentlemen!" says Mr. Snagsby, coming up. "What's this
I hear!"

"Why, it's true," returns one of the policemen. "That's what it is.
Now move on here, come!"

"Why, good gracious, gentlemen," says Mr. Snagsby, somewhat promptly
backed away, "I was at this door last night betwixt ten and eleven
o'clock in conversation with the young man who lodges here."

"Indeed?" returns the policeman. "You will find the young man next
door then. Now move on here, some of you."

"Not hurt, I hope?" says Mr. Snagsby.

"Hurt? No. What's to hurt him!"

Mr. Snagsby, wholly unable to answer this or any question in his
troubled mind, repairs to the Sol's Arms and finds Mr. Weevle
languishing over tea and toast with a considerable expression on him
of exhausted excitement and exhausted tobacco-smoke.

"And Mr. Guppy likewise!" quoth Mr. Snagsby. "Dear, dear, dear! What
a fate there seems in all this! And my lit--"

Mr. Snagsby's power of speech deserts him in the formation of the
words "my little woman." For to see that injured female walk into the
Sol's Arms at that hour of the morning and stand before the
beer-engine, with her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit,
strikes him dumb.

"My dear," says Mr. Snagsby when his tongue is loosened, "will you
take anything? A little--not to put too fine a point upon it--drop of
shrub?"

"No," says Mrs. Snagsby.

"My love, you know these two gentlemen?"

"Yes!" says Mrs. Snagsby, and in a rigid manner acknowledges their
presence, still fixing Mr. Snagsby with her eye.

The devoted Mr. Snagsby cannot bear this treatment. He takes Mrs.
Snagsby by the hand and leads her aside to an adjacent cask.

"My little woman, why do you look at me in that way? Pray don't do
it."

"I can't help my looks," says Mrs. Snagsby, "and if I could I
wouldn't."

Mr. Snagsby, with his cough of meekness, rejoins, "Wouldn't you
really, my dear?" and meditates. Then coughs his cough of trouble and
says, "This is a dreadful mystery, my love!" still fearfully
disconcerted by Mrs. Snagsby's eye.

"It IS," returns Mrs. Snagsby, shaking her head, "a dreadful
mystery."

"My little woman," urges Mr. Snagsby in a piteous manner, "don't for
goodness' sake speak to me with that bitter expression and look at me
in that searching way! I beg and entreat of you not to do it. Good
Lord, you don't suppose that I would go spontaneously combusting any
person, my dear?"

"I can't say," returns Mrs. Snagsby.

On a hasty review of his unfortunate position, Mr. Snagsby "can't
say" either. He is not prepared positively to deny that he may have
had something to do with it. He has had something--he don't know
what--to do with so much in this connexion that is mysterious that it
is possible he may even be implicated, without knowing it, in the
present transaction. He faintly wipes his forehead with his
handkerchief and gasps.

"My life," says the unhappy stationer, "would you have any objections
to mention why, being in general so delicately circumspect in your
conduct, you come into a wine-vaults before breakfast?"

"Why do YOU come here?" inquires Mrs. Snagsby.

"My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which has
happened to the venerable party who has been--combusted." Mr. Snagsby
has made a pause to suppress a groan. "I should then have related
them to you, my love, over your French roll."

"I dare say you would! You relate everything to me, Mr. Snagsby."

"Every--my lit--"

"I should be glad," says Mrs. Snagsby after contemplating his
increased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, "if you would
come home with me; I think you may be safer there, Mr. Snagsby, than
anywhere else."

"My love, I don't know but what I may be, I am sure. I am ready to
go."

Mr. Snagsby casts his eye forlornly round the bar, gives Messrs.
Weevle and Guppy good morning, assures them of the satisfaction with
which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies Mrs. Snagsby from the
Sol's Arms. Before night his doubt whether he may not be responsible
for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which is the talk of
the whole neighbourhood is almost resolved into certainty by Mrs.
Snagsby's pertinacity in that fixed gaze. His mental sufferings are
so great that he entertains wandering ideas of delivering himself up
to justice and requiring to be cleared if innocent and punished with
the utmost rigour of the law if guilty.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, having taken their breakfast, step into
Lincoln's Inn to take a little walk about the square and clear as
many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may.

"There can be no more favourable time than the present, Tony," says
Mr. Guppy after they have broodingly made out the four sides of the
square, "for a word or two between us upon a point on which we must,
with very little delay, come to an understanding."

"Now, I tell you what, William G.!" returns the other, eyeing his
companion with a bloodshot eye. "If it's a point of conspiracy, you
needn't take the trouble to mention it. I have had enough of that,
and I ain't going to have any more. We shall have YOU taking fire
next or blowing up with a bang."

This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr. Guppy
that his voice quakes as he says in a moral way, "Tony, I should have
thought that what we went through last night would have been a lesson
to you never to be personal any more as long as you lived." To which
Mr. Weevle returns, "William, I should have thought it would have
been a lesson to YOU never to conspire any more as long as you
lived." To which Mr. Guppy says, "Who's conspiring?" To which Mr.
Jobling replies, "Why, YOU are!" To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "No, I
am not." To which Mr. Jobling retorts again, "Yes, you are!" To which
Mr. Guppy retorts, "Who says so?" To which Mr. Jobling retorts, "I
say so!" To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "Oh, indeed?" To which Mr.
Jobling retorts, "Yes, indeed!" And both being now in a heated state,
they walk on silently for a while to cool down again.

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy then, "if you heard your friend out instead of
flying at him, you wouldn't fall into mistakes. But your temper is
hasty and you are not considerate. Possessing in yourself, Tony, all
that is calculated to charm the eye--"

"Oh! Blow the eye!" cries Mr. Weevle, cutting him short. "Say what
you have got to say!"

Finding his friend in this morose and material condition, Mr. Guppy
only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone of
injury in which he recommences, "Tony, when I say there is a point on
which we must come to an understanding pretty soon, I say so quite
apart from any kind of conspiring, however innocent. You know it is
professionally arranged beforehand in all cases that are tried what
facts the witnesses are to prove. Is it or is it not desirable that
we should know what facts we are to prove on the inquiry into the
death of this unfortunate old mo--gentleman?" (Mr. Guppy was going to
say "mogul," but thinks "gentleman" better suited to the
circumstances.)

"What facts? THE facts."

"The facts bearing on that inquiry. Those are"--Mr. Guppy tells them
off on his fingers--"what we knew of his habits, when you saw him
last, what his condition was then, the discovery that we made, and
how we made it."

"Yes," says Mr. Weevle. "Those are about the facts."

"We made the discovery in consequence of his having, in his eccentric
way, an appointment with you at twelve o'clock at night, when you
were to explain some writing to him as you had often done before on
account of his not being able to read. I, spending the evening with
you, was called down--and so forth. The inquiry being only into the
circumstances touching the death of the deceased, it's not necessary
to go beyond these facts, I suppose you'll agree?"

"No!" returns Mr. Weevle. "I suppose not."

"And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?" says the injured Guppy.

"No," returns his friend; "if it's nothing worse than this, I
withdraw the observation."

"Now, Tony," says Mr. Guppy, taking his arm again and walking him
slowly on, "I should like to know, in a friendly way, whether you
have yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing to live
at that place?"

"What do you mean?" says Tony, stopping.

"Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of your
continuing to live at that place?" repeats Mr. Guppy, walking him on
again.

"At what place? THAT place?" pointing in the direction of the rag and
bottle shop.

Mr. Guppy nods.

"Why, I wouldn't pass another night there for any consideration that
you could offer me," says Mr. Weevle, haggardly staring.

"Do you mean it though, Tony?"

"Mean it! Do I look as if I mean it? I feel as if I do; I know that,"
says Mr. Weevle with a very genuine shudder.

"Then the possibility or probability--for such it must be
considered--of your never being disturbed in possession of those
effects lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have no
relation in the world, and the certainty of your being able to find
out what he really had got stored up there, don't weigh with you at
all against last night, Tony, if I understand you?" says Mr. Guppy,
biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation.

"Certainly not. Talk in that cool way of a fellow's living there?"
cries Mr. Weevle indignantly. "Go and live there yourself."

"Oh! I, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy, soothing him. "I have never lived
there and couldn't get a lodging there now, whereas you have got
one."

"You are welcome to it," rejoins his friend, "and--ugh!--you may make
yourself at home in it."

"Then you really and truly at this point," says Mr. Guppy, "give up
the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony?"

"You never," returns Tony with a most convincing steadfastness, "said
a truer word in all your life. I do!"

While they are so conversing, a hackney-coach drives into the square,
on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself manifest to
the public. Inside the coach, and consequently not so manifest to the
multitude, though sufficiently so to the two friends, for the coach
stops almost at their feet, are the venerable Mr. Smallweed and Mrs.
Smallweed, accompanied by their granddaughter Judy.

An air of haste and excitement pervades the party, and as the tall
hat (surmounting Mr. Smallweed the younger) alights, Mr. Smallweed
the elder pokes his head out of window and bawls to Mr. Guppy, "How
de do, sir! How de do!"

"What do Chick and his family want here at this time of the morning,
I wonder!" says Mr. Guppy, nodding to his familiar.

"My dear sir," cries Grandfather Smallweed, "would you do me a
favour? Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as to carry me
into the public-house in the court, while Bart and his sister bring
their grandmother along? Would you do an old man that good turn,
sir?"

Mr. Guppy looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, "The
public-house in the court?" And they prepare to bear the venerable
burden to the Sol's Arms.

"There's your fare!" says the patriarch to the coachman with a fierce
grin and shaking his incapable fist at him. "Ask me for a penny more,
and I'll have my lawful revenge upon you. My dear young men, be easy
with me, if you please. Allow me to catch you round the neck. I won't
squeeze you tighter than I can help. Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, my
bones!"

It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Weevle presents an
apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. With
no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the utterance of
divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructed respiration, he
fulfils his share of the porterage and the benevolent old gentleman
is deposited by his own desire in the parlour of the Sol's Arms.

"Oh, Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed, looking about him, breathless, from
an arm-chair. "Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones and back! Oh, my aches and
pains! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling, scrambling
poll-parrot! Sit down!"

This little apostrophe to Mrs. Smallweed is occasioned by a
propensity on the part of that unlucky old lady whenever she finds
herself on her feet to amble about and "set" to inanimate objects,
accompanying herself with a chattering noise, as in a witch dance. A
nervous affection has probably as much to do with these
demonstrations as any imbecile intention in the poor old woman, but
on the present occasion they are so particularly lively in connexion
with the Windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in which Mr. Smallweed is
seated, that she only quite desists when her grandchildren have held
her down in it, her lord in the meanwhile bestowing upon her, with
great volubility, the endearing epithet of "a pig-headed jackdaw,"
repeated a surprising number of times.

"My dear sir," Grandfather Smallweed then proceeds, addressing Mr.
Guppy, "there has been a calamity here. Have you heard of it, either
of you?"

"Heard of it, sir! Why, we discovered it."

"You discovered it. You two discovered it! Bart, THEY discovered it!"

The two discoverers stare at the Smallweeds, who return the
compliment.

"My dear friends," whines Grandfather Smallweed, putting out both his
hands, "I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the melancholy
office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed's brother."

"Eh?" says Mr. Guppy.

"Mrs. Smallweed's brother, my dear friend--her only relation. We were
not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never WOULD be on
terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric--he was very
eccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely) I
shall take out letters of administration. I have come down to look
after the property; it must be sealed up, it must be protected. I
have come down," repeats Grandfather Smallweed, hooking the air
towards him with all his ten fingers at once, "to look after the
property."

"I think, Small," says the disconsolate Mr. Guppy, "you might have
mentioned that the old man was your uncle."

"You two were so close about him that I thought you would like me to
be the same," returns that old bird with a secretly glistening eye.
"Besides, I wasn't proud of him."

"Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was or
not," says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye.

"He never saw me in his life to know me," observed Small; "I don't
know why I should introduce HIM, I am sure!"

"No, he never communicated with us, which is to be deplored," the old
gentleman strikes in, "but I have come to look after the property--to
look over the papers, and to look after the property. We shall make
good our title. It is in the hands of my solicitor. Mr. Tulkinghorn,
of Lincoln's Inn Fields, over the way there, is so good as to act as
my solicitor; and grass don't grow under HIS feet, I can tell ye.
Krook was Mrs. Smallweed's only brother; she had no relation but
Krook, and Krook had no relation but Mrs. Smallweed. I am speaking of
your brother, you brimstone black-beetle, that was seventy-six years
of age."

Mrs. Smallweed instantly begins to shake her head and pipe up,
"Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence! Seventy-six thousand bags of
money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of
bank-notes!"

"Will somebody give me a quart pot?" exclaims her exasperated
husband, looking helplessly about him and finding no missile within
his reach. "Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? Will somebody
hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at her? You hag, you cat,
you dog, you brimstone barker!" Here Mr. Smallweed, wrought up to the
highest pitch by his own eloquence, actually throws Judy at her
grandmother in default of anything else, by butting that young virgin
at the old lady with such force as he can muster and then dropping
into his chair in a heap.

"Shake me up, somebody, if you'll be so good," says the voice from
within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has collapsed. "I
have come to look after the property. Shake me up, and call in the
police on duty at the next house to be explained to about the
property. My solicitor will be here presently to protect the
property. Transportation or the gallows for anybody who shall touch
the property!" As his dutiful grandchildren set him up, panting, and
putting him through the usual restorative process of shaking and
punching, he still repeats like an echo, "The--the property! The
property! Property!"

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy look at each other, the former as having
relinquished the whole affair, the latter with a discomfited
countenance as having entertained some lingering expectations yet.
But there is nothing to be done in opposition to the Smallweed
interest. Mr. Tulkinghorn's clerk comes down from his official pew in
the chambers to mention to the police that Mr. Tulkinghorn is
answerable for its being all correct about the next of kin and that
the papers and effects will be formally taken possession of in due
time and course. Mr. Smallweed is at once permitted so far to assert
his supremacy as to be carried on a visit of sentiment into the next
house and upstairs into Miss Flite's deserted room, where he looks
like a hideous bird of prey newly added to her aviary.

The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the court
still makes good for the Sol and keeps the court upon its mettle.
Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the young man if there
really is no will, and consider that a handsome present ought to be
made him out of the estate. Young Piper and young Perkins, as members
of that restless juvenile circle which is the terror of the
foot-passengers in Chancery Lane, crumble into ashes behind the pump
and under the archway all day long, where wild yells and hootings
take place over their remains. Little Swills and Miss M. Melvilleson
enter into affable conversation with their patrons, feeling that
these unusual occurrences level the barriers between professionals
and non-professionals. Mr. Bogsby puts up "The popular song of King
Death, with chorus by the whole strength of the company," as the
great Harmonic feature of the week and announces in the bill that "J.
G. B. is induced to do so at a considerable extra expense in
consequence of a wish which has been very generally expressed at the
bar by a large body of respectable individuals and in homage to a
late melancholy event which has aroused so much sensation." There is
one point connected with the deceased upon which the court is
particularly anxious, namely, that the fiction of a full-sized coffin
should be preserved, though there is so little to put in it. Upon the
undertaker's stating in the Sol's bar in the course of the day that
he has received orders to construct "a six-footer," the general
solicitude is much relieved, and it is considered that Mr.
Smallweed's conduct does him great honour.

Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable
excitement too, for men of science and philosophy come to look, and
carriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the same
intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases and
phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever imagined. Some of
these authorities (of course the wisest) hold with indignation that
the deceased had no business to die in the alleged manner; and being
reminded by other authorities of a certain inquiry into the evidence
for such deaths reprinted in the sixth volume of the Philosophical
Transactions; and also of a book not quite unknown on English medical
jurisprudence; and likewise of the Italian case of the Countess
Cornelia Baudi as set forth in detail by one Bianchini, prebendary of
Verona, who wrote a scholarly work or so and was occasionally heard
of in his time as having gleams of reason in him; and also of the
testimony of Messrs. Fodere and Mere, two pestilent Frenchmen who
WOULD investigate the subject; and further, of the corroborative
testimony of Monsieur Le Cat, a rather celebrated French surgeon once
upon a time, who had the unpoliteness to live in a house where such a
case occurred and even to write an account of it--still they regard
the late Mr. Krook's obstinacy in going out of the world by any such
by-way as wholly unjustifiable and personally offensive. The less the
court understands of all this, the more the court likes it, and the
greater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the Sol's Arms.
Then there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with a foreground
and figures ready drawn for anything from a wreck on the Cornish
coast to a review in Hyde Park or a meeting in Manchester, and in
Mrs. Perkins' own room, memorable evermore, he then and there throws
in upon the block Mr. Krook's house, as large as life; in fact,
considerably larger, making a very temple of it. Similarly, being
permitted to look in at the door of the fatal chamber, he depicts
that apartment as three-quarters of a mile long by fifty yards high,
at which the court is particularly charmed. All this time the two
gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out of every house and assist
at the philosophical disputations--go everywhere and listen to
everybody--and yet are always diving into the Sol's parlour and
writing with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper.

At last come the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except that
the coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common way and
tells the gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that "that
would seem to be an unlucky house next door, gentlemen, a destined
house; but so we sometimes find it, and these are mysteries we can't
account for!" After which the six-footer comes into action and is
much admired.

In all these proceedings Mr. Guppy has so slight a part, except when
he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a private individual
and can only haunt the secret house on the outside, where he has the
mortification of seeing Mr. Smallweed padlocking the door, and of
bitterly knowing himself to be shut out. But before these proceedings
draw to a close, that is to say, on the night next after the
catastrophe, Mr. Guppy has a thing to say that must be said to Lady
Dedlock.

For which reason, with a sinking heart and with that hang-dog sense
of guilt upon him which dread and watching enfolded in the Sol's Arms
have produced, the young man of the name of Guppy presents himself at
the town mansion at about seven o'clock in the evening and requests
to see her ladyship. Mercury replies that she is going out to dinner;
don't he see the carriage at the door? Yes, he does see the carriage
at the door; but he wants to see my Lady too.

Mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a
fellow-gentleman in waiting, "to pitch into the young man"; but his
instructions are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that the
young man must come up into the library. There he leaves the young
man in a large room, not over-light, while he makes report of him.

Mr. Guppy looks into the shade in all directions, discovering
everywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal or
wood. Presently he hears a rustling. Is it--? No, it's no ghost, but
fair flesh and blood, most brilliantly dressed.

"I have to beg your ladyship's pardon," Mr. Guppy stammers, very
downcast. "This is an inconvenient time--"

"I told you, you could come at any time." She takes a chair, looking
straight at him as on the last occasion.

"Thank your ladyship. Your ladyship is very affable."

"You can sit down." There is not much affability in her tone.

"I don't know, your ladyship, that it's worth while my sitting down
and detaining you, for I--I have not got the letters that I mentioned
when I had the honour of waiting on your ladyship."

"Have you come merely to say so?"

"Merely to say so, your ladyship." Mr. Guppy besides being depressed,
disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a further disadvantage by the
splendour and beauty of her appearance.

She knows its influence perfectly, has studied it too well to miss a
grain of its effect on any one. As she looks at him so steadily and
coldly, he not only feels conscious that he has no guide in the least
perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts, but also
that he is being every moment, as it were, removed further and
further from her.

She will not speak, it is plain. So he must.

"In short, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy like a meanly penitent
thief, "the person I was to have had the letters of, has come to a
sudden end, and--" He stops. Lady Dedlock calmly finishes the
sentence.

"And the letters are destroyed with the person?"

Mr. Guppy would say no if he could--as he is unable to hide.

"I believe so, your ladyship."

If he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now? No, he
could see no such thing, even if that brave outside did not utterly
put him away, and he were not looking beyond it and about it.

He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure.

"Is this all you have to say?" inquires Lady Dedlock, having heard
him out--or as nearly out as he can stumble.

Mr. Guppy thinks that's all.

"You had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more to me, this
being the last time you will have the opportunity."

Mr. Guppy is quite sure. And indeed he has no such wish at present,
by any means.

"That is enough. I will dispense with excuses. Good evening to you!"
And she rings for Mercury to show the young man of the name of Guppy
out.

But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an old
man of the name of Tulkinghorn. And that old man, coming with his
quiet footstep to the library, has his hand at that moment on the
handle of the door--comes in--and comes face to face with the young
man as he is leaving the room.

One glance between the old man and the lady, and for an instant the
blind that is always down flies up. Suspicion, eager and sharp, looks
out. Another instant, close again.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. I beg your pardon a thousand times.
It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. I supposed the
room was empty. I beg your pardon!"

"Stay!" She negligently calls him back. "Remain here, I beg. I am
going out to dinner. I have nothing more to say to this young man!"

The disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringingly hopes
that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well.

"Aye, aye?" says the lawyer, looking at him from under his bent
brows, though he has no need to look again--not he. "From Kenge and
Carboy's, surely?"

"Kenge and Carboy's, Mr. Tulkinghorn. Name of Guppy, sir."

"To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr. Guppy, I am very well!"

"Happy to hear it, sir. You can't be too well, sir, for the credit of
the profession."

"Thank you, Mr. Guppy!"

Mr. Guppy sneaks away. Mr. Tulkinghorn, such a foil in his
old-fashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlock's brightness, hands her
down the staircase to her carriage. He returns rubbing his chin, and
rubs it a good deal in the course of the evening.




CHAPTER XXXIV

A Turn of the Screw


"Now, what," says Mr. George, "may this be? Is it blank cartridge or
ball? A flash in the pan or a shot?"

An open letter is the subject of the trooper's speculations, and it
seems to perplex him mightily. He looks at it at arm's length, brings
it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his left
hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head on that
side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them, still cannot satisfy
himself. He smooths it out upon the table with his heavy palm, and
thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, makes a halt before it
every now and then to come upon it with a fresh eye. Even that won't
do. "Is it," Mr. George still muses, "blank cartridge or ball?"

Phil Squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed in the
distance whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-march time
and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go back again to
the girl he left behind him.

"Phil!" The trooper beckons as he calls him.

Phil approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first as if he were
going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his commander like a
bayonet-charge. Certain splashes of white show in high relief upon
his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow with the handle of the
brush.

"Attention, Phil! Listen to this."

"Steady, commander, steady."

"'Sir. Allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessity for
my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two months' date
drawn on yourself by Mr. Matthew Bagnet, and by you accepted, for the
sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence, will become
due to-morrow, when you will please be prepared to take up the same
on presentation. Yours, Joshua Smallweed.' What do you make of that,
Phil?"

"Mischief, guv'ner."

"Why?"

"I think," replies Phil after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinkle
in his forehead with the brush-handle, "that mischeevious
consequences is always meant when money's asked for."

"Lookye, Phil," says the trooper, sitting on the table. "First and
last, I have paid, I may say, half as much again as this principal in
interest and one thing and another."

Phil intimates by sidling back a pace or two, with a very
unaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the
transaction as being made more promising by this incident.

"And lookye further, Phil," says the trooper, staying his premature
conclusions with a wave of his hand. "There has always been an
understanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. And it
has been renewed no end of times. What do you say now?"

"I say that I think the times is come to a end at last."

"You do? Humph! I am much of the same mind myself."

"Joshua Smallweed is him that was brought here in a chair?"

"The same."

"Guv'ner," says Phil with exceeding gravity, "he's a leech in his
dispositions, he's a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in his
twistings, and a lobster in his claws."

Having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, Mr. Squod, after
waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of
him, gets back by his usual series of movements to the target he has
in hand and vigorously signifies through his former musical medium
that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady. George,
having folded the letter, walks in that direction.

"There IS a way, commander," says Phil, looking cunningly at him, "of
settling this."

"Paying the money, I suppose? I wish I could."

Phil shakes his head. "No, guv'ner, no; not so bad as that. There IS
a way," says Phil with a highly artistic turn of his brush; "what I'm
a-doing at present."

"Whitewashing."

Phil nods.

"A pretty way that would be! Do you know what would become of the
Bagnets in that case? Do you know they would be ruined to pay off my
old scores? YOU'RE a moral character," says the trooper, eyeing him
in his large way with no small indignation; "upon my life you are,
Phil!"

Phil, on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting
earnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush
and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb,
that he had forgotten the Bagnet responsibility and would not so much
as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy family when
steps are audible in the long passage without, and a cheerful voice
is heard to wonder whether George is at home. Phil, with a look at
his master, hobbles up, saying, "Here's the guv'ner, Mrs. Bagnet!
Here he is!" and the old girl herself, accompanied by Mr. Bagnet,
appears.

The old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the
year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very
clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so
interesting to Mr. Bagnet by having made its way home to Europe from
another quarter of the globe in company with Mrs. Bagnet and an
umbrella. The latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part of
the old girl's presence out of doors. It is of no colour known in
this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a
metallic object let into its prow, or beak, resembling a little model
of a fanlight over a street door or one of the oval glasses out of a
pair of spectacles, which ornamental object has not that tenacious
capacity of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article
long associated with the British army. The old girl's umbrella is of
a flabby habit of waist and seems to be in need of stays--an
appearance that is possibly referable to its having served through a
series of years at home as a cupboard and on journeys as a carpet
bag. She never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her
well-proved cloak with its capacious hood, but generally uses the
instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or
bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the attention of
tradesmen by a friendly poke. Without her market-basket, which is a
sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad.
Attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest
sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, Mrs.
Bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in George's Shooting
Gallery.

"Well, George, old fellow," says she, "and how do YOU do, this
sunshiny morning?"

Giving him a friendly shake of the hand, Mrs. Bagnet draws a long
breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. Having a
faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such
positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench,
unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms,
and looks perfectly comfortable.

Mr. Bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade and
with Phil, on whom Mrs. Bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured nod
and smile.

"Now, George," said Mrs. Bagnet briskly, "here we are, Lignum and
myself"--she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on
account, as it is supposed, of Lignum Vitae having been his old
regimental nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment
to the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy--"just
looked in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that
security. Give him the new bill to sign, George, and he'll sign it
like a man."

"I was coming to you this morning," observes the trooper reluctantly.

"Yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned out
early and left Woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and
came to you instead--as you see! For Lignum, he's tied so close now,
and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. But what's
the matter, George?" asks Mrs. Bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk.
"You don't look yourself."

"I am not quite myself," returns the trooper; "I have been a little
put out, Mrs. Bagnet."

Her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "George!" holding up
her forefinger. "Don't tell me there's anything wrong about that
security of Lignum's! Don't do it, George, on account of the
children!"

The trooper looks at her with a troubled visage.

"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and
occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. "If you
have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of Lignum's, and
if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of
being sold up--and I see sold up in your face, George, as plain as
print--you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly.
I tell you, cruelly, George. There!"

Mr. Bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, puts his
large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it from
a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at Mrs. Bagnet.

"George," says that old girl, "I wonder at you! George, I am ashamed
of you! George, I couldn't have believed you would have done it! I
always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but I
never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was
for Bagnet and the children to lie upon. You know what a
hard-working, steady-going chap he is. You know what Quebec and Malta
and Woolwich are, and I never did think you would, or could, have had
the heart to serve us so. Oh, George!" Mrs. Bagnet gathers up her
cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine manner, "How could you do
it?"

Mrs. Bagnet ceasing, Mr. Bagnet removes his hand from his head as if
the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at Mr. George, who
has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the grey cloak and
straw bonnet.

"Mat," says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him but still
looking at his wife, "I am sorry you take it so much to heart,
because I do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. I certainly have,
this morning, received this letter"--which he reads aloud--"but I
hope it may be set right yet. As to a rolling stone, why, what you
say is true. I AM a rolling stone, and I never rolled in anybody's
way, I fully believe, that I rolled the least good to. But it's
impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like your wife and family
better than I like 'em, Mat, and I trust you'll look upon me as
forgivingly as you can. Don't think I've kept anything from you. I
haven't had the letter more than a quarter of an hour."

"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet after a short silence, "will you tell
him my opinion?"

"Oh! Why didn't he marry," Mrs. Bagnet answers, half laughing and
half crying, "Joe Pouch's widder in North America? Then he wouldn't
have got himself into these troubles."

"The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "puts it correct--why didn't you?"

"Well, she has a better husband by this time, I hope," returns the
trooper. "Anyhow, here I stand, this present day, NOT married to Joe
Pouch's widder. What shall I do? You see all I have got about me.
It's not mine; it's yours. Give the word, and I'll sell off every
morsel. If I could have hoped it would have brought in nearly the sum
wanted, I'd have sold all long ago. Don't believe that I'll leave you
or yours in the lurch, Mat. I'd sell myself first. I only wish," says
the trooper, giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, "that I
knew of any one who'd buy such a second-hand piece of old stores."

"Old girl," murmurs Mr. Bagnet, "give him another bit of my mind."

"George," says the old girl, "you are not so much to be blamed, on
full consideration, except for ever taking this business without the
means."

"And that was like me!" observes the penitent trooper, shaking his
head. "Like me, I know."

"Silence! The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "is correct--in her way of
giving my opinions--hear me out!"

"That was when you never ought to have asked for the security,
George, and when you never ought to have got it, all things
considered. But what's done can't be undone. You are always an
honourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your power,
though a little flighty. On the other hand, you can't admit but what
it's natural in us to be anxious with such a thing hanging over our
heads. So forget and forgive all round, George. Come! Forget and
forgive all round!"

Mrs. Bagnet, giving him one of her honest hands and giving her
husband the other, Mr. George gives each of them one of his and holds
them while he speaks.

"I do assure you both, there's nothing I wouldn't do to discharge
this obligation. But whatever I have been able to scrape together has
gone every two months in keeping it up. We have lived plainly enough
here, Phil and I. But the gallery don't quite do what was expected of
it, and it's not--in short, it's not the mint. It was wrong in me to
take it? Well, so it was. But I was in a manner drawn into that step,
and I thought it might steady me, and set me up, and you'll try to
overlook my having such expectations, and upon my soul, I am very
much obliged to you, and very much ashamed of myself." With these
concluding words, Mr. George gives a shake to each of the hands he
holds, and relinquishing them, backs a pace or two in a
broad-chested, upright attitude, as if he had made a final confession
and were immediately going to be shot with all military honours.

"George, hear me out!" says Mr. Bagnet, glancing at his wife. "Old
girl, go on!"

Mr. Bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has merely to
observe that the letter must be attended to without any delay, that
it is advisable that George and he should immediately wait on Mr.
Smallweed in person, and that the primary object is to save and hold
harmless Mr. Bagnet, who had none of the money. Mr. George, entirely
assenting, puts on his hat and prepares to march with Mr. Bagnet to
the enemy's camp.

"Don't you mind a woman's hasty word, George," says Mrs. Bagnet,
patting him on the shoulder. "I trust my old Lignum to you, and I am
sure you'll bring him through it."

The trooper returns that this is kindly said and that he WILL bring
Lignum through it somehow. Upon which Mrs. Bagnet, with her cloak,
basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed again, to the rest of
her family, and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand of
mollifying Mr. Smallweed.

Whether there are two people in England less likely to come
satisfactorily out of any negotiation with Mr. Smallweed than Mr.
George and Mr. Matthew Bagnet may be very reasonably questioned.
Also, notwithstanding their martial appearance, broad square
shoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are within the same limits
two more simple and unaccustomed children in all the Smallweedy
affairs of life. As they proceed with great gravity through the
streets towards the region of Mount Pleasant, Mr. Bagnet, observing
his companion to be thoughtful, considers it a friendly part to refer
to Mrs. Bagnet's late sally.

"George, you know the old girl--she's as sweet and as mild as milk.
But touch her on the children--or myself--and she's off like
gunpowder."

"It does her credit, Mat!"

"George," says Mr. Bagnet, looking straight before him, "the old
girl--can't do anything--that don't do her credit. More or less. I
never say so. Discipline must be maintained."

"She's worth her weight in gold," says the trooper.

"In gold?" says Mr. Bagnet. "I'll tell you what. The old girl's
weight--is twelve stone six. Would I take that weight--in any
metal--for the old girl? No. Why not? Because the old girl's metal is
far more precious--than the preciousest metal. And she's ALL metal!"

"You are right, Mat!"

"When she took me--and accepted of the ring--she 'listed under me and
the children--heart and head, for life. She's that earnest," says Mr.
Bagnet, "and true to her colours--that, touch us with a finger--and
she turns out--and stands to her arms. If the old girl fires
wide--once in a way--at the call of duty--look over it, George. For
she's loyal!"

"Why, bless her, Mat," returns the trooper, "I think the higher of
her for it!"

"You are right!" says Mr. Bagnet with the warmest enthusiasm, though
without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. "Think as high of
the old girl--as the rock of Gibraltar--and still you'll be thinking
low--of such merits. But I never own to it before her. Discipline
must be maintained."

These encomiums bring them to Mount Pleasant and to Grandfather
Smallweed's house. The door is opened by the perennial Judy, who,
having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favour, but
indeed with a malignant sneer, leaves them standing there while she
consults the oracle as to their admission. The oracle may be inferred
to give consent from the circumstance of her returning with the words
on her honey lips that they can come in if they want to it. Thus
privileged, they come in and find Mr. Smallweed with his feet in the
drawer of his chair as if it were a paper foot-bath and Mrs.
Smallweed obscured with the cushion like a bird that is not to sing.

"My dear friend," says Grandfather Smallweed with those two lean
affectionate arms of his stretched forth. "How de do? How de do? Who
is our friend, my dear friend?"

"Why this," returns George, not able to be very conciliatory at
first, "is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of ours,
you know."

"Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!" The old man looks at him under his hand.

"Hope you're well, Mr. Bagnet? Fine man, Mr. George! Military air,
sir!"

No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bagnet and
one for himself. They sit down, Mr. Bagnet as if he had no power of
bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose.

"Judy," says Mr. Smallweed, "bring the pipe."

"Why, I don't know," Mr. George interposes, "that the young woman
need give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, I am not
inclined to smoke it to-day."

"Ain't you?" returns the old man. "Judy, bring the pipe."

"The fact is, Mr. Smallweed," proceeds George, "that I find myself in
rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, that your
friend in the city has been playing tricks."

"Oh, dear no!" says Grandfather Smallweed. "He never does that!"

"Don't he? Well, I am glad to hear it, because I thought it might be
HIS doing. This, you know, I am speaking of. This letter."

Grandfather Smallweed smiles in a very ugly way in recognition of the
letter.

"What does it mean?" asks Mr. George.

"Judy," says the old man. "Have you got the pipe? Give it to me. Did
you say what does it mean, my good friend?"

"Aye! Now, come, come, you know, Mr. Smallweed," urges the trooper,
constraining himself to speak as smoothly and confidentially as he
can, holding the open letter in one hand and resting the broad
knuckles of the other on his thigh, "a good lot of money has passed
between us, and we are face to face at the present moment, and are
both well aware of the understanding there has always been. I am
prepared to do the usual thing which I have done regularly and to
keep this matter going. I never got a letter like this from you
before, and I have been a little put about by it this morning,
because here's my friend Matthew Bagnet, who, you know, had none of
the money--"

"I DON'T know it, you know," says the old man quietly.

"Why, con-found you--it, I mean--I tell you so, don't I?"

"Oh, yes, you tell me so," returns Grandfather Smallweed. "But I
don't know it."

"Well!" says the trooper, swallowing his fire. "I know it."

Mr. Smallweed replies with excellent temper, "Ah! That's quite
another thing!" And adds, "But it don't matter. Mr. Bagnet's
situation is all one, whether or no."

The unfortunate George makes a great effort to arrange the affair
comfortably and to propitiate Mr. Smallweed by taking him upon his
own terms.

"That's just what I mean. As you say, Mr. Smallweed, here's Matthew
Bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. Now, you see, that makes his
good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too, for whereas I'm a
harum-scarum sort of a good-for-nought that more kicks than halfpence
come natural to, why he's a steady family man, don't you see? Now,
Mr. Smallweed," says the trooper, gaining confidence as he proceeds
in his soldierly mode of doing business, "although you and I are good
friends enough in a certain sort of a way, I am well aware that I
can't ask you to let my friend Bagnet off entirely."

"Oh, dear, you are too modest. You can ASK me anything, Mr. George."
(There is an ogreish kind of jocularity in Grandfather Smallweed
to-day.)

"And you can refuse, you mean, eh? Or not you so much, perhaps, as
your friend in the city? Ha ha ha!"

"Ha ha ha!" echoes Grandfather Smallweed. In such a very hard manner
and with eyes so particularly green that Mr. Bagnet's natural gravity
is much deepened by the contemplation of that venerable man.

"Come!" says the sanguine George. "I am glad to find we can be
pleasant, because I want to arrange this pleasantly. Here's my friend
Bagnet, and here am I. We'll settle the matter on the spot, if you
please, Mr. Smallweed, in the usual way. And you'll ease my friend
Bagnet's mind, and his family's mind, a good deal if you'll just
mention to him what our understanding is."

Here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking manner, "Oh, good
gracious! Oh!" Unless, indeed, it be the sportive Judy, who is found
to be silent when the startled visitors look round, but whose chin
has received a recent toss, expressive of derision and contempt. Mr.
Bagnet's gravity becomes yet more profound.

"But I think you asked me, Mr. George"--old Smallweed, who all this
time has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker now--"I think you
asked me, what did the letter mean?"

"Why, yes, I did," returns the trooper in his off-hand way, "but I
don't care to know particularly, if it's all correct and pleasant."

Mr. Smallweed, purposely balking himself in an aim at the trooper's
head, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces.

"That's what it means, my dear friend. I'll smash you. I'll crumble
you. I'll powder you. Go to the devil!"

The two friends rise and look at one another. Mr. Bagnet's gravity
has now attained its profoundest point.

"Go to the devil!" repeats the old man. "I'll have no more of your
pipe-smokings and swaggerings. What? You're an independent dragoon,
too! Go to my lawyer (you remember where; you have been there before)
and show your independence now, will you? Come, my dear friend,
there's a chance for you. Open the street door, Judy; put these
blusterers out! Call in help if they don't go. Put 'em out!"

He vociferates this so loudly that Mr. Bagnet, laying his hands on
the shoulders of his comrade before the latter can recover from his
amazement, gets him on the outside of the street door, which is
instantly slammed by the triumphant Judy. Utterly confounded, Mr.
George awhile stands looking at the knocker. Mr. Bagnet, in a perfect
abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the little parlour window
like a sentry and looks in every time he passes, apparently revolving
something in his mind.

"Come, Mat," says Mr. George when he has recovered himself, "we must
try the lawyer. Now, what do you think of this rascal?"

Mr. Bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlour,
replies with one shake of his head directed at the interior, "If my
old girl had been here--I'd have told him!" Having so discharged
himself of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into step and
marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder.

When they present themselves in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mr. Tulkinghorn
is engaged and not to be seen. He is not at all willing to see them,
for when they have waited a full hour, and the clerk, on his bell
being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioning as much, he brings
forth no more encouraging message than that Mr. Tulkinghorn has
nothing to say to them and they had better not wait. They do wait,
however, with the perseverance of military tactics, and at last the
bell rings again and the client in possession comes out of Mr.
Tulkinghorn's room.

The client is a handsome old lady, no other than Mrs. Rouncewell,
housekeeper at Chesney Wold. She comes out of the sanctuary with a
fair old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. She is treated
with some distinction there, for the clerk steps out of his pew to
show her through the outer office and to let her out. The old lady is
thanking him for his attention when she observes the comrades in
waiting.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I think those gentlemen are military?"

The clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and Mr. George
not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place. Mr. Bagnet
takes upon himself to reply, "Yes, ma'am. Formerly."

"I thought so. I was sure of it. My heart warms, gentlemen, at the
sight of you. It always does at the sight of such. God bless you,
gentlemen! You'll excuse an old woman, but I had a son once who went
for a soldier. A fine handsome youth he was, and good in his bold
way, though some people did disparage him to his poor mother. I ask
your pardon for troubling you, sir. God bless you, gentlemen!"

"Same to you, ma'am!" returns Mr. Bagnet with right good will.

There is something very touching in the earnestness of the old lady's
voice and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old figure. But
Mr. George is so occupied with the almanac over the fire-place
(calculating the coming months by it perhaps) that he does not look
round until she has gone away and the door is closed upon her.

"George," Mr. Bagnet gruffly whispers when he does turn from the
almanac at last. "Don't be cast down! 'Why, soldiers, why--should we
be melancholy, boys?' Cheer up, my hearty!"

The clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still there
and Mr. Tulkinghorn being heard to return with some irascibility,
"Let 'em come in then!" they pass into the great room with the
painted ceiling and find him standing before the fire.

"Now, you men, what do you want? Sergeant, I told you the last time I
saw you that I don't desire your company here."

Sergeant replies--dashed within the last few minutes as to his usual
manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage--that he has
received this letter, has been to Mr. Smallweed about it, and has
been referred there.

"I have nothing to say to you," rejoins Mr. Tulkinghorn. "If you get
into debt, you must pay your debts or take the consequences. You have
no occasion to come here to learn that, I suppose?"

Sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money.

"Very well! Then the other man--this man, if this is he--must pay it
for you."

Sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with the
money either.

"Very well! Then you must pay it between you or you must both be sued
for it and both suffer. You have had the money and must refund it.
You are not to pocket other people's pounds, shillings, and pence and
escape scot-free."

The lawyer sits down in his easy-chair and stirs the fire. Mr. George
hopes he will have the goodness to--"I tell you, sergeant, I have
nothing to say to you. I don't like your associates and don't want
you here. This matter is not at all in my course of practice and is
not in my office. Mr. Smallweed is good enough to offer these affairs
to me, but they are not in my way. You must go to Melchisedech's in
Clifford's Inn."

"I must make an apology to you, sir," says Mr. George, "for pressing
myself upon you with so little encouragement--which is almost as
unpleasant to me as it can be to you--but would you let me say a
private word to you?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks into
one of the window recesses. "Now! I have no time to waste." In the
midst of his perfect assumption of indifference, he directs a sharp
look at the trooper, taking care to stand with his own back to the
light and to have the other with his face towards it.

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "this man with me is the other party
implicated in this unfortunate affair--nominally, only nominally--and
my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on my account.
He is a most respectable man with a wife and family, formerly in the
Royal Artillery--"

"My friend, I don't care a pinch of snuff for the whole Royal
Artillery establishment--officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses,
guns, and ammunition."

"'Tis likely, sir. But I care a good deal for Bagnet and his wife and
family being injured on my account. And if I could bring them through
this matter, I should have no help for it but to give up without any
other consideration what you wanted of me the other day."

"Have you got it here?"

"I have got it here, sir."

"Sergeant," the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, far
more hopeless in the dealing with than any amount of vehemence, "make
up your mind while I speak to you, for this is final. After I have
finished speaking I have closed the subject, and I won't re-open it.
Understand that. You can leave here, for a few days, what you say you
have brought here if you choose; you can take it away at once if you
choose. In case you choose to leave it here, I can do this for you--I
can replace this matter on its old footing, and I can go so far
besides as to give you a written undertaking that this man Bagnet
shall never be troubled in any way until you have been proceeded
against to the utmost, that your means shall be exhausted before the
creditor looks to his. This is in fact all but freeing him. Have you
decided?"

The trooper puts his hand into his breast and answers with a long
breath, "I must do it, sir."

So Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and writes
the undertaking, which he slowly reads and explains to Bagnet, who
has all this time been staring at the ceiling and who puts his hand
on his bald head again, under this new verbal shower-bath, and seems
exceedingly in need of the old girl through whom to express his
sentiments. The trooper then takes from his breast-pocket a folded
paper, which he lays with an unwilling hand at the lawyer's elbow.
"'Tis only a letter of instructions, sir. The last I ever had from
him."

Look at a millstone, Mr. George, for some change in its expression,
and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of Mr. Tulkinghorn
when he opens and reads the letter! He refolds it and lays it in his
desk with a countenance as unperturbable as death.

Nor has he anything more to say or do but to nod once in the same
frigid and discourteous manner and to say briefly, "You can go. Show
these men out, there!" Being shown out, they repair to Mr. Bagnet's
residence to dine.

Boiled beef and greens constitute the day's variety on the former
repast of boiled pork and greens, and Mrs. Bagnet serves out the meal
in the same way and seasons it with the best of temper, being that
rare sort of old girl that she receives Good to her arms without a
hint that it might be Better and catches light from any little spot
of darkness near her. The spot on this occasion is the darkened brow
of Mr. George; he is unusually thoughtful and depressed. At first
Mrs. Bagnet trusts to the combined endearments of Quebec and Malta to
restore him, but finding those young ladies sensible that their
existing Bluffy is not the Bluffy of their usual frolicsome
acquaintance, she winks off the light infantry and leaves him to
deploy at leisure on the open ground of the domestic hearth.

But he does not. He remains in close order, clouded and depressed.
During the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he and Mr.
Bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no better than he was at
dinner. He forgets to smoke, looks at the fire and ponders, lets his
pipe out, fills the breast of Mr. Bagnet with perturbation and dismay
by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco.

Therefore when Mrs. Bagnet at last appears, rosy from the
invigorating pail, and sits down to her work, Mr. Bagnet growls, "Old
girl!" and winks monitions to her to find out what's the matter.

"Why, George!" says Mrs. Bagnet, quietly threading her needle. "How
low you are!"

"Am I? Not good company? Well, I am afraid I am not."

"He ain't at all like Bluffy, mother!" cries little Malta.

"Because he ain't well, I think, mother," adds Quebec.

"Sure that's a bad sign not to be like Bluffy, too!" returns the
trooper, kissing the young damsels. "But it's true," with a sigh,
"true, I am afraid. These little ones are always right!"

"George," says Mrs. Bagnet, working busily, "if I thought you cross
enough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier's wife--who
could have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have done it
almost--said this morning, I don't know what I shouldn't say to you
now."

"My kind soul of a darling," returns the trooper. "Not a morsel of
it."

"Because really and truly, George, what I said and meant to say was
that I trusted Lignum to you and was sure you'd bring him through it.
And you HAVE brought him through it, noble!"

"Thankee, my dear!" says George. "I am glad of your good opinion."

In giving Mrs. Bagnet's hand, with her work in it, a friendly
shake--for she took her seat beside him--the trooper's attention is
attracted to her face. After looking at it for a little while as she
plies her needle, he looks to young Woolwich, sitting on his stool in
the corner, and beckons that fifer to him.

"See there, my boy," says George, very gently smoothing the mother's
hair with his hand, "there's a good loving forehead for you! All
bright with love of you, my boy. A little touched by the sun and the
weather through following your father about and taking care of you,
but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree."

Mr. Bagnet's face expresses, so far as in its wooden material lies,
the highest approbation and acquiescence.

"The time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, "when this hair of
your mother's will be grey, and this forehead all crossed and
re-crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she'll be then. Take
care, while you are young, that you can think in those days, 'I never
whitened a hair of her dear head--I never marked a sorrowful line in
her face!' For of all the many things that you can think of when you
are a man, you had better have THAT by you, Woolwich!"

Mr. George concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boy beside
his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurry about him,
that he'll smoke his pipe in the street a bit.




CHAPTER XXXV

Esther's Narrative


I lay ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my life
became like an old remembrance. But this was not the effect of time
so much as of the change in all my habits made by the helplessness
and inaction of a sick-room. Before I had been confined to it many
days, everything else seemed to have retired into a remote distance
where there was little or no separation between the various stages of
my life which had been really divided by years. In falling ill, I
seemed to have crossed a dark lake and to have left all my
experiences, mingled together by the great distance, on the healthy
shore.

My housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great anxiety to
think that they were unperformed, were soon as far off as the oldest
of the old duties at Greenleaf or the summer afternoons when I went
home from school with my portfolio under my arm, and my childish
shadow at my side, to my godmother's house. I had never known before
how short life really was and into how small a space the mind could
put it.

While I was very ill, the way in which these divisions of time became
confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly. At once a
child, an elder girl, and the little woman I had been so happy as, I
was not only oppressed by cares and difficulties adapted to each
station, but by the great perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile
them. I suppose that few who have not been in such a condition can
quite understand what I mean or what painful unrest arose from this
source.

For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in my
disorder--it seemed one long night, but I believe there were both
nights and days in it--when I laboured up colossal staircases, ever
striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a worm in
a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. I knew
perfectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times, that I was
in my bed; and I talked with Charley, and felt her touch, and knew
her very well; yet I would find myself complaining, "Oh, more of
these never-ending stairs, Charley--more and more--piled up to the
sky', I think!" and labouring on again.

Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in
great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry
circle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads! And when my
only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such
inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?

Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious
and the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make
others unhappy or because I am now the least unhappy in remembering
them. It may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictions we
might be the better able to alleviate their intensity.

The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful
rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for myself
and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying, with no
other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left behind--this
state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in this state when
I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once more, and
knew with a boundless joy for which no words are rapturous enough
that I should see again.

I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heard her
calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her
praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me and to
leave my bedside no more; but I had only said, when I could speak,
"Never, my sweet girl, never!" and I had over and over again reminded
Charley that she was to keep my darling from the room whether I lived
or died. Charley had been true to me in that time of need, and with
her little hand and her great heart had kept the door fast.

But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every
day more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters that my
dear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them to my
lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her. I could
see my little maid, so tender and so careful, going about the two
rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to Ada from
the open window again. I could understand the stillness in the house
and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those who had
always been so good to me. I could weep in the exquisite felicity of
my heart and be as happy in my weakness as ever I had been in my
strength.

By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying, with so
strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it were done
for some one else whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped it a little,
and so on to a little more and much more, until I became useful to
myself, and interested, and attached to life again.

How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bed
with pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with
Charley! The little creature--sent into the world, surely, to
minister to the weak and sick--was so happy, and so busy, and stopped
so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom, and
fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, she was so
glad, that I was obliged to say, "Charley, if you go on in this way,
I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I thought I
was!" So Charley became as quiet as a mouse and took her bright face
here and there across and across the two rooms, out of the shade into
the divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shade, while I
watched her peacefully. When all her preparations were concluded and
the pretty tea-table with its little delicacies to tempt me, and its
white cloth, and its flowers, and everything so lovingly and
beautifully arranged for me by Ada downstairs, was ready at the
bedside, I felt sure I was steady enough to say something to Charley
that was not new to my thoughts.

First I complimented Charley on the room, and indeed it was so fresh
and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe I had
been lying there so long. This delighted Charley, and her face was
brighter than before.

"Yet, Charley," said I, looking round, "I miss something, surely,
that I am accustomed to?"

Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake her head
as if there were nothing absent.

"Are the pictures all as they used to be?" I asked her.

"Every one of them, miss," said Charley.

"And the furniture, Charley?"

"Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss."

"And yet," said I, "I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know what it
is, Charley! It's the looking-glass."

Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten
something, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.

I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I could
thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called Charley back,
and when she came--at first pretending to smile, but as she drew
nearer to me, looking grieved--I took her in my arms and said, "It
matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do without my old face
very well."

I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great
chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on
Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that room too,
but what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.

My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there was
now no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. He came
one morning, and when he first came in, could only hold me in his
embrace and say, "My dear, dear girl!" I had long known--who could
know better?--what a deep fountain of affection and generosity his
heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering and change to
fill such a place in it? "Oh, yes!" I thought. "He has seen me, and
he loves me better than he did; he has seen me and is even fonder of
me than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!"

He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. For a
little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he removed
it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have been, there
never can be, a pleasanter manner.

"My little woman," said he, "what a sad time this has been. Such an
inflexible little woman, too, through all!"

"Only for the best, guardian," said I.

"For the best?" he repeated tenderly. "Of course, for the best. But
here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here has
your friend Caddy been coming and going late and early; here has
every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here has
even poor Rick been writing--to ME too--in his anxiety for you!"

I had read of Caddy in Ada's letters, but not of Richard. I told him
so.

"Why, no, my dear," he replied. "I have thought it better not to
mention it to her."

"And you speak of his writing to YOU," said I, repeating his
emphasis. "As if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as
if he could write to a better friend!"

"He thinks he could, my love," returned my guardian, "and to many a
better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while
unable to write to you with any hope of an answer--wrote coldly,
haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, we
must look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. Jarndyce and
Jarndyce has warped him out of himself and perverted me in his eyes.
I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If two
angels could be concerned in it, I believe it would change their
nature."

"It has not changed yours, guardian."

"Oh, yes, it has, my dear," he said laughingly. "It has made the
south wind easterly, I don't know how often. Rick mistrusts and
suspects me--goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect
me. Hears I have conflicting interests, claims clashing against his
and what not. Whereas, heaven knows that if I could get out of the
mountains of wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name has been so
long bestowed (which I can't) or could level them by the extinction
of my own original right (which I can't either, and no human power
ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a pass have we got), I would do
it this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature
than be endowed with all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart
and soul, upon the wheel of Chancery, have left unclaimed with the
Accountant-General--and that's money enough, my dear, to be cast into
a pyramid, in memory of Chancery's transcendent wickedness."

"IS it possible, guardian," I asked, amazed, "that Richard can be
suspicious of you?"

"Ah, my love, my love," he said, "it is in the subtle poison of such
abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and objects
lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not HIS fault."

"But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian."

"It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within
the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. By
little and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed,
and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to everything
around him. But again I say with all my soul, we must be patient with
poor Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine fresh hearts like
his have I seen in my time turned by the same means!"

I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret that
his benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.

"We must not say so, Dame Durden," he cheerfully replied; "Ada is the
happier, I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and both these
young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes and that
we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strong for it. But
it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and Jarndyce was the curtain of
Rick's cradle."

"But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach
him what a false and wretched thing it is?"

"We WILL hope so, my Esther," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and that it may not
teach him so too late. In any case we must not be hard on him. There
are not many grown and matured men living while we speak, good men
too, who if they were thrown into this same court as suitors would
not be vitally changed and depreciated within three years--within
two--within one. How can we stand amazed at poor Rick? A young man so
unfortunate," here he fell into a lower tone, as if he were thinking
aloud, "cannot at first believe (who could?) that Chancery is what it
is. He looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his
interests and bring them to some settlement. It procrastinates,
disappoints, tries, tortures him; wears out his sanguine hopes and
patience, thread by thread; but he still looks to it, and hankers
after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow. Well,
well, well! Enough of this, my dear!"

He had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tenderness
was so precious to me that I leaned my head upon his shoulder and
loved him as if he had been my father. I resolved in my own mind in
this little pause, by some means, to see Richard when I grew strong
and try to set him right.

"There are better subjects than these," said my guardian, "for such a
joyful time as the time of our dear girl's recovery. And I had a
commission to broach one of them as soon as I should begin to talk.
When shall Ada come to see you, my love?"

I had been thinking of that too. A little in connexion with the
absent mirrors, but not much, for I knew my loving girl would be
changed by no change in my looks.

"Dear guardian," said I, "as I have shut her out so long--though
indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me--"

"I know it well, Dame Durden, well."

He was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion and
affection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my
heart that I stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on. "Yes,
yes, you are tired," said he. "Rest a little."

"As I have kept Ada out so long," I began afresh after a short while,
"I think I should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian.
It would be best to be away from here before I see her. If Charley
and I were to go to some country lodging as soon as I can move, and
if I had a week there in which to grow stronger and to be revived by
the sweet air and to look forward to the happiness of having Ada with
me again, I think it would be better for us."

I hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more used
to my altered self before I met the eyes of the dear girl I longed so
ardently to see, but it is the truth. I did. He understood me, I was
sure; but I was not afraid of that. If it were a poor thing, I knew
he would pass it over.

"Our spoilt little woman," said my guardian, "shall have her own way
even in her inflexibility, though at the price, I know, of tears
downstairs. And see here! Here is Boythorn, heart of chivalry,
breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed on paper before,
that if you don't go and occupy his whole house, he having already
turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by heaven and by earth
he'll pull it down and not leave one brick standing on another!"

And my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinary
beginning such as "My dear Jarndyce," but rushing at once into the
words, "I swear if Miss Summerson do not come down and take
possession of my house, which I vacate for her this day at one
o'clock, P.M.," and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most
emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had
quoted. We did not appreciate the writer the less for laughing
heartily over it, and we settled that I should send him a letter of
thanks on the morrow and accept his offer. It was a most agreeable
one to me, for all the places I could have thought of, I should have
liked to go to none so well as Chesney Wold.

"Now, little housewife," said my guardian, looking at his watch, "I
was strictly timed before I came upstairs, for you must not be tired
too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. I have one
other petition. Little Miss Flite, hearing a rumour that you were
ill, made nothing of walking down here--twenty miles, poor soul, in a
pair of dancing shoes--to inquire. It was heaven's mercy we were at
home, or she would have walked back again."

The old conspiracy to make me happy! Everybody seemed to be in it!

"Now, pet," said my guardian, "if it would not be irksome to you to
admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you save
Boythorn's otherwise devoted house from demolition, I believe you
would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than I--though
my eminent name is Jarndyce--could do in a lifetime."

I have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple image
of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle lesson
on my mind at that time. I felt it as he spoke to me. I could not
tell him heartily enough how ready I was to receive her. I had always
pitied her, never so much as now. I had always been glad of my little
power to soothe her under her calamity, but never, never, half so
glad before.

We arranged a time for Miss Flite to come out by the coach and share
my early dinner. When my guardian left me, I turned my face away upon
my couch and prayed to be forgiven if I, surrounded by such
blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial that I had to
undergo. The childish prayer of that old birthday when I had aspired
to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do good to some
one and win some love to myself if I could came back into my mind
with a reproachful sense of all the happiness I had since enjoyed and
all the affectionate hearts that had been turned towards me. If I
were weak now, what had I profited by those mercies? I repeated the
old childish prayer in its old childish words and found that its old
peace had not departed from it.

My guardian now came every day. In a week or so more I could walk
about our rooms and hold long talks with Ada from behind the
window-curtain. Yet I never saw her, for I had not as yet the courage
to look at the dear face, though I could have done so easily without
her seeing me.

On the appointed day Miss Flite arrived. The poor little creature ran
into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying from
her very heart of hearts, "My dear Fitz Jarndyce!" fell upon my neck
and kissed me twenty times.

"Dear me!" said she, putting her hand into her reticule, "I have
nothing here but documents, my dear Fitz Jarndyce; I must borrow a
pocket handkerchief."

Charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use of it,
for she held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so, shedding
tears for the next ten minutes.

"With pleasure, my dear Fitz Jarndyce," she was careful to explain.
"Not the least pain. Pleasure to see you well again. Pleasure at
having the honour of being admitted to see you. I am so much fonder
of you, my love, than of the Chancellor. Though I DO attend court
regularly. By the by, my dear, mentioning pocket handkerchiefs--"

Miss Flite here looked at Charley, who had been to meet her at the
place where the coach stopped. Charley glanced at me and looked
unwilling to pursue the suggestion.

"Ve-ry right!" said Miss Flite, "Ve-ry correct. Truly! Highly
indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear Miss Fitz Jarndyce, I am
afraid I am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn't think it) a
little--rambling you know," said Miss Flite, touching her forehead.
"Nothing more."

"What were you going to tell me?" said I, smiling, for I saw she
wanted to go on. "You have roused my curiosity, and now you must
gratify it."

Miss Flite looked at Charley for advice in this important crisis, who
said, "If you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," and therein
gratified Miss Flite beyond measure.

"So sagacious, our young friend," said she to me in her mysterious
way. "Diminutive. But ve-ry sagacious! Well, my dear, it's a pretty
anecdote. Nothing more. Still I think it charming. Who should follow
us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poor person in a very
ungenteel bonnet--"

"Jenny, if you please, miss," said Charley.

"Just so!" Miss Flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity. "Jenny.
Ye-es! And what does she tell our young friend but that there has
been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after my dear Fitz
Jarndyce's health and taking a handkerchief away with her as a little
keepsake merely because it was my amiable Fitz Jarndyce's! Now, you
know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the veil!"

"If you please, miss," said Charley, to whom I looked in some
astonishment, "Jenny says that when her baby died, you left a
handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the
baby's little things. I think, if you please, partly because it was
yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby."

"Diminutive," whispered Miss Flite, making a variety of motions about
her own forehead to express intellect in Charley. "But exceedingly
sagacious! And so dear! My love, she's clearer than any counsel I
ever heard!"

"Yes, Charley," I returned. "I remember it. Well?"

"Well, miss," said Charley, "and that's the handkerchief the lady
took. And Jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't have made away
with it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it and
left some money instead. Jenny don't know her at all, if you please,
miss!"

"Why, who can she be?" said I.

"My love," Miss Flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear with
her most mysterious look, "in MY opinion--don't mention this to our
diminutive friend--she's the Lord Chancellor's wife. He's married,
you know. And I understand she leads him a terrible life. Throws his
lordship's papers into the fire, my dear, if he won't pay the
jeweller!"

I did not think very much about this lady then, for I had an
impression that it might be Caddy. Besides, my attention was diverted
by my visitor, who was cold after her ride and looked hungry and who,
our dinner being brought in, required some little assistance in
arraying herself with great satisfaction in a pitiable old scarf and
a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, which she had brought
down in a paper parcel. I had to preside, too, over the
entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roast fowl, a
sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and Madeira; and it was so pleasant
to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state and ceremony she did
honour to it, that I was soon thinking of nothing else.

When we had finished and had our little dessert before us,
embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the
superintendence of everything prepared for me to no one, Miss Flite
was so very chatty and happy that I thought I would lead her to her
own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. I began
by saying "You have attended on the Lord Chancellor many years, Miss
Flite?"

"Oh, many, many, many years, my dear. But I expect a judgment.
Shortly."

There was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful if
I had done right in approaching the subject. I thought I would say no
more about it.

"My father expected a judgment," said Miss Flite. "My brother. My
sister. They all expected a judgment. The same that I expect."

"They are all--"

"Ye-es. Dead of course, my dear," said she.

As I saw she would go on, I thought it best to try to be serviceable
to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it.

"Would it not be wiser," said I, "to expect this judgment no more?"

"Why, my dear," she answered promptly, "of course it would!"

"And to attend the court no more?"

"Equally of course," said she. "Very wearing to be always in
expectation of what never comes, my dear Fitz Jarndyce! Wearing, I
assure you, to the bone!"

She slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed.

"But, my dear," she went on in her mysterious way, "there's a
dreadful attraction in the place. Hush! Don't mention it to our
diminutive friend when she comes in. Or it may frighten her. With
good reason. There's a cruel attraction in the place. You CAN'T leave
it. And you MUST expect."

I tried to assure her that this was not so. She heard me patiently
and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer.

"Aye, aye, aye! You think so because I am a little rambling. Ve-ry
absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? Ve-ry confusing, too. To
the head. I find it so. But, my dear, I have been there many years,
and I have noticed. It's the mace and seal upon the table."

What could they do, did she think? I mildly asked her.

"Draw," returned Miss Flite. "Draw people on, my dear. Draw peace out
of them. Sense out of them. Good looks out of them. Good qualities
out of them. I have felt them even drawing my rest away in the night.
Cold and glittering devils!"

She tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-humouredly
as if she were anxious I should understand that I had no cause to
fear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and confided these awful
secrets to me.

"Let me see," said she. "I'll tell you my own case. Before they ever
drew me--before I had ever seen them--what was it I used to do?
Tambourine playing? No. Tambour work. I and my sister worked at
tambour work. Our father and our brother had a builder's business.
We all lived together. Ve-ry respectably, my dear! First, our father
was drawn--slowly. Home was drawn with him. In a few years he
was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt without a kind word or a kind
look for any one. He had been so different, Fitz Jarndyce. He was
drawn to a debtors' prison. There he died. Then our brother was
drawn--swiftly--to drunkenness. And rags. And death. Then my sister
was drawn. Hush! Never ask to what! Then I was ill and in misery, and
heard, as I had often heard before, that this was all the work of
Chancery. When I got better, I went to look at the monster. And then
I found out how it was, and I was drawn to stay there."

Having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of which she
had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were fresh upon
her, she gradually resumed her usual air of amiable importance.

"You don't quite credit me, my dear! Well, well! You will, some day.
I am a little rambling. But I have noticed. I have seen many new
faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the mace and seal
in these many years. As my father's came there. As my brother's. As
my sister's. As my own. I hear Conversation Kenge and the rest of
them say to the new faces, 'Here's little Miss Flite. Oh, you are new
here; and you must come and be presented to little Miss Flite!' Ve-ry
good. Proud I am sure to have the honour! And we all laugh. But, Fitz
Jarndyce, I know what will happen. I know, far better than they do,
when the attraction has begun. I know the signs, my dear. I saw them
begin in Gridley. And I saw them end. Fitz Jarndyce, my love,"
speaking low again, "I saw them beginning in our friend the ward in
Jarndyce. Let some one hold him back. Or he'll be drawn to ruin."

She looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face gradually
softening into a smile. Seeming to fear that she had been too gloomy,
and seeming also to lose the connexion in her mind, she said politely
as she sipped her glass of wine, "Yes, my dear, as I was saying, I
expect a judgment shortly. Then I shall release my birds, you know,
and confer estates."

I was much impressed by her allusion to Richard and by the sad
meaning, so sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that made its
way through all her incoherence. But happily for her, she was quite
complacent again now and beamed with nods and smiles.

"But, my dear," she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it upon
mine. "You have not congratulated me on my physician. Positively not
once, yet!"

I was obliged to confess that I did not quite know what she meant.

"My physician, Mr. Woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly
attentive to me. Though his services were rendered quite
gratuitously. Until the Day of Judgment. I mean THE judgment that
will dissolve the spell upon me of the mace and seal."

"Mr. Woodcourt is so far away, now," said I, "that I thought the time
for such congratulation was past, Miss Flite."

"But, my child," she returned, "is it possible that you don't know
what has happened?"

"No," said I.

"Not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved Fitz Jarndyce!"

"No," said I. "You forget how long I have been here."

"True! My dear, for the moment--true. I blame myself. But my memory
has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what I mentioned.
Ve-ry strong influence, is it not? Well, my dear, there has been a
terrible shipwreck over in those East Indian seas."

"Mr. Woodcourt shipwrecked!"

"Don't be agitated, my dear. He is safe. An awful scene. Death in all
shapes. Hundreds of dead and dying. Fire, storm, and darkness.
Numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. There, and through it
all, my dear physician was a hero. Calm and brave through everything.
Saved many lives, never complained in hunger and thirst, wrapped
naked people in his spare clothes, took the lead, showed them what to
do, governed them, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the
poor survivors safely off at last! My dear, the poor emaciated
creatures all but worshipped him. They fell down at his feet when
they got to the land and blessed him. The whole country rings with
it. Stay! Where's my bag of documents? I have got it there, and you
shall read it, you shall read it!"

And I DID read all the noble history, though very slowly and
imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see the
words, and I cried so much that I was many times obliged to lay down
the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. I felt so
triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such generous and
gallant deeds, I felt such glowing exultation in his renown, I so
admired and loved what he had done, that I envied the storm-worn
people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their preserver.
I could myself have kneeled down then, so far away, and blessed him
in my rapture that he should be so truly good and brave. I felt that
no one--mother, sister, wife--could honour him more than I. I did,
indeed!

My poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and when as
the evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lest she
should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was still full
of the shipwreck, which I had not yet sufficiently composed myself to
understand in all its details.

"My dear," said she as she carefully folded up her scarf and gloves,
"my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon him. And no
doubt he will. You are of that opinion?"

That he well deserved one, yes. That he would ever have one, no.

"Why not, Fitz Jarndyce?" she asked rather sharply.

I said it was not the custom in England to confer titles on men
distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great, unless
occasionally when they consisted of the accumulation of some very
large amount of money.

"Why, good gracious," said Miss Flite, "how can you say that? Surely
you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of England in
knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvement of every
sort are added to its nobility! Look round you, my dear, and
consider. YOU must be rambling a little now, I think, if you don't
know that this is the great reason why titles will always last in the
land!"

I am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments when
she was very mad indeed.

And now I must part with the little secret I have thus far tried to
keep. I had thought, sometimes, that Mr. Woodcourt loved me and that
if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that he loved me
before he went away. I had thought, sometimes, that if he had done
so, I should have been glad of it. But how much better it was now
that this had never happened! What should I have suffered if I had
had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he had known as
mine was quite gone from me and that I freely released him from his
bondage to one whom he had never seen!

Oh, it was so much better as it was! With a great pang mercifully
spared me, I could take back to my heart my childish prayer to be all
he had so brightly shown himself; and there was nothing to be undone:
no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and I could go, please
God, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he could go his nobler
way upon its broader road; and though we were apart upon the journey,
I might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, innocently, better far than
he had thought me when I found some favour in his eyes, at the
journey's end.




CHAPTER XXXVI

Chesney Wold


Charley and I did not set off alone upon our expedition into
Lincolnshire. My guardian had made up his mind not to lose sight of
me until I was safe in Mr. Boythorn's house, so he accompanied us,
and we were two days upon the road. I found every breath of air, and
every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass, and every
passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautiful and wonderful
to me than I had ever found it yet. This was my first gain from my
illness. How little I had lost, when the wide world was so full of
delight for me.

My guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on our
way down, a day when my dear girl should come. I wrote her a letter,
of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hour of our
arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening in the early
summer-time.

If a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand,
and I had been a princess and her favoured god-child, I could not
have been more considered in it. So many preparations were made for
me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my little
tastes and likings that I could have sat down, overcome, a dozen
times before I had revisited half the rooms. I did better than that,
however, by showing them all to Charley instead. Charley's delight
calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, and Charley
had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions, I was as
tranquilly happy as I ought to have been. It was a great comfort to
be able to say to myself after tea, "Esther, my dear, I think you are
quite sensible enough to sit down now and write a note of thanks to
your host." He had left a note of welcome for me, as sunny as his own
face, and had confided his bird to my care, which I knew to be his
highest mark of confidence. Accordingly I wrote a little note to him
in London, telling him how all his favourite plants and trees were
looking, and how the most astonishing of birds had chirped the
honours of the house to me in the most hospitable manner, and how,
after singing on my shoulder, to the inconceivable rapture of my
little maid, he was then at roost in the usual corner of his cage,
but whether dreaming or no I could not report. My note finished and
sent off to the post, I made myself very busy in unpacking and
arranging; and I sent Charley to bed in good time and told her I
should want her no more that night.

For I had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to have my
own restored to me. I knew this to be a weakness which must be
overcome, but I had always said to myself that I would begin afresh
when I got to where I now was. Therefore I had wanted to be alone,
and therefore I said, now alone, in my own room, "Esther, if you are
to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted,
you must keep your word, my dear." I was quite resolved to keep it,
but I sat down for a little while first to reflect upon all my
blessings. And then I said my prayers and thought a little more.

My hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger more than
once. It was long and thick. I let it down, and shook it out, and
went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. There was a little
muslin curtain drawn across it. I drew it back and stood for a moment
looking through such a veil of my own hair that I could see nothing
else. Then I put my hair aside and looked at the reflection in the
mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly it looked at me. I was very
much changed--oh, very, very much. At first my face was so strange to
me that I think I should have put my hands before it and started back
but for the encouragement I have mentioned. Very soon it became more
familiar, and then I knew the extent of the alteration in it better
than I had done at first. It was not like what I had expected, but I
had expected nothing definite, and I dare say anything definite would
have surprised me.

I had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but I had
been very different from this. It was all gone now. Heaven was so
good to me that I could let it go with a few not bitter tears and
could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite thankfully.

One thing troubled me, and I considered it for a long time before I
went to sleep. I had kept Mr. Woodcourt's flowers. When they were
withered I had dried them and put them in a book that I was fond of.
Nobody knew this, not even Ada. I was doubtful whether I had a right
to preserve what he had sent to one so different--whether it was
generous towards him to do it. I wished to be generous to him, even
in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never know, because
I could have loved him--could have been devoted to him. At last I
came to the conclusion that I might keep them if I treasured them
only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to
be looked back on any more, in any other light. I hope this may not
seem trivial. I was very much in earnest.

I took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the glass
when Charley came in on tiptoe.

"Dear, dear, miss!" cried Charley, starting. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Charley," said I, quietly putting up my hair. "And I am very
well indeed, and very happy."

I saw it was a weight off Charley's mind, but it was a greater weight
off mine. I knew the worst now and was composed to it. I shall not
conceal, as I go on, the weaknesses I could not quite conquer, but
they always passed from me soon and the happier frame of mind stayed
by me faithfully.

Wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good spirits
before Ada came, I now laid down a little series of plans with
Charley for being in the fresh air all day long. We were to be out
before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again
before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea,
and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hill and
explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. As to
restoratives and strengthening delicacies, Mr. Boythorn's good
housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or
drink in her hand; I could not even be heard of as resting in the
park but she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful
face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent
nourishment. Then there was a pony expressly for my riding, a chubby
pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes who could
canter--when he would--so easily and quietly that he was a treasure.
In a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when I called
him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. We arrived at such
a capital understanding that when he was jogging with me lazily, and
rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if I patted his neck and
said, "Stubbs, I am surprised you don't canter when you know how much
I like it; and I think you might oblige me, for you are only getting
stupid and going to sleep," he would give his head a comical shake or
two and set off directly, while Charley would stand still and laugh
with such enjoyment that her laughter was like music. I don't know
who had given Stubbs his name, but it seemed to belong to him as
naturally as his rough coat. Once we put him in a little chaise and
drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but
all at once, as we were extolling him to the skies, he seemed to take
it ill that he should have been accompanied so far by the circle of
tantalizing little gnats that had been hovering round and round his
ears the whole way without appearing to advance an inch, and stopped
to think about it. I suppose he came to the decision that it was not
to be borne, for he steadily refused to move until I gave the reins
to Charley and got out and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy
sort of good humour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his
ear against my sleeve. It was in vain for me to say, "Now, Stubbs, I
feel quite sure from what I know of you that you will go on if I ride
a little while," for the moment I left him, he stood stock still
again. Consequently I was obliged to lead the way, as before; and in
this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village.

Charley and I had reason to call it the most friendly of villages, I
am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see us go
by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that there were
faces of greeting in every cottage. I had known many of the grown
people before and almost all the children, but now the very steeple
began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. Among my new friends
was an old old woman who lived in such a little thatched and
whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter was turned up on
its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. This old lady had a
grandson who was a sailor, and I wrote a letter to him for her and
drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in which she had brought him
up and where his old stool yet occupied its old place. This was
considered by the whole village the most wonderful achievement in the
world, but when an answer came back all the way from Plymouth, in
which he mentioned that he was going to take the picture all the way
to America, and from America would write again, I got all the credit
that ought to have been given to the post-office and was invested
with the merit of the whole system.

Thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so many
children, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation in so
many cottages, going on with Charley's education, and writing long
letters to Ada every day, I had scarcely any time to think about that
little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. If I did think of
it at odd moments now and then, I had only to be busy and forget it.
I felt it more than I had hoped I should once when a child said,
"Mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady now like she used to be?"
But when I found the child was not less fond of me, and drew its soft
hand over my face with a kind of pitying protection in its touch,
that soon set me up again. There were many little occurrences which
suggested to me, with great consolation, how natural it is to gentle
hearts to be considerate and delicate towards any inferiority. One of
these particularly touched me. I happened to stroll into the little
church when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had
to sign the register.

The bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude cross
for his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. Now, I had
known the bride when I was last there, not only as the prettiest girl
in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in the
school, and I could not help looking at her with some surprise. She
came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love and
admiration stood in her bright eyes, "He's a dear good fellow, miss;
but he can't write yet--he's going to learn of me--and I wouldn't
shame him for the world!" Why, what had I to fear, I thought, when
there was this nobility in the soul of a labouring man's daughter!

The air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever blown,
and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had come into my
old one. Charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiant and so
rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly the whole
night.

There was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of Chesney Wold
where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. The wood had
been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight, and the
bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that I rested there at
least once every day. A picturesque part of the Hall, called the
Ghost's Walk, was seen to advantage from this higher ground; and the
startling name, and the old legend in the Dedlock family which I had
heard from Mr. Boythorn accounting for it, mingled with the view and
gave it something of a mysterious interest in addition to its real
charms. There was a bank here, too, which was a famous one for
violets; and as it was a daily delight of Charley's to gather wild
flowers, she took as much to the spot as I did.

It would be idle to inquire now why I never went close to the house
or never went inside it. The family were not there, I had heard on my
arrival, and were not expected. I was far from being incurious or
uninterested about the building; on the contrary, I often sat in this
place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like a
footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon the
lonely Ghost's Walk. The indefinable feeling with which Lady Dedlock
had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me from the
house even when she was absent. I am not sure. Her face and figure
were associated with it, naturally; but I cannot say that they
repelled me from it, though something did. For whatever reason or no
reason, I had never once gone near it, down to the day at which my
story now arrives.

I was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, and Charley
was gathering violets at a little distance from me. I had been
looking at the Ghost's Walk lying in a deep shade of masonry afar off
and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to haunt it
when I became aware of a figure approaching through the wood. The
perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, and the shadows of
the branches on the ground made it so much more intricate to the eye,
that at first I could not discern what figure it was. By little and
little it revealed itself to be a woman's--a lady's--Lady Dedlock's.
She was alone and coming to where I sat with a much quicker step, I
observed to my surprise, than was usual with her.

I was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost
within speaking distance before I knew her) and would have risen to
continue my walk. But I could not. I was rendered motionless. Not so
much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick
advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the great change in
her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint, as by a
something in her face that I had pined for and dreamed of when I was
a little child, something I had never seen in any face, something I
had never seen in hers before.

A dread and faintness fell upon me, and I called to Charley. Lady
Dedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what I
had known her.

"Miss Summerson, I am afraid I have startled you," she said, now
advancing slowly. "You can scarcely be strong yet. You have been very
ill, I know. I have been much concerned to hear it."

I could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than I could
have stirred from the bench on which I sat. She gave me her hand, and
its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforced composure of
her features, deepened the fascination that overpowered me. I cannot
say what was in my whirling thoughts.

"You are recovering again?" she asked kindly.

"I was quite well but a moment ago, Lady Dedlock."

"Is this your young attendant?"

"Yes."

"Will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?"

"Charley," said I, "take your flowers home, and I will follow you
directly."

Charley, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet and went
her way. When she was gone, Lady Dedlock sat down on the seat beside
me.

I cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when I saw
in her hand my handkerchief with which I had covered the dead baby.

I looked at her, but I could not see her, I could not hear her, I
could not draw my breath. The beating of my heart was so violent and
wild that I felt as if my life were breaking from me. But when she
caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, compassionated me,
and called me back to myself; when she fell down on her knees and
cried to me, "Oh, my child, my child, I am your wicked and unhappy
mother! Oh, try to forgive me!"--when I saw her at my feet on the
bare earth in her great agony of mind, I felt, through all my tumult
of emotion, a burst of gratitude to the providence of God that I was
so changed as that I never could disgrace her by any trace of
likeness, as that nobody could ever now look at me and look at her
and remotely think of any near tie between us.

I raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoop before
me in such affliction and humiliation. I did so in broken, incoherent
words, for besides the trouble I was in, it frightened me to see her
at MY feet. I told her--or I tried to tell her--that if it were for
me, her child, under any circumstances to take upon me to forgive
her, I did it, and had done it, many, many years. I told her that my
heart overflowed with love for her, that it was natural love which
nothing in the past had changed or could change. That it was not for
me, then resting for the first time on my mother's bosom, to take her
to account for having given me life, but that my duty was to bless
her and receive her, though the whole world turned from her, and that
I only asked her leave to do it. I held my mother in my embrace, and
she held me in hers, and among the still woods in the silence of the
summer day there seemed to be nothing but our two troubled minds that
was not at peace.

"To bless and receive me," groaned my mother, "it is far too late. I
must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it will.
From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I do not see the way
before my guilty feet. This is the earthly punishment I have brought
upon myself. I bear it, and I hide it."

Even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air of
proud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast it off
again.

"I must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not wholly
for myself. I have a husband, wretched and dishonouring creature that
I am!"

These words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, more
terrible in its sound than any shriek. Covering her face with her
hands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that I
should touch her; nor could I, by my utmost persuasions or by any
endearments I could use, prevail upon her to rise. She said, no, no,
no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud and disdainful
everywhere else; she would be humbled and ashamed there, in the only
natural moments of her life.

My unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly
frantic. She had but then known that her child was living. She could
not have suspected me to be that child before. She had followed me
down here to speak to me but once in all her life. We never could
associate, never could communicate, never probably from that time
forth could interchange another word on earth. She put into my hands
a letter she had written for my reading only and said when I had read
it and destroyed it--but not so much for her sake, since she asked
nothing, as for her husband's and my own--I must evermore consider
her as dead. If I could believe that she loved me, in this agony in
which I saw her, with a mother's love, she asked me to do that, for
then I might think of her with a greater pity, imagining what she
suffered. She had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help.
Whether she preserved her secret until death or it came to be
discovered and she brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she
had taken, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection
could come near her, and no human creature could render her any aid.

"But is the secret safe so far?" I asked. "Is it safe now, dearest
mother?"

"No," replied my mother. "It has been very near discovery. It was
saved by an accident. It may be lost by another accident--to-morrow,
any day."

"Do you dread a particular person?"

"Hush! Do not tremble and cry so much for me. I am not worthy of
these tears," said my mother, kissing my hands. "I dread one person
very much."

"An enemy?"

"Not a friend. One who is too passionless to be either. He is Sir
Leicester Dedlock's lawyer, mechanically faithful without attachment,
and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputation of being
master of the mysteries of great houses."

"Has he any suspicions?"

"Many."

"Not of you?" I said alarmed.

"Yes! He is always vigilant and always near me. I may keep him at a
standstill, but I can never shake him off."

"Has he so little pity or compunction?"

"He has none, and no anger. He is indifferent to everything but his
calling. His calling is the acquisition of secrets and the holding
possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer or opponent
in it."

"Could you trust in him?"

"I shall never try. The dark road I have trodden for so many years
will end where it will. I follow it alone to the end, whatever the
end be. It may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts,
nothing turns me."

"Dear mother, are you so resolved?"

"I AM resolved. I have long outbidden folly with folly, pride with
pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have outlived
many vanities with many more. I will outlive this danger, and outdie
it, if I can. It has closed around me almost as awfully as if these
woods of Chesney Wold had closed around the house, but my course
through it is the same. I have but one; I can have but one."

"Mr. Jarndyce--" I was beginning when my mother hurriedly inquired,
"Does HE suspect?"

"No," said I. "No, indeed! Be assured that he does not!" And I told
her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story. "But he
is so good and sensible," said I, "that perhaps if he knew--"

My mother, who until this time had made no change in her position,
raised her hand up to my lips and stopped me.

"Confide fully in him," she said after a little while. "You have my
free consent--a small gift from such a mother to her injured
child!--but do not tell me of it. Some pride is left in me even yet."

I explained, as nearly as I could then, or can recall now--for my
agitation and distress throughout were so great that I scarcely
understood myself, though every word that was uttered in the mother's
voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me, which in my childhood I
had never learned to love and recognize, had never been sung to sleep
with, had never heard a blessing from, had never had a hope inspired
by, made an enduring impression on my memory--I say I explained, or
tried to do it, how I had only hoped that Mr. Jarndyce, who had been
the best of fathers to me, might be able to afford some counsel and
support to her. But my mother answered no, it was impossible; no one
could help her. Through the desert that lay before her, she must go
alone.

"My child, my child!" she said. "For the last time! These kisses for
the last time! These arms upon my neck for the last time! We shall
meet no more. To hope to do what I seek to do, I must be what I have
been so long. Such is my reward and doom. If you hear of Lady
Dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think of your wretched
mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask! Think that the
reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse, in her murdering
within her breast the only love and truth of which it is capable! And
then forgive her if you can, and cry to heaven to forgive her, which
it never can!"

We held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm that
she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast, and with
a last kiss as she held them there, released them, and went from me
into the wood. I was alone, and calm and quiet below me in the sun
and shade lay the old house, with its terraces and turrets, on which
there had seemed to me to be such complete repose when I first saw
it, but which now looked like the obdurate and unpitying watcher of
my mother's misery.

Stunned as I was, as weak and helpless at first as I had ever been in
my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the danger of
discovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service. I took
such precautions as I could to hide from Charley that I had been
crying, and I constrained myself to think of every sacred obligation
that there was upon me to be careful and collected. It was not a
little while before I could succeed or could even restrain bursts of
grief, but after an hour or so I was better and felt that I might
return. I went home very slowly and told Charley, whom I found at the
gate looking for me, that I had been tempted to extend my walk after
Lady Dedlock had left me and that I was over-tired and would lie
down. Safe in my own room, I read the letter. I clearly derived from
it--and that was much then--that I had not been abandoned by my
mother. Her elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood,
discovering signs of life in me when I had been laid aside as dead,
had in her stern sense of duty, with no desire or willingness that I
should live, reared me in rigid secrecy and had never again beheld my
mother's face from within a few hours of my birth. So strangely did I
hold my place in this world that until within a short time back I had
never, to my own mother's knowledge, breathed--had been buried--had
never been endowed with life--had never borne a name. When she had
first seen me in the church she had been startled and had thought of
what would have been like me if it had ever lived, and had lived on,
but that was all then.

What more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. It has
its own times and places in my story.

My first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consume
even its ashes. I hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in me
that I then became heavily sorrowful to think I had ever been reared.
That I felt as if I knew it would have been better and happier for
many people if indeed I had never breathed. That I had a terror of
myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my own mother and
of a proud family name. That I was so confused and shaken as to be
possessed by a belief that it was right and had been intended that I
should die in my birth, and that it was wrong and not intended that I
should be then alive.

These are the real feelings that I had. I fell asleep worn out, and
when I awoke I cried afresh to think that I was back in the world
with my load of trouble for others. I was more than ever frightened
of myself, thinking anew of her against whom I was a witness, of the
owner of Chesney Wold, of the new and terrible meaning of the old
words now moaning in my ear like a surge upon the shore, "Your
mother, Esther, was your disgrace, and you are hers. The time will
come--and soon enough--when you will understand this better, and will
feel it too, as no one save a woman can." With them, those other
words returned, "Pray daily that the sins of others be not visited
upon your head." I could not disentangle all that was about me, and I
felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me, and the visitation
had come down.

The day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and I still
contended with the same distress. I went out alone, and after walking
a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling on the trees
and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes almost touched me,
was attracted to the house for the first time. Perhaps I might not
have gone near it if I had been in a stronger frame of mind. As it
was, I took the path that led close by it.

I did not dare to linger or to look up, but I passed before the
terrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, and its
well-kept beds and smooth turf; and I saw how beautiful and grave it
was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, and wide flights
of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; and how the
trained moss and ivy grew about them, and around the old stone
pedestal of the sun-dial; and I heard the fountain falling. Then the
way went by long lines of dark windows diversified by turreted towers
and porches of eccentric shapes, where old stone lions and grotesque
monsters bristled outside dens of shadow and snarled at the evening
gloom over the escutcheons they held in their grip. Thence the path
wound underneath a gateway, and through a court-yard where the
principal entrance was (I hurried quickly on), and by the stables
where none but deep voices seemed to be, whether in the murmuring of
the wind through the strong mass of ivy holding to a high red wall,
or in the low complaining of the weathercock, or in the barking of
the dogs, or in the slow striking of a clock. So, encountering
presently a sweet smell of limes, whose rustling I could hear, I
turned with the turning of the path to the south front, and there
above me were the balustrades of the Ghost's Walk and one lighted
window that might be my mother's.

The way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my footsteps
from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags. Stopping
to look at nothing, but seeing all I did see as I went, I was passing
quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed the lighted
window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly into my mind
that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of the Ghost's Walk,
that it was I who was to bring calamity upon the stately house and
that my warning feet were haunting it even then. Seized with an
augmented terror of myself which turned me cold, I ran from myself
and everything, retraced the way by which I had come, and never
paused until I had gained the lodge-gate, and the park lay sullen and
black behind me.

Not before I was alone in my own room for the night and had again
been dejected and unhappy there did I begin to know how wrong and
thankless this state was. But from my darling who was coming on the
morrow, I found a joyful letter, full of such loving anticipation
that I must have been of marble if it had not moved me; from my
guardian, too, I found another letter, asking me to tell Dame Durden,
if I should see that little woman anywhere, that they had moped most
pitiably without her, that the housekeeping was going to rack and
ruin, that nobody else could manage the keys, and that everybody in
and about the house declared it was not the same house and was
becoming rebellious for her return. Two such letters together made me
think how far beyond my deserts I was beloved and how happy I ought
to be. That made me think of all my past life; and that brought me,
as it ought to have done before, into a better condition.

For I saw very well that I could not have been intended to die, or I
should never have lived; not to say should never have been reserved
for such a happy life. I saw very well how many things had worked
together for my welfare, and that if the sins of the fathers were
sometimes visited upon the children, the phrase did not mean what I
had in the morning feared it meant. I knew I was as innocent of my
birth as a queen of hers and that before my Heavenly Father I should
not be punished for birth nor a queen rewarded for it. I had had
experience, in the shock of that very day, that I could, even thus
soon, find comforting reconcilements to the change that had fallen on
me. I renewed my resolutions and prayed to be strengthened in them,
pouring out my heart for myself and for my unhappy mother and feeling
that the darkness of the morning was passing away. It was not upon my
sleep; and when the next day's light awoke me, it was gone.

My dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. How to
help myself through the intermediate time better than by taking a
long walk along the road by which she was to come, I did not know; so
Charley and I and Stubbs--Stubbs saddled, for we never drove him
after the one great occasion--made a long expedition along that road
and back. On our return, we held a great review of the house and
garden and saw that everything was in its prettiest condition, and
had the bird out ready as an important part of the establishment.

There were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she could
come, and in that interval, which seemed a long one, I must confess I
was nervously anxious about my altered looks. I loved my darling so
well that I was more concerned for their effect on her than on any
one. I was not in this slight distress because I at all repined--I am
quite certain I did not, that day--but, I thought, would she be
wholly prepared? When she first saw me, might she not be a little
shocked and disappointed? Might it not prove a little worse than she
expected? Might she not look for her old Esther and not find her?
Might she not have to grow used to me and to begin all over again?

I knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so well, and
it was such an honest face in its loveliness, that I was sure
beforehand she could not hide that first look from me. And I
considered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings,
which was so very likely, could I quite answer for myself?

Well, I thought I could. After last night, I thought I could. But to
wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, was such
bad preparation that I resolved to go along the road again and meet
her.

So I said to Charley, "Charley, I will go by myself and walk along
the road until she comes." Charley highly approving of anything that
pleased me, I went and left her at home.

But before I got to the second milestone, I had been in so many
palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though I knew it was
not, and could not, be the coach yet) that I resolved to turn back
and go home again. And when I had turned, I was in such fear of the
coach coming up behind me (though I still knew that it neither would,
nor could, do any such thing) that I ran the greater part of the way
to avoid being overtaken.

Then, I considered, when I had got safe back again, this was a nice
thing to have done! Now I was hot and had made the worst of it
instead of the best.

At last, when I believed there was at least a quarter of an hour more
yet, Charley all at once cried out to me as I was trembling in the
garden, "Here she comes, miss! Here she is!"

I did not mean to do it, but I ran upstairs into my room and hid
myself behind the door. There I stood trembling, even when I heard my
darling calling as she came upstairs, "Esther, my dear, my love,
where are you? Little woman, dear Dame Durden!"

She ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. Ah, my angel
girl! The old dear look, all love, all fondness, all affection.
Nothing else in it--no, nothing, nothing!

Oh, how happy I was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beautiful
girl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her lovely
cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and fro like a
child, calling me by every tender name that she could think of, and
pressing me to her faithful heart.




CHAPTER XXXVII

Jarndyce and Jarndyce


If the secret I had to keep had been mine, I must have confided it to
Ada before we had been long together. But it was not mine, and I did
not feel that I had a right to tell it, even to my guardian, unless
some great emergency arose. It was a weight to bear alone; still my
present duty appeared to be plain, and blest in the attachment of my
dear, I did not want an impulse and encouragement to do it. Though
often when she was asleep and all was quiet, the remembrance of my
mother kept me waking and made the night sorrowful, I did not yield
to it at another time; and Ada found me what I used to be--except, of
course, in that particular of which I have said enough and which I
have no intention of mentioning any more just now, if I can help it.

The difficulty that I felt in being quite composed that first evening
when Ada asked me, over our work, if the family were at the house,
and when I was obliged to answer yes, I believed so, for Lady Dedlock
had spoken to me in the woods the day before yesterday, was great.
Greater still when Ada asked me what she had said, and when I replied
that she had been kind and interested, and when Ada, while admitting
her beauty and elegance, remarked upon her proud manner and her
imperious chilling air. But Charley helped me through, unconsciously,
by telling us that Lady Dedlock had only stayed at the house two
nights on her way from London to visit at some other great house in
the next county and that she had left early on the morning after we
had seen her at our view, as we called it. Charley verified the adage
about little pitchers, I am sure, for she heard of more sayings and
doings in a day than would have come to my ears in a month.

We were to stay a month at Mr. Boythorn's. My pet had scarcely been
there a bright week, as I recollect the time, when one evening after
we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers, and
just as the candles were lighted, Charley, appearing with a very
important air behind Ada's chair, beckoned me mysteriously out of the
room.

"Oh! If you please, miss," said Charley in a whisper, with her eyes
at their roundest and largest. "You're wanted at the Dedlock Arms."

"Why, Charley," said I, "who can possibly want me at the
public-house?"

"I don't know, miss," returned Charley, putting her head forward and
folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron, which she
always did in the enjoyment of anything mysterious or confidential,
"but it's a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, and will you please
to come without saying anything about it."

"Whose compliments, Charley?"

"His'n, miss," returned Charley, whose grammatical education was
advancing, but not very rapidly.

"And how do you come to be the messenger, Charley?"

"I am not the messenger, if you please, miss," returned my little
maid. "It was W. Grubble, miss."

"And who is W. Grubble, Charley?"

"Mister Grubble, miss," returned Charley. "Don't you know, miss? The
Dedlock Arms, by W. Grubble," which Charley delivered as if she were
slowly spelling out the sign.

"Aye? The landlord, Charley?"

"Yes, miss. If you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman, but
she broke her ankle, and it never joined. And her brother's the
sawyer that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he'll drink
himself to death entirely on beer," said Charley.

Not knowing what might be the matter, and being easily apprehensive
now, I thought it best to go to this place by myself. I bade Charley
be quick with my bonnet and veil and my shawl, and having put them
on, went away down the little hilly street, where I was as much at
home as in Mr. Boythorn's garden.

Mr. Grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door of his very
clean little tavern waiting for me. He lifted off his hat with both
hands when he saw me coming, and carrying it so, as if it were an
iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preceded me along the sanded
passage to his best parlour, a neat carpeted room with more plants in
it than were quite convenient, a coloured print of Queen Caroline,
several shells, a good many tea-trays, two stuffed and dried fish in
glass cases, and either a curious egg or a curious pumpkin (but I
don't know which, and I doubt if many people did) hanging from his
ceiling. I knew Mr. Grubble very well by sight, from his often
standing at his door. A pleasant-looking, stoutish, middle-aged man
who never seemed to consider himself cozily dressed for his own
fire-side without his hat and top-boots, but who never wore a coat
except at church.

He snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how it
looked, backed out of the room--unexpectedly to me, for I was going
to ask him by whom he had been sent. The door of the opposite parlour
being then opened, I heard some voices, familiar in my ears I
thought, which stopped. A quick light step approached the room in
which I was, and who should stand before me but Richard!

"My dear Esther!" he said. "My best friend!" And he really was so
warm-hearted and earnest that in the first surprise and pleasure of
his brotherly greeting I could scarcely find breath to tell him that
Ada was well.

"Answering my very thoughts--always the same dear girl!" said
Richard, leading me to a chair and seating himself beside me.

I put my veil up, but not quite.

"Always the same dear girl!" said Richard just as heartily as before.

I put up my veil altogether, and laying my hand on Richard's sleeve
and looking in his face, told him how much I thanked him for his kind
welcome and how greatly I rejoiced to see him, the more so because of
the determination I had made in my illness, which I now conveyed to
him.

"My love," said Richard, "there is no one with whom I have a greater
wish to talk than you, for I want you to understand me."

"And I want you, Richard," said I, shaking my head, "to understand
some one else."

"Since you refer so immediately to John Jarndyce," said Richard, "--I
suppose you mean him?"

"Of course I do."

"Then I may say at once that I am glad of it, because it is on that
subject that I am anxious to be understood. By you, mind--you, my
dear! I am not accountable to Mr. Jarndyce or Mr. Anybody."

I was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it.

"Well, well, my dear," said Richard, "we won't go into that now. I
want to appear quietly in your country-house here, with you under my
arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. I suppose your loyalty
to John Jarndyce will allow that?"

"My dear Richard," I returned, "you know you would be heartily
welcome at his house--your home, if you will but consider it so; and
you are as heartily welcome here!"

"Spoken like the best of little women!" cried Richard gaily.

I asked him how he liked his profession.

"Oh, I like it well enough!" said Richard. "It's all right. It does
as well as anything else, for a time. I don't know that I shall care
about it when I come to be settled, but I can sell out then
and--however, never mind all that botheration at present."

So young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly the opposite
of Miss Flite! And yet, in the clouded, eager, seeking look that
passed over him, so dreadfully like her!

"I am in town on leave just now," said Richard.

"Indeed?"

"Yes. I have run over to look after my--my Chancery interests before
the long vacation," said Richard, forcing a careless laugh. "We are
beginning to spin along with that old suit at last, I promise you."

No wonder that I shook my head!

"As you say, it's not a pleasant subject." Richard spoke with the
same shade crossing his face as before. "Let it go to the four winds
for to-night. Puff! Gone! Who do you suppose is with me?"

"Was it Mr. Skimpole's voice I heard?"

"That's the man! He does me more good than anybody. What a
fascinating child it is!"

I asked Richard if any one knew of their coming down together. He
answered, no, nobody. He had been to call upon the dear old
infant--so he called Mr. Skimpole--and the dear old infant had told
him where we were, and he had told the dear old infant he was bent on
coming to see us, and the dear old infant had directly wanted to come
too; and so he had brought him. "And he is worth--not to say his
sordid expenses--but thrice his weight in gold," said Richard. "He is
such a cheery fellow. No worldliness about him. Fresh and
green-hearted!"

I certainly did not see the proof of Mr. Skimpole's worldliness in
his having his expenses paid by Richard, but I made no remark about
that. Indeed, he came in and turned our conversation. He was charmed
to see me, said he had been shedding delicious tears of joy and
sympathy at intervals for six weeks on my account, had never been so
happy as in hearing of my progress, began to understand the mixture
of good and evil in the world now, felt that he appreciated health
the more when somebody else was ill, didn't know but what it might be
in the scheme of things that A should squint to make B happier in
looking straight or that C should carry a wooden leg to make D better
satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silk stocking.

"My dear Miss Summerson, here is our friend Richard," said Mr.
Skimpole, "full of the brightest visions of the future, which he
evokes out of the darkness of Chancery. Now that's delightful, that's
inspiriting, that's full of poetry! In old times the woods and
solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginary piping
and dancing of Pan and the nymphs. This present shepherd, our
pastoral Richard, brightens the dull Inns of Court by making Fortune
and her train sport through them to the melodious notes of a judgment
from the bench. That's very pleasant, you know! Some ill-conditioned
growling fellow may say to me, 'What's the use of these legal and
equitable abuses? How do you defend them?' I reply, 'My growling
friend, I DON'T defend them, but they are very agreeable to me. There
is a shepherd--youth, a friend of mine, who transmutes them into
something highly fascinating to my simplicity. I don't say it is for
this that they exist--for I am a child among you worldly grumblers,
and not called upon to account to you or myself for anything--but it
may be so.'"

I began seriously to think that Richard could scarcely have found a
worse friend than this. It made me uneasy that at such a time when he
most required some right principle and purpose he should have this
captivating looseness and putting-off of everything, this airy
dispensing with all principle and purpose, at his elbow. I thought I
could understand how such a nature as my guardian's, experienced in
the world and forced to contemplate the miserable evasions and
contentions of the family misfortune, found an immense relief in Mr.
Skimpole's avowal of his weaknesses and display of guileless candour;
but I could not satisfy myself that it was as artless as it seemed or
that it did not serve Mr. Skimpole's idle turn quite as well as any
other part, and with less trouble.

They both walked back with me, and Mr. Skimpole leaving us at the
gate, I walked softly in with Richard and said, "Ada, my love, I have
brought a gentleman to visit you." It was not difficult to read the
blushing, startled face. She loved him dearly, and he knew it, and I
knew it. It was a very transparent business, that meeting as cousins
only.

I almost mistrusted myself as growing quite wicked in my suspicions,
but I was not so sure that Richard loved her dearly. He admired her
very much--any one must have done that--and I dare say would have
renewed their youthful engagement with great pride and ardour but
that he knew how she would respect her promise to my guardian. Still
I had a tormenting idea that the influence upon him extended even
here, that he was postponing his best truth and earnestness in this
as in all things until Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be off his mind.
Ah me! What Richard would have been without that blight, I never
shall know now!

He told Ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come to make
any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather too
implicitly and confidingly, he thought) from Mr. Jarndyce, that he
had come openly to see her and to see me and to justify himself for
the present terms on which he stood with Mr. Jarndyce. As the dear
old infant would be with us directly, he begged that I would make an
appointment for the morning, when he might set himself right through
the means of an unreserved conversation with me. I proposed to walk
with him in the park at seven o'clock, and this was arranged. Mr.
Skimpole soon afterwards appeared and made us merry for an hour. He
particularly requested to see little Coavinses (meaning Charley) and
told her, with a patriarchal air, that he had given her late father
all the business in his power and that if one of her little brothers
would make haste to get set up in the same profession, he hoped he
should still be able to put a good deal of employment in his way.

"For I am constantly being taken in these nets," said Mr. Skimpole,
looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-and-water, "and am
constantly being bailed out--like a boat. Or paid off--like a ship's
company. Somebody always does it for me. I can't do it, you know, for
I never have any money. But somebody does it. I get out by somebody's
means; I am not like the starling; I get out. If you were to ask me
who somebody is, upon my word I couldn't tell you. Let us drink to
somebody. God bless him!"

Richard was a little late in the morning, but I had not to wait for
him long, and we turned into the park. The air was bright and dewy
and the sky without a cloud. The birds sang delightfully; the
sparkles in the fern, the grass, and trees, were exquisite to see;
the richness of the woods seemed to have increased twenty-fold since
yesterday, as if, in the still night when they had looked so
massively hushed in sleep, Nature, through all the minute details of
every wonderful leaf, had been more wakeful than usual for the glory
of that day.

"This is a lovely place," said Richard, looking round. "None of the
jar and discord of law-suits here!"

But there was other trouble.

"I tell you what, my dear girl," said Richard, "when I get affairs in
general settled, I shall come down here, I think, and rest."

"Would it not be better to rest now?" I asked.

"Oh, as to resting NOW," said Richard, "or as to doing anything very
definite NOW, that's not easy. In short, it can't be done; I can't do
it at least."

"Why not?" said I.

"You know why not, Esther. If you were living in an unfinished house,
liable to have the roof put on or taken off--to be from top to bottom
pulled down or built up--to-morrow, next day, next week, next month,
next year--you would find it hard to rest or settle. So do I. Now?
There's no now for us suitors."

I could almost have believed in the attraction on which my poor
little wandering friend had expatiated when I saw again the darkened
look of last night. Terrible to think it had in it also a shade of
that unfortunate man who had died.

"My dear Richard," said I, "this is a bad beginning of our
conversation."

"I knew you would tell me so, Dame Durden."

"And not I alone, dear Richard. It was not I who cautioned you once
never to found a hope or expectation on the family curse."

"There you come back to John Jarndyce!" said Richard impatiently.
"Well! We must approach him sooner or later, for he is the staple of
what I have to say, and it's as well at once. My dear Esther, how can
you be so blind? Don't you see that he is an interested party and
that it may be very well for him to wish me to know nothing of the
suit, and care nothing about it, but that it may not be quite so well
for me?"

"Oh, Richard," I remonstrated, "is it possible that you can ever have
seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under his roof
and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in this solitary place
where there is no one to hear us, such unworthy suspicions?"

He reddened deeply, as if his natural generosity felt a pang of
reproach. He was silent for a little while before he replied in a
subdued voice, "Esther, I am sure you know that I am not a mean
fellow and that I have some sense of suspicion and distrust being
poor qualities in one of my years."

"I know it very well," said I. "I am not more sure of anything."

"That's a dear girl," retorted Richard, "and like you, because it
gives me comfort. I had need to get some scrap of comfort out of all
this business, for it's a bad one at the best, as I have no occasion
to tell you."

"I know perfectly," said I. "I know as well, Richard--what shall I
say? as well as you do--that such misconstructions are foreign to
your nature. And I know, as well as you know, what so changes it."

"Come, sister, come," said Richard a little more gaily, "you will be
fair with me at all events. If I have the misfortune to be under that
influence, so has he. If it has a little twisted me, it may have a
little twisted him too. I don't say that he is not an honourable man,
out of all this complication and uncertainty; I am sure he is. But it
taints everybody. You know it taints everybody. You have heard him
say so fifty times. Then why should HE escape?"

"Because," said I, "his is an uncommon character, and he has
resolutely kept himself outside the circle, Richard."

"Oh, because and because!" replied Richard in his vivacious way. "I
am not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise and specious to
preserve that outward indifference. It may cause other parties
interested to become lax about their interests; and people may die
off, and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many things
may smoothly happen that are convenient enough."

I was so touched with pity for Richard that I could not reproach him
any more, even by a look. I remembered my guardian's gentleness
towards his errors and with what perfect freedom from resentment he
had spoken of them.

"Esther," Richard resumed, "you are not to suppose that I have come
here to make underhanded charges against John Jarndyce. I have only
come to justify myself. What I say is, it was all very well and we
got on very well while I was a boy, utterly regardless of this same
suit; but as soon as I began to take an interest in it and to look
into it, then it was quite another thing. Then John Jarndyce
discovers that Ada and I must break off and that if I don't amend
that very objectionable course, I am not fit for her. Now, Esther, I
don't mean to amend that very objectionable course: I will not hold
John Jarndyce's favour on those unfair terms of compromise, which he
has no right to dictate. Whether it pleases him or displeases him, I
must maintain my rights and Ada's. I have been thinking about it a
good deal, and this is the conclusion I have come to."

Poor dear Richard! He had indeed been thinking about it a good deal.
His face, his voice, his manner, all showed that too plainly.

"So I tell him honourably (you are to know I have written to him
about all this) that we are at issue and that we had better be at
issue openly than covertly. I thank him for his goodwill and his
protection, and he goes his road, and I go mine. The fact is, our
roads are not the same. Under one of the wills in dispute, I should
take much more than he. I don't mean to say that it is the one to be
established, but there it is, and it has its chance."

"I have not to learn from you, my dear Richard," said I, "of your
letter. I had heard of it already without an offended or angry word."

"Indeed?" replied Richard, softening. "I am glad I said he was an
honourable man, out of all this wretched affair. But I always say
that and have never doubted it. Now, my dear Esther, I know these
views of mine appear extremely harsh to you, and will to Ada when you
tell her what has passed between us. But if you had gone into the
case as I have, if you had only applied yourself to the papers as I
did when I was at Kenge's, if you only knew what an accumulation of
charges and counter-charges, and suspicions and cross-suspicions,
they involve, you would think me moderate in comparison."

"Perhaps so," said I. "But do you think that, among those many
papers, there is much truth and justice, Richard?"

"There is truth and justice somewhere in the case, Esther--"

"Or was once, long ago," said I.

"Is--is--must be somewhere," pursued Richard impetuously, "and must
be brought out. To allow Ada to be made a bribe and hush-money of is
not the way to bring it out. You say the suit is changing me; John
Jarndyce says it changes, has changed, and will change everybody who
has any share in it. Then the greater right I have on my side when I
resolve to do all I can to bring it to an end."

"All you can, Richard! Do you think that in these many years no
others have done all they could? Has the difficulty grown easier
because of so many failures?"

"It can't last for ever," returned Richard with a fierceness kindling
in him which again presented to me that last sad reminder. "I am
young and earnest, and energy and determination have done wonders
many a time. Others have only half thrown themselves into it. I
devote myself to it. I make it the object of my life."

"Oh, Richard, my dear, so much the worse, so much the worse!"

"No, no, no, don't you be afraid for me," he returned affectionately.
"You're a dear, good, wise, quiet, blessed girl; but you have your
prepossessions. So I come round to John Jarndyce. I tell you, my good
Esther, when he and I were on those terms which he found so
convenient, we were not on natural terms."

"Are division and animosity your natural terms, Richard?"

"No, I don't say that. I mean that all this business puts us on
unnatural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible. See
another reason for urging it on! I may find out when it's over that I
have been mistaken in John Jarndyce. My head may be clearer when I am
free of it, and I may then agree with what you say to-day. Very well.
Then I shall acknowledge it and make him reparation."

Everything postponed to that imaginary time! Everything held in
confusion and indecision until then!

"Now, my best of confidantes," said Richard, "I want my cousin Ada to
understand that I am not captious, fickle, and wilful about John
Jarndyce, but that I have this purpose and reason at my back. I wish
to represent myself to her through you, because she has a great
esteem and respect for her cousin John; and I know you will soften
the course I take, even though you disapprove of it; and--and in
short," said Richard, who had been hesitating through these words,
"I--I don't like to represent myself in this litigious, contentious,
doubting character to a confiding girl like Ada."

I told him that he was more like himself in those latter words than
in anything he had said yet.

"Why," acknowledged Richard, "that may be true enough, my love. I
rather feel it to be so. But I shall be able to give myself fair-play
by and by. I shall come all right again, then, don't you be afraid."

I asked him if this were all he wished me to tell Ada.

"Not quite," said Richard. "I am bound not to withhold from her that
John Jarndyce answered my letter in his usual manner, addressing me
as 'My dear Rick,' trying to argue me out of my opinions, and telling
me that they should make no difference in him. (All very well of
course, but not altering the case.) I also want Ada to know that if I
see her seldom just now, I am looking after her interests as well as
my own--we two being in the same boat exactly--and that I hope she
will not suppose from any flying rumours she may hear that I am at
all light-headed or imprudent; on the contrary, I am always looking
forward to the termination of the suit, and always planning in that
direction. Being of age now and having taken the step I have taken, I
consider myself free from any accountability to John Jarndyce; but
Ada being still a ward of the court, I don't yet ask her to renew our
engagement. When she is free to act for herself, I shall be myself
once more and we shall both be in very different worldly
circumstances, I believe. If you tell her all this with the advantage
of your considerate way, you will do me a very great and a very kind
service, my dear Esther; and I shall knock Jarndyce and Jarndyce on
the head with greater vigour. Of course I ask for no secrecy at Bleak
House."

"Richard," said I, "you place great confidence in me, but I fear you
will not take advice from me?"

"It's impossible that I can on this subject, my dear girl. On any
other, readily."

As if there were any other in his life! As if his whole career and
character were not being dyed one colour!

"But I may ask you a question, Richard?"

"I think so," said he, laughing. "I don't know who may not, if you
may not."

"You say, yourself, you are not leading a very settled life."

"How can I, my dear Esther, with nothing settled!"

"Are you in debt again?"

"Why, of course I am," said Richard, astonished at my simplicity.

"Is it of course?"

"My dear child, certainly. I can't throw myself into an object so
completely without expense. You forget, or perhaps you don't know,
that under either of the wills Ada and I take something. It's only a
question between the larger sum and the smaller. I shall be within
the mark any way. Bless your heart, my excellent girl," said Richard,
quite amused with me, "I shall be all right! I shall pull through, my
dear!"

I felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood that I
tried, in Ada's name, in my guardian's, in my own, by every fervent
means that I could think of, to warn him of it and to show him some
of his mistakes. He received everything I said with patience and
gentleness, but it all rebounded from him without taking the least
effect. I could not wonder at this after the reception his
preoccupied mind had given to my guardian's letter, but I determined
to try Ada's influence yet.

So when our walk brought us round to the village again, and I went
home to breakfast, I prepared Ada for the account I was going to give
her and told her exactly what reason we had to dread that Richard was
losing himself and scattering his whole life to the winds. It made
her very unhappy, of course, though she had a far, far greater
reliance on his correcting his errors than I could have--which was so
natural and loving in my dear!--and she presently wrote him this
little letter:


   My dearest cousin,

   Esther has told me all you said to her this morning. I
   write this to repeat most earnestly for myself all that
   she said to you and to let you know how sure I am that
   you will sooner or later find our cousin John a pattern
   of truth, sincerity, and goodness, when you will deeply,
   deeply grieve to have done him (without intending it) so
   much wrong.

   I do not quite know how to write what I wish to say next,
   but I trust you will understand it as I mean it. I have
   some fears, my dearest cousin, that it may be partly for
   my sake you are now laying up so much unhappiness for
   yourself--and if for yourself, for me. In case this should
   be so, or in case you should entertain much thought of me
   in what you are doing, I most earnestly entreat and beg
   you to desist. You can do nothing for my sake that will
   make me half so happy as for ever turning your back upon
   the shadow in which we both were born. Do not be angry
   with me for saying this. Pray, pray, dear Richard, for my
   sake, and for your own, and in a natural repugnance for
   that source of trouble which had its share in making us
   both orphans when we were very young, pray, pray, let it
   go for ever. We have reason to know by this time that
   there is no good in it and no hope, that there is nothing
   to be got from it but sorrow.

   My dearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you
   are quite free and that it is very likely you may find
   some one whom you will love much better than your first
   fancy. I am quite sure, if you will let me say so, that
   the object of your choice would greatly prefer to follow
   your fortunes far and wide, however moderate or poor, and
   see you happy, doing your duty and pursuing your chosen
   way, than to have the hope of being, or even to be, very
   rich with you (if such a thing were possible) at the cost
   of dragging years of procrastination and anxiety and of
   your indifference to other aims. You may wonder at my
   saying this so confidently with so little knowledge or
   experience, but I know it for a certainty from my own
   heart.

   Ever, my dearest cousin, your most affectionate

   Ada


This note brought Richard to us very soon, but it made little change
in him if any. We would fairly try, he said, who was right and who
was wrong--he would show us--we should see! He was animated and
glowing, as if Ada's tenderness had gratified him; but I could only
hope, with a sigh, that the letter might have some stronger effect
upon his mind on re-perusal than it assuredly had then.

As they were to remain with us that day and had taken their places to
return by the coach next morning, I sought an opportunity of speaking
to Mr. Skimpole. Our out-of-door life easily threw one in my way, and
I delicately said that there was a responsibility in encouraging
Richard.

"Responsibility, my dear Miss Summerson?" he repeated, catching at
the word with the pleasantest smile. "I am the last man in the world
for such a thing. I never was responsible in my life--I can't be."

"I am afraid everybody is obliged to be," said I timidly enough, he
being so much older and more clever than I.

"No, really?" said Mr. Skimpole, receiving this new light with a most
agreeable jocularity of surprise. "But every man's not obliged to be
solvent? I am not. I never was. See, my dear Miss Summerson," he took
a handful of loose silver and halfpence from his pocket, "there's so
much money. I have not an idea how much. I have not the power of
counting. Call it four and ninepence--call it four pound nine. They
tell me I owe more than that. I dare say I do. I dare say I owe as
much as good-natured people will let me owe. If they don't stop, why
should I? There you have Harold Skimpole in little. If that's
responsibility, I am responsible."

The perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up again and
looked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he had been
mentioning a curious little fact about somebody else, almost made me
feel as if he really had nothing to do with it.

"Now, when you mention responsibility," he resumed, "I am disposed to
say that I never had the happiness of knowing any one whom I should
consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. You appear to me
to be the very touchstone of responsibility. When I see you, my
dear Miss Summerson, intent upon the perfect working of the whole
little orderly system of which you are the centre, I feel inclined
to say to myself--in fact I do say to myself very often--THAT'S
responsibility!"

It was difficult, after this, to explain what I meant; but I
persisted so far as to say that we all hoped he would check and not
confirm Richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then.

"Most willingly," he retorted, "if I could. But, my dear Miss
Summerson, I have no art, no disguise. If he takes me by the hand and
leads me through Westminster Hall in an airy procession after
fortune, I must go. If he says, 'Skimpole, join the dance!' I must
join it. Common sense wouldn't, I know, but I have NO common sense."

It was very unfortunate for Richard, I said.

"Do you think so!" returned Mr. Skimpole. "Don't say that, don't say
that. Let us suppose him keeping company with Common Sense--an
excellent man--a good deal wrinkled--dreadfully practical--change for
a ten-pound note in every pocket--ruled account-book in his
hand--say, upon the whole, resembling a tax-gatherer. Our dear
Richard, sanguine, ardent, overleaping obstacles, bursting with
poetry like a young bud, says to this highly respectable companion,
'I see a golden prospect before me; it's very bright, it's very
beautiful, it's very joyous; here I go, bounding over the landscape
to come at it!' The respectable companion instantly knocks him down
with the ruled account-book; tells him in a literal, prosaic way that
he sees no such thing; shows him it's nothing but fees, fraud,
horsehair wigs, and black gowns. Now you know that's a painful
change--sensible in the last degree, I have no doubt, but
disagreeable. I can't do it. I haven't got the ruled account-book, I
have none of the tax-gathering elements in my composition, I am not
at all respectable, and I don't want to be. Odd perhaps, but so it
is!"

It was idle to say more, so I proposed that we should join Ada and
Richard, who were a little in advance, and I gave up Mr. Skimpole in
despair. He had been over the Hall in the course of the morning and
whimsically described the family pictures as we walked. There were
such portentous shepherdesses among the Ladies Dedlock dead and gone,
he told us, that peaceful crooks became weapons of assault in their
hands. They tended their flocks severely in buckram and powder and
put their sticking-plaster patches on to terrify commoners as the
chiefs of some other tribes put on their war-paint. There was a Sir
Somebody Dedlock, with a battle, a sprung-mine, volumes of smoke,
flashes of lightning, a town on fire, and a stormed fort, all in full
action between his horse's two hind legs, showing, he supposed, how
little a Dedlock made of such trifles. The whole race he represented
as having evidently been, in life, what he called "stuffed people"--a
large collection, glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on
their various twigs and perches, very correct, perfectly free from
animation, and always in glass cases.

I was not so easy now during any reference to the name but that I
felt it a relief when Richard, with an exclamation of surprise,
hurried away to meet a stranger whom he first descried coming slowly
towards us.

"Dear me!" said Mr. Skimpole. "Vholes!"

We asked if that were a friend of Richard's.

"Friend and legal adviser," said Mr. Skimpole. "Now, my dear Miss
Summerson, if you want common sense, responsibility, and
respectability, all united--if you want an exemplary man--Vholes is
THE man."

We had not known, we said, that Richard was assisted by any gentleman
of that name.

"When he emerged from legal infancy," returned Mr. Skimpole, "he
parted from our conversational friend Kenge and took up, I believe,
with Vholes. Indeed, I know he did, because I introduced him to
Vholes."

"Had you known him long?" asked Ada.

"Vholes? My dear Miss Clare, I had had that kind of acquaintance with
him which I have had with several gentlemen of his profession. He had
done something or other in a very agreeable, civil manner--taken
proceedings, I think, is the expression--which ended in the
proceeding of his taking ME. Somebody was so good as to step in and
pay the money--something and fourpence was the amount; I forget the
pounds and shillings, but I know it ended with fourpence, because it
struck me at the time as being so odd that I could owe anybody
fourpence--and after that I brought them together. Vholes asked me
for the introduction, and I gave it. Now I come to think of it," he
looked inquiringly at us with his frankest smile as he made the
discovery, "Vholes bribed me, perhaps? He gave me something and
called it commission. Was it a five-pound note? Do you know, I think
it MUST have been a five-pound note!"

His further consideration of the point was prevented by Richard's
coming back to us in an excited state and hastily representing Mr.
Vholes--a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they were
cold, a red eruption here and there upon his face, tall and thin,
about fifty years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping. Dressed in
black, black-gloved, and buttoned to the chin, there was nothing so
remarkable in him as a lifeless manner and a slow, fixed way he had
of looking at Richard.

"I hope I don't disturb you, ladies," said Mr. Vholes, and now I
observed that he was further remarkable for an inward manner of
speaking. "I arranged with Mr. Carstone that he should always know
when his cause was in the Chancellor's paper, and being informed by
one of my clerks last night after post time that it stood, rather
unexpectedly, in the paper for to-morrow, I put myself into the coach
early this morning and came down to confer with him."

"Yes," said Richard, flushed, and looking triumphantly at Ada and me,
"we don't do these things in the old slow way now. We spin along now!
Mr. Vholes, we must hire something to get over to the post town in,
and catch the mail to-night, and go up by it!"

"Anything you please, sir," returned Mr. Vholes. "I am quite at your
service."

"Let me see," said Richard, looking at his watch. "If I run down to
the Dedlock, and get my portmanteau fastened up, and order a gig, or
a chaise, or whatever's to be got, we shall have an hour then before
starting. I'll come back to tea. Cousin Ada, will you and Esther take
care of Mr. Vholes when I am gone?"

He was away directly, in his heat and hurry, and was soon lost in the
dusk of evening. We who were left walked on towards the house.

"Is Mr. Carstone's presence necessary to-morrow, Sir?" said I. "Can
it do any good?"

"No, miss," Mr. Vholes replied. "I am not aware that it can."

Both Ada and I expressed our regret that he should go, then, only to
be disappointed.

"Mr. Carstone has laid down the principle of watching his own
interests," said Mr. Vholes, "and when a client lays down his own
principle, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry it
out. I wish in business to be exact and open. I am a widower with
three daughters--Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my desire is so to
discharge the duties of life as to leave them a good name. This
appears to be a pleasant spot, miss."

The remark being made to me in consequence of my being next him as we
walked, I assented and enumerated its chief attractions.

"Indeed?" said Mr. Vholes. "I have the privilege of supporting an
aged father in the Vale of Taunton--his native place--and I admire
that country very much. I had no idea there was anything so
attractive here."

To keep up the conversation, I asked Mr. Vholes if he would like to
live altogether in the country.

"There, miss," said he, "you touch me on a tender string. My health
is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if I had only
myself to consider, I should take refuge in rural habits, especially
as the cares of business have prevented me from ever coming much into
contact with general society, and particularly with ladies' society,
which I have most wished to mix in. But with my three daughters,
Emma, Jane, and Caroline--and my aged father--I cannot afford to be
selfish. It is true I have no longer to maintain a dear grandmother
who died in her hundred and second year, but enough remains to render
it indispensable that the mill should be always going."

It required some attention to hear him on account of his inward
speaking and his lifeless manner.

"You will excuse my having mentioned my daughters," he said. "They
are my weak point. I wish to leave the poor girls some little
independence, as well as a good name."

We now arrived at Mr. Boythorn's house, where the tea-table, all
prepared, was awaiting us. Richard came in restless and hurried
shortly afterwards, and leaning over Mr. Vholes's chair, whispered
something in his ear. Mr. Vholes replied aloud--or as nearly aloud I
suppose as he had ever replied to anything--"You will drive me, will
you, sir? It is all the same to me, sir. Anything you please. I am
quite at your service."

We understood from what followed that Mr. Skimpole was to be left
until the morning to occupy the two places which had been already
paid for. As Ada and I were both in low spirits concerning Richard
and very sorry so to part with him, we made it as plain as we
politely could that we should leave Mr. Skimpole to the Dedlock Arms
and retire when the night-travellers were gone.

Richard's high spirits carrying everything before them, we all went
out together to the top of the hill above the village, where he had
ordered a gig to wait and where we found a man with a lantern
standing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had been harnessed
to it.

I never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern's
light, Richard all flush and fire and laughter, with the reins in his
hand; Mr. Vholes quite still, black-gloved, and buttoned up, looking
at him as if he were looking at his prey and charming it. I have
before me the whole picture of the warm dark night, the summer
lightning, the dusty track of road closed in by hedgerows and high
trees, the gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked up, and the driving
away at speed to Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

My dear girl told me that night how Richard's being thereafter
prosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make this
difference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchanging
heart, the more love that unchanging heart would have to give him;
how he thought of her through his present errors, and she would think
of him at all times--never of herself if she could devote herself to
him, never of her own delights if she could minister to his.

And she kept her word?

I look along the road before me, where the distance already shortens
and the journey's end is growing visible; and true and good above the
dead sea of the Chancery suit and all the ashy fruit it cast ashore,
I think I see my darling.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

A Struggle


When our time came for returning to Bleak House again, we were
punctual to the day and were received with an overpowering welcome. I
was perfectly restored to health and strength, and finding my
housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang myself in as if
I had been a new year, with a merry little peal. "Once more, duty,
duty, Esther," said I; "and if you are not overjoyed to do it, more
than cheerfully and contentedly, through anything and everything, you
ought to be. That's all I have to say to you, my dear!"

The first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and business,
devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated journeys to
and fro between the growlery and all other parts of the house, so
many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and such a general new
beginning altogether, that I had not a moment's leisure. But when
these arrangements were completed and everything was in order, I paid
a visit of a few hours to London, which something in the letter I had
destroyed at Chesney Wold had induced me to decide upon in my own
mind.

I made Caddy Jellyby--her maiden name was so natural to me that I
always called her by it--the pretext for this visit and wrote her a
note previously asking the favour of her company on a little business
expedition. Leaving home very early in the morning, I got to London
by stage-coach in such good time that I got to Newman Street with the
day before me.

Caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad and so
affectionate that I was half inclined to fear I should make her
husband jealous. But he was, in his way, just as bad--I mean as good;
and in short it was the old story, and nobody would leave me any
possibility of doing anything meritorious.

The elder Mr. Turveydrop was in bed, I found, and Caddy was
milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an
apprentice--it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the
trade of dancing--was waiting to carry upstairs. Her father-in-law
was extremely kind and considerate, Caddy told me, and they lived
most happily together. (When she spoke of their living together, she
meant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all the good
lodging, while she and her husband had what they could get, and were
poked into two corner rooms over the Mews.)

"And how is your mama, Caddy?" said I.

"Why, I hear of her, Esther," replied Caddy, "through Pa, but I see
very little of her. We are good friends, I am glad to say, but Ma
thinks there is something absurd in my having married a
dancing-master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to her."

It struck me that if Mrs. Jellyby had discharged her own natural
duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a telescope
in search of others, she would have taken the best precautions
against becoming absurd, but I need scarcely observe that I kept this
to myself.

"And your papa, Caddy?"

"He comes here every evening," returned Caddy, "and is so fond of
sitting in the corner there that it's a treat to see him."

Looking at the corner, I plainly perceived the mark of Mr. Jellyby's
head against the wall. It was consolatory to know that he had found
such a resting-place for it.

"And you, Caddy," said I, "you are always busy, I'll be bound?"

"Well, my dear," returned Caddy, "I am indeed, for to tell you a
grand secret, I am qualifying myself to give lessons. Prince's health
is not strong, and I want to be able to assist him. What with
schools, and classes here, and private pupils, AND the apprentices,
he really has too much to do, poor fellow!"

The notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me that I asked
Caddy if there were many of them.

"Four," said Caddy. "One in-door, and three out. They are
very good children; only when they get together they WILL
play--children-like--instead of attending to their work. So the
little boy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchen,
and we distribute the others over the house as well as we can."

"That is only for their steps, of course?" said I.

"Only for their steps," said Caddy. "In that way they practise, so
many hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be upon. They
dance in the academy, and at this time of year we do figures at five
every morning."

"Why, what a laborious life!" I exclaimed.

"I assure you, my dear," returned Caddy, smiling, "when the out-door
apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into our room,
not to disturb old Mr. Turveydrop), and when I put up the window and
see them standing on the door-step with their little pumps under
their arms, I am actually reminded of the Sweeps."

All this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure.
Caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication and cheerfully
recounted the particulars of her own studies.

"You see, my dear, to save expense I ought to know something of the
piano, and I ought to know something of the kit too, and consequently
I have to practise those two instruments as well as the details of
our profession. If Ma had been like anybody else, I might have had
some little musical knowledge to begin upon. However, I hadn't any;
and that part of the work is, at first, a little discouraging, I must
allow. But I have a very good ear, and I am used to drudgery--I have
to thank Ma for that, at all events--and where there's a will there's
a way, you know, Esther, the world over." Saying these words, Caddy
laughingly sat down at a little jingling square piano and really
rattled off a quadrille with great spirit. Then she good-humouredly
and blushingly got up again, and while she still laughed herself,
said, "Don't laugh at me, please; that's a dear girl!"

I would sooner have cried, but I did neither. I encouraged her and
praised her with all my heart. For I conscientiously believed,
dancing-master's wife though she was, and dancing-mistress though in
her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had struck out a natural,
wholesome, loving course of industry and perseverance that was quite
as good as a mission.

"My dear," said Caddy, delighted, "you can't think how you cheer me.
I shall owe you, you don't know how much. What changes, Esther, even
in my small world! You recollect that first night, when I was so
unpolite and inky? Who would have thought, then, of my ever teaching
people to dance, of all other possibilities and impossibilities!"

Her husband, who had left us while we had this chat, now coming back,
preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room, Caddy
informed me she was quite at my disposal. But it was not my time yet,
I was glad to tell her, for I should have been vexed to take her away
then. Therefore we three adjourned to the apprentices together, and I
made one in the dance.

The apprentices were the queerest little people. Besides the
melancholy boy, who, I hoped, had not been made so by waltzing alone
in the empty kitchen, there were two other boys and one dirty little
limp girl in a gauzy dress. Such a precocious little girl, with such
a dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture), who brought her
sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule. Such mean
little boys, when they were not dancing, with string, and marbles,
and cramp-bones in their pockets, and the most untidy legs and
feet--and heels particularly.

I asked Caddy what had made their parents choose this profession for
them. Caddy said she didn't know; perhaps they were designed for
teachers, perhaps for the stage. They were all people in humble
circumstances, and the melancholy boy's mother kept a ginger-beer
shop.

We danced for an hour with great gravity, the melancholy child doing
wonders with his lower extremities, in which there appeared to be
some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist. Caddy,
while she was observant of her husband and was evidently founded upon
him, had acquired a grace and self-possession of her own, which,
united to her pretty face and figure, was uncommonly agreeable. She
already relieved him of much of the instruction of these young
people, and he seldom interfered except to walk his part in the
figure if he had anything to do in it. He always played the tune. The
affectation of the gauzy child, and her condescension to the boys,
was a sight. And thus we danced an hour by the clock.

When the practice was concluded, Caddy's husband made himself ready
to go out of town to a school, and Caddy ran away to get ready to go
out with me. I sat in the ball-room in the interval, contemplating
the apprentices. The two out-door boys went upon the staircase to put
on their half-boots and pull the in-door boy's hair, as I judged from
the nature of his objections. Returning with their jackets buttoned
and their pumps stuck in them, they then produced packets of cold
bread and meat and bivouacked under a painted lyre on the wall. The
little gauzy child, having whisked her sandals into the reticule and
put on a trodden-down pair of shoes, shook her head into the dowdy
bonnet at one shake, and answering my inquiry whether she liked
dancing by replying, "Not with boys," tied it across her chin, and
went home contemptuous.

"Old Mr. Turveydrop is so sorry," said Caddy, "that he has not
finished dressing yet and cannot have the pleasure of seeing you
before you go. You are such a favourite of his, Esther."

I expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it
necessary to add that I readily dispensed with this attention.

"It takes him a long time to dress," said Caddy, "because he is very
much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a reputation to
support. You can't think how kind he is to Pa. He talks to Pa of an
evening about the Prince Regent, and I never saw Pa so interested."

There was something in the picture of Mr. Turveydrop bestowing his
deportment on Mr. Jellyby that quite took my fancy. I asked Caddy if
he brought her papa out much.

"No," said Caddy, "I don't know that he does that, but he talks to
Pa, and Pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. Of course
I am aware that Pa has hardly any claims to deportment, but they get
on together delightfully. You can't think what good companions they
make. I never saw Pa take snuff before in my life, but he takes one
pinch out of Mr. Turveydrop's box regularly and keeps putting it to
his nose and taking it away again all the evening."

That old Mr. Turveydrop should ever, in the chances and changes of
life, have come to the rescue of Mr. Jellyby from Borrioboola-Gha
appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities.

"As to Peepy," said Caddy with a little hesitation, "whom I was most
afraid of--next to having any family of my own, Esther--as an
inconvenience to Mr. Turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentleman to
that child is beyond everything. He asks to see him, my dear! He lets
him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the crusts of
his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about the house; he
tells him to come to me for sixpences. In short," said Caddy
cheerily, "and not to prose, I am a very fortunate girl and ought to
be very grateful. Where are we going, Esther?"

"To the Old Street Road," said I, "where I have a few words to say to
the solicitor's clerk who was sent to meet me at the coach-office on
the very day when I came to London and first saw you, my dear. Now I
think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your house."

"Then, indeed, I seem to be naturally the person to go with you,"
returned Caddy.

To the Old Street Road we went and there inquired at Mrs. Guppy's
residence for Mrs. Guppy. Mrs. Guppy, occupying the parlours and
having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself like a nut
in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for,
immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in. She was an
old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather an
unsteady eye, but smiling all over. Her close little sitting-room was
prepared for a visit, and there was a portrait of her son in it
which, I had almost written here, was more like than life: it
insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not to
let him off.

Not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there too.
He was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered at a table
reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, rising, "this is indeed an oasis.
Mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady and
get out of the gangway."

Mrs. Guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish
appearance, did as her son requested and then sat down in a corner,
holding her pocket handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation,
with both hands.

I presented Caddy, and Mr. Guppy said that any friend of mine was
more than welcome. I then proceeded to the object of my visit.

"I took the liberty of sending you a note, sir," said I.

Mr. Guppy acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his
breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket
with a bow. Mr. Guppy's mother was so diverted that she rolled her
head as she smiled and made a silent appeal to Caddy with her elbow.

"Could I speak to you alone for a moment?" said I.

Anything like the jocoseness of Mr. Guppy's mother just now, I think
I never saw. She made no sound of laughter, but she rolled her head,
and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appealed to
Caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder, and was so
unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some difficulty
she could marshal Caddy through the little folding-door into her
bedroom adjoining.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "you will excuse the waywardness of
a parent ever mindful of a son's appiness. My mother, though highly
exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal dictates."

I could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment have
turned so red or changed so much as Mr. Guppy did when I now put up
my veil.

"I asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here," said I,
"in preference to calling at Mr. Kenge's because, remembering what
you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, I feared
I might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, Mr. Guppy."

I caused him embarrassment enough as it was, I am sure. I never saw
such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and apprehension.

"Miss Summerson," stammered Mr. Guppy, "I--I--beg your pardon, but in
our profession--we--we--find it necessary to be explicit. You have
referred to an occasion, miss, when I--when I did myself the honour
of making a declaration which--"

Something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly
swallow. He put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again to
swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the
room, and fluttered his papers.

"A kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss," he explained,
"which rather knocks me over. I--er--a little subject to this sort of
thing--er--by George!"

I gave him a little time to recover. He consumed it in putting his
hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing his
chair into the corner behind him.

"My intention was to remark, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "dear
me--something bronchial, I think--hem!--to remark that you was so
good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration.
You--you wouldn't perhaps object to admit that? Though no witnesses
are present, it might be a satisfaction to--to your mind--if you was
to put in that admission."

"There can be no doubt," said I, "that I declined your proposal
without any reservation or qualification whatever, Mr. Guppy."

"Thank you, miss," he returned, measuring the table with his troubled
hands. "So far that's satisfactory, and it does you credit. Er--this
is certainly bronchial!--must be in the tubes--er--you wouldn't
perhaps be offended if I was to mention--not that it's necessary, for
your own good sense or any person's sense must show 'em that--if I
was to mention that such declaration on my part was final, and there
terminated?"

"I quite understand that," said I.

"Perhaps--er--it may not be worth the form, but it might be a
satisfaction to your mind--perhaps you wouldn't object to admit that,
miss?" said Mr. Guppy.

"I admit it most fully and freely," said I.

"Thank you," returned Mr. Guppy. "Very honourable, I am sure. I
regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over
which I have no control, will put it out of my power ever to fall
back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or form whatever,
but it will ever be a retrospect entwined--er--with friendship's
bowers." Mr. Guppy's bronchitis came to his relief and stopped his
measurement of the table.

"I may now perhaps mention what I wished to say to you?" I began.

"I shall be honoured, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy. "I am so persuaded
that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will--will keep you
as square as possible--that I can have nothing but pleasure, I am
sure, in hearing any observations you may wish to offer."

"You were so good as to imply, on that occasion--"

"Excuse me, miss," said Mr. Guppy, "but we had better not travel out
of the record into implication. I cannot admit that I implied
anything."

"You said on that occasion," I recommenced, "that you might possibly
have the means of advancing my interests and promoting my fortunes by
making discoveries of which I should be the subject. I presume that
you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of my being an
orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolence of Mr.
Jarndyce. Now, the beginning and the end of what I have come to beg
of you is, Mr. Guppy, that you will have the kindness to relinquish
all idea of so serving me. I have thought of this sometimes, and I
have thought of it most lately--since I have been ill. At length I
have decided, in case you should at any time recall that purpose and
act upon it in any way, to come to you and assure you that you are
altogether mistaken. You could make no discovery in reference to me
that would do me the least service or give me the least pleasure. I
am acquainted with my personal history, and I have it in my power to
assure you that you never can advance my welfare by such means. You
may, perhaps, have abandoned this project a long time. If so, excuse
my giving you unnecessary trouble. If not, I entreat you, on the
assurance I have given you, henceforth to lay it aside. I beg you to
do this, for my peace."

"I am bound to confess," said Mr. Guppy, "that you express yourself,
miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which I gave you
credit. Nothing can be more satisfactory than such right feeling, and
if I mistook any intentions on your part just now, I am prepared to
tender a full apology. I should wish to be understood, miss, as
hereby offering that apology--limiting it, as your own good sense and
right feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present
proceedings."

I must say for Mr. Guppy that the snuffling manner he had had upon
him improved very much. He seemed truly glad to be able to do
something I asked, and he looked ashamed.

"If you will allow me to finish what I have to say at once so that I
may have no occasion to resume," I went on, seeing him about to
speak, "you will do me a kindness, sir. I come to you as privately as
possible because you announced this impression of yours to me in a
confidence which I have really wished to respect--and which I always
have respected, as you remember. I have mentioned my illness. There
really is no reason why I should hesitate to say that I know very
well that any little delicacy I might have had in making a request to
you is quite removed. Therefore I make the entreaty I have now
preferred, and I hope you will have sufficient consideration for me
to accede to it."

I must do Mr. Guppy the further justice of saying that he had looked
more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed and very
earnest when he now replied with a burning face, "Upon my word and
honour, upon my life, upon my soul, Miss Summerson, as I am a living
man, I'll act according to your wish! I'll never go another step in
opposition to it. I'll take my oath to it if it will be any
satisfaction to you. In what I promise at this present time touching
the matters now in question," continued Mr. Guppy rapidly, as if he
were repeating a familiar form of words, "I speak the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so--"

"I am quite satisfied," said I, rising at this point, "and I thank
you very much. Caddy, my dear, I am ready!"

Mr. Guppy's mother returned with Caddy (now making me the recipient
of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our leave. Mr.
Guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was either
imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there,
staring.

But in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat, and
with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fervently,
"Miss Summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may depend upon me!"

"I do," said I, "quite confidently."

"I beg your pardon, miss," said Mr. Guppy, going with one leg and
staying with the other, "but this lady being present--your own
witness--it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which I should wish
to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions."

"Well, Caddy," said I, turning to her, "perhaps you will not be
surprised when I tell you, my dear, that there never has been any
engagement--"

"No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," suggested Mr. Guppy.

"No proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," said I, "between
this gentleman--"

"William Guppy, of Penton Place, Pentonville, in the county of
Middlesex," he murmured.

"Between this gentleman, Mr. William Guppy, of Penton Place,
Pentonville, in the county of Middlesex, and myself."

"Thank you, miss," said Mr. Guppy. "Very full--er--excuse me--lady's
name, Christian and surname both?"

I gave them.

"Married woman, I believe?" said Mr. Guppy. "Married woman. Thank
you. Formerly Caroline Jellyby, spinster, then of Thavies Inn, within
the city of London, but extra-parochial; now of Newman Street, Oxford
Street. Much obliged."

He ran home and came running back again.

"Touching that matter, you know, I really and truly am very sorry
that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which
I have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly
terminated some time back," said Mr. Guppy to me forlornly and
despondently, "but it couldn't be. Now COULD it, you know! I only put
it to you."

I replied it certainly could not. The subject did not admit of a
doubt. He thanked me and ran to his mother's again--and back again.

"It's very honourable of you, miss, I am sure," said Mr. Guppy. "If
an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship--but, upon my
soul, you may rely upon me in every respect save and except the
tender passion only!"

The struggle in Mr. Guppy's breast and the numerous oscillations it
occasioned him between his mother's door and us were sufficiently
conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted
cutting) to make us hurry away. I did so with a lightened heart; but
when we last looked back, Mr. Guppy was still oscillating in the same
troubled state of mind.




CHAPTER XXXIX

Attorney and Client


The name of Mr. Vholes, preceded by the legend Ground-Floor, is
inscribed upon a door-post in Symond's Inn, Chancery Lane--a little,
pale, wall-eyed, woebegone inn like a large dust-binn of two
compartments and a sifter. It looks as if Symond were a sparing man
in his way and constructed his inn of old building materials which
took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all things decaying and
dismal, and perpetuated Symond's memory with congenial shabbiness.
Quartered in this dingy hatchment commemorative of Symond are the
legal bearings of Mr. Vholes.

Mr. Vholes's office, in disposition retiring and in situation
retired, is squeezed up in a corner and blinks at a dead wall. Three
feet of knotty-floored dark passage bring the client to Mr. Vholes's
jet-black door, in an angle profoundly dark on the brightest
midsummer morning and encumbered by a black bulk-head of cellarage
staircase against which belated civilians generally strike their
brows. Mr. Vholes's chambers are on so small a scale that one clerk
can open the door without getting off his stool, while the other who
elbows him at the same desk has equal facilities for poking the fire.
A smell as of unwholesome sheep blending with the smell of must and
dust is referable to the nightly (and often daily) consumption of
mutton fat in candles and to the fretting of parchment forms and
skins in greasy drawers. The atmosphere is otherwise stale and close.
The place was last painted or whitewashed beyond the memory of man,
and the two chimneys smoke, and there is a loose outer surface of
soot everywhere, and the dull cracked windows in their heavy frames
have but one piece of character in them, which is a determination to
be always dirty and always shut unless coerced. This accounts for the
phenomenon of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle of
firewood thrust between its jaws in hot weather.

Mr. Vholes is a very respectable man. He has not a large business,
but he is a very respectable man. He is allowed by the greater
attorneys who have made good fortunes or are making them to be a most
respectable man. He never misses a chance in his practice, which is a
mark of respectability. He never takes any pleasure, which is another
mark of respectability. He is reserved and serious, which is another
mark of respectability. His digestion is impaired, which is highly
respectable. And he is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for
his three daughters. And his father is dependent on him in the Vale
of Taunton.

The one great principle of the English law is to make business for
itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and
consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by
this light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze
the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive
that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their
expense, and surely they will cease to grumble.

But not perceiving this quite plainly--only seeing it by halves in a
confused way--the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket, with a
bad grace, and DO grumble very much. Then this respectability of Mr.
Vholes is brought into powerful play against them. "Repeal this
statute, my good sir?" says Mr. Kenge to a smarting client. "Repeal
it, my dear sir? Never, with my consent. Alter this law, sir, and
what will be the effect of your rash proceeding on a class of
practitioners very worthily represented, allow me to say to you, by
the opposite attorney in the case, Mr. Vholes? Sir, that class of
practitioners would be swept from the face of the earth. Now you
cannot afford--I will say, the social system cannot afford--to lose
an order of men like Mr. Vholes. Diligent, persevering, steady, acute
in business. My dear sir, I understand your present feelings against
the existing state of things, which I grant to be a little hard in
your case; but I can never raise my voice for the demolition of a
class of men like Mr. Vholes." The respectability of Mr. Vholes has
even been cited with crushing effect before Parliamentary committees,
as in the following blue minutes of a distinguished attorney's
evidence. "Question (number five hundred and seventeen thousand eight
hundred and sixty-nine): If I understand you, these forms of practice
indisputably occasion delay? Answer: Yes, some delay. Question: And
great expense? Answer: Most assuredly they cannot be gone through for
nothing. Question: And unspeakable vexation? Answer: I am not
prepared to say that. They have never given ME any vexation; quite
the contrary. Question: But you think that their abolition would
damage a class of practitioners? Answer: I have no doubt of it.
Question: Can you instance any type of that class? Answer: Yes. I
would unhesitatingly mention Mr. Vholes. He would be ruined.
Question: Mr. Vholes is considered, in the profession, a respectable
man? Answer:"--which proved fatal to the inquiry for ten years--"Mr.
Vholes is considered, in the profession, a MOST respectable man."

So in familiar conversation, private authorities no less
disinterested will remark that they don't know what this age is
coming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that now here is
something else gone, that these changes are death to people like
Vholes--a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in the Vale
of Taunton, and three daughters at home. Take a few steps more in
this direction, say they, and what is to become of Vholes's father?
Is he to perish? And of Vholes's daughters? Are they to be
shirt-makers, or governesses? As though, Mr. Vholes and his relations
being minor cannibal chiefs and it being proposed to abolish
cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case thus: Make
man-eating unlawful, and you starve the Vholeses!

In a word, Mr. Vholes, with his three daughters and his father in the
Vale of Taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece of timber,
to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a pitfall and a
nuisance. And with a great many people in a great many instances, the
question is never one of a change from wrong to right (which is quite
an extraneous consideration), but is always one of injury or
advantage to that eminently respectable legion, Vholes.

The Chancellor is, within these ten minutes, "up" for the long
vacation. Mr. Vholes, and his young client, and several blue bags
hastily stuffed out of all regularity of form, as the larger sort of
serpents are in their first gorged state, have returned to the
official den. Mr. Vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so much
respectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as if he
were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he were
scalping himself, and sits down at his desk. The client throws his
hat and gloves upon the ground--tosses them anywhere, without looking
after them or caring where they go; flings himself into a chair, half
sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head upon his hand and
looks the portrait of young despair.

"Again nothing done!" says Richard. "Nothing, nothing done!"

"Don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid Vholes. "That is
scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!"

"Why, what IS done?" says Richard, turning gloomily upon him.

"That may not be the whole question," returns Vholes, "The question
may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?"

"And what is doing?" asks the moody client.

Vholes, sitting with his arms on the desk, quietly bringing the tips
of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers,
and quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowly looking at
his client, replies, "A good deal is doing, sir. We have put our
shoulders to the wheel, Mr. Carstone, and the wheel is going round."

"Yes, with Ixion on it. How am I to get through the next four or five
accursed months?" exclaims the young man, rising from his chair and
walking about the room.

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, following him close with his eyes wherever
he goes, "your spirits are hasty, and I am sorry for it on your
account. Excuse me if I recommend you not to chafe so much, not to be
so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. You should have more
patience. You should sustain yourself better."

"I ought to imitate you, in fact, Mr. Vholes?" says Richard, sitting
down again with an impatient laugh and beating the devil's tattoo
with his boot on the patternless carpet.

"Sir," returns Vholes, always looking at the client as if he were
making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his
professional appetite. "Sir," returns Vholes with his inward manner
of speech and his bloodless quietude, "I should not have had the
presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation or any
man's. Let me but leave the good name to my three daughters, and that
is enough for me; I am not a self-seeker. But since you mention me so
pointedly, I will acknowledge that I should like to impart to you a
little of my--come, sir, you are disposed to call it insensibility,
and I am sure I have no objection--say insensibility--a little of my
insensibility."

"Mr. Vholes," explains the client, somewhat abashed, "I had no
intention to accuse you of insensibility."

"I think you had, sir, without knowing it," returns the equable
Vholes. "Very naturally. It is my duty to attend to your interests
with a cool head, and I can quite understand that to your excited
feelings I may appear, at such times as the present, insensible. My
daughters may know me better; my aged father may know me better. But
they have known me much longer than you have, and the confiding eye
of affection is not the distrustful eye of business. Not that I
complain, sir, of the eye of business being distrustful; quite the
contrary. In attending to your interests, I wish to have all possible
checks upon me; it is right that I should have them; I court inquiry.
But your interests demand that I should be cool and methodical, Mr.
Carstone; and I cannot be otherwise--no, sir, not even to please
you."

Mr. Vholes, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently
watching a mouse's hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his young
client and proceeds in his buttoned-up, half-audible voice as if
there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out nor
speak out, "What are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the
vacation. I should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means
of amusing yourselves if you give your minds to it. If you had asked
me what I was to do during the vacation, I could have answered you
more readily. I am to attend to your interests. I am to be found
here, day by day, attending to your interests. That is my duty, Mr.
C., and term-time or vacation makes no difference to me. If you wish
to consult me as to your interests, you will find me here at all
times alike. Other professional men go out of town. I don't. Not that
I blame them for going; I merely say I don't go. This desk is your
rock, sir!"

Mr. Vholes gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin. Not
to Richard, though. There is encouragement in the sound to him.
Perhaps Mr. Vholes knows there is.

"I am perfectly aware, Mr. Vholes," says Richard, more familiarly and
good-humouredly, "that you are the most reliable fellow in the world
and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a man of
business who is not to be hoodwinked. But put yourself in my case,
dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper into
difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually
disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the worse in
myself, and of no change for the better in anything else, and you
will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as I do."

"You know," says Mr. Vholes, "that I never give hopes, sir. I told
you from the first, Mr. C., that I never give hopes. Particularly in
a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of
the estate, I should not be considerate of my good name if I gave
hopes. It might seem as if costs were my object. Still, when you say
there is no change for the better, I must, as a bare matter of fact,
deny that."

"Aye?" returns Richard, brightening. "But how do you make it out?"

"Mr. Carstone, you are represented by--"

"You said just now--a rock."

"Yes, sir," says Mr. Vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the
hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust
on dust, "a rock. That's something. You are separately represented,
and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. THAT'S
something. The suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk
it about. THAT'S something. It's not all Jarndyce, in fact as well as
in name. THAT'S something. Nobody has it all his own way now, sir.
And THAT'S something, surely."

Richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his
clenched hand.

"Mr. Vholes! If any man had told me when I first went to John
Jarndyce's house that he was anything but the disinterested friend he
seemed--that he was what he has gradually turned out to be--I could
have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; I could not
have defended him too ardently. So little did I know of the world!
Whereas now I do declare to you that he becomes to me the embodiment
of the suit; that in place of its being an abstraction, it is John
Jarndyce; that the more I suffer, the more indignant I am with him;
that every new delay and every new disappointment is only a new
injury from John Jarndyce's hand."

"No, no," says Vholes. "Don't say so. We ought to have patience, all
of us. Besides, I never disparage, sir. I never disparage."

"Mr. Vholes," returns the angry client. "You know as well as I that
he would have strangled the suit if he could."

"He was not active in it," Mr. Vholes admits with an appearance of
reluctance. "He certainly was not active in it. But however, but
however, he might have had amiable intentions. Who can read the
heart, Mr. C.!"

"You can," returns Richard.

"I, Mr. C.?"

"Well enough to know what his intentions were. Are or are not our
interests conflicting? Tell--me--that!" says Richard, accompanying
his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust.

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, immovable in attitude and never winking his
hungry eyes, "I should be wanting in my duty as your professional
adviser, I should be departing from my fidelity to your interests, if
I represented those interests as identical with the interests of Mr.
Jarndyce. They are no such thing, sir. I never impute motives; I both
have and am a father, and I never impute motives. But I must not
shrink from a professional duty, even if it sows dissensions in
families. I understand you to be now consulting me professionally as
to your interests? You are so? I reply, then, they are not identical
with those of Mr. Jarndyce."

"Of course they are not!" cries Richard. "You found that out long
ago."

"Mr. C.," returns Vholes, "I wish to say no more of any third party
than is necessary. I wish to leave my good name unsullied, together
with any little property of which I may become possessed through
industry and perseverance, to my daughters Emma, Jane, and Caroline.
I also desire to live in amity with my professional brethren. When
Mr. Skimpole did me the honour, sir--I will not say the very high
honour, for I never stoop to flattery--of bringing us together in
this room, I mentioned to you that I could offer no opinion or advice
as to your interests while those interests were entrusted to another
member of the profession. And I spoke in such terms as I was bound to
speak of Kenge and Carboy's office, which stands high. You, sir,
thought fit to withdraw your interests from that keeping nevertheless
and to offer them to me. You brought them with clean hands, sir, and
I accepted them with clean hands. Those interests are now paramount
in this office. My digestive functions, as you may have heard me
mention, are not in a good state, and rest might improve them; but I
shall not rest, sir, while I am your representative. Whenever you
want me, you will find me here. Summon me anywhere, and I will come.
During the long vacation, sir, I shall devote my leisure to studying
your interests more and more closely and to making arrangements for
moving heaven and earth (including, of course, the Chancellor) after
Michaelmas term; and when I ultimately congratulate you, sir," says
Mr. Vholes with the severity of a determined man, "when I ultimately
congratulate you, sir, with all my heart, on your accession to
fortune--which, but that I never give hopes, I might say something
further about--you will owe me nothing beyond whatever little balance
may be then outstanding of the costs as between solicitor and client
not included in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate. I pretend
to no claim upon you, Mr. C., but for the zealous and active
discharge--not the languid and routine discharge, sir: that much
credit I stipulate for--of my professional duty. My duty prosperously
ended, all between us is ended."

Vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his
principles, that as Mr. Carstone is about to rejoin his regiment,
perhaps Mr. C. will favour him with an order on his agent for twenty
pounds on account.

"For there have been many little consultations and attendances of
late, sir," observes Vholes, turning over the leaves of his diary,
"and these things mount up, and I don't profess to be a man of
capital. When we first entered on our present relations I stated to
you openly--it is a principle of mine that there never can be too
much openness between solicitor and client--that I was not a man of
capital and that if capital was your object you had better leave your
papers in Kenge's office. No, Mr. C., you will find none of the
advantages or disadvantages of capital here, sir. This," Vholes gives
the desk one hollow blow again, "is your rock; it pretends to be
nothing more."

The client, with his dejection insensibly relieved and his vague
hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft, not without
perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear,
implying scant effects in the agent's hands. All the while, Vholes,
buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively. All the
while, Vholes's official cat watches the mouse's hole.

Lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches Mr. Vholes, for heaven's
sake and earth's sake, to do his utmost to "pull him through" the
Court of Chancery. Mr. Vholes, who never gives hopes, lays his palm
upon the client's shoulder and answers with a smile, "Always here,
sir. Personally, or by letter, you will always find me here, sir,
with my shoulder to the wheel." Thus they part, and Vholes, left
alone, employs himself in carrying sundry little matters out of his
diary into his draft bill book for the ultimate behoof of his three
daughters. So might an industrious fox or bear make up his account of
chickens or stray travellers with an eye to his cubs, not to
disparage by that word the three raw-visaged, lank, and buttoned-up
maidens who dwell with the parent Vholes in an earthy cottage
situated in a damp garden at Kennington.

Richard, emerging from the heavy shade of Symond's Inn into the
sunshine of Chancery Lane--for there happens to be sunshine there
to-day--walks thoughtfully on, and turns into Lincoln's Inn, and
passes under the shadow of the Lincoln's Inn trees. On many such
loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; on
the like bent head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, the lingering
step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the good consuming and
consumed, the life turned sour. This lounger is not shabby yet, but
that may come. Chancery, which knows no wisdom but in precedent, is
very rich in such precedents; and why should one be different from
ten thousand?

Yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as he
saunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long months
together, though he hates it, Richard himself may feel his own case
as if it were a startling one. While his heart is heavy with
corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may have room for
some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit
there, how different he, how different all the colours of his mind.
But injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows and being
defeated by them necessitates the setting up of substances to combat;
from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand, the time
for that being long gone by, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to
the palpable figure of the friend who would have saved him from this
ruin and make HIM his enemy. Richard has told Vholes the truth. Is he
in a hardened or a softened mood, he still lays his injuries equally
at that door; he was thwarted, in that quarter, of a set purpose, and
that purpose could only originate in the one subject that is
resolving his existence into itself; besides, it is a justification
to him in his own eyes to have an embodied antagonist and oppressor.

Is Richard a monster in all this, or would Chancery be found rich in
such precedents too if they could be got for citation from the
Recording Angel?

Two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as,
biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed
up by the shadow of the southern gateway. Mr. Guppy and Mr. Weevle
are the possessors of those eyes, and they have been leaning in
conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees. He passes
close by them, seeing nothing but the ground.

"William," says Mr. Weevle, adjusting his whiskers, "there's
combustion going on there! It's not a case of spontaneous, but it's
smouldering combustion it is."

"Ah!" says Mr. Guppy. "He wouldn't keep out of Jarndyce, and I
suppose he's over head and ears in debt. I never knew much of him. He
was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place. A good
riddance to me, whether as clerk or client! Well, Tony, that as I was
mentioning is what they're up to."

Mr. Guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the parapet,
as resuming a conversation of interest.

"They are still up to it, sir," says Mr. Guppy, "still taking stock,
still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps of
rubbish. At this rate they'll be at it these seven years."

"And Small is helping?"

"Small left us at a week's notice. Told Kenge his grandfather's
business was too much for the old gentleman and he could better
himself by undertaking it. There had been a coolness between myself
and Small on account of his being so close. But he said you and I
began it, and as he had me there--for we did--I put our acquaintance
on the old footing. That's how I come to know what they're up to."

"You haven't looked in at all?"

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy, a little disconcerted, "to be unreserved with
you, I don't greatly relish the house, except in your company, and
therefore I have not; and therefore I proposed this little
appointment for our fetching away your things. There goes the hour by
the clock! Tony"--Mr. Guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly
eloquent--"it is necessary that I should impress upon your mind once
more that circumstances over which I have no control have made a
melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that
unrequited image which I formerly mentioned to you as a friend. That
image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. My only wish now in
connexion with the objects which I had an idea of carrying out in the
court with your aid as a friend is to let 'em alone and bury 'em in
oblivion. Do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (I
put it to you, Tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that
capricious and deep old character who fell a prey to the--spontaneous
element, do you, Tony, think it at all likely that on second thoughts
he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that
they were not destroyed that night?"

Mr. Weevle reflects for some time. Shakes his head. Decidedly thinks
not.

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, "once again
understand me, as a friend. Without entering into further
explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have no purpose
to serve now but burial in oblivion. To that I have pledged myself. I
owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered image, as also to the
circumstances over which I have no control. If you was to express to
me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late
lodgings any papers that so much as looked like the papers in
question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own
responsibility."

Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion by
having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic and
in part romantic--this gentleman having a passion for conducting
anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything in the
form of a summing up or a speech--accompanies his friend with dignity
to the court.

Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus' purse
of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop.
Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed brought
down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. Smallweed,
Judy, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there
until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in
quantity, from the cook's shop, rummaging and searching, digging,
delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented. What
those treasures are they keep so secret that the court is maddened.
In its delirium it imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots,
crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses
stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possesses itself of the
sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece) of Mr.
Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr. Elwes, of Suffolk, and
transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to Mr. Krook.
Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old
paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries
into the baskets as they come forth. Many times the two gentlemen who
write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are seen
prowling in the neighbourhood--shy of each other, their late
partnership being dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the
prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in
what are professionally known as "patter" allusions to the subject,
is received with loud applause; and the same vocalist "gags" in the
regular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in
the revived Caledonian melody of "We're a-Nodding," points the
sentiment that "the dogs love broo" (whatever the nature of that
refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head
towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr.
Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double
encore. For all this, the court discovers nothing; and as Mrs. Piper
and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appearance
is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to
discover everything, and more.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court's head upon
them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's house, in a
high state of popularity. But being contrary to the court's
expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular and are
considered to mean no good.

The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the
ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced into
the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh from the
sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but
they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in his chair
upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, the virtuous Judy
groping therein like a female sexton, and Mrs. Smallweed on the level
ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heap of paper fragments, print,
and manuscript which would appear to be the accumulated compliments
that have been sent flying at her in the course of the day. The whole
party, Small included, are blackened with dust and dirt and present a
fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect of the room.
There is more litter and lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier
if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead
inhabitant and even with his chalked writing on the wall.

On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneously
fold their arms and stop in their researches.

"Aha!" croaks the old gentleman. "How de do, gentlemen, how de do!
Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That's well, that's well.
Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your
warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at
home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!"

Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's eye follows
Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back without any new
intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy's eye comes back and meets Mr.
Smallweed's eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like
some wound-up instrument running down, "How de do, sir--how
de--how--" And then having run down, he lapses into grinning silence,
as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the
darkness opposite with his hands behind him.

"Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says Grandfather
Smallweed. "I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note,
but he is so good!"

Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes a
shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and
were rather amused by the novelty.

"A good deal of property here, sir, I should say," Mr. Guppy observes
to Mr. Smallweed.

"Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish! Me
and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make out an
inventory of what's worth anything to sell. But we haven't come to
much as yet; we--haven't--come--to--hah!"

Mr. Smallweed has run down again, while Mr. Weevle's eye, attended by
Mr. Guppy's eye, has again gone round the room and come back.

"Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle. "We won't intrude any longer if you'll
allow us to go upstairs."

"Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You're at home. Make yourself so,
pray!"

As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and
looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very dull
and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that
memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a great
disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from
it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the
few movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a
whisper.

"Look here," says Tony, recoiling. "Here's that horrible cat coming
in!"

Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. "Small told me of her. She went
leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a dragon, and
got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight,
and then came tumbling down the chimney very thin. Did you ever see
such a brute? Looks as if she knew all about it, don't she? Almost
looks as if she was Krook. Shoohoo! Get out, you goblin!"

Lady Jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear and
her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but Mr.
Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and
swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back upstairs. Possibly to roam
the house-tops again and return by the chimney.

"Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word with you?"

Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old
ignoble band-box. "Sir," he returns, reddening, "I wish to act with
courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, I am
sure, towards a member of it so well known as yourself--I will truly
add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir,
I must stipulate that if you have any word with me, that word is
spoken in the presence of my friend."

"Oh, indeed?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but they
are amply sufficient for myself."

"No doubt, no doubt." Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as the
hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. "The matter is not of
that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making any
conditions, Mr. Guppy." He pauses here to smile, and his smile is as
dull and rusty as his pantaloons. "You are to be congratulated, Mr.
Guppy; you are a fortunate young man, sir."

"Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don't complain."

"Complain? High friends, free admission to great houses, and access
to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are people in London who
would give their ears to be you."

Mr. Guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and still
reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of
himself, replies, "Sir, if I attend to my profession and do what is
right by Kenge and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no
consequence to them nor to any member of the profession, not
excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am not under any
obligation to explain myself further; and with all respect for you,
sir, and without offence--I repeat, without offence--"

"Oh, certainly!"

"--I don't intend to do it."

"Quite so," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a calm nod. "Very good; I see
by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the fashionable
great, sir?"

He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft
impeachment.

"A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient," observes Mr.
Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his back to
the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glasses to his
eyes. "Who is this? 'Lady Dedlock.' Ha! A very good likeness in its
way, but it wants force of character. Good day to you, gentlemen;
good day!"

When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration, nerves
himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the Galaxy
Gallery, concluding with Lady Dedlock.

"Tony," he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, "let us be
quick in putting the things together and in getting out of this
place. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, that between
myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy whom I now
hold in my hand, there has been undivulged communication and
association. The time might have been when I might have revealed it
to you. It never will be more. It is due alike to the oath I have
taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike to circumstances over
which I have no control, that the whole should be buried in oblivion.
I charge you as a friend, by the interest you have ever testified in
the fashionable intelligence, and by any little advances with which I
may have been able to accommodate you, so to bury it without a word
of inquiry!"

This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of forensic
lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of hair
and even in his cultivated whiskers.




CHAPTER XL

National and Domestic


England has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. Lord Coodle
would go out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn't come in, and there being
nobody in Great Britain (to speak of) except Coodle and Doodle, there
has been no government. It is a mercy that the hostile meeting
between those two great men, which at one time seemed inevitable, did
not come off, because if both pistols had taken effect, and Coodle
and Doodle had killed each other, it is to be presumed that England
must have waited to be governed until young Coodle and young Doodle,
now in frocks and long stockings, were grown up. This stupendous
national calamity, however, was averted by Lord Coodle's making the
timely discovery that if in the heat of debate he had said that he
scorned and despised the whole ignoble career of Sir Thomas Doodle,
he had merely meant to say that party differences should never induce
him to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest admiration; while
it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand, that Sir Thomas
Doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked Lord Coodle to go down
to posterity as the mirror of virtue and honour. Still England has
been some weeks in the dismal strait of having no pilot (as was well
observed by Sir Leicester Dedlock) to weather the storm; and the
marvellous part of the matter is that England has not appeared to
care very much about it, but has gone on eating and drinking and
marrying and giving in marriage as the old world did in the days
before the flood. But Coodle knew the danger, and Doodle knew the
danger, and all their followers and hangers-on had the clearest
possible perception of the danger. At last Sir Thomas Doodle has not
only condescended to come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in
with him all his nephews, all his male cousins, and all his
brothers-in-law. So there is hope for the old ship yet.

Doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country, chiefly
in the form of sovereigns and beer. In this metamorphosed state he is
available in a good many places simultaneously and can throw himself
upon a considerable portion of the country at one time. Britannia
being much occupied in pocketing Doodle in the form of sovereigns,
and swallowing Doodle in the form of beer, and in swearing herself
black in the face that she does neither--plainly to the advancement
of her glory and morality--the London season comes to a sudden end,
through all the Doodleites and Coodleites dispersing to assist
Britannia in those religious exercises.

Hence Mrs. Rouncewell, housekeeper at Chesney Wold, foresees, though
no instructions have yet come down, that the family may shortly be
expected, together with a pretty large accession of cousins and
others who can in any way assist the great Constitutional work. And
hence the stately old dame, taking Time by the forelock, leads him up
and down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages, and
through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that
everything is ready, that floors are rubbed bright, carpets spread,
curtains shaken out, beds puffed and patted, still-room and kitchen
cleared for action--all things prepared as beseems the Dedlock
dignity.

This present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparations
are complete. Dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so many
appliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except the pictured
forms upon the walls. So did these come and go, a Dedlock in
possession might have ruminated passing along; so did they see this
gallery hushed and quiet, as I see it now; so think, as I think, of
the gap that they would make in this domain when they were gone; so
find it, as I find it, difficult to believe that it could be without
them; so pass from my world, as I pass from theirs, now closing the
reverberating door; so leave no blank to miss them, and so die.

Through some of the fiery windows beautiful from without, and set, at
this sunset hour, not in dull-grey stone but in a glorious house of
gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in rich, lavish,
overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. Then do the frozen
Dedlocks thaw. Strange movements come upon their features as the
shadows of leaves play there. A dense justice in a corner is beguiled
into a wink. A staring baronet, with a truncheon, gets a dimple in
his chin. Down into the bosom of a stony shepherdess there steals a
fleck of light and warmth that would have done it good a hundred
years ago. One ancestress of Volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very
like her--casting the shadow of that virgin event before her full two
centuries--shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. A maid of
honour of the court of Charles the Second, with large round eyes (and
other charms to correspond), seems to bathe in glowing water, and it
ripples as it glows.

But the fire of the sun is dying. Even now the floor is dusky, and
shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the Dedlocks down like age
and death. And now, upon my Lady's picture over the great
chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that turns it
pale, and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil or
hood, watching an opportunity to draw it over her. Higher and darker
rises shadow on the wall--now a red gloom on the ceiling--now the
fire is out.

All that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has moved
solemnly away and changed--not the first nor the last of beautiful
things that look so near and will so change--into a distant phantom.
Light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the sweet scents in the
garden are heavy in the air. Now the woods settle into great masses
as if they were each one profound tree. And now the moon rises to
separate them, and to glimmer here and there in horizontal lines
behind their stems, and to make the avenue a pavement of light among
high cathedral arches fantastically broken.

Now the moon is high; and the great house, needing habitation more
than ever, is like a body without life. Now it is even awful,
stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept in
the solitary bedrooms, to say nothing of the dead. Now is the time
for shadow, when every corner is a cavern and every downward step a
pit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues upon
the floors, when anything and everything can be made of the heavy
staircase beams excepting their own proper shapes, when the armour
has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished from stealthy
movement, and when barred helmets are frightfully suggestive of heads
inside. But of all the shadows in Chesney Wold, the shadow in the
long drawing-room upon my Lady's picture is the first to come, the
last to be disturbed. At this hour and by this light it changes into
threatening hands raised up and menacing the handsome face with every
breath that stirs.

"She is not well, ma'am," says a groom in Mrs. Rouncewell's
audience-chamber.

"My Lady not well! What's the matter?"

"Why, my Lady has been but poorly, ma'am, since she was last here--I
don't mean with the family, ma'am, but when she was here as a bird of
passage like. My Lady has not been out much, for her, and has kept
her room a good deal."

"Chesney Wold, Thomas," rejoins the housekeeper with proud
complacency, "will set my Lady up! There is no finer air and no
healthier soil in the world!"

Thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject, probably
hints them in his manner of smoothing his sleek head from the nape of
his neck to his temples, but he forbears to express them further and
retires to the servants' hall to regale on cold meat-pie and ale.

This groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. Next evening,
down come Sir Leicester and my Lady with their largest retinue, and
down come the cousins and others from all the points of the compass.
Thenceforth for some weeks backward and forward rush mysterious men
with no names, who fly about all those particular parts of the
country on which Doodle is at present throwing himself in an
auriferous and malty shower, but who are merely persons of a restless
disposition and never do anything anywhere.

On these national occasions Sir Leicester finds the cousins useful. A
better man than the Honourable Bob Stables to meet the Hunt at
dinner, there could not possibly be. Better got up gentlemen than the
other cousins to ride over to polling-booths and hustings here and
there, and show themselves on the side of England, it would be hard
to find. Volumnia is a little dim, but she is of the true descent;
and there are many who appreciate her sprightly conversation, her
French conundrums so old as to have become in the cycles of time
almost new again, the honour of taking the fair Dedlock in to dinner,
or even the privilege of her hand in the dance. On these national
occasions dancing may be a patriotic service, and Volumnia is
constantly seen hopping about for the good of an ungrateful and
unpensioning country.

My Lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests, and
being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. But at all
the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other
melancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. As to Sir
Leicester, he conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be
wanting, in any direction, by any one who has the good fortune to be
received under that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfaction, he
moves among the company, a magnificent refrigerator.

Daily the cousins trot through dust and canter over roadside turf,
away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and
hunting-whips for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes for
the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which Sir Leicester
holds forth after dinner. Daily the restless men who have no
occupation in life present the appearance of being rather busy. Daily
Volumnia has a little cousinly talk with Sir Leicester on the state
of the nation, from which Sir Leicester is disposed to conclude that
Volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he had thought her.

"How are we getting on?" says Miss Volumnia, clasping her hands. "ARE
we safe?"

The mighty business is nearly over by this time, and Doodle will
throw himself off the country in a few days more. Sir Leicester has
just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a bright
particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins.

"Volumnia," replies Sir Leicester, who has a list in his hand, "we
are doing tolerably."

"Only tolerably!"

Although it is summer weather, Sir Leicester always has his own
particular fire in the evening. He takes his usual screened seat near
it and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasure, as who
should say, I am not a common man, and when I say tolerably, it must
not be understood as a common expression, "Volumnia, we are doing
tolerably."

"At least there is no opposition to YOU," Volumnia asserts with
confidence.

"No, Volumnia. This distracted country has lost its senses in many
respects, I grieve to say, but--"

"It is not so mad as that. I am glad to hear it!"

Volumnia's finishing the sentence restores her to favour. Sir
Leicester, with a gracious inclination of his head, seems to say to
himself, "A sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionally
precipitate."

In fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair Dedlock's
observation was superfluous, Sir Leicester on these occasions always
delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsome wholesale
order to be promptly executed. Two other little seats that belong to
him he treats as retail orders of less importance, merely sending
down the men and signifying to the tradespeople, "You will have the
goodness to make these materials into two members of Parliament and
to send them home when done."

"I regret to say, Volumnia, that in many places the people have shown
a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the government has been of
a most determined and most implacable description."

"W-r-retches!" says Volumnia.

"Even," proceeds Sir Leicester, glancing at the circumjacent cousins
on sofas and ottomans, "even in many--in fact, in most--of those
places in which the government has carried it against a faction--"

(Note, by the way, that the Coodleites are always a faction with the
Doodleites, and that the Doodleites occupy exactly the same position
towards the Coodleites.)

"--Even in them I am shocked, for the credit of Englishmen, to be
constrained to inform you that the party has not triumphed without
being put to an enormous expense. Hundreds," says Sir Leicester,
eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swelling indignation,
"hundreds of thousands of pounds!"

If Volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too
innocent, seeing that the innocence which would go extremely well
with a sash and tucker is a little out of keeping with the rouge and
pearl necklace. Howbeit, impelled by innocence, she asks, "What for?"

"Volumnia," remonstrates Sir Leicester with his utmost severity.
"Volumnia!"

"No, no, I don't mean what for," cries Volumnia with her favourite
little scream. "How stupid I am! I mean what a pity!"

"I am glad," returns Sir Leicester, "that you do mean what a pity."

Volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people
ought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party.

"I am glad, Volumnia," repeats Sir Leicester, unmindful of these
mollifying sentiments, "that you do mean what a pity. It is
disgraceful to the electors. But as you, though inadvertently and
without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me 'what for?'
let me reply to you. For necessary expenses. And I trust to your good
sense, Volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or elsewhere."

Sir Leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing aspect
towards Volumnia because it is whispered abroad that these necessary
expenses will, in some two hundred election petitions, be
unpleasantly connected with the word bribery, and because some
graceless jokers have consequently suggested the omission from the
Church service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the High
Court of Parliament and have recommended instead that the prayers of
the congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eight
gentlemen in a very unhealthy state.

"I suppose," observes Volumnia, having taken a little time to recover
her spirits after her late castigation, "I suppose Mr. Tulkinghorn
has been worked to death."

"I don't know," says Sir Leicester, opening his eyes, "why Mr.
Tulkinghorn should be worked to death. I don't know what Mr.
Tulkinghorn's engagements may be. He is not a candidate."

Volumnia had thought he might have been employed. Sir Leicester could
desire to know by whom, and what for. Volumnia, abashed again,
suggests, by somebody--to advise and make arrangements. Sir Leicester
is not aware that any client of Mr. Tulkinghorn has been in need of
his assistance.

Lady Dedlock, seated at an open window with her arm upon its
cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on the
park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer's name was mentioned.

A languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debility now
observes from his couch that man told him ya'as'dy that Tulkinghorn
had gone down t' that iron place t' give legal 'pinion 'bout
something, and that contest being over t' day, 'twould be highly
jawlly thing if Tulkinghorn should 'pear with news that Coodle man
was floored.

Mercury in attendance with coffee informs Sir Leicester, hereupon,
that Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner. My Lady turns
her head inward for the moment, then looks out again as before.

Volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come. He is so
original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowing
all sorts of things and never telling them! Volumnia is persuaded
that he must be a Freemason. Is sure he is at the head of a lodge,
and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect idol of with
candlesticks and trowels. These lively remarks the fair Dedlock
delivers in her youthful manner, while making a purse.

"He has not been here once," she adds, "since I came. I really had
some thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant creature. I had
almost made up my mind that he was dead."

It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the darker
gloom within herself, but a shade is on my Lady's face, as if she
thought, "I would he were!"

"Mr. Tulkinghorn," says Sir Leicester, "is always welcome here and
always discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable person, and
deservedly respected."

The debilitated cousin supposes he is "'normously rich fler."

"He has a stake in the country," says Sir Leicester, "I have no
doubt. He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almost on
a footing of equality with the highest society."

Everybody starts. For a gun is fired close by.

"Good gracious, what's that?" cries Volumnia with her little withered
scream.

"A rat," says my Lady. "And they have shot him."

Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and candles.

"No, no," says Sir Leicester, "I think not. My Lady, do you object to
the twilight?"

On the contrary, my Lady prefers it.

"Volumnia?"

Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the
dark.

"Then take them away," says Sir Leicester. "Tulkinghorn, I beg your
pardon. How do you do?"

Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his
passing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester's hand, and subsides
into the chair proper to him when he has anything to communicate, on
the opposite side of the Baronet's little newspaper-table. Sir
Leicester is apprehensive that my Lady, not being very well, will
take cold at that open window. My Lady is obliged to him, but would
rather sit there for the air. Sir Leicester rises, adjusts her scarf
about her, and returns to his seat. Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile
takes a pinch of snuff.

"Now," says Sir Leicester. "How has that contest gone?"

"Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance. They have brought in
both their people. You are beaten out of all reason. Three to one."

It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn's policy and mastery to have no
political opinions; indeed, NO opinions. Therefore he says "you" are
beaten, and not "we."

Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard of such a
thing. 'The debilitated cousin holds that it's sort of thing that's
sure tapn slongs votes--giv'n--Mob.

"It's the place, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say in the
fast-increasing darkness when there is silence again, "where they
wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell's son."

"A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he had
the becoming taste and perception," observes Sir Leicester, "to
decline. I cannot say that I by any means approve of the sentiments
expressed by Mr. Rouncewell when he was here for some half-hour in
this room, but there was a sense of propriety in his decision which I
am glad to acknowledge."

"Ha!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It did not prevent him from being very
active in this election, though."

Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. "Did I
understand you? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell had been very active
in this election?"

"Uncommonly active."

"Against--"

"Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker. Plain and
emphatic. He made a damaging effect, and has great influence. In the
business part of the proceedings he carried all before him."

It is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, that
Sir Leicester is staring majestically.

"And he was much assisted," says Mr. Tulkinghorn as a wind-up, "by
his son."

"By his son, sir?" repeats Sir Leicester with awful politeness.

"By his son."

"The son who wished to marry the young woman in my Lady's service?"

"That son. He has but one."

"Then upon my honour," says Sir Leicester after a terrific pause
during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, "then
upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles,
the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters
have--a--obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion
by which things are held together!"

General burst of cousinly indignation. Volumnia thinks it is
really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in
and do something strong. Debilitated cousin thinks--country's
going--Dayvle--steeple-chase pace.

"I beg," says Sir Leicester in a breathless condition, "that we may
not comment further on this circumstance. Comment is superfluous. My
Lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman--"

"I have no intention," observes my Lady from her window in a low but
decided tone, "of parting with her."

"That was not my meaning," returns Sir Leicester. "I am glad to hear
you say so. I would suggest that as you think her worthy of your
patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these
dangerous hands. You might show her what violence would be done in
such association to her duties and principles, and you might preserve
her for a better fate. You might point out to her that she probably
would, in good time, find a husband at Chesney Wold by whom she would
not be--" Sir Leicester adds, after a moment's consideration,
"dragged from the altars of her forefathers."

These remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference
when he addresses himself to his wife. She merely moves her head in
reply. The moon is rising, and where she sits there is a little
stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen.

"It is worthy of remark," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "however, that these
people are, in their way, very proud."

"Proud?" Sir Leicester doubts his hearing.

"I should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the
girl--yes, lover and all--instead of her abandoning them, supposing
she remained at Chesney Wold under such circumstances."

"Well!" says Sir Leicester tremulously. "Well! You should know, Mr.
Tulkinghorn. You have been among them."

"Really, Sir Leicester," returns the lawyer, "I state the fact. Why,
I could tell you a story--with Lady Dedlock's permission."

Her head concedes it, and Volumnia is enchanted. A story! Oh, he is
going to tell something at last! A ghost in it, Volumnia hopes?

"No. Real flesh and blood." Mr. Tulkinghorn stops for an instant and
repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual monotony,
"Real flesh and blood, Miss Dedlock. Sir Leicester, these particulars
have only lately become known to me. They are very brief. They
exemplify what I have said. I suppress names for the present. Lady
Dedlock will not think me ill-bred, I hope?"

By the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking
towards the moonlight. By the light of the moon Lady Dedlock can be
seen, perfectly still.

"A townsman of this Mrs. Rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel
circumstances as I am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter
who attracted the notice of a great lady. I speak of really a great
lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of your
condition, Sir Leicester."

Sir Leicester condescendingly says, "Yes, Mr. Tulkinghorn," implying
that then she must have appeared of very considerable moral
dimensions indeed in the eyes of an iron-master.

"The lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl,
and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her.
Now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she
had preserved for many years. In fact, she had in early life been
engaged to marry a young rake--he was a captain in the army--nothing
connected with whom came to any good. She never did marry him, but
she gave birth to a child of which he was the father."

By the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the
moonlight. By the moonlight, Lady Dedlock can be seen in profile,
perfectly still.

"The captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but a
train of circumstances with which I need not trouble you led to
discovery. As I received the story, they began in an imprudence on
her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows how
difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be
always guarded. There was great domestic trouble and amazement, you
may suppose; I leave you to imagine, Sir Leicester, the husband's
grief. But that is not the present point. When Mr. Rouncewell's
townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be
patronized and honoured than he would have suffered her to be trodden
underfoot before his eyes. Such was his pride, that he indignantly
took her away, as if from reproach and disgrace. He had no sense of
the honour done him and his daughter by the lady's condescension; not
the least. He resented the girl's position, as if the lady had been
the commonest of commoners. That is the story. I hope Lady Dedlock
will excuse its painful nature."

There are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting
with Volumnia's. That fair young creature cannot believe there ever
was any such lady and rejects the whole history on the threshold. The
majority incline to the debilitated cousin's sentiment, which is in
few words--"no business--Rouncewell's fernal townsman." Sir Leicester
generally refers back in his mind to Wat Tyler and arranges a
sequence of events on a plan of his own.

There is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been kept
at Chesney Wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began, and
this is the first night in many on which the family have been alone.
It is past ten when Sir Leicester begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to ring for
candles. Then the stream of moonlight has swelled into a lake, and
then Lady Dedlock for the first time moves, and rises, and comes
forward to a table for a glass of water. Winking cousins, bat-like in
the candle glare, crowd round to give it; Volumnia (always ready for
something better if procurable) takes another, a very mild sip of
which contents her; Lady Dedlock, graceful, self-possessed, looked
after by admiring eyes, passes away slowly down the long perspective
by the side of that nymph, not at all improving her as a question of
contrast.




CHAPTER XLI

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Room


Mr. Tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the
journey up, though leisurely performed. There is an expression on his
face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and were,
in his close way, satisfied. To say of a man so severely and strictly
self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as great an
injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or sentiment or any
romantic weakness. He is sedately satisfied. Perhaps there is a
rather increased sense of power upon him as he loosely grasps one of
his veinous wrists with his other hand and holding it behind his back
walks noiselessly up and down.

There is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty
large accumulation of papers. The green lamp is lighted, his
reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to
it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour or
so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. But he
happens not to be in a business mind. After a glance at the documents
awaiting his notice--with his head bent low over the table, the old
man's sight for print or writing being defective at night--he opens
the French window and steps out upon the leads. There he again walks
slowly up and down in the same attitude, subsiding, if a man so cool
may have any need to subside, from the story he has related
downstairs.

The time was once when men as knowing as Mr. Tulkinghorn would walk
on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read
their fortunes there. Hosts of stars are visible to-night, though
their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. If he be
seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the
leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented
below. If he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in other
characters nearer to his hand.

As he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his
thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in
passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. The ceiling of his
room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is opposite
the window, is of glass. There is an inner baize door, too, but the
night being warm he did not close it when he came upstairs. These
eyes that meet his own are looking in through the glass from the
corridor outside. He knows them well. The blood has not flushed into
his face so suddenly and redly for many a long year as when he
recognizes Lady Dedlock.

He steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the doors
behind her. There is a wild disturbance--is it fear or anger?--in her
eyes. In her carriage and all else she looks as she looked downstairs
two hours ago.

Is it fear or is it anger now? He cannot be sure. Both might be as
pale, both as intent.

"Lady Dedlock?"

She does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped
into the easy-chair by the table. They look at each other, like two
pictures.

"Why have you told my story to so many persons?"

"Lady Dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that I knew it."

"How long have you known it?"

"I have suspected it a long while--fully known it a little while."

"Months?"

"Days."

He stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in
his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he has stood
before her at any time since her marriage. The same formal
politeness, the same composed deference that might as well be
defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the same
distance, which nothing has ever diminished.

"Is this true concerning the poor girl?"

He slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite understanding
the question.

"You know what you related. Is it true? Do her friends know my story
also? Is it the town-talk yet? Is it chalked upon the walls and cried
in the streets?"

So! Anger, and fear, and shame. All three contending. What power this
woman has to keep these raging passions down! Mr. Tulkinghorn's
thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his ragged grey
eyebrows a hair's breadth more contracted than usual under her gaze.

"No, Lady Dedlock. That was a hypothetical case, arising out of Sir
Leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a hand.
But it would be a real case if they knew--what we know."

"Then they do not know it yet?"

"No."

"Can I save the poor girl from injury before they know it?"

"Really, Lady Dedlock," Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, "I cannot give a
satisfactory opinion on that point."

And he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he
watches the struggle in her breast, "The power and force of this
woman are astonishing!"

"Sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all the
energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, "I will make it
plainer. I do not dispute your hypothetical case. I anticipated it,
and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when I saw Mr.
Rouncewell here. I knew very well that if he could have had the power
of seeing me as I was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by
having for a moment been, although most innocently, the subject of my
great and distinguished patronage. But I have an interest in her, or
I should rather say--no longer belonging to this place--I had, and if
you can find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as
to remember that, she will be very sensible of your mercy."

Mr. Tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug
of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more.

"You have prepared me for my exposure, and I thank you for that too.
Is there anything that you require of me? Is there any claim that I
can release or any charge or trouble that I can spare my husband in
obtaining HIS release by certifying to the exactness of your
discovery? I will write anything, here and now, that you will
dictate. I am ready to do it."

And she would do it, thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm hand
with which she takes the pen!

"I will not trouble you, Lady Dedlock. Pray spare yourself."

"I have long expected this, as you know. I neither wish to spare
myself nor to be spared. You can do nothing worse to me than you have
done. Do what remains now."

"Lady Dedlock, there is nothing to be done. I will take leave to say
a few words when you have finished."

Their need for watching one another should be over now, but they do
it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened
window. Away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and
the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. The narrow one! Where
are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined to add
the last great secret to the many secrets of the Tulkinghorn
existence? Is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? Curious
questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under
the watching stars upon a summer night.

"Of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine," Lady Dedlock
presently proceeds, "I say not a word. If I were not dumb, you would
be deaf. Let that go by. It is not for your ears."

He makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with
her disdainful hand.

"Of other and very different things I come to speak to you. My jewels
are all in their proper places of keeping. They will be found there.
So, my dresses. So, all the valuables I have. Some ready money I had
with me, please to say, but no large amount. I did not wear my own
dress, in order that I might avoid observation. I went to be
henceforward lost. Make this known. I leave no other charge with
you."

"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. "I am
not sure that I understand you. You want--"

"To be lost to all here. I leave Chesney Wold to-night. I go this
hour."

Mr. Tulkinghorn shakes his head. She rises, but he, without moving
hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill,
shakes his head.

"What? Not go as I have said?"

"No, Lady Dedlock," he very calmly replies.

"Do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? Have you
forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, and
who it is?"

"No, Lady Dedlock, not by any means."

Without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has it in
her hand when he says to her, without himself stirring hand or foot
or raising his voice, "Lady Dedlock, have the goodness to stop and
hear me, or before you reach the staircase I shall ring the
alarm-bell and rouse the house. And then I must speak out before
every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it."

He has conquered her. She falters, trembles, and puts her hand
confusedly to her head. Slight tokens these in any one else, but when
so practised an eye as Mr. Tulkinghorn's sees indecision for a moment
in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value.

He promptly says again, "Have the goodness to hear me, Lady Dedlock,"
and motions to the chair from which she has risen. She hesitates, but
he motions again, and she sits down.

"The relations between us are of an unfortunate description, Lady
Dedlock; but as they are not of my making, I will not apologize for
them. The position I hold in reference to Sir Leicester is so well
known to you that I can hardly imagine but that I must long have
appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery."

"Sir," she returns without looking up from the ground on which her
eyes are now fixed, "I had better have gone. It would have been far
better not to have detained me. I have no more to say."

"Excuse me, Lady Dedlock, if I add a little more to hear."

"I wish to hear it at the window, then. I can't breathe where I am."

His jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant's
misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and
dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the
terrace below. But a moment's observation of her figure as she stands
in the window without any support, looking out at the stars--not
up--gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens,
reassures him. By facing round as she has moved, he stands a little
behind her.

"Lady Dedlock, I have not yet been able to come to a decision
satisfactory to myself on the course before me. I am not clear what
to do or how to act next. I must request you, in the meantime, to
keep your secret as you have kept it so long and not to wonder that I
keep it too."

He pauses, but she makes no reply.

"Pardon me, Lady Dedlock. This is an important subject. You are
honouring me with your attention?"

"I am."

"Thank you. I might have known it from what I have seen of your
strength of character. I ought not to have asked the question, but I
have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as I go on.
The sole consideration in this unhappy case is Sir Leicester."

"Then why," she asks in a low voice and without removing her gloomy
look from those distant stars, "do you detain me in his house?"

"Because he IS the consideration. Lady Dedlock, I have no occasion to
tell you that Sir Leicester is a very proud man, that his reliance
upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of the sky would
not amaze him more than your fall from your high position as his
wife."

She breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly as
ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company.

"I declare to you, Lady Dedlock, that with anything short of this
case that I have, I would as soon have hoped to root up by means of
my own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate as to
shake your hold upon Sir Leicester and Sir Leicester's trust and
confidence in you. And even now, with this case, I hesitate. Not that
he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but that nothing
can prepare him for the blow."

"Not my flight?" she returned. "Think of it again."

"Your flight, Lady Dedlock, would spread the whole truth, and a
hundred times the whole truth, far and wide. It would be impossible
to save the family credit for a day. It is not to be thought of."

There is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of no
remonstrance.

"When I speak of Sir Leicester being the sole consideration, he and
the family credit are one. Sir Leicester and the baronetcy, Sir
Leicester and Chesney Wold, Sir Leicester and his ancestors and his
patrimony"--Mr. Tulkinghorn very dry here--"are, I need not say to
you, Lady Dedlock, inseparable."

"Go on!"

"Therefore," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog-trot
style, "I have much to consider. This is to be hushed up if it can
be. How can it be, if Sir Leicester is driven out of his wits or laid
upon a death-bed? If I inflicted this shock upon him to-morrow
morning, how could the immediate change in him be accounted for? What
could have caused it? What could have divided you? Lady Dedlock, the
wall-chalking and the street-crying would come on directly, and you
are to remember that it would not affect you merely (whom I cannot at
all consider in this business) but your husband, Lady Dedlock, your
husband."

He gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic or
animated.

"There is another point of view," he continues, "in which the case
presents itself. Sir Leicester is devoted to you almost to
infatuation. He might not be able to overcome that infatuation, even
knowing what we know. I am putting an extreme case, but it might be
so. If so, it were better that he knew nothing. Better for common
sense, better for him, better for me. I must take all this into
account, and it combines to render a decision very difficult."

She stands looking out at the same stars without a word. They are
beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze her.

"My experience teaches me," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who has by this
time got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his business
consideration of the matter like a machine. "My experience teaches
me, Lady Dedlock, that most of the people I know would do far better
to leave marriage alone. It is at the bottom of three fourths of
their troubles. So I thought when Sir Leicester married, and so I
always have thought since. No more about that. I must now be guided
by circumstances. In the meanwhile I must beg you to keep your own
counsel, and I will keep mine."

"I am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your pleasure,
day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky.

"Yes, I am afraid so, Lady Dedlock."

"It is necessary, you think, that I should be so tied to the stake?"

"I am sure that what I recommend is necessary."

"I am to remain on this gaudy platform on which my miserable
deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when
you give the signal?" she said slowly.

"Not without notice, Lady Dedlock. I shall take no step without
forewarning you."

She asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from memory
or calling them over in her sleep.

"We are to meet as usual?"

"Precisely as usual, if you please."

"And I am to hide my guilt, as I have done so many years?"

"As you have done so many years. I should not have made that
reference myself, Lady Dedlock, but I may now remind you that your
secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no
better than it was. I know it certainly, but I believe we have never
wholly trusted each other."

She stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time
before asking, "Is there anything more to be said to-night?"

"Why," Mr. Tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs his
hands, "I should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my
arrangements, Lady Dedlock."

"You may be assured of it."

"Good. And I would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business
precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in any
communication with Sir Leicester, that throughout our interview I
have expressly stated my sole consideration to be Sir Leicester's
feelings and honour and the family reputation. I should have been
happy to have made Lady Dedlock a prominent consideration, too, if
the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not."

"I can attest your fidelity, sir."

Both before and after saying it she remains absorbed, but at length
moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence,
towards the door. Mr. Tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as he
would have done yesterday, or as he would have done ten years ago,
and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. It is not an
ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes into
the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very
slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. But as he reflects when
he is left alone, the woman has been putting no common constraint
upon herself.

He would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her own
rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back face, her hands
clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain. He would
think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up and down
for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followed by the
faithful step upon the Ghost's Walk. But he shuts out the now chilled
air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and falls asleep. And
truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into the
turret-chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if the digger
and the spade were both commissioned and would soon be digging.

The same wan day peeps in at Sir Leicester pardoning the repentant
country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins
entering on various public employments, principally receipt of
salary; and at the chaste Volumnia, bestowing a dower of fifty
thousand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of false
teeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration of Bath
and the terror of every other community. Also into rooms high in the
roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables, where
humbler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers' lodges, and in holy
matrimony with Will or Sally. Up comes the bright sun, drawing
everything up with it--the Wills and Sallys, the latent vapour in the
earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and beasts and
creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf and unfold
emerald velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of the great
kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into the lightsome
air. Lastly, up comes the flag over Mr. Tulkinghorn's unconscious
head cheerfully proclaiming that Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock are
in their happy home and that there is hospitality at the place in
Lincolnshire.




CHAPTER XLII

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's Chambers


From the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the Dedlock
property, Mr. Tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and
dust of London. His manner of coming and going between the two places
is one of his impenetrabilities. He walks into Chesney Wold as if it
were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambers as if he
had never been out of Lincoln's Inn Fields. He neither changes his
dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards. He melted out of
his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he
melts into his own square.

Like a dingy London bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant
fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats into
wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried and faded,
dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, aged without
experience of genial youth, and so long used to make his cramped nest
in holes and corners of human nature that he has forgotten its
broader and better range, comes sauntering home. In the oven made by
the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than
usual; and he has in his thirsty mind his mellowed port-wine half a
century old.

The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr.
Tulkinghorn's side of the Fields when that high-priest of noble
mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. He ascends the
door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on
the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man.

"Is that Snagsby?"

"Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up, sir,
and going home."

"Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?"

"Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his
head in his deference towards his best customer, "I was wishful to
say a word to you, sir."

"Can you say it here?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Say it then." The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing
at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the
court-yard.

"It is relating," says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "it is
relating--not to put too fine a point upon it--to the foreigner,
sir!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "What foreigner?"

"The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am not
acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her
manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly
foreign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the
honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night."

"Oh! Yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense."

"Indeed, sir?" Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind his
hat. "I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in
general, but I have no doubt it WOULD be that." Mr. Snagsby appears
to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating
the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.

"And what can you have to say, Snagsby," demands Mr. Tulkinghorn,
"about her?"

"Well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication with
his hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. My domestic happiness is
very great--at least, it's as great as can be expected, I'm sure--but
my little woman is rather given to jealousy. Not to put too fine a
point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. And you see, a
foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and
hovering--I should be the last to make use of a strong expression if
I could avoid it, but hovering, sir--in the court--you know it
is--now ain't it? I only put it to yourself, sir."

Mr. Snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in a
cough of general application to fill up all the blanks.

"Why, what do you mean?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Just so, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby; "I was sure you would feel it
yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of MY feelings when
coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. You see, the
foreign female--which you mentioned her name just now, with quite a
native sound I am sure--caught up the word Snagsby that night, being
uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the direction and come at
dinner-time. Now Guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and
she, taking fright at the foreigner's looks--which are fierce--and at
a grinding manner that she has of speaking--which is calculated to
alarm a weak mind--gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it,
and tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such
fits as I do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in
any house but ours. Consequently there was by good fortune ample
occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. When
she DID say that Mr. Tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his
employer (which I had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of
viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually
calling at my place until she was let in here. Since then she has
been, as I began by saying, hovering, hovering, sir"--Mr. Snagsby
repeats the word with pathetic emphasis--"in the court. The effects
of which movement it is impossible to calculate. I shouldn't wonder
if it might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even
in the neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing was
possible) my little woman. Whereas, goodness knows," says Mr.
Snagsby, shaking his head, "I never had an idea of a foreign female,
except as being formerly connected with a bunch of brooms and a baby,
or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings. I never had, I
do assure you, sir!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquires
when the stationer has finished, "And that's all, is it, Snagsby?"

"Why yes, sir, that's all," says Mr. Snagsby, ending with a cough
that plainly adds, "and it's enough too--for me."

"I don't know what Mademoiselle Hortense may want or mean, unless she
is mad," says the lawyer.

"Even if she was, you know, sir," Mr. Snagsby pleads, "it wouldn't be
a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a foreign
dagger planted in the family."

"No," says the other. "Well, well! This shall be stopped. I am sorry
you have been inconvenienced. If she comes again, send her here."

Mr. Snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takes
his leave, lightened in heart. Mr. Tulkinghorn goes upstairs, saying
to himself, "These women were created to give trouble the whole earth
over. The mistress not being enough to deal with, here's the maid
now! But I will be short with THIS jade at least!"

So saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky rooms,
lights his candles, and looks about him. It is too dark to see much
of the Allegory overhead there, but that importunate Roman, who is
for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old work
pretty distinctly. Not honouring him with much attention, Mr.
Tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a drawer in
which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in which there is
another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which he prepares to
descend to the regions of old wine. He is going towards the door with
a candle in his hand when a knock comes.

"Who's this? Aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? You appear at a
good time. I have just been hearing of you. Now! What do you want?"

He stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall and
taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of
welcome to Mademoiselle Hortense. That feline personage, with her
lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly
closes the door before replying.

"I have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir."

"HAVE you!"

"I have been here very often, sir. It has always been said to me, he
is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for
you."

"Quite right, and quite true."

"Not true. Lies!"

At times there is a suddenness in the manner of Mademoiselle Hortense
so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such subject
involuntarily starts and fails back. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's case at
present, though Mademoiselle Hortense, with her eyes almost shut up
(but still looking out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and
shaking her head.

"Now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the
chimney-piece. "If you have anything to say, say it, say it."

"Sir, you have not use me well. You have been mean and shabby."

"Mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with the
key.

"Yes. What is it that I tell you? You know you have. You have
attrapped me--catched me--to give you information; you have asked me
to show you the dress of mine my Lady must have wore that night, you
have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. Say! Is it not?"
Mademoiselle Hortense makes another spring.

"You are a vixen, a vixen!" Mr. Tulkinghorn seems to meditate as he
looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, "Well, wench, well. I
paid you."

"You paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. "Two sovereign! I
have not change them, I re-fuse them, I des-pise them, I throw them
from me!" Which she literally does, taking them out of her bosom as
she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor that
they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into corners
and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently.

"Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes again.
"You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!"

Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains
herself with a sarcastic laugh.

"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to throw
money about in that way!"

"I AM rich," she returns. "I am very rich in hate. I hate my Lady, of
all my heart. You know that."

"Know it? How should I know it?"

"Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give you
that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was
en-r-r-r-raged!" It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll the
letter "r" sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she
assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and
setting all her teeth.

"Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the wards
of the key.

"Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me because
you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her." Mademoiselle Hortense folds her
arms and throws this last remark at him over one of her shoulders.

"Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?"

"I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition! If you
cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue her, to
chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you well,
and with a good will. It is what YOU do. Do I not know that?"

"You appear to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.

"Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child, that
I come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy only to decide a
little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!" In this reply, down to the
word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and
tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant
scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly
shut and staringly wide open.

"Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the
key and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands."

"Ah! Let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight
nods of her head.

"You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have
just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again."

"And again," says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. "And
yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!"

"And not only here, but you will go to Mr. Snagsby's too, perhaps?
That visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?"

"And again," repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination.
"And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for
ever!"

"Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you to take
the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you will find it
behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder."

She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground
with folded arms.

"You will not, eh?"

"No, I will not!"

"So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress, this
is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of
prisons are larger. In this city there are houses of correction
(where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very
strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of
your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one
of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do you
think?"

"I think," mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear,
obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch."

"Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. "But I
don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of the
prison."

"Nothing. What does it matter to me?"

"Why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer, deliberately
putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill; "the law is so
despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of our good English
citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits against his
desire. And on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold
of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison under hard
discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress." Illustrating with the
cellar-key.

"Truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "That is
droll! But--my faith!--still what does it matter to me?"

"My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit here, or
at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn."

"In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of
agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish
expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make
her do it.

"In a word, mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to be
unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--or
there--again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is
great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an
ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench."

"I will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand,
"I will try if you dare to do it!"

"And if," pursues the lawyer without minding her, "I place you in
that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time
before you find yourself at liberty again."

"I will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.

"And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you had
better go. Think twice before you come here again."

"Think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!"

"You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn
observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most
implacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf and
take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; and what I
threaten, I will do, mistress."

She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When she is
gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle,
devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents, now and
then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight of the
pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.




CHAPTER XLIII

Esther's Narrative


It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother who had
told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture to
approach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense of
the peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled by my
fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as a living
creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, I could not always
conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when I first knew
the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. I felt as if I
did not even dare to hear it. If the conversation anywhere, when I
was present, took that direction, as it sometimes naturally did, I
tried not to hear: I mentally counted, repeated something that I
knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious now that I often did
these things when there can have been no danger of her being spoken
of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearing anything that might
lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayal through me.

It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother's
voice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longed to
do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should be so
new to me. It matters little that I watched for every public mention
of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door of her house
in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I once sat in the
theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when we were so wide
asunder before the great company of all degrees that any link or
confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, all over. My lot has
been so blest that I can relate little of myself which is not a story
of goodness and generosity in others. I may well pass that little and
go on.

When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had many conversations
with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. My dear girl was
deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so much wrong, but
she was so faithful to Richard that she could not bear to blame him
even for that. My guardian was assured of it, and never coupled his
name with a word of reproof. "Rick is mistaken, my dear," he would
say to her. "Well, well! We have all been mistaken over and over
again. We must trust to you and time to set him right."

We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust to
time until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he had
written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentle and
persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devoted Richard
was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would make amends
when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in the dark,
he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away those
clouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion and
misunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work the
suit out and come through it to his right mind. This was his
unvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained such possession
of his whole nature that it was impossible to place any consideration
before him which he did not, with a distorted kind of reason, make a
new argument in favour of his doing what he did. "So that it is even
more mischievous," said my guardian once to me, "to remonstrate with
the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone."

I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of Mr.
Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.

"Adviser!" returned my guardian, laughing, "My dear, who would advise
with Skimpole?"

"Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I.

"Encourager!" returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouraged by
Skimpole?"

"Not Richard?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer
creature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advising or
encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody or
anything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as
Skimpole."

"Pray, cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us and now looked
over my shoulder, "what made him such a child?"

"What made him such a child?" inquired my guardian, rubbing his head,
a little at a loss.

"Yes, cousin John."

"Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, "he is
all sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility,
and--and imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him,
somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in his youth
attached too much importance to them and too little to any training
that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he became what he
is. Hey?" said my guardian, stopping short and looking at us
hopefully. "What do you think, you two?"

Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be an
expense to Richard.

"So it is, so it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "That must not
be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will never do."

And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had ever
introduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds.

"Did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his
face. "But there you have the man. There you have the man! There is
nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the value of
money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr.
Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it and
thinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I'll be bound, my dear?"

"Oh, yes!" said I.

"Exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "There you have the
man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of any harm in
it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it in mere
simplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you'll
understand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole and
caution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant, an
infant!"

In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day and
presented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.

He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where there
were at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking about in
cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a better tenant
than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend Somebody
always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitude for
business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, I don't
know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It was in a
state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two or three of
the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken, the knocker
was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a long time to judge
from the rusty state of the wire, and dirty footprints on the steps
were the only signs of its being inhabited.

A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the
rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe berry
answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and stopping
up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce (indeed Ada and
I both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of
her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in. The
lock of the door being in a disabled condition, she then applied
herself to securing it with the chain, which was not in good action
either, and said would we go upstairs?

We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture
than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without further ceremony
entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingy enough and not at
all clean, but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a
large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, and
plenty of pillows, a piano, books, drawing materials, music,
newspapers, and a few sketches and pictures. A broken pane of glass
in one of the dirty windows was papered and wafered over, but there
was a little plate of hothouse nectarines on the table, and there was
another of grapes, and another of sponge-cakes, and there was a
bottle of light wine. Mr. Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in
a dressing-gown, drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china
cup--it was then about mid-day--and looking at a collection of
wallflowers in the balcony.

He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but rose and
received us in his usual airy manner.

"Here I am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without some
little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken. "Here
I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs of beef and
mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cup of coffee,
and my claret; I am content. I don't want them for themselves, but
they remind me of the sun. There's nothing solar about legs of beef
and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!"

"This is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he ever
prescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us.

"Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this is the
bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. They pluck his
feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!"

He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings! Not
an ambitious note, but still he sings."

"These are very fine," said my guardian. "A present?"

"No," he answered. "No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His man
wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether he should
wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I said, 'I think not--if
your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it was, for he went
away."

My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, "Is it
possible to be worldly with this baby?"

"This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret in a
tumbler, "that will ever be remembered here. We shall call it Saint
Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. I have a
blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have a Sentiment
daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must see them all.
They'll be enchanted."

He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and asked him
to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first. "My dear
Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa, "as many
moments as you please. Time is no object here. We never know what
o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get on in life,
you'll tell me? Certainly. But we DON'T get on in life. We don't
pretend to do it."

My guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "You hear him?"

"Now, Harold," he began, "the word I have to say relates to Rick."

"The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "I
suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on terms
with you. But he is, I can't help it; he is full of youthful poetry,
and I love him. If you don't like it, I can't help it. I love him."

The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration really had
a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not, for
the moment, Ada too.

"You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned Mr.
Jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, Harold."

"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to what I
don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping one of the
cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me with an
ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.

"If you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "you
must not let him pay for both."

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial face irradiated
by the comicality of this idea, "what am I to do? If he takes me
anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have any money. If I
had any money, I don't know anything about it. Suppose I say to a
man, how much? Suppose the man says to me seven and sixpence? I know
nothing about seven and sixpence. It is impossible for me to pursue
the subject with any consideration for the man. I don't go about
asking busy people what seven and sixpence is in Moorish--which I
don't understand. Why should I go about asking them what seven and
sixpence is in Money--which I don't understand?"

"Well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artless
reply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you must
borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that
circumstance), and leave the calculation to him."

"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do anything to
give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form--a superstition.
Besides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss Summerson, I
thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had only to
make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque, or a
bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down a shower
of money."

"Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada. "He is poor."

"No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. "You
surprise me.

"And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said my
guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.
Skimpole's dressing-gown, "be you very careful not to encourage him
in that reliance, Harold."

"My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "and my dear Miss
Simmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It's business,
and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me. He emerges
from great feats of business, presents the brightest prospects before
me as their result, and calls upon me to admire them. I do admire
them--as bright prospects. But I know no more about them, and I tell
him so."

The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before us,
the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his innocence, the
fantastic way in which he took himself under his own protection and
argued about that curious person, combined with the delightful ease
of everything he said exactly to make out my guardian's case. The
more I saw of him, the more unlikely it seemed to me, when he was
present, that he could design, conceal, or influence anything; and
yet the less likely that appeared when he was not present, and the
less agreeable it was to think of his having anything to do with any
one for whom I cared.

Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr.
Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters
(his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quite
delighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childish
character. He soon came back, bringing with him the three young
ladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now a
delicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication of
disorders.

"This," said Mr. Skimpole, "is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa--plays
and sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentiment
daughter, Laura--plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedy
daughter, Kitty--sings a little but don't play. We all draw a little
and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money."

Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad to
strike out this item in the family attainments. I also thought that
she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that she took
every opportunity of throwing in another.

"It is pleasant," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyes from
one to the other of us, "and it is whimsically interesting to trace
peculiarities in families. In this family we are all children, and I
am the youngest."

The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused by
this droll fact, particularly the Comedy daughter.

"My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, "is it not? So it is, and
so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is our nature
to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrative capacity
and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It will sound very
strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that we know nothing
about chops in this house. But we don't, not the least. We can't cook
anything whatever. A needle and thread we don't know how to use. We
admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want, but we
don't quarrel with them. Then why should they quarrel with us? Live
and let live, we say to them. Live upon your practical wisdom, and
let us live upon you!"

He laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to mean what
he said.

"We have sympathy, my roses," said Mr. Skimpole, "sympathy for
everything. Have we not?"

"Oh, yes, papa!" cried the three daughters.

"In fact, that is our family department," said Mr. Skimpole, "in this
hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and of being
interested, and we DO look on, and we ARE interested. What more can
we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these three years. Now I
dare say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all
wrong in point of political economy, but it was very agreeable. We
had our little festivities on those occasions and exchanged social
ideas. She brought her young husband home one day, and they and their
young fledglings have their nest upstairs. I dare say at some time or
other Sentiment and Comedy will bring THEIR husbands home and have
THEIR nests upstairs too. So we get on, we don't know how, but
somehow."

She looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children, and I
could not help pitying both her and them. It was evident that the
three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just as little
haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father's
playthings in his idlest hours. His pictorial tastes were consulted,
I observed, in their respective styles of wearing their hair, the
Beauty daughter being in the classic manner, the Sentiment daughter
luxuriant and flowing, and the Comedy daughter in the arch style,
with a good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls
dotted about the corners of her eyes. They were dressed to
correspond, though in a most untidy and negligent way.

Ada and I conversed with these young ladies and found them
wonderfully like their father. In the meanwhile Mr. Jarndyce (who had
been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a change in
the wind) talked with Mrs. Skimpole in a corner, where we could not
help hearing the chink of money. Mr. Skimpole had previously
volunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himself for
the purpose.

"My roses," he said when he came back, "take care of mama. She is
poorly to-day. By going home with Mr. Jarndyce for a day or two, I
shall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. It has been
tried, you know, and would be tried again if I remained at home."

"That bad man!" said the Comedy daughter.

"At the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his wallflowers,
looking at the blue sky," Laura complained.

"And when the smell of hay was in the air!" said Arethusa.

"It showed a want of poetry in the man," Mr. Skimpole assented, but
with perfect good humour. "It was coarse. There was an absence of the
finer touches of humanity in it! My daughters have taken great
offence," he explained to us, "at an honest man--"

"Not honest, papa. Impossible!" they all three protested.

"At a rough kind of fellow--a sort of human hedgehog rolled up," said
Mr. Skimpole, "who is a baker in this neighbourhood and from whom we
borrowed a couple of arm-chairs. We wanted a couple of arm-chairs,
and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we looked to a man
who HAD got them, to lend them. Well! This morose person lent them,
and we wore them out. When they were worn out, he wanted them back.
He had them back. He was contented, you will say. Not at all. He
objected to their being worn. I reasoned with him, and pointed out
his mistake. I said, 'Can you, at your time of life, be so
headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an arm-chair is a thing to
put upon a shelf and look at? That it is an object to contemplate, to
survey from a distance, to consider from a point of sight? Don't you
KNOW that these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat upon?' He was
unreasonable and unpersuadable and used intemperate language. Being
as patient as I am at this minute, I addressed another appeal to him.
I said, 'Now, my good man, however our business capacities may vary,
we are all children of one great mother, Nature. On this blooming
summer morning here you see me' (I was on the sofa) 'with flowers
before me, fruit upon the table, the cloudless sky above me, the air
full of fragrance, contemplating Nature. I entreat you, by our common
brotherhood, not to interpose between me and a subject so sublime,
the absurd figure of an angry baker!' But he did," said Mr. Skimpole,
raising his laughing eyes in playful astonishment; "he did interpose
that ridiculous figure, and he does, and he will again. And therefore
I am very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friend
Jarndyce."

It seemed to escape his consideration that Mrs. Skimpole and the
daughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was so old
a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course. He took
leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and graceful as any
other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away with us in
perfect harmony of mind. We had an opportunity of seeing through some
open doors, as we went downstairs, that his own apartment was a
palace to the rest of the house.

I could have no anticipation, and I had none, that something very
startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in what
ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. Our guest was
in such spirits on the way home that I could do nothing but listen to
him and wonder at him; nor was I alone in this, for Ada yielded to
the same fascination. As to my guardian, the wind, which had
threatened to become fixed in the east when we left Somers Town,
veered completely round before we were a couple of miles from it.

Whether of questionable childishness or not in any other matters, Mr.
Skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright weather. In no
way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in the drawing-room
before any of us; and I heard him at the piano while I was yet
looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of barcaroles and
drinking songs, Italian and German, by the score.

We were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still at the
piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of music,
and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the ruined
old Verulam wall to-morrow, which he had begun a year or two ago and
had got tired of, when a card was brought in and my guardian read
aloud in a surprised voice, "Sir Leicester Dedlock!"

The visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with me
and before I had the power to stir. If I had had it, I should have
hurried away. I had not even the presence of mind, in my giddiness,
to retire to Ada in the window, or to see the window, or to know
where it was. I heard my name and found that my guardian was
presenting me before I could move to a chair.

"Pray be seated, Sir Leicester."

"Mr. Jarndyce," said Sir Leicester in reply as he bowed and seated
himself, "I do myself the honour of calling here--"

"You do ME the honour, Sir Leicester."

"Thank you--of calling here on my road from Lincolnshire to express
my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that I may
have against a gentleman who--who is known to you and has been your
host, and to whom therefore I will make no farther reference, should
have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort and charge,
from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify a polite and
refined taste at my house, Chesney Wold."

"You are exceedingly obliging, Sir Leicester, and on behalf of those
ladies (who are present) and for myself, I thank you very much."

"It is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for the
reasons I have mentioned, I refrain from making further allusion--it
is possible, Mr. Jarndyce, that that gentleman may have done me the
honour so far to misapprehend my character as to induce you to
believe that you would not have been received by my local
establishment in Lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy,
which its members are instructed to show to all ladies and gentlemen
who present themselves at that house. I merely beg to observe, sir,
that the fact is the reverse."

My guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making any
verbal answer.

"It has given me pain, Mr. Jarndyce," Sir Leicester weightily
proceeded. "I assure you, sir, it has given--me--pain--to learn from
the housekeeper at Chesney Wold that a gentleman who was in your
company in that part of the county, and who would appear to possess a
cultivated taste for the fine arts, was likewise deterred by some
such cause from examining the family pictures with that leisure, that
attention, that care, which he might have desired to bestow upon them
and which some of them might possibly have repaid." Here he produced
a card and read, with much gravity and a little trouble, through his
eye-glass, "Mr. Hirrold--Herald--Harold--Skampling--Skumpling--I beg
your pardon--Skimpole."

"This is Mr. Harold Skimpole," said my guardian, evidently surprised.

"Oh!" exclaimed Sir Leicester, "I am happy to meet Mr. Skimpole and
to have the opportunity of tendering my personal regrets. I hope,
sir, that when you again find yourself in my part of the county, you
will be under no similar sense of restraint."

"You are very obliging, Sir Leicester Dedlock. So encouraged, I shall
certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of another visit to
your beautiful house. The owners of such places as Chesney Wold,"
said Mr. Skimpole with his usual happy and easy air, "are public
benefactors. They are good enough to maintain a number of delightful
objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poor men; and not to
reap all the admiration and pleasure that they yield is to be
ungrateful to our benefactors."

Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. "An artist,
sir?"

"No," returned Mr. Skimpole. "A perfectly idle man. A mere amateur."

Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this even more. He hoped he might
have the good fortune to be at Chesney Wold when Mr. Skimpole next
came down into Lincolnshire. Mr. Skimpole professed himself much
flattered and honoured.

"Mr. Skimpole mentioned," pursued Sir Leicester, addressing himself
again to my guardian, "mentioned to the housekeeper, who, as he may
have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family--"

("That is, when I walked through the house the other day, on the
occasion of my going down to visit Miss Summerson and Miss Clare,"
Mr. Skimpole airily explained to us.)

"--That the friend with whom he had formerly been staying there was
Mr. Jarndyce." Sir Leicester bowed to the bearer of that name. "And
hence I became aware of the circumstance for which I have professed
my regret. That this should have occurred to any gentleman, Mr.
Jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly known to Lady Dedlock,
and indeed claiming some distant connexion with her, and for whom (as
I learn from my Lady herself) she entertains a high respect, does, I
assure you, give--me--pain."

"Pray say no more about it, Sir Leicester," returned my guardian. "I
am very sensible, as I am sure we all are, of your consideration.
Indeed the mistake was mine, and I ought to apologize for it."

I had not once looked up. I had not seen the visitor and had not even
appeared to myself to hear the conversation. It surprises me to find
that I can recall it, for it seemed to make no impression on me as it
passed. I heard them speaking, but my mind was so confused and my
instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made his presence so
distressing to me that I thought I understood nothing, through the
rushing in my head and the beating of my heart.

"I mentioned the subject to Lady Dedlock," said Sir Leicester,
rising, "and my Lady informed me that she had had the pleasure of
exchanging a few words with Mr. Jarndyce and his wards on the
occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the
vicinity. Permit me, Mr. Jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and to
these ladies, the assurance I have already tendered to Mr. Skimpole.
Circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it would afford me
any gratification to hear that Mr. Boythorn had favoured my house
with his presence, but those circumstances are confined to that
gentleman himself and do not extend beyond him."

"You know my old opinion of him," said Mr. Skimpole, lightly
appealing to us. "An amiable bull who is determined to make every
colour scarlet!"

Sir Leicester Dedlock coughed as if he could not possibly hear
another word in reference to such an individual and took his leave
with great ceremony and politeness. I got to my own room with all
possible speed and remained there until I had recovered my
self-command. It had been very much disturbed, but I was thankful to
find when I went downstairs again that they only rallied me for
having been shy and mute before the great Lincolnshire baronet.

By that time I had made up my mind that the period was come when I
must tell my guardian what I knew. The possibility of my being
brought into contact with my mother, of my being taken to her house,
even of Mr. Skimpole's, however distantly associated with me,
receiving kindnesses and obligations from her husband, was so painful
that I felt I could no longer guide myself without his assistance.

When we had retired for the night, and Ada and I had had our usual
talk in our pretty room, I went out at my door again and sought my
guardian among his books. I knew he always read at that hour, and as
I drew near I saw the light shining out into the passage from his
reading-lamp.

"May I come in, guardian?"

"Surely, little woman. What's the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter. I thought I would like to take this quiet
time of saying a word to you about myself."

He put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned his
kind attentive face towards me. I could not help observing that it
wore that curious expression I had observed in it once before--on
that night when he had said that he was in no trouble which I could
readily understand.

"What concerns you, my dear Esther," said he, "concerns us all. You
cannot be more ready to speak than I am to hear."

"I know that, guardian. But I have such need of your advice and
support. Oh! You don't know how much need I have to-night."

He looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a little
alarmed.

"Or how anxious I have been to speak to you," said I, "ever since the
visitor was here to-day."

"The visitor, my dear! Sir Leicester Dedlock?"

"Yes."

He folded his arms and sat looking at me with an air of the
profoundest astonishment, awaiting what I should say next. I did not
know how to prepare him.

"Why, Esther," said he, breaking into a smile, "our visitor and you
are the two last persons on earth I should have thought of connecting
together!"

"Oh, yes, guardian, I know it. And I too, but a little while ago."

The smile passed from his face, and he became graver than before. He
crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but I had seen to that)
and resumed his seat before me.

"Guardian," said I, "do you remember, when we were overtaken by the
thunder-storm, Lady Dedlock's speaking to you of her sister?"

"Of course. Of course I do."

"And reminding you that she and her sister had differed, had gone
their several ways?"

"Of course."

"Why did they separate, guardian?"

His face quite altered as he looked at me. "My child, what questions
are these! I never knew. No one but themselves ever did know, I
believe. Who could tell what the secrets of those two handsome and
proud women were! You have seen Lady Dedlock. If you had ever seen
her sister, you would know her to have been as resolute and haughty
as she."

"Oh, guardian, I have seen her many and many a time!"

"Seen her?"

He paused a little, biting his lip. "Then, Esther, when you spoke to
me long ago of Boythorn, and when I told you that he was all but
married once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, and
that that time had had its influence on his later life--did you know
it all, and know who the lady was?"

"No, guardian," I returned, fearful of the light that dimly broke
upon me. "Nor do I know yet."

"Lady Dedlock's sister."

"And why," I could scarcely ask him, "why, guardian, pray tell me why
were THEY parted?"

"It was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart. He
afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture) that some
injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of quarrel
with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but she wrote him
that from the date of that letter she died to him--as in literal
truth she did--and that the resolution was exacted from her by her
knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense of honour, which
were both her nature too. In consideration for those master points in
him, and even in consideration for them in herself, she made the
sacrifice, she said, and would live in it and die in it. She did
both, I fear; certainly he never saw her, never heard of her from
that hour. Nor did any one."

"Oh, guardian, what have I done!" I cried, giving way to my grief;
"what sorrow have I innocently caused!"

"You caused, Esther?"

"Yes, guardian. Innocently, but most surely. That secluded sister is
my first remembrance."

"No, no!" he cried, starting.

"Yes, guardian, yes! And HER sister is my mother!"

I would have told him all my mother's letter, but he would not hear
it then. He spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put so plainly
before me all I had myself imperfectly thought and hoped in my better
state of mind, that, penetrated as I had been with fervent gratitude
towards him through so many years, I believed I had never loved him
so dearly, never thanked him in my heart so fully, as I did that
night. And when he had taken me to my room and kissed me at the door,
and when at last I lay down to sleep, my thought was how could I ever
be busy enough, how could I ever be good enough, how in my little way
could I ever hope to be forgetful enough of myself, devoted enough to
him, and useful enough to others, to show him how I blessed and
honoured him.




CHAPTER XLIV

The Letter and the Answer


My guardian called me into his room next morning, and then I told him
what had been left untold on the previous night. There was nothing to
be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoid another such
encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my feeling and entirely
shared it. He charged himself even with restraining Mr. Skimpole from
improving his opportunity. One person whom he need not name to me, it
was not now possible for him to advise or help. He wished it were,
but no such thing could be. If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she
had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he
dreaded discovery. He knew something of him, both by sight and by
reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever
happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and
kindness, I was as innocent of as himself and as unable to influence.

"Nor do I understand," said he, "that any doubts tend towards you, my
dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion."

"With the lawyer," I returned. "But two other persons have come into
my mind since I have been anxious. Then I told him all about Mr.
Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague surmises when I little
understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last interview
I expressed perfect confidence.

"Well," said my guardian. "Then we may dismiss him for the present.
Who is the other?"

I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer of
herself she had made to me.

"Ha!" he returned thoughtfully. "That is a more alarming person than
the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking for a new
service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, and it was
natural that you should come into her head. She merely proposed
herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more."

"Her manner was strange," said I.

"Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and
showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her
death-bed," said my guardian. "It would be useless self-distress and
torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are very
few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of perilous
meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. You can be nothing
better than yourself; be that, through this knowledge, as you were
before you had it. It is the best you can do for everybody's sake. I,
sharing the secret with you--"

"And lightening it, guardian, so much," said I.

"--will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can
observe it from my distance. And if the time should come when I can
stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is
better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear
daughter's sake."

I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank
him! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a moment.
Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his face again;
and all at once, I don't know how, it flashed upon me as a new and
far-off possibility that I understood it.

"My dear Esther," said my guardian, "I have long had something in my
thoughts that I have wished to say to you."

"Indeed?"

"I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I
should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately
considered. Would you object to my writing it?"

"Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for ME to
read?"

"Then see, my love," said he with his cheery smile, "am I at this
moment quite as plain and easy--do I seem as open, as honest and
old-fashioned--as I am at any time?"

I answered in all earnestness, "Quite." With the strictest truth, for
his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and
his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.

"Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I
said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?" said he with his
bright clear eyes on mine.

I answered, most assuredly he did not.

"Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess,
Esther?"

"Most thoroughly," said I with my whole heart.

"My dear girl," returned my guardian, "give me your hand."

He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking down
into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of
manner--the old protecting manner which had made that house my home
in a moment--said, "You have wrought changes in me, little woman,
since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last you have done
me a world of good since that time."

"Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!"

"But," said he, "that is not to be remembered now."

"It never can be forgotten."

"Yes, Esther," said he with a gentle seriousness, "it is to be
forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remember
now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel quite
assured of that, my dear?"

"I can, and I do," I said.

"That's much," he answered. "That's everything. But I must not take
that at a word. I will not write this something in my thoughts until
you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as
you know me. If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never
write it. If you are sure of that, on good consideration, send
Charley to me this night week--'for the letter.' But if you are not
quite certain, never send. Mind, I trust to your truth, in this thing
as in everything. If you are not quite certain on that one point,
never send!"

"Guardian," said I, "I am already certain, I can no more be changed
in that conviction than you can be changed towards me. I shall send
Charley for the letter."

He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said in reference
to this conversation, either by him or me, through the whole week.
When the appointed night came, I said to Charley as soon as I was
alone, "Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley, and say you
have come from me--'for the letter.'" Charley went up the stairs, and
down the stairs, and along the passages--the zig-zag way about the
old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that
night--and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and
up the stairs, and brought the letter. "Lay it on the table,
Charley," said I. So Charley laid it on the table and went to bed,
and I sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many
things.

I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through those
timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her resolute
face so cold and set, and when I was more solitary with Mrs. Rachael
than if I had had no one in the world to speak to or to look at. I
passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to find friends in
all around me, and to be beloved. I came to the time when I first saw
my dear girl and was received into that sisterly affection which was
the grace and beauty of my life. I recalled the first bright gleam of
welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our expectant
faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. I lived
my happy life there over again, I went through my illness and
recovery, I thought of myself so altered and of those around me so
unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central
figure, represented before me by the letter on the table.

I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me, and
in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed
for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read
much at a time. But I read it through three times before I laid it
down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport, and I did. It
asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House.

It was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but was
written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his
face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind
protecting manner in every line. It addressed me as if our places
were reversed, as if all the good deeds had been mine and all the
feelings they had awakened his. It dwelt on my being young, and he
past the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe age, while I
was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing
all this so well as to set it in full before me for mature
deliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by such a marriage
and lose nothing by rejecting it, for no new relation could enhance
the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever my decision was, he
was certain it would be right. But he had considered this step anew
since our late confidence and had decided on taking it, if it only
served to show me through one poor instance that the whole world
would readily unite to falsify the stern prediction of my childhood.
I was the last to know what happiness I could bestow upon him, but of
that he said no more, for I was always to remember that I owed him
nothing and that he was my debtor, and for very much. He had often
thought of our future, and foreseeing that the time must come, and
fearing that it might come soon, when Ada (now very nearly of age)
would leave us, and when our present mode of life must be broken up,
had become accustomed to reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it.
If I felt that I could ever give him the best right he could have to
be my protector, and if I felt that I could happily and justly become
the dear companion of his remaining life, superior to all lighter
chances and changes than death, even then he could not have me bind
myself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to me, but even
then I must have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in
the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his
old manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his
bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be the
same, he knew.

This was the substance of the letter, written throughout with a
justice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardian
impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in his
integrity he stated the full case.

But he did not hint to me that when I had been better looking he had
had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained from it.
That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no attractions, he
could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That the discovery
of my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity rose above my
disfigurement and my inheritance of shame. That the more I stood in
need of such fidelity, the more firmly I might trust in him to the
last.

But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the close of
the benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that I had but
one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was to thank him
poorly, and what had I wished for the other night but some new means
of thanking him?

Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after
reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect--for
it was strange though I had expected the contents--but as if
something for which there was no name or distinct idea were
indefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, very
hopeful; but I cried very much.

By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen, and I
said, "Oh, Esther, Esther, can that be you!" I am afraid the face in
the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my
finger at it, and it stopped.

"That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, my dear,
when you showed me such a change!" said I, beginning to let down my
hair. "When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are to be as
cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let us
begin for once and for all."

I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a little
still, but that was because I had been crying, not because I was
crying then.

"And so Esther, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with your best
friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing a great
deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best of men."

I thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else, how
should I have felt, and what should I have done! That would have been
a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new and blank form
that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kiss before I laid
them down in their basket again.

Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass, how
often had I considered within myself that the deep traces of my
illness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why I
should be busy, busy, busy--useful, amiable, serviceable, in all
honest, unpretending ways. This was a good time, to be sure, to sit
down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to me at
first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not) that I
was one day to be the mistress of Bleak House, why should it seem
strange? Other people had thought of such things, if I had not.
"Don't you remember, my plain dear," I asked myself, looking at the
glass, "what Mrs. Woodcourt said before those scars were there about
your marrying--"

Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried remains of
the flowers. It would be better not to keep them now. They had only
been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone, but it
would be better not to keep them now.

They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room--our
sitting-room, dividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took a candle and
went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had it in my hand,
I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lying asleep, and
I stole in to kiss her.

It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for crying; but
I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and another. Weaker
than that, I took the withered flowers out and put them for a moment
to her lips. I thought about her love for Richard, though, indeed,
the flowers had nothing to do with that. Then I took them into my own
room and burned them at the candle, and they were dust in an instant.

On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my guardian just
as usual, quite as frank, as open, and free. There being not the
least constraint in his manner, there was none (or I think there was
none) in mine. I was with him several times in the course of the
morning, in and out, when there was no one there, and I thought it
not unlikely that he might speak to me about the letter, but he did
not say a word.

So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week, over
which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expected, every day,
that my guardian might speak to me about the letter, but he never
did.

I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. I
tried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could not
write an answer that at all began like a good answer, so I thought
each night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven more days,
and he never said a word.

At last, Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one afternoon
going out for a ride; and I, being dressed before Ada and going down,
came upon my guardian, with his back towards me, standing at the
drawing-room window looking out.

He turned on my coming in and said, smiling, "Aye, it's you, little
woman, is it?" and looked out again.

I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In short, I had come down
on purpose. "Guardian," I said, rather hesitating and trembling,
"when would you like to have the answer to the letter Charley came
for?"

"When it's ready, my dear," he replied.

"I think it is ready," said I.

"Is Charley to bring it?" he asked pleasantly.

"No. I have brought it myself, guardian," I returned.

I put my two arms round his neck and kissed him, and he said was this
the mistress of Bleak House, and I said yes; and it made no
difference presently, and we all went out together, and I said
nothing to my precious pet about it.




CHAPTER XLV

In Trust


One morning when I had done jingling about with my baskets of keys,
as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden I happened
to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin shadow going in
which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been telling me only that
morning of her hopes that Richard might exhaust his ardour in the
Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and therefore, not to
damp my dear girl's spirits, I said nothing about Mr. Vholes's
shadow.

Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes and tripping
along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora's attendants
instead of my maid, saying, "Oh, if you please, miss, would you step
and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!"

It was one of Charley's peculiarities that whenever she was charged
with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she beheld,
at any distance, the person for whom it was intended. Therefore I saw
Charley asking me in her usual form of words to "step and speak" to
Mr. Jarndyce long before I heard her. And when I did hear her, she
had said it so often that she was out of breath.

I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Charley as we went
in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce. To which
Charley, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never did any credit
to my educational powers, replied, "Yes, miss. Him as come down in
the country with Mr. Richard."

A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Vholes I suppose
there could not be. I found them looking at one another across a
table, the one so open and the other so close, the one so broad and
upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one giving out what
he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the other keeping it
in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like manner that I thought I
never had seen two people so unmatched.

"You know Mr. Vholes, my dear," said my guardian. Not with the
greatest urbanity, I must say.

Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated himself
again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in the gig. Not
having Richard to look at, he looked straight before him.

"Mr. Vholes," said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if he were
a bird of ill omen, "has brought an ugly report of our most
unfortunate Rick." Laying a marked emphasis on "most unfortunate" as
if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with Mr.
Vholes.

I sat down between them; Mr. Vholes remained immovable, except that
he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow face with
his black glove.

"And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to
know," said my guardian, "what you think, my dear. Would you be so
good as to--as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?"

Doing anything but that, Mr. Vholes observed, "I have been saying
that I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.'s professional
adviser, that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at the present moment in an
embarrassed state. Not so much in point of amount as owing to the
peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred and
the means he has of liquidating or meeting the same. I have staved
off many little matters for Mr. C., but there is a limit to staving
off, and we have reached it. I have made some advances out of pocket
to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to
being repaid, for I do not pretend to be a man of capital, and I have
a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to
realize some little independence for three dear girls at home. My
apprehension is, Mr. C.'s circumstances being such, lest it should
end in his obtaining leave to part with his commission, which at all
events is desirable to be made known to his connexions."

Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged into
the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled was
his tone, and looked before him again.

"Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," said my
guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know him, Esther. He would
never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at it would be
to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did."

Mr. Vholes hereupon addressed me again.

"What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the
difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done. I do not say
that anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down here
under the seal of confidence and mention it in order that everything
may be openly carried on and that it may not be said afterwards that
everything was not openly carried on. My wish is that everything
should be openly carried on. I desire to leave a good name behind me.
If I consulted merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be
here. So insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his
objections. This is not a professional attendance. This can he
charged to nobody. I have no interest in it except as a member of
society and a father--AND a son," said Mr. Vholes, who had nearly
forgotten that point.

It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less than the
truth in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, such
as it was, of knowing Richard's situation. I could only suggest that
I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then stationed, and see
him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst. Without
consulting Mr. Vholes on this point, I took my guardian aside to
propose it, while Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked to the fire and warmed
his funeral gloves.

The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my
guardian's part, but as I saw he had no other, and as I was only too
happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dispose of Mr.
Vholes.

"Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, "Miss Summerson will communicate with
Mr. Carstone, and you can only hope that his position may be yet
retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after your journey,
sir."

"I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vholes, putting out his long
black sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, "not any. I thank you,
no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am but a poor
knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solid food at this
period of the day, I don't know what the consequences might be.
Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I will now with your
permission take my leave."

"And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all take
our leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my guardian bitterly, "of a cause
you know of."

Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it had
quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant perfume,
made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the neck and
slowly shook it.

"We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of
respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the
wheel. We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish to think
well of my professional brethren, one and all. You are sensible of an
obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C.?"

I said I would be careful not to do it.

"Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Jarndyce, good morning, sir." Mr.
Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in
it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian's fingers, and took his
long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the coach,
passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London, chilling
the seed in the ground as it glided along.

Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and why I
was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But she was
too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity and words of
excuse, and in a more loving spirit still--my dear devoted girl!--she
wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.

Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I wanted
none and would willingly have left her at home. We all went to London
that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, secured them. At
our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rolling away seaward with the
Kentish letters.

It was a night's journey in those coach times, but we had the mail to
ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passed with me
as I suppose it would with most people under such circumstances. At
one while my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless. Now I
thought I should do some good, and now I wondered how I could ever
have supposed so. Now it seemed one of the most reasonable things in
the world that I should have come, and now one of the most
unreasonable. In what state I should find Richard, what I should say
to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by turns with
these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play one tune
(to which the burden of my guardian's letter set itself) over and
over again all night.

At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomy they
were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with its little
irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of capstans, and
great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with tackle and
blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and
weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever saw. The sea
was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but
a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their
bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state of existence, they
were spinning themselves into cordage.

But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat down,
comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for it was too
late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look more cheerful. Our
little room was like a ship's cabin, and that delighted Charley very
much. Then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships
that we had had no idea were near appeared. I don't know how many
sail the waiter told us were then lying in the downs. Some of these
vessels were of grand size--one was a large Indiaman just come home;
and when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in
the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed,
and changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling off from the shore to
them and from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in
themselves and everything around them, was most beautiful.

The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come into
the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boats, and we said how
glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore. Charley was
curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat in India, and the
serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such information much
faster than grammar, I told her what I knew on those points. I told
her, too, how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast
on rocks, where they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity of
one man. And Charley asking how that could be, I told her how we knew
at home of such a case.

I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was there, but it
seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As he lived
in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but we
went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate of the barrack-yard,
we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning, and I
asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. He
sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare stairs, and
knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us.

"Now then!" cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the
little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, "Can I come
in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden."

He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin
cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about the
floor. He was only half dressed--in plain clothes, I observed, not in
uniform--and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his
room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and I was
seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice and caught me
in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me.
Down to--ah, poor poor fellow!--to the end, he never received me but
with something of his old merry boyish manner.

"Good heaven, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you come here?
Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter? Ada is
well?"

"Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!"

"Ah!" he said, leaning back in his chair. "My poor cousin! I was
writing to you, Esther."

So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his
handsome youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closely
written sheet of paper in his hand!

"Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to
read it after all?" I asked.

"Oh, my dear," he returned with a hopeless gesture. "You may read it
in the whole room. It is all over here."

I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had
heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult
with him what could best be done.

"Like you, Esther, but useless, and so NOT like you!" said he with a
melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day--should have been gone
in another hour--and that is to smooth it over, for my selling out.
Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the rest. I
only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all
the professions."

"Richard," I urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?"

"Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace as
that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes)
would far rather be without me than with me. And they are right.
Apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even
for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but
for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't broken now," he said,
tearing the letter he had written into fragments and moodily casting
them away, by driblets, "how could I have gone abroad? I must have
been ordered abroad, but how could I have gone? How could I, with my
experience of that thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at his
back!"

I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caught
the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to
prevent me from going on.

"No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid--must forbid. The first is
John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and I tell
you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. But it is no such thing;
it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was
prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It would be
wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains I
have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be very
agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will."

He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his
determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I took
out Ada's letter and put it in his hand.

"Am I to read it now?" he asked.

As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head upon
his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his head upon his
two hands--to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as if
the light were bad and went to the window. He finished reading it
there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had
folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his
hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.

"Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?" He spoke in a
softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.

"Yes, Richard."

"Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "the little
inheritance she is certain of so soon--just as little and as much as
I have wasted--and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right
with it, and remain in the service."

"I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart," said I.
"And, oh, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart."

"I am sure it is. I--I wish I was dead!"

He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his
head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so, but I
hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My
experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his
rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.

"And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not
otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from
me," said he indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me this generous
offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and with the same
John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new
means of buying me off."

"Richard!" I cried out, rising hastily. "I will not hear you say such
shameful words!" I was very angry with him indeed, for the first time
in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his worn young
face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand on his shoulder
and said, "If you please, my dear Richard, do not speak in such a
tone to me. Consider!"

He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous manner
that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a thousand
times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I was rather
fluttered after being so fiery.

"To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down beside
me and resuming our conversation, "--once more, pray, pray forgive
me; I am deeply grieved--to accept my dearest cousin's offer is, I
need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and papers that I
could show you which would convince you it is all over here. I have
done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in
the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that I am pressing
Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the
wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me,
thank God!"

His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his
features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been
before.

"No, no!" cried Richard exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada's
little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining
me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary
of. It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should
be used where she has a larger stake. Don't be uneasy for me! I shall
now have only one thing on my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I
shall not be without means. Free of my commission, I shall be able to
compound with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but their
bond now--Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favour
anyway, but that would swell it. Come, come! You shall carry a letter
to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful of
me and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear."

I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and
nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only
came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but I saw
that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless
to make any representation to him. I saw too, and had experienced in
this very interview, the sense of my guardian's remark that it was
even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as
he was.

Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind
convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and
that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without hesitation
a correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was
arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr. Vholes had copies
of these papers and had been in consultation with him throughout.
Beyond ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of Ada's letter,
and being (as I was going to be) Richard's companion back to London,
I had done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a
reluctant heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he
joined me there, so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to
the gate, and Charley and I went back along the beach.

There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval
officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with
unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great
Indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look.

The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking
good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing
about them as if they were glad to be in England again. "Charley,
Charley," said I, "come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that my
little maid was surprised.

It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had time
to take breath that I began to think why I had made such haste. In
one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan Woodcourt, and I
had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been unwilling that he
should see my altered looks. I had been taken by surprise, and my
courage had quite failed me.

But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My dear,
there is no reason--there is and there can be no reason at all--why
it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you were
last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better. This
is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!" I was in a
great tremble--with running--and at first was quite unable to calm
myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.

The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the staircase.
I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices
again--I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would still have been a
great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but
I was determined not to do so. "No, my dear, no. No, no, no!"

I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up--I think I mean half down,
but it matters very little--and wrote on one of my cards that I
happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in to
Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to be
by chance among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw
that he was very sorry for me.

"You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.
Woodcourt," said I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune which
enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the
truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old
patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe
illness."

"Ah! Little Miss Flite!" he said. "She lives the same life yet?"

"Just the same."

I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to
be able to put it aside.

"Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most
affectionate creature, as I have reason to say."

"You--you have found her so?" he returned. "I--I am glad of that." He
was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.

"I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her sympathy
and pleasure at the time I have referred to."

"I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill."

"I was very ill."

"But you have quite recovered?"

"I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said I. "You
know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead, and I
have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world to
desire."

I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever had
for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to
find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring him. I
spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans, and
of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful. He
had not found himself more favoured by fortune there than here. He
had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come home nothing better.
While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had
alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing
me, Richard came in. He had heard downstairs who was with me, and
they met with cordial pleasure.

I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke
of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that all was not
going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as if there
were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he looked
towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew what the
truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine states and in good
spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt again, whom
he had always liked.

Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr.
Woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not
join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour, and became so
much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace to
think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was not
relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready and Richard ran
down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him.

I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open, but I
referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce and to
his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr. Woodcourt
listened with interest and expressed his regret.

"I saw you observe him rather closely," said I, "Do you think him so
changed?"

"He is changed," he returned, shaking his head.

I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was
only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it was
gone.

"It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much younger or older,
or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his
face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a look in
a young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety or all
weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair."

"You do not think he is ill?" said I.

No. He looked robust in body.

"That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to
know," I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London?"

"To-morrow or the next day."

"There is nothing Richard wants so much as a friend. He always liked
you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with
your companionship if you can. You do not know of what service it
might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce, and even I--how
we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!"

"Miss Summerson," he said, more moved than he had been from the
first, "before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept
him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!"

"God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought
they might, when it was not for myself. "Ada loves him--we all love
him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say.
Thank you, and God bless you, in her name!"

Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words and
gave me his arm to take me to the coach.

"Woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application, "pray let us
meet in London!"

"Meet?" returned the other. "I have scarcely a friend there now but
you. Where shall I find you?"

"Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard, pondering.
"Say at Vholes's, Symond's Inn."

"Good! Without loss of time."

They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and Richard
was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his friendly hand
on Richard's shoulder and looked at me. I understood him and waved
mine in thanks.

And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorry
for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may
feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly
remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten.




CHAPTER XLVI

Stop Him!


Darkness rests upon Tom-All-Alone's. Dilating and dilating since the
sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until it fills
every void in the place. For a time there were some dungeon lights
burning, as the lamp of life hums in Tom-all-Alone's, heavily,
heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking--as that lamp, too, winks
in Tom-all-Alone's--at many horrible things. But they are blotted
out. The moon has eyed Tom with a dull cold stare, as admitting some
puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and
blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on and is gone. The
blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on Tom-all-Alone's,
and Tom is fast asleep.

Much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of
Parliament, concerning Tom, and much wrathful disputation how Tom
shall be got right. Whether he shall be put into the main road by
constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of
figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by
low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting
trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind or
whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. In the midst of
which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit,
that Tom only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according
to somebody's theory but nobody's practice. And in the hopeful
meantime, Tom goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined
spirit.

But he has his revenge. Even the winds are his messengers, and they
serve him in these hours of darkness. There is not a drop of Tom's
corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere. It
shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists
on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a Norman house, and
his Grace shall not be able to say nay to the infamous alliance.
There is not an atom of Tom's slime, not a cubic inch of any
pestilential gas in which he lives, not one obscenity or degradation
about him, not an ignorance, not a wickedness, not a brutality of his
committing, but shall work its retribution through every order of
society up to the proudest of the proud and to the highest of the
high. Verily, what with tainting, plundering, and spoiling, Tom has
his revenge.

It is a moot point whether Tom-all-Alone's be uglier by day or by
night, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the more
shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imagination
is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries it.
The day begins to break now; and in truth it might be better for the
national glory even that the sun should sometimes set upon the
British dominions than that it should ever rise upon so vile a wonder
as Tom.

A brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude for sleep
to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on a restless
pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. Attracted by
curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down the
miserable by-ways. Nor is he merely curious, for in his bright dark
eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here and there,
he seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studied it
before.

On the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main street
of Tom-all-Alone's, nothing is to be seen but the crazy houses, shut
up and silent. No waking creature save himself appears except in one
direction, where he sees the solitary figure of a woman sitting on a
door-step. He walks that way. Approaching, he observes that she has
journeyed a long distance and is footsore and travel-stained. She
sits on the door-step in the manner of one who is waiting, with her
elbow on her knee and her head upon her hand. Beside her is a canvas
bag, or bundle, she has carried. She is dozing probably, for she
gives no heed to his steps as he comes toward her.

The broken footway is so narrow that when Allan Woodcourt comes to
where the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass her.
Looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and he stops.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Can't you make them hear? Do you want to be let in?"

"I'm waiting till they get up at another house--a lodging-house--not
here," the woman patiently returns. "I'm waiting here because there
will be sun here presently to warm me."

"I am afraid you are tired. I am sorry to see you sitting in the
street."

"Thank you, sir. It don't matter."

A habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage or
condescension or childishness (which is the favourite device, many
people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little
spelling books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily.

"Let me look at your forehead," he says, bending down. "I am a
doctor. Don't be afraid. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed hand he
can soothe her yet more readily. She makes a slight objection,
saying, "It's nothing"; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on the
wounded place when she lifts it up to the light.

"Aye! A bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. This must be very
sore."

"It do ache a little, sir," returns the woman with a started tear
upon her cheek.

"Let me try to make it more comfortable. My handkerchief won't hurt
you."

"Oh, dear no, sir, I'm sure of that!"

He cleanses the injured place and dries it, and having carefully
examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takes a
small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. While he is
thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing a surgery
in the street, "And so your husband is a brickmaker?"

"How do you know that, sir?" asks the woman, astonished.

"Why, I suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and on
your dress. And I know brickmakers go about working at piecework in
different places. And I am sorry to say I have known them cruel to
their wives too."

The woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that her
injury is referable to such a cause. But feeling the hand upon her
forehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she quietly drops
them again.

"Where is he now?" asks the surgeon.

"He got into trouble last night, sir; but he'll look for me at the
lodging-house."

"He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large and
heavy hand as he has misused it here. But you forgive him, brutal as
he is, and I say no more of him, except that I wish he deserved it.
You have no young child?"

The woman shakes her head. "One as I calls mine, sir, but it's
Liz's."

"Your own is dead. I see! Poor little thing!"

By this time he has finished and is putting up his case. "I suppose
you have some settled home. Is it far from here?" he asks,
good-humouredly making light of what he has done as she gets up and
curtsys.

"It's a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. At Saint
Albans. You know Saint Albans, sir? I thought you gave a start like,
as if you did."

"Yes, I know something of it. And now I will ask you a question in
return. Have you money for your lodging?"

"Yes, sir," she says, "really and truly." And she shows it. He tells
her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that she is very
welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. Tom-all-Alone's is still
asleep, and nothing is astir.

Yes, something is! As he retraces his way to the point from which he
descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees a
ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to the
soiled walls--which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid--and
furtively thrusting a hand before it. It is the figure of a youth
whose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. He is so
intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of a stranger
in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. He shades his face
with his ragged elbow as he passes on the other side of the way, and
goes shrinking and creeping on with his anxious hand before him and
his shapeless clothes hanging in shreds. Clothes made for what
purpose, or of what material, it would be impossible to say. They
look, in colour and in substance, like a bundle of rank leaves of
swampy growth that rotted long ago.

Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, with a
shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. He cannot recall how
or where, but there is some association in his mind with such a form.
He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or refuge,
still, cannot make out why it comes with any special force on his
remembrance.

He is gradually emerging from Tom-all-Alone's in the morning light,
thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, and looking
round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed, followed by
the woman.

"Stop him, stop him!" cries the woman, almost breathless. "Stop him,
sir!"

He darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy is quicker
than he, makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, comes up
half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. Still the woman
follows, crying, "Stop him, sir, pray stop him!" Allan, not knowing
but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows in chase and
runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times, but each time
he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours away again. To
strike at him on any of these occasions would be to fell and disable
him, but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that, and so the grimly
ridiculous pursuit continues. At last the fugitive, hard-pressed,
takes to a narrow passage and a court which has no thoroughfare.
Here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought to bay and
tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, who stands and gasps at
him until the woman comes up.

"Oh, you, Jo!" cries the woman. "What? I have found you at last!"

"Jo," repeats Allan, looking at him with attention, "Jo! Stay. To be
sure! I recollect this lad some time ago being brought before the
coroner."

"Yes, I see you once afore at the inkwhich," whimpers Jo. "What of
that? Can't you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? An't I
unfortnet enough for you yet? How unfortnet do you want me fur to be?
I've been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by
another on you, till I'm worritted to skins and bones. The inkwhich
warn't MY fault. I done nothink. He wos wery good to me, he wos; he
wos the only one I knowed to speak to, as ever come across my
crossing. It ain't wery likely I should want him to be inkwhiched. I
only wish I wos, myself. I don't know why I don't go and make a hole
in the water, I'm sure I don't."

He says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear so
real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a
growth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in
neglect and impurity, that Allan Woodcourt is softened towards him.
He says to the woman, "Miserable creature, what has he done?"

To which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figure
more amazedly than angrily, "Oh, you Jo, you Jo. I have found you at
last!"

"What has he done?" says Allan. "Has he robbed you?"

"No, sir, no. Robbed me? He did nothing but what was kind-hearted by
me, and that's the wonder of it."

Allan looks from Jo to the woman, and from the woman to Jo, waiting
for one of them to unravel the riddle.

"But he was along with me, sir," says the woman. "Oh, you Jo! He was
along with me, sir, down at Saint Albans, ill, and a young lady, Lord
bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him when I durstn't,
and took him home--"

Allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror.

"Yes, sir, yes. Took him home, and made him comfortable, and like a
thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been seen or
heard of since till I set eyes on him just now. And that young lady
that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her beautiful
looks, and wouldn't hardly be known for the same young lady now if it
wasn't for her angel temper, and her pretty shape, and her sweet
voice. Do you know it? You ungrateful wretch, do you know that this
is all along of you and of her goodness to you?" demands the woman,
beginning to rage at him as she recalls it and breaking into
passionate tears.

The boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smearing
his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground,
and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoarding against
which he leans rattles.

Allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, but
effectually.

"Richard told me--" He falters. "I mean, I have heard of this--don't
mind me for a moment, I will speak presently."

He turns away and stands for a while looking out at the covered
passage. When he comes back, he has recovered his composure, except
that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, which is so very
remarkable that it absorbs the woman's attention.

"You hear what she says. But get up, get up!"

Jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after the manner
of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding, resting
one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbing his right
hand over his left and his left foot over his right.

"You hear what she says, and I know it's true. Have you been here
ever since?"

"Wishermaydie if I seen Tom-all-Alone's till this blessed morning,"
replies Jo hoarsely.

"Why have you come here now?"

Jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner no
higher than the knees, and finally answers, "I don't know how to do
nothink, and I can't get nothink to do. I'm wery poor and ill, and I
thought I'd come back here when there warn't nobody about, and lay
down and hide somewheres as I knows on till arter dark, and then go
and beg a trifle of Mr. Snagsby. He wos allus willin fur to give me
somethink he wos, though Mrs. Snagsby she was allus a-chivying on
me--like everybody everywheres."

"Where have you come from?"

Jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner's knees
again, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding in a
sort of resignation.

"Did you hear me ask you where you have come from?"

"Tramp then," says Jo.

"Now tell me," proceeds Allan, making a strong effort to overcome his
repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him with an
expression of confidence, "tell me how it came about that you left
that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate as to
pity you and take you home."

Jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares,
addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady, that
he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, that he
would sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd sooner have had his
unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos
wery good to him, she wos. Conducting himself throughout as if in his
poor fashion he really meant it, and winding up with some very
miserable sobs.

Allan Woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. He constrains himself
to touch him. "Come, Jo. Tell me."

"No. I dustn't," says Jo, relapsing into the profile state. "I
dustn't, or I would."

"But I must know," returns the other, "all the same. Come, Jo."

After two or three such adjurations, Jo lifts up his head again,
looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, "Well, I'll
tell you something. I was took away. There!"

"Took away? In the night?"

"Ah!" Very apprehensive of being overheard, Jo looks about him and
even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding and through
the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should be looking
over or hidden on the other side.

"Who took you away?"

"I dustn't name him," says Jo. "I dustn't do it, sir.

"But I want, in the young lady's name, to know. You may trust me. No
one else shall hear."

"Ah, but I don't know," replies Jo, shaking his head fearfully, "as
he DON'T hear."

"Why, he is not in this place."

"Oh, ain't he though?" says Jo. "He's in all manner of places, all at
wanst."

Allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaning and
good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. He patiently
awaits an explicit answer; and Jo, more baffled by his patience than
by anything else, at last desperately whispers a name in his ear.

"Aye!" says Allan. "Why, what had you been doing?"

"Nothink, sir. Never done nothink to get myself into no trouble,
'sept in not moving on and the inkwhich. But I'm a-moving on now. I'm
a-moving on to the berryin ground--that's the move as I'm up to."

"No, no, we will try to prevent that. But what did he do with you?"

"Put me in a horsepittle," replied Jo, whispering, "till I was
discharged, then giv me a little money--four half-bulls, wot you may
call half-crowns--and ses 'Hook it! Nobody wants you here,' he ses.
'You hook it. You go and tramp,' he ses. 'You move on,' he ses.
'Don't let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile of London, or
you'll repent it.' So I shall, if ever he doos see me, and he'll see
me if I'm above ground," concludes Jo, nervously repeating all his
former precautions and investigations.

Allan considers a little, then remarks, turning to the woman but
keeping an encouraging eye on Jo, "He is not so ungrateful as you
supposed. He had a reason for going away, though it was an
insufficient one."

"Thankee, sir, thankee!" exclaims Jo. "There now! See how hard you
wos upon me. But ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmn ses, and
it's all right. For YOU wos wery good to me too, and I knows it."

"Now, Jo," says Allan, keeping his eye upon him, "come with me and I
will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in. If I
take one side of the way and you the other to avoid observation, you
will not run away, I know very well, if you make me a promise."

"I won't, not unless I wos to see HIM a-coming, sir."

"Very well. I take your word. Half the town is getting up by this
time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. Come
along. Good day again, my good woman."

"Good day again, sir, and I thank you kindly many times again."

She has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now rises and
takes it up. Jo, repeating, "Ony you tell the young lady as I never
went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!" nods and shambles and
shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs and half cries, a
farewell to her, and takes his creeping way along after Allan
Woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite side of the street. In
this order, the two come up out of Tom-all-Alone's into the broad
rays of the sunlight and the purer air.




CHAPTER XLVII

Jo's Will


As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets where the high
church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the morning
light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allan revolves in
his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion. "It surely is a
strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart of a civilized world
this creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of
than an unowned dog." But it is none the less a fact because of its
strangeness, and the difficulty remains.

At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is still
really following. But look where he will, he still beholds him close
to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand from brick
to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps along,
glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last thing
in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on, considering
with a less divided attention what he shall do.

A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be
done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses and
comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his
right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, kneading
dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty repast to Jo
is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee and to gnaw
the bread and butter, looking anxiously about him in all directions
as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.

But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him.
"I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting down
his food, "but I don't know nothink--not even that. I don't care for
eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." And Jo stands shivering
and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.

Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest. "Draw
breath, Jo!" "It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." He might add,
"And rattles like it," but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."

Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at hand,
but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measure of
wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He begins to
revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We may repeat that
dose, Jo," observes Allan after watching him with his attentive face.
"So! Now we will take five minutes' rest, and then go on again."

Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with his
back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and down in
the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards him without
appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment to perceive that
he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded can brighten, his
face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice
of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant of these signs of
improvement, Allan engages him in conversation and elicits to his no
small wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its
consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowly tells it. When he has
finished his story and his bread, they go on again.

Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of
refuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite,
Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered.
But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss Flite no longer
lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much
obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who is indeed no other
than the interesting Judy, is tart and spare in her replies. These
sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss Flite and her
birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell Yard, he repairs to
that neighbouring place, where Miss Flite (who rises early that she
may be punctual at the divan of justice held by her excellent friend
the Chancellor) comes running downstairs with tears of welcome and
with open arms.

"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious,
distinguished, honourable officer!" She uses some odd expressions,
but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--more so
than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until she has
no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in a
doorway, and tells her how he comes there.

"Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have a
fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me."

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to consider;
but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs. Blinder is
entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's room.
"Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands after a twentieth
repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To be sure! Of course! My dear
physician! General George will help us out."

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, and
would be, though Miss Flite had not already run upstairs to put on
her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself with
her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician in her
disjointed manner on coming down in full array that General George,
whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce and takes a
great interest in all connected with her, Allan is induced to think
that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, for his
encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now; and
they repair to the general's. Fortunately it is not far.

From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long entry,
and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs well. He
also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George himself, striding
towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his mouth, no
stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and
dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his light
shirt-sleeves.

"Your servant, sir," says Mr. George with a military salute.
Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp
hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, and
at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation. He
winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and another salute.

"Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George.

"I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "but I am
only a sea-going doctor."

"Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket
myself."

Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readily on
that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside his pipe,
which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention of doing.
"You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I know by
experience that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and since it's
equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence by putting
it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all he knows
about Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a grave face.

"And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along the
entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the
whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.

"That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr. George, I am in this difficulty
about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if I could
procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that he would not
stay there many hours if he could be so much as got there. The same
objection applies to a workhouse, supposing I had the patience to be
evaded and shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in trying to
get him into one, which is a system that I don't take kindly to."

"No man does, sir," returns Mr. George.

"I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because he
is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered
him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes this person
to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything."

"I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr. George. "But you have not
mentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir?"

"The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket."

"Bucket the detective, sir?"

"The same man."

"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper after blowing out
a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, "and the boy is so far
correct that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer." Mr. George smokes
with a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite in silence.

"Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know that
this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have it
in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so.
Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor
lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decent
people and Jo, Mr. George," says Allan, following the direction of
the trooper's eyes along the entry, "have not been much acquainted,
as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any one in
this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my paying for
him beforehand?"

As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little man
standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddly twisted
figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. After a few more
puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at the little man,
and the little man winks up at the trooper.

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I would
willingly be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all
agreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it a privilege
to do that young lady any service, however small. We are naturally in
the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. You see what the
place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy if the
same would meet your views. No charge made, except for rations. We
are not in a flourishing state of circumstances here, sir. We are
liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at a moment's notice. However,
sir, such as the place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at
your service."

With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the whole
building at his visitor's disposal.

"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the medical
staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortunate
subject?"

Allan is quite sure of it.

"Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, "we
have had enough of that."

His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance.
"Still I am bound to tell you," observes Allan after repeating his
former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced and
that he may be--I do not say that he is--too far gone to recover."

"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the trooper.

"Yes, I fear so."

"Then, sir," returns the trooper in a decisive manner, "it appears to
me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the sooner he
comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!"

Mr. Squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of command;
and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. Jo is brought
in. He is not one of Mrs. Pardiggle's Tockahoopo Indians; he is not
one of Mrs. Jellyby's lambs, being wholly unconnected with
Borrioboola-Gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he
is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is the ordinary home-made
article. Dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a
common creature of the common streets, only in soul a heathen. Homely
filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in
him, homely rags are on him; native ignorance, the growth of English
soil and climate, sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts
that perish. Stand forth, Jo, in uncompromising colours! From the
sole of thy foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing
interesting about thee.

He shuffles slowly into Mr. George's gallery and stands huddled
together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. He seems to know
that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he
is and partly for what he has caused. He, too, shrinks from them. He
is not of the same order of things, not of the same place in
creation. He is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor
of humanity.

"Look here, Jo!" says Allan. "This is Mr. George."

Jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a
moment, and then down again.

"He is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room
here."

Jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow. After
a little more consideration and some backing and changing of the foot
on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful."

"You are quite safe here. All you have to do at present is to be
obedient and to get strong. And mind you tell us the truth here,
whatever you do, Jo."

"Wishermaydie if I don't, sir," says Jo, reverting to his favourite
declaration. "I never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to get
myself into no trouble. I never was in no other trouble at all, sir,
'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation."

"I believe it, now attend to Mr. George. I see he is going to speak
to you."

"My intention merely was, sir," observes Mr. George, amazingly broad
and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down and get a
thorough good dose of sleep. Now, look here." As the trooper speaks,
he conducts them to the other end of the gallery and opens one of the
little cabins. "There you are, you see! Here is a mattress, and here
you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as Mr., I ask your pardon,
sir"--he refers apologetically to the card Allan has given him--"Mr.
Woodcourt pleases. Don't you be alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be
aimed at the target, and not you. Now, there's another thing I would
recommend, sir," says the trooper, turning to his visitor. "Phil,
come here!"

Phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "Here is a
man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. Consequently, it
is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor
creature. You do, don't you, Phil?"

"Certainly and surely I do, guv'ner," is Phil's reply.

"Now I was thinking, sir," says Mr. George in a martial sort of
confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a
drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay
out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--"

"Mr. George, my considerate friend," returns Allan, taking out his
purse, "it is the very favour I would have asked."

Phil Squod and Jo are sent out immediately on this work of
improvement. Miss Flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes the
best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise her
friend the Chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the
judgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing
"which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years,
would be too absurdly unfortunate!" Allan takes the opportunity of
going out to procure some restorative medicines, and obtaining them
near at hand, soon returns to find the trooper walking up and down
the gallery, and to fall into step and walk with him.

"I take it, sir," says Mr. George, "that you know Miss Summerson
pretty well?"

Yes, it appears.

"Not related to her, sir?"

No, it appears.

"Excuse the apparent curiosity," says Mr. George. "It seemed to me
probable that you might take more than a common interest in this poor
creature because Miss Summerson had taken that unfortunate interest
in him. 'Tis MY case, sir, I assure you."

"And mine, Mr. George."

The trooper looks sideways at Allan's sunburnt cheek and bright dark
eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems to approve of
him.

"Since you have been out, sir, I have been thinking that I
unquestionably know the rooms in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Bucket
took the lad, according to his account. Though he is not acquainted
with the name, I can help you to it. It's Tulkinghorn. That's what it
is."

Allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name.

"Tulkinghorn. That's the name, sir. I know the man, and know him to
have been in communication with Bucket before, respecting a deceased
person who had given him offence. I know the man, sir. To my sorrow."

Allan naturally asks what kind of man he is.

"What kind of man! Do you mean to look at?"

"I think I know that much of him. I mean to deal with. Generally,
what kind of man?"

"Why, then I'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping short
and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face
fires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. He
is a slow-torturing kind of man. He is no more like flesh and blood
than a rusty old carbine is. He is a kind of man--by George!--that
has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more
dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together. That's
the kind of man Mr. Tulkinghorn is!"

"I am sorry," says Allan, "to have touched so sore a place."

"Sore?" The trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his
broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache. "It's no
fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. He has got a power over me.
He is the man I spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of
this place neck and crop. He keeps me on a constant see-saw. He won't
hold off, and he won't come on. If I have a payment to make him, or
time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don't see me,
don't hear me--passes me on to Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn,
Melchisedech's in Clifford's Inn passes me back again to him--he
keeps me prowling and dangling about him as if I was made of the same
stone as himself. Why, I spend half my life now, pretty well,
loitering and dodging about his door. What does he care? Nothing.
Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to. He
chafes and goads me till--Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr.
Woodcourt," the trooper resumes his march, "all I say is, he is an
old man; but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs
to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that
chance, in one of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!"

Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his
forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impetuosity
away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head
and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an
occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar,
as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a
choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about
the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his
mattress by the careful Phil, to whom, after due administration of
medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and
instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He
repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without
seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that
there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and
showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats in
substance what he said in the morning, without any material
variation. Only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a
hollower sound.

"Let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more," falters Jo, "and
be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where I used fur to sleep,
as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a-moving
on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful. I'd be
more thankful than I am aready if it wos any ways possible for an
unfortnet to be it."

He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the
course of a day or two that Allan, after conferring with Mr.
Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court, the
rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his
counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of
several skins which has just come in from the engrosser's, an immense
desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place
of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the
traveller from despair. Mr Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells
and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for
business.

"You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?"

The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old
apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to
answer, "No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered--not to
put too fine a point upon it--that I never saw you before, sir."

"Twice before," says Allan Woodcourt. "Once at a poor bedside, and
once--"

"It's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection
breaks upon him. "It's got to a head now and is going to burst!" But
he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the
little counting-house and to shut the door.

"Are you a married man, sir?"

"No, I am not."

"Would you make the attempt, though single," says Mr. Snagsby in a
melancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? For my little woman
is a-listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business and five
hundred pound!"

In deep dejection Mr. Snagsby sits down on his stool, with his back
against his desk, protesting, "I never had a secret of my own, sir. I
can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my
little woman on my own account since she named the day. I wouldn't
have done it, sir. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I couldn't
have done it, I dursn't have done it. Whereas, and nevertheless, I
find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a
burden to me."

His visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he
remember Jo. Mr. Snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don't
he!

"You couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--that my
little woman is more set and determined against than Jo," says Mr.
Snagsby.

Allan asks why.

"Why?" repeats Mr. Snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump
of hair at the back of his bald head. "How should I know why? But you
are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married
person such a question!"

With this beneficent wish, Mr. Snagsby coughs a cough of dismal
resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to
communicate.

"There again!" says Mr. Snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his
feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the
face. "At it again, in a new direction! A certain person charges me,
in the solemnest way, not to talk of Jo to any one, even my little
woman. Then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself,
and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention Jo to that
other certain person above all other persons. Why, this is a private
asylum! Why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is Bedlam,
sir!" says Mr. Snagsby.

But it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of
the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen.
And being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of Jo's
condition, he readily engages to "look round" as early in the evening
as he can manage it quietly. He looks round very quietly when the
evening comes, but it may turn out that Mrs. Snagsby is as quiet a
manager as he.

Jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left
alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so
far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched
by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a
crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.

"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationer
with his cough of sympathy.

"I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want for
nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. Sangsby! I'm wery
sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir."

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what
it is that he is sorry for having done.

"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos
and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says
nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good
and my having been s'unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me
yesday, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you,
Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don't pass a
word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I
turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him
a-forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to
giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin' on day and
night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, I
see his tears a-fallin, Mr. Sangsby."

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table.
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve
his feelings.

"Wot I was a-thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, "wos, as you wos
able to write wery large, p'raps?"

"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer.

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo with eagerness.

"Yes, my poor boy."

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos a-thinking on then, Mr. Sangsby,
wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go and couldn't
be moved no furder, whether you might be so good p'raps as to write
out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I wos
wery truly hearty sorry that I done it and that I never went fur to
do it, and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr.
Woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that I
hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could
be made to say it wery large, he might."

"It shall say it, Jo. Very large."

Jo laughs again. "Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir,
and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was afore."

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips
down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to a case
requiring so many--and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this
little earth, shall meet no more. No more.

For the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and drags over
stony ground. All round the clock it labours up the broken steps,
shattered and worn. Not many times can the sun rise and behold it
still upon its weary road.

Phil Squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurse
and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often looking
round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an encouraging
elevation of his one eyebrow, "Hold up, my boy! Hold up!" There, too,
is Mr. Jarndyce many a time, and Allan Woodcourt almost always, both
thinking, much, how strangely fate has entangled this rough outcast
in the web of very different lives. There, too, the trooper is a
frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his athletic figure and,
from his superfluity of life and strength, seeming to shed down
temporary vigour upon Jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in
answer to his cheerful words.

Jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and Allan Woodcourt, newly
arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. After a
while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards
him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and touches his chest
and heart. The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little
more.

The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil has stopped
in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. Mr.
Woodcourt looks round with that grave professional interest and
attention on his face, and glancing significantly at the trooper,
signs to Phil to carry his table out. When the little hammer is next
used, there will be a speck of rust upon it.

"Well, Jo! What is the matter? Don't be frightened."

"I thought," says Jo, who has started and is looking round, "I
thought I was in Tom-all-Alone's agin. Ain't there nobody here but
you, Mr. Woodcot?"

"Nobody."

"And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir?"

"No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I'm wery thankful."

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very
near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "Jo! Did you
ever know a prayer?"

"Never knowd nothink, sir."

"Not so much as one short prayer?"

"No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at Mr.
Sangsby's and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to
hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out
nothink on it. Different times there was other genlmen come down
Tom-all-Alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other
'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to
theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin to
us. WE never knowd nothink. I never knowd what it wos all about."

It takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experienced and
attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a
short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong
effort to get out of bed.

"Stay, Jo! What now?"

"It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he
returns with a wild look.

"Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?"

"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed,
he wos. It's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground,
sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be
berried. He used fur to say to me, 'I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,'
he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now and have
come there to be laid along with him."

"By and by, Jo. By and by."

"Ah! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I wos to go myself. But will you
promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?"

"I will, indeed."

"Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate
afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step
there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark,
sir. Is there any light a-comin?"

"It is coming fast, Jo."

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very
near its end.

"Jo, my poor fellow!"

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let me
catch hold of your hand."

"Jo, can you say what I say?"

"I'll say anythink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good."

"Our Father."

"Our Father! Yes, that's wery good, sir."

"Which art in heaven."

"Art in heaven--is the light a-comin, sir?"

"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name!"

"Hallowed be--thy--"

The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead!

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right
reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women,
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around
us every day.




CHAPTER XLVIII

Closing In


The place in Lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house
in town is awake. In Lincolnshire the Dedlocks of the past doze in
their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through the long
drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. In town the
Dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages through
the darkness of the night, and the Dedlock Mercuries, with ashes (or
hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic of their great humility,
loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. The
fashionable world--tremendous orb, nearly five miles round--is in
full swing, and the solar system works respectfully at its appointed
distances.

Where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, where
all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and
refinement, Lady Dedlock is. From the shining heights she has scaled
and taken, she is never absent. Though the belief she of old reposed
in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would under
her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has no assurance
that what she is to those around her she will remain another day,
it is not in her nature when envious eyes are looking on to
yield or to droop. They say of her that she has lately grown
more handsome and more haughty. The debilitated cousin says of
her that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but rather
larming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who WILL
getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--Shakespeare.

Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. Now, as heretofore, he
is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravat
loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage from
the peerage and making no sign. Of all men he is still the last who
might be supposed to have any influence upon my Lady. Of all women
she is still the last who might be supposed to have any dread of him.

One thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in his
turret-room at Chesney Wold. She is now decided, and prepared to
throw it off.

It is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the little
sun. The Mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, are reposing
in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous creatures, like
overblown sunflowers. Like them, too, they seem to run to a deal of
seed in their tags and trimmings. Sir Leicester, in the library, has
fallen asleep for the good of the country over the report of a
Parliamentary committee. My Lady sits in the room in which she gave
audience to the young man of the name of Guppy. Rosa is with her and
has been writing for her and reading to her. Rosa is now at work upon
embroidery or some such pretty thing, and as she bends her head over
it, my Lady watches her in silence. Not for the first time to-day.

"Rosa."

The pretty village face looks brightly up. Then, seeing how serious
my Lady is, looks puzzled and surprised.

"See to the door. Is it shut?"

Yes. She goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised.

"I am about to place confidence in you, child, for I know I may trust
your attachment, if not your judgment. In what I am going to do, I
will not disguise myself to you at least. But I confide in you. Say
nothing to any one of what passes between us."

The timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be
trustworthy.

"Do you know," Lady Dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring her
chair nearer, "do you know, Rosa, that I am different to you from
what I am to any one?"

"Yes, my Lady. Much kinder. But then I often think I know you as you
really are."

"You often think you know me as I really am? Poor child, poor child!"

She says it with a kind of scorn--though not of Rosa--and sits
brooding, looking dreamily at her.

"Do you think, Rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? Do you
suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful to
me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?"

"I don't know, my Lady; I can scarcely hope so. But with all my
heart, I wish it was so."

"It is so, little one."

The pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark
expression on the handsome face before it. It looks timidly for an
explanation.

"And if I were to say to-day, 'Go! Leave me!' I should say what would
give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave me very
solitary."

"My Lady! Have I offended you?"

"In nothing. Come here."

Rosa bends down on the footstool at my Lady's feet. My Lady, with
that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her hand
upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there.

"I told you, Rosa, that I wished you to be happy and that I would
make you so if I could make anybody happy on this earth. I cannot.
There are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part,
rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. You
must not remain here. I have determined that you shall not. I have
written to the father of your lover, and he will be here to-day. All
this I have done for your sake."

The weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall she
do, what shall she do, when they are separated! Her mistress kisses
her on the cheek and makes no other answer.

"Now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. Be beloved and
happy!"

"Ah, my Lady, I have sometimes thought--forgive my being so
free--that YOU are not happy."

"I!"

"Will you be more so when you have sent me away? Pray, pray, think
again. Let me stay a little while!"

"I have said, my child, that what I do, I do for your sake, not my
own. It is done. What I am towards you, Rosa, is what I am now--not
what I shall be a little while hence. Remember this, and keep my
confidence. Do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!"

She detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves the
room. Late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the
staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. As indifferent
as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been worn out in the
earlier ages of the world and had perished from its surface with its
other departed monsters.

Mercury has announced Mr. Rouncewell, which is the cause of her
appearance. Mr. Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairs to
the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him
first.

"Sir Leicester, I am desirous--but you are engaged."

Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from him
for a moment.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?"

With a look that plainly says, "You know you have the power to remain
if you will," she tells him it is not necessary and moves towards a
chair. Mr. Tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with his
clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite. Interposed between her
and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his shadow falls
upon her, and he darkens all before her. Even so does he darken her
life.

It is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two long
rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that
half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared
into stone rather than originally built in that material. It is a
street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to
liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their
own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry
and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone
chargers of noble statues. Complicated garnish of iron-work entwines
itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, and from these
petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the
upstart gas. Here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which
bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (its only present use),
retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of
departed oil. Nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals
in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an
oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every night, like its high
and dry master in the House of Lords.

Therefore there is not much that Lady Dedlock, seated in her chair,
could wish to see through the window in which Mr. Tulkinghorn stands.
And yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as if it were
her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of the way.

Sir Leicester begs his Lady's pardon. She was about to say?

"Only that Mr. Rouncewell is here (he has called by my appointment)
and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. I am
tired to death of the matter."

"What can I do--to--assist?" demands Sir Leicester in some
considerable doubt.

"Let us see him here and have done with it. Will you tell them to
send him up?"

"Mr. Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request," says
Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering the business
term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way."

Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces
him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person graciously.

"I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated. (My solicitor, Mr.
Tulkinghorn.) My Lady was desirous, Mr. Rouncewell," Sir Leicester
skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, "was desirous
to speak with you. Hem!"

"I shall be very happy," returns the iron gentleman, "to give my best
attention to anything Lady Dedlock does me the honour to say."

As he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes upon
him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. A distant
supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there is
nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness.

"Pray, sir," says Lady Dedlock listlessly, "may I be allowed to
inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son
respecting your son's fancy?"

It is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look
upon him as she asks this question.

"If my memory serves me, Lady Dedlock, I said, when I had the
pleasure of seeing you before, that I should seriously advise my son
to conquer that--fancy." The ironmaster repeats her expression with a
little emphasis.

"And did you?"

"Oh! Of course I did."

Sir Leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. Very proper.
The iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, was bound to do
it. No difference in this respect between the base metals and the
precious. Highly proper.

"And pray has he done so?"

"Really, Lady Dedlock, I cannot make you a definite reply. I fear
not. Probably not yet. In our condition of life, we sometimes couple
an intention with our--our fancies which renders them not altogether
easy to throw off. I think it is rather our way to be in earnest."

Sir Leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden Wat Tylerish
meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. Mr. Rouncewell is
perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within such limits, evidently
adapts his tone to his reception.

"Because," proceeds my Lady, "I have been thinking of the subject,
which is tiresome to me."

"I am very sorry, I am sure."

"And also of what Sir Leicester said upon it, in which I quite
concur"--Sir Leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us the
assurance that this fancy is at an end, I have come to the conclusion
that the girl had better leave me."

"I can give no such assurance, Lady Dedlock. Nothing of the kind."

"Then she had better go."

"Excuse me, my Lady," Sir Leicester considerately interposes, "but
perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she has
not merited. Here is a young woman," says Sir Leicester,
magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like a
service of plate, "whose good fortune it is to have attracted the
notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the
protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages
which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably very
great--I believe unquestionably very great, sir--for a young woman in
that station of life. The question then arises, should that young
woman be deprived of these many advantages and that good fortune
simply because she has"--Sir Leicester, with an apologetic but
dignified inclination of his head towards the ironmaster, winds up
his sentence--"has attracted the notice of Mr Rouncewell's son? Now,
has she deserved this punishment? Is this just towards her? Is this
our previous understanding?"

"I beg your pardon," interposes Mr. Rouncewell's son's father. "Sir
Leicester, will you allow me? I think I may shorten the subject. Pray
dismiss that from your consideration. If you remember anything so
unimportant--which is not to be expected--you would recollect that my
first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining
here."

Dismiss the Dedlock patronage from consideration? Oh! Sir Leicester
is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down to him
through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their
report of the iron gentleman's observations.

"It is not necessary," observes my Lady in her coldest manner before
he can do anything but breathe amazedly, "to enter into these matters
on either side. The girl is a very good girl; I have nothing whatever
to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many
advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--or supposes she
is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them."

Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He might
have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons in
support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young woman
had better go.

"As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion when
we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidly proceeds,
"we cannot make conditions with you. Without conditions, and under
present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here and had
better go. I have told her so. Would you wish to have her sent back
to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would
you prefer?"

"Lady Dedlock, if I may speak plainly--"

"By all means."

"--I should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of
the incumbrance and remove her from her present position."

"And to speak as plainly," she returns with the same studied
carelessness, "so should I. Do I understand that you will take her
with you?"

The iron gentleman makes an iron bow.

"Sir Leicester, will you ring?" Mr. Tulkinghorn steps forward from
his window and pulls the bell. "I had forgotten you. Thank you." He
makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. Mercury,
swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce,
skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs.

Rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. On her coming in, the
ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with
her near the door ready to depart.

"You are taken charge of, you see," says my Lady in her weary manner,
"and are going away well protected. I have mentioned that you are a
very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for."

"She seems after all," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn, loitering a little
forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at going
away."

"Why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns Mr. Rouncewell with
some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer
to retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows
no better. If she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no
doubt."

"No doubt," is Mr. Tulkinghorn's composed reply.

Rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my Lady, and that she
was happy at Chesney Wold, and has been happy with my Lady, and that
she thanks my Lady over and over again. "Out, you silly little puss!"
says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily.
"Have a spirit, if you're fond of Watt!" My Lady merely waves her off
with indifference, saying, "There, there, child! You are a good girl.
Go away!" Sir Leicester has magnificently disengaged himself from the
subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted
with lamps, looms in my Lady's view, bigger and blacker than before.

"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock," says Mr. Rouncewell after a pause
of a few moments, "I beg to take my leave, with an apology for having
again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome
subject. I can very well understand, I assure you, how tiresome so
small a matter must have become to Lady Dedlock. If I am doubtful of
my dealing with it, it is only because I did not at first quietly
exert my influence to take my young friend here away without
troubling you at all. But it appeared to me--I dare say magnifying
the importance of the thing--that it was respectful to explain to you
how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and
convenience. I hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the
polite world."

Sir Leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these
remarks. "Mr. Rouncewell," he returns, "do not mention it.
Justifications are unnecessary, I hope, on either side."

"I am glad to hear it, Sir Leicester; and if I may, by way of a last
word, revert to what I said before of my mother's long connexion with
the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, I would point out
this little instance here on my arm who shows herself so affectionate
and faithful in parting and in whom my mother, I dare say, has done
something to awaken such feelings--though of course Lady Dedlock, by
her heartfelt interest and her genial condescension, has done much
more."

If he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. He points
it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of
speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim
room where my Lady sits. Sir Leicester stands to return his parting
salutation, Mr. Tulkinghorn again rings, Mercury takes another
flight, and Mr. Rouncewell and Rosa leave the house.

Then lights are brought in, discovering Mr. Tulkinghorn still
standing in his window with his hands behind him and my Lady still
sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night
as well as of the day. She is very pale. Mr. Tulkinghorn, observing
it as she rises to retire, thinks, "Well she may be! The power of
this woman is astonishing. She has been acting a part the whole
time." But he can act a part too--his one unchanging character--and
as he holds the door open for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each
fifty times sharper than Sir Leicester's pair, should find no flaw in
him.

Lady Dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. Sir Leicester is
whipped in to the rescue of the Doodle Party and the discomfiture of
the Coodle Faction. Lady Dedlock asks on sitting down to dinner,
still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated
cousin's text), whether he is gone out? Yes. Whether Mr. Tulkinghorn
is gone yet? No. Presently she asks again, is he gone YET? No. What
is he doing? Mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library.
Would my Lady wish to see him? Anything but that.

But he wishes to see my Lady. Within a few more minutes he is
reported as sending his respects, and could my Lady please to receive
him for a word or two after her dinner? My Lady will receive him now.
He comes now, apologizing for intruding, even by her permission,
while she is at table. When they are alone, my Lady waves her hand to
dispense with such mockeries.

"What do you want, sir?"

"Why, Lady Dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little
distance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, up
and down, up and down, "I am rather surprised by the course you have
taken."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, decidedly. I was not prepared for it. I consider it a departure
from our agreement and your promise. It puts us in a new position,
Lady Dedlock. I feel myself under the necessity of saying that I
don't approve of it."

He stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on his
knees. Imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an
indefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does not
escape this woman's observation.

"I do not quite understand you."

"Oh, yes you do, I think. I think you do. Come, come, Lady Dedlock,
we must not fence and parry now. You know you like this girl."

"Well, sir?"

"And you know--and I know--that you have not sent her away for the
reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her as
much as possible from--excuse my mentioning it as a matter of
business--any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself."

"Well, sir?"

"Well, Lady Dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and
nursing the uppermost knee. "I object to that. I consider that a
dangerous proceeding. I know it to be unnecessary and calculated to
awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, I don't know what, in the house.
Besides, it is a violation of our agreement. You were to be exactly
what you were before. Whereas, it must be evident to yourself, as it
is to me, that you have been this evening very different from what
you were before. Why, bless my soul, Lady Dedlock, transparently so!"

"If, sir," she begins, "in my knowledge of my secret--" But he
interrupts her.

"Now, Lady Dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matter of
business the ground cannot be kept too clear. It is no longer your
secret. Excuse me. That is just the mistake. It is my secret, in
trust for Sir Leicester and the family. If it were your secret, Lady
Dedlock, we should not be here holding this conversation."

"That is very true. If in my knowledge of THE secret I do what I can
to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your own reference
to her when you told my story to the assembled guests at Chesney
Wold) from the taint of my impending shame, I act upon a resolution I
have taken. Nothing in the world, and no one in the world, could
shake it or could move me." This she says with great deliberation and
distinctness and with no more outward passion than himself. As for
him, he methodically discusses his matter of business as if she were
any insensible instrument used in business.

"Really? Then you see, Lady Dedlock," he returns, "you are not to be
trusted. You have put the case in a perfectly plain way, and
according to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are not
to be trusted."

"Perhaps you may remember that I expressed some anxiety on this same
point when we spoke at night at Chesney Wold?"

"Yes," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on the
hearth. "Yes. I recollect, Lady Dedlock, that you certainly referred
to the girl, but that was before we came to our arrangement, and both
the letter and the spirit of our arrangement altogether precluded any
action on your part founded upon my discovery. There can be no doubt
about that. As to sparing the girl, of what importance or value is
she? Spare! Lady Dedlock, here is a family name compromised. One
might have supposed that the course was straight on--over everything,
neither to the right nor to the left, regardless of all
considerations in the way, sparing nothing, treading everything under
foot."

She has been looking at the table. She lifts up her eyes and looks at
him. There is a stern expression on her face and a part of her lower
lip is compressed under her teeth. "This woman understands me," Mr.
Tulkinghorn thinks as she lets her glance fall again. "SHE cannot be
spared. Why should she spare others?"

For a little while they are silent. Lady Dedlock has eaten no dinner,
but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady hand and drunk
it. She rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, and reclines in it,
shading her face. There is nothing in her manner to express weakness
or excite compassion. It is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated. "This
woman," thinks Mr. Tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again a dark
object closing up her view, "is a study."

He studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. She too
studies something at her leisure. She is not the first to speak,
appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there until
midnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence.

"Lady Dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business interview
remains, but it is business. Our agreement is broken. A lady of your
sense and strength of character will be prepared for my now declaring
it void and taking my own course."

"I am quite prepared."

Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head. "That is all I have to trouble you
with, Lady Dedlock."

She stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, "This is the
notice I was to receive? I wish not to misapprehend you."

"Not exactly the notice you were to receive, Lady Dedlock, because
the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have been observed.
But virtually the same, virtually the same. The difference is merely
in a lawyer's mind."

"You intend to give me no other notice?"

"You are right. No."

"Do you contemplate undeceiving Sir Leicester to-night?"

"A home question!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a slight smile and
cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "No, not to-night."

"To-morrow?"

"All things considered, I had better decline answering that question,
Lady Dedlock. If I were to say I don't know when, exactly, you would
not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. It may be to-morrow.
I would rather say no more. You are prepared, and I hold out no
expectations which circumstances might fail to justify. I wish you
good evening."

She removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks
silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open
it.

"Do you intend to remain in the house any time? I heard you were
writing in the library. Are you going to return there?"

"Only for my hat. I am going home."

She bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight and
curious, and he withdraws. Clear of the room he looks at his watch
but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts. There is a
splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not
often are, for its accuracy. "And what do YOU say," Mr. Tulkinghorn
inquires, referring to it. "What do you say?"

If it said now, "Don't go home!" What a famous clock, hereafter, if
it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, to this
old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it,
"Don't go home!" With its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters
after seven and ticks on again. "Why, you are worse than I thought
you," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch. "Two
minutes wrong? At this rate you won't last my time." What a watch to
return good for evil if it ticked in answer, "Don't go home!"

He passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behind
him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries,
difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are treasured
up within his old black satin waistcoat. He is in the confidence of
the very bricks and mortar. The high chimney-stacks telegraph family
secrets to him. Yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to
whisper, "Don't go home!"

Through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through the roar
and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with the blazing
shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on, and the
crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way, and
nothing meets him murmuring, "Don't go home!" Arrived at last in his
dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, and see the
Roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no new significance in the
Roman's hand to-night or in the flutter of the attendant groups to
give him the late warning, "Don't come here!"

It is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is only
now rising over the great wilderness of London. The stars are shining
as they shone above the turret-leads at Chesney Wold. This woman, as
he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks out upon them.
Her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart and restless.
The large rooms are too cramped and close. She cannot endure their
restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring garden.

Too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause of much
surprise in those about her as to anything she does, this woman,
loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. Mercury attends with
the key. Having opened the garden-gate, he delivers the key into his
Lady's hands at her request and is bidden to go back. She will walk
there some time to ease her aching head. She may be an hour, she may
be more. She needs no further escort. The gate shuts upon its spring
with a clash, and he leaves her passing on into the dark shade of
some trees.

A fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars. Mr.
Tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar and in opening and shutting
those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like yard. He
looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what a bright large
moon, what multitudes of stars! A quiet night, too.

A very quiet night. When the moon shines very brilliantly, a solitude
and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even crowded
places full of life. Not only is it a still night on dusty high roads
and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in
repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away into a fringe of trees
against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom upon them; not only is
it a still night in gardens and in woods, and on the river where the
water-meadows are fresh and green, and the stream sparkles on among
pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only
does the stillness attend it as it flows where houses cluster thick,
where many bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping
make it black and awful, where it winds from these disfigurements
through marshes whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed
ashore, where it expands through the bolder region of rising grounds,
rich in cornfield wind-mill and steeple, and where it mingles with
the ever-heaving sea; not only is it a still night on the deep, and
on the shore where the watcher stands to see the ship with her spread
wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented to only
him; but even on this stranger's wilderness of London there is some
rest. Its steeples and towers and its one great dome grow more
ethereal; its smoky house-tops lose their grossness in the pale
effulgence; the noises that arise from the streets are fewer and are
softened, and the footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly
away. In these fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the
shepherds play on Chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their
sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have shorn them
exceeding close, every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a
distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.

What's that? Who fired a gun or pistol? Where was it?

The few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. Some
windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. It was a
loud report and echoed and rattled heavily. It shook one house, or so
a man says who was passing. It has aroused all the dogs in the
neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. Terrified cats scamper across the
road. While the dogs are yet barking and howling--there is one dog
howling like a demon--the church-clocks, as if they were startled
too, begin to strike. The hum from the streets, likewise, seems to
swell into a shout. But it is soon over. Before the last clock begins
to strike ten, there is a lull. When it has ceased, the fine night,
the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace
again.

Has Mr. Tulkinghorn been disturbed? His windows are dark and quiet,
and his door is shut. It must be something unusual indeed to bring
him out of his shell. Nothing is heard of him, nothing is seen of
him. What power of cannon might it take to shake that rusty old man
out of his immovable composure?

For many years the persistent Roman has been pointing, with no
particular meaning, from that ceiling. It is not likely that he has
any new meaning in him to-night. Once pointing, always pointing--like
any Roman, or even Briton, with a single idea. There he is, no doubt,
in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night long.
Moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. There he is still, eagerly
pointing, and no one minds him.

But a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the
rooms. And either the Roman has some new meaning in him, not
expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking up
at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, that
person shrieks and flies. The others, looking in as the first one
looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street.

What does it mean? No light is admitted into the darkened chamber,
and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly but heavily,
carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. There is whispering
and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing
of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of
furniture. All eyes look up at the Roman, and all voices murmur, "If
he could only tell what he saw!"

He is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a
glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon after
being lighted. He is pointing at an empty chair and at a stain upon
the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand. These
objects lie directly within his range. An excited imagination might
suppose that there was something in them so terrific as to drive the
rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but
the clouds and flowers and pillars too--in short, the very body and
soul of Allegory, and all the brains it has--stark mad. It happens
surely that every one who comes into the darkened room and looks at
these things looks up at the Roman and that he is invested in all
eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed dumb witness.

So it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly
stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be
covered, so hard to be got out, and that the Roman, pointing from the
ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him,
with far greater significance than he ever had in Mr. Tulkinghorn's
time, and with a deadly meaning. For Mr. Tulkinghorn's time is over
for evermore, and the Roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted
against his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to
morning, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart.




CHAPTER XLIX

Dutiful Friendship


A great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of Mr.
Matthew Bagnet, otherwise Lignum Vitae, ex-artilleryman and present
bassoon-player. An occasion of feasting and festival. The celebration
of a birthday in the family.

It is not Mr. Bagnet's birthday. Mr. Bagnet merely distinguishes that
epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children with
an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after
dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old mother is
thinking about it--a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so
by his mother having departed this life twenty years. Some men rarely
revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their
remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affection
into their mother's name. Mr. Bagnet is one of these. Perhaps his
exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl causes him usually
to make the noun-substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender.

It is not the birthday of one of the three children. Those occasions
are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the
bounds of happy returns and a pudding. On young Woolwich's last
birthday, Mr. Bagnet certainly did, after observing on his growth and
general advancement, proceed, in a moment of profound reflection on
the changes wrought by time, to examine him in the catechism,
accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions number one and two,
"What is your name?" and "Who gave you that name?" but there failing
in the exact precision of his memory and substituting for number
three the question "And how do you like that name?" which he
propounded with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and
improving as to give it quite an orthodox air. This, however, was a
speciality on that particular birthday, and not a general solemnity.

It is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and
reddest-letter day in Mr. Bagnet's calendar. The auspicious event is
always commemorated according to certain forms settled and prescribed
by Mr. Bagnet some years since. Mr. Bagnet, being deeply convinced
that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest
pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in
the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably, taken in
by the vendor and installed in the possession of the oldest
inhabitants of any coop in Europe. Returning with these triumphs of
toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief
(essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites Mrs.
Bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. Mrs.
Bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, replying fowls, Mr.
Bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a place of concealment
amidst general amazement and rejoicing. He further requires that the
old girl shall do nothing all day long but sit in her very best gown
and be served by himself and the young people. As he is not
illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of
state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part, but she keeps her
state with all imaginable cheerfulness.

On this present birthday, Mr. Bagnet has accomplished the usual
preliminaries. He has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if
there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff,
to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by
their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting
of the poultry; and Mrs. Bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers
itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of
ceremony, an honoured guest.

Quebec and Malta lay the cloth for dinner, while Woolwich, serving,
as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. To these
young scullions Mrs. Bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake
of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes.

"At half after one." Says Mr. Bagnet. "To the minute. They'll be
done."

Mrs. Bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill before
the fire and beginning to burn.

"You shall have a dinner, old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Fit for a
queen."

Mrs. Bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception
of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is impelled
by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the
matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of the
fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to
consciousness. Fortunately his elder sister perceives the cause of
the agitation in Mrs. Bagnet's breast and with an admonitory poke
recalls him. The stopped fowls going round again, Mrs. Bagnet closes
her eyes in the intensity of her relief.

"George will look us up," says Mr. Bagnet. "At half after four. To
the moment. How many years, old girl. Has George looked us up. This
afternoon?"

"Ah, Lignum, Lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, I
begin to think. Just about that, and no less," returns Mrs. Bagnet,
laughing and shaking her head.

"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "never mind. You'd be as young as ever
you was. If you wasn't younger. Which you are. As everybody knows."

Quebec and Malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that Bluffy is
sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it
will be.

"Do you know, Lignum," says Mrs. Bagnet, casting a glance on the
table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at Malta with her right eye, and
shaking the pepper away from Quebec with her head, "I begin to think
George is in the roving way again.

"George," returns Mr. Bagnet, "will never desert. And leave his old
comrade. In the lurch. Don't be afraid of it."

"No, Lignum. No. I don't say he will. I don't think he will. But if
he could get over this money trouble of his, I believe he would be
off."

Mr. Bagnet asks why.

"Well," returns his wife, considering, "George seems to me to be
getting not a little impatient and restless. I don't say but what
he's as free as ever. Of course he must be free or he wouldn't be
George, but he smarts and seems put out."

"He's extra-drilled," says Mr. Bagnet. "By a lawyer. Who would put
the devil out."

"There's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is,
Lignum."

Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity
under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of
his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry
humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made
gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion.
With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the
process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every direction,
as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too,
are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming
these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last
dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's
place at his right hand.

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year,
for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of
finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess
is developed in these specimens in the singular form of
guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their
breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their
legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they must have devoted
the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian
exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of
these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most
severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old
girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment on any day, least
of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her
digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks
without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to
understand.

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the
repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept,
and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. The
great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply
themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of
their mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens,
inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the
present. The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering
of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an
expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the
young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs.
Bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. At last
the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec
and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco,
and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl
enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this
delightful entertainment.

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very
near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet
announces, "George! Military time."

It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl
(whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for
Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.

"But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously.
"What's come to you?"

"Come to me?"

"Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Now
don't he, Lignum?"

"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter."

"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand
over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I
do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died
yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over."

"Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is he gone?
Dear, dear!"

"I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk,
but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should
have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making himself speak
more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet."

"You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As
powder."

"And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to
her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch
along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake.
That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."

Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring
leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of
reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet.
"Tell him my opinion of it."

"Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the
beautifullest thing that ever was seen!"

"Good!" says Mr. Bagnet. "My opinion."

"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides
and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice for
me."

"Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinion."

"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says
Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched
out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to
you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in
reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for
good luck, if you will, George."

The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young
Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden,
yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laughing in her
airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap
you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand
shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Would any one believe
this?" says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. "I am so
out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!"

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a
pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the
trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be
got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," says she,
"just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and
the two together MUST do it."

"You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that very
well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues
have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. 'Twas dull
work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him."

"What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under your
roof."

"I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there
he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know
his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped
out of that."

"Ah, poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet.

"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his
heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man's mind.
His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up
in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And
to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end
in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly--it
made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you."

"My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe and
tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the
health altogether."

"You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."

So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses
the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony
of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by himself on these
occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies
having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the
mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers
it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the
assembled company in the following terms.

"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day's
march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards her!"

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns
thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model
composition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!" which
the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a
well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the
present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "Here's a
man!"

Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company,
looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quick keen
man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once,
individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a
remarkable man.

"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?"

"Why, it's Bucket!" cries Mr. George.

"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was going
down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the
musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want
of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a party
enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I
thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George,
at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma'am? And with
you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's
children too! You may do anything with me if you only show me
children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who YOUR
father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!"

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George
and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," says Mr.
Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy in.
Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of
these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of about eight
and ten."

"You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet.

"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of
children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one
mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much
so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do
you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta's
cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do
you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a
second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket's friend, my
dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?"

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet
forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr.
Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive
so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him
that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to see him this
evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.

"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I never heard
of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don't intend to tell
me you've been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for?
You haven't got anything on your mind, you know."

"Nothing particular," returns the trooper.

"I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on
your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR minds,
eh? Not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of the young
fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-spirited. I
ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am."

Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own.

"There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, I
haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as
fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but no. So it
is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine.
What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of that yard, now?"

There is no way out of that yard.

"Ain't there really?" says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thought there
might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyard that
took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank you. No,
I see there's no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it
is!"

Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his
chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately
on the shoulder.

"How are your spirits now, George?"

"All right now," returns the trooper.

"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever have been
otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to
be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of spirits, is it,
ma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind, you know, George;
what could you have on your mind!"

Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety
of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it
to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly
his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief
eclipse and shines again.

"And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referring to
Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young Woolwich.
"And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say. For he's too
old to be your boy, ma'am."

"I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's," returns
Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.

"Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying.
Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the
brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!" Mr. Bucket compares the
faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid
satisfaction.

This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy is
George's godson.

"George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme cordiality.
"I must shake hands over again with George's godson. Godfather and
godson do credit to one another. And what do you intend to make of
him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for any musical instrument?"

Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the fife. Beautiful."

"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by the
coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not in
a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless you!
'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishman up! COULD
you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call
upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and performs
the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket, much
enlivened, beats time and never fails to come in sharp with the
burden, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so much musical
taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to
express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives the
harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once
chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom,
and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is
asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening,
he complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young
Charms." This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers to have
been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs. Bucket when a
maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar--Mr. Bucket's own
words are "to come up to the scratch."

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the
evening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of pleasure
on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of
him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to
get on with, that it is something to have made him known there. Mr.
Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his
acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the old
girl's next birthday. If anything can more closely cement and
consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family, it
is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. He drinks to Mrs.
Bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that
day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day
in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope
that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner,
sisters. As he says himself, what is public life without private
ties? He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that
sphere that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the
confines of domestic bliss.

It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn,
should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an
acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever the
subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He waits
to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots and
observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits smoking
cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket,
with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes upon the
children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken
for an absent friend.

"Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you
recommend me such a thing?"

"Scores," says Mr. Bagnet.

"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand.
"You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a
regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the
rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't," says
Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn't commit
yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay too large
a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage
and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair. Every man
must live, and ought to it."

Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they
have found a jewel of price.

"Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten
to-morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few
wiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite
information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability
of having a small stock collected there for approval.

"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, ma'am. Good
night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for
one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."

They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he
has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions
of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," says Mr. Bucket,
taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As they go down the
little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them,
Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket "almost
clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him."

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little
inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George
therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot
make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "Wait half
a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first." Immediately
afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour,
where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is
friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have
endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to you
whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody,
George."

"Custody? What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case
upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, is
one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform you
that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against
you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don't happen to
have heard of a murder?"

"Murder!"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an
impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I
ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I say,
you don't happen to have heard of a murder?"

"No. Where has there been a murder?"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself.
I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder
in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was
shot last night. I want you for that."

The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out
upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and
that you suspect ME?"

"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it is
certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last
night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten
o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt."

"Last night! Last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then it
flashes upon him. "Why, great heaven, I was there last night!"

"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with great
deliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been very often
there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've been
heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible--I
don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--that he may
have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous
fellow."

The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.

"Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table
with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise,
"my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant.
I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a hundred guineas,
offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always
been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if
that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as
any other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear
to you that I must have you, and that I'm damned if I don't have you.
Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?"

Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier.
"Come," he says; "I am ready."

"George," continues Mr. Bucket, "wait a bit!" With his upholsterer
manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes
from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge,
George, and such is my duty."

The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out his
two hands, clasped together, and says, "There! Put them on!"

Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Are they
comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as
is consistent with my duty, and I've got another pair in my pocket."
This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anxious to
execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his
customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see,
George"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about
the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of your feelings when I come out,
and brought this on purpose. There! Who's the wiser?"

"Only I," returns the trooper, "but as I know it, do me one more good
turn and pull my hat over my eyes."

"Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain't it a pity? It looks so."

"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on," Mr.
George hurriedly replies. "Do, for God's sake, pull my hat forward."

So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and
conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as
steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket
steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.




CHAPTER L

Esther's Narrative


It happened that when I came home from Deal I found a note from Caddy
Jellyby (as we always continued to call her), informing me that her
health, which had been for some time very delicate, was worse and
that she would be more glad than she could tell me if I would go to
see her. It was a note of a few lines, written from the couch on
which she lay and enclosed to me in another from her husband, in
which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude. Caddy was now
the mother, and I the godmother, of such a poor little baby--such a
tiny old-faced mite, with a countenance that seemed to be scarcely
anything but cap-border, and a little lean, long-fingered hand,
always clenched under its chin. It would lie in this attitude all
day, with its bright specks of eyes open, wondering (as I used to
imagine) how it came to be so small and weak. Whenever it was moved
it cried, but at all other times it was so patient that the sole
desire of its life appeared to be to lie quiet and think. It had
curious little dark veins in its face and curious little dark marks
under its eyes like faint remembrances of poor Caddy's inky days, and
altogether, to those who were not used to it, it was quite a piteous
little sight.

But it was enough for Caddy that SHE was used to it. The projects
with which she beguiled her illness, for little Esther's education,
and little Esther's marriage, and even for her own old age as the
grandmother of little Esther's little Esthers, was so prettily
expressive of devotion to this pride of her life that I should be
tempted to recall some of them but for the timely remembrance that I
am getting on irregularly as it is.

To return to the letter. Caddy had a superstition about me which had
been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long ago when
she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. She almost--I think I
must say quite--believed that I did her good whenever I was near her.
Now although this was such a fancy of the affectionate girl's that I
am almost ashamed to mention it, still it might have all the force of
a fact when she was really ill. Therefore I set off to Caddy, with my
guardian's consent, post-haste; and she and Prince made so much of me
that there never was anything like it.

Next day I went again to sit with her, and next day I went again. It
was a very easy journey, for I had only to rise a little earlier in
the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to housekeeping matters
before leaving home.

But when I had made these three visits, my guardian said to me, on my
return at night, "Now, little woman, little woman, this will never
do. Constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant coaching
will wear out a Dame Durden. We will go to London for a while and
take possession of our old lodgings."

"Not for me, dear guardian," said I, "for I never feel tired," which
was strictly true. I was only too happy to be in such request.

"For me then," returned my guardian, "or for Ada, or for both of us.
It is somebody's birthday to-morrow, I think."

"Truly I think it is," said I, kissing my darling, who would be
twenty-one to-morrow.

"Well," observed my guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously,
"that's a great occasion and will give my fair cousin some necessary
business to transact in assertion of her independence, and will make
London a more convenient place for all of us. So to London we will
go. That being settled, there is another thing--how have you left
Caddy?"

"Very unwell, guardian. I fear it will be some time before she
regains her health and strength."

"What do you call some time, now?" asked my guardian thoughtfully.

"Some weeks, I am afraid."

"Ah!" He began to walk about the room with his hands in his pockets,
showing that he had been thinking as much. "Now, what do you say
about her doctor? Is he a good doctor, my love?"

I felt obliged to confess that I knew nothing to the contrary but
that Prince and I had agreed only that evening that we would like his
opinion to be confirmed by some one.

"Well, you know," returned my guardian quickly, "there's Woodcourt."

I had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. For a moment
all that I had had in my mind in connexion with Mr. Woodcourt seemed
to come back and confuse me.

"You don't object to him, little woman?"

"Object to him, guardian? Oh no!"

"And you don't think the patient would object to him?"

So far from that, I had no doubt of her being prepared to have a
great reliance on him and to like him very much. I said that he was
no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often in his kind
attendance on Miss Flite.

"Very good," said my guardian. "He has been here to-day, my dear, and
I will see him about it to-morrow."

I felt in this short conversation--though I did not know how, for she
was quiet, and we interchanged no look--that my dear girl well
remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist when no
other hands than Caddy's had brought me the little parting token.
This caused me to feel that I ought to tell her, and Caddy too, that
I was going to be the mistress of Bleak House and that if I avoided
that disclosure any longer I might become less worthy in my own eyes
of its master's love. Therefore, when we went upstairs and had waited
listening until the clock struck twelve in order that only I might be
the first to wish my darling all good wishes on her birthday and to
take her to my heart, I set before her, just as I had set before
myself, the goodness and honour of her cousin John and the happy life
that was in store for me. If ever my darling were fonder of me at
one time than another in all our intercourse, she was surely fondest
of me that night. And I was so rejoiced to know it and so comforted
by the sense of having done right in casting this last idle
reservation away that I was ten times happier than I had been before.
I had scarcely thought it a reservation a few hours ago, but now that
it was gone I felt as if I understood its nature better.

Next day we went to London. We found our old lodging vacant, and in
half an hour were quietly established there, as if we had never gone
away. Mr. Woodcourt dined with us to celebrate my darling's birthday,
and we were as pleasant as we could be with the great blank among us
that Richard's absence naturally made on such an occasion. After that
day I was for some weeks--eight or nine as I remember--very much with
Caddy, and thus it fell out that I saw less of Ada at this time than
any other since we had first come together, except the time of my own
illness. She often came to Caddy's, but our function there was to
amuse and cheer her, and we did not talk in our usual confidential
manner. Whenever I went home at night we were together, but Caddy's
rest was broken by pain, and I often remained to nurse her.

With her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love and their
home to strive for, what a good creature Caddy was! So self-denying,
so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their account, so afraid
of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the unassisted labours of her
husband and the comforts of old Mr. Turveydrop; I had never known the
best of her until now. And it seemed so curious that her pale face
and helpless figure should be lying there day after day where dancing
was the business of life, where the kit and the apprentices began
early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy
waltzed by himself in the kitchen all the afternoon.

At Caddy's request I took the supreme direction of her apartment,
trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter and more
airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then, every
day, when we were in our neatest array, I used to lay my small small
namesake in her arms and sit down to chat or work or read to her. It
was at one of the first of these quiet times that I told Caddy about
Bleak House.

We had other visitors besides Ada. First of all we had Prince, who in
his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sit
softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for Caddy and the very
little child. Whatever Caddy's condition really was, she never failed
to declare to Prince that she was all but well--which I, heaven
forgive me, never failed to confirm. This would put Prince in such
good spirits that he would sometimes take the kit from his pocket and
play a chord or two to astonish the baby, which I never knew it to do
in the least degree, for my tiny namesake never noticed it at all.

Then there was Mrs. Jellyby. She would come occasionally, with her
usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles beyond her
grandchild as if her attention were absorbed by a young Borrioboolan
on its native shores. As bright-eyed as ever, as serene, and as
untidy, she would say, "Well, Caddy, child, and how do you do
to-day?" And then would sit amiably smiling and taking no notice of
the reply or would sweetly glide off into a calculation of the number
of letters she had lately received and answered or of the
coffee-bearing power of Borrioboola-Gha. This she would always do
with a serene contempt for our limited sphere of action, not to be
disguised.

Then there was old Mr. Turveydrop, who was from morning to night and
from night to morning the subject of innumerable precautions. If the
baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should make him
uncomfortable. If the fire wanted stirring in the night, it was
surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. If Caddy
required any little comfort that the house contained, she first
carefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too. In
return for this consideration he would come into the room once a day,
all but blessing it--showing a condescension, and a patronage, and a
grace of manner in dispensing the light of his high-shouldered
presence from which I might have supposed him (if I had not known
better) to have been the benefactor of Caddy's life.

"My Caroline," he would say, making the nearest approach that he
could to bending over her. "Tell me that you are better to-day."

"Oh, much better, thank you, Mr. Turveydrop," Caddy would reply.

"Delighted! Enchanted! And our dear Miss Summerson. She is not quite
prostrated by fatigue?" Here he would crease up his eyelids and kiss
his fingers to me, though I am happy to say he had ceased to be
particular in his attentions since I had been so altered.

"Not at all," I would assure him.

"Charming! We must take care of our dear Caroline, Miss Summerson. We
must spare nothing that will restore her. We must nourish her. My
dear Caroline"--he would turn to his daughter-in-law with infinite
generosity and protection--"want for nothing, my love. Frame a wish
and gratify it, my daughter. Everything this house contains,
everything my room contains, is at your service, my dear. Do not," he
would sometimes add in a burst of deportment, "even allow my simple
requirements to be considered if they should at any time interfere
with your own, my Caroline. Your necessities are greater than mine."

He had established such a long prescriptive right to this deportment
(his son's inheritance from his mother) that I several times knew
both Caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by these
affectionate self-sacrifices.

"Nay, my dears," he would remonstrate; and when I saw Caddy's thin
arm about his fat neck as he said it, I would be melted too, though
not by the same process. "Nay, nay! I have promised never to leave
ye. Be dutiful and affectionate towards me, and I ask no other
return. Now, bless ye! I am going to the Park."

He would take the air there presently and get an appetite for his
hotel dinner. I hope I do old Mr. Turveydrop no wrong, but I never
saw any better traits in him than these I faithfully record, except
that he certainly conceived a liking for Peepy and would take the
child out walking with great pomp, always on those occasions sending
him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionally with a
halfpenny in his pocket. But even this disinterestedness was attended
with no inconsiderable cost, to my knowledge, for before Peepy was
sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand with the professor of
deportment, he had to be newly dressed, at the expense of Caddy and
her husband, from top to toe.

Last of our visitors, there was Mr. Jellyby. Really when he used to
come in of an evening, and ask Caddy in his meek voice how she was,
and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make no attempt
to say anything more, I liked him very much. If he found me bustling
about doing any little thing, he sometimes half took his coat off, as
if with an intention of helping by a great exertion; but he never got
any further. His sole occupation was to sit with his head against the
wall, looking hard at the thoughtful baby; and I could not quite
divest my mind of a fancy that they understood one another.

I have not counted Mr. Woodcourt among our visitors because he was
now Caddy's regular attendant. She soon began to improve under his
care, but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in the pains he
took that it is not to be wondered at, I am sure. I saw a good deal
of Mr. Woodcourt during this time, though not so much as might be
supposed, for knowing Caddy to be safe in his hands, I often slipped
home at about the hours when he was expected. We frequently met,
notwithstanding. I was quite reconciled to myself now, but I still
felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, and he still WAS sorry
for me I believed. He helped Mr. Badger in his professional
engagements, which were numerous, and had as yet no settled projects
for the future.

It was when Caddy began to recover that I began to notice a change in
my dear girl. I cannot say how it first presented itself to me,
because I observed it in many slight particulars which were nothing
in themselves and only became something when they were pieced
together. But I made it out, by putting them together, that Ada was
not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. Her tenderness for
me was as loving and true as ever; I did not for a moment doubt that;
but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she did not confide to
me, and in which I traced some hidden regret.

Now, I could not understand this, and I was so anxious for the
happiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and set me
thinking often. At length, feeling sure that Ada suppressed this
something from me lest it should make me unhappy too, it came into my
head that she was a little grieved--for me--by what I had told her
about Bleak House.

How I persuaded myself that this was likely, I don't know. I had no
idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. I was not
grieved for myself: I was quite contented and quite happy. Still,
that Ada might be thinking--for me, though I had abandoned all such
thoughts--of what once was, but was now all changed, seemed so easy
to believe that I believed it.

What could I do to reassure my darling (I considered then) and show
her that I had no such feelings? Well! I could only be as brisk and
busy as possible, and that I had tried to be all along. However, as
Caddy's illness had certainly interfered, more or less, with my home
duties--though I had always been there in the morning to make my
guardian's breakfast, and he had a hundred times laughed and said
there must be two little women, for his little woman was never
missing--I resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. So I went about
the house humming all the tunes I knew, and I sat working and working
in a desperate manner, and I talked and talked, morning, noon, and
night.

And still there was the same shade between me and my darling.

"So, Dame Trot," observed my guardian, shutting up his book one night
when we were all three together, "so Woodcourt has restored Caddy
Jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?"

"Yes," I said; "and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers is to be
made rich, guardian."

"I wish it was," he returned, "with all my heart."

So did I too, for that matter. I said so.

"Aye! We would make him as rich as a Jew if we knew how. Would we
not, little woman?"

I laughed as I worked and replied that I was not sure about that, for
it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and there might be
many who could ill spare him. As Miss Flite, and Caddy herself, and
many others.

"True," said my guardian. "I had forgotten that. But we would agree
to make him rich enough to live, I suppose? Rich enough to work with
tolerable peace of mind? Rich enough to have his own happy home and
his own household gods--and household goddess, too, perhaps?"

That was quite another thing, I said. We must all agree in that.

"To be sure," said my guardian. "All of us. I have a great regard for
Woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and I have been sounding him
delicately about his plans. It is difficult to offer aid to an
independent man with that just kind of pride which he possesses. And
yet I would be glad to do it if I might or if I knew how. He seems
half inclined for another voyage. But that appears like casting such
a man away."

"It might open a new world to him," said I.

"So it might, little woman," my guardian assented. "I doubt if he
expects much of the old world. Do you know I have fancied that he
sometimes feels some particular disappointment or misfortune
encountered in it. You never heard of anything of that sort?"

I shook my head.

"Humph," said my guardian. "I am mistaken, I dare say." As there was
a little pause here, which I thought, for my dear girl's
satisfaction, had better be filled up, I hummed an air as I worked
which was a favourite with my guardian.

"And do you think Mr. Woodcourt will make another voyage?" I asked
him when I had hummed it quietly all through.

"I don't quite know what to think, my dear, but I should say it was
likely at present that he will give a long trip to another country."

"I am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him
wherever he goes," said I; "and though they are not riches, he will
never be the poorer for them, guardian, at least."

"Never, little woman," he replied.

I was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian's
chair. That had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was
now. I looked up to Ada, who was sitting opposite, and I saw, as she
looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears and that tears
were falling down her face. I felt that I had only to be placid and
merry once for all to undeceive my dear and set her loving heart at
rest. I really was so, and I had nothing to do but to be myself.

So I made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder--how little thinking
what was heavy on her mind!--and I said she was not quite well, and
put my arm about her, and took her upstairs. When we were in our own
room, and when she might perhaps have told me what I was so
unprepared to hear, I gave her no encouragement to confide in me; I
never thought she stood in need of it.

"Oh, my dear good Esther," said Ada, "if I could only make up my mind
to speak to you and my cousin John when you are together!"

"Why, my love!" I remonstrated. "Ada, why should you not speak to
us!"

Ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart.

"You surely don't forget, my beauty," said I, smiling, "what quiet,
old-fashioned people we are and how I have settled down to be the
discreetest of dames? You don't forget how happily and peacefully my
life is all marked out for me, and by whom? I am certain that you
don't forget by what a noble character, Ada. That can never be."

"No, never, Esther."

"Why then, my dear," said I, "there can be nothing amiss--and why
should you not speak to us?"

"Nothing amiss, Esther?" returned Ada. "Oh, when I think of all these
years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the old
relations among us, and of you, what shall I do, what shall I do!"

I looked at my child in some wonder, but I thought it better not to
answer otherwise than by cheering her, and so I turned off into many
little recollections of our life together and prevented her from
saying more. When she lay down to sleep, and not before, I returned
to my guardian to say good night, and then I came back to Ada and sat
near her for a little while.

She was asleep, and I thought as I looked at her that she was a
little changed. I had thought so more than once lately. I could not
decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, how she was
changed, but something in the familiar beauty of her face looked
different to me. My guardian's old hopes of her and Richard arose
sorrowfully in my mind, and I said to myself, "She has been anxious
about him," and I wondered how that love would end.

When I had come home from Caddy's while she was ill, I had often
found Ada at work, and she had always put her work away, and I had
never known what it was. Some of it now lay in a drawer near her,
which was not quite closed. I did not open the drawer, but I still
rather wondered what the work could be, for it was evidently nothing
for herself.

And I noticed as I kissed my dear that she lay with one hand under
her pillow so that it was hidden.

How much less amiable I must have been than they thought me, how much
less amiable than I thought myself, to be so preoccupied with my own
cheerfulness and contentment as to think that it only rested with me
to put my dear girl right and set her mind at peace!

But I lay down, self-deceived, in that belief. And I awoke in it next
day to find that there was still the same shade between me and my
darling.




CHAPTER LI

Enlightened


When Mr. Woodcourt arrived in London, he went, that very same day, to
Mr. Vholes's in Symond's Inn. For he never once, from the moment when
I entreated him to be a friend to Richard, neglected or forgot his
promise. He had told me that he accepted the charge as a sacred
trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit.

He found Mr. Vholes in his office and informed Mr. Vholes of his
agreement with Richard that he should call there to learn his
address.

"Just so, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Mr. C.'s address is not a hundred
miles from here, sir, Mr. C.'s address is not a hundred miles from
here. Would you take a seat, sir?"

Mr. Woodcourt thanked Mr. Vholes, but he had no business with him
beyond what he had mentioned.

"Just so, sir. I believe, sir," said Mr. Vholes, still quietly
insisting on the seat by not giving the address, "that you have
influence with Mr. C. Indeed I am aware that you have."

"I was not aware of it myself," returned Mr. Woodcourt; "but I
suppose you know best."

"Sir," rejoined Mr. Vholes, self-contained as usual, voice and all,
"it is a part of my professional duty to know best. It is a part of
my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman who
confides his interests to me. In my professional duty I shall not be
wanting, sir, if I know it. I may, with the best intentions, be
wanting in it without knowing it; but not if I know it, sir."

Mr. Woodcourt again mentioned the address.

"Give me leave, sir," said Mr. Vholes. "Bear with me for a moment.
Sir, Mr. C. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot play
without--need I say what?"

"Money, I presume?"

"Sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to be honest with you (honesty being my
golden rule, whether I gain by it or lose, and I find that I
generally lose), money is the word. Now, sir, upon the chances of Mr.
C.'s game I express to you no opinion, NO opinion. It might be highly
impolitic in Mr. C., after playing so long and so high, to leave off;
it might be the reverse; I say nothing. No, sir," said Mr. Vholes,
bringing his hand flat down upon his desk in a positive manner,
"nothing."

"You seem to forget," returned Mr. Woodcourt, "that I ask you to say
nothing and have no interest in anything you say."

"Pardon me, sir!" retorted Mr. Vholes. "You do yourself an injustice.
No, sir! Pardon me! You shall not--shall not in my office, if I know
it--do yourself an injustice. You are interested in anything, and in
everything, that relates to your friend. I know human nature much
better, sir, than to admit for an instant that a gentleman of your
appearance is not interested in whatever concerns his friend."

"Well," replied Mr. Woodcourt, "that may be. I am particularly
interested in his address."

"The number, sir," said Mr. Vholes parenthetically, "I believe I have
already mentioned. If Mr. C. is to continue to play for this
considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. Understand me! There are
funds in hand at present. I ask for nothing; there are funds in hand.
But for the onward play, more funds must be provided, unless Mr. C.
is to throw away what he has already ventured, which is wholly and
solely a point for his consideration. This, sir, I take the
opportunity of stating openly to you as the friend of Mr. C. Without
funds I shall always be happy to appear and act for Mr. C. to the
extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate,
not beyond that. I could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging
some one. I must either wrong my three dear girls or my venerable
father, who is entirely dependent on me, in the Vale of Taunton; or
some one. Whereas, sir, my resolution is (call it weakness or folly
if you please) to wrong no one."

Mr. Woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear it.

"I wish, sir," said Mr. Vholes, "to leave a good name behind me.
Therefore I take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend of
Mr. C. how Mr. C. is situated. As to myself, sir, the labourer is
worthy of his hire. If I undertake to put my shoulder to the wheel, I
do it, and I earn what I get. I am here for that purpose. My name is
painted on the door outside, with that object."

"And Mr. Carstone's address, Mr. Vholes?"

"Sir," returned Mr. Vholes, "as I believe I have already mentioned,
it is next door. On the second story you will find Mr. C.'s
apartments. Mr. C. desires to be near his professional adviser, and I
am far from objecting, for I court inquiry."

Upon this Mr. Woodcourt wished Mr. Vholes good day and went in search
of Richard, the change in whose appearance he began to understand now
but too well.

He found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished, much as I had found
him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that he was
not writing but was sitting with a book before him, from which his
eyes and thoughts were far astray. As the door chanced to be standing
open, Mr. Woodcourt was in his presence for some moments without
being perceived, and he told me that he never could forget the
haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner before he was
aroused from his dream.

"Woodcourt, my dear fellow," cried Richard, starting up with extended
hands, "you come upon my vision like a ghost."

"A friendly one," he replied, "and only waiting, as they say ghosts
do, to be addressed. How does the mortal world go?" They were seated
now, near together.

"Badly enough, and slowly enough," said Richard, "speaking at least
for my part of it."

"What part is that?"

"The Chancery part."

"I never heard," returned Mr. Woodcourt, shaking his head, "of its
going well yet."

"Nor I," said Richard moodily. "Who ever did?" He brightened again in
a moment and said with his natural openness, "Woodcourt, I should be
sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if I gained by it in your
estimation. You must know that I have done no good this long time. I
have not intended to do much harm, but I seem to have been capable of
nothing else. It may be that I should have done better by keeping out
of the net into which my destiny has worked me, but I think not,
though I dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard,
a very different opinion. To make short of a long story, I am afraid
I have wanted an object; but I have an object now--or it has me--and
it is too late to discuss it. Take me as I am, and make the best of
me."

"A bargain," said Mr. Woodcourt. "Do as much by me in return."

"Oh! You," returned Richard, "you can pursue your art for its own
sake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and can
strike a purpose out of anything. You and I are very different
creatures."

He spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his weary
condition.

"Well, well!" he cried, shaking it off. "Everything has an end. We
shall see! So you will take me as I am, and make the best of me?"

"Aye! Indeed I will." They shook hands upon it laughingly, but in
deep earnestness. I can answer for one of them with my heart of
hearts.

"You come as a godsend," said Richard, "for I have seen nobody here
yet but Vholes. Woodcourt, there is one subject I should like to
mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. You
can hardly make the best of me if I don't. You know, I dare say, that
I have an attachment to my cousin Ada?"

Mr. Woodcourt replied that I had hinted as much to him. "Now pray,"
returned Richard, "don't think me a heap of selfishness. Don't
suppose that I am splitting my head and half breaking my heart over
this miserable Chancery suit for my own rights and interests alone.
Ada's are bound up with mine; they can't be separated; Vholes works
for both of us. Do think of that!"

He was so very solicitous on this head that Mr. Woodcourt gave him
the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice.

"You see," said Richard, with something pathetic in his manner of
lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, "to an
upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours here, I
cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. I want to see
Ada righted, Woodcourt, as well as myself; I want to do my utmost to
right her, as well as myself; I venture what I can scrape together to
extricate her, as well as myself. Do, I beseech you, think of that!"

Afterwards, when Mr. Woodcourt came to reflect on what had passed, he
was so very much impressed by the strength of Richard's anxiety on
this point that in telling me generally of his first visit to
Symond's Inn he particularly dwelt upon it. It revived a fear I had
had before that my dear girl's little property would be absorbed by
Mr. Vholes and that Richard's justification to himself would be
sincerely this. It was just as I began to take care of Caddy that the
interview took place, and I now return to the time when Caddy had
recovered and the shade was still between me and my darling.

I proposed to Ada that morning that we should go and see Richard. It
a little surprised me to find that she hesitated and was not so
radiantly willing as I had expected.

"My dear," said I, "you have not had any difference with Richard
since I have been so much away?"

"No, Esther."

"Not heard of him, perhaps?" said I.

"Yes, I have heard of him," said Ada.

Such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. I could not make
my darling out. Should I go to Richard's by myself? I said. No, Ada
thought I had better not go by myself. Would she go with me? Yes, Ada
thought she had better go with me. Should we go now? Yes, let us go
now. Well, I could not understand my darling, with the tears in her
eyes and the love in her face!

We were soon equipped and went out. It was a sombre day, and drops of
chill rain fell at intervals. It was one of those colourless days
when everything looks heavy and harsh. The houses frowned at us, the
dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, nothing made any compromise
about itself or wore a softened aspect. I fancied my beautiful girl
quite out of place in the rugged streets, and I thought there were
more funerals passing along the dismal pavements than I had ever seen
before.

We had first to find out Symond's Inn. We were going to inquire in a
shop when Ada said she thought it was near Chancery Lane. "We are not
likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that direction," said I.
So to Chancery Lane we went, and there, sure enough, we saw it
written up. Symond's Inn.

We had next to find out the number. "Or Mr. Vholes's office will do,"
I recollected, "for Mr. Vholes's office is next door." Upon which Ada
said, perhaps that was Mr. Vholes's office in the corner there. And
it really was.

Then came the question, which of the two next doors? I was going for
the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my darling was
right again. So up we went to the second story, when we came to
Richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel.

I should have knocked, but Ada said perhaps we had better turn the
handle and go in. Thus we came to Richard, poring over a table
covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dusty
mirrors reflecting his own mind. Wherever I looked I saw the ominous
words that ran in it repeated. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

He received us very affectionately, and we sat down. "If you had come
a little earlier," he said, "you would have found Woodcourt here.
There never was such a good fellow as Woodcourt is. He finds time to
look in between-whiles, when anybody else with half his work to do
would be thinking about not being able to come. And he is so cheery,
so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so--everything that I am not, that
the place brightens whenever he comes, and darkens whenever he goes
again."

"God bless him," I thought, "for his truth to me!"

"He is not so sanguine, Ada," continued Richard, casting his dejected
look over the bundles of papers, "as Vholes and I are usually, but he
is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries. We have gone into
them, and he has not. He can't be expected to know much of such a
labyrinth."

As his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his two
hands over his head, I noticed how sunken and how large his eyes
appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were all
bitten away.

"Is this a healthy place to live in, Richard, do you think?" said I.

"Why, my dear Minerva," answered Richard with his old gay laugh, "it
is neither a rural nor a cheerful place; and when the sun shines
here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shining brightly in
an open spot. But it's well enough for the time. It's near the
offices and near Vholes."

"Perhaps," I hinted, "a change from both--"

"Might do me good?" said Richard, forcing a laugh as he finished the
sentence. "I shouldn't wonder! But it can only come in one way
now--in one of two ways, I should rather say. Either the suit must be
ended, Esther, or the suitor. But it shall be the suit, my dear girl,
the suit, my dear girl!"

These latter words were addressed to Ada, who was sitting nearest to
him. Her face being turned away from me and towards him, I could not
see it.

"We are doing very well," pursued Richard. "Vholes will tell you so.
We are really spinning along. Ask Vholes. We are giving them no rest.
Vholes knows all their windings and turnings, and we are upon them
everywhere. We have astonished them already. We shall rouse up that
nest of sleepers, mark my words!"

His hopefulness had long been more painful to me than his
despondency; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so fierce in
its determination to be it, was so hungry and eager, and yet so
conscious of being forced and unsustainable that it had long touched
me to the heart. But the commentary upon it now indelibly written in
his handsome face made it far more distressing than it used to be. I
say indelibly, for I felt persuaded that if the fatal cause could
have been for ever terminated, according to his brightest visions, in
that same hour, the traces of the premature anxiety, self-reproach,
and disappointment it had occasioned him would have remained upon his
features to the hour of his death.

"The sight of our dear little woman," said Richard, Ada still
remaining silent and quiet, "is so natural to me, and her
compassionate face is so like the face of old days--"

Ah! No, no. I smiled and shook my head.

"--So exactly like the face of old days," said Richard in his cordial
voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard which nothing
ever changed, "that I can't make pretences with her. I fluctuate a
little; that's the truth. Sometimes I hope, my dear, and sometimes
I--don't quite despair, but nearly. I get," said Richard,
relinquishing my hand gently and walking across the room, "so tired!"

He took a few turns up and down and sunk upon the sofa. "I get," he
repeated gloomily, "so tired. It is such weary, weary work!"

He was leaning on his arm saying these words in a meditative voice
and looking at the ground when my darling rose, put off her bonnet,
kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlight on
his head, clasped her two arms round his neck, and turned her face to
me. Oh, what a loving and devoted face I saw!

"Esther, dear," she said very quietly, "I am not going home again."

A light shone in upon me all at once.

"Never any more. I am going to stay with my dear husband. We have
been married above two months. Go home without me, my own Esther; I
shall never go home any more!" With those words my darling drew his
head down on her breast and held it there. And if ever in my life I
saw a love that nothing but death could change, I saw it then before
me.

"Speak to Esther, my dearest," said Richard, breaking the silence
presently. "Tell her how it was."

I met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms. We
neither of us spoke, but with her cheek against my own I wanted to
hear nothing. "My pet," said I. "My love. My poor, poor girl!" I
pitied her so much. I was very fond of Richard, but the impulse that
I had upon me was to pity her so much.

"Esther, will you forgive me? Will my cousin John forgive me?"

"My dear," said I, "to doubt it for a moment is to do him a great
wrong. And as to me!" Why, as to me, what had I to forgive!

I dried my sobbing darling's eyes and sat beside her on the sofa, and
Richard sat on my other side; and while I was reminded of that so
different night when they had first taken me into their confidence
and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they told me between
them how it was.

"All I had was Richard's," Ada said; "and Richard would not take it,
Esther, and what could I do but be his wife when I loved him dearly!"

"And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent Dame
Durden," said Richard, "that how could we speak to you at such a
time! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We went out one
morning and were married."

"And when it was done, Esther," said my darling, "I was always
thinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. And sometimes I
thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes I thought you
ought not to know it and keep it from my cousin John; and I could not
tell what to do, and I fretted very much."

How selfish I must have been not to have thought of this before! I
don't know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I was so fond of
them and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied them so much,
and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one another. I never
had experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at one time, and
in my own heart I did not know which predominated. But I was not
there to darken their way; I did not do that.

When I was less foolish and more composed, my darling took her
wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. Then I
remembered last night and told Richard that ever since her marriage
she had worn it at night when there was no one to see. Then Ada
blushingly asked me how did I know that, my dear. Then I told Ada how
I had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had little thought
why, my dear. Then they began telling me how it was all over again,
and I began to be sorry and glad again, and foolish again, and to
hide my plain old face as much as I could lest I should put them out
of heart.

Thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think of
returning. When that time arrived it was the worst of all, for then
my darling completely broke down. She clung round my neck, calling me
by every dear name she could think of and saying what should she do
without me! Nor was Richard much better; and as for me, I should have
been the worst of the three if I had not severely said to myself,
"Now Esther, if you do, I'll never speak to you again!"

"Why, I declare," said I, "I never saw such a wife. I don't think she
loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, for goodness'
sake." But I held her tight all the while, and could have wept over
her I don't know how long.

"I give this dear young couple notice," said I, "that I am only going
away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always coming
backwards and forwards until Symond's Inn is tired of the sight of
me. So I shall not say good-bye, Richard. For what would be the use
of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!"

I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but I lingered
for one more look of the precious face which it seemed to rive my
heart to turn from.

So I said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave me some
encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could take that
liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smiling through
her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands, and gave it
one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away.

And when I got downstairs, oh, how I cried! It almost seemed to me
that I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blank without
her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hope of seeing
her there, that I could get no comfort for a little while as I walked
up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.

I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took a coach
home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had reappeared a
short time before and was lying at the point of death; indeed, was
then dead, though I did not know it. My guardian had gone out to
inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Being quite alone, I
cried a little again, though on the whole I don't think I behaved so
very, very ill.

It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to the loss
of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long time after
years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene in which
I had left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowed
stony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her and taking some
sort of care of her, that I determined to go back in the evening only
to look up at her windows.

It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so to me,
and it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into my
confidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came to the
new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behind the
yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times, looking
up, and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who came out of his
office while we were there and turned his head to look up too before
going home. The sight of his lank black figure and the lonesome air
of that nook in the dark were favourable to the state of my mind. I
thought of the youth and love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in
such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place.

It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I might
safely steal upstairs. I left Charley below and went up with a light
foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil lanterns on the
way. I listened for a few moments, and in the musty rotting silence
of the house believed that I could hear the murmur of their young
voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like panel of the door as a kiss
for my dear and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these
days I would confess to the visit.

And it really did me good, for though nobody but Charley and I knew
anything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished the
separation between Ada and me and had brought us together again for
those moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to the change,
but all the better for that hovering about my darling.

My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the dark
window. When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat, but
he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.

"Little woman," said he, "You have been crying."

"Why, yes, guardian," said I, "I am afraid I have been, a little. Ada
has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian."

I put my arm on the back of his chair, and I saw in his glance that
my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him.

"Is she married, my dear?"

I told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referred to
his forgiveness.

"She has no need of it," said he. "Heaven bless her and her husband!"
But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, so was his. "Poor
girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!"

Neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, "Well,
well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast."

"But its mistress remains, guardian." Though I was timid about saying
it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he had spoken.
"She will do all she can to make it happy," said I.

"She will succeed, my love!"

The letter had made no difference between us except that the seat by
his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned his old
bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in his old
way, and said again, "She will succeed, my dear. Nevertheless, Bleak
House is thinning fast, O little woman!"

I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I was
rather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all I had
meant to be since the letter and the answer.




CHAPTER LII

Obstinacy


But one other day had intervened when, early in the morning as we
were going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with the
astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which
Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody. When he told us
that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for the
murderer's apprehension, I did not in my first consternation
understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the
murdered person was Sir Leicester's lawyer, and immediately my
mother's dread of him rushed into my remembrance.

This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long watched
and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her, one for
whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, always dreading in
him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awful that my first
thoughts were of her. How appalling to hear of such a death and be
able to feel no pity! How dreadful to remember, perhaps, that she had
sometimes even wished the old man away who was so swiftly hurried out
of life!

Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I always
felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that I could
scarcely hold my place at the table. I was quite unable to follow the
conversation until I had had a little time to recover. But when I
came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and found that
they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and recalling every
favourable impression we had formed of him out of the good we had
known of him, my interest and my fears were so strongly aroused in
his behalf that I was quite set up again.

"Guardian, you don't think it possible that he is justly accused?"

"My dear, I CAN'T think so. This man whom we have seen so
open-hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the
gentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever lived and
is so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of such a
crime? I can't believe it. It's not that I don't or I won't. I
can't!"

"And I can't," said Mr. Woodcourt. "Still, whatever we believe or
know of him, we had better not forget that some appearances are
against him. He bore an animosity towards the deceased gentleman. He
has openly mentioned it in many places. He is said to have expressed
himself violently towards him, and he certainly did about him, to my
knowledge. He admits that he was alone on the scene of the murder
within a few minutes of its commission. I sincerely believe him to be
as innocent of any participation in it as I am, but these are all
reasons for suspicion falling upon him."

"True," said my guardian. And he added, turning to me, "It would be
doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes to the truth
in any of these respects."

I felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but to
others, the full force of the circumstances against him. Yet I knew
withal (I could not help saying) that their weight would not induce
us to desert him in his need.

"Heaven forbid!" returned my guardian. "We will stand by him, as he
himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone." He meant Mr.
Gridley and the boy, to both of whom Mr. George had given shelter.

Mr. Woodcourt then told us that the trooper's man had been with him
before day, after wandering about the streets all night like a
distracted creature. That one of the trooper's first anxieties was
that we should not suppose him guilty. That he had charged his
messenger to represent his perfect innocence with every solemn
assurance he could send us. That Mr. Woodcourt had only quieted the
man by undertaking to come to our house very early in the morning
with these representations. He added that he was now upon his way to
see the prisoner himself.

My guardian said directly he would go too. Now, besides that I liked
the retired soldier very much and that he liked me, I had that secret
interest in what had happened which was only known to my guardian. I
felt as if it came close and near to me. It seemed to become
personally important to myself that the truth should be discovered
and that no innocent people should be suspected, for suspicion, once
run wild, might run wilder.

In a word, I felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go with
them. My guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and I went.

It was a large prison with many courts and passages so like one
another and so uniformly paved that I seemed to gain a new
comprehension, as I passed along, of the fondness that solitary
prisoners, shut up among the same staring walls from year to year,
have had--as I have read--for a weed or a stray blade of grass. In an
arched room by himself, like a cellar upstairs, with walls so
glaringly white that they made the massive iron window-bars and
iron-bound door even more profoundly black than they were, we found
the trooper standing in a corner. He had been sitting on a bench
there and had risen when he heard the locks and bolts turn.

When he saw us, he came forward a step with his usual heavy tread,
and there stopped and made a slight bow. But as I still advanced,
putting out my hand to him, he understood us in a moment.

"This is a load off my mind, I do assure you, miss and gentlemen,"
said he, saluting us with great heartiness and drawing a long breath.
"And now I don't so much care how it ends."

He scarcely seemed to be the prisoner. What with his coolness and his
soldierly bearing, he looked far more like the prison guard.

"This is even a rougher place than my gallery to receive a lady in,"
said Mr. George, "but I know Miss Summerson will make the best of
it." As he handed me to the bench on which he had been sitting, I sat
down, which seemed to give him great satisfaction.

"I thank you, miss," said he.

"Now, George," observed my guardian, "as we require no new assurances
on your part, so I believe we need give you none on ours."

"Not at all, sir. I thank you with all my heart. If I was not
innocent of this crime, I couldn't look at you and keep my secret to
myself under the condescension of the present visit. I feel the
present visit very much. I am not one of the eloquent sort, but I
feel it, Miss Summerson and gentlemen, deeply."

He laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest and bent his head to
us. Although he squared himself again directly, he expressed a great
amount of natural emotion by these simple means.

"First," said my guardian, "can we do anything for your personal
comfort, George?"

"For which, sir?" he inquired, clearing his throat.

"For your personal comfort. Is there anything you want that would
lessen the hardship of this confinement?"

"Well, sir," replied George, after a little cogitation, "I am equally
obliged to you, but tobacco being against the rules, I can't say that
there is."

"You will think of many little things perhaps, by and by. Whenever
you do, George, let us know."

"Thank you, sir. Howsoever," observed Mr. George with one of his
sunburnt smiles, "a man who has been knocking about the world in a
vagabond kind of a way as long as I have gets on well enough in a
place like the present, so far as that goes."

"Next, as to your case," observed my guardian.

"Exactly so, sir," returned Mr. George, folding his arms upon his
breast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity.

"How does it stand now?"

"Why, sir, it is under remand at present. Bucket gives me to
understand that he will probably apply for a series of remands from
time to time until the case is more complete. How it is to be made
more complete I don't myself see, but I dare say Bucket will manage
it somehow."

"Why, heaven save us, man," exclaimed my guardian, surprised into his
old oddity and vehemence, "you talk of yourself as if you were
somebody else!"

"No offence, sir," said Mr. George. "I am very sensible of your
kindness. But I don't see how an innocent man is to make up his mind
to this kind of thing without knocking his head against the walls
unless he takes it in that point of view.

"That is true enough to a certain extent," returned my guardian,
softened. "But my good fellow, even an innocent man must take
ordinary precautions to defend himself."

"Certainly, sir. And I have done so. I have stated to the
magistrates, 'Gentlemen, I am as innocent of this charge as
yourselves; what has been stated against me in the way of facts is
perfectly true; I know no more about it.' I intend to continue
stating that, sir. What more can I do? It's the truth."

"But the mere truth won't do," rejoined my guardian.

"Won't it indeed, sir? Rather a bad look-out for me!" Mr. George
good-humouredly observed.

"You must have a lawyer," pursued my guardian. "We must engage a good
one for you."

"I ask your pardon, sir," said Mr. George with a step backward. "I am
equally obliged. But I must decidedly beg to be excused from anything
of that sort."

"You won't have a lawyer?"

"No, sir." Mr. George shook his head in the most emphatic manner. "I
thank you all the same, sir, but--no lawyer!"

"Why not?"

"I don't take kindly to the breed," said Mr. George. "Gridley didn't.
And--if you'll excuse my saying so much--I should hardly have thought
you did yourself, sir."

"That's equity," my guardian explained, a little at a loss; "that's
equity, George."

"Is it, indeed, sir?" returned the trooper in his off-hand manner. "I
am not acquainted with those shades of names myself, but in a general
way I object to the breed."

Unfolding his arms and changing his position, he stood with one
massive hand upon the table and the other on his hip, as complete a
picture of a man who was not to be moved from a fixed purpose as ever
I saw. It was in vain that we all three talked to him and endeavoured
to persuade him; he listened with that gentleness which went so well
with his bluff bearing, but was evidently no more shaken by our
representations that his place of confinement was.

"Pray think, once more, Mr. George," said I. "Have you no wish in
reference to your case?"

"I certainly could wish it to be tried, miss," he returned, "by
court-martial; but that is out of the question, as I am well aware.
If you will be so good as to favour me with your attention for a
couple of minutes, miss, not more, I'll endeavour to explain myself
as clearly as I can."

He looked at us all three in turn, shook his head a little as if he
were adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniform, and
after a moment's reflection went on.

"You see, miss, I have been handcuffed and taken into custody and
brought here. I am a marked and disgraced man, and here I am. My
shooting gallery is rummaged, high and low, by Bucket; such property
as I have--'tis small--is turned this way and that till it don't know
itself; and (as aforesaid) here I am! I don't particular complain of
that. Though I am in these present quarters through no immediately
preceding fault of mine, I can very well understand that if I hadn't
gone into the vagabond way in my youth, this wouldn't have happened.
It HAS happened. Then comes the question how to meet it."

He rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment with a good-humoured look
and said apologetically, "I am such a short-winded talker that I must
think a bit." Having thought a bit, he looked up again and resumed.

"How to meet it. Now, the unfortunate deceased was himself a lawyer
and had a pretty tight hold of me. I don't wish to rake up his ashes,
but he had, what I should call if he was living, a devil of a tight
hold of me. I don't like his trade the better for that. If I had kept
clear of his trade, I should have kept outside this place. But that's
not what I mean. Now, suppose I had killed him. Suppose I really had
discharged into his body any one of those pistols recently fired off
that Bucket has found at my place, and dear me, might have found
there any day since it has been my place. What should I have done as
soon as I was hard and fast here? Got a lawyer."

He stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts and did not
resume until the door had been opened and was shut again. For what
purpose opened, I will mention presently.

"I should have got a lawyer, and he would have said (as I have often
read in the newspapers), 'My client says nothing, my client reserves
his defence': my client this, that, and t'other. Well, 'tis not the
custom of that breed to go straight, according to my opinion, or to
think that other men do. Say I am innocent and I get a lawyer. He
would be as likely to believe me guilty as not; perhaps more. What
would he do, whether or not? Act as if I was--shut my mouth up, tell
me not to commit myself, keep circumstances back, chop the evidence
small, quibble, and get me off perhaps! But, Miss Summerson, do I
care for getting off in that way; or would I rather be hanged in my
own way--if you'll excuse my mentioning anything so disagreeable to a
lady?"

He had warmed into his subject now, and was under no further
necessity to wait a bit.

"I would rather be hanged in my own way. And I mean to be! I don't
intend to say," looking round upon us with his powerful arms akimbo
and his dark eyebrows raised, "that I am more partial to being hanged
than another man. What I say is, I must come off clear and full or
not at all. Therefore, when I hear stated against me what is true, I
say it's true; and when they tell me, 'whatever you say will be
used,' I tell them I don't mind that; I mean it to be used. If they
can't make me innocent out of the whole truth, they are not likely to
do it out of anything less, or anything else. And if they are, it's
worth nothing to me."

Taking a pace or two over the stone floor, he came back to the table
and finished what he had to say.

"I thank you, miss and gentlemen both, many times for your attention,
and many times more for your interest. That's the plain state of the
matter as it points itself out to a mere trooper with a blunt
broadsword kind of a mind. I have never done well in life beyond my
duty as a soldier, and if the worst comes after all, I shall reap
pretty much as I have sown. When I got over the first crash of being
seized as a murderer--it don't take a rover who has knocked about so
much as myself so very long to recover from a crash--I worked my way
round to what you find me now. As such I shall remain. No relations
will be disgraced by me or made unhappy for me, and--and that's all
I've got to say."

The door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking man of less
prepossessing appearance at first sight and a weather-tanned,
bright-eyed wholesome woman with a basket, who, from her entrance,
had been exceedingly attentive to all Mr. George had said. Mr. George
had received them with a familiar nod and a friendly look, but
without any more particular greeting in the midst of his address. He
now shook them cordially by the hand and said, "Miss Summerson and
gentlemen, this is an old comrade of mine, Matthew Bagnet. And this
is his wife, Mrs. Bagnet."

Mr. Bagnet made us a stiff military bow, and Mrs. Bagnet dropped us a
curtsy.

"Real good friends of mine, they are," sald Mr. George. "It was at
their house I was taken."

"With a second-hand wiolinceller," Mr. Bagnet put in, twitching his
head angrily. "Of a good tone. For a friend. That money was no object
to."

"Mat," said Mr. George, "you have heard pretty well all I have been
saying to this lady and these two gentlemen. I know it meets your
approval?"

Mr. Bagnet, after considering, referred the point to his wife. "Old
girl," said he. "Tell him. Whether or not. It meets my approval."

"Why, George," exclaimed Mrs. Bagnet, who had been unpacking her
basket, in which there was a piece of cold pickled pork, a little tea
and sugar, and a brown loaf, "you ought to know it don't. You ought
to know it's enough to drive a person wild to hear you. You won't be
got off this way, and you won't be got off that way--what do you mean
by such picking and choosing? It's stuff and nonsense, George."

"Don't be severe upon me in my misfortunes, Mrs. Bagnet," said the
trooper lightly.

"Oh! Bother your misfortunes," cried Mrs. Bagnet, "if they don't make
you more reasonable than that comes to. I never was so ashamed in my
life to hear a man talk folly as I have been to hear you talk this
day to the present company. Lawyers? Why, what but too many cooks
should hinder you from having a dozen lawyers if the gentleman
recommended them to you."

"This is a very sensible woman," said my guardian. "I hope you will
persuade him, Mrs. Bagnet."

"Persuade him, sir?" she returned. "Lord bless you, no. You don't
know George. Now, there!" Mrs. Bagnet left her basket to point him
out with both her bare brown hands. "There he stands! As self-willed
and as determined a man, in the wrong way, as ever put a human
creature under heaven out of patience! You could as soon take up and
shoulder an eight and forty pounder by your own strength as turn that
man when he has got a thing into his head and fixed it there. Why,
don't I know him!" cried Mrs. Bagnet. "Don't I know you, George! You
don't mean to set up for a new character with ME after all these
years, I hope?"

Her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her husband,
who shook his head at the trooper several times as a silent
recommendation to him to yield. Between whiles, Mrs. Bagnet looked at
me; and I understood from the play of her eyes that she wished me to
do something, though I did not comprehend what.

"But I have given up talking to you, old fellow, years and years,"
said Mrs. Bagnet as she blew a little dust off the pickled pork,
looking at me again; "and when ladies and gentlemen know you as well
as I do, they'll give up talking to you too. If you are not too
headstrong to accept of a bit of dinner, here it is."

"I accept it with many thanks," returned the trooper.

"Do you though, indeed?" said Mrs. Bagnet, continuing to grumble on
good-humouredly. "I'm sure I'm surprised at that. I wonder you don't
starve in your own way also. It would only be like you. Perhaps
you'll set your mind upon THAT next." Here she again looked at me,
and I now perceived from her glances at the door and at me, by turns,
that she wished us to retire and to await her following us outside
the prison. Communicating this by similar means to my guardian and
Mr. Woodcourt, I rose.

"We hope you will think better of it, Mr. George," said I, "and we
shall come to see you again, trusting to find you more reasonable."

"More grateful, Miss Summerson, you can't find me," he returned.

"But more persuadable we can, I hope," said I. "And let me entreat
you to consider that the clearing up of this mystery and the
discovery of the real perpetrator of this deed may be of the last
importance to others besides yourself."

He heard me respectfully but without much heeding these words, which
I spoke a little turned from him, already on my way to the door; he
was observing (this they afterwards told me) my height and figure,
which seemed to catch his attention all at once.

"'Tis curious," said he. "And yet I thought so at the time!"

My guardian asked him what he meant.

"Why, sir," he answered, "when my ill fortune took me to the dead
man's staircase on the night of his murder, I saw a shape so like
Miss Summerson's go by me in the dark that I had half a mind to speak
to it."

For an instant I felt such a shudder as I never felt before or since
and hope I shall never feel again.

"It came downstairs as I went up," said the trooper, "and crossed the
moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on; I noticed a deep
fringe to it. However, it has nothing to do with the present subject,
excepting that Miss Summerson looked so like it at the moment that it
came into my head."

I cannot separate and define the feelings that arose in me after
this; it is enough that the vague duty and obligation I had felt upon
me from the first of following the investigation was, without my
distinctly daring to ask myself any question, increased, and that I
was indignantly sure of there being no possibility of a reason for my
being afraid.

We three went out of the prison and walked up and down at some short
distance from the gate, which was in a retired place. We had not
waited long when Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet came out too and quickly joined
us.

There was a tear in each of Mrs. Bagnet's eyes, and her face was
flushed and hurried. "I didn't let George see what I thought about
it, you know, miss," was her first remark when she came up, "but he's
in a bad way, poor old fellow!"

"Not with care and prudence and good help," said my guardian.

"A gentleman like you ought to know best, sir," returned Mrs. Bagnet,
hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her grey cloak, "but I am
uneasy for him. He has been so careless and said so much that he
never meant. The gentlemen of the juries might not understand him as
Lignum and me do. And then such a number of circumstances have
happened bad for him, and such a number of people will be brought
forward to speak against him, and Bucket is so deep."

"With a second-hand wiolinceller. And said he played the fife. When a
boy," Mr. Bagnet added with great solemnity.

"Now, I tell you, miss," said Mrs. Bagnet; "and when I say miss, I
mean all! Just come into the corner of the wall and I'll tell you!"

Mrs. Bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place and was at first
too breathless to proceed, occasioning Mr. Bagnet to say, "Old girl!
Tell 'em!"

"Why, then, miss," the old girl proceeded, untying the strings of her
bonnet for more air, "you could as soon move Dover Castle as move
George on this point unless you had got a new power to move him with.
And I have got it!"

"You are a jewel of a woman," said my guardian. "Go on!"

"Now, I tell you, miss," she proceeded, clapping her hands in her
hurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentence, "that what he
says concerning no relations is all bosh. They don't know of him, but
he does know of them. He has said more to me at odd times than to
anybody else, and it warn't for nothing that he once spoke to my
Woolwich about whitening and wrinkling mothers' heads. For fifty
pounds he had seen his mother that day. She's alive and must be
brought here straight!"

Instantly Mrs. Bagnet put some pins into her mouth and began pinning
up her skirts all round a little higher than the level of her grey
cloak, which she accomplished with surpassing dispatch and dexterity.

"Lignum," said Mrs. Bagnet, "you take care of the children, old man,
and give me the umbrella! I'm away to Lincolnshire to bring that old
lady here."

"But, bless the woman," cried my guardian with his hand in his
pocket, "how is she going? What money has she got?"

Mrs. Bagnet made another application to her skirts and brought forth
a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a few shillings
and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction.

"Never you mind for me, miss. I'm a soldier's wife and accustomed to
travel my own way. Lignum, old boy," kissing him, "one for yourself,
three for the children. Now I'm away into Lincolnshire after George's
mother!"

And she actually set off while we three stood looking at one another
lost in amazement. She actually trudged away in her grey cloak at a
sturdy pace, and turned the corner, and was gone.

"Mr. Bagnet," said my guardian. "Do you mean to let her go in that
way?"

"Can't help it," he returned. "Made her way home once from another
quarter of the world. With the same grey cloak. And same umbrella.
Whatever the old girl says, do. Do it! Whenever the old girl says,
I'LL do it. She does it."

"Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks," rejoined my
guardian, "and it is impossible to say more for her."

"She's Colour-Sergeant of the Nonpareil battalion," said Mr. Bagnet,
looking at us over his shoulder as he went his way also. "And there's
not such another. But I never own to it before her. Discipline must
be maintained."




CHAPTER LIII

The Track


Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation together
under existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter of this
pressing interest under his consideration, the fat forefinger seems
to rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to his ears,
and it whispers information; he puts it to his lips, and it enjoins
him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpens his scent;
he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him to his
destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariably predict
that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are in much conference, a
terrible avenger will be heard of before long.

Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, on the
whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon the
follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of houses and
strolls about an infinity of streets, to outward appearance rather
languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliest condition
towards his species and will drink with most of them. He is free with
his money, affable in his manners, innocent in his conversation--but
through the placid stream of his life there glides an under-current
of forefinger.

Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the abstract, he
is here to-day and gone to-morrow--but, very unlike man indeed, he is
here again the next day. This evening he will be casually looking
into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir Leicester Dedlock's
house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walking on the leads
at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked whose ghost is
propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks, pockets, all
things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A few hours afterwards,
he and the Roman will be alone together comparing forefingers.

It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with home
enjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not go
home. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs.
Bucket--a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had been
improved by professional exercise, might have done great things, but
which has paused at the level of a clever amateur--he holds himself
aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent on their lodger
(fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest) for
companionship and conversation.

A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's Inn Fields on the day of the
funeral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person;
strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers, that
is to say, Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated cousin
(thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsolable
carriages is immense. The peerage contributes more four-wheeled
affliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. Such is the
assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels that the Herald's
College might be supposed to have lost its father and mother at a
blow. The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dust and ashes,
with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the last improvements, and
three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding on behind, in a bunch of
woe. All the state coachmen in London seem plunged into mourning; and
if that dead old man of the rusty garb be not beyond a taste in
horseflesh (which appears impossible), it must be highly gratified
this day.

Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of so
many legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one of
the inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowd through
the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd--as for what
not?--and looking here and there, now from this side of the carriage,
now from the other, now up at the house windows, now along the
people's heads, nothing escapes him.

"And there you are, my partner, eh?" says Mr. Bucket to himself,
apostrophizing Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the steps of
the deceased's house. "And so you are. And so you are! And very well
indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket!"

The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause of
its assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremost
emblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold the lattice
a hair's breadth open while he looks.

And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that he is
still occupied with Mrs. B. "There you are, my partner, eh?" he
murmuringly repeats. "And our lodger with you. I'm taking notice of
you, Mrs. Bucket; I hope you're all right in your health, my dear!"

Not another word does Mr. Bucket say, but sits with most attentive
eyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought
down--Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did
they fly with him on that sudden journey?--and until the procession
moves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed. After which he composes
himself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of the
carriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.

Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark carriage
and Mr. Bucket shut up in HIS. Between the immeasurable track of
space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into the fixed
sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of the streets, and the
narrow track of blood which keeps the other in the watchful state
expressed in every hair of his head! But it is all one to both;
neither is troubled about that.

Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner and glides
from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with himself
arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock's, which is at present a
sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likes at all
hours, where he is always welcome and made much of, where he knows
the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere of mysterious
greatness.

No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself to be
provided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. As he is
crossing the hall, Mercury informs him, "Here's another letter for
you, Mr. Bucket, come by post," and gives it him.

"Another one, eh?" says Mr. Bucket.

If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curiosity
as to Mr. Bucket's letters, that wary person is not the man to
gratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista of
some miles in length and he were leisurely contemplating the same.

"Do you happen to carry a box?" says Mr. Bucket.

Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff-taker.

"Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres?" says Mr. Bucket.
"Thankee. It don't matter what it is; I'm not particular as to the
kind. Thankee!"

Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from
somebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a considerable
show of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then with the
other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of the right
sort and goes on, letter in hand.

Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library within
the larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores of
letters every day, it happens that much correspondence is not
incidental to his life. He is no great scribe, rather handling his
pen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him always convenient
to his grasp, and discourages correspondence with himself in others
as being too artless and direct a way of doing delicate business.
Further, he often sees damaging letters produced in evidence and has
occasion to reflect that it was a green thing to write them. For
these reasons he has very little to do with letters, either as sender
or receiver. And yet he has received a round half-dozen within the
last twenty-four hours.

"And this," says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, "is in
the same hand, and consists of the same two words."

What two words?

He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book (book
of fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly
written in each, "Lady Dedlock."

"Yes, yes," says Mr. Bucket. "But I could have made the money without
this anonymous information."

Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again,
he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which is
brought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucket
frequently observes, in friendly circles where there is no restraint,
that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown East Inder sherry
better than anything you can offer him. Consequently he fills and
empties his glass with a smack of his lips and is proceeding with his
refreshment when an idea enters his mind.

Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that room
and the next and looks in. The library is deserted, and the fire is
sinking low. Mr. Bucket's eye, after taking a pigeon-flight round the
room, alights upon a table where letters are usually put as they
arrive. Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it. Mr. Bucket
draws near and examines the directions. "No," he says, "there's none
in that hand. It's only me as is written to. I can break it to Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to-morrow."

With that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite, and
after a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. Sir Leicester
has received him there these several evenings past to know whether he
has anything to report. The debilitated cousin (much exhausted by the
funeral) and Volumnia are in attendance.

Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three
people. A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry to
Volumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated Cousin, to whom
it airily says, "You are a swell about town, and you know me, and I
know you." Having distributed these little specimens of his tact, Mr.
Bucket rubs his hands.

"Have you anything new to communicate, officer?" inquires Sir
Leicester. "Do you wish to hold any conversation with me in private?"

"Why--not to-night, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."

"Because my time," pursues Sir Leicester, "is wholly at your disposal
with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of the law."

Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumnia, rouged and necklaced, as
though he would respectfully observe, "I do assure you, you're a
pretty creetur. I've seen hundreds worse looking at your time of
life, I have indeed."

The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizing
influence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat notes
and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket prices that
decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not that Volumnia
is writing poetry.

"If I have not," pursues Sir Leicester, "in the most emphatic manner,
adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this atrocious
case, I particularly desire to take the present opportunity of
rectifying any omission I may have made. Let no expense be a
consideration. I am prepared to defray all charges. You can incur
none in pursuit of the object you have undertaken that I shall
hesitate for a moment to bear."

Mr. Bucket made Sir Leicester's bow again as a response to this
liberality.

"My mind," Sir Leicester adds with a generous warmth, "has not, as
may be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the late diabolical
occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone. But it is full
of indignation to-night after undergoing the ordeal of consigning to
the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, a devoted adherent."

Sir Leicester's voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon his head.
Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature is aroused.

"I declare," he says, "I solemnly declare that until this crime is
discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feel as
if there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has devoted a
large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted the last
day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat at my table
and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own, and is struck
down within an hour of his leaving my house. I cannot say but that he
may have been followed from my house, watched at my house, even first
marked because of his association with my house--which may have
suggested his possessing greater wealth and being altogether of
greater importance than his own retiring demeanour would have
indicated. If I cannot with my means and influence and my position
bring all the perpetrators of such a crime to light, I fail in the
assertion of my respect for that gentleman's memory and of my
fidelity towards one who was ever faithful to me."

While he makes this protestation with great emotion and earnestness,
looking round the room as if he were addressing an assembly, Mr.
Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in which there might
be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touch of compassion.

"The ceremony of to-day," continues Sir Leicester, "strikingly
illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend"--he lays a
stress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions--"was held by
the flower of the land, has, I say, aggravated the shock I have
received from this most horrible and audacious crime. If it were my
brother who had committed it, I would not spare him."

Mr. Bucket looks very grave. Volumnia remarks of the deceased that he
was the trustiest and dearest person!

"You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss," replies Mr. Bucket
soothingly, "no doubt. He was calculated to BE a deprivation, I'm
sure he was."

Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understand, in reply, that her sensitive
mind is fully made up never to get the better of it as long as she
lives, that her nerves are unstrung for ever, and that she has not
the least expectation of ever smiling again. Meanwhile she folds up a
cocked hat for that redoubtable old general at Bath, descriptive of
her melancholy condition.

"It gives a start to a delicate female," says Mr. Bucket
sympathetically, "but it'll wear off."

Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? Whether they are
going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier? Whether
he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called in the law?
And a great deal more to the like artless purpose.

"Why you see, miss," returns Mr. Bucket, bringing the finger into
persuasive action--and such is his natural gallantry that he had
almost said "my dear"--"it ain't easy to answer those questions at
the present moment. Not at the present moment. I've kept myself on
this case, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," whom Mr. Bucket takes
into the conversation in right of his importance, "morning, noon, and
night. But for a glass or two of sherry, I don't think I could have
had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been. I COULD answer
your questions, miss, but duty forbids it. Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, will very soon be made acquainted with all that has been
traced. And I hope that he may find it"--Mr. Bucket again looks
grave--"to his satisfaction."

The debilitated cousin only hopes some fler'll be executed--zample.
Thinks more interest's wanted--get man hanged presentime--than get
man place ten thousand a year. Hasn't a doubt--zample--far better
hang wrong fler than no fler.

"YOU know life, you know, sir," says Mr. Bucket with a complimentary
twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, "and you can confirm what
I've mentioned to this lady. YOU don't want to be told that from
information I have received I have gone to work. You're up to what a
lady can't be expected to be up to. Lord! Especially in your elevated
station of society, miss," says Mr. Bucket, quite reddening at
another narrow escape from "my dear."

"The officer, Volumnia," observes Sir Leicester, "is faithful to his
duty, and perfectly right."

Mr. Bucket murmurs, "Glad to have the honour of your approbation, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."

"In fact, Volumnia," proceeds Sir Leicester, "it is not holding up a
good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions as you
have put to him. He is the best judge of his own responsibility; he
acts upon his responsibility. And it does not become us, who assist
in making the laws, to impede or interfere with those who carry them
into execution. Or," says Sir Leicester somewhat sternly, for
Volumnia was going to cut in before he had rounded his sentence, "or
who vindicate their outraged majesty."

Volumnia with all humility explains that she had not merely the plea
of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of her sex in
general) but that she is perfectly dying with regret and interest for
the darling man whose loss they all deplore.

"Very well, Volumnia," returns Sir Leicester. "Then you cannot be too
discreet."

Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again.

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I have no objections to telling this
lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look upon the case
as pretty well complete. It is a beautiful case--a beautiful
case--and what little is wanting to complete it, I expect to be able
to supply in a few hours."

"I am very glad indeed to hear it," says Sir Leicester. "Highly
creditable to you."

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket very seriously,
"I hope it may at one and the same time do me credit and prove
satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case, you see,
miss," Mr. Bucket goes on, glancing gravely at Sir Leicester, "I mean
from my point of view. As considered from other points of view, such
cases will always involve more or less unpleasantness. Very strange
things comes to our knowledge in families, miss; bless your heart,
what you would think to be phenomenons, quite."

Volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so.

"Aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great
families," says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eyeing Sir Leicester aside.
"I have had the honour of being employed in high families before, and
you have no idea--come, I'll go so far as to say not even YOU have
any idea, sir," this to the debilitated cousin, "what games goes on!"

The cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in a
prostration of boredom yawns, "Vayli," being the used-up for "very
likely."

Sir Leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, here
majestically interposes with the words, "Very good. Thank you!" and
also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there is an end
of the discourse, but that if high families fall into low habits they
must take the consequences. "You will not forget, officer," he adds
with condescension, "that I am at your disposal when you please."

Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, would
suit, in case he should be as for'ard as he expects to be. Sir
Leicester replies, "All times are alike to me." Mr. Bucket makes his
three bows and is withdrawing when a forgotten point occurs to him.

"Might I ask, by the by," he says in a low voice, cautiously
returning, "who posted the reward-bill on the staircase."

"I ordered it to be put up there," replies Sir Leicester.

"Would it be considered a liberty, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, if
I was to ask you why?"

"Not at all. I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. I think
it cannot be too prominently kept before the whole establishment. I
wish my people to be impressed with the enormity of the crime, the
determination to punish it, and the hopelessness of escape. At the
same time, officer, if you in your better knowledge of the subject
see any objection--"

Mr. Bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, had better not
be taken down. Repeating his three bows he withdraws, closing the
door on Volumnia's little scream, which is a preliminary to her
remarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect Blue
Chamber.

In his fondness for society and his adaptability to all grades, Mr.
Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire--bright and warm on
the early winter night--admiring Mercury.

"Why, you're six foot two, I suppose?" says Mr. Bucket.

"Three," says Mercury.

"Are you so much? But then, you see, you're broad in proportion and
don't look it. You're not one of the weak-legged ones, you ain't. Was
you ever modelled now?" Mr. Bucket asks, conveying the expression of
an artist into the turn of his eye and head.

Mercury never was modelled.

"Then you ought to be, you know," says Mr. Bucket; "and a friend of
mine that you'll hear of one day as a Royal Academy sculptor would
stand something handsome to make a drawing of your proportions for
the marble. My Lady's out, ain't she?"

"Out to dinner."

"Goes out pretty well every day, don't she?"

"Yes."

"Not to be wondered at!" says Mr. Bucket. "Such a fine woman as her,
so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is like a fresh lemon on
a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she goes. Was your father in the
same way of life as yourself?"

Answer in the negative.

"Mine was," says Mr. Bucket. "My father was first a page, then a
footman, then a butler, then a steward, then an inn-keeper. Lived
universally respected, and died lamented. Said with his last breath
that he considered service the most honourable part of his career,
and so it was. I've a brother in service, AND a brother-in-law. My
Lady a good temper?"

Mercury replies, "As good as you can expect."

"Ah!" says Mr. Bucket. "A little spoilt? A little capricious? Lord!
What can you anticipate when they're so handsome as that? And we like
'em all the better for it, don't we?"

Mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blossom
small-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air of a
man of gallantry and can't deny it. Come the roll of wheels and a
violent ringing at the bell. "Talk of the angels," says Mr. Bucket.
"Here she is!"

The doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. Still
very pale, she is dressed in slight mourning and wears two beautiful
bracelets. Either their beauty or the beauty of her arms is
particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them with an eager
eye and rattles something in his pocket--halfpence perhaps.

Noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on the
other Mercury who has brought her home.

"Mr. Bucket, my Lady."

Mr. Bucket makes a leg and comes forward, passing his familiar demon
over the region of his mouth.

"Are you waiting to see Sir Leicester?"

"No, my Lady, I've seen him!"

"Have you anything to say to me?"

"Not just at present, my Lady."

"Have you made any new discoveries?"

"A few, my Lady."

This is merely in passing. She scarcely makes a stop, and sweeps
upstairs alone. Mr. Bucket, moving towards the staircase-foot,
watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down to his
grave, past murderous groups of statuary repeated with their shadowy
weapons on the wall, past the printed bill, which she looks at going
by, out of view.

"She's a lovely woman, too, she really is," says Mr. Bucket, coming
back to Mercury. "Don't look quite healthy though."

Is not quite healthy, Mercury informs him. Suffers much from
headaches.

Really? That's a pity! Walking, Mr. Bucket would recommend for that.
Well, she tries walking, Mercury rejoins. Walks sometimes for two
hours when she has them bad. By night, too.

"Are you sure you're quite so much as six foot three?" asks Mr.
Bucket. "Begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment?"

Not a doubt about it.

"You're so well put together that I shouldn't have thought it. But
the household troops, though considered fine men, are built so
straggling. Walks by night, does she? When it's moonlight, though?"

Oh, yes. When it's moonlight! Of course. Oh, of course!
Conversational and acquiescent on both sides.

"I suppose you ain't in the habit of walking yourself?" says Mr.
Bucket. "Not much time for it, I should say?"

Besides which, Mercury don't like it. Prefers carriage exercise.

"To be sure," says Mr. Bucket. "That makes a difference. Now I think
of it," says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands and looking pleasantly at
the blaze, "she went out walking the very night of this business."

"To be sure she did! I let her into the garden over the way."

"And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw you doing it."

"I didn't see YOU," says Mercury.

"I was rather in a hurry," returns Mr. Bucket, "for I was going to
visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea--next door but two to the
old original Bun House--ninety year old the old lady is, a single
woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to be passing at the
time. Let's see. What time might it be? It wasn't ten."

"Half-past nine."

"You're right. So it was. And if I don't deceive myself, my Lady was
muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?"

"Of course she was."

Of course she was. Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he has to
get on with upstairs, but he must shake hands with Mercury in
acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he--this is
all he asks--will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think of
bestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the advantage of
both parties?




CHAPTER LIV

Springing a Mine


Refreshed by sleep, Mr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning and
prepares for a field-day. Smartened up by the aid of a clean shirt
and a wet hairbrush, with which instrument, on occasions of ceremony,
he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after his life of
severe study, Mr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two mutton chops as a
foundation to work upon, together with tea, eggs, toast, and
marmalade on a corresponding scale. Having much enjoyed these
strengthening matters and having held subtle conference with his
familiar demon, he confidently instructs Mercury "just to mention
quietly to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, that whenever he's ready
for me, I'm ready for him." A gracious message being returned that
Sir Leicester will expedite his dressing and join Mr. Bucket in the
library within ten minutes, Mr. Bucket repairs to that apartment and
stands before the fire with his finger on his chin, looking at the
blazing coals.

Thoughtful Mr. Bucket is, as a man may be with weighty work to do,
but composed, sure, confident. From the expression of his face he
might be a famous whist-player for a large stake--say a hundred
guineas certain--with the game in his hand, but with a high
reputation involved in his playing his hand out to the last card in a
masterly way. Not in the least anxious or disturbed is Mr. Bucket
when Sir Leicester appears, but he eyes the baronet aside as he comes
slowly to his easy-chair with that observant gravity of yesterday in
which there might have been yesterday, but for the audacity of the
idea, a touch of compassion.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but I am rather later
than my usual hour this morning. I am not well. The agitation and the
indignation from which I have recently suffered have been too much
for me. I am subject to--gout"--Sir Leicester was going to say
indisposition and would have said it to anybody else, but Mr. Bucket
palpably knows all about it--"and recent circumstances have brought
it on."

As he takes his seat with some difficulty and with an air of pain,
Mr. Bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his large
hands on the library-table.

"I am not aware, officer," Sir Leicester observes; raising his eyes
to his face, "whether you wish us to be alone, but that is entirely
as you please. If you do, well and good. If not, Miss Dedlock would
be interested--"

"Why, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket with his
head persuasively on one side and his forefinger pendant at one ear
like an earring, "we can't be too private just at present. You will
presently see that we can't be too private. A lady, under the
circumstances, and especially in Miss Dedlock's elevated station of
society, can't but be agreeable to me, but speaking without a view to
myself, I will take the liberty of assuring you that I know we can't
be too private."

"That is enough."

"So much so, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," Mr. Bucket resumes,
"that I was on the point of asking your permission to turn the key in
the door."

"By all means." Mr. Bucket skilfully and softly takes that
precaution, stooping on his knee for a moment from mere force of
habit so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep in
from the outerside.

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I mentioned yesterday evening that I
wanted but a very little to complete this case. I have now completed
it and collected proof against the person who did this crime."

"Against the soldier?"

"No, Sir Leicester Dedlock; not the soldier."

Sir Leicester looks astounded and inquires, "Is the man in custody?"

Mr. Bucket tells him, after a pause, "It was a woman."

Sir Leicester leans back in his chair, and breathlessly ejaculates,
"Good heaven!"

"Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," Mr. Bucket begins, standing
over him with one hand spread out on the library-table and the
forefinger of the other in impressive use, "it's my duty to prepare
you for a train of circumstances that may, and I go so far as to say
that will, give you a shock. But Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, you
are a gentleman, and I know what a gentleman is and what a gentleman
is capable of. A gentleman can bear a shock when it must come, boldly
and steadily. A gentleman can make up his mind to stand up against
almost any blow. Why, take yourself, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.
If there's a blow to be inflicted on you, you naturally think of your
family. You ask yourself, how would all them ancestors of yours, away
to Julius Caesar--not to go beyond him at present--have borne that
blow; you remember scores of them that would have borne it well; and
you bear it well on their accounts, and to maintain the family
credit. That's the way you argue, and that's the way you act, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet."

Sir Leicester, leaning back in his chair and grasping the elbows,
sits looking at him with a stony face.

"Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket, "thus preparing
you, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind for a moment as to
anything having come to MY knowledge. I know so much about so many
characters, high and low, that a piece of information more or less
don't signify a straw. I don't suppose there's a move on the board
that would surprise ME, and as to this or that move having taken
place, why my knowing it is no odds at all, any possible move
whatever (provided it's in a wrong direction) being a probable move
according to my experience. Therefore, what I say to you, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, is, don't you go and let yourself be put
out of the way because of my knowing anything of your family
affairs."

"I thank you for your preparation," returns Sir Leicester after a
silence, without moving hand, foot, or feature, "which I hope is not
necessary; though I give it credit for being well intended. Be so
good as to go on. Also"--Sir Leicester seems to shrink in the shadow
of his figure--"also, to take a seat, if you have no objection."

None at all. Mr. Bucket brings a chair and diminishes his shadow.
"Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, with this short preface I come
to the point. Lady Dedlock--"

Sir Leicester raises himself in his seat and stares at him fiercely.
Mr. Bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient.

"Lady Dedlock, you see she's universally admired. That's what her
ladyship is; she's universally admired," says Mr. Bucket.

"I would greatly prefer, officer," Sir Leicester returns stiffly, "my
Lady's name being entirely omitted from this discussion."

"So would I, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, but--it's impossible."

"Impossible?"

Mr. Bucket shakes his relentless head.

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's altogether impossible. What I
have got to say is about her ladyship. She is the pivot it all turns
on."

"Officer," retorts Sir Leicester with a fiery eye and a quivering
lip, "you know your duty. Do your duty, but be careful not to
overstep it. I would not suffer it. I would not endure it. You bring
my Lady's name into this communication upon your responsibility--upon
your responsibility. My Lady's name is not a name for common persons
to trifle with!"

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I say what I must say, and no more."

"I hope it may prove so. Very well. Go on. Go on, sir!" Glancing at
the angry eyes which now avoid him and at the angry figure trembling
from head to foot, yet striving to be still, Mr. Bucket feels his way
with his forefinger and in a low voice proceeds.

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it becomes my duty to tell you that
the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn long entertained mistrusts and
suspicions of Lady Dedlock."

"If he had dared to breathe them to me, sir--which he never did--I
would have killed him myself!" exclaims Sir Leicester, striking his
hand upon the table. But in the very heat and fury of the act he
stops, fixed by the knowing eyes of Mr. Bucket, whose forefinger is
slowly going and who, with mingled confidence and patience, shakes
his head.

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was deep and
close, and what he fully had in his mind in the very beginning I
can't quite take upon myself to say. But I know from his lips that he
long ago suspected Lady Dedlock of having discovered, through the
sight of some handwriting--in this very house, and when you yourself,
Sir Leicester Dedlock, were present--the existence, in great poverty,
of a certain person who had been her lover before you courted her and
who ought to have been her husband." Mr. Bucket stops and
deliberately repeats, "Ought to have been her husband, not a doubt
about it. I know from his lips that when that person soon afterwards
died, he suspected Lady Dedlock of visiting his wretched lodging and
his wretched grave, alone and in secret. I know from my own inquiries
and through my eyes and ears that Lady Dedlock did make such visit in
the dress of her own maid, for the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn employed
me to reckon up her ladyship--if you'll excuse my making use of the
term we commonly employ--and I reckoned her up, so far, completely. I
confronted the maid in the chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields with a
witness who had been Lady Dedlock's guide, and there couldn't be the
shadow of a doubt that she had worn the young woman's dress, unknown
to her. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I did endeavour to pave the
way a little towards these unpleasant disclosures yesterday by saying
that very strange things happened even in high families sometimes.
All this, and more, has happened in your own family, and to and
through your own Lady. It's my belief that the deceased Mr.
Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death and
that he and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them upon the
matter that very night. Now, only you put that to Lady Dedlock, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and ask her ladyship whether, even after
he had left here, she didn't go down to his chambers with the
intention of saying something further to him, dressed in a loose
black mantle with a deep fringe to it."

Sir Leicester sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that is
probing the life-blood of his heart.

"You put that to her ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, from
me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective. And if her ladyship makes any
difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it's no use, that
Inspector Bucket knows it and knows that she passed the soldier as
you called him (though he's not in the army now) and knows that she
knows she passed him on the staircase. Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, why do I relate all this?"

Sir Leicester, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering a
single groan, requests him to pause for a moment. By and by he takes
his hands away, and so preserves his dignity and outward calmness,
though there is no more colour in his face than in his white hair,
that Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Something frozen and fixed
is upon his manner, over and above its usual shell of haughtiness,
and Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness in his speech, with
now and then a curious trouble in beginning, which occasions him to
utter inarticulate sounds. With such sounds he now breaks silence,
soon, however, controlling himself to say that he does not comprehend
why a gentleman so faithful and zealous as the late Mr. Tulkinghorn
should have communicated to him nothing of this painful, this
distressing, this unlooked-for, this overwhelming, this incredible
intelligence.

"Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket, "put it
to her ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her ladyship, if you
think it right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You'll find,
or I'm much mistaken, that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn had the
intention of communicating the whole to you as soon as he considered
it ripe, and further, that he had given her ladyship so to
understand. Why, he might have been going to reveal it the very
morning when I examined the body! You don't know what I'm going to
say and do five minutes from this present time, Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet; and supposing I was to be picked off now, you might
wonder why I hadn't done it, don't you see?"

True. Sir Leicester, avoiding, with some trouble those obtrusive
sounds, says, "True." At this juncture a considerable noise of voices
is heard in the hall. Mr. Bucket, after listening, goes to the
library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again. Then he
draws in his head and whispers hurriedly but composedly, "Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family affair has taken
air, as I expected it might, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn being cut
down so sudden. The chance to hush it is to let in these people now
in a wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sitting quiet--on the
family account--while I reckon 'em up? And would you just throw in a
nod when I seem to ask you for it?"

Sir Leicester indistinctly answers, "Officer. The best you can, the
best you can!" and Mr. Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crook of
the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voices quickly
die away. He is not long in returning; a few paces ahead of Mercury
and a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomed smalls, who
bear between them a chair in which is an incapable old man. Another
man and two women come behind. Directing the pitching of the chair in
an affable and easy manner, Mr. Bucket dismisses the Mercuries and
locks the door again. Sir Leicester looks on at this invasion of the
sacred precincts with an icy stare.

"Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen," says Mr. Bucket
in a confidential voice. "I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective, I
am; and this," producing the tip of his convenient little staff from
his breast-pocket, "is my authority. Now, you wanted to see Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Well! You do see him, and mind you, it
ain't every one as is admitted to that honour. Your name, old
gentleman, is Smallweed; that's what your name is; I know it well."

"Well, and you never heard any harm of it!" cries Mr. Smallweed in a
shrill loud voice.

"You don't happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?" retorts
Mr. Bucket with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper.

"No!"

"Why, they killed him," says Mr. Bucket, "on account of his having so
much cheek. Don't YOU get into the same position, because it isn't
worthy of you. You ain't in the habit of conversing with a deaf
person, are you?"

"Yes," snarls Mr. Smallweed, "my wife's deaf."

"That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as she ain't
here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and I'll not
only be obliged to you, but it'll do you more credit," says Mr.
Bucket. "This other gentleman is in the preaching line, I think?"

"Name of Chadband," Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking henceforth in a
much lower key.

"Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name," says Mr.
Bucket, offering his hand, "and consequently feel a liking for it.
Mrs. Chadband, no doubt?"

"And Mrs. Snagsby," Mr. Smallweed introduces.

"Husband a law-stationer and a friend of my own," says Mr. Bucket.
"Love him like a brother! Now, what's up?"

"Do you mean what business have we come upon?" Mr. Smallweed asks, a
little dashed by the suddenness of this turn.

"Ah! You know what I mean. Let us hear what it's all about in
presence of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Come."

Mr. Smallweed, beckoning Mr. Chadband, takes a moment's counsel with
him in a whisper. Mr. Chadband, expressing a considerable amount of
oil from the pores of his forehead and the palms of his hands, says
aloud, "Yes. You first!" and retires to his former place.

"I was the client and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn," pipes Grandfather
Smallweed then; "I did business with him. I was useful to him, and he
was useful to me. Krook, dead and gone, was my brother-in-law. He was
own brother to a brimstone magpie--leastways Mrs. Smallweed. I come
into Krook's property. I examined all his papers and all his effects.
They was all dug out under my eyes. There was a bundle of letters
belonging to a dead and gone lodger as was hid away at the back of a
shelf in the side of Lady Jane's bed--his cat's bed. He hid all
manner of things away, everywheres. Mr. Tulkinghorn wanted 'em and
got 'em, but I looked 'em over first. I'm a man of business, and I
took a squint at 'em. They was letters from the lodger's sweetheart,
and she signed Honoria. Dear me, that's not a common name, Honoria,
is it? There's no lady in this house that signs Honoria is there? Oh,
no, I don't think so! Oh, no, I don't think so! And not in the same
hand, perhaps? Oh, no, I don't think so!"

Here Mr. Smallweed, seized with a fit of coughing in the midst of his
triumph, breaks off to ejaculate, "Oh, dear me! Oh, Lord! I'm shaken
all to pieces!"

"Now, when you're ready," says Mr. Bucket after awaiting his
recovery, "to come to anything that concerns Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know."

"Haven't I come to it, Mr. Bucket?" cries Grandfather Smallweed.
"Isn't the gentleman concerned yet? Not with Captain Hawdon, and his
ever affectionate Honoria, and their child into the bargain? Come,
then, I want to know where those letters are. That concerns me, if it
don't concern Sir Leicester Dedlock. I will know where they are. I
won't have 'em disappear so quietly. I handed 'em over to my friend
and solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, not to anybody else."

"Why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too," says Mr.
Bucket.

"I don't care for that. I want to know who's got 'em. And I tell you
what we want--what we all here want, Mr. Bucket. We want more
painstaking and search-making into this murder. We know where the
interest and the motive was, and you have not done enough. If George
the vagabond dragoon had any hand in it, he was only an accomplice,
and was set on. You know what I mean as well as any man."

"Now I tell you what," says Mr. Bucket, instantaneously altering his
manner, coming close to him, and communicating an extraordinary
fascination to the forefinger, "I am damned if I am a-going to have
my case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated by so much as half
a second of time by any human being in creation. YOU want more
painstaking and search-making! YOU do? Do you see this hand, and do
you think that I don't know the right time to stretch it out and put
it on the arm that fired that shot?"

Such is the dread power of the man, and so terribly evident it is
that he makes no idle boast, that Mr. Smallweed begins to apologize.
Mr. Bucket, dismissing his sudden anger, checks him.

"The advice I give you is, don't you trouble your head about the
murder. That's my affair. You keep half an eye on the newspapers, and
I shouldn't wonder if you was to read something about it before long,
if you look sharp. I know my business, and that's all I've got to say
to you on that subject. Now about those letters. You want to know
who's got 'em. I don't mind telling you. I have got 'em. Is that the
packet?"

Mr. Smallweed looks, with greedy eyes, at the little bundle Mr.
Bucket produces from a mysterious part of his coat, and identifies it
as the same.

"What have you got to say next?" asks Mr. Bucket. "Now, don't open
your mouth too wide, because you don't look handsome when you do it."

"I want five hundred pound."

"No, you don't; you mean fifty," says Mr. Bucket humorously.

It appears, however, that Mr. Smallweed means five hundred.

"That is, I am deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to consider
(without admitting or promising anything) this bit of business," says
Mr. Bucket--Sir Leicester mechanically bows his head--"and you ask me
to consider a proposal of five hundred pounds. Why, it's an
unreasonable proposal! Two fifty would be bad enough, but better than
that. Hadn't you better say two fifty?"

Mr. Smallweed is quite clear that he had better not.

"Then," says Mr. Bucket, "let's hear Mr. Chadband. Lord! Many a time
I've heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name; and a moderate man he
was in all respects, as ever I come across!"

Thus invited, Mr. Chadband steps forth, and after a little sleek
smiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands,
delivers himself as follows, "My friends, we are now--Rachael, my
wife, and I--in the mansions of the rich and great. Why are we now in
the mansions of the rich and great, my friends? Is it because we are
invited? Because we are bidden to feast with them, because we are
bidden to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play the lute
with them, because we are bidden to dance with them? No. Then why are
we here, my friends? Air we in possession of a sinful secret, and do
we require corn, and wine, and oil, or what is much the same thing,
money, for the keeping thereof? Probably so, my friends."

"You're a man of business, you are," returns Mr. Bucket, very
attentive, "and consequently you're going on to mention what the
nature of your secret is. You are right. You couldn't do better."

"Let us then, my brother, in a spirit of love," says Mr. Chadband
with a cunning eye, "proceed unto it. Rachael, my wife, advance!"

Mrs. Chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle her husband
into the background and confronts Mr. Bucket with a hard, frowning
smile.

"Since you want to know what we know," says she, "I'll tell you. I
helped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her ladyship's daughter. I was in the
service of her ladyship's sister, who was very sensitive to the
disgrace her ladyship brought upon her, and gave out, even to her
ladyship, that the child was dead--she WAS very nearly so--when she
was born. But she's alive, and I know her." With these words, and a
laugh, and laying a bitter stress on the word "ladyship," Mrs.
Chadband folds her arms and looks implacably at Mr. Bucket.

"I suppose now," returns that officer, "YOU will be expecting a
twenty-pound note or a present of about that figure?"

Mrs. Chadband merely laughs and contemptuously tells him he can
"offer" twenty pence.

"My friend the law-stationer's good lady, over there," says Mr.
Bucket, luring Mrs. Snagsby forward with the finger. "What may YOUR
game be, ma'am?"

Mrs. Snagsby is at first prevented, by tears and lamentations, from
stating the nature of her game, but by degrees it confusedly comes to
light that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries and wrongs, whom
Mr. Snagsby has habitually deceived, abandoned, and sought to keep in
darkness, and whose chief comfort, under her afflictions, has been
the sympathy of the late Mr. Tulkinghorn, who showed so much
commiseration for her on one occasion of his calling in Cook's Court
in the absence of her perjured husband that she has of late
habitually carried to him all her woes. Everybody it appears, the
present company excepted, has plotted against Mrs. Snagsby's peace.
There is Mr. Guppy, clerk to Kenge and Carboy, who was at first as
open as the sun at noon, but who suddenly shut up as close as
midnight, under the influence--no doubt--of Mr. Snagsby's suborning
and tampering. There is Mr. Weevle, friend of Mr. Guppy, who lived
mysteriously up a court, owing to the like coherent causes. There was
Krook, deceased; there was Nimrod, deceased; and there was Jo,
deceased; and they were "all in it." In what, Mrs. Snagsby does not
with particularity express, but she knows that Jo was Mr. Snagsby's
son, "as well as if a trumpet had spoken it," and she followed Mr.
Snagsby when he went on his last visit to the boy, and if he was not
his son why did he go? The one occupation of her life has been, for
some time back, to follow Mr. Snagsby to and fro, and up and down,
and to piece suspicious circumstances together--and every
circumstance that has happened has been most suspicious; and in this
way she has pursued her object of detecting and confounding her false
husband, night and day. Thus did it come to pass that she brought the
Chadbands and Mr. Tulkinghorn together, and conferred with Mr.
Tulkinghorn on the change in Mr. Guppy, and helped to turn up the
circumstances in which the present company are interested, casually,
by the wayside, being still and ever on the great high road that is
to terminate in Mr. Snagsby's full exposure and a matrimonial
separation. All this, Mrs. Snagsby, as an injured woman, and the
friend of Mrs. Chadband, and the follower of Mr. Chadband, and the
mourner of the late Mr. Tulkinghorn, is here to certify under the
seal of confidence, with every possible confusion and involvement
possible and impossible, having no pecuniary motive whatever, no
scheme or project but the one mentioned, and bringing here, and
taking everywhere, her own dense atmosphere of dust, arising from the
ceaseless working of her mill of jealousy.

While this exordium is in hand--and it takes some time--Mr. Bucket,
who has seen through the transparency of Mrs. Snagsby's vinegar at a
glance, confers with his familiar demon and bestows his shrewd
attention on the Chadbands and Mr. Smallweed. Sir Leicester Dedlock
remains immovable, with the same icy surface upon him, except that he
once or twice looks towards Mr. Bucket, as relying on that officer
alone of all mankind.

"Very good," says Mr. Bucket. "Now I understand you, you know, and
being deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to look into this
little matter," again Sir Leicester mechanically bows in confirmation
of the statement, "can give it my fair and full attention. Now I
won't allude to conspiring to extort money or anything of that sort,
because we are men and women of the world here, and our object is to
make things pleasant. But I tell you what I DO wonder at; I am
surprised that you should think of making a noise below in the hall.
It was so opposed to your interests. That's what I look at."

"We wanted to get in," pleads Mr. Smallweed.

"Why, of course you wanted to get in," Mr. Bucket asserts with
cheerfulness; "but for a old gentleman at your time of life--what I
call truly venerable, mind you!--with his wits sharpened, as I have
no doubt they are, by the loss of the use of his limbs, which
occasions all his animation to mount up into his head, not to
consider that if he don't keep such a business as the present as
close as possible it can't be worth a mag to him, is so curious! You
see your temper got the better of you; that's where you lost ground,"
says Mr. Bucket in an argumentative and friendly way.

"I only said I wouldn't go without one of the servants came up to Sir
Leicester Dedlock," returns Mr. Smallweed.

"That's it! That's where your temper got the better of you. Now, you
keep it under another time and you'll make money by it. Shall I ring
for them to carry you down?"

"When are we to hear more of this?" Mrs. Chadband sternly demands.

"Bless your heart for a true woman! Always curious, your delightful
sex is!" replies Mr. Bucket with gallantry. "I shall have the
pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next day--not forgetting
Mr. Smallweed and his proposal of two fifty."

"Five hundred!" exclaims Mr. Smallweed.

"All right! Nominally five hundred." Mr. Bucket has his hand on the
bell-rope. "SHALL I wish you good day for the present on the part of
myself and the gentleman of the house?" he asks in an insinuating
tone.

Nobody having the hardihood to object to his doing so, he does it,
and the party retire as they came up. Mr. Bucket follows them to the
door, and returning, says with an air of serious business, "Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, it's for you to consider whether or not
to buy this up. I should recommend, on the whole, it's being bought
up myself; and I think it may be bought pretty cheap. You see, that
little pickled cowcumber of a Mrs. Snagsby has been used by all sides
of the speculation and has done a deal more harm in bringing odds and
ends together than if she had meant it. Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, he
held all these horses in his hand and could have drove 'em his own
way, I haven't a doubt; but he was fetched off the box head-foremost,
and now they have got their legs over the traces, and are all
dragging and pulling their own ways. So it is, and such is life. The
cat's away, and the mice they play; the frost breaks up, and the
water runs. Now, with regard to the party to be apprehended."

Sir Leicester seems to wake, though his eyes have been wide open, and
he looks intently at Mr. Bucket as Mr. Bucket refers to his watch.

"The party to be apprehended is now in this house," proceeds Mr.
Bucket, putting up his watch with a steady hand and with rising
spirits, "and I'm about to take her into custody in your presence.
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, don't you say a word nor yet stir.
There'll be no noise and no disturbance at all. I'll come back in the
course of the evening, if agreeable to you, and endeavour to meet
your wishes respecting this unfortunate family matter and the
nobbiest way of keeping it quiet. Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, don't you be nervous on account of the apprehension at
present coming off. You shall see the whole case clear, from first to
last."

Mr. Bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers Mercury, shuts
the door, and stands behind it with his arms folded. After a suspense
of a minute or two the door slowly opens and a Frenchwoman enters.
Mademoiselle Hortense.

The moment she is in the room Mr. Bucket claps the door to and puts
his back against it. The suddenness of the noise occasions her to
turn, and then for the first time she sees Sir Leicester Dedlock in
his chair.

"I ask you pardon," she mutters hurriedly. "They tell me there was no
one here."

Her step towards the door brings her front to front with Mr. Bucket.
Suddenly a spasm shoots across her face and she turns deadly pale.

"This is my lodger, Sir Leicester Dedlock," says Mr. Bucket, nodding
at her. "This foreign young woman has been my lodger for some weeks
back."

"What do Sir Leicester care for that, you think, my angel?" returns
mademoiselle in a jocular strain.

"Why, my angel," returns Mr. Bucket, "we shall see."

Mademoiselle Hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face,
which gradually changes into a smile of scorn, "You are very
mysterieuse. Are you drunk?"

"Tolerable sober, my angel," returns Mr. Bucket.

"I come from arriving at this so detestable house with your wife.
Your wife have left me since some minutes. They tell me downstairs
that your wife is here. I come here, and your wife is not here. What
is the intention of this fool's play, say then?" mademoiselle
demands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with something in her
dark cheek beating like a clock.

Mr. Bucket merely shakes the finger at her.

"Ah, my God, you are an unhappy idiot!" cries mademoiselle with a
toss of her head and a laugh. "Leave me to pass downstairs, great
pig." With a stamp of her foot and a menace.

"Now, mademoiselle," says Mr. Bucket in a cool determined way, "you
go and sit down upon that sofy."

"I will not sit down upon nothing," she replies with a shower of
nods.

"Now, mademoiselle," repeats Mr. Bucket, making no demonstration
except with the finger, "you sit down upon that sofy."

"Why?"

"Because I take you into custody on a charge of murder, and you don't
need to be told it. Now, I want to be polite to one of your sex and a
foreigner if I can. If I can't, I must be rough, and there's rougher
ones outside. What I am to be depends on you. So I recommend you, as
a friend, afore another half a blessed moment has passed over your
head, to go and sit down upon that sofy."

Mademoiselle complies, saying in a concentrated voice while that
something in her cheek beats fast and hard, "You are a devil."

"Now, you see," Mr. Bucket proceeds approvingly, "you're comfortable
and conducting yourself as I should expect a foreign young woman of
your sense to do. So I'll give you a piece of advice, and it's this,
don't you talk too much. You're not expected to say anything here,
and you can't keep too quiet a tongue in your head. In short, the
less you PARLAY, the better, you know." Mr. Bucket is very complacent
over this French explanation.

Mademoiselle, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth and her black
eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa in a rigid
state, with her hands clenched--and her feet too, one might
suppose--muttering, "Oh, you Bucket, you are a devil!"

"Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," says Mr. Bucket, and from this
time forth the finger never rests, "this young woman, my lodger, was
her ladyship's maid at the time I have mentioned to you; and this
young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement and passionate
against her ladyship after being discharged--"

"Lie!" cries mademoiselle. "I discharge myself."

"Now, why don't you take my advice?" returns Mr. Bucket in an
impressive, almost in an imploring, tone. "I'm surprised at the
indiscreetness you commit. You'll say something that'll be used
against you, you know. You're sure to come to it. Never you mind what
I say till it's given in evidence. It is not addressed to you."

"Discharge, too," cries mademoiselle furiously, "by her ladyship! Eh,
my faith, a pretty ladyship! Why, I r-r-r-ruin my character by
remaining with a ladyship so infame!"

"Upon my soul I wonder at you!" Mr. Bucket remonstrates. "I thought
the French were a polite nation, I did, really. Yet to hear a female
going on like that before Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet!"

"He is a poor abused!" cries mademoiselle. "I spit upon his house,
upon his name, upon his imbecility," all of which she makes the
carpet represent. "Oh, that he is a great man! Oh, yes, superb! Oh,
heaven! Bah!"

"Well, Sir Leicester Dedlock," proceeds Mr. Bucket, "this intemperate
foreigner also angrily took it into her head that she had established
a claim upon Mr. Tulkinghorn, deceased, by attending on the occasion
I told you of at his chambers, though she was liberally paid for her
time and trouble."

"Lie!" cries mademoiselle. "I ref-use his money all togezzer."

"If you WILL PARLAY, you know," says Mr. Bucket parenthetically, "you
must take the consequences. Now, whether she became my lodger, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, with any deliberate intention then of doing this
deed and blinding me, I give no opinion on; but she lived in my house
in that capacity at the time that she was hovering about the chambers
of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn with a view to a wrangle, and
likewise persecuting and half frightening the life out of an
unfortunate stationer."

"Lie!" cries mademoiselle. "All lie!"

"The murder was committed, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and you
know under what circumstances. Now, I beg of you to follow me close
with your attention for a minute or two. I was sent for, and the case
was entrusted to me. I examined the place, and the body, and the
papers, and everything. From information I received (from a clerk in
the same house) I took George into custody as having been seen
hanging about there on the night, and at very nigh the time of the
murder, also as having been overheard in high words with the deceased
on former occasions--even threatening him, as the witness made out.
If you ask me, Sir Leicester Dedlock, whether from the first I
believed George to be the murderer, I tell you candidly no, but he
might be, notwithstanding, and there was enough against him to make
it my duty to take him and get him kept under remand. Now, observe!"

As Mr. Bucket bends forward in some excitement--for him--and
inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of his
forefinger in the air, Mademoiselle Hortense fixes her black eyes
upon him with a dark frown and sets her dry lips closely and firmly
together.

"I went home, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, at night and found this
young woman having supper with my wife, Mrs. Bucket. She had made a
mighty show of being fond of Mrs. Bucket from her first offering
herself as our lodger, but that night she made more than ever--in
fact, overdid it. Likewise she overdid her respect, and all that, for
the lamented memory of the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn. By the living
Lord it flashed upon me, as I sat opposite to her at the table and
saw her with a knife in her hand, that she had done it!"

Mademoiselle is hardly audible in straining through her teeth and
lips the words, "You are a devil."

"Now where," pursues Mr. Bucket, "had she been on the night of the
murder? She had been to the theayter. (She really was there, I have
since found, both before the deed and after it.) I knew I had an
artful customer to deal with and that proof would be very difficult;
and I laid a trap for her--such a trap as I never laid yet, and such
a venture as I never made yet. I worked it out in my mind while I was
talking to her at supper. When I went upstairs to bed, our house
being small and this young woman's ears sharp, I stuffed the sheet
into Mrs. Bucket's mouth that she shouldn't say a word of surprise
and told her all about it. My dear, don't you give your mind to that
again, or I shall link your feet together at the ankles." Mr. Bucket,
breaking off, has made a noiseless descent upon mademoiselle and laid
his heavy hand upon her shoulder.

"What is the matter with you now?" she asks him.

"Don't you think any more," returns Mr. Bucket with admonitory
finger, "of throwing yourself out of window. That's what's the matter
with me. Come! Just take my arm. You needn't get up; I'll sit down by
you. Now take my arm, will you? I'm a married man, you know; you're
acquainted with my wife. Just take my arm."

Vainly endeavouring to moisten those dry lips, with a painful sound
she struggles with herself and complies.

"Now we're all right again. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this case
could never have been the case it is but for Mrs. Bucket, who is a
woman in fifty thousand--in a hundred and fifty thousand! To throw
this young woman off her guard, I have never set foot in our house
since, though I've communicated with Mrs. Bucket in the baker's
loaves and in the milk as often as required. My whispered words to
Mrs. Bucket when she had the sheet in her mouth were, 'My dear, can
you throw her off continually with natural accounts of my suspicions
against George, and this, and that, and t'other? Can you do without
rest and keep watch upon her night and day? Can you undertake to say,
'She shall do nothing without my knowledge, she shall be my prisoner
without suspecting it, she shall no more escape from me than from
death, and her life shall be my life, and her soul my soul, till I
have got her, if she did this murder?' Mrs. Bucket says to me, as
well as she could speak on account of the sheet, 'Bucket, I can!' And
she has acted up to it glorious!"

"Lies!" mademoiselle interposes. "All lies, my friend!"

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, how did my calculations come out
under these circumstances? When I calculated that this impetuous
young woman would overdo it in new directions, was I wrong or right?
I was right. What does she try to do? Don't let it give you a turn?
To throw the murder on her ladyship."

Sir Leicester rises from his chair and staggers down again.

"And she got encouragement in it from hearing that I was always here,
which was done a-purpose. Now, open that pocket-book of mine, Sir
Leicester Dedlock, if I may take the liberty of throwing it towards
you, and look at the letters sent to me, each with the two words
'Lady Dedlock' in it. Open the one directed to yourself, which I
stopped this very morning, and read the three words 'Lady Dedlock,
Murderess' in it. These letters have been falling about like a shower
of lady-birds. What do you say now to Mrs. Bucket, from her spy-place
having seen them all 'written by this young woman? What do you say to
Mrs. Bucket having, within this half-hour, secured the corresponding
ink and paper, fellow half-sheets and what not? What do you say to
Mrs. Bucket having watched the posting of 'em every one by this young
woman, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet?" Mr. Bucket asks, triumphant
in his admiration of his lady's genius.

Two things are especially observable as Mr. Bucket proceeds to a
conclusion. First, that he seems imperceptibly to establish a
dreadful right of property in mademoiselle. Secondly, that the very
atmosphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about her as if
a close net or a pall were being drawn nearer and yet nearer around
her breathless figure.

"There is no doubt that her ladyship was on the spot at the eventful
period," says Mr. Bucket, "and my foreign friend here saw her, I
believe, from the upper part of the staircase. Her ladyship and
George and my foreign friend were all pretty close on one another's
heels. But that don't signify any more, so I'll not go into it. I
found the wadding of the pistol with which the deceased Mr.
Tulkinghorn was shot. It was a bit of the printed description of your
house at Chesney Wold. Not much in that, you'll say, Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet. No. But when my foreign friend here is so
thoroughly off her guard as to think it a safe time to tear up the
rest of that leaf, and when Mrs. Bucket puts the pieces together and
finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look like Queer Street."

"These are very long lies," mademoiselle interposes. "You prose great
deal. Is it that you have almost all finished, or are you speaking
always?"

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," proceeds Mr. Bucket, who delights
in a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses with
any fragment of it, "the last point in the case which I am now going
to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business, and never
doing a thing in a hurry. I watched this young woman yesterday
without her knowledge when she was looking at the funeral, in company
with my wife, who planned to take her there; and I had so much to
convict her, and I saw such an expression in her face, and my mind so
rose against her malice towards her ladyship, and the time was
altogether such a time for bringing down what you may call
retribution upon her, that if I had been a younger hand with less
experience, I should have taken her, certain. Equally, last night,
when her ladyship, as is so universally admired I am sure, come home
looking--why, Lord, a man might almost say like Venus rising from the
ocean--it was so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being
charged with a murder of which she was innocent that I felt quite to
want to put an end to the job. What should I have lost? Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon. My prisoner here
proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the funeral, that
they should go per bus a little ways into the country and take tea at
a very decent house of entertainment. Now, near that house of
entertainment there's a piece of water. At tea, my prisoner got up to
fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom where the bonnets was;
she was rather a long time gone and came back a little out of wind.
As soon as they came home this was reported to me by Mrs. Bucket,
along with her observations and suspicions. I had the piece of water
dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of our men, and the
pocket pistol was brought up before it had been there half-a-dozen
hours. Now, my dear, put your arm a little further through mine, and
hold it steady, and I shan't hurt you!"

In a trice Mr. Bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. "That's one,"
says Mr. Bucket. "Now the other, darling. Two, and all told!"

He rises; she rises too. "Where," she asks him, darkening her large
eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them--and yet they
stare, "where is your false, your treacherous, and cursed wife?"

"She's gone forrard to the Police Office," returns Mr. Bucket.
"You'll see her there, my dear."

"I would like to kiss her!" exclaims Mademoiselle Hortense, panting
tigress-like.

"You'd bite her, I suspect," says Mr. Bucket.

"I would!" making her eyes very large. "I would love to tear her limb
from limb."

"Bless you, darling," says Mr. Bucket with the greatest composure,
"I'm fully prepared to hear that. Your sex have such a surprising
animosity against one another when you do differ. You don't mind me
half so much, do you?"

"No. Though you are a devil still."

"Angel and devil by turns, eh?" cries Mr. Bucket. "But I am in my
regular employment, you must consider. Let me put your shawl tidy.
I've been lady's maid to a good many before now. Anything wanting to
the bonnet? There's a cab at the door."

Mademoiselle Hortense, casting an indignant eye at the glass, shakes
herself perfectly neat in one shake and looks, to do her justice,
uncommonly genteel.

"Listen then, my angel," says she after several sarcastic nods. "You
are very spiritual. But can you restore him back to life?"

Mr. Bucket answers, "Not exactly."

"That is droll. Listen yet one time. You are very spiritual. Can you
make a honourable lady of her?"

"Don't be so malicious," says Mr. Bucket.

"Or a haughty gentleman of HIM?" cries mademoiselle, referring to Sir
Leicester with ineffable disdain. "Eh! Oh, then regard him! The poor
infant! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

"Come, come, why this is worse PARLAYING than the other," says Mr.
Bucket. "Come along!"

"You cannot do these things? Then you can do as you please with me.
It is but the death, it is all the same. Let us go, my angel. Adieu,
you old man, grey. I pity you, and I despise you!"

With these last words she snaps her teeth together as if her mouth
closed with a spring. It is impossible to describe how Mr. Bucket
gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner so peculiar
to himself, enfolding and pervading her like a cloud, and hovering
away with her as if he were a homely Jupiter and she the object of
his affections.

Sir Leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude, as though he
were still listening and his attention were still occupied. At length
he gazes round the empty room, and finding it deserted, rises
unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and walks a few steps,
supporting himself by the table. Then he stops, and with more of
those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems to stare at
something.

Heaven knows what he sees. The green, green woods of Chesney Wold,
the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers, strangers defacing
them, officers of police coarsely handling his most precious
heirlooms, thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousands of faces
sneering at him. But if such shadows flit before him to his
bewilderment, there is one other shadow which he can name with
something like distinctness even yet and to which alone he addresses
his tearing of his white hair and his extended arms.

It is she in association with whom, saving that she has been for
years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he has never
had a selfish thought. It is she whom he has loved, admired,
honoured, and set up for the world to respect. It is she who, at the
core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities of his
life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love, susceptible as
nothing else is of being struck with the agony he feels. He sees her,
almost to the exclusion of himself, and cannot bear to look upon her
cast down from the high place she has graced so well.

And even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious of his
suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something like
distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a tone of
mourning and compassion rather than reproach.




CHAPTER LV

Flight


Inspector Bucket of the Detective has not yet struck his great blow,
as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself with sleep
preparatory to his field-day, when through the night and along the
freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out of Lincolnshire,
making its way towards London.

Railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle and
a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the wide
night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet such things are
non-existent in these parts, though not wholly unexpected.
Preparations are afoot, measurements are made, ground is staked out.
Bridges are begun, and their not yet united piers desolately look at
one another over roads and streams like brick and mortar couples with
an obstacle to their union; fragments of embankments are thrown up
and left as precipices with torrents of rusty carts and barrows
tumbling over them; tripods of tall poles appear on hilltops, where
there are rumours of tunnels; everything looks chaotic and abandoned
in full hopelessness. Along the freezing roads, and through the
night, the post-chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind.

Mrs. Rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at Chesney Wold, sits
within the chaise; and by her side sits Mrs. Bagnet with her grey
cloak and umbrella. The old girl would prefer the bar in front, as
being exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more in
accordance with her usual course of travelling, but Mrs. Rouncewell
is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. The
old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. She sits, in her stately
manner, holding her hand, and regardless of its roughness, puts it
often to her lips. "You are a mother, my dear soul," says she many
times, "and you found out my George's mother!"

"Why, George," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "was always free with me, ma'am,
and when he said at our house to my Woolwich that of all the things
my Woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be a man, the
comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sorrowful line
into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, then I felt
sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his own mother
into his mind. I had often known him say to me, in past times, that
he had behaved bad to her."

"Never, my dear!" returns Mrs. Rouncewell, bursting into tears. "My
blessing on him, never! He was always fond of me, and loving to me,
was my George! But he had a bold spirit, and he ran a little wild and
went for a soldier. And I know he waited at first, in letting us know
about himself, till he should rise to be an officer; and when he
didn't rise, I know he considered himself beneath us, and wouldn't be
a disgrace to us. For he had a lion heart, had my George, always from
a baby!"

The old lady's hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls,
all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay
good-humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down at
Chesney Wold; how Sir Leicester took to him when he was a young
gentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who had been
angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone, poor boy. And now
to see him after all, and in a prison too! And the broad stomacher
heaves, and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bends under its
load of affectionate distress.

Mrs. Bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, leaves
the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while--not without
passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes--and
presently chirps up in her cheery manner, "So I says to George when I
goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking his pipe
outside), 'What ails you this afternoon, George, for gracious sake? I
have seen all sorts, and I have seen you pretty often in season and
out of season, abroad and at home, and I never see you so melancholy
penitent.' 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says George, 'it's because I AM
melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that you see me so.'
'What have you done, old fellow?' I says. 'Why, Mrs. Bagnet,' says
George, shaking his head, 'what I have done has been done this many a
long year, and is best not tried to be undone now. If I ever get to
heaven it won't be for being a good son to a widowed mother; I say no
more.' Now, ma'am, when George says to me that it's best not tried to
be undone now, I have my thoughts as I have often had before, and I
draw it out of George how he comes to have such things on him that
afternoon. Then George tells me that he has seen by chance, at the
lawyer's office, a fine old lady that has brought his mother plain
before him, and he runs on about that old lady till he quite forgets
himself and paints her picture to me as she used to be, years upon
years back. So I says to George when he has done, who is this old
lady he has seen? And George tells me it's Mrs. Rouncewell,
housekeeper for more than half a century to the Dedlock family down
at Chesney Wold in Lincolnshire. George has frequently told me before
that he's a Lincolnshire man, and I says to my old Lignum that night,
'Lignum, that's his mother for five and for-ty pound!'"

All this Mrs. Bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at least
within the last four hours. Trilling it out like a kind of bird, with
a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old lady above the
hum of the wheels.

"Bless you, and thank you," says Mrs. Rouncewell. "Bless you, and
thank you, my worthy soul!"

"Dear heart!" cries Mrs. Bagnet in the most natural manner. "No
thanks to me, I am sure. Thanks to yourself, ma'am, for being so
ready to pay 'em! And mind once more, ma'am, what you had best do
on finding George to be your own son is to make him--for your
sake--have every sort of help to put himself in the right and clear
himself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. It won't
do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have law and
lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter
form a separate establishment and have dissolved partnership with
truth and justice for ever and a day.

"He shall have," says Mrs. Rouncewell, "all the help that can be got
for him in the world, my dear. I will spend all I have, and
thankfully, to procure it. Sir Leicester will do his best, the whole
family will do their best. I--I know something, my dear; and will
make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him all these years,
and finding him in a jail at last."

The extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in saying
this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make a powerful
impression on Mrs. Bagnet and would astonish her but that she refers
them all to her sorrow for her son's condition. And yet Mrs. Bagnet
wonders too why Mrs. Rouncewell should murmur so distractedly, "My
Lady, my Lady, my Lady!" over and over again.

The frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise
comes rolling on through the early mist like the ghost of a chaise
departed. It has plenty of spectral company in ghosts of trees and
hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to the realities of day.
London reached, the travellers alight, the old housekeeper in great
tribulation and confusion, Mrs. Bagnet quite fresh and collected--as
she would be if her next point, with no new equipage and outfit, were
the Cape of Good Hope, the Island of Ascension, Hong Kong, or any
other military station.

But when they set out for the prison where the trooper is
confined, the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her
lavender-coloured dress, much of the staid calmness which is its
usual accompaniment. A wonderfully grave, precise, and handsome piece
of old china she looks, though her heart beats fast and her stomacher
is ruffled more than even the remembrance of this wayward son has
ruffled it these many years.

Approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in the
act of coming out. The old girl promptly makes a sign of entreaty to
him to say nothing; assenting with a nod, he suffers them to enter as
he shuts the door.

So George, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be
alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. The old
housekeeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers are quite
enough for Mrs. Bagnet's confirmation, even if she could see the
mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubt their
relationship.

Not a rustle of the housekeeper's dress, not a gesture, not a word
betrays her. She stands looking at him as he writes on, all
unconscious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her
emotions. But they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent. Mrs.
Bagnet understands them. They speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief,
of hope; of inextinguishable affection, cherished with no return
since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better son loved less,
and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and they speak in such
touching language that Mrs. Bagnet's eyes brim up with tears and they
run glistening down her sun-brown face.

"George Rouncewell! Oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!"

The trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and falls
down on his knees before her. Whether in a late repentance, whether
in the first association that comes back upon him, he puts his hands
together as a child does when it says its prayers, and raising them
towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries.

"My George, my dearest son! Always my favourite, and my favourite
still, where have you been these cruel years and years? Grown such a
man too, grown such a fine strong man. Grown so like what I knew he
must be, if it pleased God he was alive!"

She can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. All
that time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against the
whitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyes with
her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of
old girls as she is.

"Mother," says the trooper when they are more composed, "forgive me
first of all, for I know my need of it."

Forgive him! She does it with all her heart and soul. She always has
done it. She tells him how she has had it written in her will, these
many years, that he was her beloved son George. She has never
believed any ill of him, never. If she had died without this
happiness--and she is an old woman now and can't look to live very
long--she would have blessed him with her last breath, if she had had
her senses, as her beloved son George.

"Mother, I have been an undutiful trouble to you, and I have my
reward; but of late years I have had a kind of glimmering of a
purpose in me too. When I left home I didn't care much, mother--I am
afraid not a great deal--for leaving; and went away and 'listed,
harum-scarum, making believe to think that I cared for nobody, no not
I, and that nobody cared for me."

The trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief, but
there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner of
expressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone in
which he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob.

"So I wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say I had
'listed under another name, and I went abroad. Abroad, at one time I
thought I would write home next year, when I might be better off; and
when that year was out, I thought I would write home next year, when
I might be better off; and when that year was out again, perhaps I
didn't think much about it. So on, from year to year, through a
service of ten years, till I began to get older, and to ask myself
why should I ever write."

"I don't find any fault, child--but not to ease my mind, George? Not
a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?"

This almost overturns the trooper afresh, but he sets himself up with
a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat.

"Heaven forgive me, mother, but I thought there would be small
consolation then in hearing anything about me. There were you,
respected and esteemed. There was my brother, as I read in chance
North Country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous and
famous. There was I a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-made like
him, but self-unmade--all my earlier advantages thrown away, all my
little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but what unfitted me for
most things that I could think of. What business had I to make myself
known? After letting all that time go by me, what good could come of
it? The worst was past with you, mother. I knew by that time (being a
man) how you had mourned for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me;
and the pain was over, or was softened down, and I was better in your
mind as it was."

The old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of his
powerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder.

"No, I don't say that it was so, mother, but that I made it out to be
so. I said just now, what good could come of it? Well, my dear
mother, some good might have come of it to myself--and there was the
meanness of it. You would have sought me out; you would have
purchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to Chesney Wold;
you would have brought me and my brother and my brother's family
together; you would all have considered anxiously how to do something
for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. But how could any of
you feel sure of me when I couldn't so much as feel sure of myself?
How could you help regarding as an incumbrance and a discredit to you
an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbrance and a discredit to
himself, excepting under discipline? How could I look my brother's
children in the face and pretend to set them an example--I, the
vagabond boy who had run away from home and been the grief and
unhappiness of my mother's life? 'No, George.' Such were my words,
mother, when I passed this in review before me: 'You have made your
bed. Now, lie upon it.'"

Mrs. Rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head at the
old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, "I told
you so!" The old girl relieves her feelings and testifies her
interest in the conversation by giving the trooper a great poke
between the shoulders with her umbrella; this action she afterwards
repeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate lunacy, never
failing, after the administration of each of these remonstrances, to
resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak again.

"This was the way I brought myself to think, mother, that my best
amends was to lie upon that bed I had made, and die upon it. And I
should have done it (though I have been to see you more than once
down at Chesney Wold, when you little thought of me) but for my old
comrade's wife here, who I find has been too many for me. But I thank
her for it. I thank you for it, Mrs. Bagnet, with all my heart and
might."

To which Mrs. Bagnet responds with two pokes.

And now the old lady impresses upon her son George, her own dear
recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the happy
close of her life, and every fond name she can think of, that he must
be governed by the best advice obtainable by money and influence,
that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers that can be
got, that he must act in this serious plight as he shall be advised
to act and must not be self-willed, however right, but must promise
to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety and suffering until he
is released, or he will break her heart.

"Mother, 'tis little enough to consent to," returns the trooper,
stopping her with a kiss; "tell me what I shall do, and I'll make a
late beginning and do it. Mrs. Bagnet, you'll take care of my mother,
I know?"

A very hard poke from the old girl's umbrella.

"If you'll bring her acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson,
she will find them of her way of thinking, and they will give her the
best advice and assistance."

"And, George," says the old lady, "we must send with all haste for
your brother. He is a sensible sound man as they tell me--out in the
world beyond Chesney Wold, my dear, though I don't know much of it
myself--and will be of great service."

"Mother," returns the trooper, "is it too soon to ask a favour?"

"Surely not, my dear."

"Then grant me this one great favour. Don't let my brother know."

"Not know what, my dear?"

"Not know of me. In fact, mother, I can't bear it; I can't make up my
mind to it. He has proved himself so different from me and has done
so much to raise himself while I've been soldiering that I haven't
brass enough in my composition to see him in this place and under
this charge. How could a man like him be expected to have any
pleasure in such a discovery? It's impossible. No, keep my secret
from him, mother; do me a greater kindness than I deserve and keep my
secret from my brother, of all men."

"But not always, dear George?"

"Why, mother, perhaps not for good and all--though I may come to ask
that too--but keep it now, I do entreat you. If it's ever broke to
him that his rip of a brother has turned up, I could wish," says the
trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, "to break it myself and be
governed as to advancing or retreating by the way in which he seems
to take it."

As he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as the depth
of it is recognized in Mrs. Bagnet's face, his mother yields her
implicit assent to what he asks. For this he thanks her kindly.

"In all other respects, my dear mother, I'll be as tractable and
obedient as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out. So now I am
ready even for the lawyers. I have been drawing up," he glances at
his writing on the table, "an exact account of what I knew of the
deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunate affair.
It's entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; not a word in
it but what's wanted for the facts. I did intend to read it, straight
on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anything in my defence. I
hope I may be let to do it still; but I have no longer a will of my
own in this case, and whatever is said or done, I give my promise not
to have any."

Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and time
being on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure. Again and again
the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and again and again the
trooper holds her to his broad chest.

"Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?"

"I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. I have some
business there that must be looked to directly," Mrs. Rouncewell
answers.

"Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet? But of
course I know you will. Why should I ask it!"

Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.

"Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you.
Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake of the
hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was ten thousand
pound in gold, my dear!" So saying, the trooper puts his lips to the
old girl's tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon him in his cell.

No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induce
Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home. Jumping
out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion and handing Mrs.
Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges off,
arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnet family and
falling to washing the greens as if nothing had happened.

My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference with
the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and is
looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so
leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs. Rouncewell.
What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly?

"Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg a word with
you?"

What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman tremble
so? Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has often thought, why
does she falter in this manner and look at her with such strange
mistrust?

"What is the matter? Sit down and take your breath."

"Oh, my Lady, my Lady. I have found my son--my youngest, who went
away for a soldier so long ago. And he is in prison."

"For debt?"

"Oh, no, my Lady; I would have paid any debt, and joyful."

"For what is he in prison then?"

"Charged with a murder, my Lady, of which he is as innocent as--as I
am. Accused of the murder of Mr. Tulkinghorn."

What does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? Why does
she come so close? What is the letter that she holds?

"Lady Dedlock, my dear Lady, my good Lady, my kind Lady! You must
have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to forgive me. I
was in this family before you were born. I am devoted to it. But
think of my dear son wrongfully accused."

"I do not accuse him."

"No, my Lady, no. But others do, and he is in prison and in danger.
Oh, Lady Dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to clear him, say
it!"

What delusion can this be? What power does she suppose is in the
person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be unjust?
Her Lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with
fear.

"My Lady, I came away last night from Chesney Wold to find my son in
my old age, and the step upon the Ghost's Walk was so constant and so
solemn that I never heard the like in all these years. Night after
night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoed through your
rooms, but last night it was awfullest. And as it fell dark last
night, my Lady, I got this letter."

"What letter is it?"

"Hush! Hush!" The housekeeper looks round and answers in a frightened
whisper, "My Lady, I have not breathed a word of it, I don't believe
what's written in it, I know it can't be true, I am sure and certain
that it is not true. But my son is in danger, and you must have a
heart to pity me. If you know of anything that is not known to
others, if you have any suspicion, if you have any clue at all, and
any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh, my dear Lady, think
of me, and conquer that reason, and let it be known! This is the most
I consider possible. I know you are not a hard lady, but you go your
own way always without help, and you are not familiar with your
friends; and all who admire you--and all do--as a beautiful and
elegant lady, know you to be one far away from themselves who can't
be approached close. My Lady, you may have some proud or angry
reasons for disdaining to utter something that you know; if so, pray,
oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whose whole life has been
passed in this family which she dearly loves, and relent, and help to
clear my son! My Lady, my good Lady," the old housekeeper pleads with
genuine simplicity, "I am so humble in my place and you are by nature
so high and distant that you may not think what I feel for my child,
but I feel so much that I have come here to make so bold as to beg
and pray you not to be scornful of us if you can do us any right or
justice at this fearful time!"

Lady Dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the letter
from her hand.

"Am I to read this?"

"When I am gone, my Lady, if you please, and then remembering the
most that I consider possible."

"I know of nothing I can do. I know of nothing I reserve that can
affect your son. I have never accused him."

"My Lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation after
reading the letter."

The old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. In truth
she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been when the
sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strong
earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. But so long
accustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so long
schooled for her own purposes in that destructive school which shuts
up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber and spreads
one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, the feeling and
the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she had subdued even
her wonder until now.

She opens the letter. Spread out upon the paper is a printed account
of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on the floor,
shot through the heart; and underneath is written her own name, with
the word "murderess" attached.

It falls out of her hand. How long it may have lain upon the ground
she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servant stands before
her announcing the young man of the name of Guppy. The words have
probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her
head before she begins to understand them.

"Let him come in!"

He comes in. Holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken from
the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. In the eyes of Mr.
Guppy she is the same Lady Dedlock, holding the same prepared, proud,
chilling state.

"Your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit from
one who has never been welcome to your ladyship"--which he don't
complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never has been any
particular reason on the face of things why he should be--"but I hope
when I mention my motives to your ladyship you will not find fault
with me," says Mr. Guppy.

"Do so."

"Thank your ladyship. I ought first to explain to your ladyship," Mr.
Guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet at
his feet, "that Miss Summerson, whose image, as I formerly mentioned
to your ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on my 'eart
until erased by circumstances over which I had no control,
communicated to me, after I had the pleasure of waiting on your
ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps
whatever in any manner at all relating to her. And Miss Summerson's
wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances over
which I have no control), I consequently never expected to have the
distinguished honour of waiting on your ladyship again."

And yet he is here now, Lady Dedlock moodily reminds him.

"And yet I am here now," Mr. Guppy admits. "My object being to
communicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why I am
here."

He cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. "Nor can
I," Mr. Guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, "too
particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that
it's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. I have no
interested views of my own to serve in coming here. If it was not for
my promise to Miss Summerson and my keeping of it sacred--I, in point
of fact, shouldn't have darkened these doors again, but should have
seen 'em further first."

Mr. Guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his hair
with both hands.

"Your ladyship will remember when I mention it that the last time I
was here I run against a party very eminent in our profession and
whose loss we all deplore. That party certainly did from that time
apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that I will call
sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely
difficult for me to be sure that I hadn't inadvertently led up to
something contrary to Miss Summerson's wishes. Self-praise is no
recommendation, but I may say for myself that I am not so bad a man
of business neither."

Lady Dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. Mr. Guppy immediately
withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else.

"Indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, "to have any idea
what that party was up to in combination with others that until the
loss which we all deplore I was gravelled--an expression which your
ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to
consider tantamount to knocked over. Small likewise--a name by which
I refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship is not
acquainted with--got to be so close and double-faced that at times it
wasn't easy to keep one's hands off his 'ead. However, what with the
exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual
friend by the name of Mr. Tony Weevle (who is of a high aristocratic
turn and has your ladyship's portrait always hanging up in his room),
I have now reasons for an apprehension as to which I come to put your
ladyship upon your guard. First, will your ladyship allow me to ask
you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning? I don't
mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for instance, as Miss
Barbary's old servant, or as a person without the use of his lower
extremities, carried upstairs similarly to a guy?"

"No!"

"Then I assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and
have been received here. Because I saw them at the door, and waited
at the corner of the square till they came out, and took half an
hour's turn afterwards to avoid them."

"What have I to do with that, or what have you? I do not understand
you. What do you mean?"

"Your ladyship, I come to put you on your guard. There may be no
occasion for it. Very well. Then I have only done my best to keep my
promise to Miss Summerson. I strongly suspect (from what Small has
dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that those
letters I was to have brought to your ladyship were not destroyed
when I supposed they were. That if there was anything to be blown
upon, it IS blown upon. That the visitors I have alluded to have been
here this morning to make money of it. And that the money is made, or
making."

Mr. Guppy picks up his hat and rises.

"Your ladyship, you know best whether there's anything in what I say
or whether there's nothing. Something or nothing, I have acted up to
Miss Summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what I
had begun to do, as far as possible; that's sufficient for me. In
case I should be taking a liberty in putting your ladyship on your
guard when there's no necessity for it, you will endeavour, I should
hope, to outlive my presumption, and I shall endeavour to outlive
your disapprobation. I now take my farewell of your ladyship, and
assure you that there's no danger of your ever being waited on by me
again."

She scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but when
he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell.

"Where is Sir Leicester?"

Mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone.

"Has Sir Leicester had any visitors this morning?"

Several, on business. Mercury proceeds to a description of them,
which has been anticipated by Mr. Guppy. Enough; he may go.

So! All is broken down. Her name is in these many mouths, her husband
knows his wrongs, her shame will be published--may be spreading while
she thinks about it--and in addition to the thunderbolt so long
foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she is denounced by an
invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy.

Her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him dead.
Her enemy he is, even in his grave. This dreadful accusation comes
upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. And when she
recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how she may
be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soon before
merely to release herself from observation, she shudders as if the
hangman's hands were at her neck.

She has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair all
wildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch. She
rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, and rocks
and moans. The horror that is upon her is unutterable. If she really
were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment, more intense.

For as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed,
however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have been
closed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure, preventing
her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as those consequences
would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, the moment the figure
was laid low--which always happens when a murder is done; so, now she
sees that when he used to be on the watch before her, and she used to
think, "if some mortal stroke would but fall on this old man and take
him from my way!" it was but wishing that all he held against her in
his hand might be flung to the winds and chance-sown in many places.
So, too, with the wicked relief she has felt in his death. What was
his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the
arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments, each crushing and
mangling piecemeal!

Thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her that from
this pursuer, living or dead--obdurate and imperturbable before her
in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate and imperturbable
in his coffin-bed--there is no escape but in death. Hunted, she
flies. The complication of her shame, her dread, remorse, and misery,
overwhelms her at its height; and even her strength of self-reliance
is overturned and whirled away like a leaf before a mighty wind.

She hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and leaves
them on her table:


   If I am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe
   that I am wholly innocent. Believe no other good of me,
   for I am innocent of nothing else that you have heard,
   or will hear, laid to my charge. He prepared me, on that
   fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to you. After
   he had left me, I went out on pretence of walking in the
   garden where I sometimes walk, but really to follow him
   and make one last petition that he would not protract the
   dreadful suspense on which I have been racked by him, you
   do not know how long, but would mercifully strike next
   morning.

   I found his house dark and silent. I rang twice at his
   door, but there was no reply, and I came home.

   I have no home left. I will encumber you no more. May
   you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the
   unworthy woman on whom you have wasted a most generous
   devotion--who avoids you only with a deeper shame than
   that with which she hurries from herself--and who writes
   this last adieu.


She veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money,
listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opens
and shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind.




CHAPTER LVI

Pursuit


Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town house
stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and gives
no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriages rattle,
doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancient charmers
with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly
bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed these fascinating
creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together, dazzle the
eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easily swinging
carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs, deep sunk
into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount luscious Mercuries
bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hats broadwise, a
spectacle for the angels.

The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours pass before
its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia the fair,
being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and finding that
disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence, ventures at
length to repair to the library for change of scene. Her gentle
tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it and peeps in;
seeing no one there, takes possession.

The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of the
ancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity which impels
her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle about with
a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every description.
Certain it is that she avails herself of the present opportunity of
hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers like a bird, taking a
short peck at this document and a blink with her head on one side at
that document, and hopping about from table to table with her glass
at her eye in an inquisitive and restless manner. In the course of
these researches she stumbles over something, and turning her glass
in that direction, sees her kinsman lying on the ground like a felled
tree.

Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation of
reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in commotion.
Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently rung, doctors
are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in all directions, but not
found. Nobody has seen or heard her since she last rang her bell. Her
letter to Sir Leicester is discovered on her table, but it is
doubtful yet whether he has not received another missive from another
world requiring to be personally answered, and all the living
languages, and all the dead, are as one to him.

They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, and put
ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit, the day
has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before his stertorous
breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness of the
candle that is occasionally passed before them. But when this change
begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves his eyes or even
his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.

He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhat
infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. He lies
upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit shadow of
himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had so long been
thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankind of any word
he said that his words really had come to sound as if there were
something in them. But now he can only whisper, and what he whispers
sounds like what it is--mere jumble and jargon.

His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. It is
the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it.
After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he makes
signs for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot at first
understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out what he wants
and brings in a slate.

After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a hand that
is not his, "Chesney Wold?"

No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in the library
this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened to come to
London and is able to attend upon him.

"It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester. You
will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester. All the gentlemen say
so." This, with the tears coursing down her fair old face.

After making a survey of the room and looking with particular
attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, "My
Lady."

"My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, and
don't know of your illness yet."

He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They all try
to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. On their
looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate
once more and writes "My Lady. For God's sake, where?" And makes an
imploring moan.

It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Lady
Dedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or can surmise.
She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal. Having read it
twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be
seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of relapse or into a
swoon, and it is an hour before he opens his eyes, reclining on his
faithful and attached old servant's arm. The doctors know that he is
best with her, and when not actively engaged about him, stand aloof.

The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants to
write he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction
at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he must go mad in
the necessity he feels for haste and the inability under which he
labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom. He has written the
letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, in the height of his
misery, he puts Mr. before it. The old housekeeper suggests Bucket.
Thank heaven! That's his meaning.

Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. Shall he come
up?

There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burning wish
to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of
every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr. Bucket
appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems fallen from his
high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this man.

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this. I
hope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the family
credit."

Sir Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his
face while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket's
eye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye is
still glancing over the words, he indicates, "Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet, I understand you."

Sir Leicester writes upon the slate. "Full forgiveness. Find--" Mr.
Bucket stops his hand.

"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'll find her. But my search after
her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost."

With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock's
look towards a little box upon a table.

"Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Open it
with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? TO be sure.
Take the notes out? So I will. Count 'em? That's soon done. Twenty
and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, and fifty's one twenty, and
forty's one sixty. Take 'em for expenses? That I'll do, and render an
account of course. Don't spare money? No I won't."

The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on all
these heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, who holds
the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands as he
starts up, furnished for his journey.

"You're George's mother, old lady; that's about what you are, I
believe?" says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on and
buttoning his coat.

"Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother."

"So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now. Well,
then, I'll tell you something. You needn't be distressed no more.
Your son's all right. Now, don't you begin a-crying, because what
you've got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,
and you won't do that by crying. As to your son, he's all right, I
tell you; and he sends his loving duty, and hoping you're the same.
He's discharged honourable; that's about what HE is; with no more
imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a
tidy one, I'LL bet a pound. You may trust me, for I took your son. He
conducted himself in a game way, too, on that occasion; and he's a
fine-made man, and you're a fine-made old lady, and you're a mother
and son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a caravan.
Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, what you've trusted to me I'll go
through with. Don't you be afraid of my turning out of my way, right
or left, or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found
what I go in search of. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on
your part? Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you
better, and these family affairs smoothed over--as, Lord, many other
family affairs equally has been, and equally will be, to the end of
time."

With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out,
looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night
in quest of the fugitive.

His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms and look
all over them for any trifling indication that may help him. The
rooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-light in
his hand, holding it above his head and taking a sharp mental
inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variance with
himself, would be to see a sight--which nobody DOES see, as he is
particular to lock himself in.

"A spicy boudoir, this," says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner
furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. "Must have
cost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; she must
have been hard put to it!"

Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets and
jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors,
and moralizes thereon.

"One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles and
getting myself up for almac's," says Mr. Bucket. "I begin to think I
must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it."

Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an inner
drawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves which it can
scarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon a
white handkerchief.

"Hum! Let's have a look at YOU," says Mr. Bucket, putting down the
light. "What should YOU be kept by yourself for? What's YOUR motive?
Are you her ladyship's property, or somebody else's? You've got a
mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose?"

He finds it as he speaks, "Esther Summerson."

"Oh!" says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. "Come,
I'll take YOU."

He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has
carried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it,
glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the
street. With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of Sir
Leicester's room, he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest
coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be
driven to the shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a
scientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on the
principal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledge of
the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go, he
knows him.

His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clattering
over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his
keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the
midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows where
people are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that he
rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where the
snow lies thin--for something may present itself to assist him,
anywhere--he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he
stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam.

"Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I'll be back."

He runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking his
pipe.

"I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, my
lad. I haven't a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save a woman.
Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died--that was the name, I
know--all right--where does she live?"

The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address, near
Oxford Street.

"You won't repent it, George. Good night!"

He is off again, with an impression of having seen Phil sitting by
the frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops away again,
and gets out in a cloud of steam again.

Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to bed,
rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell, and
comes down to the door in his dressing-gown.

"Don't be alarmed, sir." In a moment his visitor is confidential with
him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand upon the
lock. "I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. Inspector Bucket.
Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss Esther Summerson's. Found it
myself put away in a drawer of Lady Dedlock's, quarter of an hour
ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of life or death. You know Lady
Dedlock?"

"Yes."

"There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have come
out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit--apoplexy or
paralysis--and couldn't be brought to, and precious time has been
lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for
him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!"

Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks.

"I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there's more and more
danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I'd give a hundred
pound an hour to have got the start of the present time. Now, Mr.
Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to follow
her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness. I have
money and full power, but I want something else. I want Miss
Summerson."

Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, "Miss Summerson?"

"Now, Mr. Jarndyce"--Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatest
attention all along--"I speak to you as a gentleman of a humane
heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don't often happen.
If ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now; and if ever you
couldn't afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is the
time. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred pound
apiece at least, have been lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. I am
charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all the rest
that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes, suspicion of
murder. If I follow her alone, she, being in ignorance of what Sir
Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has communicated to me, may be driven to
desperation. But if I follow her in company with a young lady,
answering to the description of a young lady that she has a
tenderness for--I ask no question, and I say no more than that--she
will give me credit for being friendly. Let me come up with her and
be able to have the hold upon her of putting that young lady for'ard,
and I'll save her and prevail with her if she is alive. Let me come
up with her alone--a hard matter--and I'll do my best, but I don't
answer for what the best may be. Time flies; it's getting on for one
o'clock. When one strikes, there's another hour gone, and it's worth
a thousand pound now instead of a hundred."

This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot be
questioned. Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaks to
Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will, but acting on his usual
principle, does no such thing, following upstairs instead and keeping
his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking about in the
gloom of the staircase while they confer. In a very little time Mr.
Jarndyce comes down and tells him that Miss Summerson will join him
directly and place herself under his protection to accompany him
where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satisfied, expresses high approval and
awaits her coming at the door.

There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far and wide.
Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through the streets; many
solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lying under haystacks.
But the figure that he seeks is not among them. Other solitaries he
perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over; and in shadowed places
down by the river's level; and a dark, dark, shapeless object
drifting with the tide, more solitary than all, clings with a
drowning hold on his attention.

Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? If, as he folds the
handkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able with an enchanted
power to bring before him the place where she found it and the
night-landscape near the cottage where it covered the little child,
would he descry her there? On the waste where the brick-kilns are
burning with a pale blue flare, where the straw-roofs of the wretched
huts in which the bricks are made are being scattered by the wind,
where the clay and water are hard frozen and the mill in which the
gaunt blind horse goes round all day looks like an instrument of
human torture--traversing this deserted, blighted spot there is a
lonely figure with the sad world to itself, pelted by the snow and
driven by the wind, and cast out, it would seem, from all
companionship. It is the figure of a woman, too; but it is miserably
dressed, and no such clothes ever came through the hall and out at
the great door of the Dedlock mansion.




CHAPTER LVII

Esther's Narrative


I had gone to bed and fallen asleep when my guardian knocked at the
door of my room and begged me to get up directly. On my hurrying to
speak to him and learn what had happened, he told me, after a word or
two of preparation, that there had been a discovery at Sir Leicester
Dedlock's. That my mother had fled, that a person was now at our door
who was empowered to convey to her the fullest assurances of
affectionate protection and forgiveness if he could possibly find
her, and that I was sought for to accompany him in the hope that my
entreaties might prevail upon her if his failed. Something to this
general purpose I made out, but I was thrown into such a tumult of
alarm, and hurry and distress, that in spite of every effort I could
make to subdue my agitation, I did not seem, to myself, fully to
recover my right mind until hours had passed.

But I dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking Charley or
any one and went down to Mr. Bucket, who was the person entrusted
with the secret. In taking me to him my guardian told me this, and
also explained how it was that he had come to think of me. Mr.
Bucket, in a low voice, by the light of my guardian's candle, read to
me in the hall a letter that my mother had left upon her table; and I
suppose within ten minutes of my having been aroused I was sitting
beside him, rolling swiftly through the streets.

His manner was very keen, and yet considerate when he explained to me
that a great deal might depend on my being able to answer, without
confusion, a few questions that he wished to ask me. These were,
chiefly, whether I had had much communication with my mother (to whom
he only referred as Lady Dedlock), when and where I had spoken with
her last, and how she had become possessed of my handkerchief. When I
had satisfied him on these points, he asked me particularly to
consider--taking time to think--whether within my knowledge there was
any one, no matter where, in whom she might be at all likely to
confide under circumstances of the last necessity. I could think of
no one but my guardian. But by and by I mentioned Mr. Boythorn. He
came into my mind as connected with his old chivalrous manner of
mentioning my mother's name and with what my guardian had informed me
of his engagement to her sister and his unconscious connexion with
her unhappy story.

My companion had stopped the driver while we held this conversation,
that we might the better hear each other. He now told him to go on
again and said to me, after considering within himself for a few
moments, that he had made up his mind how to proceed. He was quite
willing to tell me what his plan was, but I did not feel clear enough
to understand it.

We had not driven very far from our lodgings when we stopped in a
by-street at a public-looking place lighted up with gas. Mr. Bucket
took me in and sat me in an arm-chair by a bright fire. It was now
past one, as I saw by the clock against the wall. Two police
officers, looking in their perfectly neat uniform not at all like
people who were up all night, were quietly writing at a desk; and the
place seemed very quiet altogether, except for some beating and
calling out at distant doors underground, to which nobody paid any
attention.

A third man in uniform, whom Mr. Bucket called and to whom he
whispered his instructions, went out; and then the two others advised
together while one wrote from Mr. Bucket's subdued dictation. It was
a description of my mother that they were busy with, for Mr. Bucket
brought it to me when it was done and read it in a whisper. It was
very accurate indeed.

The second officer, who had attended to it closely, then copied it
out and called in another man in uniform (there were several in an
outer room), who took it up and went away with it. All this was done
with the greatest dispatch and without the waste of a moment; yet
nobody was at all hurried. As soon as the paper was sent out upon its
travels, the two officers resumed their former quiet work of writing
with neatness and care. Mr. Bucket thoughtfully came and warmed the
soles of his boots, first one and then the other, at the fire.

"Are you well wrapped up, Miss Summerson?" he asked me as his eyes
met mine. "It's a desperate sharp night for a young lady to be out
in."

I told him I cared for no weather and was warmly clothed.

"It may be a long job," he observed; "but so that it ends well, never
mind, miss."

"I pray to heaven it may end well!" said I.

He nodded comfortingly. "You see, whatever you do, don't you go and
fret yourself. You keep yourself cool and equal for anything that may
happen, and it'll be the better for you, the better for me, the
better for Lady Dedlock, and the better for Sir Leicester Dedlock,
Baronet."

He was really very kind and gentle, and as he stood before the fire
warming his boots and rubbing his face with his forefinger, I felt a
confidence in his sagacity which reassured me. It was not yet a
quarter to two when I heard horses' feet and wheels outside. "Now,
Miss Summerson," said he, "we are off, if you please!"

He gave me his arm, and the two officers courteously bowed me out,
and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche with a postilion and
post horses. Mr. Bucket handed me in and took his own seat on the
box. The man in uniform whom he had sent to fetch this equipage then
handed him up a dark lantern at his request, and when he had given a
few directions to the driver, we rattled away.

I was far from sure that I was not in a dream. We rattled with great
rapidity through such a labyrinth of streets that I soon lost all
idea where we were, except that we had crossed and re-crossed the
river, and still seemed to be traversing a low-lying, waterside,
dense neighbourhood of narrow thoroughfares chequered by docks and
basins, high piles of warehouses, swing-bridges, and masts of ships.
At length we stopped at the corner of a little slimy turning, which
the wind from the river, rushing up it, did not purify; and I saw my
companion, by the light of his lantern, in conference with several
men who looked like a mixture of police and sailors. Against the
mouldering wall by which they stood, there was a bill, on which I
could discern the words, "Found Drowned"; and this and an inscription
about drags possessed me with the awful suspicion shadowed forth in
our visit to that place.

I had no need to remind myself that I was not there by the indulgence
of any feeling of mine to increase the difficulties of the search, or
to lessen its hopes, or enhance its delays. I remained quiet, but
what I suffered in that dreadful spot I never can forget. And still
it was like the horror of a dream. A man yet dark and muddy, in long
swollen sodden boots and a hat like them, was called out of a boat
and whispered with Mr. Bucket, who went away with him down some
slippery steps--as if to look at something secret that he had to
show. They came back, wiping their hands upon their coats, after
turning over something wet; but thank God it was not what I feared!

After some further conference, Mr. Bucket (whom everybody seemed to
know and defer to) went in with the others at a door and left me in
the carriage, while the driver walked up and down by his horses to
warm himself. The tide was coming in, as I judged from the sound it
made, and I could hear it break at the end of the alley with a little
rush towards me. It never did so--and I thought it did so, hundreds
of times, in what can have been at the most a quarter of an hour, and
probably was less--but the thought shuddered through me that it would
cast my mother at the horses' feet.

Mr. Bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant,
darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. "Don't you be
alarmed, Miss Summerson, on account of our coming down here," he
said, turning to me. "I only want to have everything in train and to
know that it is in train by looking after it myself. Get on, my lad!"

We appeared to retrace the way we had come. Not that I had taken note
of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mind, but judging
from the general character of the streets. We called at another
office or station for a minute and crossed the river again. During
the whole of this time, and during the whole search, my companion,
wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in his vigilance a single
moment; but when we crossed the bridge he seemed, if possible, to be
more on the alert than before. He stood up to look over the parapet,
he alighted and went back after a shadowy female figure that flitted
past us, and he gazed into the profound black pit of water with a
face that made my heart die within me. The river had a fearful look,
so overcast and secret, creeping away so fast between the low flat
lines of shore--so heavy with indistinct and awful shapes, both of
substance and shadow; so death-like and mysterious. I have seen it
many times since then, by sunlight and by moonlight, but never free
from the impressions of that journey. In my memory the lights upon
the bridge are always burning dim, the cutting wind is eddying round
the homeless woman whom we pass, the monotonous wheels are whirling
on, and the light of the carriage-lamps reflected back looks palely
in upon me--a face rising out of the dreaded water.

Clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came at
length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to leave
the houses behind us. After a while I recognized the familiar way to
Saint Albans. At Barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and we
changed and went on. It was very cold indeed, and the open country
was white with snow, though none was falling then.

"An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson," said Mr.
Bucket cheerfully.

"Yes," I returned. "Have you gathered any intelligence?"

"None that can be quite depended on as yet," he answered, "but it's
early times as yet."

He had gone into every late or early public-house where there
was a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being
then much frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the
turnpike-keepers. I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money,
and making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he
took his seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful
steady look, and he always said to the driver in the same business
tone, "Get on, my lad!"

With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o'clock and we
were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out of one of
these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.

"Drink it, Miss Summerson, it'll do you good. You're beginning to get
more yourself now, ain't you?"

I thanked him and said I hoped so.

"You was what you may call stunned at first," he returned; "and Lord,
no wonder! Don't speak loud, my dear. It's all right. She's on
ahead."

I don't know what joyful exclamation I made or was going to make, but
he put up his finger and I stopped myself.

"Passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine. I
heard of her first at the archway toll, over at Highgate, but
couldn't make quite sure. Traced her all along, on and off. Picked
her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she's before us
now, safe. Take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler. Now, if you
wasn't brought up to the butter trade, look out and see if you can
catch half a crown in your t'other hand. One, two, three, and there
you are! Now, my lad, try a gallop!"

We were soon in Saint Albans and alighted a little before day, when I
was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurrences of the
night and really to believe that they were not a dream. Leaving the
carriage at the posting-house and ordering fresh horses to be ready,
my companion gave me his arm, and we went towards home.

"As this is your regular abode, Miss Summerson, you see," he
observed, "I should like to know whether you've been asked for by any
stranger answering the description, or whether Mr. Jarndyce has. I
don't much expect it, but it might be."

As we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp eye--the
day was now breaking--and reminded me that I had come down it one
night, as I had reason for remembering, with my little servant and
poor Jo, whom he called Toughey.

I wondered how he knew that.

"When you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know," said
Mr. Bucket.

Yes, I remembered that too, very well.

"That was me," said Mr. Bucket.

Seeing my surprise, he went on, "I drove down in a gig that afternoon
to look after that boy. You might have heard my wheels when you came
out to look after him yourself, for I was aware of you and your
little maid going up when I was walking the horse down. Making an
inquiry or two about him in the town, I soon heard what company he
was in and was coming among the brick-fields to look for him when I
observed you bringing him home here."

"Had he committed any crime?" I asked.

"None was charged against him," said Mr. Bucket, coolly lifting off
his hat, "but I suppose he wasn't over-particular. No. What I wanted
him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter of Lady
Dedlock quiet. He had been making his tongue more free than welcome
as to a small accidental service he had been paid for by the deceased
Mr. Tulkinghorn; and it wouldn't do, at any sort of price, to have
him playing those games. So having warned him out of London, I made
an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of it now he WAS away, and
go farther from it, and maintain a bright look-out that I didn't
catch him coming back again."

"Poor creature!" said I.

"Poor enough," assented Mr. Bucket, "and trouble enough, and well
enough away from London, or anywhere else. I was regularly turned on
my back when I found him taken up by your establishment, I do assure
you."

I asked him why. "Why, my dear?" said Mr. Bucket. "Naturally there
was no end to his tongue then. He might as well have been born with a
yard and a half of it, and a remnant over."

Although I remember this conversation now, my head was in confusion
at the time, and my power of attention hardly did more than enable me
to understand that he entered into these particulars to divert me.
With the same kind intention, manifestly, he often spoke to me of
indifferent things, while his face was busy with the one object that
we had in view. He still pursued this subject as we turned in at the
garden-gate.

"Ah!" said Mr. Bucket. "Here we are, and a nice retired place it is.
Puts a man in mind of the country house in the Woodpecker-tapping,
that was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled. They're early
with the kitchen fire, and that denotes good servants. But what
you've always got to be careful of with servants is who comes to see
'em; you never know what they're up to if you don't know that. And
another thing, my dear. Whenever you find a young man behind the
kitchen-door, you give that young man in charge on suspicion of being
secreted in a dwelling-house with an unlawful purpose."

We were now in front of the house; he looked attentively and closely
at the gravel for footprints before he raised his eyes to the
windows.

"Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room
when he's on a visit here, Miss Summerson?" he inquired, glancing at
Mr. Skimpole's usual chamber.

"You know Mr. Skimpole!" said I.

"What do you call him again?" returned Mr. Bucket, bending down his
ear. "Skimpole, is it? I've often wondered what his name might be.
Skimpole. Not John, I should say, nor yet Jacob?"

"Harold," I told him.

"Harold. Yes. He's a queer bird is Harold," said Mr. Bucket, eyeing
me with great expression.

"He is a singular character," said I.

"No idea of money," observed Mr. Bucket. "He takes it, though!"

I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr. Bucket knew
him.

"Why, now I'll tell you, Miss Summerson," he replied. "Your mind will
be all the better for not running on one point too continually, and
I'll tell you for a change. It was him as pointed out to me where
Toughey was. I made up my mind that night to come to the door and ask
for Toughey, if that was all; but willing to try a move or so first,
if any such was on the board, I just pitched up a morsel of gravel at
that window where I saw a shadow. As soon as Harold opens it and I
have had a look at him, thinks I, you're the man for me. So I
smoothed him down a bit about not wanting to disturb the family after
they was gone to bed and about its being a thing to be regretted that
charitable young ladies should harbour vagrants; and then, when I
pretty well understood his ways, I said I should consider a fypunnote
well bestowed if I could relieve the premises of Toughey without
causing any noise or trouble. Then says he, lifting up his eyebrows
in the gayest way, 'It's no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my
friend, because I'm a mere child in such matters and have no idea of
money.' Of course I understood what his taking it so easy meant; and
being now quite sure he was the man for me, I wrapped the note round
a little stone and threw it up to him. Well! He laughs and beams, and
looks as innocent as you like, and says, 'But I don't know the value
of these things. What am I to DO with this?' 'Spend it, sir,' says I.
'But I shall be taken in,' he says, 'they won't give me the right
change, I shall lose it, it's no use to me.' Lord, you never saw such
a face as he carried it with! Of course he told me where to find
Toughey, and I found him."

I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpole
towards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childish
innocence.

"Bounds, my dear?" returned Mr. Bucket. "Bounds? Now, Miss Summerson,
I'll give you a piece of advice that your husband will find useful
when you are happily married and have got a family about you.
Whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent as can be in
all concerning money, look well after your own money, for they are
dead certain to collar it if they can. Whenever a person proclaims to
you 'In worldly matters I'm a child,' you consider that that person
is only a-crying off from being held accountable and that you have
got that person's number, and it's Number One. Now, I am not a
poetical man myself, except in a vocal way when it goes round a
company, but I'm a practical one, and that's my experience. So's this
rule. Fast and loose in one thing, fast and loose in everything. I
never knew it fail. No more will you. Nor no one. With which caution
to the unwary, my dear, I take the liberty of pulling this here bell,
and so go back to our business."

I believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any more than
it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. The whole household
were amazed to see me, without any notice, at that time in the
morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was not diminished by
my inquiries. No one, however, had been there. It could not be
doubted that this was the truth.

"Then, Miss Summerson," said my companion, "we can't be too soon at
the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. Most inquiries
there I leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make 'em. The
naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your own
way."

We set off again immediately. On arriving at the cottage, we found it
shut up and apparently deserted, but one of the neighbours who knew
me and who came out when I was trying to make some one hear informed
me that the two women and their husbands now lived together in
another house, made of loose rough bricks, which stood on the margin
of the piece of ground where the kilns were and where the long rows
of bricks were drying. We lost no time in repairing to this place,
which was within a few hundred yards; and as the door stood ajar, I
pushed it open.

There were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lying
asleep on a bed in the corner. It was Jenny, the mother of the dead
child, who was absent. The other woman rose on seeing me; and the
men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave me a
morose nod of recognition. A look passed between them when Mr. Bucket
followed me in, and I was surprised to see that the woman evidently
knew him.

I had asked leave to enter of course. Liz (the only name by which I
knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but I sat down on a stool
near the fire, and Mr. Bucket took a corner of the bedstead. Now that
I had to speak and was among people with whom I was not familiar, I
became conscious of being hurried and giddy. It was very difficult to
begin, and I could not help bursting into tears.

"Liz," said I, "I have come a long way in the night and through the
snow to inquire after a lady--"

"Who has been here, you know," Mr. Bucket struck in, addressing the
whole group with a composed propitiatory face; "that's the lady the
young lady means. The lady that was here last night, you know."

"And who told YOU as there was anybody here?" inquired Jenny's
husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and now
measured him with his eye.

"A person of the name of Michael Jackson, with a blue welveteen
waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons," Mr. Bucket
immediately answered.

"He had as good mind his own business, whoever he is," growled the
man.

"He's out of employment, I believe," said Mr. Bucket apologetically
for Michael Jackson, "and so gets talking."

The woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with her
hand upon its broken back, looking at me. I thought she would have
spoken to me privately if she had dared. She was still in this
attitude of uncertainty when her husband, who was eating with a lump
of bread and fat in one hand and his clasp-knife in the other, struck
the handle of his knife violently on the table and told her with an
oath to mind HER own business at any rate and sit down.

"I should like to have seen Jenny very much," said I, "for I am sure
she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom I am very
anxious indeed--you cannot think how anxious--to overtake. Will Jenny
be here soon? Where is she?"

The woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with another
oath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. He left it to
Jenny's husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged silence the
latter turned his shaggy head towards me.

"I'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you've heerd
me say afore now, I think, miss. I let their places be, and it's
curious they can't let my place be. There'd be a pretty shine made if
I was to go a-wisitin THEM, I think. Howsoever, I don't so much
complain of you as of some others, and I'm agreeable to make you a
civil answer, though I give notice that I'm not a-going to be drawed
like a badger. Will Jenny be here soon? No she won't. Where is she?
She's gone up to Lunnun."

"Did she go last night?" I asked.

"Did she go last night? Ah! She went last night," he answered with a
sulky jerk of his head.

"But was she here when the lady came? And what did the lady say to
her? And where is the lady gone? I beg and pray you to be so kind as
to tell me," said I, "for I am in great distress to know."

"If my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm--" the
woman timidly began.

"Your master," said her husband, muttering an imprecation with slow
emphasis, "will break your neck if you meddle with wot don't concern
you."

After another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turning to me
again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness.

"Wos Jenny here when the lady come? Yes, she wos here when the lady
come. Wot did the lady say to her? Well, I'll tell you wot the lady
said to her. She said, 'You remember me as come one time to talk to
you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? You remember
me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher wot she had
left?' Ah, she remembered. So we all did. Well, then, wos that young
lady up at the house now? No, she warn't up at the house now. Well,
then, lookee here. The lady was upon a journey all alone, strange as
we might think it, and could she rest herself where you're a setten
for a hour or so. Yes she could, and so she did. Then she went--it
might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it might be at twenty
minutes past twelve; we ain't got no watches here to know the time
by, nor yet clocks. Where did she go? I don't know where she go'd.
She went one way, and Jenny went another; one went right to Lunnun,
and t'other went right from it. That's all about it. Ask this man. He
heerd it all, and see it all. He knows."

The other man repeated, "That's all about it."

"Was the lady crying?" I inquired.

"Devil a bit," returned the first man. "Her shoes was the worse, and
her clothes was the worse, but she warn't--not as I see."

The woman sat with her arms crossed and her eyes upon the ground. Her
husband had turned his seat a little so as to face her and kept his
hammer-like hand upon the table as if it were in readiness to execute
his threat if she disobeyed him.

"I hope you will not object to my asking your wife," said I, "how the
lady looked."

"Come, then!" he gruffly cried to her. "You hear what she says. Cut
it short and tell her."

"Bad," replied the woman. "Pale and exhausted. Very bad."

"Did she speak much?"

"Not much, but her voice was hoarse."

She answered, looking all the while at her husband for leave.

"Was she faint?" said I. "Did she eat or drink here?"

"Go on!" said the husband in answer to her look. "Tell her and cut it
short."

"She had a little water, miss, and Jenny fetched her some bread and
tea. But she hardly touched it."

"And when she went from here," I was proceeding, when Jenny's husband
impatiently took me up.

"When she went from here, she went right away nor'ard by the high
road. Ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it warn't so. Now,
there's the end. That's all about it."

I glanced at my companion, and finding that he had already risen and
was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had told me, and took
my leave. The woman looked full at Mr. Bucket as he went out, and he
looked full at her.

"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me as we walked quickly away.
"They've got her ladyship's watch among 'em. That's a positive fact."

"You saw it?" I exclaimed.

"Just as good as saw it," he returned. "Else why should he talk about
his 'twenty minutes past' and about his having no watch to tell the
time by? Twenty minutes! He don't usually cut his time so fine as
that. If he comes to half-hours, it's as much as HE does. Now, you
see, either her ladyship gave him that watch or he took it. I think
she gave it him. Now, what should she give it him for? What should
she give it him for?"

He repeated this question to himself several times as we hurried on,
appearing to balance between a variety of answers that arose in his
mind.

"If time could be spared," said Mr. Bucket, "which is the only thing
that can't be spared in this case, I might get it out of that woman;
but it's too doubtful a chance to trust to under present
circumstances. They are up to keeping a close eye upon her, and any
fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked and
scarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husband that
ill uses her through thick and thin. There's something kept back.
It's a pity but what we had seen the other woman."

I regretted it exceedingly, for she was very grateful, and I felt
sure would have resisted no entreaty of mine.

"It's possible, Miss Summerson," said Mr. Bucket, pondering on it,
"that her ladyship sent her up to London with some word for you, and
it's possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. It don't
come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it's on the cards.
Now, I don't take kindly to laying out the money of Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, on these roughs, and I don't see my way to the
usefulness of it at present. No! So far our road, Miss Summerson, is
for'ard--straight ahead--and keeping everything quiet!"

We called at home once more that I might send a hasty note to my
guardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left the carriage.
The horses were brought out as soon as we were seen coming, and we
were on the road again in a few minutes.

It had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. The air
was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density of the fall
that we could see but a very little way in any direction. Although it
was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, and it
churned--with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells--under
the hoofs of the horses into mire and water. They sometimes slipped
and floundered for a mile together, and we were obliged to come to a
standstill to rest them. One horse fell three times in this first
stage, and trembled so and was so shaken that the driver had to
dismount from his saddle and lead him at last.

I could eat nothing and could not sleep, and I grew so nervous under
those delays and the slow pace at which we travelled that I had an
unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. Yielding to my
companion's better sense, however, I remained where I was. All this
time, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work in which he was
engaged, he was up and down at every house we came to, addressing
people whom he had never beheld before as old acquaintances, running
in to warm himself at every fire he saw, talking and drinking and
shaking hands at every bar and tap, friendly with every waggoner,
wheelwright, blacksmith, and toll-taker, yet never seeming to lose
time, and always mounting to the box again with his watchful, steady
face and his business-like "Get on, my lad!"

When we were changing horses the next time, he came from the
stable-yard, with the wet snow encrusted upon him and dropping off
him--plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees as he had been
doing frequently since we left Saint Albans--and spoke to me at the
carriage side.

"Keep up your spirits. It's certainly true that she came on here,
Miss Summerson. There's not a doubt of the dress by this time, and
the dress has been seen here."

"Still on foot?" said I.

"Still on foot. I think the gentleman you mentioned must be the point
she's aiming at, and yet I don't like his living down in her own part
of the country neither."

"I know so little," said I. "There may be some one else nearer here,
of whom I never heard."

"That's true. But whatever you do, don't you fall a-crying, my dear;
and don't you worry yourself no more than you can help. Get on, my
lad!"

The sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came on early,
and it never rose or lightened for a moment. Such roads I had never
seen. I sometimes feared we had missed the way and got into the
ploughed grounds or the marshes. If I ever thought of the time I had
been out, it presented itself as an indefinite period of great
duration, and I seemed, in a strange way, never to have been free
from the anxiety under which I then laboured.

As we advanced, I began to feel misgivings that my companion lost
confidence. He was the same as before with all the roadside people,
but he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. I saw his
finger uneasily going across and across his mouth during the whole of
one long weary stage. I overheard that he began to ask the drivers of
coaches and other vehicles coming towards us what passengers they had
seen in other coaches and vehicles that were in advance. Their
replies did not encourage him. He always gave me a reassuring beck of
his finger and lift of his eyelid as he got upon the box again, but
he seemed perplexed now when he said, "Get on, my lad!"

At last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost the track
of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. It was nothing,
he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to take it up for
another while, and so on; but it had disappeared here in an
unaccountable manner, and we had not come upon it since. This
corroborated the apprehensions I had formed, when he began to look at
direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at cross roads for a
quarter of an hour at a time while he explored them. But I was not to
be down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not that the
next stage might set us right again.

The next stage, however, ended as that one ended; we had no new clue.
There was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfortable
substantial building, and as we drove in under a large gateway before
I knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters came to the
carriage-door, entreating me to alight and refresh myself while the
horses were making ready, I thought it would be uncharitable to
refuse. They took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there.

It was at the corner of the house, I remember, looking two ways. On
one side to a stable-yard open to a by-road, where the ostlers were
unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the muddy carriage,
and beyond that to the by-road itself, across which the sign was
heavily swinging; on the other side to a wood of dark pine-trees.
Their branches were encumbered with snow, and it silently dropped off
in wet heaps while I stood at the window. Night was setting in, and
its bleakness was enhanced by the contrast of the pictured fire
glowing and gleaming in the window-pane. As I looked among the stems
of the trees and followed the discoloured marks in the snow where the
thaw was sinking into it and undermining it, I thought of the
motherly face brightly set off by daughters that had just now
welcomed me and of MY mother lying down in such a wood to die.

I was frightened when I found them all about me, but I remembered
that before I fainted I tried very hard not to do it; and that was
some little comfort. They cushioned me up on a large sofa by the
fire, and then the comely landlady told me that I must travel no
further to-night, but must go to bed. But this put me into such a
tremble lest they should detain me there that she soon recalled her
words and compromised for a rest of half an hour.

A good endearing creature she was. She and her three fair girls, all
so busy about me. I was to take hot soup and broiled fowl, while Mr.
Bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but I could not do it when
a snug round table was presently spread by the fireside, though I was
very unwilling to disappoint them. However, I could take some toast
and some hot negus, and as I really enjoyed that refreshment, it made
some recompense.

Punctual to the time, at the half-hour's end the carriage came
rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, refreshed,
comforted by kindness, and safe (I assured them) not to faint any
more. After I had got in and had taken a grateful leave of them all,
the youngest daughter--a blooming girl of nineteen, who was to be the
first married, they had told me--got upon the carriage step, reached
in, and kissed me. I have never seen her, from that hour, but I think
of her to this hour as my friend.

The transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so bright
and warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon gone, and
again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. We went on with
toil enough, but the dismal roads were not much worse than they had
been, and the stage was only nine miles. My companion smoking on the
box--I had thought at the last inn of begging him to do so when I saw
him standing at a great fire in a comfortable cloud of tobacco--was
as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and up again when we came to
any human abode or any human creature. He had lighted his little dark
lantern, which seemed to be a favourite with him, for we had lamps to
the carriage; and every now and then he turned it upon me to see that
I was doing well. There was a folding-window to the carriage-head,
but I never closed it, for it seemed like shutting out hope.

We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not
recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change, but I
knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers that he
had heard nothing. Almost in an instant afterwards, as I leaned back
in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern in his hand, an
excited and quite different man.

"What is it?" said I, starting. "Is she here?"

"No, no. Don't deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody's here. But I've got
it!"

The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in
ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get his
breath before he spoke to me.

"Now, Miss Summerson," said he, beating his finger on the apron,
"don't you be disappointed at what I'm a-going to do. You know me.
I'm Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. We've come a long way;
never mind. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick!"

There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running out of the
stables to know if he meant up or down.

"Up, I tell you! Up! Ain't it English? Up!"

"Up?" said I, astonished. "To London! Are we going back?"

"Miss Summerson," he answered, "back. Straight back as a die. You
know me. Don't be afraid. I'll follow the other, by G----"

"The other?" I repeated. "Who?"

"You called her Jenny, didn't you? I'll follow her. Bring those two
pair out here for a crown a man. Wake up, some of you!"

"You will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will not
abandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind as I know her
to be in!" said I, in an agony, and grasping his hand.

"You are right, my dear, I won't. But I'll follow the other. Look
alive here with them horses. Send a man for'ard in the saddle to the
next stage, and let him send another for'ard again, and order four
on, up, right through. My darling, don't you be afraid!"

These orders and the way in which he ran about the yard urging them
caused a general excitement that was scarcely less bewildering to me
than the sudden change. But in the height of the confusion, a mounted
man galloped away to order the relays, and our horses were put to
with great speed.

"My dear," said Mr. Bucket, jumping to his seat and looking in again,
"--you'll excuse me if I'm too familiar--don't you fret and worry
yourself no more than you can help. I say nothing else at present;
but you know me, my dear; now, don't you?"

I endeavoured to say that I knew he was far more capable than I of
deciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right?
Could I not go forward by myself in search of--I grasped his hand
again in my distress and whispered it to him--of my own mother.

"My dear," he answered, "I know, I know, and would I put you wrong,
do you think? Inspector Bucket. Now you know me, don't you?"

What could I say but yes!

"Then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely upon me
for standing by you, no less than by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.
Now, are you right there?"

"All right, sir!"

"Off she goes, then. And get on, my lads!"

We were again upon the melancholy road by which we had come, tearing
up the miry sleet and thawing snow as if they were torn up by a
waterwheel.




CHAPTER LVIII

A Wintry Day and Night


Still impassive, as behoves its breeding, the Dedlock town house
carries itself as usual towards the street of dismal grandeur. There
are powdered heads from time to time in the little windows of the
hall, looking out at the untaxed powder falling all day from the sky;
and in the same conservatory there is peach blossom turning itself
exotically to the great hall fire from the nipping weather out of
doors. It is given out that my Lady has gone down into Lincolnshire,
but is expected to return presently.

Rumour, busy overmuch, however, will not go down into Lincolnshire.
It persists in flitting and chattering about town. It knows that that
poor unfortunate man, Sir Leicester, has been sadly used. It hears,
my dear child, all sorts of shocking things. It makes the world of
five miles round quite merry. Not to know that there is something
wrong at the Dedlocks' is to augur yourself unknown. One of the
peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats is already apprised
of all the principal circumstances that will come out before the
Lords on Sir Leicester's application for a bill of divorce.

At Blaze and Sparkle's the jewellers and at Sheen and Gloss's the
mercers, it is and will be for several hours the topic of the age,
the feature of the century. The patronesses of those establishments,
albeit so loftily inscrutable, being as nicely weighed and measured
there as any other article of the stock-in-trade, are perfectly
understood in this new fashion by the rawest hand behind the counter.
"Our people, Mr. Jones," said Blaze and Sparkle to the hand in
question on engaging him, "our people, sir, are sheep--mere sheep.
Where two or three marked ones go, all the rest follow. Keep those
two or three in your eye, Mr. Jones, and you have the flock." So,
likewise, Sheen and Gloss to THEIR Jones, in reference to knowing
where to have the fashionable people and how to bring what they
(Sheen and Gloss) choose into fashion. On similar unerring
principles, Mr. Sladdery the librarian, and indeed the great farmer
of gorgeous sheep, admits this very day, "Why yes, sir, there
certainly ARE reports concerning Lady Dedlock, very current indeed
among my high connexion, sir. You see, my high connexion must talk
about something, sir; and it's only to get a subject into vogue with
one or two ladies I could name to make it go down with the whole.
Just what I should have done with those ladies, sir, in the case of
any novelty you had left to me to bring in, they have done of
themselves in this case through knowing Lady Dedlock and being
perhaps a little innocently jealous of her too, sir. You'll find,
sir, that this topic will be very popular among my high connexion. If
it had been a speculation, sir, it would have brought money. And when
I say so, you may trust to my being right, sir, for I have made it my
business to study my high connexion and to be able to wind it up like
a clock, sir."

Thus rumour thrives in the capital, and will not go down into
Lincolnshire. By half-past five, post meridian, Horse Guards' time,
it has even elicited a new remark from the Honourable Mr. Stables,
which bids fair to outshine the old one, on which he has so long
rested his colloquial reputation. This sparkling sally is to the
effect that although he always knew she was the best-groomed woman in
the stud, he had no idea she was a bolter. It is immensely received
in turf-circles.

At feasts and festivals also, in firmaments she has often graced, and
among constellations she outshone but yesterday, she is still the
prevalent subject. What is it? Who is it? When was it? Where was it?
How was it? She is discussed by her dear friends with all the
genteelest slang in vogue, with the last new word, the last new
manner, the last new drawl, and the perfection of polite
indifference. A remarkable feature of the theme is that it is found
to be so inspiring that several people come out upon it who never
came out before--positively say things! William Buffy carries one of
these smartnesses from the place where he dines down to the House,
where the Whip for his party hands it about with his snuff-box to
keep men together who want to be off, with such effect that the
Speaker (who has had it privately insinuated into his own ear under
the corner of his wig) cries, "Order at the bar!" three times without
making an impression.

And not the least amazing circumstance connected with her being
vaguely the town talk is that people hovering on the confines of Mr.
Sladdery's high connexion, people who know nothing and ever did know
nothing about her, think it essential to their reputation to pretend
that she is their topic too, and to retail her at second-hand with
the last new word and the last new manner, and the last new drawl,
and the last new polite indifference, and all the rest of it, all at
second-hand but considered equal to new in inferior systems and to
fainter stars. If there be any man of letters, art, or science among
these little dealers, how noble in him to support the feeble sisters
on such majestic crutches!

So goes the wintry day outside the Dedlock mansion. How within it?

Sir Leicester, lying in his bed, can speak a little, though with
difficulty and indistinctness. He is enjoined to silence and to rest,
and they have given him some opiate to lull his pain, for his old
enemy is very hard with him. He is never asleep, though sometimes he
seems to fall into a dull waking doze. He caused his bedstead to be
moved out nearer to the window when he heard it was such inclement
weather, and his head to be so adjusted that he could see the driving
snow and sleet. He watches it as it falls, throughout the whole
wintry day.

Upon the least noise in the house, which is kept hushed, his hand is
at the pencil. The old housekeeper, sitting by him, knows what he
would write and whispers, "No, he has not come back yet, Sir
Leicester. It was late last night when he went. He has been but a
little time gone yet."

He withdraws his hand and falls to looking at the sleet and snow
again until they seem, by being long looked at, to fall so thick and
fast that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute on the giddy
whirl of white flakes and icy blots.

He began to look at them as soon as it was light. The day is not yet
far spent when he conceives it to be necessary that her rooms should
be prepared for her. It is very cold and wet. Let there be good
fires. Let them know that she is expected. Please see to it yourself.
He writes to this purpose on his slate, and Mrs. Rouncewell with a
heavy heart obeys.

"For I dread, George," the old lady says to her son, who waits below
to keep her company when she has a little leisure, "I dread, my dear,
that my Lady will never more set foot within these walls."

"That's a bad presentiment, mother."

"Nor yet within the walls of Chesney Wold, my dear."

"That's worse. But why, mother?"

"When I saw my Lady yesterday, George, she looked to me--and I may
say at me too--as if the step on the Ghost's Walk had almost walked
her down."

"Come, come! You alarm yourself with old-story fears, mother."

"No I don't, my dear. No I don't. It's going on for sixty year that I
have been in this family, and I never had any fears for it before.
But it's breaking up, my dear; the great old Dedlock family is
breaking up."

"I hope not, mother."

"I am thankful I have lived long enough to be with Sir Leicester in
this illness and trouble, for I know I am not too old nor too useless
to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my place would be.
But the step on the Ghost's Walk will walk my Lady down, George; it
has been many a day behind her, and now it will pass her and go on."

"Well, mother dear, I say again, I hope not."

"Ah, so do I, George," the old lady returns, shaking her head and
parting her folded hands. "But if my fears come true, and he has to
know it, who will tell him!"

"Are these her rooms?"

"These are my Lady's rooms, just as she left them."

"Why, now," says the trooper, glancing round him and speaking in a
lower voice, "I begin to understand how you come to think as you do
think, mother. Rooms get an awful look about them when they are
fitted up, like these, for one person you are used to see in them,
and that person is away under any shadow, let alone being God knows
where."

He is not far out. As all partings foreshadow the great final one,
so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully whisper
what your room and what mine must one day be. My Lady's state has a
hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned; and in the inner apartment,
where Mr. Bucket last night made his secret perquisition, the traces
of her dresses and her ornaments, even the mirrors accustomed to
reflect them when they were a portion of herself, have a desolate and
vacant air. Dark and cold as the wintry day is, it is darker and
colder in these deserted chambers than in many a hut that will barely
exclude the weather; and though the servants heap fires in the grates
and set the couches and the chairs within the warm glass screens that
let their ruddy light shoot through to the furthest corners, there is
a heavy cloud upon the rooms which no light will dispel.

The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations are
complete, and then she returns upstairs. Volumnia has taken Mrs.
Rouncewell's place in the meantime, though pearl necklaces and rouge
pots, however calculated to embellish Bath, are but indifferent
comforts to the invalid under present circumstances. Volumnia, not
being supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) what is the matter,
has found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate observations and
consequently has supplied their place with distracting smoothings of
the bed-linen, elaborate locomotion on tiptoe, vigilant peeping at
her kinsman's eyes, and one exasperating whisper to herself of, "He
is asleep." In disproof of which superfluous remark Sir Leicester has
indignantly written on the slate, "I am not."

Yielding, therefore, the chair at the bedside to the quaint old
housekeeper, Volumnia sits at a table a little removed,
sympathetically sighing. Sir Leicester watches the sleet and snow and
listens for the returning steps that he expects. In the ears of his
old servant, looking as if she had stepped out of an old
picture-frame to attend a summoned Dedlock to another world, the
silence is fraught with echoes of her own words, "Who will tell him!"

He has been under his valet's hands this morning to be made
presentable and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow. He
is propped with pillows, his grey hair is brushed in its usual
manner, his linen is arranged to a nicety, and he is wrapped in a
responsible dressing-gown. His eye-glass and his watch are ready to
his hand. It is necessary--less to his own dignity now perhaps than
for her sake--that he should be seen as little disturbed and as much
himself as may be. Women will talk, and Volumnia, though a Dedlock,
is no exceptional case. He keeps her here, there is little doubt, to
prevent her talking somewhere else. He is very ill, but he makes his
present stand against distress of mind and body most courageously.

The fair Volumnia, being one of those sprightly girls who cannot long
continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the dragon
Boredom, soon indicates the approach of that monster with a series of
undisguisable yawns. Finding it impossible to suppress those yawns by
any other process than conversation, she compliments Mrs. Rouncewell
on her son, declaring that he positively is one of the finest figures
she ever saw and as soldierly a looking person, she should think, as
what's his name, her favourite Life Guardsman--the man she dotes on,
the dearest of creatures--who was killed at Waterloo.

Sir Leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise and stares
about him in such a confused way that Mrs. Rouncewell feels it
necessary to explain.

"Miss Dedlock don't speak of my eldest son, Sir Leicester, but my
youngest. I have found him. He has come home."

Sir Leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry. "George? Your son
George come home, Mrs. Rouncewell?"

The old housekeeper wipes her eyes. "Thank God. Yes, Sir Leicester."

Does this discovery of some one lost, this return of some one so long
gone, come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes? Does he
think, "Shall I not, with the aid I have, recall her safely after
this, there being fewer hours in her case than there are years in
his?"

It is of no use entreating him; he is determined to speak now, and he
does. In a thick crowd of sounds, but still intelligibly enough to be
understood.

"Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Rouncewell?"

"It happened only yesterday, Sir Leicester, and I doubted your being
well enough to be talked to of such things."

Besides, the giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little scream that
nobody was to have known of his being Mrs. Rouncewell's son and that
she was not to have told. But Mrs. Rouncewell protests, with warmth
enough to swell the stomacher, that of course she would have told Sir
Leicester as soon as he got better.

"Where is your son George, Mrs. Rouncewell?" asks Sir Leicester,

Mrs. Rouncewell, not a little alarmed by his disregard of the
doctor's injunctions, replies, in London.

"Where in London?"

Mrs. Rouncewell is constrained to admit that he is in the house.

"Bring him here to my room. Bring him directly."

The old lady can do nothing but go in search of him. Sir Leicester,
with such power of movement as he has, arranges himself a little to
receive him. When he has done so, he looks out again at the falling
sleet and snow and listens again for the returning steps. A quantity
of straw has been tumbled down in the street to deaden the noises
there, and she might be driven to the door perhaps without his
hearing wheels.

He is lying thus, apparently forgetful of his newer and minor
surprise, when the housekeeper returns, accompanied by her trooper
son. Mr. George approaches softly to the bedside, makes his bow,
squares his chest, and stands, with his face flushed, very heartily
ashamed of himself.

"Good heaven, and it is really George Rouncewell!" exclaims Sir
Leicester. "Do you remember me, George?"

The trooper needs to look at him and to separate this sound from that
sound before he knows what he has said, but doing this and being a
little helped by his mother, he replies, "I must have a very bad
memory, indeed, Sir Leicester, if I failed to remember you."

"When I look at you, George Rouncewell," Sir Leicester observes with
difficulty, "I see something of a boy at Chesney Wold--I remember
well--very well."

He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes, and then he
looks at the sleet and snow again.

"I ask your pardon, Sir Leicester," says the trooper, "but would you
accept of my arms to raise you up? You would lie easier, Sir
Leicester, if you would allow me to move you."

"If you please, George Rouncewell; if you will be so good."

The trooper takes him in his arms like a child, lightly raises him,
and turns him with his face more towards the window. "Thank you. You
have your mother's gentleness," returns Sir Leicester, "and your own
strength. Thank you."

He signs to him with his hand not to go away. George quietly remains
at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to.

"Why did you wish for secrecy?" It takes Sir Leicester some time to
ask this.

"Truly I am not much to boast of, Sir Leicester, and I--I should
still, Sir Leicester, if you was not so indisposed--which I hope you
will not be long--I should still hope for the favour of being allowed
to remain unknown in general. That involves explanations not very
hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and not very
creditable to myself. However opinions may differ on a variety of
subjects, I should think it would be universally agreed, Sir
Leicester, that I am not much to boast of."

"You have been a soldier," observes Sir Leicester, "and a faithful
one."

George makes his military bow. "As far as that goes, Sir Leicester, I
have done my duty under discipline, and it was the least I could do."

"You find me," says Sir Leicester, whose eyes are much attracted
towards him, "far from well, George Rouncewell."

"I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Leicester."

"I am sure you are. No. In addition to my older malady, I have had a
sudden and bad attack. Something that deadens," making an endeavour
to pass one hand down one side, "and confuses," touching his lips.

George, with a look of assent and sympathy, makes another bow. The
different times when they were both young men (the trooper much the
younger of the two) and looked at one another down at Chesney Wold
arise before them both and soften both.

Sir Leicester, evidently with a great determination to say, in his
own manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing into
silence, tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more.
George, observant of the action, takes him in his arms again and
places him as he desires to be. "Thank you, George. You are another
self to me. You have often carried my spare gun at Chesney Wold,
George. You are familiar to me in these strange circumstances, very
familiar." He has put Sir Leicester's sounder arm over his shoulder
in lifting him up, and Sir Leicester is slow in drawing it away again
as he says these words.

"I was about to add," he presently goes on, "I was about to add,
respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with a
slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself. I do not mean
that there was any difference between us (for there has been none),
but that there was a misunderstanding of certain circumstances
important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a little while,
of my Lady's society. She has found it necessary to make a journey--I
trust will shortly return. Volumnia, do I make myself intelligible?
The words are not quite under my command in the manner of pronouncing
them."

Volumnia understands him perfectly, and in truth he delivers himself
with far greater plainness than could have been supposed possible a
minute ago. The effort by which he does so is written in the anxious
and labouring expression of his face. Nothing but the strength of his
purpose enables him to make it.

"Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence--and in the
presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell, whose truth
and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of her son
George, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth in
the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold--in case I should relapse,
in case I should not recover, in case I should lose both my speech
and the power of writing, though I hope for better things--"

The old housekeeper weeping silently; Volumnia in the greatest
agitation, with the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper with
his arms folded and his head a little bent, respectfully attentive.

"Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to
witness--beginning, Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly--that I am
on unaltered terms with Lady Dedlock. That I assert no cause whatever
of complaint against her. That I have ever had the strongest
affection for her, and that I retain it undiminished. Say this to
herself, and to every one. If you ever say less than this, you will
be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me."

Volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunctions
to the letter.

"My Lady is too high in position, too handsome, too accomplished, too
superior in most respects to the best of those by whom she is
surrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers, I dare say. Let it
be known to them, as I make it known to you, that being of sound
mind, memory, and understanding, I revoke no disposition I have made
in her favour. I abridge nothing I have ever bestowed upon her. I am
on unaltered terms with her, and I recall--having the full power to
do it if I were so disposed, as you see--no act I have done for her
advantage and happiness."

His formal array of words might have at any other time, as it has
often had, something ludicrous in it, but at this time it is serious
and affecting. His noble earnestness, his fidelity, his gallant
shielding of her, his generous conquest of his own wrong and his own
pride for her sake, are simply honourable, manly, and true. Nothing
less worthy can be seen through the lustre of such qualities in the
commonest mechanic, nothing less worthy can be seen in the best-born
gentleman. In such a light both aspire alike, both rise alike, both
children of the dust shine equally.

Overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pillows
and closes his eyes for not more than a minute, when he again resumes
his watching of the weather and his attention to the muffled sounds.
In the rendering of those little services, and in the manner of their
acceptance, the trooper has become installed as necessary to him.
Nothing has been said, but it is quite understood. He falls a step or
two backward to be out of sight and mounts guard a little behind his
mother's chair.

The day is now beginning to decline. The mist and the sleet into
which the snow has all resolved itself are darker, and the blaze
begins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. The
gloom augments; the bright gas springs up in the streets; and the
pertinacious oil lamps which yet hold their ground there, with their
source of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspingly like
fiery fish out of water--as they are. The world, which has been
rumbling over the straw and pulling at the bell, "to inquire," begins
to go home, begins to dress, to dine, to discuss its dear friend with
all the last new modes, as already mentioned.

Now does Sir Leicester become worse, restless, uneasy, and in great
pain. Volumnia, lighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude for
doing something objectionable), is bidden to put it out again, for it
is not yet dark enough. Yet it is very dark too, as dark as it will
be all night. By and by she tries again. No! Put it out. It is not
dark enough yet.

His old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving to
uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late.

"Dear Sir Leicester, my honoured master," she softly whispers, "I
must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging and
praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness watching and
waiting and dragging through the time. Let me draw the curtains, and
light the candles, and make things more comfortable about you. The
church-clocks will strike the hours just the same, Sir Leicester, and
the night will pass away just the same. My Lady will come back, just
the same."

"I know it, Mrs. Rouncewell, but I am weak--and he has been so long
gone."

"Not so very long, Sir Leicester. Not twenty-four hours yet."

"But that is a long time. Oh, it is a long time!"

He says it with a groan that wrings her heart.

She knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light upon
him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even by her.
Therefore she sits in the darkness for a while without a word, then
gently begins to move about, now stirring the fire, now standing at
the dark window looking out. Finally he tells her, with recovered
self-command, "As you say, Mrs. Rouncewell, it is no worse for being
confessed. It is getting late, and they are not come. Light the
room!" When it is lighted and the weather shut out, it is only left
to him to listen.

But they find that however dejected and ill he is, he brightens when
a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms and
being sure that everything is ready to receive her. Poor pretence as
it is, these allusions to her being expected keep up hope within him.

Midnight comes, and with it the same blank. The carriages in the
streets are few, and other late sounds in that neighbourhood there
are none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray into the
frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pavement. Upon this
wintry night it is so still that listening to the intense silence is
like looking at intense darkness. If any distant sound be audible in
this case, it departs through the gloom like a feeble light in that,
and all is heavier than before.

The corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling to
go, for they were up all last night), and only Mrs. Rouncewell and
George keep watch in Sir Leicester's room. As the night lags tardily
on--or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at between two and
three o'clock--they find a restless craving on him to know more about
the weather, now he cannot see it. Hence George, patrolling regularly
every half-hour to the rooms so carefully looked after, extends his
march to the hall-door, looks about him, and brings back the best
report he can make of the worst of nights, the sleet still falling
and even the stone footways lying ankle-deep in icy sludge.

Volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the staircase--the
second turning past the end of the carving and gilding, a cousinly
room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of Sir Leicester
banished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a solemn yard
planted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of black
tea--is a prey to horrors of many kinds. Not last nor least among
them, possibly, is a horror of what may befall her little income in
the event, as she expresses it, "of anything happening" to Sir
Leicester. Anything, in this sense, meaning one thing only; and that
the last thing that can happen to the consciousness of any baronet in
the known world.

An effect of these horrors is that Volumnia finds she cannot go to
bed in her own room or sit by the fire in her own room, but must come
forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawl, and her
fair form enrobed in drapery, and parade the mansion like a ghost,
particularly haunting the rooms, warm and luxurious, prepared for one
who still does not return. Solitude under such circumstances being
not to be thought of, Volumnia is attended by her maid, who,
impressed from her own bed for that purpose, extremely cold, very
sleepy, and generally an injured maid as condemned by circumstances
to take office with a cousin, when she had resolved to be maid to
nothing less than ten thousand a year, has not a sweet expression of
countenance.

The periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms, however, in the
course of his patrolling is an assurance of protection and company
both to mistress and maid, which renders them very acceptable in the
small hours of the night. Whenever he is heard advancing, they both
make some little decorative preparation to receive him; at other
times they divide their watches into short scraps of oblivion and
dialogues not wholly free from acerbity, as to whether Miss Dedlock,
sitting with her feet upon the fender, was or was not falling into
the fire when rescued (to her great displeasure) by her guardian
genius the maid.

"How is Sir Leicester now, Mr. George?" inquires Volumnia, adjusting
her cowl over her head.

"Why, Sir Leicester is much the same, miss. He is very low and ill,
and he even wanders a little sometimes."

"Has he asked for me?" inquires Volumnia tenderly.

"Why, no, I can't say he has, miss. Not within my hearing, that is to
say."

"This is a truly sad time, Mr. George."

"It is indeed, miss. Hadn't you better go to bed?"

"You had a deal better go to bed, Miss Dedlock," quoth the maid
sharply.

But Volumnia answers No! No! She may be asked for, she may be wanted
at a moment's notice. She never should forgive herself "if anything
was to happen" and she was not on the spot. She declines to enter on
the question, mooted by the maid, how the spot comes to be there, and
not in her room (which is nearer to Sir Leicester's), but staunchly
declares that on the spot she will remain. Volumnia further makes a
merit of not having "closed an eye"--as if she had twenty or
thirty--though it is hard to reconcile this statement with her having
most indisputably opened two within five minutes.

But when it comes to four o'clock, and still the same blank,
Volumnia's constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins to
strengthen, for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready for
the morrow, when much may be expected of her, that, in fact,
howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required of her,
as an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot. So when the trooper
reappears with his, "Hadn't you better go to bed, miss?" and when the
maid protests, more sharply than before, "You had a deal better go to
bed, Miss Dedlock!" she meekly rises and says, "Do with me what you
think best!"

Mr. George undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arm to the
door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedly thinks it
best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony. Accordingly,
these steps are taken; and now the trooper, in his rounds, has the
house to himself.

There is no improvement in the weather. From the portico, from the
eaves, from the parapet, from every ledge and post and pillar, drips
the thawed snow. It has crept, as if for shelter, into the lintels of
the great door--under it, into the corners of the windows, into every
chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastes and dies. It is
falling still; upon the roof, upon the skylight, even through the
skylight, and drip, drip, drip, with the regularity of the Ghost's
Walk, on the stone floor below.

The trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solitary grandeur
of a great house--no novelty to him once at Chesney Wold--goes up the
stairs and through the chief rooms, holding up his light at arm's
length. Thinking of his varied fortunes within the last few weeks,
and of his rustic boyhood, and of the two periods of his life so
strangely brought together across the wide intermediate space;
thinking of the murdered man whose image is fresh in his mind;
thinking of the lady who has disappeared from these very rooms and
the tokens of whose recent presence are all here; thinking of the
master of the house upstairs and of the foreboding, "Who will tell
him!" he looks here and looks there, and reflects how he MIGHT see
something now, which it would tax his boldness to walk up to, lay his
hand upon, and prove to be a fancy. But it is all blank, blank as the
darkness above and below, while he goes up the great staircase again,
blank as the oppressive silence.

"All is still in readiness, George Rouncewell?"

"Quite orderly and right, Sir Leicester."

"No word of any kind?"

The trooper shakes his head.

"No letter that can possibly have been overlooked?"

But he knows there is no such hope as that and lays his head down
without looking for an answer.

Very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, George
Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long remainder
of the blank wintry night, and equally familiar with his unexpressed
wish, extinguishes the light and undraws the curtains at the first
late break of day. The day comes like a phantom. Cold, colourless,
and vague, it sends a warning streak before it of a deathlike hue, as
if it cried out, "Look what I am bringing you who watch there! Who
will tell him!"




CHAPTER LIX

Esther's Narrative


It was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside London
did at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in with
streets. We had made our way along roads in a far worse condition
than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the fall and the
thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion never
slackened. It had only been, as I thought, of less assistance than
the horses in getting us on, and it had often aided them. They had
stopped exhausted half-way up hills, they had been driven through
streams of turbulent water, they had slipped down and become
entangled with the harness; but he and his little lantern had been
always ready, and when the mishap was set right, I had never heard
any variation in his cool, "Get on, my lads!"

The steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our journey
back I could not account for. Never wavering, he never even stopped
to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of London. A very
few words, here and there, were then enough for him; and thus we
came, at between three and four o'clock in the morning, into
Islington.

I will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which I reflected
all this time that we were leaving my mother farther and farther
behind every minute. I think I had some strong hope that he must be
right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in following
this woman, but I tormented myself with questioning it and discussing
it during the whole journey. What was to ensue when we found her and
what could compensate us for this loss of time were questions also
that I could not possibly dismiss; my mind was quite tortured by long
dwelling on such reflections when we stopped.

We stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. My
companion paid our two drivers, who were as completely covered with
splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like the
carriage itself, and giving them some brief direction where to take
it, lifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen from
the rest.

"Why, my dear!" he said as he did this. "How wet you are!"

I had not been conscious of it. But the melted snow had found its way
into the carriage, and I had got out two or three times when a fallen
horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet had penetrated
my dress. I assured him it was no matter, but the driver, who knew
him, would not be dissuaded by me from running down the street to his
stable, whence he brought an armful of clean dry straw. They shook it
out and strewed it well about me, and I found it warm and
comfortable.

"Now, my dear," said Mr. Bucket, with his head in at the window after
I was shut up. "We're a-going to mark this person down. It may take a
little time, but you don't mind that. You're pretty sure that I've
got a motive. Ain't you?"

I little thought what it was, little thought in how short a time I
should understand it better, but I assured him that I had confidence
in him.

"So you may have, my dear," he returned. "And I tell you what! If you
only repose half as much confidence in me as I repose in you after
what I've experienced of you, that'll do. Lord! You're no trouble at
all. I never see a young woman in any station of society--and I've
seen many elevated ones too--conduct herself like you have conducted
yourself since you was called out of your bed. You're a pattern, you
know, that's what you are," said Mr. Bucket warmly; "you're a
pattern."

I told him I was very glad, as indeed I was, to have been no
hindrance to him, and that I hoped I should be none now.

"My dear," he returned, "when a young lady is as mild as she's game,
and as game as she's mild, that's all I ask, and more than I expect.
She then becomes a queen, and that's about what you are yourself."

With these encouraging words--they really were encouraging to me
under those lonely and anxious circumstances--he got upon the box,
and we once more drove away. Where we drove I neither knew then nor
have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out the narrowest and
worst streets in London. Whenever I saw him directing the driver, I
was prepared for our descending into a deeper complication of such
streets, and we never failed to do so.

Sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a larger
building than the generality, well lighted. Then we stopped at
offices like those we had visited when we began our journey, and I
saw him in consultation with others. Sometimes he would get down by
an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light of
his little lantern. This would attract similar lights from various
dark quarters, like so many insects, and a fresh consultation would
be held. By degrees we appeared to contract our search within
narrower and easier limits. Single police-officers on duty could now
tell Mr. Bucket what he wanted to know and point to him where to go.
At last we stopped for a rather long conversation between him and one
of these men, which I supposed to be satisfactory from his manner of
nodding from time to time. When it was finished he came to me looking
very busy and very attentive.

"Now, Miss Summerson," he said to me, "you won't be alarmed whatever
comes off, I know. It's not necessary for me to give you any further
caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down and
that you may be of use to me before I know it myself. I don't like to
ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk a little way?"

Of course I got out directly and took his arm.

"It ain't so easy to keep your feet," said Mr. Bucket, "but take
time."

Although I looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossed the
street, I thought I knew the place. "Are we in Holborn?" I asked him.

"Yes," said Mr. Bucket. "Do you know this turning?"

"It looks like Chancery Lane."

"And was christened so, my dear," said Mr. Bucket.

We turned down it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, I
heard the clocks strike half-past five. We passed on in silence and
as quickly as we could with such a foot-hold, when some one coming
towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak, stopped and
stood aside to give me room. In the same moment I heard an
exclamation of wonder and my own name from Mr. Woodcourt. I knew his
voice very well.

It was so unexpected and so--I don't know what to call it, whether
pleasant or painful--to come upon it after my feverish wandering
journey, and in the midst of the night, that I could not keep back
the tears from my eyes. It was like hearing his voice in a strange
country.

"My dear Miss Summerson, that you should be out at this hour, and in
such weather!"

He had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on some
uncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation. I
told him that we had but just left a coach and were going--but then I
was obliged to look at my companion.

"Why, you see, Mr. Woodcourt"--he had caught the name from me--"we
are a-going at present into the next street. Inspector Bucket."

Mr. Woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly taken off
his cloak and was putting it about me. "That's a good move, too,"
said Mr. Bucket, assisting, "a very good move."

"May I go with you?" said Mr. Woodcourt. I don't know whether to me
or to my companion.

"Why, Lord!" exclaimed Mr. Bucket, taking the answer on himself. "Of
course you may."

It was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, wrapped
in the cloak.

"I have just left Richard," said Mr. Woodcourt. "I have been sitting
with him since ten o'clock last night."

"Oh, dear me, he is ill!"

"No, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. He was depressed
and faint--you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes--and Ada
sent to me of course; and when I came home I found her note and came
straight here. Well! Richard revived so much after a little while,
and Ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though
God knows I had little enough to do with it, that I remained with him
until he had been fast asleep some hours. As fast asleep as she is
now, I hope!"

His friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected
devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which I knew he had
inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could I separate
all this from his promise to me? How thankless I must have been if it
had not recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by the
change in my appearance: "I will accept him as a trust, and it shall
be a sacred one!"

We now turned into another narrow street. "Mr. Woodcourt," said Mr.
Bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, "our business
takes us to a law-stationer's here, a certain Mr. Snagsby's. What,
you know him, do you?" He was so quick that he saw it in an instant.

"Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place."

"Indeed, sir?" said Mr. Bucket. "Then you will be so good as to let
me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and have
half a word with him?"

The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing
silently behind us. I was not aware of it until he struck in on my
saying I heard some one crying.

"Don't be alarmed, miss," he returned. "It's Snagsby's servant."

"Why, you see," said Mr. Bucket, "the girl's subject to fits, and has
'em bad upon her to-night. A most contrary circumstance it is, for I
want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to
reason somehow."

"At all events, they wouldn't be up yet if it wasn't for her, Mr.
Bucket," said the other man. "She's been at it pretty well all night,
sir."

"Well, that's true," he returned. "My light's burnt out. Show yours a
moment."

All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which I
could faintly hear crying and moaning. In the little round of light
produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door and knocked.
The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he went in,
leaving us standing in the street.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Woodcourt, "if without obtruding myself on
your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so."

"You are truly kind," I answered. "I need wish to keep no secret of
my own from you; if I keep any, it is another's."

"I quite understand. Trust me, I will remain near you only so long as
I can fully respect it."

"I trust implicitly to you," I said. "I know and deeply feel how
sacredly you keep your promise."

After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and Mr.
Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. "Please to
come in, Miss Summerson," he said, "and sit down by the fire. Mr.
Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand you are a
medical man. Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be
done to bring her round. She has a letter somewhere that I
particularly want. It's not in her box, and I think it must be about
her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to
handle without hurting."

We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and
raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. In the passage
behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a
grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke
meekly.

"Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket," said he. "The lady will
excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room. The
back is Guster's bedroom, and in it she's a-carrying on, poor thing,
to a frightful extent!"

We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found the
little man to be. In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs.
Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, "to
wave--not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear--hostilities for
one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is
Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady."

She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and
looked particularly hard at me.

"My little woman," said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the remotest
corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, "it is not
unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr.
Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street,
at the present hour. I don't know. I have not the least idea. If I
was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, and I'd rather
not be told."

He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and I
appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology when Mr.
Bucket took the matter on himself.

"Now, Mr. Snagsby," said he, "the best thing you can do is to go
along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster--"

"My Guster, Mr. Bucket!" cried Mr. Snagsby. "Go on, sir, go on. I
shall be charged with that next."

"And to hold the candle," pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting
himself, "or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you're
asked. Which there's not a man alive more ready to do, for you're a
man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've got the sort of
heart that can feel for another. Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so good
as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me
have it as soon as ever you can?"

As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by the fire
and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender,
talking all the time.

"Don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look
from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she's under a mistake altogether.
She'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her
generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I'm a-going
to explain it to her." Here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat
and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to Mrs.
Snagsby. "Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman
possessing what you may call charms, you know--'Believe Me, if All
Those Endearing,' and cetrer--you're well acquainted with the song,
because it's in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are
strangers--charms--attractions, mind you, that ought to give you
confidence in yourself--is, that you've done it."

Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered,
what did Mr. Bucket mean.

"What does Mr. Bucket mean?" he repeated, and I saw by his face that
all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the
letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then how important it
must be; "I'll tell you what he means, ma'am. Go and see Othello
acted. That's the tragedy for you."

Mrs. Snagsby consciously asked why.

"Why?" said Mr. Bucket. "Because you'll come to that if you don't
look out. Why, at the very moment while I speak, I know what your
mind's not wholly free from respecting this young lady. But shall I
tell you who this young lady is? Now, come, you're what I call an
intellectual woman--with your soul too large for your body, if you
come to that, and chafing it--and you know me, and you recollect
where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. Don't
you? Yes! Very well. This young lady is that young lady."

Mrs. Snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than I did
at the time.

"And Toughey--him as you call Jo--was mixed up in the same business,
and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the
same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge
of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by Mr. Tulkinghorn,
deceased, his best customer) in the same business, and no other; and
the whole bileing of people was mixed up in the same business, and no
other. And yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts
her eyes (and sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed
head against a wall. Why, I am ashamed of you! (I expected Mr.
Woodcourt might have got it by this time.)"

Mrs. Snagsby shook her head and put her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Is that all?" said Mr. Bucket excitedly. "No. See what happens.
Another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a
wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to your
maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes
a paper that I would give a hundred pound for, down. What do
you do? You hide and you watch 'em, and you pounce upon that
maid-servant--knowing what she's subject to and what a little thing
will bring 'em on--in that surprising manner and with that severity
that, by the Lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be
hanging upon that girl's words!"

He so thoroughly meant what he said now that I involuntarily clasped
my hands and felt the room turning away from me. But it stopped. Mr.
Woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, and went away again.

"Now, Mrs. Snagsby, the only amends you can make," said Mr. Bucket,
rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to this young lady
in private here. And if you know of any help that you can give to
that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any one
thing that's likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your
swiftest and best!" In an instant she was gone, and he had shut the
door. "Now my dear, you're steady and quite sure of yourself?"

"Quite," said I.

"Whose writing is that?"

It was my mother's. A pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of
paper, blotted with wet. Folded roughly like a letter, and directed
to me at my guardian's.

"You know the hand," he said, "and if you are firm enough to read it
to me, do! But be particular to a word."

It had been written in portions, at different times. I read what
follows:


   I came to the cottage with two objects. First, to see the
   dear one, if I could, once more--but only to see her--not
   to speak to her or let her know that I was near. The other
   object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. Do not blame the
   mother for her share. The assistance that she rendered me,
   she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the
   dear one's good. You remember her dead child. The men's
   consent I bought, but her help was freely given.


"'I came.' That was written," said my companion, "when she rested
there. It bears out what I made of it. I was right."

The next was written at another time:


   I have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and
   I know that I must soon die. These streets! I have no
   purpose but to die. When I left, I had a worse, but I am
   saved from adding that guilt to the rest. Cold, wet, and
   fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but
   I shall die of others, though I suffer from these. It was
   right that all that had sustained me should give way at
   once and that I should die of terror and my conscience.


"Take courage," said Mr. Bucket. "There's only a few words more."

Those, too, were written at another time. To all appearance, almost
in the dark:


   I have done all I could do to be lost. I shall be soon
   forgotten so, and shall disgrace him least. I have nothing
   about me by which I can be recognized. This paper I part
   with now. The place where I shall lie down, if I can get
   so far, has been often in my mind. Farewell. Forgive.


Mr. Bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into my
chair. "Cheer up! Don't think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon
as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready."

I did as he required, but I was left there a long time, praying for
my unhappy mother. They were all occupied with the poor girl, and I
heard Mr. Woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often. At
length he came in with Mr. Bucket and said that as it was important
to address her gently, he thought it best that I should ask her for
whatever information we desired to obtain. There was no doubt that
she could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed.
The questions, Mr. Bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what
passed between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where
the person went. Holding my mind as steadily as I could to these
points, I went into the next room with them. Mr. Woodcourt would have
remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us.

The poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her down.
They stood around her, though at a little distance, that she might
have air. She was not pretty and looked weak and poor, but she had a
plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild. I
kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my
shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst into
tears.

"My poor girl," said I, laying my face against her forehead, for
indeed I was crying too, and trembling, "it seems cruel to trouble
you now, but more depends on our knowing something about this letter
than I could tell you in an hour."

She began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harm, she
didn't mean any harm, Mrs. Snagsby!

"We are all sure of that," said I. "But pray tell me how you got it."

"Yes, dear lady, I will, and tell you true. I'll tell true, indeed,
Mrs. Snagsby."

"I am sure of that," said I. "And how was it?"

"I had been out on an errand, dear lady--long after it was
dark--quite late; and when I came home, I found a common-looking
person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. When she saw me
coming in at the door, she called me back and said did I live here.
And I said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about
here, but had lost her way and couldn't find them. Oh, what shall I
do, what shall I do! They won't believe me! She didn't say any harm
to me, and I didn't say any harm to her, indeed, Mrs. Snagsby!"

It was necessary for her mistress to comfort her--which she did, I
must say, with a good deal of contrition--before she could be got
beyond this.

"She could not find those places," said I.

"No!" cried the girl, shaking her head. "No! Couldn't find them. And
she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, Oh so wretched, that if
you had seen her, Mr. Snagsby, you'd have given her half a crown, I
know!"

"Well, Guster, my girl," said he, at first not knowing what to say.
"I hope I should."

"And yet she was so well spoken," said the girl, looking at me with
wide open eyes, "that it made a person's heart bleed. And so she said
to me, did I know the way to the burying ground? And I asked her
which burying ground. And she said, the poor burying ground. And so I
told her I had been a poor child myself, and it was according to
parishes. But she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far
from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate."

As I watched her face and soothed her to go on, I saw that Mr. Bucket
received this with a look which I could not separate from one of
alarm.

"Oh, dear, dear!" cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her
hands. "What shall I do, what shall I do! She meant the burying
ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff--that
you came home and told us of, Mr. Snagsby--that frightened me so,
Mrs. Snagsby. Oh, I am frightened again. Hold me!"

"You are so much better now," sald I. "Pray, pray tell me more."

"Yes I will, yes I will! But don't be angry with me, that's a dear
lady, because I have been so ill."

Angry with her, poor soul!

"There! Now I will, now I will. So she said, could I tell her how to
find it, and I said yes, and I told her; and she looked at me with
eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back.
And so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was
to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded
and never sent; and would I take it from her, and send it, and the
messenger would be paid at the house. And so I said yes, if it was no
harm, and she said no--no harm. And so I took it from her, and she
said she had nothing to give me, and I said I was poor myself and
consequently wanted nothing. And so she said God bless you, and
went."

"And did she go--"

"Yes," cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. "Yes! She went the
way I had shown her. Then I came in, and Mrs. Snagsby came behind me
from somewhere and laid hold of me, and I was frightened."

Mr. Woodcourt took her kindly from me. Mr. Bucket wrapped me up, and
immediately we were in the street. Mr. Woodcourt hesitated, but I
said, "Don't leave me now!" and Mr. Bucket added, "You'll be better
with us, we may want you; don't lose time!"

I have the most confused impressions of that walk. I recollect that
it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the
street-lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still falling
and that all the ways were deep with it. I recollect a few chilled
people passing in the streets. I recollect the wet house-tops, the
clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of
blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the
courts by which we went. At the same time I remember that the poor
girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my
hearing, that I could feel her resting on my arm, that the stained
house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great
water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the
air, and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real.

At last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one
lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly
struggled in. The gate was closed. Beyond it was a burial ground--a
dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, but where
I could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in
by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows and on whose
walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. On the step at the
gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and
splashed down everywhere, I saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a
woman lying--Jenny, the mother of the dead child.

I ran forward, but they stopped me, and Mr. Woodcourt entreated me
with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before I went up to
the figure to listen for an instant to what Mr. Bucket said. I did
so, as I thought. I did so, as I am sure.

"Miss Summerson, you'll understand me, if you think a moment. They
changed clothes at the cottage."

They changed clothes at the cottage. I could repeat the words in my
mind, and I knew what they meant of themselves, but I attached no
meaning to them in any other connexion.

"And one returned," said Mr. Bucket, "and one went on. And the one
that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and
then turned across country and went home. Think a moment!"

I could repeat this in my mind too, but I had not the least idea what
it meant. I saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead
child. She lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of the iron
gate and seeming to embrace it. She lay there, who had so lately
spoken to my mother. She lay there, a distressed, unsheltered,
senseless creature. She who had brought my mother's letter, who could
give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide
us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to
this condition by some means connected with my mother that I could
not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at that
moment; she lay there, and they stopped me! I saw but did not
comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in Mr. Woodcourt's face.
I saw but did not comprehend his touching the other on the breast to
keep him back. I saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a
reverence for something. But my understanding for all this was gone.

I even heard it said between them, "Shall she go?"

"She had better go. Her hands should be the first to touch her. They
have a higher right than ours."

I passed on to the gate and stooped down. I lifted the heavy head,
put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. And it was my
mother, cold and dead.




CHAPTER LX

Perspective


I proceed to other passages of my narrative. From the goodness of all
about me I derived such consolation as I can never think of unmoved.
I have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains,
that I will not dwell upon my sorrow. I had an illness, but it was
not a long one; and I would avoid even this mention of it if I could
quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy.

I proceed to other passages of my narrative.

During the time of my illness, we were still in London, where Mrs.
Woodcourt had come, on my guardian's invitation, to stay with us.
When my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him
in our old way--though I could have done that sooner if he would have
believed me--I resumed my work and my chair beside his. He had
appointed the time himself, and we were alone.

"Dame Trot," said he, receiving me with a kiss, "welcome to the
growlery again, my dear. I have a scheme to develop, little woman. I
propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer
time--as it may be. Quite to settle here for a while, in short."

"And in the meanwhile leave Bleak House?" said I.

"Aye, my dear? Bleak House," he returned, "must learn to take care of
itself."

I thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, I saw his
kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile.

"Bleak House," he repeated--and his tone did NOT sound sorrowful, I
found--"must learn to take care of itself. It is a long way from Ada,
my dear, and Ada stands much in need of you."

"It's like you, guardian," said I, "to have been taking that into
consideration for a happy surprise to both of us."

"Not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for
that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be
seldom with me. And besides, I wish to hear as much and as often of
Ada as I can in this condition of estrangement from poor Rick. Not of
her alone, but of him too, poor fellow."

"Have you seen Mr. Woodcourt, this morning, guardian?"

"I see Mr. Woodcourt every morning, Dame Durden."

"Does he still say the same of Richard?"

"Just the same. He knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on
the contrary, he believes that he has none. Yet he is not easy about
him; who CAN be?"

My dear girl had been to see us lately every day, some times twice in
a day. But we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last
until I was quite myself. We knew full well that her fervent heart
was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin John as it
had ever been, and we acquitted Richard of laying any injunctions
upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other hand that she felt it
a part of her duty to him to be sparing of her visits at our house.
My guardian's delicacy had soon perceived this and had tried to
convey to her that he thought she was right.

"Dear, unfortunate, mistaken Richard," said I. "When will he awake
from his delusion!"

"He is not in the way to do so now, my dear," replied my guardian.
"The more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made
me the principal representative of the great occasion of his
suffering."

I could not help adding, "So unreasonably!"

"Ah, Dame Trot, Dame Trot," returned my guardian, "what shall we find
reasonable in Jarndyce and Jarndyce! Unreason and injustice at the
top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason
and injustice from beginning to end--if it ever has an end--how
should poor Rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? He
no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from thistles than older
men did in old times."

His gentleness and consideration for Richard whenever we spoke of him
touched me so that I was always silent on this subject very soon.

"I suppose the Lord Chancellor, and the Vice Chancellors, and the
whole Chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished
by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors," pursued my
guardian. "When those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses
from the powder they sow in their wigs, I shall begin to be
astonished too!"

He checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where the
wind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead.

"Well, well, little woman! To go on, my dear. This rock we must leave
to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. We must not shipwreck Ada
upon it. She cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance
of another separation from a friend. Therefore I have particularly
begged of Woodcourt, and I now particularly beg of you, my dear, not
to move this subject with Rick. Let it rest. Next week, next month,
next year, sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. I can
wait."

But I had already discussed it with him, I confessed; and so, I
thought, had Mr. Woodcourt.

"So he tells me," returned my guardian. "Very good. He has made his
protest, and Dame Durden has made hers, and there is nothing more to
be said about it. Now I come to Mrs. Woodcourt. How do you like her,
my dear?"

In answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, I said I liked
her very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be.

"I think so too," said my guardian. "Less pedigree? Not so much of
Morgan ap--what's his name?"

That was what I meant, I acknowledged, though he was a very harmless
person, even when we had had more of him.

"Still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains," said
my guardian. "I agree with you. Then, little woman, can I do better
for a time than retain Mrs. Woodcourt here?"

No. And yet--

My guardian looked at me, waiting for what I had to say.

I had nothing to say. At least I had nothing in my mind that I could
say. I had an undefined impression that it might have been better if
we had had some other inmate, but I could hardly have explained why
even to myself. Or, if to myself, certainly not to anybody else.

"You see," said my guardian, "our neighbourhood is in Woodcourt's
way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is
agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you."

Yes. That was undeniable. I had nothing to say against it. I could
not have suggested a better arrangement, but I was not quite easy in
my mind. Esther, Esther, why not? Esther, think!

"It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do
better."

"Sure, little woman?"

Quite sure. I had had a moment's time to think, since I had urged
that duty on myself, and I was quite sure.

"Good," said my guardian. "It shall be done. Carried unanimously."

"Carried unanimously," I repeated, going on with my work.

It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornamenting.
It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey and never
resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. After I
had explained the pattern to him and all the great effects that were
to come out by and by, I thought I would go back to our last theme.

"You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Ada
left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another
country. Have you been advising him since?"

"Yes, little woman, pretty often."

"Has he decided to do so?"

"I rather think not."

"Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?" said I.

"Why--yes--perhaps," returned my guardian, beginning his answer in a
very deliberate manner. "About half a year hence or so, there is a
medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in
Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated--streams and
streets, town and country, mill and moor--and seems to present an
opening for such a man. I mean a man whose hopes and aims may
sometimes lie (as most men's sometimes do, I dare say) above the
ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough
after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good
service leading to no other. All generous spirits are ambitious, I
suppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road,
instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care
for. It is Woodcourt's kind."

"And will he get this appointment?" I asked.

"Why, little woman," returned my guardian, smiling, "not being an
oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so. His reputation
stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in
the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man has the
best chance. You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. It is a
very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a great
amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will
gather about it, it may be fairly hoped."

"The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it
falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian."

"You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will."

We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of
Bleak House. But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his
side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, I considered.

I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner
where she lived. The morning was my usual time, but whenever I found
I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to
Chancery Lane. They were both so glad to see me at all hours, and
used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door and coming
in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that I had no fear of
becoming troublesome just yet.

On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent. At other times
he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that table of
his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. Sometimes I
would come upon him lingering at the door of Mr. Vholes's office.
Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbourhood lounging about and
biting his nails. I often met him wandering in Lincoln's Inn, near
the place where I had first seen him, oh how different, how
different!

That the money Ada brought him was melting away with the candles I
used to see burning after dark in Mr. Vholes's office I knew very
well. It was not a large amount in the beginning, he had married in
debt, and I could not fail to understand, by this time, what was
meant by Mr. Vholes's shoulder being at the wheel--as I still heard
it was. My dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to save,
but I knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day.

She shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. She adorned
and graced it so that it became another place. Paler than she had
been at home, and a little quieter than I had thought natural when
she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so unshadowed that
I half believed she was blinded by her love for Richard to his
ruinous career.

I went one day to dine with them while I was under this impression.
As I turned into Symond's Inn, I met little Miss Flite coming out.
She had been to make a stately call upon the wards in Jarndyce, as
she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from
that ceremony. Ada had already told me that she called every Monday
at five o'clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet, which
never appeared there at any other time, and with her largest reticule
of documents on her arm.

"My dear!" she began. "So delighted! How do you do! So glad to see
you. And you are going to visit our interesting Jarndyce wards? TO be
sure! Our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see
you."

"Then Richard is not come in yet?" said I. "I am glad of that, for I
was afraid of being a little late."

"No, he is not come in," returned Miss Flite. "He has had a long day
in court. I left him there with Vholes. You don't like Vholes, I
hope? DON'T like Vholes. Dan-gerous man!"

"I am afraid you see Richard oftener than ever now," said I.

"My dearest," returned Miss Flite, "daily and hourly. You know what I
told you of the attraction on the Chancellor's table? My dear, next
to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. He begins quite to
amuse our little party. Ve-ry friendly little party, are we not?"

It was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it was
no surprise.

"In short, my valued friend," pursued Miss Flite, advancing her lips
to my ear with an air of equal patronage and mystery, "I must tell
you a secret. I have made him my executor. Nominated, constituted,
and appointed him. In my will. Ye-es."

"Indeed?" said I.

"Ye-es," repeated Miss Flite in her most genteel accents, "my
executor, administrator, and assign. (Our Chancery phrases, my love.)
I have reflected that if I should wear out, he will be able to watch
that judgment. Being so very regular in his attendance."

It made me sigh to think of him.

"I did at one time mean," said Miss Flite, echoing the sigh, "to
nominate, constitute, and appoint poor Gridley. Also very regular, my
charming girl. I assure you, most exemplary! But he wore out, poor
man, so I have appointed his successor. Don't mention it. This is in
confidence."

She carefully opened her reticule a little way and showed me a folded
piece of paper inside as the appointment of which she spoke.

"Another secret, my dear. I have added to my collection of birds."

"Really, Miss Flite?" said I, knowing how it pleased her to have her
confidence received with an appearance of interest.

She nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy.
"Two more. I call them the Wards in Jarndyce. They are caged up with
all the others. With Hope, Joy, Youth, Peace, Rest, Life, Dust,
Ashes, Waste, Want, Ruin, Despair, Madness, Death, Cunning, Folly,
Words, Wigs, Rags, Sheepskin, Plunder, Precedent, Jargon, Gammon, and
Spinach!"

The poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look I had ever seen
in her and went her way. Her manner of running over the names of her
birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own lips,
quite chilled me.

This was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and I could have
dispensed with the company of Mr. Vholes, when Richard (who arrived
within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner.
Although it was a very plain one, Ada and Richard were for some
minutes both out of the room together helping to get ready what we
were to eat and drink. Mr. Vholes took that opportunity of holding a
little conversation in a low voice with me. He came to the window
where I was sitting and began upon Symond's Inn.

"A dull place, Miss Summerson, for a life that is not an official
one," said Mr. Vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to
make it clearer for me.

"There is not much to see here," said I.

"Nor to hear, miss," returned Mr. Vholes. "A little music does
occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and soon
eject it. I hope Mr. Jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish
him?"

I thanked Mr. Vholes and said he was quite well.

"I have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his
friends myself," said Mr. Vholes, "and I am aware that the gentlemen
of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an
unfavourable eye. Our plain course, however, under good report and
evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the victims of
prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. How do you find
Mr. C. looking, Miss Summerson?"

"He looks very ill. Dreadfully anxious."

"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.

He stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly to the
ceiling of those low rooms, feeling the pimples on his face as if
they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as though there
were not a human passion or emotion in his nature.

"Mr. Woodcourt is in attendance upon Mr. C., I believe?" he resumed.

"Mr. Woodcourt is his disinterested friend," I answered.

"But I mean in professional attendance, medical attendance."

"That can do little for an unhappy mind," said I.

"Just so," said Mr. Vholes.

So slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, I felt as if Richard were
wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there were
something of the vampire in him.

"Miss Summerson," said Mr. Vholes, very slowly rubbing his gloved
hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the same in
black kid or out of it, "this was an ill-advised marriage of Mr.
C.'s."

I begged he would excuse me from discussing it. They had been engaged
when they were both very young, I told him (a little indignantly) and
when the prospect before them was much fairer and brighter. When
Richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now
darkened his life.

"Just so," assented Mr. Vholes again. "Still, with a view to
everything being openly carried on, I will, with your permission,
Miss Summerson, observe to you that I consider this a very
ill-advised marriage indeed. I owe the opinion not only to Mr. C.'s
connexions, against whom I should naturally wish to protect myself,
but also to my own reputation--dear to myself as a professional man
aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, for whom
I am striving to realize some little independence; dear, I will even
say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege to support."

"It would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better
marriage, another marriage altogether, Mr. Vholes," said I, "if
Richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which
you are engaged with him."

Mr. Vholes, with a noiseless cough--or rather gasp--into one of his
black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute even
that.

"Miss Summerson," he said, "it may be so; and I freely admit that the
young lady who has taken Mr. C.'s name upon herself in so ill-advised
a manner--you will I am sure not quarrel with me for throwing out
that remark again, as a duty I owe to Mr. C.'s connexions--is a
highly genteel young lady. Business has prevented me from mixing much
with general society in any but a professional character; still I
trust I am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel young
lady. As to beauty, I am not a judge of that myself, and I never did
give much attention to it from a boy, but I dare say the young lady
is equally eligible in that point of view. She is considered so (I
have heard) among the clerks in the Inn, and it is a point more in
their way than in mine. In reference to Mr. C.'s pursuit of his
interests--"

"Oh! His interests, Mr. Vholes!"

"Pardon me," returned Mr. Vholes, going on in exactly the same inward
and dispassionate manner. "Mr. C. takes certain interests under
certain wills disputed in the suit. It is a term we use. In reference
to Mr. C,'s pursuit of his interests, I mentioned to you, Miss
Summerson, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, in my
desire that everything should be openly carried on--I used those
words, for I happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which is
producible at any time--I mentioned to you that Mr. C. had laid down
the principle of watching his own interests, and that when a client
of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral (that is to
say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry it out. I HAVE
carried it out; I do carry it out. But I will not smooth things over
to any connexion of Mr. C.'s on any account. As open as I was to Mr.
Jarndyce, I am to you. I regard it in the light of a professional
duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one. I openly say,
unpalatable as it may be, that I consider Mr. C.'s affairs in a very
bad way, that I consider Mr. C. himself in a very bad way, and that I
regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. Am I here, sir?
Yes, I thank you; I am here, Mr. C., and enjoying the pleasure of
some agreeable conversation with Miss Summerson, for which I have to
thank you very much, sir!"

He broke off thus in answer to Richard, who addressed him as he came
into the room. By this time I too well understood Mr. Vholes's
scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability not to feel
that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client's progress.

We sat down to dinner, and I had an opportunity of observing Richard,
anxiously. I was not disturbed by Mr. Vholes (who took off his gloves
to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small table, for I
doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes from his host's
face. I found Richard thin and languid, slovenly in his dress,
abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and then, and at
other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. About his large
bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a wanness and a
restlessness that changed them altogether. I cannot use the
expression that he looked old. There is a ruin of youth which is not
like age, and into such a ruin Richard's youth and youthful beauty
had all fallen away.

He ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself to
be much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with
Ada. I thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all
gone, but it shone out of him sometimes as I had occasionally known
little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me from
the glass. His laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like
the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful.

Yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have me
there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. These did not
appear to be interesting to Mr. Vholes, though he occasionally made a
gasp which I believe was his smile. He rose shortly after dinner and
said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to his
office.

"Always devoted to business, Vholes!" cried Richard.

"Yes, Mr. C.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never to be
neglected, sir. They are paramount in the thoughts of a professional
man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his
fellow-practitioners and society at large. My denying myself the
pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not be wholly
irrespective of your own interests, Mr. C."

Richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted Mr. Vholes
out. On his return he told us, more than once, that Vholes was a good
fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do, a very
good fellow indeed! He was so defiant about it that it struck me he
had begun to doubt Mr. Vholes.

Then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and Ada and I put
things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman who
attended to the chambers. My dear girl had a cottage piano there and
quietly sat down to sing some of Richard's favourites, the lamp being
first removed into the next room, as he complained of its hurting his
eyes.

I sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy
listening to her sweet voice. I think Richard did too; I think he
darkened the room for that reason. She had been singing some time,
rising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him, when Mr.
Woodcourt came in. Then he sat down by Richard and half playfully,
half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and
where he had been all day. Presently he proposed to accompany him in
a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night;
and Richard readily consenting, they went out together.

They left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still
sitting beside her. When they were gone out, I drew my arm round her
waist. She put her left hand in mine (I was sitting on that side),
but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over them without
striking any note.

"Esther, my dearest," she said, breaking silence, "Richard is never
so well and I am never so easy about him as when he is with Allan
Woodcourt. We have to thank you for that."

I pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because Mr.
Woodcourt had come to her cousin John's house and had known us all
there, and because he had always liked Richard, and Richard had
always liked him, and--and so forth.

"All true," said Ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to us we
owe to you."

I thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no more
about it. So I said as much. I said it lightly, because I felt her
trembling.

"Esther, my dearest, I want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife
indeed. You shall teach me."

I teach! I said no more, for I noticed the hand that was fluttering
over the keys, and I knew that it was not I who ought to speak, that
it was she who had something to say to me.

"When I married Richard I was not insensible to what was before him.
I had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and I had never
known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but I
understood the danger he was in, dear Esther."

"I know, I know, my darling."

"When we were married I had some little hope that I might be able to
convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in a new
way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately for my
sake--as he does. But if I had not had that hope, I would have
married him just the same, Esther. Just the same!"

In the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still--a
firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying
away with them--I saw the confirmation of her earnest tones.

"You are not to think, my dearest Esther, that I fail to see what you
see and fear what you fear. No one can understand him better than I
do. The greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely
know Richard better than my love does."

She spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed
such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! My dear,
dear girl!

"I see him at his worst every day. I watch him in his sleep. I know
every change of his face. But when I married Richard I was quite
determined, Esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that I
grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. I want him,
when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. I want him, when
he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. I married him to do this,
and this supports me."

I felt her trembling more. I waited for what was yet to come, and I
now thought I began to know what it was.

"And something else supports me, Esther."

She stopped a minute. Stopped speaking only; her hand was still in
motion.

"I look forward a little while, and I don't know what great aid may
come to me. When Richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be
something lying on my breast more eloquent than I have been, with
greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him
back."

Her hand stopped now. She clasped me in her arms, and I clasped her
in mine.

"If that little creature should fail too, Esther, I still look
forward. I look forward a long while, through years and years, and
think that then, when I am growing old, or when I am dead perhaps, a
beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him
and a blessing to him. Or that a generous brave man, as handsome as
he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the
sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, 'I
thank God this is my father! Ruined by a fatal inheritance, and
restored through me!'"

Oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against
me!

"These hopes uphold me, my dear Esther, and I know they will. Though
sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when I
look at Richard."

I tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. Sobbing and
weeping, she replied, "That he may not live to see his child."




CHAPTER LXI

A Discovery


The days when I frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl
brightened can never fade in my remembrance. I never see it, and I
never wish to see it now; I have been there only once since, but in
my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will
shine for ever.

Not a day passed without my going there, of course. At first I found
Mr. Skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing the piano
and talking in his usual vivacious strain. Now, besides my very much
mistrusting the probability of his being there without making Richard
poorer, I felt as if there were something in his careless gaiety too
inconsistent with what I knew of the depths of Ada's life. I clearly
perceived, too, that Ada shared my feelings. I therefore resolved,
after much thinking of it, to make a private visit to Mr. Skimpole
and try delicately to explain myself. My dear girl was the great
consideration that made me bold.

I set off one morning, accompanied by Charley, for Somers Town. As I
approached the house, I was strongly inclined to turn back, for I
felt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on Mr.
Skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signally
defeat me. However, I thought that being there, I would go through
with it. I knocked with a trembling hand at Mr. Skimpole's
door--literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone--and after a
long parley gained admission from an Irishwoman, who was in the area
when I knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to
light the fire with.

Mr. Skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a
little, was enchanted to see me. Now, who should receive me, he
asked. Who would I prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? Would I
have his Comedy daughter, his Beauty daughter, or his Sentiment
daughter? Or would I have all the daughters at once in a perfect
nosegay?

I replied, half defeated already, that I wished to speak to himself
only if he would give me leave.

"My dear Miss Summerson, most joyfully! Of course," he said, bringing
his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating smile, "of
course it's not business. Then it's pleasure!"

I said it certainly was not business that I came upon, but it was not
quite a pleasant matter.

"Then, my dear Miss Summerson," said he with the frankest gaiety,
"don't allude to it. Why should you allude to anything that is NOT a
pleasant matter? I never do. And you are a much pleasanter creature,
in every point of view, than I. You are perfectly pleasant; I am
imperfectly pleasant; then, if I never allude to an unpleasant
matter, how much less should you! So that's disposed of, and we will
talk of something else."

Although I was embarrassed, I took courage to intimate that I still
wished to pursue the subject.

"I should think it a mistake," said Mr. Skimpole with his airy laugh,
"if I thought Miss Summerson capable of making one. But I don't!"

"Mr. Skimpole," said I, raising my eyes to his, "I have so often
heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of
life--"

"Meaning our three banking-house friends, L, S, and who's the junior
partner? D?" said Mr. Skimpole, brightly. "Not an idea of them!"

"--That perhaps," I went on, "you will excuse my boldness on that
account. I think you ought most seriously to know that Richard is
poorer than he was."

"Dear me!" said Mr. Skimpole. "So am I, they tell me."

"And in very embarrassed circumstances."

"Parallel case, exactly!" said Mr. Skimpole with a delighted
countenance.

"This at present naturally causes Ada much secret anxiety, and as I
think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by
visitors, and as Richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his mind,
it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that--if you
would--not--"

I was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by
both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way
anticipated it.

"Not go there? Certainly not, my dear Miss Summerson, most assuredly
not. Why SHOULD I go there? When I go anywhere, I go for pleasure. I
don't go anywhere for pain, because I was made for pleasure. Pain
comes to ME when it wants me. Now, I have had very little pleasure at
our dear Richard's lately, and your practical sagacity demonstrates
why. Our young friends, losing the youthful poetry which was once so
captivating in them, begin to think, 'This is a man who wants
pounds.' So I am; I always want pounds; not for myself, but because
tradespeople always want them of me. Next, our young friends begin to
think, becoming mercenary, 'This is the man who HAD pounds, who
borrowed them,' which I did. I always borrow pounds. So our young
friends, reduced to prose (which is much to be regretted), degenerate
in their power of imparting pleasure to me. Why should I go to see
them, therefore? Absurd!"

Through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned
thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence quite
astonishing.

"Besides," he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of
light-hearted conviction, "if I don't go anywhere for pain--which
would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous
thing to do--why should I go anywhere to be the cause of pain? If I
went to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of
mind, I should give them pain. The associations with me would be
disagreeable. They might say, 'This is the man who had pounds and who
can't pay pounds,' which I can't, of course; nothing could be more
out of the question! Then kindness requires that I shouldn't go near
them--and I won't."

He finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. Nothing but
Miss Summerson's fine tact, he said, would have found this out for
him.

I was much disconcerted, but I reflected that if the main point were
gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything
leading to it. I had determined to mention something else, however,
and I thought I was not to be put off in that.

"Mr. Skimpole," said I, "I must take the liberty of saying before I
conclude my visit that I was much surprised to learn, on the best
authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor
boy left Bleak House and that you accepted a present on that
occasion. I have not mentioned it to my guardian, for I fear it would
hurt him unnecessarily; but I may say to you that I was much
surprised."

"No? Really surprised, my dear Miss Summerson?" he returned
inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows.

"Greatly surprised."

He thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and
whimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in his
most engaging manner, "You know what a child I am. Why surprised?"

I was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he
begged I would, for he was really curious to know, I gave him to
understand in the gentlest words I could use that his conduct seemed
to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. He was much
amused and interested when he heard this and said, "No, really?" with
ingenuous simplicity.

"You know I don't intend to be responsible. I never could do it.
Responsibility is a thing that has always been above me--or below
me," said Mr. Skimpole. "I don't even know which; but as I understand
the way in which my dear Miss Summerson (always remarkable for her
practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, I should imagine
it was chiefly a question of money, do you know?"

I incautiously gave a qualified assent to this.

"Ah! Then you see," said Mr. Skimpole, shaking his head, "I am
hopeless of understanding it."

I suggested, as I rose to go, that it was not right to betray my
guardian's confidence for a bribe.

"My dear Miss Summerson," he returned with a candid hilarity that was
all his own, "I can't be bribed."

"Not by Mr. Bucket?" said I.

"No," said he. "Not by anybody. I don't attach any value to money. I
don't care about it, I don't know about it, I don't want it, I don't
keep it--it goes away from me directly. How can I be bribed?"

I showed that I was of a different opinion, though I had not the
capacity for arguing the question.

"On the contrary," said Mr. Skimpole, "I am exactly the man to be
placed in a superior position in such a case as that. I am above the
rest of mankind in such a case as that. I can act with philosophy in
such a case as that. I am not warped by prejudices, as an Italian
baby is by bandages. I am as free as the air. I feel myself as far
above suspicion as Caesar's wife."

Anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful
impartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossed
the matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen in
anybody else!

"Observe the case, my dear Miss Summerson. Here is a boy received
into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
The boy being in bed, a man arrives--like the house that Jack built.
Here is the man who demands the boy who is received into the house
and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to. Here is a
bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received
into the house and put to bed in a state that I strongly object to.
Here is the Skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the man
who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in
a state that I strongly object to. Those are the facts. Very well.
Should the Skimpole have refused the note? WHY should the Skimpole
have refused the note? Skimpole protests to Bucket, 'What's this for?
I don't understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.' Bucket
still entreats Skimpole to accept it. Are there reasons why Skimpole,
not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? Yes. Skimpole
perceives them. What are they? Skimpole reasons with himself, this is
a tamed lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person
of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception
and execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they
run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges us
comfortably when we are murdered. This active police-officer and
intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong
faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very
useful to society. Shall I shake that faith in Bucket because I want
it myself; shall I deliberately blunt one of Bucket's weapons; shall
I positively paralyse Bucket in his next detective operation? And
again. If it is blameable in Skimpole to take the note, it is
blameable in Bucket to offer the note--much more blameable in Bucket,
because he is the knowing man. Now, Skimpole wishes to think well of
Bucket; Skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to the
general cohesion of things, that he SHOULD think well of Bucket. The
state expressly asks him to trust to Bucket. And he does. And that's
all he does!"

I had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore took
my leave. Mr. Skimpole, however, who was in excellent spirits, would
not hear of my returning home attended only by "Little Coavinses,"
and accompanied me himself. He entertained me on the way with a
variety of delightful conversation and assured me, at parting, that
he should never forget the fine tact with which I had found that out
for him about our young friends.

As it so happened that I never saw Mr. Skimpole again, I may at once
finish what I know of his history. A coolness arose between him and
my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds and on his
having heartlessly disregarded my guardian's entreaties (as we
afterwards learned from Ada) in reference to Richard. His being
heavily in my guardian's debt had nothing to do with their
separation. He died some five years afterwards and left a diary
behind him, with letters and other materials towards his life, which
was published and which showed him to have been the victim of a
combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. It was
considered very pleasant reading, but I never read more of it myself
than the sentence on which I chanced to light on opening the book. It
was this: "Jarndyce, in common with most other men I have known, is
the incarnation of selfishness."

And now I come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly
indeed, and for which I was quite unprepared when the circumstance
occurred. Whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in
my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as
belonging to a part of my life that was gone--gone like my infancy or
my childhood. I have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that
subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory has
recalled them. And I hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the
last words of these pages, which I see now not so very far before me.

The months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by the
hopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in the
miserable corner. Richard, more worn and haggard, haunted the court
day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long when he knew
there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, and became
one of the stock sights of the place. I wonder whether any of the
gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there.

So completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to avow
in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed the fresh
air now "but for Woodcourt." It was only Mr. Woodcourt who could
occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a time and rouse
him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and body that alarmed
us greatly, and the returns of which became more frequent as the
months went on. My dear girl was right in saying that he only pursued
his errors the more desperately for her sake. I have no doubt that
his desire to retrieve what he had lost was rendered the more intense
by his grief for his young wife, and became like the madness of a
gamester.

I was there, as I have mentioned, at all hours. When I was there at
night, I generally went home with Charley in a coach; sometimes my
guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walk home
together. One evening he had arranged to meet me at eight o'clock. I
could not leave, as I usually did, quite punctually at the time, for
I was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches more to do to
finish what I was about; but it was within a few minutes of the hour
when I bundled up my little work-basket, gave my darling my last kiss
for the night, and hurried downstairs. Mr. Woodcourt went with me, as
it was dusk.

When we came to the usual place of meeting--it was close by, and Mr.
Woodcourt had often accompanied me before--my guardian was not there.
We waited half an hour, walking up and down, but there were no signs
of him. We agreed that he was either prevented from coming or that he
had come and gone away, and Mr. Woodcourt proposed to walk home with
me.

It was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that very
short one to the usual place of meeting. We spoke of Richard and Ada
the whole way. I did not thank him in words for what he had done--my
appreciation of it had risen above all words then--but I hoped he
might not be without some understanding of what I felt so strongly.

Arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian was
out and that Mrs. Woodcourt was out too. We were in the very same
room into which I had brought my blushing girl when her youthful
lover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her young heart,
the very same room from which my guardian and I had watched them
going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of their hope and
promise.

We were standing by the opened window looking down into the street
when Mr. Woodcourt spoke to me. I learned in a moment that he loved
me. I learned in a moment that my scarred face was all unchanged to
him. I learned in a moment that what I had thought was pity and
compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. Oh, too late to know
it now, too late, too late. That was the first ungrateful thought I
had. Too late.

"When I returned," he told me, "when I came back, no richer than when
I went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so
inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a selfish
thought--"

"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" I entreated him. "I do not
deserve your high praise. I had many selfish thoughts at that time,
many!"

"Heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise is not a
lover's praise, but the truth. You do not know what all around you
see in Esther Summerson, how many hearts she touches and awakens,
what sacred admiration and what love she wins."

"Oh, Mr. Woodcourt," cried I, "it is a great thing to win love, it is
a great thing to win love! I am proud of it, and honoured by it; and
the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and
sorrow--joy that I have won it, sorrow that I have not deserved it
better; but I am not free to think of yours."

I said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and when
I heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was true,
I aspired to be more worthy of it. It was not too late for that.
Although I closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night, I could
be worthier of it all through my life. And it was a comfort to me,
and an impulse to me, and I felt a dignity rise up within me that was
derived from him when I thought so.

He broke the silence.

"I should poorly show the trust that I have in the dear one who will
evermore be as dear to me as now"--and the deep earnestness with
which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep--"if, after
her assurance that she is not free to think of my love, I urged it.
Dear Esther, let me only tell you that the fond idea of you which I
took abroad was exalted to the heavens when I came home. I have
always hoped, in the first hour when I seemed to stand in any ray of
good fortune, to tell you this. I have always feared that I should
tell it you in vain. My hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night.
I distress you. I have said enough."

Something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he
thought me, and I felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained! I
wished to help him in his trouble, as I had wished to do when he
showed that first commiseration for me.

"Dear Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "before we part to-night, something is
left for me to say. I never could say it as I wish--I never
shall--but--"

I had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his
affliction before I could go on.

"--I am deeply sensible of your generosity, and I shall treasure its
remembrance to my dying hour. I know full well how changed I am, I
know you are not unacquainted with my history, and I know what a
noble love that is which is so faithful. What you have said to me
could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are none
that could give it such a value to me. It shall not be lost. It shall
make me better."

He covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. How could
I ever be worthy of those tears?

"If, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together--in tending
Richard and Ada, and I hope in many happier scenes of life--you ever
find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than it
used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from to-night and
that I shall owe it to you. And never believe, dear dear Mr.
Woodcourt, never believe that I forget this night or that while my
heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been
beloved by you."

He took my hand and kissed it. He was like himself again, and I felt
still more encouraged.

"I am induced by what you said just now," said I, "to hope that you
have succeeded in your endeavour."

"I have," he answered. "With such help from Mr. Jarndyce as you who
know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, I have
succeeded."

"Heaven bless him for it," said I, giving him my hand; "and heaven
bless you in all you do!"

"I shall do it better for the wish," he answered; "it will make me
enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you."

"Ah! Richard!" I exclaimed involuntarily, "What will he do when you
are gone!"

"I am not required to go yet; I would not desert him, dear Miss
Summerson, even if I were."

One other thing I felt it needful to touch upon before he left me. I
knew that I should not be worthier of the love I could not take if I
reserved it.

"Mr. Woodcourt," said I, "you will be glad to know from my lips
before I say good night that in the future, which is clear and bright
before me, I am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret or
desire."

It was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied.

"From my childhood I have been," said I, "the object of the untiring
goodness of the best of human beings, to whom I am so bound by every
tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing I could do in
the compass of a life could express the feelings of a single day."

"I share those feelings," he returned. "You speak of Mr. Jarndyce."

"You know his virtues well," said I, "but few can know the greatness
of his character as I know it. All its highest and best qualities
have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in the shaping
out of that future in which I am so happy. And if your highest homage
and respect had not been his already--which I know they are--they
would have been his, I think, on this assurance and in the feeling it
would have awakened in you towards him for my sake."

He fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. I gave
him my hand again.

"Good night," I said, "Good-bye."

"The first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this
theme between us for ever."

"Yes."

"Good night; good-bye."

He left me, and I stood at the dark window watching the street. His
love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly upon
me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave way again
and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears.

But they were not tears of regret and sorrow. No. He had called me
the beloved of his life and had said I would be evermore as dear to
him as I was then, and I felt as if my heart would not hold the
triumph of having heard those words. My first wild thought had died
away. It was not too late to hear them, for it was not too late to be
animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and contented. How easy
my path, how much easier than his!




CHAPTER LXII

Another Discovery


I had not the courage to see any one that night. I had not even the
courage to see myself, for I was afraid that my tears might a little
reproach me. I went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the
dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. I had no need of any light
to read my guardian's letter by, for I knew it by heart. I took it
from the place where I kept it, and repeated its contents by its own
clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my
pillow.

I was up very early in the morning and called Charley to come for a
walk. We bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and
arranged them, and were as busy as possible. We were so early that I
had a good time still for Charley's lesson before breakfast; Charley
(who was not in the least improved in the old defective article of
grammar) came through it with great applause; and we were altogether
very notable. When my guardian appeared he said, "Why, little woman,
you look fresher than your flowers!" And Mrs. Woodcourt repeated and
translated a passage from the Mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my
being like a mountain with the sun upon it.

This was all so pleasant that I hope it made me still more like the
mountain than I had been before. After breakfast I waited my
opportunity and peeped about a little until I saw my guardian in his
own room--the room of last night--by himself. Then I made an excuse
to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me.

"Well, Dame Durden?" said my guardian; the post had brought him
several letters, and he was writing. "You want money?"

"No, indeed, I have plenty in hand."

"There never was such a Dame Durden," said my guardian, "for making
money last."

He had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at me.
I have often spoken of his bright face, but I thought I had never
seen it look so bright and good. There was a high happiness upon it
which made me think, "He has been doing some great kindness this
morning."

"There never was," said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me,
"such a Dame Durden for making money last."

He had never yet altered his old manner. I loved it and him so much
that when I now went up to him and took my usual chair, which was
always put at his side--for sometimes I read to him, and sometimes I
talked to him, and sometimes I silently worked by him--I hardly liked
to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. But I found I did not
disturb it at all.

"Dear guardian," said I, "I want to speak to you. Have I been remiss
in anything?"

"Remiss in anything, my dear!"

"Have I not been what I have meant to be since--I brought the answer
to your letter, guardian?"

"You have been everything I could desire, my love."

"I am very glad indeed to hear that," I returned. "You know, you said
to me, was this the mistress of Bleak House. And I said, yes."

"Yes," said my guardian, nodding his head. He had put his arm about
me as if there were something to protect me from and looked in my
face, smiling.

"Since then," said I, "we have never spoken on the subject except
once."

"And then I said Bleak House was thinning fast; and so it was, my
dear."

"And I said," I timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained."

He still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same
bright goodness in his face.

"Dear guardian," said I, "I know how you have felt all that has
happened, and how considerate you have been. As so much time has
passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again,
perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. Perhaps I ought to do so.
I will be the mistress of Bleak House when you please."

"See," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be between us!
I have had nothing else, poor Rick excepted--it's a large
exception--in my mind. When you came in, I was full of it. When shall
we give Bleak House its mistress, little woman?"

"When you please."

"Next month?"

"Next month, dear guardian."

"The day on which I take the happiest and best step of my life--the
day on which I shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than
any other man in the world--the day on which I give Bleak House its
little mistress--shall be next month then," said my guardian.

I put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as I had done on the
day when I brought my answer.

A servant came to the door to announce Mr. Bucket, which was quite
unnecessary, for Mr. Bucket was already looking in over the servant's
shoulder. "Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson," said he, rather out of
breath, "with all apologies for intruding, WILL you allow me to order
up a person that's on the stairs and that objects to being left there
in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence? Thank
you. Be so good as chair that there member in this direction, will
you?" said Mr. Bucket, beckoning over the banisters.

This singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap,
unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and
deposited in the room near the door. Mr. Bucket immediately got rid
of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it.

"Now you see, Mr. Jarndyce," he then began, putting down his hat and
opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered finger,
"you know me, and Miss Summerson knows me. This gentleman likewise
knows me, and his name is Smallweed. The discounting line is his line
principally, and he's what you may call a dealer in bills. That's
about what YOU are, you know, ain't you?" said Mr. Bucket, stopping a
little to address the gentleman in question, who was exceedingly
suspicious of him.

He seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he was
seized with a violent fit of coughing.

"Now, moral, you know!" said Mr. Bucket, improving the accident.
"Don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you won't be
took in that way. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I address myself to you. I've
been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of Sir Leicester
Dedlock, Baronet, and one way and another I've been in and out and
about his premises a deal. His premises are the premises formerly
occupied by Krook, marine store dealer--a relation of this
gentleman's that you saw in his lifetime if I don't mistake?"

My guardian replied, "Yes."

"Well! You are to understand," said Mr. Bucket, "that this gentleman
he come into Krook's property, and a good deal of magpie property
there was. Vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. Lord bless you,
of no use to nobody!"

The cunning of Mr. Bucket's eye and the masterly manner in which he
contrived, without a look or a word against which his watchful
auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the case
according to previous agreement and could say much more of Mr.
Smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in
quite understanding him. His difficulty was increased by Mr.
Smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his face
with the closest attention.

"Among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes
into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you see?" said
Mr. Bucket.

"To which? Say that again," cried Mr. Smallweed in a shrill, sharp
voice.

"To rummage," repeated Mr. Bucket. "Being a prudent man and
accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage
among the papers as you have come into; don't you?"

"Of course I do," cried Mr. Smallweed.

"Of course you do," said Mr. Bucket conversationally, "and much to
blame you would be if you didn't. And so you chance to find, you
know," Mr. Bucket went on, stooping over him with an air of cheerful
raillery which Mr. Smallweed by no means reciprocated, "and so you
chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of Jarndyce to
it. Don't you?"

Mr. Smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded
assent.

"And coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and
convenience--all in good time, for you're not curious to read it, and
why should you be?--what do you find it to be but a will, you see.
That's the drollery of it," said Mr. Bucket with the same lively air
of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of Mr. Smallweed, who still had
the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; "what do
you find it to be but a will?"

"I don't know that it's good as a will or as anything else," snarled
Mr. Smallweed.

Mr. Bucket eyed the old man for a moment--he had slipped and shrunk
down in his chair into a mere bundle--as if he were much disposed to
pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the
same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyes upon us.

"Notwithstanding which," said Mr. Bucket, "you get a little doubtful
and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of
your own."

"Eh? What do you say I have got of my own?" asked Mr. Smallweed with
his hand to his ear.

"A very tender mind."

"Ho! Well, go on," said Mr. Smallweed.

"And as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated
Chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card
Krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books,
and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with 'em, and
always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think--and you
never was more correct in your born days--'Ecod, if I don't look
about me, I may get into trouble regarding this will.'"

"Now, mind how you put it, Bucket," cried the old man anxiously with
his hand at his ear. "Speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. Pick
me up; I want to hear better. Oh, Lord, I am shaken to bits!"

Mr. Bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. However, as soon as
he could be heard through Mr. Smallweed's coughing and his vicious
ejaculations of "Oh, my bones! Oh, dear! I've no breath in my body!
I'm worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstone pig at home!"
Mr. Bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before.

"So, as I happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises,
you take me into your confidence, don't you?"

I think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill
will and a worse grace than Mr. Smallweed displayed when he admitted
this, rendering it perfectly evident that Mr. Bucket was the very
last person he would have thought of taking into his confidence if he
could by any possibility have kept him out of it.

"And I go into the business with you--very pleasant we are over it;
and I confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get
yourself into a most precious line if you don't come out with that
there will," said Mr. Bucket emphatically; "and accordingly you
arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present Mr.
Jarndyce, on no conditions. If it should prove to be valuable, you
trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's about where it is,
ain't it?"

"That's what was agreed," Mr. Smallweed assented with the same bad
grace.

"In consequence of which," said Mr. Bucket, dismissing his agreeable
manner all at once and becoming strictly business-like, "you've got
that will upon your person at the present time, and the only thing
that remains for you to do is just to out with it!"

Having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye, and
having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger, Mr.
Bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend and
his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it to my
guardian. It was not produced without much reluctance and many
declarations on the part of Mr. Smallweed that he was a poor
industrious man and that he left it to Mr. Jarndyce's honour not to
let him lose by his honesty. Little by little he very slowly took
from a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was much
singed upon the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if it had
long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off again. Mr.
Bucket lost no time in transferring this paper, with the dexterity of
a conjuror, from Mr. Smallweed to Mr. Jarndyce. As he gave it to my
guardian, he whispered behind his fingers, "Hadn't settled how to
make their market of it. Quarrelled and hinted about it. I laid out
twenty pound upon it. First the avaricious grandchildren split upon
him on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably
long, and then they split on one another. Lord! There ain't one of
the family that wouldn't sell the other for a pound or two, except
the old lady--and she's only out of it because she's too weak in her
mind to drive a bargain."

"Mr Bucket," said my guardian aloud, "whatever the worth of this
paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it
be of any worth, I hold myself bound to see Mr. Smallweed remunerated
accordingly."

"Not according to your merits, you know," said Mr. Bucket in friendly
explanation to Mr. Smallweed. "Don't you be afraid of that. According
to its value."

"That is what I mean," said my guardian. "You may observe, Mr.
Bucket, that I abstain from examining this paper myself. The plain
truth is, I have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many
years, and my soul is sick of it. But Miss Summerson and I will
immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the
cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all
other parties interested."

"Mr. Jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," observed
Mr. Bucket to his fellow-visitor. "And it being now made clear to you
that nobody's a-going to be wronged--which must be a great relief to
YOUR mind--we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing you home
again."

He unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morning,
and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger at parting
went his way.

We went our way too, which was to Lincoln's Inn, as quickly as
possible. Mr. Kenge was disengaged, and we found him at his table in
his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles of
papers. Chairs having been placed for us by Mr. Guppy, Mr. Kenge
expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the unusual sight
of Mr. Jarndyce in his office. He turned over his double eye-glass as
he spoke and was more Conversation Kenge than ever.

"I hope," said Mr. Kenge, "that the genial influence of Miss
Summerson," he bowed to me, "may have induced Mr. Jarndyce," he bowed
to him, "to forego some little of his animosity towards a cause and
towards a court which are--shall I say, which take their place in the
stately vista of the pillars of our profession?"

"I am inclined to think," returned my guardian, "that Miss Summerson
has seen too much of the effects of the court and the cause to exert
any influence in their favour. Nevertheless, they are a part of the
occasion of my being here. Mr. Kenge, before I lay this paper on your
desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has come into my
hands."

He did so shortly and distinctly.

"It could not, sir," said Mr. Kenge, "have been stated more plainly
and to the purpose if it had been a case at law."

"Did you ever know English law, or equity either, plain and to the
purpose?" said my guardian.

"Oh, fie!" said Mr. Kenge.

At first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper,
but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had
opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he became
amazed. "Mr. Jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you have perused
this?"

"Not I!" returned my guardian.

"But, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, "it is a will of later date than
any in the suit. It appears to be all in the testator's handwriting.
It is duly executed and attested. And even if intended to be
cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks
of fire, it is NOT cancelled. Here it is, a perfect instrument!"

"Well!" said my guardian. "What is that to me?"

"Mr. Guppy!" cried Mr. Kenge, raising his voice. "I beg your pardon,
Mr. Jarndyce."

"Sir."

"Mr. Vholes of Symond's Inn. My compliments. Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
Glad to speak with him."

Mr. Guppy disappeared.

"You ask me what is this to you, Mr. Jarndyce. If you had perused
this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest
considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still
leaving it a very handsome one," said Mr. Kenge, waving his hand
persuasively and blandly. "You would further have seen that the
interests of Mr. Richard Carstone and of Miss Ada Clare, now Mrs.
Richard Carstone, are very materially advanced by it."

"Kenge," said my guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that the
suit brought into this vile court of Chancery could fall to my two
young cousins, I should be well contented. But do you ask ME to
believe that any good is to come of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?"

"Oh, really, Mr. Jarndyce! Prejudice, prejudice. My dear sir, this is
a very great country, a very great country. Its system of equity is a
very great system, a very great system. Really, really!"

My guardian said no more, and Mr. Vholes arrived. He was modestly
impressed by Mr. Kenge's professional eminence.

"How do you do, Mr. Vholes? Will you be so good as to take a chair
here by me and look over this paper?"

Mr. Vholes did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word. He
was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. When he
had well examined it, he retired with Mr. Kenge into a window, and
shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at some length.
I was not surprised to observe Mr. Kenge inclined to dispute what
he said before he had said much, for I knew that no two people ever
did agree about anything in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. But he seemed
to get the better of Mr. Kenge too in a conversation that sounded
as if it were almost composed of the words "Receiver-General,"
"Accountant-General," "report," "estate," and "costs." When they had
finished, they came back to Mr. Kenge's table and spoke aloud.

"Well! But this is a very remarkable document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr.
Kenge.

Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."

"And a very important document, Mr. Vholes," said Mr. Kenge.

Again Mr. Vholes said, "Very much so."

"And as you say, Mr. Vholes, when the cause is in the paper next
term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in
it," said Mr. Kenge, looking loftily at my guardian.

Mr. Vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to keep
respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such an
authority.

"And when," asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during which Mr.
Kenge had rattled his money and Mr. Vholes had picked his pimples,
"when is next term?"

"Next term, Mr. Jarndyce, will be next month," said Mr. Kenge. "Of
course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this
document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of
course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in
the paper."

"To which I shall pay, of course, my usual attention."

"Still bent, my dear sir," said Mr. Kenge, showing us through the
outer office to the door, "still bent, even with your enlarged mind,
on echoing a popular prejudice? We are a prosperous community, Mr.
Jarndyce, a very prosperous community. We are a great country, Mr.
Jarndyce, we are a very great country. This is a great system, Mr.
Jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system?
Now, really, really!"

He said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as if it
were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his words on
the structure of the system and consolidate it for a thousand ages.




CHAPTER LXIII

Steel and Iron


George's Shooting Gallery is to let, and the stock is sold off, and
George himself is at Chesney Wold attending on Sir Leicester in his
rides and riding very near his bridle-rein because of the uncertain
hand with which he guides his horse. But not to-day is George so
occupied. He is journeying to-day into the iron country farther north
to look about him.

As he comes into the iron country farther north, such fresh green
woods as those of Chesney Wold are left behind; and coal pits and
ashes, high chimneys and red bricks, blighted verdure, scorching
fires, and a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke become the
features of the scenery. Among such objects rides the trooper,
looking about him and always looking for something he has come to
find.

At last, on the black canal bridge of a busy town, with a clang of
iron in it, and more fires and more smoke than he has seen yet, the
trooper, swart with the dust of the coal roads, checks his horse and
asks a workman does he know the name of Rouncewell thereabouts.

"Why, master," quoth the workman, "do I know my own name?"

"'Tis so well known here, is it, comrade?" asks the trooper.

"Rouncewell's? Ah! You're right."

"And where might it be now?" asks the trooper with a glance before
him.

"The bank, the factory, or the house?" the workman wants to know.

"Hum! Rouncewell's is so great apparently," mutters the trooper,
stroking his chin, "that I have as good as half a mind to go back
again. Why, I don't know which I want. Should I find Mr. Rouncewell
at the factory, do you think?"

"Tain't easy to say where you'd find him--at this time of the day you
might find either him or his son there, if he's in town; but his
contracts take him away."

And which is the factory? Why, he sees those chimneys--the tallest
ones! Yes, he sees THEM. Well! Let him keep his eye on those
chimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and presently he'll
see 'em down a turning on the left, shut in by a great brick wall
which forms one side of the street. That's Rouncewell's.

The trooper thanks his informant and rides slowly on, looking about
him. He does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and is much
disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some of
Rouncewell's hands are dining, as the ostler tells him. Some of
Rouncewell's hands have just knocked off for dinner-time and seem to
be invading the whole town. They are very sinewy and strong, are
Rouncewell's hands--a little sooty too.

He comes to a gateway in the brick wall, looks in, and sees a great
perplexity of iron lying about in every stage and in a vast variety
of shapes--in bars, in wedges, in sheets; in tanks, in boilers, in
axles, in wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails; twisted and wrenched
into eccentric and perverse forms as separate parts of machinery;
mountains of it broken up, and rusty in its age; distant furnaces of
it glowing and bubbling in its youth; bright fireworks of it
showering about under the blows of the steam-hammer; red-hot iron,
white-hot iron, cold-black iron; an iron taste, an iron smell, and a
Babel of iron sounds.

"This is a place to make a man's head ache too!" says the trooper,
looking about him for a counting-house. "Who comes here? This is very
like me before I was set up. This ought to be my nephew, if
likenesses run in families. Your servant, sir."

"Yours, sir. Are you looking for any one?"

"Excuse me. Young Mr. Rouncewell, I believe?"

"Yes."

"I was looking for your father, sir. I wish to have a word with him."

The young man, telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time,
for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he is to
be found. "Very like me before I was set up--devilish like me!"
thinks the trooper as he follows. They come to a building in the yard
with an office on an upper floor. At sight of the gentleman in the
office, Mr. George turns very red.

"What name shall I say to my father?" asks the young man.

George, full of the idea of iron, in desperation answers "Steel," and
is so presented. He is left alone with the gentleman in the office,
who sits at a table with account-books before him and some sheets of
paper blotted with hosts of figures and drawings of cunning shapes.
It is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on the iron view
below. Tumbled together on the table are some pieces of iron,
purposely broken to be tested at various periods of their service, in
various capacities. There is iron-dust on everything; and the smoke
is seen through the windows rolling heavily out of the tall chimneys
to mingle with the smoke from a vaporous Babylon of other chimneys.

"I am at your service, Mr. Steel," says the gentleman when his
visitor has taken a rusty chair.

"Well, Mr. Rouncewell," George replies, leaning forward with his left
arm on his knee and his hat in his hand, and very chary of meeting
his brother's eye, "I am not without my expectations that in the
present visit I may prove to be more free than welcome. I have served
as a dragoon in my day, and a comrade of mine that I was once rather
partial to was, if I don't deceive myself, a brother of yours. I
believe you had a brother who gave his family some trouble, and ran
away, and never did any good but in keeping away?"

"Are you quite sure," returns the ironmaster in an altered voice,
"that your name is Steel?"

The trooper falters and looks at him. His brother starts up, calls
him by his name, and grasps him by both hands.

"You are too quick for me!" cries the trooper with the tears
springing out of his eyes. "How do you do, my dear old fellow? I
never could have thought you would have been half so glad to see me
as all this. How do you do, my dear old fellow, how do you do!"

They shake hands and embrace each other over and over again, the
trooper still coupling his "How do you do, my dear old fellow!" with
his protestation that he never thought his brother would have been
half so glad to see him as all this!

"So far from it," he declares at the end of a full account of what
has preceded his arrival there, "I had very little idea of making
myself known. I thought if you took by any means forgivingly to my
name I might gradually get myself up to the point of writing a
letter. But I should not have been surprised, brother, if you had
considered it anything but welcome news to hear of me."

"We will show you at home what kind of news we think it, George,"
returns his brother. "This is a great day at home, and you could not
have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better. I make an
agreement with my son Watt to-day that on this day twelvemonth he
shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have seen in all your
travels. She goes to Germany to-morrow with one of your nieces for a
little polishing up in her education. We make a feast of the event,
and you will be made the hero of it."

Mr. George is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect that he
resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. Being overborne,
however, by his brother and his nephew--concerning whom he renews his
protestations that he never could have thought they would have been
half so glad to see him--he is taken home to an elegant house in all
the arrangements of which there is to be observed a pleasant mixture
of the originally simple habits of the father and mother with such as
are suited to their altered station and the higher fortunes of their
children. Here Mr. George is much dismayed by the graces and
accomplishments of his nieces that are and by the beauty of Rosa, his
niece that is to be, and by the affectionate salutations of these
young ladies, which he receives in a sort of dream. He is sorely
taken aback, too, by the dutiful behaviour of his nephew and has a
woeful consciousness upon him of being a scapegrace. However, there
is great rejoicing and a very hearty company and infinite enjoyment,
and Mr. George comes bluff and martial through it all, and his pledge
to be present at the marriage and give away the bride is received
with universal favour. A whirling head has Mr. George that night when
he lies down in the state-bed of his brother's house to think of all
these things and to see the images of his nieces (awful all the
evening in their floating muslins) waltzing, after the German manner,
over his counterpane.

The brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster's room,
where the elder is proceeding, in his clear sensible way, to show how
he thinks he may best dispose of George in his business, when George
squeezes his hand and stops him.

"Brother, I thank you a million times for your more than brotherly
welcome, and a million times more to that for your more than
brotherly intentions. But my plans are made. Before I say a word as
to them, I wish to consult you upon one family point. How," says the
trooper, folding his arms and looking with indomitable firmness at
his brother, "how is my mother to be got to scratch me?"

"I am not sure that I understand you, George," replies the
ironmaster.

"I say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? She must
be got to do it somehow."

"Scratch you out of her will, I think you mean?"

"Of course I do. In short," says the trooper, folding his arms more
resolutely yet, "I mean--TO--scratch me!"

"My dear George," returns his brother, "is it so indispensable that
you should undergo that process?"

"Quite! Absolutely! I couldn't be guilty of the meanness of coming
back without it. I should never be safe not to be off again. I have
not sneaked home to rob your children, if not yourself, brother, of
your rights. I, who forfeited mine long ago! If I am to remain and
hold up my head, I must be scratched. Come. You are a man of
celebrated penetration and intelligence, and you can tell me how it's
to be brought about."

"I can tell you, George," replies the ironmaster deliberately, "how
it is not to be brought about, which I hope may answer the purpose as
well. Look at our mother, think of her, recall her emotion when she
recovered you. Do you believe there is a consideration in the world
that would induce her to take such a step against her favourite son?
Do you believe there is any chance of her consent, to balance against
the outrage it would be to her (loving dear old lady!) to propose it?
If you do, you are wrong. No, George! You must make up your mind to
remain UNscratched, I think." There is an amused smile on the
ironmaster's face as he watches his brother, who is pondering, deeply
disappointed. "I think you may manage almost as well as if the thing
were done, though."

"How, brother?"

"Being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you have the
misfortune to inherit in any way you like, you know."

"That's true!" says the trooper, pondering again. Then he wistfully
asks, with his hand on his brother's, "Would you mind mentioning
that, brother, to your wife and family?"

"Not at all."

"Thank you. You wouldn't object to say, perhaps, that although an
undoubted vagabond, I am a vagabond of the harum-scarum order, and
not of the mean sort?"

The ironmaster, repressing his amused smile, assents.

"Thank you. Thank you. It's a weight off my mind," says the trooper
with a heave of his chest as he unfolds his arms and puts a hand on
each leg, "though I had set my heart on being scratched, too!"

The brothers are very like each other, sitting face to face; but a
certain massive simplicity and absence of usage in the ways of the
world is all on the trooper's side.

"Well," he proceeds, throwing off his disappointment, "next and last,
those plans of mine. You have been so brotherly as to propose to me
to fall in here and take my place among the products of your
perseverance and sense. I thank you heartily. It's more than
brotherly, as I said before, and I thank you heartily for it,"
shaking him a long time by the hand. "But the truth is, brother, I am
a--I am a kind of a weed, and it's too late to plant me in a regular
garden."

"My dear George," returns the elder, concentrating his strong steady
brow upon him and smiling confidently, "leave that to me, and let me
try."

George shakes his head. "You could do it, I have not a doubt, if
anybody could; but it's not to be done. Not to be done, sir! Whereas
it so falls out, on the other hand, that I am able to be of some
trifle of use to Sir Leicester Dedlock since his illness--brought on
by family sorrows--and that he would rather have that help from our
mother's son than from anybody else."

"Well, my dear George," returns the other with a very slight shade
upon his open face, "if you prefer to serve in Sir Leicester
Dedlock's household brigade--"

"There it is, brother," cries the trooper, checking him, with his
hand upon his knee again; "there it is! You don't take kindly to that
idea; I don't mind it. You are not used to being officered; I am.
Everything about you is in perfect order and discipline; everything
about me requires to be kept so. We are not accustomed to carry
things with the same hand or to look at 'em from the same point. I
don't say much about my garrison manners because I found myself
pretty well at my ease last night, and they wouldn't be noticed here,
I dare say, once and away. But I shall get on best at Chesney Wold,
where there's more room for a weed than there is here; and the dear
old lady will be made happy besides. Therefore I accept of Sir
Leicester Dedlock's proposals. When I come over next year to give
away the bride, or whenever I come, I shall have the sense to keep
the household brigade in ambuscade and not to manoeuvre it on your
ground. I thank you heartily again and am proud to think of the
Rouncewells as they'll be founded by you."

"You know yourself, George," says the elder brother, returning the
grip of his hand, "and perhaps you know me better than I know myself.
Take your way. So that we don't quite lose one another again, take
your way."

"No fear of that!" returns the trooper. "Now, before I turn my
horse's head homewards, brother, I will ask you--if you'll be so
good--to look over a letter for me. I brought it with me to send from
these parts, as Chesney Wold might be a painful name just now to the
person it's written to. I am not much accustomed to correspondence
myself, and I am particular respecting this present letter because I
want it to be both straightforward and delicate."

Herewith he hands a letter, closely written in somewhat pale ink but
in a neat round hand, to the ironmaster, who reads as follows:


   Miss Esther Summerson,

   A communication having been made to me by Inspector Bucket
   of a letter to myself being found among the papers of a
   certain person, I take the liberty to make known to you
   that it was but a few lines of instruction from abroad,
   when, where, and how to deliver an enclosed letter to a
   young and beautiful lady, then unmarried, in England. I
   duly observed the same.

   I further take the liberty to make known to you that it
   was got from me as a proof of handwriting only and that
   otherwise I would not have given it up, as appearing to
   be the most harmless in my possession, without being
   previously shot through the heart.

   I further take the liberty to mention that if I could have
   supposed a certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in
   existence, I never could and never would have rested until
   I had discovered his retreat and shared my last farthing
   with him, as my duty and my inclination would have equally
   been. But he was (officially) reported drowned, and
   assuredly went over the side of a transport-ship at night
   in an Irish harbour within a few hours of her arrival from
   the West Indies, as I have myself heard both from officers
   and men on board, and know to have been (officially)
   confirmed.

   I further take the liberty to state that in my humble
   quality as one of the rank and file, I am, and shall ever
   continue to be, your thoroughly devoted and admiring
   servant and that I esteem the qualities you possess above
   all others far beyond the limits of the present dispatch.

   I have the honour to be,

   GEORGE


"A little formal," observes the elder brother, refolding it with a
puzzled face.

"But nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?" asks
the younger.

"Nothing at all."

Therefore it is sealed and deposited for posting among the iron
correspondence of the day. This done, Mr. George takes a hearty
farewell of the family party and prepares to saddle and mount. His
brother, however, unwilling to part with him so soon, proposes to
ride with him in a light open carriage to the place where he will
bait for the night, and there remain with him until morning, a
servant riding for so much of the journey on the thoroughbred old
grey from Chesney Wold. The offer, being gladly accepted, is followed
by a pleasant ride, a pleasant dinner, and a pleasant breakfast, all
in brotherly communion. Then they once more shake hands long and
heartily and part, the ironmaster turning his face to the smoke and
fires, and the trooper to the green country. Early in the afternoon
the subdued sound of his heavy military trot is heard on the turf in
the avenue as he rides on with imaginary clank and jingle of
accoutrements under the old elm-trees.




CHAPTER LXIV

Esther's Narrative


Soon after I had that conversation with my guardian, he put a sealed
paper in my hand one morning and said, "This is for next month, my
dear." I found in it two hundred pounds.

I now began very quietly to make such preparations as I thought were
necessary. Regulating my purchases by my guardian's taste, which I
knew very well of course, I arranged my wardrobe to please him and
hoped I should be highly successful. I did it all so quietly because
I was not quite free from my old apprehension that Ada would be
rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiet himself. I had no
doubt that under all the circumstances we should be married in the
most private and simple manner. Perhaps I should only have to say to
Ada, "Would you like to come and see me married to-morrow, my pet?"
Perhaps our wedding might even be as unpretending as her own, and I
might not find it necessary to say anything about it until it was
over. I thought that if I were to choose, I would like this best.

The only exception I made was Mrs. Woodcourt. I told her that I was
going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engaged some
time. She highly approved. She could never do enough for me and was
remarkably softened now in comparison with what she had been when we
first knew her. There was no trouble she would not have taken to have
been of use to me, but I need hardly say that I only allowed her to
take as little as gratified her kindness without tasking it.

Of course this was not a time to neglect my guardian, and of course
it was not a time for neglecting my darling. So I had plenty of
occupation, which I was glad of; and as to Charley, she was
absolutely not to be seen for needlework. To surround herself with
great heaps of it--baskets full and tables full--and do a little, and
spend a great deal of time in staring with her round eyes at what
there was to do, and persuade herself that she was going to do it,
were Charley's great dignities and delights.

Meanwhile, I must say, I could not agree with my guardian on the
subject of the will, and I had some sanguine hopes of Jarndyce and
Jarndyce. Which of us was right will soon appear, but I certainly did
encourage expectations. In Richard, the discovery gave occasion for a
burst of business and agitation that buoyed him up for a little time,
but he had lost the elasticity even of hope now and seemed to me to
retain only its feverish anxieties. From something my guardian said
one day when we were talking about this, I understood that my
marriage would not take place until after the term-time we had been
told to look forward to; and I thought the more, for that, how
rejoiced I should be if I could be married when Richard and Ada were
a little more prosperous.

The term was very near indeed when my guardian was called out of town
and went down into Yorkshire on Mr. Woodcourt's business. He had told
me beforehand that his presence there would be necessary. I had just
come in one night from my dear girl's and was sitting in the midst of
all my new clothes, looking at them all around me and thinking, when
a letter from my guardian was brought to me. It asked me to join him
in the country and mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken
and at what time in the morning I should have to leave town. It added
in a postscript that I would not be many hours from Ada.

I expected few things less than a journey at that time, but I was
ready for it in half an hour and set off as appointed early next
morning. I travelled all day, wondering all day what I could be
wanted for at such a distance; now I thought it might be for this
purpose, and now I thought it might be for that purpose, but I was
never, never, never near the truth.

It was night when I came to my journey's end and found my guardian
waiting for me. This was a great relief, for towards evening I had
begun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very short one) that
he might be ill. However, there he was, as well as it was possible to
be; and when I saw his genial face again at its brightest and best, I
said to myself, he has been doing some other great kindness. Not that
it required much penetration to say that, because I knew that his
being there at all was an act of kindness.

Supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at table he
said, "Full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why I have
brought you here?"

"Well, guardian," said I, "without thinking myself a Fatima or you a
Blue Beard, I am a little curious about it."

"Then to ensure your night's rest, my love," he returned gaily, "I
won't wait until to-morrow to tell you. I have very much wished to
express to Woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his humanity to poor
unfortunate Jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, and his
value to us all. When it was decided that he should settle here, it
came into my head that I might ask his acceptance of some
unpretending and suitable little place to lay his own head in. I
therefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a place
was found on very easy terms, and I have been touching it up for him
and making it habitable. However, when I walked over it the day
before yesterday and it was reported ready, I found that I was not
housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as they ought to
be. So I sent off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly
be got to come and give me her advice and opinion. And here she is,"
said my guardian, "laughing and crying both together!"

Because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. I tried to tell him
what I thought of him, but I could not articulate a word.

"Tut, tut!" said my guardian. "You make too much of it, little woman.
Why, how you sob, Dame Durden, how you sob!"

"It is with exquisite pleasure, guardian--with a heart full of
thanks."

"Well, well," said he. "I am delighted that you approve. I thought
you would. I meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress
of Bleak House."

I kissed him and dried my eyes. "I know now!" said I. "I have seen
this in your face a long while."

"No; have you really, my dear?" said he. "What a Dame Durden it is to
read a face!"

He was so quaintly cheerful that I could not long be otherwise, and
was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all. When I went to
bed, I cried. I am bound to confess that I cried; but I hope it was
with pleasure, though I am not quite sure it was with pleasure. I
repeated every word of the letter twice over.

A most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and after breakfast we
went out arm in arm to see the house of which I was to give my mighty
housekeeping opinion. We entered a flower-garden by a gate in a side
wall, of which he had the key, and the first thing I saw was that the
beds and flowers were all laid out according to the manner of my beds
and flowers at home.

"You see, my dear," observed my guardian, standing still with a
delighted face to watch my looks, "knowing there could be no better
plan, I borrowed yours."

We went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were
nestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees
were sporting on the grass, to the house itself--a cottage, quite a
rustic cottage of doll's rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil
and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around
it; with water sparkling away into the distance, here all overhung
with summer-growth, there turning a humming mill; at its nearest
point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town, where
cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flag was
flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind. And
still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out at the little rustic
verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnades garlanded
with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, I saw in the papering on
the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in the arrangement of all
the pretty objects, MY little tastes and fancies, MY little methods
and inventions which they used to laugh at while they praised them,
my odd ways everywhere.

I could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful,
but one secret doubt arose in my mind when I saw this, I thought, oh,
would he be the happier for it! Would it not have been better for his
peace that I should not have been so brought before him? Because
although I was not what he thought me, still he loved me very dearly,
and it might remind him mournfully of what be believed he had lost. I
did not wish him to forget me--perhaps he might not have done so,
without these aids to his memory--but my way was easier than his, and
I could have reconciled myself even to that so that he had been the
happier for it.

"And now, little woman," said my guardian, whom I had never seen so
proud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching my
appreciation of them, "now, last of all, for the name of this house."

"What is it called, dear guardian?"

"My child," said he, "come and see,"

He took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and said,
pausing before we went out, "My dear child, don't you guess the
name?"

"No!" said I.

We went out of the porch and he showed me written over it, Bleak
House.

He led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting down
beside me and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus, "My darling
girl, in what there has been between us, I have, I hope, been really
solicitous for your happiness. When I wrote you the letter to which
you brought the answer," smiling as he referred to it, "I had my own
too much in view; but I had yours too. Whether, under different
circumstances, I might ever have renewed the old dream I sometimes
dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife one day, I
need not ask myself. I did renew it, and I wrote my letter, and you
brought your answer. You are following what I say, my child?"

I was cold, and I trembled violently, but not a word he uttered was
lost. As I sat looking fixedly at him and the sun's rays descended,
softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, I felt as if
the brightness on him must be like the brightness of the angels.

"Hear me, my love, but do not speak. It is for me to speak now. When
it was that I began to doubt whether what I had done would really
make you happy is no matter. Woodcourt came home, and I soon had no
doubt at all."

I clasped him round the neck and hung my head upon his breast and
wept. "Lie lightly, confidently here, my child," said he, pressing me
gently to him. "I am your guardian and your father now. Rest
confidently here."

Soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially,
like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like the
sunshine, he went on.

"Understand me, my dear girl. I had no doubt of your being contented
and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but I saw with
whom you would be happier. That I penetrated his secret when Dame
Durden was blind to it is no wonder, for I knew the good that could
never change in her better far than she did. Well! I have long been
in Allan Woodcourt's confidence, although he was not, until
yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine. But I would not
have my Esther's bright example lost; I would not have a jot of my
dear girl's virtues unobserved and unhonoured; I would not have her
admitted on sufferance into the line of Morgan ap-Kerrig, no, not for
the weight in gold of all the mountains in Wales!"

He stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and I sobbed and wept afresh.
For I felt as if I could not bear the painful delight of his praise.

"Hush, little woman! Don't cry; this is to be a day of joy. I have
looked forward to it," he said exultingly, "for months on months! A
few words more, Dame Trot, and I have said my say. Determined not to
throw away one atom of my Esther's worth, I took Mrs. Woodcourt into
a separate confidence. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'I clearly perceive--and
indeed I know, to boot--that your son loves my ward. I am further
very sure that my ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to
a sense of duty and affection, and will sacrifice it so completely,
so entirely, so religiously, that you should never suspect it though
you watched her night and day.' Then I told her all our
story--ours--yours and mine. 'Now, madam,' said I, 'come you, knowing
this, and live with us. Come you, and see my child from hour to hour;
set what you see against her pedigree, which is this, and this'--for
I scorned to mince it--'and tell me what is the true legitimacy when
you shall have quite made up your mind on that subject.' Why, honour
to her old Welsh blood, my dear," cried my guardian with enthusiasm,
"I believe the heart it animates beats no less warmly, no less
admiringly, no less lovingly, towards Dame Durden than my own!"

He tenderly raised my head, and as I clung to him, kissed me in his
old fatherly way again and again. What a light, now, on the
protecting manner I had thought about!

"One more last word. When Allan Woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he
spoke with my knowledge and consent--but I gave him no encouragement,
not I, for these surprises were my great reward, and I was too
miserly to part with a scrap of it. He was to come and tell me all
that passed, and he did. I have no more to say. My dearest, Allan
Woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead--stood beside
your mother. This is Bleak House. This day I give this house its
little mistress; and before God, it is the brightest day in all my
life!"

He rose and raised me with him. We were no longer alone. My
husband--I have called him by that name full seven happy years
now--stood at my side.

"Allan," said my guardian, "take from me a willing gift, the best
wife that ever man had. What more can I say for you than that I know
you deserve her! Take with her the little home she brings you. You
know what she will make it, Allan; you know what she has made its
namesake. Let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do I
sacrifice? Nothing, nothing."

He kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as he
said more softly, "Esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is
a kind of parting in this too. I know that my mistake has caused you
some distress. Forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old
place in your affections; and blot it out of your memory. Allan, take
my dear."

He moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping in
the sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards us, said, "I
shall be found about here somewhere. It's a west wind, little woman,
due west! Let no one thank me any more, for I am going to revert to
my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, I'll run
away and never come back!"

What happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what hope,
what gratitude, what bliss! We were to be married before the month
was out, but when we were to come and take possession of our own
house was to depend on Richard and Ada.

We all three went home together next day. As soon as we arrived in
town, Allan went straight to see Richard and to carry our joyful news
to him and my darling. Late as it was, I meant to go to her for a few
minutes before lying down to sleep, but I went home with my guardian
first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old chair by his
side, for I did not like to think of its being empty so soon.

When we came home we found that a young man had called three times in
the course of that one day to see me and that having been told on the
occasion of his third call that I was not expected to return before
ten o'clock at night, he had left word that he would call about then.
He had left his card three times. Mr. Guppy.

As I naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as I
always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell out
that in laughing about Mr. Guppy I told my guardian of his old
proposal and his subsequent retraction. "After that," said my
guardian, "we will certainly receive this hero." So instructions were
given that Mr. Guppy should be shown in when he came again, and they
were scarcely given when he did come again.

He was embarrassed when he found my guardian with me, but recovered
himself and said, "How de do, sir?"

"How do you do, sir?" returned my guardian.

"Thank you, sir, I am tolerable," returned Mr. Guppy. "Will you allow
me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Guppy of the Old Street Road, and my
particular friend, Mr. Weevle. That is to say, my friend has gone by
the name of Weevle, but his name is really and truly Jobling."

My guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down.

"Tony," said Mr. Guppy to his friend after an awkward silence. "Will
you open the case?"

"Do it yourself," returned the friend rather tartly.

"Well, Mr. Jarndyce, sir," Mr. Guppy, after a moment's consideration,
began, to the great diversion of his mother, which she displayed by
nudging Mr. Jobling with her elbow and winking at me in a most
remarkable manner, "I had an idea that I should see Miss Summerson by
herself and was not quite prepared for your esteemed presence. But
Miss Summerson has mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has
passed between us on former occasions?"

"Miss Summerson," returned my guardian, smiling, "has made a
communication to that effect to me."

"That," said Mr. Guppy, "makes matters easier. Sir, I have come out
of my articles at Kenge and Carboy's, and I believe with satisfaction
to all parties. I am now admitted (after undergoing an examination
that's enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack of nonsense that
he don't want to know) on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my
certificate, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see it."

"Thank you, Mr. Guppy," returned my guardian. "I am quite willing--I
believe I use a legal phrase--to admit the certificate."

Mr. Guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his pocket
and proceeded without it.

"I have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property which
takes the form of an annuity"--here Mr. Guppy's mother rolled her
head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, and
put her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked at me--"and a few
pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will never
be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, you know," said
Mr. Guppy feelingly.

"Certainly an advantage," returned my guardian.

"I HAVE some connexion," pursued Mr. Guppy, "and it lays in the
direction of Walcot Square, Lambeth. I have therefore taken a 'ouse
in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is a hollow
bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent),
and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith."

Here Mr. Guppy's mother fell into an extraordinary passion of rolling
her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look at her.

"It's a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens," said Mr. Guppy, "and in
the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. When I mention my
friends, I refer principally to my friend Jobling, who I believe has
known me," Mr. Guppy looked at him with a sentimental air, "from
boyhood's hour."

Mr. Jobling confirmed this with a sliding movement of his legs.

"My friend Jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity of
clerk and will live in the 'ouse," said Mr. Guppy. "My mother will
likewise live in the 'ouse when her present quarter in the Old Street
Road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there will be no
want of society. My friend Jobling is naturally aristocratic by
taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements of the upper
circles, fully backs me in the intentions I am now developing."

Mr. Jobling said "Certainly" and withdrew a little from the elbow of
Mr Guppy's mother.

"Now, I have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the
confidence of Miss Summerson," said Mr. Guppy, "(mother, I wish you'd
be so good as to keep still), that Miss Summerson's image was
formerly imprinted on my 'eart and that I made her a proposal of
marriage."

"That I have heard," returned my guardian.

"Circumstances," pursued Mr. Guppy, "over which I had no control, but
quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for a time.
At which time Miss Summerson's conduct was highly genteel; I may even
add, magnanimous."

My guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused.

"Now, sir," said Mr. Guppy, "I have got into that state of mind
myself that I wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. I wish
to prove to Miss Summerson that I can rise to a heighth of which
perhaps she hardly thought me capable. I find that the image which I
did suppose had been eradicated from my 'eart is NOT eradicated. Its
influence over me is still tremenjous, and yielding to it, I am
willing to overlook the circumstances over which none of us have had
any control and to renew those proposals to Miss Summerson which I
had the honour to make at a former period. I beg to lay the 'ouse in
Walcot Square, the business, and myself before Miss Summerson for her
acceptance."

"Very magnanimous indeed, sir," observed my guardian.

"Well, sir," replied Mr. Guppy with candour, "my wish is to BE
magnanimous. I do not consider that in making this offer to Miss
Summerson I am by any means throwing myself away; neither is that the
opinion of my friends. Still, there are circumstances which I submit
may be taken into account as a set off against any little drawbacks
of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at."

"I take upon myself, sir," said my guardian, laughing as he rang the
bell, "to reply to your proposals on behalf of Miss Summerson. She is
very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good
evening, and wishes you well."

"Oh!" said Mr. Guppy with a blank look. "Is that tantamount, sir, to
acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?"

"To decided rejection, if you please," returned my guardian.

Mr. Guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother, who
suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the ceiling.

"Indeed?" said he. "Then, Jobling, if you was the friend you
represent yourself, I should think you might hand my mother out of
the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain't
wanted."

But Mrs. Guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. She
wouldn't hear of it. "Why, get along with you," said she to my
guardian, "what do you mean? Ain't my son good enough for you? You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Get out with you!"

"My good lady," returned my guardian, "it is hardly reasonable to ask
me to get out of my own room."

"I don't care for that," said Mrs. Guppy. "Get out with you. If we
ain't good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good
enough. Go along and find 'em."

I was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which Mrs. Guppy's
power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest
offence.

"Go along and find somebody that's good enough for you," repeated
Mrs. Guppy. "Get out!" Nothing seemed to astonish Mr. Guppy's mother
so much and to make her so very indignant as our not getting out.
"Why don't you get out?" said Mrs. Guppy. "What are you stopping here
for?"

"Mother," interposed her son, always getting before her and pushing
her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, "WILL you
hold your tongue?"

"No, William," she returned, "I won't! Not unless he gets out, I
won't!"

However, Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling together closed on Mr. Guppy's
mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very much
against her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher every
time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we should
immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and
above all things that we should get out.




CHAPTER LXV

Beginning the World


The term had commenced, and my guardian found an intimation from Mr.
Kenge that the cause would come on in two days. As I had sufficient
hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, Allan and I agreed to
go down to the court that morning. Richard was extremely agitated and
was so weak and low, though his illness was still of the mind, that
my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be supported. But she looked
forward--a very little way now--to the help that was to come to her,
and never drooped.

It was at Westminster that the cause was to come on. It had come on
there, I dare say, a hundred times before, but I could not divest
myself of an idea that it MIGHT lead to some result now. We left home
directly after breakfast to be at Westminster Hall in good time and
walked down there through the lively streets--so happily and
strangely it seemed!--together.

As we were going along, planning what we should do for Richard and
Ada, I heard somebody calling "Esther! My dear Esther! Esther!" And
there was Caddy Jellyby, with her head out of the window of a little
carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils (she had so
many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred yards' distance. I
had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian had done,
but had not had a moment to go and see her. Of course we turned back,
and the affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and was so
overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers,
and was so determined to squeeze my face (bonnet and all) between her
hands, and go on in a wild manner altogether, calling me all kinds of
precious names, and telling Allan I had done I don't know what for
her, that I was just obliged to get into the little carriage and calm
her down by letting her say and do exactly what she liked. Allan,
standing at the window, was as pleased as Caddy; and I was as pleased
as either of them; and I wonder that I got away as I did, rather than
that I came off laughing, and red, and anything but tidy, and looking
after Caddy, who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as
she could see us.

This made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came to
Westminster Hall we found that the day's business was begun. Worse
than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the Court of Chancery
that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hear what
was passing within. It appeared to be something droll, for
occasionally there was a laugh and a cry of "Silence!" It appeared to
be something interesting, for every one was pushing and striving to
get nearer. It appeared to be something that made the professional
gentlemen very merry, for there were several young counsellors in
wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowd, and when one of them
told the others about it, they put their hands in their pockets, and
quite doubled themselves up with laughter, and went stamping about
the pavement of the Hall.

We asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. He told us
Jarndyce and Jarndyce. We asked him if he knew what was doing in it.
He said really, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as well as he
could make out, it was over. Over for the day? we asked him. No, he
said, over for good.

Over for good!

When we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one another
quite lost in amazement. Could it be possible that the will had set
things right at last and that Richard and Ada were going to be rich?
It seemed too good to be true. Alas it was!

Our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in the crowd,
and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot and
bringing a quantity of bad air with them. Still they were all
exceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from a farce
or a juggler than from a court of justice. We stood aside, watching
for any countenance we knew, and presently great bundles of paper
began to be carried out--bundles in bags, bundles too large to be got
into any bags, immense masses of papers of all shapes and no shapes,
which the bearers staggered under, and threw down for the time being,
anyhow, on the Hall pavement, while they went back to bring out more.
Even these clerks were laughing. We glanced at the papers, and seeing
Jarndyce and Jarndyce everywhere, asked an official-looking person
who was standing in the midst of them whether the cause was over.
Yes, he said, it was all up with it at last, and burst out laughing
too.

At this juncture we perceived Mr. Kenge coming out of court with an
affable dignity upon him, listening to Mr. Vholes, who was
deferential and carried his own bag. Mr. Vholes was the first to see
us. "Here is Miss Summerson, sir," he said. "And Mr. Woodcourt."

"Oh, indeed! Yes. Truly!" said Mr. Kenge, raising his hat to me with
polished politeness. "How do you do? Glad to see you. Mr. Jarndyce is
not here?"

No. He never came there, I reminded him.

"Really," returned Mr. Kenge, "it is as well that he is NOT here
to-day, for his--shall I say, in my good friend's absence, his
indomitable singularity of opinion?--might have been strengthened,
perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened."

"Pray what has been done to-day?" asked Allan.

"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Kenge with excessive urbanity.

"What has been done to-day?"

"What has been done," repeated Mr. Kenge. "Quite so. Yes. Why, not
much has been done; not much. We have been checked--brought up
suddenly, I would say--upon the--shall I term it threshold?"

"Is this will considered a genuine document, sir?" said Allan. "Will
you tell us that?"

"Most certainly, if I could," said Mr. Kenge; "but we have not gone
into that, we have not gone into that."

"We have not gone into that," repeated Mr. Vholes as if his low
inward voice were an echo.

"You are to reflect, Mr. Woodcourt," observed Mr. Kenge, using his
silver trowel persuasively and smoothingly, "that this has been a
great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has
been a complex cause. Jarndyce and Jarndyce has been termed, not
inaptly, a monument of Chancery practice."

"And patience has sat upon it a long time," said Allan.

"Very well indeed, sir," returned Mr. Kenge with a certain
condescending laugh he had. "Very well! You are further to reflect,
Mr. Woodcourt," becoming dignified almost to severity, "that on the
numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and forms of
procedure in this great cause, there has been expended study,
ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, Mr. Woodcourt, high
intellect. For many years, the--a--I would say the flower of the bar,
and the--a--I would presume to add, the matured autumnal fruits of
the woolsack--have been lavished upon Jarndyce and Jarndyce. If the
public have the benefit, and if the country have the adornment, of
this great grasp, it must be paid for in money or money's worth,
sir."

"Mr. Kenge," said Allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment.
"Excuse me, our time presses. Do I understand that the whole estate
is found to have been absorbed in costs?"

"Hem! I believe so," returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholes, what do YOU
say?"

"I believe so," said Mr. Vholes.

"And that thus the suit lapses and melts away?"

"Probably," returned Mr. Kenge. "Mr. Vholes?"

"Probably," said Mr. Vholes.

"My dearest life," whispered Allan, "this will break Richard's
heart!"

There was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he knew
Richard so perfectly, and I too had seen so much of his gradual
decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the fullness of her
foreboding love sounded like a knell in my ears.

"In case you should be wanting Mr. C., sir," said Mr. Vholes, coming
after us, "you'll find him in court. I left him there resting himself
a little. Good day, sir; good day, Miss Summerson." As he gave me
that slowly devouring look of his, while twisting up the strings of
his bag before he hastened with it after Mr. Kenge, the benignant
shadow of whose conversational presence he seemed afraid to leave, he
gave one gasp as if he had swallowed the last morsel of his client,
and his black buttoned-up unwholesome figure glided away to the low
door at the end of the Hall.

"My dear love," said Allan, "leave to me, for a little while, the
charge you gave me. Go home with this intelligence and come to Ada's
by and by!"

I would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to go to
Richard without a moment's delay and leave me to do as he wished.
Hurrying home, I found my guardian and told him gradually with what
news I had returned. "Little woman," said he, quite unmoved for
himself, "to have done with the suit on any terms is a greater
blessing than I had looked for. But my poor young cousins!"

We talked about them all the morning and discussed what it was
possible to do. In the afternoon my guardian walked with me to
Symond's Inn and left me at the door. I went upstairs. When my
darling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small passage and
threw her arms round my neck, but she composed herself directly and
said that Richard had asked for me several times. Allan had found him
sitting in the corner of the court, she told me, like a stone figure.
On being roused, he had broken away and made as if he would have
spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. He was stopped by his mouth
being full of blood, and Allan had brought him home.

He was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when I went in. There
were restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy as
possible, and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. Allan
stood behind him watching him gravely. His face appeared to me to be
quite destitute of colour, and now that I saw him without his seeing
me, I fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he was. But he
looked handsomer than I had seen him look for many a day.

I sat down by his side in silence. Opening his eyes by and by, he
said in a weak voice, but with his old smile, "Dame Durden, kiss me,
my dear!"

It was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his low
state cheerful and looking forward. He was happier, he said, in our
intended marriage than he could find words to tell me. My husband had
been a guardian angel to him and Ada, and he blessed us both and
wished us all the joy that life could yield us. I almost felt as if
my own heart would have broken when I saw him take my husband's hand
and hold it to his breast.

We spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several times
that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand upon his
feet. Ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said. "Yes, surely,
dearest Richard!" But as my darling answered him thus hopefully, so
serene and beautiful, with the help that was to come to her so
near--I knew--I knew!

It was not good for him to talk too much, and when he was silent, we
were silent too. Sitting beside him, I made a pretence of working for
my dear, as he had always been used to joke about my being busy. Ada
leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon her arm. He dozed
often, and whenever he awoke without seeing him, said first of all,
"Where is Woodcourt?"

Evening had come on when I lifted up my eyes and saw my guardian
standing in the little hall. "Who is that, Dame Durden?" Richard
asked me. The door was behind him, but he had observed in my face
that some one was there.

I looked to Allan for advice, and as he nodded "Yes," bent over
Richard and told him. My guardian saw what passed, came softly by me
in a moment, and laid his hand on Richard's. "Oh, sir," said Richard,
"you are a good man, you are a good man!" and burst into tears for
the first time.

My guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place, keeping
his hand on Richard's.

"My dear Rick," said he, "the clouds have cleared away, and it is
bright now. We can see now. We were all bewildered, Rick, more or
less. What matters! And how are you, my dear boy?"

"I am very weak, sir, but I hope I shall be stronger. I have to begin
the world."

"Aye, truly; well said!" cried my guardian.

"I will not begin it in the old way now," said Richard with a sad
smile. "I have learned a lesson now, sir. It was a hard one, but you
shall be assured, indeed, that I have learned it."

"Well, well," said my guardian, comforting him; "well, well, well,
dear boy!"

"I was thinking, sir," resumed Richard, "that there is nothing on
earth I should so much like to see as their house--Dame Durden's and
Woodcourt's house. If I could be removed there when I begin to
recover my strength, I feel as if I should get well there sooner than
anywhere."

"Why, so have I been thinking too, Rick," said my guardian, "and our
little woman likewise; she and I have been talking of it this very
day. I dare say her husband won't object. What do you think?"

Richard smiled and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stood behind
the head of the couch.

"I say nothing of Ada," said Richard, "but I think of her, and have
thought of her very much. Look at her! See her here, sir, bending
over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself,
my dear love, my poor girl!"

He clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. He gradually
released her, and she looked upon us, and looked up to heaven, and
moved her lips.

"When I get down to Bleak House," said Richard, "I shall have much to
tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. You will go, won't
you?"

"Undoubtedly, dear Rick."

"Thank you; like you, like you," said Richard. "But it's all like
you. They have been telling me how you planned it and how you
remembered all Esther's familiar tastes and ways. It will be like
coming to the old Bleak House again."

"And you will come there too, I hope, Rick. I am a solitary man now,
you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. A charity to come
to me, my love!" he repeated to Ada as he gently passed his hand over
her golden hair and put a lock of it to his lips. (I think he vowed
within himself to cherish her if she were left alone.)

"It was a troubled dream?" said Richard, clasping both my guardian's
hands eagerly.

"Nothing more, Rick; nothing more."

"And you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and pity
the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?"

"Indeed I can. What am I but another dreamer, Rick?"

"I will begin the world!" said Richard with a light in his eyes.

My husband drew a little nearer towards Ada, and I saw him solemnly
lift up his hand to warn my guardian.

"When shall I go from this place to that pleasant country where the
old times are, where I shall have strength to tell what Ada has been
to me, where I shall be able to recall my many faults and
blindnesses, where I shall prepare myself to be a guide to my unborn
child?" said Richard. "When shall I go?"

"Dear Rick, when you are strong enough," returned my guardian.

"Ada, my darling!"

He sought to raise himself a little. Allan raised him so that she
could hold him on her bosom, which was what he wanted.

"I have done you many wrongs, my own. I have fallen like a poor stray
shadow on your way, I have married you to poverty and trouble, I have
scattered your means to the winds. You will forgive me all this, my
Ada, before I begin the world?"

A smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. He slowly laid
his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck,
and with one parting sob began the world. Not this world, oh, not
this! The world that sets this right.

When all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed Miss Flite came
weeping to me and told me she had given her birds their liberty.




CHAPTER LXVI

Down in Lincolnshire


There is a hush upon Chesney Wold in these altered days, as there is
upon a portion of the family history. The story goes that Sir
Leicester paid some who could have spoken out to hold their peace;
but it is a lame story, feebly whispering and creeping about, and any
brighter spark of life it shows soon dies away. It is known for
certain that the handsome Lady Dedlock lies in the mausoleum in the
park, where the trees arch darkly overhead, and the owl is heard at
night making the woods ring; but whence she was brought home to be
laid among the echoes of that solitary place, or how she died, is all
mystery. Some of her old friends, principally to be found among the
peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats, did once
occasionally say, as they toyed in a ghastly manner with large
fans--like charmers reduced to flirting with grim death, after losing
all their other beaux--did once occasionally say, when the world
assembled together, that they wondered the ashes of the Dedlocks,
entombed in the mausoleum, never rose against the profanation of her
company. But the dead-and-gone Dedlocks take it very calmly and have
never been known to object.

Up from among the fern in the hollow, and winding by the bridle-road
among the trees, comes sometimes to this lonely spot the sound of
horses' hoofs. Then may be seen Sir Leicester--invalided, bent, and
almost blind, but of worthy presence yet--riding with a stalwart man
beside him, constant to his bridle-rein. When they come to a certain
spot before the mausoleum-door, Sir Leicester's accustomed horse
stops of his own accord, and Sir Leicester, pulling off his hat, is
still for a few moments before they ride away.

War rages yet with the audacious Boythorn, though at uncertain
intervals, and now hotly, and now coolly, flickering like an unsteady
fire. The truth is said to be that when Sir Leicester came down to
Lincolnshire for good, Mr. Boythorn showed a manifest desire to
abandon his right of way and do whatever Sir Leicester would, which
Sir Leicester, conceiving to be a condescension to his illness or
misfortune, took in such high dudgeon, and was so magnificently
aggrieved by, that Mr. Boythorn found himself under the necessity of
committing a flagrant trespass to restore his neighbour to himself.
Similarly, Mr. Boythorn continues to post tremendous placards on the
disputed thoroughfare and (with his bird upon his head) to hold forth
vehemently against Sir Leicester in the sanctuary of his own home;
similarly, also, he defies him as of old in the little church by
testifying a bland unconsciousness of his existence. But it is
whispered that when he is most ferocious towards his old foe, he is
really most considerate, and that Sir Leicester, in the dignity of
being implacable, little supposes how much he is humoured. As little
does he think how near together he and his antagonist have suffered
in the fortunes of two sisters, and his antagonist, who knows it now,
is not the man to tell him. So the quarrel goes on to the
satisfaction of both.

In one of the lodges of the park--that lodge within sight of the
house where, once upon a time, when the waters were out down in
Lincolnshire, my Lady used to see the keeper's child--the stalwart
man, the trooper formerly, is housed. Some relics of his old calling
hang upon the walls, and these it is the chosen recreation of a
little lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright. A busy
little man he always is, in the polishing at harness-house doors, of
stirrup-irons, bits, curb-chains, harness bosses, anything in the way
of a stable-yard that will take a polish, leading a life of friction.
A shaggy little damaged man, withal, not unlike an old dog of some
mongrel breed, who has been considerably knocked about. He answers to
the name of Phil.

A goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (harder of
hearing now) going to church on the arm of her son and to
observe--which few do, for the house is scant of company in these
times--the relations of both towards Sir Leicester, and his towards
them. They have visitors in the high summer weather, when a grey
cloak and umbrella, unknown to Chesney Wold at other periods, are
seen among the leaves; when two young ladies are occasionally found
gambolling in sequestered saw-pits and such nooks of the park; and
when the smoke of two pipes wreathes away into the fragrant evening
air from the trooper's door. Then is a fife heard trolling within the
lodge on the inspiring topic of the "British Grenadiers"; and as the
evening closes in, a gruff inflexible voice is heard to say, while
two men pace together up and down, "But I never own to it before the
old girl. Discipline must be maintained."

The greater part of the house is shut up, and it is a show-house no
longer; yet Sir Leicester holds his shrunken state in the long
drawing-room for all that, and reposes in his old place before my
Lady's picture. Closed in by night with broad screens, and illumined
only in that part, the light of the drawing-room seems gradually
contracting and dwindling until it shall be no more. A little more,
in truth, and it will be all extinguished for Sir Leicester; and the
damp door in the mausoleum which shuts so tight, and looks so
obdurate, will have opened and received him.

Volumnia, growing with the flight of time pinker as to the red in her
face, and yellower as to the white, reads to Sir Leicester in the
long evenings and is driven to various artifices to conceal her
yawns, of which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion of
the pearl necklace between her rosy lips. Long-winded treatises on
the Buffy and Boodle question, showing how Buffy is immaculate and
Boodle villainous, and how the country is lost by being all Boodle
and no Buffy, or saved by being all Buffy and no Boodle (it must be
one of the two, and cannot be anything else), are the staple of her
reading. Sir Leicester is not particular what it is and does not
appear to follow it very closely, further than that he always comes
broad awake the moment Volumnia ventures to leave off, and sonorously
repeating her last words, begs with some displeasure to know if she
finds herself fatigued. However, Volumnia, in the course of her
bird-like hopping about and pecking at papers, has alighted on a
memorandum concerning herself in the event of "anything happening" to
her kinsman, which is handsome compensation for an extensive course
of reading and holds even the dragon Boredom at bay.

The cousins generally are rather shy of Chesney Wold in its dullness,
but take to it a little in the shooting season, when guns are heard
in the plantations, and a few scattered beaters and keepers wait at
the old places of appointment for low-spirited twos and threes of
cousins. The debilitated cousin, more debilitated by the dreariness
of the place, gets into a fearful state of depression, groaning under
penitential sofa-pillows in his gunless hours and protesting that
such fernal old jail's--nough t'sew fler up--frever.

The only great occasions for Volumnia in this changed aspect of the
place in Lincolnshire are those occasions, rare and widely separated,
when something is to be done for the county or the country in the way
of gracing a public ball. Then, indeed, does the tuckered sylph come
out in fairy form and proceed with joy under cousinly escort to the
exhausted old assembly-room, fourteen heavy miles off, which, during
three hundred and sixty-four days and nights of every ordinary year,
is a kind of antipodean lumber-room full of old chairs and tables
upside down. Then, indeed, does she captivate all hearts by her
condescension, by her girlish vivacity, and by her skipping about as
in the days when the hideous old general with the mouth too full of
teeth had not cut one of them at two guineas each. Then does she
twirl and twine, a pastoral nymph of good family, through the mazes
of the dance. Then do the swains appear with tea, with lemonade, with
sandwiches, with homage. Then is she kind and cruel, stately and
unassuming, various, beautifully wilful. Then is there a singular
kind of parallel between her and the little glass chandeliers of
another age embellishing that assembly-room, which, with their meagre
stems, their spare little drops, their disappointing knobs where no
drops are, their bare little stalks from which knobs and drops have
both departed, and their little feeble prismatic twinkling, all seem
Volumnias.

For the rest, Lincolnshire life to Volumnia is a vast blank of
overgrown house looking out upon trees, sighing, wringing their
hands, bowing their heads, and casting their tears upon the
window-panes in monotonous depressions. A labyrinth of grandeur, less
the property of an old family of human beings and their ghostly
likenesses than of an old family of echoings and thunderings which
start out of their hundred graves at every sound and go resounding
through the building. A waste of unused passages and staircases in
which to drop a comb upon a bedroom floor at night is to send a
stealthy footfall on an errand through the house. A place where few
people care to go about alone, where a maid screams if an ash drops
from the fire, takes to crying at all times and seasons, becomes the
victim of a low disorder of the spirits, and gives warning and
departs.

Thus Chesney Wold. With so much of itself abandoned to darkness and
vacancy; with so little change under the summer shining or the wintry
lowering; so sombre and motionless always--no flag flying now by day,
no rows of lights sparkling by night; with no family to come and go,
no visitors to be the souls of pale cold shapes of rooms, no stir of
life about it--passion and pride, even to the stranger's eye, have
died away from the place in Lincolnshire and yielded it to dull
repose.




CHAPTER LXVII

The Close of Esther's Narrative


Full seven happy years I have been the mistress of Bleak House. The
few words that I have to add to what I have written are soon penned;
then I and the unknown friend to whom I write will part for ever. Not
without much dear remembrance on my side. Not without some, I hope,
on his or hers.

They gave my darling into my arms, and through many weeks I never
left her. The little child who was to have done so much was born
before the turf was planted on its father's grave. It was a boy; and
I, my husband, and my guardian gave him his father's name.

The help that my dear counted on did come to her, though it came, in
the eternal wisdom, for another purpose. Though to bless and restore
his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby, its power
was mighty to do it. When I saw the strength of the weak little hand
and how its touch could heal my darling's heart and raised hope
within her, I felt a new sense of the goodness and the tenderness of
God.

They throve, and by degrees I saw my dear girl pass into my country
garden and walk there with her infant in her arms. I was married
then. I was the happiest of the happy.

It was at this time that my guardian joined us and asked Ada when she
would come home.

"Both houses are your home, my dear," said he, "but the older Bleak
House claims priority. When you and my boy are strong enough to do
it, come and take possession of your home."

Ada called him "her dearest cousin, John." But he said, no, it must
be guardian now. He was her guardian henceforth, and the boy's; and
he had an old association with the name. So she called him guardian,
and has called him guardian ever since. The children know him by no
other name. I say the children; I have two little daughters.

It is difficult to believe that Charley (round-eyed still, and not at
all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood; yet so
it is; and even now, looking up from my desk as I write early in the
morning at my summer window, I see the very mill beginning to go
round. I hope the miller will not spoil Charley; but he is very fond
of her, and Charley is rather vain of such a match, for he is well to
do and was in great request. So far as my small maid is concerned, I
might suppose time to have stood for seven years as still as the mill
did half an hour ago, since little Emma, Charley's sister, is exactly
what Charley used to be. As to Tom, Charley's brother, I am really
afraid to say what he did at school in ciphering, but I think it was
decimals. He is apprenticed to the miller, whatever it was, and is a
good bashful fellow, always falling in love with somebody and being
ashamed of it.

Caddy Jellyby passed her very last holidays with us and was a dearer
creature than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of the house with
the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson in her life.
Caddy keeps her own little carriage now instead of hiring one, and
lives full two miles further westward than Newman Street. She works
very hard, her husband (an excellent one) being lame and able to do
very little. Still, she is more than contented and does all she has
to do with all her heart. Mr. Jellyby spends his evenings at her new
house with his head against the wall as he used to do in her old one.
I have heard that Mrs. Jellyby was understood to suffer great
mortification from her daughter's ignoble marriage and pursuits, but
I hope she got over it in time. She has been disappointed in
Borrioboola-Gha, which turned out a failure in consequence of the
king of Borrioboola wanting to sell everybody--who survived the
climate--for rum, but she has taken up with the rights of women to
sit in Parliament, and Caddy tells me it is a mission involving more
correspondence than the old one. I had almost forgotten Caddy's poor
little girl. She is not such a mite now, but she is deaf and dumb. I
believe there never was a better mother than Caddy, who learns, in
her scanty intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and dumb arts to
soften the affliction of her child.

As if I were never to have done with Caddy, I am reminded here of
Peepy and old Mr. Turveydrop. Peepy is in the Custom House, and doing
extremely well. Old Mr. Turveydrop, very apoplectic, still exhibits
his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the old manner, is
still believed in in the old way. He is constant in his patronage of
Peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite French
clock in his dressing-room--which is not his property.

With the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty house
by throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardian, which we
inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down to see
us. I try to write all this lightly, because my heart is full in
drawing to an end, but when I write of him, my tears will have their
way.

I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Richard calling him a
good man. To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to me
he is what he has ever been, and what name can I give to that? He is
my husband's best and dearest friend, he is our children's darling,
he is the object of our deepest love and veneration. Yet while I feel
towards him as if he were a superior being, I am so familiar with him
and so easy with him that I almost wonder at myself. I have never
lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nor do I ever, when he is
with us, sit in any other place than in my old chair at his side,
Dame Trot, Dame Durden, Little Woman--all just the same as ever; and
I answer, "Yes, dear guardian!" just the same.

I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment
since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name. I
remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now, and
he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarter on that
very day.

I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrow that
has been in her face--for it is not there now--seems to have purified
even its innocent expression and to have given it a diviner quality.
Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in the black dress that
she still wears, teaching my Richard, I feel--it is difficult to
express--as if it were so good to know that she remembers her dear
Esther in her prayers.

I call him my Richard! But he says that he has two mamas, and I am
one.

We are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and we
have quite enough. I never walk out with my husband but I hear the
people bless him. I never go into a house of any degree but I hear
his praises or see them in grateful eyes. I never lie down at night
but I know that in the course of that day he has alleviated pain and
soothed some fellow-creature in the time of need. I know that from
the beds of those who were past recovery, thanks have often, often
gone up, in the last hour, for his patient ministration. Is not this
to be rich?

The people even praise me as the doctor's wife. The people even like
me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am quite abashed. I
owe it all to him, my love, my pride! They like me for his sake, as I
do everything I do in life for his sake.

A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling and
my guardian and little Richard, who are coming to-morrow, I was
sitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorable porch,
when Allan came home. So he said, "My precious little woman, what are
you doing here?" And I said, "The moon is shining so brightly, Allan,
and the night is so delicious, that I have been sitting here
thinking."

"What have you been thinking about, my dear?" said Allan then.

"How curious you are!" said I. "I am almost ashamed to tell you, but
I will. I have been thinking about my old looks--such as they were."

"And what have you been thinking about THEM, my busy bee?" said
Allan.

"I have been thinking that I thought it was impossible that you COULD
have loved me any better, even if I had retained them."

"'Such as they were'?" said Allan, laughing.

"Such as they were, of course."

"My dear Dame Durden," said Allan, drawing my arm through his, "do
you ever look in the glass?"

"You know I do; you see me do it."

"And don't you know that you are prettier than you ever were?"

"I did not know that; I am not certain that I know it now. But I know
that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling is
very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my
guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was
seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me--even
supposing--."

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was
never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;
backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow
lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste,
something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which
never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these
silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in
the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he
was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the
theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had
an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with
envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and
in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to
Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the
devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune
to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in
the lives of downgoing men. And to such as these, so long as they came
about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative
at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar
catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept
his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that
was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those
whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the
growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt
the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman,
the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what
these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in
common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday
walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail
with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two
men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief
jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but
even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them
uninterrupted.

It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a
by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is
called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. The
inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed and all emulously hoping to
do better still, and laying out the surplus of their grains in
coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an
air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday,
when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of
passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood,
like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters,
well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note,
instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger.

Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line was
broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certain
sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It
was two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower
storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore
in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The
door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered
and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on
the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried
his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had
appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their
ravages.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but
when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and
pointed.

“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had
replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he,
“with a very odd story.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what
was that?”

“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from
some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a black
winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was
literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street and all the
folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession
and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state of mind
when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a
policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was
stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe
eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross
street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the
corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man
trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the
ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn’t
like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a few halloa,
took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where
there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was
perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly
that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had
turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for
whom she had been sent put in his appearance. Well, the child was not
much the worse, more frightened, according to the sawbones; and there
you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one
curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first
sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the
doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry
apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh
accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the
rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that sawbones
turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his
mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the
question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make
such a scandal out of this as should make his name stink from one end
of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we
undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were
pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we
could for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such
hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of
black sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying
it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of
this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but
wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed
him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have
clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us
that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get
the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with
the door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the
matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s,
drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention,
though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least
very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the
signature was good for more than that if it was only genuine. I took
the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business
looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a
cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man’s
cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and
sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till
the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off, the
doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed
the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had
breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself,
and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of
it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For
my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really
damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of
the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your
fellows who do what they call good. Blackmail, I suppose; an honest man
paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail
House is what I call the place with the door, in consequence. Though
even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with
the words fell into a vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And
you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have
noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

“No, sir; I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about
putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of
judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit
quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;
and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of)
is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to
change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks
like Queer Street, the less I ask.”

“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It
seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or
out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my
adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first
floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And
then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must
live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed
together about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and
another begins.”

The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then “Enfield,”
said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”

“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to
ask. I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a
man of the name of Hyde.”

“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his
appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I
never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be
deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I
couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet
I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand
of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare
I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a
weight of consideration. “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at
last.

“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact
is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I
know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have
been inexact in any point you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of
sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The
fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it
not a week ago.”

Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man
presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I
am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to
this again.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”



SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre
spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It was his custom of a
Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of
some dry divinity on his reading desk, until the clock of the
neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go
soberly and gratefully to bed. On this night however, as soon as the
cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his business
room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a
document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll’s Will and sat down
with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was holograph, for
Mr. Utterson though he took charge of it now that it was made, had
refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided
not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L.,
L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands
of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of Dr.
Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding
three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said
Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further delay and free from any burthen or
obligation beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the
doctor’s household. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore.
It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and
customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. And
hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled his
indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was
already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he could learn
no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable
attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so
long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment
of a fiend.

“I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper
in the safe, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.”

With that he blew out his candle, put on a greatcoat, and set forth in
the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his
friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding
patients. “If anyone knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought.

The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; he was subjected to no stage
of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr.
Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper,
red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a
boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up
from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The geniality, as was
the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed
on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at
school and college, both thorough respectors of themselves and of each
other, and what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each
other’s company.

After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so
disagreeably preoccupied his mind.

“I suppose, Lanyon,” said he, “you and I must be the two oldest friends
that Henry Jekyll has?”

“I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. Lanyon. “But I suppose
we are. And what of that? I see little of him now.”

“Indeed?” said Utterson. “I thought you had a bond of common interest.”

“We had,” was the reply. “But it is more than ten years since Henry
Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind;
and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old
sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the
man. Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly
purple, “would have estranged Damon and Pythias.”

This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson.
“They have only differed on some point of science,” he thought; and
being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of
conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave
his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached
the question he had come to put. “Did you ever come across a _protégé_
of his—one Hyde?” he asked.

“Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.”

That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with
him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the
small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of
little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged
by questions.

Six o’clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently
near to Mr. Utterson’s dwelling, and still he was digging at the
problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone;
but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he
lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained
room, Mr. Enfield’s tale went by before his mind in a scroll of lighted
pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal
city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child
running from the doctor’s; and then these met, and that human
Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams.
Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay
asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that
room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the
sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to
whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do
its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all
night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide
more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and
still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of
lamplighted city, and at every street corner crush a child and leave
her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know
it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and
melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew
apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate,
curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but
once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps
roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well
examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or
bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of
the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man
who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to
raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of
enduring hatred.

From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the
by-street of shops. In the morning before office hours, at noon when
business was plenty and time scarce, at night under the face of the
fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or
concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post.

“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”

And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine dry night; frost
in the air; the streets as clean as a ballroom floor; the lamps,
unshaken by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow. By
ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very
solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very
silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses
were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of
the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson
had been some minutes at his post, when he was aware of an odd light
footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrols, he had
long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of
a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out
distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention
had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was
with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into
the entry of the court.

The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they
turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry,
could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He was small and
very plainly dressed and the look of him, even at that distance, went
somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. But he made
straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he
came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching home.

Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed.
“Mr. Hyde, I think?”

Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. But his fear
was only momentary; and though he did not look the lawyer in the face,
he answered coolly enough: “That is my name. What do you want?”

“I see you are going in,” returned the lawyer. “I am an old friend of
Dr. Jekyll’s—Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street—you must have heard of my
name; and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me.”

“You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home,” replied Mr. Hyde,
blowing in the key. And then suddenly, but still without looking up,
“How did you know me?” he asked.

“On your side,” said Mr. Utterson “will you do me a favour?”

“With pleasure,” replied the other. “What shall it be?”

“Will you let me see your face?” asked the lawyer.

Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden
reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the pair stared
at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. “Now I shall know you
again,” said Mr. Utterson. “It may be useful.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Hyde, “It is as well we have met; and _à propos_,
you should have my address.” And he gave a number of a street in Soho.

“Good God!” thought Mr. Utterson, “can he, too, have been thinking of
the will?” But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted in
acknowledgment of the address.

“And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?”

“By description,” was the reply.

“Whose description?”

“We have common friends,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Common friends,” echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. “Who are they?”

“Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer.

“He never told you,” cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. “I did not
think you would have lied.”

“Come,” said Mr. Utterson, “that is not fitting language.”

The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with
extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into
the house.

The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of
disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every
step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental
perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a
class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an
impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a
displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of
murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky,
whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against
him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown
disgust, loathing and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him. “There
must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. “There _is_
something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man
seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say? or can it be
the old story of Dr. Fell? or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul
that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The
last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s
signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend.”

Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient,
handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their high estate
and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men;
map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers and the agents of obscure
enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still
occupied entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of
wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in darkness except for
the fanlight, Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly
servant opened the door.

“Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?” asked the lawyer.

“I will see, Mr. Utterson,” said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he
spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall paved with flags,
warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright, open fire,
and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. “Will you wait here by the
fire, sir? or shall I give you a light in the dining-room?”

“Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the
tall fender. This hall, in which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy
of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of
it as the pleasantest room in London. But tonight there was a shudder
in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what
was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of
his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the
firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the
shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently
returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out.

“I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting room, Poole,” he said. “Is
that right, when Dr. Jekyll is from home?”

“Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir,” replied the servant. “Mr. Hyde has a
key.”

“Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man,
Poole,” resumed the other musingly.

“Yes, sir, he does indeed,” said Poole. “We have all orders to obey
him.”

“I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?” asked Utterson.

“O, dear no, sir. He never _dines_ here,” replied the butler. “Indeed
we see very little of him on this side of the house; he mostly comes
and goes by the laboratory.”

“Well, good-night, Poole.”

“Good-night, Mr. Utterson.”

And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry
Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was
wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of
God, there is no statute of limitations. Ay, it must be that; the ghost
of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment
coming, _pede claudo_, years after memory has forgotten and self-love
condoned the fault.” And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded
awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, least by
chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light
there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of
their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by
the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and
fearful gratitude by the many he had come so near to doing yet avoided.
And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of
hope. “This Master Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he, “must have
secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look of him; secrets compared
to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine. Things cannot
continue as they are. It turns me cold to think of this creature
stealing like a thief to Harry’s bedside; poor Harry, what a wakening!
And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the existence of the
will, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ay, I must put my shoulders to
the wheel—if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only
let me.” For once more he saw before his mind’s eye, as clear as
transparency, the strange clauses of the will.



DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE

A fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of
his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent,
reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so
contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This
was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of
times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to
detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and loose-tongued had
already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his
unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in
the man’s rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this
rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite
side of the fire—a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with
something of a stylish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and
kindness—you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson
a sincere and warm affection.

“I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll,” began the latter. “You
know that will of yours?”

A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful;
but the doctor carried it off gaily. “My poor Utterson,” said he, “you
are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as
you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at
what he called my scientific heresies. O, I know he’s a good fellow—you
needn’t frown—an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of
him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant.
I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon.”

“You know I never approved of it,” pursued Utterson, ruthlessly
disregarding the fresh topic.

“My will? Yes, certainly, I know that,” said the doctor, a trifle
sharply. “You have told me so.”

“Well, I tell you so again,” continued the lawyer. “I have been
learning something of young Hyde.”

The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and
there came a blackness about his eyes. “I do not care to hear more,”
said he. “This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop.”

“What I heard was abominable,” said Utterson.

“It can make no change. You do not understand my position,” returned
the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. “I am painfully
situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange—a very strange one.
It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking.”

“Jekyll,” said Utterson, “you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a
clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you
out of it.”

“My good Utterson,” said the doctor, “this is very good of you, this is
downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I
believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before
myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn’t what you fancy;
it is not as bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I
will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde.
I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I
will just add one little word, Utterson, that I’m sure you’ll take in
good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep.”

Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire.

“I have no doubt you are perfectly right,” he said at last, getting to
his feet.

“Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last
time I hope,” continued the doctor, “there is one point I should like
you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I
know you have seen him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But I do
sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if
I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear
with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew
all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise.”

“I can’t pretend that I shall ever like him,” said the lawyer.

“I don’t ask that,” pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other’s
arm; “I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake,
when I am no longer here.”

Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. “Well,” said he, “I promise.”



THE CAREW MURDER CASE

Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18—, London was startled
by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by
the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A
maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone
upstairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in
the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the
lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the
full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon
her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a
dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she
narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all
men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became
aware of an aged beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near
along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small
gentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. When they had come
within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) the older man
bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness.
It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great
importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he
were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he
spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such
an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something
high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered
to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr.
Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a
dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling;
but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an
ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a
great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and
carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman
took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle
hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to
the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his
victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the
bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At
the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted.

It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police.
The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle
of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been
done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had
broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and
one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter—the other,
without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and gold
watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a
sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the
post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.

This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of
bed; and he had no sooner seen it and been told the circumstances, than
he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say nothing till I have seen the
body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait
while I dress.” And with the same grave countenance he hurried through
his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had
been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded.

“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir
Danvers Carew.”

“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” And the next
moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition. “This will make a
deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us to the man.” And
he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken
stick.

Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the
stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and
battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself
presented many years before to Henry Jekyll.

“Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired.

“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid
calls him,” said the officer.

Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come
with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.”

It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the
season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the
wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so
that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a
marvelous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be
dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich,
lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here,
for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of
daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal
quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy
ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been
extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful
reinvasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district
of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of
the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive,
he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law’s
officers, which may at times assail the most honest.

As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a
little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating
house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny salads, many
ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of many
different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning
glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part,
as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings.
This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to
a quarter of a million sterling.

An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an
evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy: but her manners were excellent. Yes,
she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had been in
that night very late, but he had gone away again in less than an hour;
there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and
he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she
had seen him till yesterday.

“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when
the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you
who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland
Yard.”

A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. “Ah!” said she,
“he is in trouble! What has he done?”

Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t seem a very
popular character,” observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, just
let me and this gentleman have a look about us.”

In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained
otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these
were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with
wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung
upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who
was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and
agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark
of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the
floor, with their pockets inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and
on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had
been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt end
of a green cheque book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the
other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched
his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the
bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the
murderer’s credit, completed his gratification.

“You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my
hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick
or, above all, burned the cheque book. Why, money’s life to the man. We
have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the
handbills.”

This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had
numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant maid had only
seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been
photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as
common observers will. Only on one point were they agreed; and that was
the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive
impressed his beholders.



INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr.
Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down
by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden,
to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or
dissecting rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a
celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than
anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of
the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in
that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless
structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of
strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students
and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical
apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing
straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the
further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red
baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the
doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room fitted round with glass presses,
furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business
table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred
with iron. The fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the
chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and
there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deathly sick. He
did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him
welcome in a changed voice.

“And now,” said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have
heard the news?”

The doctor shuddered. “They were crying it in the square,” he said. “I
heard them in my dining-room.”

“One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and
I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide
this fellow?”

“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will
never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done
with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not
want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite
safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.”

The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish
manner. “You seem pretty sure of him,” said he; “and for your sake, I
hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear.”

“I am quite sure of him,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty
that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you
may advise me. I have—I have received a letter; and I am at a loss
whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in
your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so
great a trust in you.”

“You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?” asked the
lawyer.

“No,” said the other. “I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I
am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this
hateful business has rather exposed.”

Utterson ruminated awhile; he was surprised at his friend’s
selfishness, and yet relieved by it. “Well,” said he, at last, “let me
see the letter.”

The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward
Hyde”: and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor,
Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand
generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had
means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked
this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he
had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.

“Have you the envelope?” he asked.

“I burned it,” replied Jekyll, “before I thought what I was about. But
it bore no postmark. The note was handed in.”

“Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?” asked Utterson.

“I wish you to judge for me entirely,” was the reply. “I have lost
confidence in myself.”

“Well, I shall consider,” returned the lawyer. “And now one word more:
it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that
disappearance?”

The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness; he shut his mouth
tight and nodded.

“I knew it,” said Utterson. “He meant to murder you. You had a fine
escape.”

“I have had what is far more to the purpose,” returned the doctor
solemnly: “I have had a lesson—O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have
had!” And he covered his face for a moment with his hands.

On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole.
“By the bye,” said he, “there was a letter handed in to-day: what was
the messenger like?” But Poole was positive nothing had come except by
post; “and only circulars by that,” he added.

This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the
letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been
written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently
judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went,
were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: “Special edition.
Shocking murder of an M.P.” That was the funeral oration of one friend
and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good
name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It
was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and
self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for
advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it
might be fished for.

Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest,
his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely
calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine
that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog
still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps
glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these
fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in
through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the
room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago
resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, as the colour grows
richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on
hillside vineyards, was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs
of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he
kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he
kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the
doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr.
Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it
not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery
to right? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic
of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The
clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he could scarce read so strange a
document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson
might shape his future course.

“This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,” he said.

“Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,”
returned Guest. “The man, of course, was mad.”

“I should like to hear your views on that,” replied Utterson. “I have a
document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce
know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there
it is; quite in your way: a murderer’s autograph.”

Guest’s eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with
passion. “No sir,” he said: “not mad; but it is an odd hand.”

“And by all accounts a very odd writer,” added the lawyer.

Just then the servant entered with a note.

“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I thought I knew
the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?”

“Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?”

“One moment. I thank you, sir;” and the clerk laid the two sheets of
paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. “Thank you,
sir,” he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very interesting
autograph.”

There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself.
“Why did you compare them, Guest?” he inquired suddenly.

“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular
resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only
differently sloped.”

“Rather quaint,” said Utterson.

“It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest.

“I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master.

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.”

But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night, than he locked the
note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. “What!” he
thought. “Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” And his blood ran cold in
his veins.



INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death
of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had
disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never
existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable:
tales came out of the man’s cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of
his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to
have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a
whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of
the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on,
Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to
grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his
way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde.
Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for
Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his
friends, became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and
whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less
distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air,
he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward
consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was
at peace.

On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor’s with a small
party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from
one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable
friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against
the lawyer. “The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and
saw no one.” On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and
having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost
daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The
fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook
himself to Dr. Lanyon’s.

There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he
was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor’s
appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The
rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly
balder and older; and yet it was not so much these tokens of a swift
physical decay that arrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye
and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror
of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet
that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. “Yes,” he thought; “he
is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted;
and the knowledge is more than he can bear.” And yet when Utterson
remarked on his ill looks, it was with an air of great firmness that
Lanyon declared himself a doomed man.

“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a
question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir,
I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more
glad to get away.”

“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?”

But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to
see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice.
“I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any
allusion to one whom I regard as dead.”

“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause,
“Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three very old friends,
Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.”

“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.”

“He will not see me,” said the lawyer.

“I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after
I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I
cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me
of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep
clear of this accursed topic, then in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear
it.”

As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll,
complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of
this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long
answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious
in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. “I do not blame our
old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share his view that we must never
meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you
must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is
often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I
have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If
I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could
not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors
so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this
destiny, and that is to respect my silence.” Utterson was amazed; the
dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to
his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with
every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment,
friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were
wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in
view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper
ground.

A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less
than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he
had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room,
and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set
before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal
of his dead friend. “PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE,
and in case of his predecease _to be destroyed unread_,” so it was
emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the
contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this
should cost me another?” And then he condemned the fear as a
disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure,
likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till
the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not
trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad
will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the
idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketted. But in
the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man
Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible.
Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity
came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to
the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his
dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the
inmost corner of his private safe.

It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may
be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his
surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but
his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but
he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart,
he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by
the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into
that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its
inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to
communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined
himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes
even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not
read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so
used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off
little by little in the frequency of his visits.



INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr.
Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that
when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.

“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never
see more of Mr. Hyde.”

“I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him,
and shared your feeling of repulsion?”

“It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield.
“And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that
this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was partly your own fault that
I found it out, even when I did.”

“So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “But if that be so, we
may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the
truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if
the presence of a friend might do him good.”

The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature
twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with
sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and
sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of
mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.

“What! Jekyll!” he cried. “I trust you are better.”

“I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor drearily, “very low. It
will not last long, thank God.”

“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out,
whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my
cousin—Mr. Enfield—Dr. Jekyll.) Come now; get your hat and take a quick
turn with us.”

“You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but
no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I
am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask
you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”

“Why, then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can do
is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.”

“That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the
doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the
smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of such
abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen
below. They saw it but for a glimpse for the window was instantly
thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and
left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the
by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring
thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings
of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion.
They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes.

“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson.

But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously, and walked on once
more in silence.



THE LAST NIGHT

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when
he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.

“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a
second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”

“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”

“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer.
“Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.”

“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts
himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like
it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid
of?”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly
disregarding the question, “and I can bear it no more.”

The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered
for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced
his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he
sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed
to a corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated.

“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see
there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”

“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely.

“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather
inclined to be irritated in consequence. “What foul play! What does the
man mean?”

“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me
and see for yourself?”

Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and greatcoat;
but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared
upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was
still untasted when he set it down to follow.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying
on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and flying wrack of the
most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and
flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets
unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had
never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it
otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish
to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there
was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The
square, when they got there, was full of wind and dust, and the thin
trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole,
who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the
middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off
his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all
the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he
wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face
was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing
wrong.”

“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.

Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was
opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you,
Poole?”

“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”

The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was
built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and
women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of
Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the
cook, crying out “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to
take him in her arms.

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very
irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.”

“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.

Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted her
voice and now wept loudly.

“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that
testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so
suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and
turned towards the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And
now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a
candle, and we’ll get this through hands at once.” And then he begged
Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to
hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any
chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.”

Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk
that nearly threw him from his balance; but he recollected his courage
and followed the butler into the laboratory building through the
surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of
the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen;
while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and
obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a
somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.

“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did
so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear.

A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see anyone,” it said
complainingly.

“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in
his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across
the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the
beetles were leaping on the floor.

“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “Was that my master’s
voice?”

“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look
for look.

“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty
years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir;
master’s made away with; he was made away with eight days ago, when we
heard him cry out upon the name of God; and _who’s_ in there instead of
him, and _why_ it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr.
Utterson!”

“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale my
man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you
suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered what could
induce the murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend
itself to reason.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it
yet,” said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it,
whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and
day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was
sometimes his way—the master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet
of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week
back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left
there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day,
ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and
complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists
in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another
paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another
order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir,
whatever for.”

“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the
lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents
ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He
assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his
present purpose. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large
quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with most sedulous
care, and should any of the same quality be left, forward it to him at
once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can
hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run composedly enough,
but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had
broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he added, “find me some of the old.”

“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do
you come to have it open?”

“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like
so much dirt,” returned Poole.

“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the
lawyer.

“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and
then, with another voice, “But what matters hand of write?” he said.
“I’ve seen him!”

“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”

“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the
theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this
drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was
at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when
I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet.
It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my
head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon
his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run
from me? I have served him long enough. And then...” The man paused and
passed his hand over his face.

“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I
think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized
with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer;
hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask
and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this
drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate
recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it
is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain
and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant
alarms.”

“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that
thing was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master”—here he
looked round him and began to whisper—“is a tall, fine build of a man,
and this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,”
cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years?
Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door,
where I saw him every morning of my life? No, sir, that thing in the
mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr.
Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.”

“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty
to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much
as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still
alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”

“Ah, Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.

“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to
do it?”

“Why, you and me, sir,” was the undaunted reply.

“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of
it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.”

“There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take
the kitchen poker for yourself.”

The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and
balanced it. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I
are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?”

“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.

“It is well, then that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both
think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked
figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”

“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that
I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it
Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same
bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who
else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot,
sir, that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? But
that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if you ever met this Mr.
Hyde?”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”

“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something
queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t
know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt in your
marrow kind of cold and thin.”

“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a
monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it
went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson;
I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I
give you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I
fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. Ay truly, I
believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer
(for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s
room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”

The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous.

“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I
know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make
an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the
cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the
blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any
malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round
the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the
laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.”

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let
us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the
way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now
quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that
deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about
their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where
they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but
nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a
footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor.

“So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better
part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist,
there’s a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an
enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it!
But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr.
Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?”

The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they
went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread
of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he
asked.

Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!”

“Weeping? how that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of
horror.

“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away
with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.”

But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from
under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest
table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath
to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in
the quiet of the night.

“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He
paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our
suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if
not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your consent, then by brute
force!”

“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with
the door, Poole!”

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and
the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal
screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the
axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four
times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of
excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock
burst and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.

The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had
succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet
before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and
chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer
or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer
the fire, the things laid out for tea; the quietest room, you would
have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most
commonplace that night in London.

Right in the middle there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and
still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on its back and
beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large
for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still
moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the
crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung
upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a
self-destroyer.

“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish.
Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the
body of your master.”

The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre,
which filled almost the whole ground storey and was lighted from above,
and by the cabinet, which formed an upper storey at one end and looked
upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the
by-street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a
second flight of stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a
spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet
needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell
from their doors, had stood long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was
filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the surgeon
who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even as they opened the door they
were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a
perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance.
Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.

Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. “He must be buried here,”
he said, hearkening to the sound.

“Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door
in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they
found the key, already stained with rust.

“This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer.

“Use!” echoed Poole. “Do you not see, sir, it is broken? much as if a
man had stamped on it.”

“Ay,” continued Utterson, “and the fractures, too, are rusty.” The two
men looked at each other with a scare. “This is beyond me, Poole,” said
the lawyer. “Let us go back to the cabinet.”

They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional
awestruck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine
the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of
chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on
glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had
been prevented.

“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and
even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over.

This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn
cosily up, and the tea things stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the
very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay
beside the tea things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy
of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great
esteem, annotated, in his own hand with startling blasphemies.

Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came
to the cheval-glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary
horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow
playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along
the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful
countenances stooping to look in.

“This glass has seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole.

“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same
tones. “For what did Jekyll”—he caught himself up at the word with a
start, and then conquering the weakness—“what could Jekyll want with
it?” he said.

“You may say that!” said Poole.

Next they turned to the business table. On the desk, among the neat
array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the
doctor’s hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and
several enclosures fell to the floor. The first was a will, drawn in
the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months
before, to serve as a testament in case of death and as a deed of gift
in case of disappearance; but in place of the name of Edward Hyde, the
lawyer, with indescribable amazement read the name of Gabriel John
Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at the paper, and last of
all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet.

“My head goes round,” he said. “He has been all these days in
possession; he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see
himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.”

He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand
and dated at the top. “O Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and
here this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space; he
must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and how?
and in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? O, we must be
careful. I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire
catastrophe.”

“Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole.

“Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. “God grant I have no
cause for it!” And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read
as follows:


“My dear Utterson,—When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have
disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to
foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless
situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then, and
first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your
hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of

“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,

“HENRY JEKYLL.”


“There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson.

“Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet
sealed in several places.

The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing of this paper. If
your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his credit. It is
now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall
be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.”

They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and
Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered about the fire in the
hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in which
this mystery was now to be explained.



DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

On the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening
delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague
and old school companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by
this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had
seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could
imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of
registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the
letter ran:

“10_th December_, 18—.


“Dear Lanyon,—You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may
have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at
least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day
when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason,
depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you.
Lanyon my life, my honour, my reason, are all at your mercy; if you
fail me to-night, I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface,
that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge
for yourself.

“I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night—ay, even if
you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless
your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in
your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my
butler, has his orders; you will find him waiting your arrival with a
locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced; and you are to
go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand,
breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, _with all its
contents as they stand_, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is
the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of
mind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in
error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a
phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you
to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands.

“That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should
be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before
midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the
fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor
foreseen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be
preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to
ask you to be alone in your consulting room, to admit with your own
hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to
place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from
my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude
completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation,
you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital
importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they
must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or
the shipwreck of my reason.

“Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart
sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility.
Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a
blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware
that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away
like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon and save

“Your friend,


“H.J.


“P.S.—I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my
soul. It is possible that the post-office may fail me, and this letter
not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear
Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the
course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It
may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event,
you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll.”


Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane;
but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound
to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less
I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded
could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose
accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to
Jekyll’s house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by
the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent
at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we
were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman’s surgical
theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll’s private
cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the
lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and
have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was
near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hour’s
work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took
out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and
returned with it to Cavendish Square.

Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly
enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so
that it was plain they were of Jekyll’s private manufacture; and when I
opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple
crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned
my attention, might have been about half full of a blood-red liquor,
which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to
contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I
could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version book and
contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many
years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and
quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date,
usually no more than a single word: “double” occurring perhaps six
times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the
list and followed by several marks of exclamation, “total failure!!!”
All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was
definite. Here were a phial of some salt, and the record of a series of
experiments that had led (like too many of Jekyll’s investigations) to
no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these
articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life
of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why
could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was
this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the
more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral
disease; and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old
revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defence.

Twelve o’clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded
very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a
small man crouching against the pillars of the portico.

“Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?” I asked.

He told me “yes” by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him
enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the
darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing
with his bull’s eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor
started and made greater haste.

These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed
him into the bright light of the consulting room, I kept my hand ready
on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance of clearly seeing him. I
had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as
I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his
face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and
great apparent debility of constitution, and—last but not least—with
the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore
some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked
sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic,
personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the
symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much
deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the
principle of hatred.

This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance,
struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was
dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable;
his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober
fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement—the
trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the
ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar
sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous
accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was
something abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the creature
that now faced me—something seizing, surprising and revolting—this
fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that
to my interest in the man’s nature and character, there was added a
curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the
world.

These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set
down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on
fire with sombre excitement.

“Have you got it?” he cried. “Have you got it?” And so lively was his
impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake
me.

I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my
blood. “Come, sir,” said I. “You forget that I have not yet the
pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please.” And I showed
him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as
fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness
of the hour, the nature of my preoccupations, and the horror I had of
my visitor, would suffer me to muster.

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon,” he replied civilly enough. “What you
say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my
politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry
Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I understood...” He
paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his
collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the
hysteria—“I understood, a drawer...”

But here I took pity on my visitor’s suspense, and some perhaps on my
own growing curiosity.

“There it is, sir,” said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the
floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet.

He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart; I
could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and
his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life
and reason.

“Compose yourself,” said I.

He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of
despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered
one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next
moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, “Have
you a graduated glass?” he asked.

I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he
asked.

He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red
tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first
of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to
brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes
of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and
the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to
a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a
keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned
and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny.

“And now,” said he, “to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you
be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go
forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of
curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it
shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you
were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service
rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches
of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of
knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you,
here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted
by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan.”

“Sir,” said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly
possessing, “you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I
hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too
far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end.”

“It is well,” replied my visitor. “Lanyon, you remember your vows: what
follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so
long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have
denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your
superiors—behold!”

He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he
reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with
injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I
thought, a change—he seemed to swell—his face became suddenly black and
the features seemed to melt and alter—and the next moment, I had sprung
to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arms raised to shield
me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror.

“O God!” I screamed, and “O God!” again and again; for there before my
eyes—pale and shaken, and half fainting, and groping before him with
his hands, like a man restored from death—there stood Henry Jekyll!

What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on
paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at
it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if
I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots;
sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the
day and night; and I feel that my days are numbered, and that I must
die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that
man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in
memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one
thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it)
will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that
night was, on Jekyll’s own confession, known by the name of Hyde and
hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew.

HASTIE LANYON.




HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

I was born in the year 18— to a large fortune, endowed besides with
excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of
the wise and good among my fellowmen, and thus, as might have been
supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished
future. And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient
gaiety of disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but such
as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my
head high, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance before the
public. Hence it came about that I concealed my pleasures; and that
when I reached years of reflection, and began to look round me and take
stock of my progress and position in the world, I stood already
committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would have even
blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high
views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost
morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my
aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me
what I was, and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men,
severed in me those provinces of good and ill which divide and compound
man’s dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and
inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of
religion and is one of the most plentiful springs of distress. Though
so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides
of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside
restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of
day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and
suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies,
which led wholly towards the mystic and the transcendental, reacted and
shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war among my
members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the
moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth,
by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful
shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because
the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others
will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard
the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of
multifarious, incongruous and independent denizens. I, for my part,
from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and in
one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person,
that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man;
I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my
consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was
only because I was radically both; and from an early date, even before
the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most
naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with
pleasure, as a beloved daydream, on the thought of the separation of
these elements. If each, I told myself, could be housed in separate
identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the
unjust might go his way, delivered from the aspirations and remorse of
his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely
on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his
pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands
of this extraneous evil. It was the curse of mankind that these
incongruous faggots were thus bound together—that in the agonised womb
of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling.
How, then were they dissociated?

I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side light began
to shine upon the subject from the laboratory table. I began to
perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling
immateriality, the mistlike transience, of this seemingly so solid body
in which we walk attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to
shake and pluck back that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss
the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not enter
deeply into this scientific branch of my confession. First, because I
have been made to learn that the doom and burthen of our life is bound
for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it
off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful
pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too
evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough then, that I not only
recognised my natural body from the mere aura and effulgence of certain
of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by
which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a
second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me
because they were the expression, and bore the stamp of lower elements
in my soul.

I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I
knew well that I risked death; for any drug that so potently controlled
and shook the very fortress of identity, might, by the least scruple of
an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition,
utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to
change. But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound at
last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my
tincture; I purchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a
large quantity of a particular salt which I knew, from my experiments,
to be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed night, I
compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke together in the
glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of
courage, drank off the potion.

The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly
nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour
of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I
came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something
strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its
very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in
body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of
disordered sensual images running like a millrace in my fancy, a
solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent
freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new
life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my
original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me
like wine. I stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these
sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in
stature.

There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside
me as I write, was brought there later on and for the very purpose of
these transformations. The night however, was far gone into the
morning—the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the
conception of the day—the inmates of my house were locked in the most
rigorous hours of slumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope
and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I
crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I
could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that
their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through
the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw
for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.

I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but
that which I suppose to be most probable. The evil side of my nature,
to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust
and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in
the course of my life, which had been, after all, nine tenths a life of
effort, virtue and control, it had been much less exercised and much
less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde
was so much smaller, slighter and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as
good shone upon the countenance of the one, evil was written broadly
and plainly on the face of the other. Evil besides (which I must still
believe to be the lethal side of man) had left on that body an imprint
of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in
the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of
welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes
it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and
single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto
accustomed to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have
observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come
near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as
I take it, was because all human beings, as we meet them, are
commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of
mankind, was pure evil.

I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive
experiment had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had
lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a
house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once
more prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of
dissolution, and came to myself once more with the character, the
stature and the face of Henry Jekyll.

That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my
discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while
under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been
otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth
an angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it
was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the
prisonhouse of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that
which stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my
evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift to seize the
occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence,
although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was
wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that
incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already
learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly toward the worse.

Even at that time, I had not conquered my aversions to the dryness of a
life of study. I would still be merrily disposed at times; and as my
pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only well
known and highly considered, but growing towards the elderly man, this
incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this
side that my new power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had but to
drink the cup, to doff at once the body of the noted professor, and to
assume, like a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the
notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humourous; and I made my
preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished that
house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked by the police; and engaged as
a housekeeper a creature whom I knew well to be silent and
unscrupulous. On the other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr.
Hyde (whom I described) was to have full liberty and power about my
house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made
myself a familiar object, in my second character. I next drew up that
will to which you so much objected; so that if anything befell me in
the person of Dr. Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde without
pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I
began to profit by the strange immunities of my position.

Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own
person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did
so for his pleasures. I was the first that could plod in the public eye
with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a
schoolboy, strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of
liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was
complete. Think of it—I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my
laboratory door, give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the
draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done,
Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror; and
there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight lamp in his
study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Henry
Jekyll.

The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have
said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands
of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I
would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind
of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of
my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being
inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centered on
self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture
to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times
aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from
ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was
Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse;
he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even
make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And
thus his conscience slumbered.

Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now I
can scarce grant that I committed it) I have no design of entering; I
mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with which
my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it
brought on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of
cruelty to a child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I
recognised the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and
the child’s family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my
life; and at last, in order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward
Hyde had to bring them to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in
the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily eliminated from
the future, by opening an account at another bank in the name of Edward
Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied
my double with a signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate.

Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out for
one of my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and woke the next
day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I looked about
me; in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room
in the square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the bed
curtains and the design of the mahogany frame; something still kept
insisting that I was not where I was, that I had not wakened where I
seemed to be, but in the little room in Soho where I was accustomed to
sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself, and in my
psychological way, began lazily to inquire into the elements of this
illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping back into a
comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my
more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry
Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size;
it was large, firm, white and comely. But the hand which I now saw,
clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half
shut on the bedclothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor
and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of
Edward Hyde.

I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the
mere stupidity of wonder, before terror woke up in my breast as sudden
and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed I
rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was
changed into something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed
Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained?
I asked myself; and then, with another bound of terror—how was it to be
remedied? It was well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my
drugs were in the cabinet—a long journey down two pairs of stairs,
through the back passage, across the open court and through the
anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing horror-struck. It
might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that,
when I was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then
with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my mind
that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my
second self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of
my own size: had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared
and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such a strange
array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape
and was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to make a feint of
breakfasting.

Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal
of my previous experience, seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the
wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to
reflect more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities
of my double existence. That part of me which I had the power of
projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished; it had seemed
to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature,
as though (when I wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous
tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger that, if this were much
prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently overthrown,
the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character of Edward
Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been always
equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed
me; since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double,
and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these
rare uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment.
Now, however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led to
remark that whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw
off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually but decidedly
transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to
point to this; that I was slowly losing hold of my original and better
self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my second and worse.

Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had
memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared
between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive
apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the
pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll,
or but remembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in
which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father’s
interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot
with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly
indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was
to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a
blow and forever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear
unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for
while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde
would be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my
circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace
as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any
tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with
so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was
found wanting in the strength to keep to it.

Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by
friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to
the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses
and secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I
made this choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I
neither gave up the house in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward
Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months, however, I
was true to my determination; for two months, I led a life of such
severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed the
compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at last to
obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience began
to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and
longings, as of Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour
of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the
transforming draught.

I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his
vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that
he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I,
long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the
complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which
were the leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I
was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was
conscious, even when I took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more
furious propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose, that
stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience with which I listened to
the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at least, before God,
no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so
pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit
than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had
voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which
even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness
among temptations; and in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was
to fall.

Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport of
glee, I mauled the unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow;
and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I was
suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a
cold thrill of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit;
and fled from the scene of these excesses, at once glorying and
trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life
screwed to the topmost peg. I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make
assurance doubly sure) destroyed my papers; thence I set out through
the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of mind, gloating on
my crime, light-headedly devising others in the future, and yet still
hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger.
Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as he
drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation had not
done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of
gratitude and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped
hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot. I
saw my life as a whole: I followed it up from the days of childhood,
when I had walked with my father’s hand, and through the self-denying
toils of my professional life, to arrive again and again, with the same
sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of the evening. I could have
screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to smother down the
crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmed against
me; and still, between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity
stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this remorse began to die
away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was
solved. Hyde was thenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was
now confined to the better part of my existence; and O, how I rejoiced
to think of it! with what willing humility I embraced anew the
restrictions of natural life! with what sincere renunciation I locked
the door by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key
under my heel!

The next day, came the news that the murder had not been overlooked,
that the guilt of Hyde was patent to the world, and that the victim was
a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a
tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have
my better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the
scaffold. Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an
instant, and the hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him.

I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with
honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good. You know yourself
how earnestly, in the last months of the last year, I laboured to
relieve suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the
days passed quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say
that I wearied of this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead
that I daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with my
duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the
lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began to
growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare
idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it was in my own person
that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was
as an ordinary secret sinner that I at last fell before the assaults of
temptation.

There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled
at last; and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the
balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural,
like a return to the old days before I had made my discovery. It was a
fine, clear, January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted,
but cloudless overhead; and the Regent’s Park was full of winter
chirrupings and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench;
the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a
little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to
begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I
smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active good-will
with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that
vainglorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the
most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then
as in its turn faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in
the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a
solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung
formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was
corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had
been safe of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved—the cloth laying for
me in the dining-room at home; and now I was the common quarry of
mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer, thrall to the gallows.

My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than
once observed that in my second character, my faculties seemed
sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came
about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the
importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my
cabinet; how was I to reach them? That was the problem that (crushing
my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door I
had closed. If I sought to enter by the house, my own servants would
consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another hand, and
thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? how persuaded? Supposing
that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to make my way into
his presence? and how should I, an unknown and displeasing visitor,
prevail on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague,
Dr. Jekyll? Then I remembered that of my original character, one part
remained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived
that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from
end to end.

Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a
passing hansom, drove to an hotel in Portland Street, the name of which
I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed comical
enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could
not conceal his mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of
devilish fury; and the smile withered from his face—happily for him—yet
more happily for myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged
him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so
black a countenance as made the attendants tremble; not a look did they
exchange in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a
private room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of
his life was a creature new to me; shaken with inordinate anger, strung
to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was
astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his
two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he
might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out with
directions that they should be registered. Thenceforward, he sat all
day over the fire in the private room, gnawing his nails; there he
dined, sitting alone with his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before
his eye; and thence, when the night was fully come, he set forth in the
corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro about the streets of
the city. He, I say—I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing
human; nothing lived in him but fear and hatred. And when at last,
thinking the driver had begun to grow suspicious, he discharged the cab
and ventured on foot, attired in his misfitting clothes, an object
marked out for observation, into the midst of the nocturnal passengers,
these two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked
fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to himself, skulking through the
less frequented thoroughfares, counting the minutes that still divided
him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box
of lights. He smote her in the face, and she fled.

When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps
affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the
sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A
change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it
was the horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon’s
condemnation partly in a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came
home to my own house and got into bed. I slept after the prostration of
the day, with a stringent and profound slumber which not even the
nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I awoke in the morning
shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought
of the brute that slept within me, and I had not of course forgotten
the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at home,
in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape
shone so strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of
hope.

I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the
chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized again with those
indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but the
time to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging
and freezing with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a
double dose to recall me to myself; and alas! six hours after, as I sat
looking sadly in the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to be
re-administered. In short, from that day forth it seemed only by a
great effort as of gymnastics, and only under the immediate stimulation
of the drug, that I was able to wear the countenance of Jekyll. At all
hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the premonitory
shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair,
it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of this
continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now
condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I
became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever,
languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one
thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the
virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition
(for the pangs of transformation grew daily less marked) into the
possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boiling
with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to
contain the raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have
grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now
divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of
vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature
that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was
co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which
in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought
of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish
but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit
seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated
and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the
offices of life. And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to
him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh,
where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every
hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against
him, and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll was of
a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to
commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a
part instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the
despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the
dislike with which he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks
that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the
pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the portrait of
my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would
long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But
his love of me is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at
the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of
this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off
by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.

