The Old Curiosity Shop By Charles Dickens

The Old Curiosity Shop
By Charles Dickens
CHAPTER 1
Night is generally my time for walking. In the summer I often leave
home early in the morning, and roam about fields and lanes all day,
or even escape for days or weeks together; but, saving in the
country, I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be
thanked, I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the
earth, as much as any creature living.
I have fallen insensibly into this habit, both because it favours my
infirmity and because it affords me greater opportunity of speculating
on the characters and occupations of those who fill the streets. The
glare and hurry of broad noon are not adapted to idle pursuits like
mine; a glimpse of passing faces caught by the light of a street-lamp
or a shop window is often better for my purpose than their full
revelation in the daylight; and, if I must add the truth, night is kinder
in this respect than day, which too often destroys an air-built castle
at the moment of its completion, without the least ceremony or remorse.
That constant pacing to and fro, that never-ending restlessness, that
incessant tread of feet wearing the rough stones smooth and glossy--is it
not a wonder how the dwellers in narrows ways can bear to hear
it! Think of a sick man in such a place as Saint Martin's Court,
listening to the footsteps, and in the midst of pain and weariness
obliged, despite himself (as though it were a task he must perform)
to detect the child's step from the man's, the slipshod beggar from
the booted exquisite, the lounging from the busy, the dull heel
of the sauntering outcast from the quick tread of an expectant
pleasure-seeker--think of the hum and noise always being present to his
sense, and of the stream of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on,
through all his restless dreams, as if he were condemned to lie,
dead but conscious, in a noisy churchyard, and had no hope of rest
for centuries to come.
Then, the crowds for ever passing and repassing on the bridges (on
those which are free of toil at last), where many stop on fine
evenings looking listlessly down upon the water with some vague
idea that by and by it runs between green banks which grow wider
and wider until at last it joins the broad vast sea--where some halt to
rest from heavy loads and think as they look over the parapet that to
smoke and lounge away one's life, and lie sleeping in the sun upon a
hot tarpaulin, in a dull, slow, sluggish barge, must be happiness
unalloyed--and where some, and a very different class, pause with
heaver loads than they, remembering to have heard or read in old
time that drowning was not a hard death, but of all means of suicide
the easiest and best.
Covent Garden Market at sunrise too, in the spring or summer, when
the fragrance of sweet flowers is in the air, over-powering even the
unwholesome streams of last night's debauchery, and driving the
dusky thrust, whose cage has hung outside a garret window all night
long, half mad with joy! Poor bird! the only neighbouring thing at all
akin to the other little captives, some of whom, shrinking from the
hot hands of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on the path already,
while others, soddened by close contact, await the time when they
shall be watered and freshened up to please more sober company,
and make old clerks who pass them on their road to business,
wonder what has filled their breasts with visions of the country.
But my present purpose is not to expatiate upon my walks. The story
I am about to relate, and to which I shall recur at intervals, arose
out of one of these rambles; and thus I have been led to speak of
them by way of preface.
One night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on in
my usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was
arrested by an inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but
which seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft
sweet voice that struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round
and found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed
to a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed in quite
another quarter of the town.
It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.'
'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a very long
way, for I came from there to-night.'
'Alone?' said I, in some surprise.
'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I
had lost my road.'
'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?'
'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you are such
a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.'
I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and the
energy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's
clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into
my face.
'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.'
She put her hand in mind as confidingly as if she had known me
from her cradle, and we trudged away together; the little creature
accommodating her pace to mine, and rather seeming to lead and
take care of me than I to be protecting her. I observed that every
now and then she stole a curious look at my face, as if to make quite
sure that I was not deceiving her, and that these glances (very sharp
and keen they were too) seemed to increase her confidence at every
repetition.
For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least equal to the
child's, for child she certainly was, although I thought it probably
from what I could make out, that her very small and delicate frame
imparted a peculiar youthfulness to her appearance. Though more
scantily attired than she might have been she was dressed with
perfect neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or neglect.
'Who has sent you so far by yourself?' said I.
'Someone who is very kind to me, sir.'
'And what have you been doing?'
'That, I must not tell,' said the child firmly.
There was something in the manner of this reply which caused me to
look at the little creature with an involuntary expression of surprise;
for I wondered what kind of errand it might be that occasioned her to
be prepared for questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my
thoughts, for as it met mine she added that there was no harm in
what she had been doing, but it was a great secret--a secret which
she did not even know herself.
This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit, but with an
unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress of truth. She walked on
as before, growing more familiar with me as we proceeded and
talking cheerfully by the way, but she said no more about her home,
beyond remarking that we were going quite a new road and asking if
it were a short one.
While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a hundred
different explanations of the riddle and rejected them every one. I
really felt ashamed to take advantage of the ingenuousness or grateful
feeling of the child for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love
these little people; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so
fresh from God, love us. As I had felt pleased at first by her
confidence I determined to deserve it, and to do credit to the nature
which had prompted her to repose it in me.
There was no reason, however, why I should refrain from seeing the
person who had inconsiderately sent her to so great a distance by
night and alone, and as it was not improbable that if she found
herself near home she might take farewell of me and deprive me of
the opportunity, I avoided the most frequented ways and took the
most intricate, and thus it was not until we arrived in the street itself
that she knew where we were. Clapping her hands with pleasure and
running on before me for a short distance, my little acquaintance
stopped at a door and remaining on the step till I came up knocked at
it when I joined her.
A part of this door was of glass unprotected by any shutter, which I
did not observe at first, for all was very dark and silent within, and I
was anxious (as indeed the child was also) for an answer to our
summons. When she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise
as if some person were moving inside, and at length a faint light
appeared through the glass which, as it approached very slowly, the
bearer having to make his way through a great many scattered
articles, enabled me to see both what kind of person it was who
advanced and what kind of place it was through which he came.
It was an old man with long grey hair, whose face and figure as he
held the light above his head and looked before him as he
approached, I could plainly see. Though much altered by age, I
fancied I could recognize in his spare and slender form something of
that delicate mould which I had noticed in a child. Their bright blue
eyes were certainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed and so
very full of care, that here all resemblance ceased.
The place through which he made his way at leisure was one of those
receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd
corners of this town and to hide their musty treasures from the public
eye in jealousy and distrust. There were suits of mail standing like
ghosts in armour here and there, fantastic carvings brought from
monkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds, distorted figures
in china and wood and iron and ivory: tapestry and strange furniture
that might have been designed in dreams. The haggard aspect of the
little old man was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have
groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and
gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was nothing in the
whole collection but was in keeping with himself nothing that looked
older or more worn than he.
As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with some
astonishment which was not diminished when he looked from me to
my companion. The door being opened, the child addressed him as
grandfather, and told him the little story of our companionship.
'Why, bless thee, child,' said the old man, patting her on the head,
'how couldst thou miss thy way? What if I had lost thee, Nell!'
'I would have found my way back to YOU, grandfather,' said the
child boldly; 'never fear.'
The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging me to walk
in, I did so. The door was closed and locked. Preceding me with the
light, he led me through the place I had already seen from without,
into a small sitting-room behind, in which was another door opening
into a kind of closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have
slept in, it looked so very small and was so prettily arranged. The
child took a candle and tripped into this little room, leaving the old
man and me together.
'You must be tired, sir,' said he as he placed a chair near the fire,
'how can I thank you?'
'By taking more care of your grandchild another time, my good
friend,' I replied.
'More care!' said the old man in a shrill voice, 'more care of Nelly!
Why, who ever loved a child as I love Nell?'
He said this with such evident surprise that I was perplexed what
answer to make, and the more so because coupled with something
feeble and wandering in his manner, there were in his face marks of
deep and anxious thought which convinced me that he could not be,
as I had been at first inclined to suppose, in a state of dotage or
imbecility.
'I don't think you consider--' I began.
'I don't consider!' cried the old man interrupting me, 'I don't consider
her! Ah, how little you know of the truth! Little Nelly, little Nelly!'
It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his form of
speech might be, to express more affection than the dealer in
curiosities did, in these four words. I waited for him to speak again,
but he rested his chin upon his hand and shaking his head twice or
thrice fixed his eyes upon the fire.
While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the closet opened,
and the child returned, her light brown hair hanging loose about her
neck, and her face flushed with the haste she had made to rejoin us.
She busied herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she
was thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an opportunity of
observing me more closely than he had done yet. I was surprised to
see that all this time everything was done by the child, and that there
appeared to be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took
advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a hint on this
point, to which the old man replied that there were few grown
persons as trustworthy or as careful as she.
'It always grieves me, ' I observed, roused by what I took to be his
selfishness, 'it always grieves me to contemplate the initiation of
children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than
infants. It checks their confidence and simplicity--two of the best
qualities that Heaven gives them--and demands that they share our
sorrows before they are capable of entering into our enjoyments.'
'It will never check hers,' said the old man looking steadily at me,
'the springs are too deep. Besides, the children of the poor know but
few pleasures. Even the cheap delights of childhood must be bought
and paid for.
'But--forgive me for saying this--you are surely not so very poor'--said I.
'She is not my child, sir,' returned the old man. 'Her mother was,
and she was poor. I save nothing--not a penny--though I live as you
see, but'--he laid his hand upon my arm and leant forward to
whisper--'she shall be rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't
you think ill of me because I use her help. She gives it cheerfully as
you see, and it would break her heart if she knew that I suffered
anybody else to do for me what her little hands could undertake. I
don't consider!'--he cried with sudden querulousness, 'why, God
knows that this one child is there thought and object of my life, and
yet he never prospers me--no, never!'
At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again returned, and
the old men motioning to me to approach the table, broke off, and
said no more.
We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a knock at the
door by which I had entered, and Nell bursting into a hearty laugh,
which I was rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike and full of hilarity,
said it was no doubt dear old Kit coming back at last.
'Foolish Nell!' said the old man fondling with her hair. 'She always
laughs at poor Kit.'
The child laughed again more heartily than before, I could not help
smiling from pure sympathy. The little old man took up a candle and
went to open the door. When he came back, Kit was at his heels.
Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an
uncommonly wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up nose, and
certainly the most comical expression of face I ever saw. He stopped
short at the door on seeing a stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly
round old hat without any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now
on one leg and now on the other and changing them constantly, stood
in the doorway, looking into the parlour with the most extraordinary
leer I ever beheld. I entertained a grateful feeling towards the boy
from that minute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life.
'A long way, wasn't it, Kit?' said the little old man.
'Why, then, it was a goodish stretch, master,' returned Kit.
'Of course you have come back hungry?'
'Why, then, I do consider myself rather so, master,' was the answer.
The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways as he spoke,
and thrusting his head forward over his shoulder, as if he could not
get at his voice without that accompanying action. I think he would
have amused one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of
his oddity, and the relief it was to find that there was something she
associated with merriment in a place that appeared so unsuited to
her, were quite irresistible. It was a great point too that Kit himself
was flattered by the sensation he created, and after several efforts to
preserve his gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his
mouth wide open and his eyes nearly shut, laughing violently.
The old man had again relapsed into his former abstraction and took
no notice of what passed, but I remarked that when her laugh was
over, the child's bright eyes were dimmed with tears, called forth by
the fullness of heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favourite
after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself (whose laugh
had been all the time one of that sort which very little would change
into a cry) he carried a large slice of bread and meat and a mug of
beer into a corner, and applied himself to disposing of them with
great voracity.
'Ah!' said the old man turning to me with a sigh, as if I had spoken
to him but that moment, 'you don't know what you say when you tell
me that I don't consider her.'
'You must not attach too great weight to a remark founded on first
appearances, my friend,' said I.
'No,' returned the old man thoughtfully, 'no. Come hither, Nell.'
The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm about his
neck.
'Do I love thee, Nell?' said he. 'Say--do I love thee, Nell, or no?'
The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her head upon his
breast.
'Why dost thou sob?' said the grandfather, pressing her closer to him
and glancing towards me. 'Is it because thou know'st I love thee, and
dost not like that I should seem to doubt it by my question? Well,
well--then let us say I love thee dearly.'
'Indeed, indeed you do,' replied the child with great earnestness,
'Kit knows you do.'
Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been swallowing
two-thirds of his knife at every mouthful with the coolness of a
juggler, stopped short in his operations on being thus appealed to,
and bawled 'Nobody isn't such a fool as to say he doosn't,' after
which he incapacitated himself for further conversation by taking a
most prodigious sandwich at one bite.
'She is poor now'--said the old men, patting the child's cheek, 'but I
say again that the time is coming when she shall be rich. It has been
a long time coming, but it must come at last; a very long time, but it
surely must come. It has come to other men who do nothing but
waste and riot. When WILL it come to me!'
'I am very happy as I am, grandfather,' said the child.
'Tush, tush!' returned the old man, 'thou dost not know--how
should'st thou!' then he muttered again between his teeth, 'The time
must come, I am very sure it must. It will be all the better for
coming late'; and then he sighed and fell into his former musing
state, and still holding the child between his knees appeared to be
insensible to everything around him. By this time it wanted but a few
minutes of midnight and I rose to go, which recalled him to himself.
'One moment, sir,' he said, 'Now, Kit--near midnight, boy, and you
still here! Get home, get home, and be true to your time in the
morning, for there's work to do. Good night! There, bid him good
night, Nell, and let him be gone!'
'Good night, Kit,' said the child, her eyes lighting up with
merriment and kindness.'
'Good night, Miss Nell,' returned the boy.
'And thank this gentleman,' interposed the old man, 'but for whose
care I might have lost my little girl to-night.'
'No, no, master,' said Kit, 'that won't do, that won't.'
'What do you mean?' cried the old man.
'I'd have found her, master,' said Kit, 'I'd have found her. I'll bet
that I'd find her if she was above ground, I would, as quick as
anybody, master. Ha, ha, ha!'
Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, and laughing
like a stentor, Kit gradually backed to the door, and roared himself
out.
Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his departure; when
he had gone, and the child was occupied in clearing the table, the old
man said:
'I haven't seemed to thank you, sir, for what you have done to-night,
but I do thank you humbly and heartily, and so does she, and her
thanks are better worth than mine. I should be sorry that you went
away, and thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of
her--I am not indeed.'
I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. 'But,' I added, 'may
I ask you a question?'
'Ay, sir,' replied the old man, 'What is it?'
'This delicate child,' said I, 'with so much beauty and intelligence--has
she nobody to care for
her but you? Has she no other companion
or advisor?'
'No,' he returned, looking anxiously in my face, 'no, and she wants
no other.'
'But are you not fearful,' said I, 'that you may misunderstand a
charge so tender? I am sure you mean well, but are you quite certain
that you know how to execute such a trust as this? I am an old man,
like you, and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is
young and promising. Do you not think that what I have seen of you
and this little creature to-night must have an interest not wholly free
from pain?'
'Sir,' rejoined the old man after a moment's silence.' I have no right
to feel hurt at what you say. It is true that in many respects I am the
child, and she the grown person--that you have seen already. But
waking or sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the
one object of my care, and if you knew of how much care, you
would look on me with different eyes, you would indeed. Ah! It's a
weary life for an old man--a weary, weary life--but there is a great
end to gain and that I keep before me.'
Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and impatience, I turned
to put on an outer coat which I had thrown off on entering the room,
purposing to say no more. I was surprised to see the child standing
patiently by with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat, and
stick.
'Those are not mine, my dear,' said I.
'No,' returned the child, 'they are grandfather's.'
'But he is not going out to-night.'
'Oh, yes, he is,' said the child, with a smile.
'And what becomes of you, my pretty one?'
'Me! I stay here of course. I always do.'
I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he was, or feigned
to be, busied in the arrangement of his dress. From him I looked
back to the slight gentle figure of the child. Alone! In that gloomy
place all the long, dreary night.
She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheerfully helped
the old man with his cloak, and when he was ready took a candle to
light us out. Finding that we did not follow as she expected, she
looked back with a smile and waited for us. The old man showed by
his face that he plainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he
merely signed to me with an inclination of the head to pass out of the
room before him, and remained silent. I had no resource but to comply.
When we reached the door, the child setting down the candle, turned
to say good night and raised her face to kiss me. Then she ran to the
old man, who folded her in his arms and bade God bless her.
'Sleep soundly, Nell,' he said in a low voice, 'and angels guard thy
bed! Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.'
'No, indeed,' answered the child fervently, 'they make me feel so
happy!'
'That's well; I know they do; they should,' said the old man. 'Bless
thee a hundred times! Early in the morning I shall be home.'
'You'll not ring twice,' returned the child. 'The bell wakes me, even
in the middle of a dream.'
With this, they separated. The child opened the door (now guarded
by a shutter which I had heard the boy put up before he left the
house) and with another farewell whose clear and tender note I have
recalled a thousand times, held it until we had passed out. The old
man paused a moment while it was gently closed and fastened on the
inside, and satisfied that this was done, walked on at a slow pace. At
the street-corner he stopped, and regarding me with a troubled
countenance said that our ways were widely different and that he
must take his leave. I would have spoken, but summoning up more
alacrity than might have been expected in one of his appearance, he
hurried away. I could see that twice or thrice he looked back as if to
ascertain if I were still watching him, or perhaps to assure himself
that I was not following at a distance. The obscurity of the night
favoured his disappearance, and his figure was soon beyond my
sight.
I remained standing on the spot where he had left me, unwilling to
depart, and yet unknowing why I should loiter there. I looked
wistfully into the street we had lately quitted, and after a time
directed my steps that way. I passed and repassed the house, and
stopped and listened at the door; all was dark, and silent as the
grave.
Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away, thinking of all
possible harm that might happen to the child--of fires and robberies
and even murder--and feeling as if some evil must ensure if I turned
my back upon the place. The closing of a door or window in the
street brought me before the curiosity-dealer's once more; I crossed
the road and looked up at the house to assure myself that the noise
had not come from there. No, it was black, cold, and lifeless as
before.
There were few passengers astir; the street was sad and dismal, and
pretty well my own. A few stragglers from the theatres hurried by,
and now and then I turned aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he
reeled homewards, but these interruptions were not frequent and
soon ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and down,
promising myself that every time should be the last, and breaking
faith with myself on some new plea as often as I did so.
The more I thought of what the old man had said, and of his looks
and bearing, the less I could account for what I had seen and heard. I
had a strong misgiving that his nightly absence was for no good
purpose. I had only come to know the fact through the innocence of
the child, and though the old man was by at the time, and saw my
undisguised surprise, he had preserved a strange mystery upon the
subject and offered no word of explanation. These reflections
naturally recalled again more strongly than before his haggard face,
his wandering manner, his restless anxious looks. His affection for
the child might not be inconsistent with villany of the worst kind;
even that very affection was in itself an extraordinary contradiction,
or how could he leave her thus? Disposed as I was to think badly of
him, I never doubted that his love for her was real. I could not admit
the thought, remembering what had passed between us, and the tone
of voice in which he had called her by her name.
'Stay here of course,' the child had said in answer to my question, 'I
always do!' What could take him from home by night, and every
night! I called up all the strange tales I had ever heard of dark and
secret deeds committed in great towns and escaping detection for a
long series of years; wild as many of these stories were, I could not
find one adapted to this mystery, which only became the more
impenetrable, in proportion as I sought to solve it.
Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of others all
tending to the same point, I continued to pace the street for two long
hours; at length the rain began to descend heavily, and then over-powered
by fatigue though no less interested than I had been at first,
I engaged the nearest coach and so got home. A cheerful fire was
blazing on the hearth, the lamp burnt brightly, my clock received me
with its old familiar welcome; everything was quiet, warm and
cheering, and in happy contrast to the gloom and darkness I had quitted.
But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same thoughts recurred
and the same images retained possession of my brain. I had ever
before me the old dark murky rooms--the gaunt suits of mail with
their ghostly silent air--the faces all awry, grinning from wood and
stone--the dust and rust and worm that lives in wood--and alone in
the midst of all this lumber and decay and ugly age, the beautiful
child in her gentle slumber, smiling through her light and sunny dreams.
CHAPTER 2
After combating, for nearly a week, the feeling which impelled me to
revisit the place I had quitted under the circumstances already
detailed, I yielded to it at length; and determining that this time I
would present myself by the light of day, bent my steps thither early
in the morning.
I walked past the house, and took several turns in the street, with
that kind of hesitation which is natural to a man who is conscious
that the visit he is about to pay is unexpected, and may not be very
acceptable. However, as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not
appear likely that I should be recognized by those within, if I
continued merely to pass up and down before it, I soon conquered
this irresolution, and found myself in the Curiosity Dealer's
warehouse.
The old man and another person were together in the back part, and
there seemed to have been high words between them, for their voices
which were raised to a very high pitch suddenly stopped on my
entering, and the old man advancing hastily towards me, said in a
tremulous tone that he was very glad I had come.
'You interrupted us at a critical moment,' said he, pointing to the
man whom I had found in company with him; 'this fellow will
murder me one of these days. He would have done so, long ago, if
he had dared.'
'Bah! You would swear away my life if you could,' returned the
other, after bestowing a stare and a frown on me; 'we all know that!'
'I almost think I could,' cried the old man, turning feebly upon him.
'If oaths, or prayers, or words, could rid me of you, they should. I
would be quit of you, and would be relieved if you were dead.'
'I know it,' returned the other. 'I said so, didn't I? But neither oaths,
or prayers, nor words, WILL kill me, and therefore I live, and mean
to live.'
'And his mother died!' cried the old man, passionately clasping his
hands and looking upward; 'and this is Heaven's justice!'
The other stood lunging with his foot upon a chair, and regarded him
with a contemptuous sneer. He was a young man of one-and-twenty
or thereabouts; well made, and certainly handsome, though the
expression of his face was far from prepossessing, having in
common with his manner and even his dress, a dissipated, insolent
air which repelled one.
'Justice or no justice,' said the young fellow, 'here I am and here I
shall stop till such time as I think fit to go, unless you send for
assistance to put me out--which you won't do, I know. I tell you
again that I want to see my sister.'
'YOUR sister!' said the old man bitterly.
'Ah! You can't change the relationship,' returned the other. 'If you
could, you'd have done it long ago. I want to see my sister, that you
keep cooped up here, poisoning her mind with your sly secrets and
pretending an affection for her that you may work her to death, and
add a few scraped shillings every week to the money you can hardly
count. I want to see her; and I will.'
'Here's a moralist to talk of poisoned minds! Here's a generous spirit
to scorn scraped-up shillings!' cried the old man, turning from him
to me. 'A profligate, sir, who has forfeited every claim not only
upon those who have the misfortune to be of his blood, but upon
society which knows nothing of him but his misdeeds. A liar too,' he
added, in a lower voice as he drew closer to me, 'who knows how
dear she is to me, and seeks to wound me even there, because there
is a stranger nearby.'
'Strangers are nothing to me, grandfather,' said the young fellow
catching at the word, 'nor I to them, I hope. The best they can do, is
to keep an eye to their business and leave me to mind. There's a
friend of mine waiting outside, and as it seems that I may have to
wait some time, I'll call him in, with your leave.'
Saying this, he stepped to the door, and looking down the street
beckoned several times to some unseen person, who, to judge from
the air of impatience with which these signals were accompanied,
required a great quantity of persuasion to induce him to advance. At
length there sauntered up, on the opposite side of the way--with a
bad pretense of passing by accident--a figure conspicuous for its dirty
smartness, which after a great many frowns and jerks of the head, in
resistence of the invitation, ultimately crossed the road and was
brought into the shop.
'There. It's Dick Swiveller,' said the young fellow, pushing him in.
'Sit down, Swiveller.'
'But is the old min agreeable?' said Mr Swiveller in an undertone.
Mr Swiveller complied, and looking about him with a propritiatory
smile, observed that last week was a fine week for the ducks, and
this week was a fine week for the dust; he also observed that whilst
standing by the post at the street-corner, he had observed a pig with
a straw in his mouth issuing out of the tobacco-shop, from which
appearance he augured that another fine week for the ducks was
approaching, and that rain would certainly ensue. He furthermore
took occasion to apologize for any negligence that might be
perceptible in his dress, on the ground that last night he had had 'the
sun very strong in his eyes'; by which expression he was understood
to convey to his hearers in the most delicate manner possible, the
information that he had been extremely drunk.
'But what,' said Mr Swiveller with a sigh, 'what is the odds so long
as the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conwiviality, and the
wing of friendship never moults a feather! What is the odds so long
as the spirit is expanded by means of rosy wine, and the present
moment is the least happiest of our existence!'
'You needn't act the chairman here,' said his friend, half aside.
'Fred!' cried Mr Swiveller, tapping his nose, 'a word to the wise is
sufficient for them--we may be good and happy without riches, Fred.
Say not another syllable. I know my cue; smart is the word. Only
one little whisper, Fred--is the old min friendly?'
'Never you mind,' repled his friend.
'Right again, quite right,' said Mr Swiveller, 'caution is the word,
and caution is the act.' with that, he winked as if in preservation of
some deep secret, and folding his arms and leaning back in his chair,
looked up at the ceiling with profound gravity.
It was perhaps not very unreasonable to suspect from what had
already passed, that Mr Swiveller was not quite recovered from the
effects of the powerful sunlight to which he had made allusion; but if
no such suspicion had been awakened by his speech, his wiry hair,
dull eyes, and sallow face would still have been strong witnesses
against him. His attire was not, as he had himself hinted, remarkable
for the nicest arrangement, but was in a state of disorder which
strongly induced the idea that he had gone to bed in it. It consisted of
a brown body-coat with a great many brass buttons up the front and
only one behind, a bright check neckerchief, a plaid waistcoat, soiled
white trousers, and a very limp hat, worn with the wrong side
foremost, to hide a hole in the brim. The breast of his coat was
ornamented with an outside pocket from which there peeped forth the
cleanest end of a very large and very ill-favoured handkerchief; his
dirty wristbands were pulled on as far as possible and ostentatiously
folded back over his cuffs; he displayed no gloves, and carried a
yellow cane having at the top a bone hand with the semblance of a
ring on its little finger and a black ball in its grasp. With all these
personal advantages (to which may be added a strong savour of
tobacco-smoke, and a prevailing greasiness of appearance) Mr
Swiveller leant back in his chair with his eyes fixed on the ceiling,
and occasionally pitching his voice to the needful key, obliged the
company with a few bars of an intensely dismal air, and then, in the
middle of a note, relapsed into his former silence.
The old man sat himself down in a chair, and with folded hands,
looked sometimes at his grandson and sometimes at his strange
companion, as if he were utterly powerless and had no resource but
to leave them to do as they pleased. The young man reclined against
a table at no great distance from his friend, in apparent indifference
to everything that had passed; and I--who felt the difficulty of any
interference, notwithstanding that the old man had appealed to me,
both by words and looks--made the best feint I could of being
occupied in examining some of the goods that were disposed for sale,
and paying very little attention to a person before me.
The silence was not of long duration, for Mr Swiveller, after
favouring us with several melodious assurances that his heart was in
the Highlands, and that he wanted but his Arab steed as a
preliminary to the achievement of great feats of valour and loyalty,
removed his eyes from the ceiling and subsided into prose again.
'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller stopping short, as if the idea had suddenly
occurred to him, and speaking in the same audible whisper as before,
'is the old min friendly?'
'What does it matter?' returned his friend peevishly.
'No, but IS he?' said Dick.
'Yes, of course. What do I care whether he is or not?'
Emboldened as it seemed by this reply to enter into a more general
conversation, Mr Swiveller plainly laid himself out to captivate our
attention.
He began by remarking that soda-water, though a good thing in the
abstract, was apt to lie cold upon the stomach unless qualified with
ginger, or a small infusion of brandy, which latter article he held to
be preferable in all cases, saving for the one consideration of
expense. Nobody venturing to dispute these positions, he proceeded
to observe that the human hair was a great retainer of tobacco-smoke, and
that the young
gentlemen of Westminster and Eton, after
eating vast quantities of apples to conceal any scent of cigars from
their anxious friends, were usually detected in consequence of their
heads possessing this remarkable property; when he concluded that if
the Royal Society would turn their attention to the circumstance, and
endeavour to find in the resources of science a means of preventing
such untoward revelations, they might indeed be looked upon as
benefactors to mankind. These opinions being equally
incontrovertible with those he had already pronounced, he went on to
inform us that Jamaica rum, though unquestionably an agreeable
spirit of great richness and flavour, had the drawback of remaining
constantly present to the taste next day; and nobody being venturous
enough to argue this point either, he increased in confidence and
became yet more companionable and communicative.
'It's a devil of a thing, gentlemen,' said Mr Swiveller, 'when
relations fall out and disagree. If the wing of friendship should never
moult a feather, the wing of relationship should never be clipped, but
be always expanded and serene. Why should a grandson and
grandfather peg away at each other with mutual wiolence when all
might be bliss and concord. Why not jine hands and forgit it?'
'Hold your tongue,' said his friend.
'Sir,' replied Mr Swiveller, 'don't you interrupt the chair.
Gentlemen, how does the case stand, upon the present occasion?
Here is a jolly old grandfather--I say it with the utmost respect--and
here is a wild, young grandson. The jolly old grandfather says to the
wild young grandson, 'I have brought you up and educated you,
Fred; I have put you in the way of getting on in life; you have bolted
a little out of course, as young fellows often do; and you shall never
have another chance, nor the ghost of half a one.' The wild young
grandson makes answer to this and says, 'You're as rich as rich can
be; you have been at no uncommon expense on my account, you're
saving up piles of money for my little sister that lives with you in a
secret, stealthy, hugger-muggering kind of way and with no manner
of enjoyment--why can't you stand a trifle for your grown-up
relation?' The jolly old grandfather unto this, retorts, not only that
he declines to fork out with that cheerful readiness which is always
so agreeable and pleasant in a gentleman of his time of life, but that
he will bow up, and call names, and make reflections whenever they
meet. Then the plain question is, an't it a pity that this state of things
should continue, and how much better would it be for the gentleman
to hand over a reasonable amount of tin, and make it all right and
comfortable?'
Having delivered this oration with a great many waves and flourishes
of the hand, Mr Swiveller abruptly thrust the head of his cane into
his mouth as if to prevent himself from impairing the effect of his
speech by adding one other word.
'Why do you hunt and persecute me, God help me!' said the old man
turning to his grandson. 'Why do you bring your prolifigate
companions here? How often am I to tell you that my life is one of
care and self-denial, and that I am poor?'
'How often am I to tell you,' returned the other, looking coldly at
him, 'that I know better?'
'You have chosen your own path,' said the old man. 'Follow it.
Leave Nell and me to toil and work.'
'Nell will be a woman soon,' returned the other, 'and, bred in your
faith, she'll forget her brother unless he shows himself sometimes.'
'Take care,' said the old man with sparkling eyes, 'that she does not
forget you when you would have her memory keenest. Take care that
the day don't come when you walk barefoot in the streets, and she
rides by in a gay carriage of her own.'
'You mean when she has your money?' retorted the other. 'How like
a poor man he talks!'
'And yet,' said the old man dropping his voice and speaking like one
who thinks aloud, 'how poor we are, and what a life it is! The cause
is a young child's guiltless of all harm or wrong, but nothing goes
well with it! Hope and patience, hope and patience!'
These words were uttered in too low a tone to reach the ears of the
young men. Mr Swiveller appeared to think the they implied some
mental struggle consequent upon the powerful effect of his address,
for he poked his friend with his cane and whispered his conviction
that he had administered 'a clincher,' and that he expected a
commission on the profits. Discovering his mistake after a while, he
appeared to grow rather sleeply and discontented, and had more than
once suggested the proprieity of an immediate departure, when the
door opened, and the child herself appeared.
CHAPTER 3
The child was closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably
hard features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as to be
quite a dwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the
body of a giant. His black eyes were restless, sly, and cunning; his
mouth and chin, bristly with the stubble of a coarse hard beard; and
his complexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or
wholesome. But what added most to the grotesque expression of his
face was a ghastly smile, which, appearing to be the mere result of
habit and to have no connection with any mirthful or complacent
feeling, constantly revealed the few discoloured fangs that were yet
scattered in his mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog. His
dress consisted of a large high-crowned hat, a worn dark suit, a pair
of capacious shoes, and a dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp
and crumpled to disclose the greater portion of his wiry throat. Such
hair as he had was of a grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his
temples, and hanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears. His hands,
which were of a rough, coarse grain, were very dirty; his fingernails
were crooked, long, and yellow.
There was ample time to note these particulars, for besides that they
were sufficiently obvious without very close observation, some
moments elapsed before any one broke silence. The child advanced
timidly towards her brother and put her hand in his, the dwarf (if we
may call him so) glanced keenly at all present, and the curiosity-dealer,
who plainly had not
expected his uncouth visitor, seemed
disconcerted and embarrassed.
'Ah!' said the dwarf, who with his hand stretched out above his eyes
had been surveying the young man attentively, 'that should be your
grandson, neighbour!'
'Say rather that he should not be,' replied the old man. 'But he is.'
'And that?' said the dwarf, pointing to Dick Swiveller.
'Some friend of his, as welcome here as he,' said the old man.
'And that?' inquired the dwarf, wheeling round and pointing straight
at me.
'A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home the other night
when she lost her way, coming from your house.'
The little man turned to the child as if to chide her or express his
wonder, but as she was talking to the young man, held his peace, and
bent his head to listen.
'Well, Nelly,' said the young fellow aloud. 'Do they teach you to
hate me, eh?'
'No, no. For shame. Oh, no!' cried the child.
'To love me, perhaps?' pursued her brother with a sneer.
'To do neither,' she returned. 'They never speak to me about you.
Indeed they never do.'
'I dare be bound for that,' he said, darting a bitter look at the
grandfather. 'I dare be bound for that Nell. Oh! I believe you there!'
'But I love you dearly, Fred,' said the child.
'No doubt!'
'I do indeed, and always will,' the child repeated with great emotion,
'but oh! If you would leave off vexing him and making him unhappy,
then I could love you more.'
'I see!' said the young man, as he stooped carelessly over the child,
and having kissed her, pushed her from him: 'There--get you away
now you have said your lesson. You needn't whimper. We part good
friends enough, if that's the matter.'
He remained silent, following her with his eyes, until she had gained
her little room and closed the door; and then turning to the dwarf,
said abruptly,
'Harkee, Mr--'
'Meaning me?' returned the dwarf. 'Quilp is my name. You might
remember. It's not a long one--Daniel Quilp.'
'Harkee, Mr Quilp, then,' pursued the other, 'You have some
influence with my grandfather there.'
'Some,' said Mr Quilp emphatically.
'And are in a few of his mysteries and secrets.'
'A few,' replied Quilp, with equal dryness.
'Then let me tell him once for all, through you, that I will come into
and go out of this place as often as I like, so long as he keeps Nell
here; and that if he wants to be quit of me, he must first be quit of
her. What have I done to be made a bugbear of, and to be shunned
and dreaded as if I brought the plague? He'll tell you that I have no
natural affection; and that I care no more for Nell, for her own sake,
than I do for him. Let him say so. I care for the whim, then, of
coming to and fro and reminding her of my existence. I WILL see
her when I please. That's my point. I came here to-day to maintain
it, and I'll come here again fifty times with the same object and
always with the same success. I said I would stop till I had gained it.
I have done so, and now my visit's ended. Come Dick.'
'Stop!' cried Mr Swiveller, as his companion turned toward the
door. 'Sir!'
'Sir, I am your humble servant,' said Mr Quilp, to whom the
monosyllable was addressed.
'Before I leave the gay and festive scene, and halls of dazzling light,
sir,' said Mr Swiveller, 'I will with your permission, attempt a slight
remark. I came here, sir, this day, under the impression that the old
min was friendly.'
'Proceed, sir,' said Daniel Quilp; for the orator had made a sudden
stop.
'Inspired by this idea and the sentiments it awakened, sir, and feeling
as a mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and bullying, was not the
sort of thing calculated to expand the souls and promote the social
harmony of the contending parties, I took upon myself to suggest a
course which is THE course to be adopted to the present occasion.
Will you allow me to whisper half a syllable, sir?'
Without waiting for the permission he sought, Mr Swiveller stepped
up to the dwarf, and leaning on his shoulder and stooping down to
get at his ear, said in a voice which was perfectly audible to all
present,
'The watch-word to the old min is--fork.'
'Is what?' demanded Quilp.
'Is fork, sir, fork,' replied Mr Swiveller slapping his picket. 'You
are awake, sir?'
The dwarf nodded. Mr Swiveller drew back and nodded likewise,
then drew a little further back and nodded again, and so on. By these
means he in time reached the door, where he gave a great cough to
attract the dwarf's attention and gain an opportunity of expressing in
dumb show, the closest confidence and most inviolable secrecy.
Having performed the serious pantomime that was necessary for the
due conveyance of these idea, he cast himself upon his friend's track,
and vanished.
'Humph!' said the dwarf with a sour look and a shrug of his
shoulders, 'so much for dear relations. Thank God I acknowledge
none! Nor need you either,' he added, turning to the old man, 'if you
were not as weak as a reed, and nearly as senseless.'
'What would you have me do?' he retorted in a kind of helpless
desperation. 'It is easy to talk and sneer. What would you have me do?'
'What would I do if I was in your case?' said the dwarf.
'Something violent, no doubt.'
'You're right there,' returned the little man, highly gratified by the
compliment, for such he evidently considered it; and grinning like a
devil as he rubbed his dirty hands together. 'Ask Mrs Quilp, pretty
Mrs Quilp, obedient, timid, loving Mrs Quilp. But that reminds me--I have
left her all alone,
and she will be anxious and know not a
moment's peace till I return. I know she's always in that condition
when I'm away, thought she doesn't dare to say so, unless I lead her
on and tell her she may speak freely and I won't be angry with her.
Oh! well-trained Mrs Quilp.
The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous head and
little body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round, and round, and
round again--with something fantastic even in his manner of
performing this slight action--and, dropping his shaggy brows and
cocking his chin in the air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of
exultation that an imp might have copied and appropriated to
himself.
'Here,' he said, putting his hand into his breast and sidling up to the
old man as he spoke; 'I brought it myself for fear of accidents, as,
being in gold, it was something large and heavy for Nell to carry in
her bag. She need be accustomed to such loads betimes thought,
neighbor, for she will carry weight when you are dead.'
'Heaven send she may! I hope so,' said the old man with something
like a groan.'
'Hope so!' echoed the dwarf, approaching close to his ear;
'neighbour, I would I knew in what good investment all these supplies
are sunk. But you are a deep man, and keep your secret close.'
'My secret!' said the other with a haggard look. 'Yes,
you're right--I--I--keep it close--very close.'
He said no more, but taking the money turned away with a slow,
uncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his head like a weary and
dejected man. the dwarf watched him sharply, while he passed into
the little sitting-room and locked it in an iron safe above the
chimney-piece; and after musing for a short space, prepared to take
his leave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs Quilp
would certainly be in fits on his return.
'And so, neighbour,' he added, 'I'll turn my face homewards,
leaving my love for Nelly and hoping she may never lose her way
again, though her doing so HAS procured me an honour I didn't
expect.' With that he bowed and leered at me, and with a keen
glance around which seemed to comprehend every object within his
range of vision, however, small or trivial, went his way.
I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old man had always
opposed it and entreated me to remain. As he renewed his entreaties
on our being left along, and adverted with many thanks to the former
occasion of our being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions,
and sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures and a
few old medals which he placed before me. It needed no great
pressing to induce me to stay, for if my curiosity has been excited on
the occasion of my first visit, it certainly was not diminished now.
Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needle-work to the
table, sat by the old man's side. It was pleasant to observe the fresh
flowers in the room, the pet bird with a green bough shading his
little cage, the breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle
through the old dull house and hover round the child. It was curious,
but not so pleasant, to turn from the beauty and grace of the girl, to
the stooping figure, care-worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man.
As he grew weaker and more feeble, what would become of this
lonely litle creature; poor protector as he was, say that he died--what
we be her fate, then?
The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid his hand on
hers, and spoke aloud.
'I'll be of better cheer, Nell,' he said; 'there must be good fortune in
store for thee--I do not ask it for myself, but thee. Such miseries
must fall on thy innocent head without it, that I cannot believe but
that, being tempted, it will come at last!'
She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no answer.
'When I think,' said he, 'of the many years--many in thy short life--
that thou has lived with me; of my monotonous existence, knowing
no companions of thy own age nor any childish pleasures; of the
solitutde in which thou has grown to be what thou art, and in which
thou hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind but one old man; I
sometimes fear I have dealt hardly by thee, Nell.'
'Grandfather!' cried the child in unfeigned surprise.
'Not in intention--no no,' said he. 'I have ever looked forward to the
time that should enable thee to mix among the gayest and prettiest,
and take thy station with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I
still look forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee,
meanwhile, how have I fitted thee for struggles with the world? The
poor bird yonder is as well qualified to encounter it, and be turned
adrift upon its mercies--Hark! I hear Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go
to him.'
She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and put her arms
about the old man's neck, then left him and hurried away again--but
faster this time, to hide her falling tears.
'A word in your ear, sir,' said the old man in a hurried whisper. 'I
have been rendered uneasy by what you said the other night, and can
only plead that I have done all for the best--that it is too late to
retract, if I could (though I cannot)--and that I hope to triumph yet.
All is for her sake. I have borne great poverty myself, and would
spare her the sufferings that poverty carries with it. I would spare
her the miseries that brought her mother, my own dear child, to an
early grave. I would leave her--not with resources which could be
easily spent or squandered away, but with what would place her
beyond the reach of want for ever. you mark me sir? She shall have
no pittance, but a fortune--Hush! I can say no more than that, now or
at any other time, and she is here again!'
The eagerness with which all this was poured into my ear, the
trembling of the hand with which he clasped my arm, the strained
and starting eyes he fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and agitation
of his manner, filled me with amazement. All that I had heard and
seen, and a great part of what he had said himself, led me to suppose
that he was a wealthy man. I could form no comprehension of his
character, unless he were one of those miserable wretches who,
having made gain the sole end and object of their lives and having
succeeded in amassing great riches, are constantly tortured by the
dread of poverty, and best by fears of loss and ruin. Many things he
had said which I had been at a loss to understand, were quite
reconcilable with the idea thus presented to me, and at length I
concluded that beyond all doubt he was one of this unhappy race.
The opinion was not the result of hasty consideration, for which
indeed there was no opportunity at that time, as the child came
directly, and soon occupied herself in preparations for giving Kit a
writing lesson, of which it seemed he had a couple every week, and
one regularly on that evening, to the great mirth and enjoyment both
of himself and his instructress. To relate how it was a long time
before his modesty could be so far prevailed upon as it admit of his
sitting down in the parlour, in the presence of an unknown
gentleman--how, when he did set down, he tucked up his sleeves and
squared his elbows and put his face close to the copy-book and
squinted horribly at the lines--how, from the very first moment of
having the pen in his hand, he began to wallow in blots, and to daub
himself with ink up to the very roots of his hair--how, if he did by
accident form a letter properly, he immediately smeared it out again
with his arm in his preparations to make another -- how, at every
fresh mistake, there was a fresh burst of merriment from the child
and louder and not less hearty laugh from poor Kit himself--and how
there was all the way through, notwithstanding, a gentle wish on her
part to teach, and an anxious desire on his to learn--to relate all these
particulars would no doubt occupy more space and time than they
deserve. It will be sufficient to say that the lesson was given--that
evening passed and night came on--that the old man again grew
restless and impatient--that he quitted the house secretly at the same
hour as before--and that the child was once more left alone within its
gloomy walls.
And now that I have carried this history so far in my own character
and introduced these personages to the reader, I shall for the
convenience of the narrative detach myself from its further course,
and leave those who have prominent and necessary parts in it to
speak and act for themselves.
CHAPTER 4
Mr and Mrs Quilp resided on Tower Hill; and in her bower on
Tower Hill. Mrs Quilp was left to pine the absence of her lord, when
he quitted her on the business which he had already seen to transact.
Mr Quilp could scarcely be said to be of any particular trade or
calling, though his pursuits were diversified and his occupations
numerous. He collected the rents of whole colonies of filthy streets
and alleys by the waterside, advanced money to the seamen and petty
officers of merchant vessels, had a share in the ventures of divers
mates of East Indiamen, smoked his smuggled cigars under the very
nose of the Custom House, and made appointments on 'Change with
men in glazed hats and round jackets pretty well every day. On the
Surrey side of the river was a small rat-infested dreary yard called
'Quilp's Wharf,' in which were a little wooden counting-house
burrowing all awry in the dust as if it had fallen from the clouds and
ploughed into the ground; a few fragments of rusty anchors; several
large iron rings; some piles of rotten wood; and two or three heaps
of old sheet copper, crumpled, cracked, and battered. On Quilp's
Wharf, Daniel Quilp was a ship-breaker, yet to judge from these
appearances he must either have been a ship-breaker on a very small
scale, or have broken his ships up very small indeed. Neither did the
place present any extraordinary aspect of life or activity, as its only
human occupant was an amphibious boy in a canvas suit, whose sole
change of occupation was from sitting on the head of a pile and
throwing stones into the mud when the tide was out, to standing with
his hands in his pockets gazing listlessly on the motion and on the
bustle of the river at high-water.
The dwarf's lodging on Tower hill comprised, besides the needful
accommodation for himself and Mrs Quilp, a small sleeping-closet
for that lady's mother, who resided with the couple and waged
perpetual war with Daniel; of whom, notwithstanding, she stood in
no slight dread. Indeed, the ugly creature contrived by some means
or other--whether by his ugliness or his ferocity or his natural
cunning is no great matter--to impress with a wholesome fear of his
anger, most of those with whom he was brought into daily contact
and communication. Over nobody had he such complete ascendance
as Mrs Quilp herself--a pretty little, mild-spoken, blue-eyed woman,
who having allied herself in wedlock to the dwarf in one of those
strange infatuations of which examples are by no means scarce,
performed a sound practical penance for her folly, every day of her
life.
It has been said that Mrs Quilp was pining in her bower. In her
bower she was, but not alone, for besides the old lady her mother of
whom mention has recently been made, there were present some
half-dozen ladies of the neighborhood who had happened by a
strange accident (and also by a little understanding among
themselves) to drop in one after another, just about tea-time. This
being a season favourable to conversation, and the room being a
cool, shady, lazy kind of place, with some plants at the open window
shutting out the dust, and interposing pleasantly enough between the
tea table within and the old Tower without, it is no wonder that the
ladies felt an inclination to talk and linger, especially when there are
taken into account the additional inducements of fresh butter, new
bread, shrimps, and watercresses.
Now, the ladies being together under these circumstances, it was
extremely natural that the discourse should turn upon the propensity
of mankind to tyrannize over the weaker sex, and the duty that
developed upon the weaker sex to resist that tyranny and assert their
rights and dignity. It was natural for four reasons: firstly, because
Mrs Quilp being a young woman and notoriously under the dominion
of her husband ought to be excited to rebel; secondly, because Mrs
Quilp's parent was known to be laudably shrewish in her disposition
and inclined to resist male authority; thirdly, because each visitor
wished to show for herself how superior she was in this respect to
the generality of her sex; and forthly, because the company being
accustomed to acandalise each other in pairs, were deprived of their
usual subject of conversation now that they were all assembled in
close friendship, and had consequently no better employment than to
attack the common enemy.
Moved by these considerations, a stout lady opened the proceedings
by inquiring, with an air of great concern and sympathy, how Mr
Quilp was; whereunto Mr Quilp's wife's mother replied sharply,
'Oh! He was well enough--nothing much was every the matter with
him--and ill weeds were sure to thrive.' All the ladies then sighed in
concert, shook their heads gravely, and looked at Mrs Quilp as a martyr.
'Ah!' said the spokeswoman, 'I wish you'd give her a little of your
advice, Mrs Jiniwin'--Mrs Quilp had been a Miss Jiniwin it should
be observed--'nobody knows better than you, ma'am, what us
women owe to ourselves.'
'Owe indeed, ma'am!' replied Mrs Jiniwin. 'When my poor husband,
her dear father, was alive, if he had ever venture'd a cross
word to me, I'd have--' The good old lady did not finish the
sentence, but she twisted off the head of a shrimp with a
vindictiveness which seemed to imply that the action was in some
degree a substitute for words. In this light it was clearly understood
by the other party, who immediately replied with great approbation,
'You quite enter into my feelings, ma'am, and it's jist what I'd do
myself.'
'But you have no call to do it,' said Mrs Jiniwin. 'Luckily for you,
you have no more occasion to do it than I had.'
'No woman need have, if she was true to herself,' rejoined the stout
lady.
'Do you hear that, Betsy?' said Mrs Jiniwin, in a warning voice.
'How often have I said the same words to you, and almost gone
down my knees when I spoke 'em!'
Poor Mrs Quilp, who had looked in a state of helplessness from one
face of condolence to another, coloured, smiled, and shook her head
doubtfully. This was the signal for a general clamour, which
beginning in a low murmur gradually swelled into a great noise in
which everybody spoke at once, and all said that she being a young
woman had no right to set up her opinions against the experiences of
those who knew so much better; that it was very wrong of her not to
take the advice of people who had nothing at heart but her good; that
it was next door to being downright ungrateful to conduct herself in
that manner; that if she had no respect for herself she ought to have
some for other women, all of whom she compromised by her
meekness; and that if she had no respect for other women, the time
would come when other women would have no respect for her; and
she would be very sorry for that, they could tell her. Having dealt
out these admonitions, the ladies fell to a more powerful assault than
they had yet made upon the mixed tea, new bread, fresh butter,
shrimps, and watercresses, and said that their vexation was so great
to see her going on like that, that they could hardly bring themselves
to eat a single morsel.
It's all very fine to talk,' said Mrs Quilp with much simplicity, 'but I
know that if I was to die to-morrow, Quilp could marry anybody he
pleased--now that he could, I know!'
There was quite a scream of indignation at this idea. Marry whom he
pleased! They would like to see him dare to think of marrying any of
them; they would like to see the faintest approach to such a thing.
One lady (a widow) was quite certain she should stab him if he
hinted at it.
'Very well,' said Mrs Quilp, nodding her head, 'as I said just now,
it's very easy to talk, but I say again that I know--that I'm sure--Quilp
has such a way with
him when he likes, that the best looking
woman here couldn't refuse him if I was dead, and she was free, and
he chose to make love to him. Come!'
Everybody bridled up at this remark, as much as to say, 'I know you
mean me. Let him try--that's all.' and yet for some hidden reason
they were all angry with the widow, and each lady whispered in her
neighbour's ear that it was very plain that said widow thought herself
the person referred to, and what a puss she was!
'Mother knows,' said Mrs Quilp, 'that what I say is quite correct,
for she often said so before we were married. Didn't you say so,
mother?'
This inquiry involved the respected lady in rather a delicate position,
for she certainly had been an active party in making her daughter
Mrs Quilp, and, besides, it was not supporting the family credit to
encourage the idea that she had married a man whom nobody else
would have. On the other hand, to exaggerate the captivating
qualities of her son-in-law would be to weaken the cause of revolt, in
which all her energies were deeply engaged. Beset by these opposing
considerations, Mrs Jiniwin admitted the powers of insinuation, but
denied the right to govern, and with a timely compliment to the stout
lady brought back the discussion to the point from which it had
strayed.
'Oh! It's a sensible and proper thing indeed, what Mrs George has
said,!' exclaimed the old lady. 'If women are only true to
themselves!--But Betsy isn't, and more's the shame and pity.'
'Before I'd let a man order me about as Quilp orders her,' said Mrs
George, 'before I'd consent to stand in awe of a man as she does of
him, I'd--I'd kill myself, and write a letter first to say he did it!'
This remark being loudly commended and approved of, another lady
(from the Minories) put in her word:
'Mr Quilp may be a very nice man,' said this lady, 'and I supposed
there's no doubt he is, because Mrs Quilp says he is, and Mrs
Jiniwin says he is, and they ought to know, or nobody does. But still
he is not quite a--what one calls a handsome man, nor quite a young
man neither, which might be a little excuse for him if anything could
be; whereas his wife is young, and is good-looking, and is a woman--which
is the greatest
thing after all.'
This last clause being delivered with extraordinary pathos, elicited a
corresponding murmer from the hearers, stimulated by which the
lady went on to remark that if such a husband was cross and
unreasonable with such a wife, then--
'If he is!' interposed the mother, putting down her tea-cup and
brushing the crumbs out of her lap, preparatory to making a solemn
declaration. 'If he is! He is the greatest tyrant that every lived, she
daren't call her soul her own, he makes her tremble with a word and
even with a look, he frightens her to death, and she hasn't the spirit
to give him a word back, no, not a single word.'
Notwithstanding that the fact had been notorious beforehand to all
the tea-drinkers, and had been discussed and expatiated on at every
tea-drinking in the neighbourhood for the last twelve months, this
official communication was no sooner made than they all began to
talk at once and to vie with each other in vehemence and volubility.
Mrs George remarked that people would talk, that people had often
said this to her before, that Mrs Simmons then and there present had
told her so twenty times, that she had always said, 'No, Henrietta
Simmons, unless I see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own
ears, I never will believe it.' Mrs Simmons corroborated this
testimony and added strong evidence of her own. The lady from the
Minories recounted a successful course of treatment under which she
had placed her own husband, who, from manifesting one month after
marriage unequivocal symptoms of the tiger, had by this means
become subdued into a perfect lamb. Another lady recounted her
own personal struggle and final triumph, in the course whereof she
had found it necessary to call in her mother and two aunts, and to
weep incessantly night and day for six weeks. A third, who in the
general confusion could secure no other listener, fastened herself
upon a young woman still unmarried who happened to be amongst
them, and conjured her, as she valued her own peace of mind and
happiness to profit by this solemn occasion, to take example from the
weakness of Mrs Quilp, and from that time forth to direct her whole
thoughts to taming and subduing the rebellious spirit of man. The
noise was at its height, and half the company had elevated their
voices into a perfect shriek in order to drown the voices of the other
half, when Mrs Jiniwin was seen to change colour and shake her
forefinger stealthily, as if exhorting them to silence. Then, and not
until then, Daniel Quilp himself, the cause and occasion of all this
clamour, was observed to be in the room, looking on and listening
with profound attention.
'Go on, ladies, go on,' said Daniel. 'Mrs Quilp, pray ask the ladies
to stop to supper, and have a couple of lobsters and something light
and palatable.'
'I--I--didn't ask them to tea, Quilp,' stammered his wife. It's quite an
accident.'
'So much the better, Mrs Quilp; these accidental parties are always
the pleasantest,' said the dwarf, rubbing his hands so hard that he
seemed to be engaged in manufacturing, of the dirt with which they
were encrusted, little charges for popguns. 'What! Not going, ladies,
you are not going, surely!'
His fair enemies tossed their heads slightly as they sought their
respective bonnets and shawls, but left all verbal contention to Mrs
Jiniwin, who finding herself in the position of champion, made a
faint struggle to sustain the character.
'And why not stop to supper, Quilp,' said the old lady, 'if my
daughter had a mind?'
'To be sure,' rejoined Daniel. 'Why not?'
'There's nothing dishonest or wrong in a supper, I hope?' said Mrs
Jiniwin.
'Surely not,' returned the dwarf. 'Why should there be? Nor
anything unwholesome, either, unless there's lobster-salad or
prawns, which I'm told are not good for digestion.'
'And you wouldn't like your wife to be attacked with that, or
anything else that would make her uneasy would you?' said Mrs
Jiniwin.
'Not for a score of worlds,' replied the dwarf with a grin. 'Not even
to have a score of mothers-in-law at the same time--and what a
blessing that would be!'
'My daughter's your wife, Mr Quilp, certainly,' said the old lady
with a giggle, meant for satirical and to imply that he needed to be
reminded of the fact; 'your wedded wife.'
'So she is, certainly. So she is,' observed the dwarf.
'And she has has a right to do as she likes, I hope, Quilp,' said the
old lady trembling, partly with anger and partly with a secret fear of
her impish son-in-law.
'Hope she has!' he replied. 'Oh! Don't you know she has? Don't you
know she has, Mrs Jiniwin?
'I know she ought to have, Quilp, and would have, if she was of my
way of thiniking.'
'Why an't you of your mother's way of thinking, my dear?' said the
dwarf, turing round and addressing his wife, 'why don't you always
imitate your mother, my dear? She's the ornament of her sex--your
father said so every day of his life. I am sure he did.'
'Her father was a blessed creetur, Quilp, and worthy twenty
thousand of some people,' said Mrs Jiniwin; 'twenty hundred million
thousand.'
'I should like to have known him,' remarked the dwarf. 'I dare say
he was a blessed creature then; but I'm sure he is now. It was a
happy release. I believe he had suffered a long time?'
The old lady gave a gasp, but nothing came of it; Quilp resumed,
with the same malice in his eye and the same sarcastic politeness on
his tongue.
'You look ill, Mrs Jiniwin; I know you have been exciting yourself
too much--talking perhaps, for it is your weakness. Go to bed. Do go
to bed.'
'I shall go when I please, Quilp, and not before.'
'But please to do now. Do please to go now,' said the dwarf.
The old woman looked angrily at him, but retreated as he advanced,
and falling back before him, suffered him to shut the door upon her
and bolt her out among the guests, who were by this time crowding
downstairs. Being left along with his wife, who sat trembling in a
corner with her eyes fixed upon the ground, the little man planted
himself before her, and folding his arms looked steadily at her for a
long time without speaking.
'Mrs Quilp,' he said at last.
'Yes, Quilp,' she replead meekly.
Instead of pursing the theme he had in his mind, Quilp folded his
arms again, and looked at her more sternly than before, while she
averted her eyes and kept them on the ground.
'Mrs Quilp.'
'Yes, Quilp.'
'If ever you listen to these beldames again, I'll bite you.'
With this laconic threat, which he accompanied with a snarl that gave
him the appearance of being particularly in earnest, Mr Quilp bade
her clear the teaboard away, and bring the rum. The spirit being set
before him in a huge case-bottle, which had originally come out of
some ship's locker, he settled himself in an arm-chair with his large
head and face squeezed up against the back, and his little legs planted
on the table.
'Now, Mrs Quilp,' he said; 'I feel in a smoking humour, and shall
probably blaze away all night. But sit where you are, if you please,
in case I want you.'
His wife returned no other reply than the necessary 'Yes, Quilp,' and
the small lord of the creation took his first cigar and mixed his first
glass of grog. The sun went down and the stars peeped out, the
Tower turned from its own proper colours to grey and from grey to
black, the room became perfectly dark and the end of the cigar a
deep fiery red, but still Mr Quilp went on smoking and drinking in
the same position, and staring listlessly out of window with the
doglike smile always on his face, save when Mrs Quilp made some
involuntary movement of restlessness or fatigue; and then it
expanded into a grin of delight.
CHAPTER 5
Whether Mr Quilp took any sleep by snatches of a few winks at a
time, or whether he sat with his eyes wide open all night long,
certain it is that he kept his cigar alight, and kindled every fresh one
from the ashes of that which was nearly consumed, without requiring
the assistance of a candle. Nor did the striking of the clocks, hour
after hour, appear to inspire him with any sense of drowsiness or any
natural desire to go to rest, but rather to increase his wakefulness,
which he showed, at every such indication of the progress of the
night, by a suppressed cackling in his throat, and a motion of his
shoulders, like one who laughs heartily but the same time slyly and
by stealth.
At length the day broke, and poor Mrs Quilp, shivering with cold of
early morning and harassed by fatigue and want of sleep, was
discovered sitting patiently on her chair, raising her eyes at intervals
in mute appeal to the compassion and clemency of her lord, and
gently reminding him by an occasion cough that she was still
unpardoned and that her penance had been of long duration. But her
dwarfish spouse still smoked his cigar and drank his rum without
heeding her; and it was not until the sun had some time risen, and
the activity and noise of city day were rife in the street, that he
deigned to recognize her presence by any word or sign. He might not
have done so even then, but for certain impatient tapping at the door
he seemed to denote that some pretty hard knuckles were actively
engaged upon the other side.
'Why dear me!' he said looking round with a malicious grin, 'it's
day. Open the door, sweet Mrs Quilp!'
His obedient wife withdrew the bolt, and her lady mother entered.
Now, Mrs Jiniwin bounced into the room with great impetuosity;
for, supposing her son-in-law to be still a-bed, she had come to
relieve her feelings by pronouncing a strong opinion upon his general
conduct and character. Seeing that he was up and dressed, and that
the room appeared to have been occupied ever since she quitted it on
the previous evening, she stopped short, in some embarrassment.
Nothing escaped the hawk's eye of the ugly little man, who,
perfectly understanding what passed in the old lady's mind, turned
uglier still in the fulness of his satisfaction, and bade her good
morning, with a leer or triumph.
'Why, Betsy,' said the old woman, 'you haven't been--you don't
mean to say you've been a--'
'Sitting up all night?' said Quilp, supplying the conclusion of the
sentence. 'Yes she has!'
'All night?' cried Mrs Jiniwin.
'Ay, all night. Is the dear old lady deaf?' said Quilp, with a smile of
which a frown was part. 'Who says man and wife are bad company?
Ha ha! The time has flown.'
'You're a brute!' exclaimed Mrs Jiniwin.
'Come come,' said Quilp, wilfully misunderstanding her, of course,
'you mustn't call her names. She's married now, you know. And
though she did beguile the time and keep me from my bed, you must
not be so tenderly careful of me as to be out of humour with her.
Bless you for a dear old lady. Here's to your health!'
'I am much obliged to you,' returned the old woman, testifying by a
certain restlessness in her hands a vehement desire to shake her
matronly fist at her son-in-law. 'Oh! I'm very much obliged to you!'
'Grateful soul!' cried the dwarf. 'Mrs Quilp.'
'Yes, Quilp,' said the timid sufferer.
'Help your mother to get breakfast, Mrs Quilp. I am going to the
wharf this morning--the earlier the better, so be quick.'
Mrs Jiniwin made a faint demonstration of rebellion by sitting down
in a chair near the door and folding her arms as if in a resolute
determination to do nothing. But a few whispered words from her
daughter, and a kind inquiry from her son-in-law whether she felt
faint, with a hint that there was abundance of cold water in the next
apartment, routed these symptoms effectually, and she applied
herself to the prescribed preparations with sullen diligence.
While they were in progress, Mr Quilp withdrew to the adjoining
room, and, turning back his coat-collar, proceeded to smear his
countenance with a damp towel of very unwholesome appearance,
which made his complexion rather more cloudy than it was before.
But, while he was thus engaged, his caution and inquisitiveness did
not forsake him, for with a face as sharp and cunning as ever, he
often stopped, even in this short process, and stood listening for any
conversation in the next room, of which he might be the theme.
'Ah!' he said after a short effort of attention, 'it was not the towel
over my ears, I thought it wasn't. I'm a little hunchy villain and a
monster, am I, Mrs Jiniwin? Oh!'
The pleasure of this discovery called up the old doglike smile in full
force. When he had quite done with it, he shook himself in a very
doglike manner, and rejoined the ladies.
Mr Quilp now walked up to front of a looking-glass, and was
standing there putting on his neckerchief, when Mrs Jiniwin
happening to be behind him, could not resist the inclination she felt
to shake her fist at her tyrant son-in-law. It was the gesture of an
instant, but as she did so and accompanied the action with a
menacing look, she met his eye in the glass, catching her in the very
act. The same glance at the mirror conveyed to her the reflection of a
horribly grotesque and distorted face with the tongue lolling out; and
the next instant the dwarf, turning about with a perfectly bland and
placid look, inquired in a tone of great affection.
'How are you now, my dear old darling?'
Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a
little fiend, and withal such a keen and knowing one, that the old
woman felt too much afraid of him to utter a single word, and
suffered herself to be led with extraordinary politeness to the
breakfast-table. Here he by no means diminished the impression he
had just produced, for he ate hard eggs, shell and all, devoured
gigantic prawns with the heads and tails on, chewed tobacco and
water-cresses at the same time and with extraordinary greediness,
drank boiling tea without winking, bit his fork and spoon till they
bent again, and in short performed so many horrifying and
uncommon acts that the women were nearly frightened out of their
wits, and began to doubt if he were really a human creature. At last,
having gone through these proceedings and many others which were
equally a part of his system, Mr Quilp left them, reduced to a very
obedient and humbled state, and betook himself to the river-side,
where he took boat for the wharf on which he had bestowed his
name.
It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down in the ferry to
cross to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges were coming lazily on,
some sideways, some head first, some stern first; all in a wrong-headed,
dogged, obstinate
way, bumping up against the larger craft,
running under the bows of steamboats, getting into every kind of
nook and corner where they had no business, and being crunched on
all sides like so many walnut-shells; while each with its pair of long
sweeps struggling and splashing in the water looked like some
lumbering fish in pain. In some of the vessels at anchor all hands
were busily engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry,
taking in or discharging their cargoes; in others no life was visible
but two or three tarry boys, and perhaps a barking dog running to
and fro upon the deck or scrambling up to look over the side and
bark the louder for the view. Coming slowly on through the forests
of masts was a great steamship, beating the water in short impatient
strokes with her heavy paddles as though she wanted room to
breathe, and advancing in her huge bulk like a sea monster among
the minnows of the Thames. On either hand were long black tiers of
colliers; between them vessels slowly working out of harbour with
sails glistening in the sun, and creaking noise on board, re-echoed
from a hundred quarters. The water and all upon it was in active
motion, dancing and buoyant and bubbling up; while the old grey
Tower and piles of building on the shore, with many a church-spire
shooting up between, looked coldly on, and seemed to disdain their
chafing, restless neighbour.
Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright morning save
in so far as it spared him the trouble of carrying an umbrella, caused
himself to be put ashore hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither
through a narrow lane which, partaking of the amphibious character
of its frequenters, had as much water as mud in its composition, and
a very liberal supply of both. Arrived at his destination, the first
object that presented itself to his view was a pair of very imperfectly
shod feet elevated in the air with the soles upwards, which
remarkable appearance was referable to the boy, who being of an
eccentric spirit and having a natural taste for tumbling, was now
standing on his head and contemplating the aspect of the river under
these uncommon circumstances. He was speedily brought on his
heels by the sound of his master's voice, and as soon as his head was
in its right position, Mr Quilp, to speak expresively in the absence of
a better verb, 'punched it' for him.
'Come, you let me alone,' said the boy, parrying Quilp's hand with
both his elbows alternatively. 'You'll get something you won't like if
you don't and so I tell you.'
'You dog,' snarled Quilp, 'I'll beat you with an iron rod, I'll scratch
you with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes, if you talk to me--I will.'
With these threats he clenched his hand again, and dexterously
diving in betwen the elbows and catching the boy's head as it dodged
from side to side, gave it three or four good hard knocks. Having
now carried his point and insisted on it, he left off.
'You won't do it agin,' said the boy, nodding his head and drawing
back, with the elbows ready in case of the worst; 'now--'
'Stand still, you dog,' said Quilp. 'I won't do it again, because I've
done it as often as I want. Here. Take the key.'
'Why don't you hit one of your size?' said the boy approaching very
slowly.
'Where is there one of my size, you dog?' returned Quilp. 'Take the
key, or I'll brain you with it'--indeed he gave him a smart tap with
the handle as he spoke. 'Now, open the counting-house.'
The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desisting when he
looked round and saw that Quilp was following him with a steady
look. And here it may be remarked, that between this boy and the
dwarf that existed a strange kind of mutual liking. How born or
bred, and or nourished upon blows and threats on one side, and
retorts and defiances on the other, is not to the purpose. Quilp would
certainly suffer nobody to contract him but the boy, and the boy
would assuredly not have submitted to be so knocked about by
anybody but Quilp, when he had the power to run away at any time
he chose.
'Now,' said Quilp, passing into the wooden counting-house, 'you
mind the wharf. Stand upon your head agin, and I'll cut one of your
feet off.'
The boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut himself in,
stood on his head before the door, then walked on his hands to the
back and stood on his head there, and then to the opposite side and
repeated the performance. There were indeed four sides to the
counting-house, but he avoided that one where the window was,
deeming it probable that Quilp would be looking out of it. This was
prudent, for in point of fact, the dwarf, knowing his disposition, was
lying in wait at a little distance from the sash armed with a large
piece of wood, which, being rough and jagged and studded in many
parts with broken nails, might possibly have hurt him.
It was a dirty little box, this counting-house, with nothing in it but an
old ricketty desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an ancient almanack, an
inkstand with no ink, and the stump of one pen, and an eight-day
clock which hadn't gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the
minute-hand had been twisted off for a tooth-pick. Daniel Quilp
pulled his hat over his brows, climbed on to the desk (which had a
flat top) and stretching his short length upon it went to sleep with
ease of an old pactitioner; intending, no doubt, to compensate
himself for the deprivation of last night's rest, by a long and sound
nap.
Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he had not been
asleep a quarter of an hour when the boy opened the door and thrust
in his head, which was like a bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp
was a light sleeper and started up directly.
'Here's somebody for you,' said the boy.
'Who?'
'I don't know.'
'Ask!' said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before mentioned and
throwing it at him with such dexterity that it was well the boy
disappeared before it reached the spot on which he had stood. 'Ask,
you dog.'
Not caring to venture within range of such missles again, the boy
discreetly sent in his stead the first cause of the interruption, who
now presented herself at the door.
'What, Nelly!' cried Quilp.
'Yes,' said the child, hesitating whether to enter or retreat, for the
dwarf just roused, with his dishevelled hair hanging all about him
and a yellow handkerchief over his head, was something fearful to
behold; it's only me, sir.'
'Come in,' said Quilp, without getting off the desk. 'Come in. Stay.
Just look out into the yard, and see whether there's a boy standing on
his head.'
'No, sir,' replied Nell. 'He's on his feet.'
'You're sure he is?' said Quilp. 'Well. Now, come in and shut the
door. What's your message, Nelly?'
The child handed him a letter. Mr Quilp, without changing his
position further than to turn over a little more on his side and rest his
chin on his hand, proceeded to make himself acquainted with its
contents.
CHAPTER 6
Little Nell stood timidly by, with her eyes raised to the countenance
of Mr Quilp as he read the letter, plainly showing by her looks that
while she entertained some fear and distrust of the little man, she
was much inclined to laugh at his uncouth appearance and grotesque
attitude. And yet there was visible on the part of the child a painful
anxiety for his reply, and consciousness of his power to render it
disagreeable or distressing, which was strongly at variance with this
impulse and restrained it more effectually than she could possibly
have done by any efforts of her own.
That Mr Quilp was himself perplexed, and that in no small degree,
by the contents of the letter, was sufficiently obvious. Before he had
got through the first two or three lines he began to open his eyes
very wide and to frown most horribly, the next two or three caused
him to scratch his head in an uncommonly vicious manner, and when
he came to the conclusion he gave a long dismal whistle indicative of
surprise and dismay. After folding and laying it down beside him, he
bit the nails of all of his ten fingers with extreme voracity; and
taking it up sharply, read it again. The second perusal was to all
appearance as unsatisfactory as the first, and plunged him into a
profound reverie from which he awakened to another assault upon
his nails and a long stare at the child, who with her eyes turned
towards the ground awaited his further pleasure.
'Halloa here!' he said at length, in a voice, and with a suddenness,
which made the child start as though a gun had been fired off at her
ear. 'Nelly!'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you know what's inside this letter, Nell?'
'No, sir!'
'Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon your soul?'
'Quite sure, sir.'
'Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey?' said the dwarf.
'Indeed I don't know,' returned the child.
'Well!' muttered Quilp as he marked her earnest look. 'I believe
you. Humph! Gone already? Gone in four-and-twenty hours! What
the devil has he done with it, that's the mystery!'
This reflection set him scratching his head and biting his nails once
more. While he was thus employed his features gradually relaxed
into what was with him a cheerful smile, but which in any other man
would have been a ghastly grin of pain, and when the child looked
up again she found that he was regarding her with extraordinary
favour and complacency.
'You look very pretty to-day, Nelly, charmingly pretty. Are you
tired, Nelly?'
'No, sir. I'm in a hurry to get back, for he will be anxious while I
am away.'
'There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at all,' said Quilp. 'How
should you like to be my number two, Nelly?'
'To be what, sir?'
'My number two, Nelly, my second, my Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf.
The child looked frightened, but seemed not to understand him,
which Mr Quilp observing, hastened to make his meaning more
distinctly.
'To be Mrs Quilp the second, when Mrs Quilp the first is dead,
sweet Nell,' said Quilp, wrinkling up his eyes and luring her towards
him with his bent forefinger, 'to be my wife, my little cherry-cheeked,
red-lipped wife. Say
that Mrs Quilp lives five year, or only
four, you'll be just the proper age for me. Ha ha! Be a good girl,
Nelly, a very good girl, and see if one of these days you don't come
to be Mrs Quilp of Tower Hill.'
So far from being sustained and stimulated by this delightful
prospect, the child shrank from him in great agitation, and trembled
violently. Mr Quilp, either because frightening anybody afforded
him a constitutional delight, or because it was pleasant to
contemplate the death of Mrs Quilp number one, and the elevation of
Mrs Quilp number two to her post and title, or because he was
determined from purposes of his own to be agreeable and good-humoured at
that particular
time, only laughed and feigned to take no
heed of her alarm.
'You shall home with me to Tower Hill and see Mrs Quilp that is,
directly,' said the dwarf. 'She's very fond of you, Nell, though not
so fond as I am. You shall come home with me.'
'I must go back indeed,' said the child. 'He told me to return directly
I had the answer.'
'But you haven't it, Nelly,' retorted the dwarf, 'and won't have it,
and can't have it, until I have been home, so you see that to do your
errand, you must go with me. Reach me yonder hat, my dear, and
we'll go directly.' With that, Mr Quilp suffered himself to roll
gradually off the desk until his short legs touched the ground, when
he got upon them and led the way from the counting-house to the
wharf outside, when the first objects that presented themselves were
the boy who had stood on his head and another young gentleman of
about his own stature, rolling in the mud together, locked in a tight
embrace, and cuffing each other with mutual heartiness.
'It's Kit!' cried Nelly, clasping her hand, 'poor Kit who came with
me! Oh, pray stop them, Mr Quilp!'
'I'll stop 'em,' cried Quilp, diving into the little counting-house and
returning with a thick stick, 'I'll stop 'em. Now, my boys, fight
away. I'll fight you both. I'll take bot of you, both together, both
together!'
With which defiances the dwarf flourished his cudgel, and dancing
round the combatants and treading upon them and skipping over
them, in a kind of frenzy, laid about him, now on one and now on
the other, in a most desperate manner, always aiming at their heads
and dealing such blows as none but the veriest little savage would
have inflicted. This being warmer work than they had calculated
upon, speedily cooled the courage of the belligerents, who scrambled
to their feet and called for quarter.
'I'll beat you to a pulp, you dogs,' said Quilp, vainly endeavoring to
get near either of them for a parting blow. 'I'll bruise you until
you're copper-coloured, I'll break your faces till you haven't a
profile between you, I will.'
'Come, you drop that stick or it'll be worse for you,' said his boy,
dodging round him and watching an opportunity to rush in; 'you
drop that stick.'
'Come a little nearer, and I'll drop it on your skull, you dog,' said
Quilp, with gleaming eyes; 'a little nearer--nearer yet.'
But the boy declined the invitation until his master was apparently a
little off his guard, when he darted in and seizing the weapon tried to
wrest it from his grasp. Quilp, who was as strong as a lion, easily
kept his hold until the boy was tugging at it with his utmost power,
when he suddenly let it go and sent him reeling backwards, so that
he fell violently upon his head. the success of this manoeuvre tickled
Mr Quilp beyond description, and he laughed and stamped upon the
ground as at a most irresistible jest.
'Never mind,' said the boy, nodding his head and rubbing it at the
same time; 'you see if ever I offer to strike anybody again because
they say you're an uglier dwarf than can be seen anywheres for a
penny, that's all.'
'Do you mean to say, I'm not, you dog?' returned Quilp.
'No!' retorted the boy.
'Then what do you fight on my wharf for, you villain?' said Quilp.
'Because he said so,' replied to boy, pointing to Kit, 'not because
you an't.'
'Then why did he say,' bawled Kit, 'that Miss Nelly was ugly, and
that she and my master was obliged to do whatever his master liked?
Why did he say that?'
'He said what he did because he's a fool, and you said what you did
because you're very wise and clever--almost too clever to live,
unless you're very careful of yourself, Kit.' said Quilp, with great
suavity in his manner, but still more of quiet malice about his eyes
and mouth. 'Here's sixpence for you, Kit. Always speak the truth.
At all times, Kit, speak the truth. Lock the counting-house, you dog,
and bring me the key.'
The other boy, to whom this order was addresed, did as he was told,
and was rewarded for his partizanship in behalf of his master, by a
dexterous rap on the nose with the key, which brought the water into
his eyes. Then Mr Quilp departed with the child and Kit in a boat,
and the boy revenged himself by dancing on his head at intervals on
the extreme verge of the wharf, during the whole time they crossed
the river.
There was only Mrs Quilp at home, and she, little expecting the
return of her lord, was just composing herself for a refreshing
slumber when the sound of his footsteps roused her. She had barely
time to seem to be occupied in some needle-work, when he entered,
accompanied by the child; having left Kit downstairs.
'Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs Quilp,' said her husband. 'A glass of
wine, my dear, and a biscuit, for she has had a long walk. She'll sit
with you, my soul, while I write a letter.'
Mrs Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's face to know what this
unusual courtesy might portend, and obedient to the summons she
saw in his gesture, followed him into the next room.
'Mind what I say to you,' whispered Quilp. 'See if you can get out
of her anything about her grandfather, or what they do, or how they
live, or what he tells her. I've my reasons for knowing, if I can. You
women talk more freely to one another than you do to us, and you
have a soft, mild way with you that'll win upon her. Do you hear?'
'Yes, Quilp.'
'Go then. What's the matter now?'
'Dear Quilp,' faltered his wife. 'I love the child--if you could do
without making me deceive her--'
The dwarf muttering a terrible oath looked round as if for some
weapon with which to inflict condign punishment upon his
disobedient wife. the submissive little woman hurriedly entreated
him not to be angry, and promised to do as he bade her.
'Do you hear me,' whispered Quilp, nipping and pinching her arm;
'worm yourself into her secrets; I know you can. I'm listening,
recollect. If you're not sharp enough, I'll creak the door, and woe
betide you if I have to creak it much. Go!'
Mrs Quilp departed according to order, and her amiable husband,
ensconcing himself behind the partly opened door, and applying his
ear close to it, began to listen with a face of great craftiness and
attention.
Poor Mrs Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner to begin or
what kind of inquiries she could make; and it was not until the door,
creaking in a very urgent manner, warned her to proceed without
further consideration, that the sound of her voice was heard.
'How very often you have come backwards and forwards lately to
Mr Quilp, my dear.'
'I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times,' returned Nell
innocently.
'And what has he said to that?'
'Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so sad and wretched
that if you could have seen him I am sure you must have cried; you
could not have helped it more than I, I know. How that door creaks!'
'It often does.' returned Mrs Quilp, with an uneasy glance towards
it. 'But your grandfather--he used not to be so wretched?'
'Oh, no!' said the child eagerly, 'so different! We were once so
happy and he so cheerful and contented! You cannot think what a sad
change has fallen on us since.'
'I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this, my dear!' said
Mrs Quilp. And she spoke the truth.
'Thank you,' returned the child, kissing her cheek, 'you are always
kind to me, and it is a pleasure to talk to you. I can speak to no one
else about him, but poor Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel
happier perhaps than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me
sometimes to see him alter so.'
'He'll alter again, Nelly,' said Mrs Quilp, 'and be what he was
before.'
'Oh, if God would only let that come about!' said the child with
streaming eyes; 'but it is a long time now, since he first began to--I
thought I saw that door moving!'
'It's the wind,' said Mrs Quilp, fainly. 'Began to ---'
'To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our old way ot
spending the time in the long evenings,' said the child. 'I used to
read to him by the fireside, and he sat listening, and when I stopped
and we began to talk, he told me about my mother, and how she
once looked and spoke just like me when she was a little child. Then
he used to take me on his knee, and try to make me understand that
she was not lying in her grave, but had flown to a beautiful country
beyond the sky where nothing died or ever grew old--we were very
happy once!'
'Nelly, Nelly!' said the poor woman, 'I can't bear to see one as
young as you so sorrowful. Pray don't cry.'
'I do so very seldom,' said Nell,' but I have kept this to myself a
long time, and I am not quite well, I think, for the tears come into
my eyes and I cannot keep them back. I don't mind telling you my
grief, for I know you will not tell it to any one again.'
Mrs Quilp turned away her head and made no answer.
'Then,' said the child, 'we often walked in the fields and among the
green trees, and when we came home at night, we liked it better for
being tired, and said what a happy place it was. And if it was dark
and rather dull, we used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only
made us remember our last walk with greater pleasure, and look
forward to our next one. But now we never have these walks, and
though it is the same house it is darker and much more gloomy than
it used to be, indeed!'
She paused here, but though the door creaked more than once, Mrs
Quilp said nothing.
'Mind you don't suppose,' said the child earnestly, 'that grandfather
is less kind to me than he was. I think he loves me better every day,
and is kinder and more afectionate than he was the day before. You
do not know how fond he is of me!'
'I am sure he loves you dearly,' said Mrs Quilp.
'Indeed, indeed he does!' cried Nell, 'as dearly as I love him. But I
have not told you the greatest change of all, and this you must never
breathe again to any one. He has no sleep or rest, but that which he
takes by day in his easy chair; for every night and neary all night
long he is away from home.'
'Nelly!'
'Hush!' said the child, laying her finger on her lip and looking
round. 'When he comes home in the morning, which is generally just
before day, I let him in. Last night he was very late, and it was quite
light. I saw that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were
bloodshot, and that his legs trembled as he walked. When I had gone
to bed again, I heard him groan. I got up and ran back to him, and
heard him say, before he knew that I was there, that he could not
bear his life much longer, and if it was not for the child, would wish
to die. What shall I do! Oh! What shall I do!'
The fountains of her heart were opened; the child, overpowered by
the weight of her sorrows and anxieties, by the first confidence she
had ever shown, and the sympathy with which her little tale had been
received, hid her face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst
into a passion of tears.
In a few minutes Mr Quilp returned, and expressed the utmost
surprise to find her in this condtiion, which he did very naturally and
with admirable effect, for that kind of acting had been rendered
familiar to him by long practice, and he was quite at home in it.
'She's tired you see, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf, squinting in a
hideous manner to imply that his wife was to follow his lead. 'It's a
long way from her home to the wharf, and then she was alrmed to
see a couple of young scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the
water besides. All this together has been too much for her. Poor
Nell!'
Mr Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means he could have
devised for the recovery of his young visitor, by patting her on the
head. Such an application from any other hand might not have
produced a remarkable effect, but the child shrank so quickly from
his touch and felt such an instinctive desire to get out of his reach,
that she rose directly and declared herself ready to return.
'But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs Quilp and me.' said the
dwarf.
'I have been away too long, sir, already,' returned Nell, drying her
eyes.
'Well,' said Mr Quilp, 'if you will go, you will, Nelly. Here's the
note. It's only to say that I shall see him to-morrow or maybe next
day, and that I couldn't do that little business for him this morning.
Good-bye, Nelly. Here, you sir; take care of her, d'ye hear?'
Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make no reply to so
needless an injunction, and after staring at Quilp in a threatening
manner, as if he doubted whether he might not have been the cause
of Nelly shedding tears, and felt more than half disposed to revenge
the fact upon him on the mere suspicion, turned about and followed
his young mistress, who had by this time taken her leave of Mrs
Quilp and departed.
'You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs Quilp?' said the dwarf,
turning upon her as soon as they were left alone.
'What more could I do?' returned his wife mildly?
'What more could you do!' sneered Quilp, 'couldn't you have done
something less? Couldn't you have done what you had to do, without
appearing in your favourite part of the crocodile, you minx?'
'I am very sorry for the child, Quilp,' said his wife. 'Surely I've
done enough. I've led her on to tell her secret she supposed we were
alone; and you were by, God forgive me.'
'You led her on! You did a great deal truly!' said Quilp. 'What did I
tell you about making me creak the door? It's lucky for you that
from what she let fall, I've got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd
have visited the failure upon you, I can tell you.'
Mrs Quilp being fully persuaded of this, made no reply. Her husband
added with some exultation,
'But you may thank your fortunate stars--the same stars that made
you Mrs Quilp--you may thank them that I'm upon the old
gentleman's track, and have got a new light. So let me hear no more
about this matter now or at any other time, and don't get anything
too nice for dinner, for I shan't be home to it.'
So saying, Mr Quilp put his hat on and took himself off, and Mrs
Quilp, who was afflicted beyond measure by the recollection of the
part she had just acted, shut herself up in her chamber, and
smothering her head in the bed-clothes bemoaned her fault more
bitterly than many less tender-hearted persons would have mourned a
much greater offence; for, in the majority of cases, conscience is an
elastic and very flexible article, which will bear a deal of stretching
and adapt itself to a great variety of circumstances. Some people by
prudent management and leaving it off piece by piece like a flannel
waistcoat in warm weather, even contrive, in time, to dispense with
it altogether; but there be others who can assume the garment and
throw it off at pleasure; and this, being the greatest and most
convenient improvement, is the one most in vogue.
CHAPTER 7
'Fred,' said Mr Swiveller, 'remember the once popular melody of
Begone dull care; fan the sinking flame of hilarity with the wing of
friendship; and pass the rosy wine.'
Mr Richard Swiveller's apartments were in the neighbourhood of
Drury Lane, and in addition to this convenience of situation had the
advantage of being over a tobacconist's shop, so that he was enabled
to procure a refreshing sneeze at any time by merely stepping out
upon the staircase, and was saved the trouble and expense of
maintaining a snuff-box. It was in these apartments that Mr Swiveller
made use of the expressions above recorded for the consolation and
encouragement of his desponding friend; and it may not be
uninteresting or improper to remark that even these brief
observations partook in a double sense of the figurative and poetical
character of Mr Swiveller's mind, as the rosy wine was in fact
represented by one glass of cold gin-and-water, which was
replenished as occasion required from a bottle and jug upon the
table, and was passed from one to another, in a scarcity of tumblers
which, as Mr Swiveller's was a bachelor's establishment, may be
acknowledged without a blush. By a like pleasant fiction his single
chamber was always mentioned in a plural number. In its disengaged
times, the tobacconist had announced it in his window as
'apartments' for a single gentleman, and Mr Swiveller, following up
the hint, never failed to speak of it as his rooms, his lodgings, or his
chambers, conveying to his hearers a notion of indefinite space, and
leaving their imaginations to wander through long suites of lofty
halls, at pleasure.
In this flight of fancy, Mr Swiveller was assisted by a deceptive
piece of furniture, in reality a bedstead, but in semblance a bookcase,
which occupied a prominent situation in his chamber and seemed to
defy suspicion and challenge inquiry. There is no doubt that by day
Mr Swiveller firmly believed this secret convenience to be a
bookcase and nothing more; that he closed his eyes to the bed,
resolutely denied the existence of the blankets, and spurned the
bolster from his thoughts. No word of its real use, no hint of its
nightly service, no allusion to its peculiar properties, had ever passed
between him and his most intimate friends. Implicit faith in the
deception was the first article of his creed. To be the friend of
Swiveller you must reject all circumstantial evidence, all reason,
observation, and experience, and repose a blind belief in the
bookcase. It was his pet weakness, and he cherished it.
'Fred!' said Mr Swiveller, finding that his former adjuration had
been productive of no effect. 'Pass the rosy.'
Young Trent with an impatient gesture pushed the glass towards him,
and fell again in the the moddy attitude from which he had been
unwillingly roused.
'I'll give you, Fred,' said his friend, stirring the mixture, 'a little
sentiment appropriate to the occasion. Here's May the ---'
'Pshaw!' interposed the other. 'You worry me to death with your
chattering. You can be merry under any circumstances.'
'Why, Mr Trent,' returned Dick, 'there is a proverb which talks
about being merry and wise. There are some people who can be
merry and can't be wise, and some who can be wise (or think they
can) and can't be merry. I'm one of the first sort. If the proverb's a
good 'un, I supose it's better to keep to half of it than none; at all
events, I'd rather be merry and not wise, than like you, neither one
nor t'other.'
'Bah!' muttered his friend, peevishly.
'With all my heart,' said Mr Swiveller. 'In the polite circles I believe
this sort of thing isn't usually said to a gentleman in his own
apartments, but never mind that. Make yourself at home,' adding to
this retort an observation to the effect that his friend appeared to be
rather 'cranky' in point of temper, Richards Swiveller finished the
rosy and applied himself to the composition of another glassful, in
which, after tasting it with great relish, he proposed a toast to an
imaginary company.
'Gentlemen, I'll give you, if you please, Success to the ancient
family of the Swivellers, and good luck to Mr Richard in particular--Mr
Richard, gentlemen,'
said Dick with great emphasis, 'who spends
all his money on his friends and is Bah!'d for his pains. Hear, hear!'
'Dick!' said the other, returning to his seat after having paced the
room twice or thrice, 'will you talk seriously for two minutes, if I
show you a way to make your fortune with very little trouble?'
'You've shown me so many,' returned Dick; 'and nothing has come
of any one of 'em but empty pockets ---'
'You'll tell a different story of this one, before a very long time is
over,' said his companion, drawing his chair to the table. 'You saw
my sister Nell?'
'What about her?' returned Dick.
'She has a pretty face, has she not?'
'Why, certainly,' replied Dick. 'I must say for her that there's not
any very strong family likeness between her and you.'
'Has she a pretty face,' repeated his friend impatiently.
'Yes,' said Dick, 'she has a pretty face, a very pretty face. What of
that?'
'I'll tell you,' returned his friend. 'It's very plain that the old man
and I will remain at daggers drawn to the end of our lives, and that I
have nothing to expect from him. You see that, I suppose?'
'A bat might see that, with the sun shining,' said Dick.
'It's equally plain that the money which the old flint--rot him--first
taught me to expect that I should share with her at his death, will all
be hers, is it not?'
'I should said it was,' replied Dick; 'unless the way in which I put
the case to him, made an impression. It may have done so. It was
powerful, Fred. 'Here is a jolly old grandfather'--that was strong, I
thought--very friendly and natural. Did it strike you in that way?'
It didn't strike him,' returned the other, 'so we needn't discuss it.
Now look here. Nell is nearly fourteen.'
'Fine girl of her age, but small,' observed Richard Swiveller
parenthetically.
'If I am to go on, be quiet for one minute,' returned Trent, fretting at
the slight interest the other appeared to take in the conversation.
'Now I'm coming to the point.'
'That's right,' said Dick.
'The girl has strong affections, and brought up as she has been, may,
at her age, be easily influenced and persuaded. If I take her in hand,
I will be bound by a very little coaxing and threatening to bend her
to my will. Not to beat about the bush (for the advantages of the
scheme would take a week to tell) what's to prevent your marrying
her?'
Richard Swiveller, who had been looking over the rim of the tumbler
while his companion addressed the foregoing remarks to him with
great energy and earnestness of manner, no sooner heard these words
than he evinced the utmost consternation, and with difficulty
ejaculated the monosyllable:
'What!'
'I say, what's to prevent,' repeated the other with a steadiness of
manner, of the effect of which upon his companion he was well
assured by long experience, 'what's to prevent your marrying her?'
'And she 'nearly fourteen'!' cried Dick.
'I don't mean marrying her now'--returned the brother angrily; 'say
in two year's time, in three, in four. Does the old man look like a
long-liver?'
'He don't look like it,' said Dick shaking his head, 'but these old
people--there's no trusting them, Fred. There's an aunt of mind
down in Dorsetshire that was going to die when I was eight years
old, and hasn't kept her word yet. They're so aggravating, so
unprincipled, so spiteful--unless there's apoplexy in the family, Fred,
you can't calculate upon 'em, and even then they deceive you just as
often as not.'
'Look at the worst side of the question then,' said Trent as steadily
as before, and keeping his eyes upon his friend. 'Suppose he lives.'
'To be sure,' said Dick. 'There's the rub.'
'I say,' resumed his friend, 'suppose he lives, and I persuaded, or if
the word sounds more feasible, forced Nell to a secret marriage with
you. What do you think would come of that?'
'A family and an annual income of nothing, to keep 'em on,' said
Richard Swiveller after some reflection.
'I tell you,' returned the other with an increased earnestness, which,
whether it were real or assumed, had the same effect on his
companion, 'that he lives for her, that his whole energies and
thoughts are bound up in her, that he would no more disinherit her
for an act of disobedience than he would take me into his favour
again for any act of obedience or virtue that I could possibly be
guilty of. He could not do it. You or any other man with eyes in his
head may see that, if he chooses.'
'It seems improbable certainly,' said Dick, musing.
'It seems improbable because it is improbable,' his friend returned.
'If you would furnish him with an additional inducement to forgive
you, let there be an irreconcilable breach, a most deadly quarrel,
between you and me--let there be a pretense of such a thing, I mean,
of course--and he'll do fast enough. As to Nell, constant dropping
will wear away a stone; you know you may trust to me as far as she
is concerned. So, whether he lives or dies, what does it come to?
That you become the sole inheritor of the wealth of this rich old
hunks, that you and I spend it together, and that you get into the
bargain a beautiful young wife.'
'I suppose there's no doubt about his being rich'--said Dick.
'Doubt! Did you hear what he left fall the other day when we were
there? Doubt! What will you doubt next, Dick?'
It would be tedious to pursue the conversation through all its artful
windings, or to develope the gradual approaches by which the heart
of Richard Swiveller was gained. It is sufficient to know that vanity,
interest, poverty, and every spendthrift consideration urged him to
look upon the proposal with favour, and that where all other
inducements were wanting, the habitual carelessness of his
disposition stepped in and still weighed down the scale on the same
side. To these impulses must be added the complete ascendancy
which his friend had long been accustomed to exercise over him--an
ascendancy exerted in the beginning sorely at the expense of his
friend's vices, and was in nine cases out of ten looked upon as his
designing tempter when he was indeed nothing but his thoughtless,
light-headed tool.
The motives on the other side were something deeper than any which
Richard Swiveller entertained or understood, but these being left to
their own development, require no present elucidation. the
negotiation was concluded very pleasantly, and Mr Swiveller was in
the act of stating in flowery terms that he had no insurmountable
objection to marrying anybody plentifully endowed with money or
moveables, who could be induced to take him, when he was
interrupted in his observations by a knock at the door, and the
consequent necessity of crying 'Come in.'
The door was opened, but nothing came in except a soapy arm and a
strong gush of tobacco. The gush of tobacco came from the shop
downstairs, and the soapy arm proceeded from the body of a servant-girl,
who being then and
there engaged in cleaning the stars had just
drawn it out of a warm pail to take in a letter, which letter she now
held in her hand, proclaiming aloud with that quick perception of
surnames peculiar to her class that it was for Mister Snivelling.
Dick looked rather pale and foolish when he glanced at the direction,
and still more so when he came to look at the inside, observing that
it was one of the inconveniences of being a lady's man, and that it
was very easy to talk as they had been talking, but he had quite
forgotten her.
'Her. Who?' demanded Trent.
'Sophy Wackles,' said Dick.
'Who's she?'
'She's all my fancy painted her, sir, that's what she is,' said Mr
Swiveller, taking a long pull at 'the rosy' and looking gravely at his
friend. 'She's lovely, she's divine. You know her.'
'I remember,' said his companion carelessly. 'What of her?'
'Why, sir,' returned Dick, 'between Miss Sophia Wackles and the
humble individual who has now the honor to address you, warm and
tender sentiments have been engendered, sentiments of the most
honourable and inspiring kind. The Goddess Diana, sir, that calls
aloud for the chase, is not more particular in her behavior than
Sophia Wackles; I can tell you that.'
'Am I to believe there's anything real in what you say?' demanded
his friend; 'you don't mean to say that any love-making has been
going on?'
'Love-making, yes. Promising, no,' said Dick. 'There can be no
action for breach, that's one comfort. I've never committed myself in
writing, Fred.'
'And what's in the letter, pray?'
'A reminder, Fred, for to-night--a small party of twenty, making two
hundred light fantastic toes in all, supposing every lady and
gentleman to have the proper complement. It must go, if it's only to
begin breaking off the affair--I'll do it, don't you be afraid. I should
like to know whether she left this herself. If she did, unconscious of
any bar to her happiness, it's affecting, Fred.'
To solve this question, Mr Swiveller summoned the handmaid and
ascertained that Miss Sophy Wackles had indeed left the letter with
her own hands; and that she had come accompanied, for decorum's
sake no doubt, by a younger Miss Wackles; and that on learning that
Mr Swiveller was at home and being requested to walk upstairs, she
was extremely shocked and professed that she would rather die. Mr
Swiveller heard this account with a degree of admiration not
altogether consistent with the project in which he had just concurred,
but his friend attached very little importance to his behavior in this
respect, probably because he knew that he had influence sufficient to
control Richard Swiveller's proceedings in this or any other matter,
whenever he deemed it necessary, for the advancement of his own
purposes, to exert it.
CHAPTER 8
Business disposed of, Mr Swiveller was inwardly reminded of its
being nigh dinner-time, and to the intent that his health might not be
endangered by longer abstinence, dispached a message to the nearest
eating-house requiring an immediate supply of boiled beef and greens
for two. With this demand, however, the eating-house (having
experience of its customer) declined to comply, churlishly sending
back for answer that if Mr Swiveller stood in need of beef perhaps
he would be so obliging as to come there and eat it, bringing with
him, as grace before meat, the amount of a certin small account
which had long been outstanding. Not at all intimidated by this
rebuff, but rather sharpened in wits and appetite, Mr Swiveller
forwarded the same message to another and more distant eating-house,
adding to it by way of rider that the gentleman was induced to
send so far, not only by the great fame and popularity its beef had
acquired, but in consequence of the extreme toughness of the beef
retailed at the obdurant cook's shop, which rendered it quite unfit not
merely for gentlemanly food, but for any human consumption. The
good effect of this politic course was demonstrated by the speedy
arrive of a small pewter pyramid, curously constructed of platters
and covers, whereof the boiled-beef-plates formed the base, and a
foaming quart-pot the apex; the structure being resolved into its
component parts afforded all things requisite and necessary for a
hearty meal, to which Mr Swiveller and his friend applied
themselves with great keenness and enjoyment.
'May the present moment,' said Dick, sticking his fork into a large
carbuncular potato, 'be the worst of our lives! I like the plan of
sending 'em with the peel on; there's a charm in drawing a poato
from its native element (if I may so express it) to which the rich and
powerful are strangers. Ah! 'Man wants but little here below, nor
wants that little long!' How true that it!--after dinner.'
'I hope the eating-house keeper will want but little and that he may
not want that little long,' returned his companion; but I suspect
you've no means of paying for this!'
'I shall be passing present, and I'll call,' said Dick, winking his eye
significantly. 'The waiter's quite helpless. The goods are gone, Fred,
and there's an end of it.'
In point of fact, it would seem that the waiter felt this wholesome
truth, for when he returned for the empty plates and dishes and was
informed by Mr Swiveller with dignified carelessness that he would
call and setle when he should be passing presently, he displayed
some pertubation of spirit and muttered a few remarks about
'payment on delivery' and 'no trust,' and other unpleasant subjects,
but was fain to content himself with inquiring at what hour it was
likely that the gentleman would call, in order that being presently
responsible for the beef , greens, and sundries, he might take to be in
the way at the time. Mr Swiveller, after mentally calculating his
engagements to a nicety, replied that he should look in at from two
minutes before six and seven minutes past; and the man disappearing
with this feeble consolation, Richards Swiveller took a greasy
memorandum-book from his pocket and made an entry therein.
'Is that a reminder, in case you should forget to call?' said Trent
with a sneer.
'Not exactly, Fred,' replied the imperturable Richard, continuing to
write with a businesslike air. 'I enter in this little book the names of
the streets that I can't go down while the shops are open. This dinner
today closes Long Acre. I bought a pair of boots in Great Queen
Street last week, and made that no throughfare too. There's only one
avenue to the Strand left often now, and I shall have to stop up that
to-night with a pair of gloves. The roads are closing so fast in every
direction, that in a month's time, unless my aunt sends me a
remittance, I shall have to go three or four miles out of town to get
over the way.'
'There's no fear of failing, in the end?' said Trent.
'Why, I hope not,' returned Mr Swiveller, 'but the average number
of letters it take to soften her is six, and this time we have got as far
as eight without any effect at all. I'll write another tom-morrow
morning. I mean to blot it a good deal and shake some water over it
out of the pepper-castor to make it look penitent. 'I'm in such a state
of mind that I hardly know what I write'--blot--' if you could see me
at this minute shedding tears for my past misconduct'--pepper-castor--
my hand trembles when I think'--blot again--if that don't produce
the effect, it's all over.'
By this time, Mr Swiveller had finished his entry, and he now
replaced his pencil in its little sheath and closed the book, in a
perfectly grave and serious frame of mind. His friend discovered that
it was time for him to fulfil some other engagement, and Richard
Swiveller was accordingly left alone, in company with the rosy wine
and his own meditations touching Miss Sophy Wackles.
'It's rather sudden,' said Dick shaking his head with a look of
infinite wisdom, and running on (as he was accustomed to do) with
scraps of verse as if they were only prose in a hurry; 'when the heart
of a man is depressed with fears, the mist is dispelled when Miss
Wackles appears; she's a very nice girl. She's like the red red rose
that's newly sprung in June--there's no denying that--she's also like a
melody that's sweetly played in tune. It's really very sudden. Not
that there's any need, on account of Fred's little sister, to turn cool
directly, but its better not to go too far. If I begin to cool at all I
must begin at once, I see that. There's the chance of an action for
breach, that's another. There's the chance of--no, there's no chance
of that, but it's as well to be on the safe side.'
This undeveloped was the possibility, which Richard Swiveller
sought to conceal even from himself, of his not being proof against
the charms of Miss Wackles, and in some unguarded moment, by
linking his fortunes to hers forever, of putting it out of his own
power to further their notable scheme to which he had so readily
become a party. For all these reasons, he decided to pick a quarrel
with Miss Wackles without delay, and casting about for a pretext
determined in favour of groundless jealousy. Having made up his
mind on this important point, he circulated the glass (from his right
hand to left, and back again) pretty freely, to enable him to act his
part with the greater discretion, and then, after making some slight
improvements in his toilet, bent his steps towards the spot hallowed
by the fair object of his meditations.
The spot was at Chesea, for there Miss Sophia Wackles resided with
her widowed mother and two sisters, in conjunction with whom she
maintained a very small day-school for young ladies of proportionate
dimensions; a circumstance which was made known to the
neighbourhood by an oval board over the front first-floor windows,
whereupon appeared in circumbmbient flourishes the words 'Ladies'
Seminary'; and which was further published and proclaimed at
intervals between the hours of half-past nine and ten in the morning,
by a straggling and solitrary young lady of tender years standing on
the scraper on the tips of her toes and making futile attempts to reach
the knocker with spelling-book. The several duties of instruction in
this establishment were this discharged. English grammar,
composition, geography, and the use of the dumb-bells, by Miss
Melissa Wackles; writing, arthmetic, dancing, music, and general
fascination, by Miss Sophia Wackles; the art of needle-work,
marking, and samplery, by Miss Jane Wackles; corporal punishment,
fasting, and other tortures and terrors, by Mrs Wackles. Miss
Melissa Wackles was the eldest daughter, Miss Sophy the next, and
Miss Jane the youngest. Miss Melissa might have seen five-and-thirty
summers or thereabouts, and verged on the autumnal; Miss Sophy
was a fresh, good humoured, busom girl of twenty; and Miss Jane
numbered scarcely sixteen years. Mrs Wackles was an excellent
but rather vemenous old lady of three-score.
To this Ladies' Seminary, then, Richard Swiveller hied, with designs
obnoxious to the peace of the fair Sophia, who, arrayed in virgin
white, embelished by no ornament but one blushing rose, received
him on his arrival, in the midst of very elegant not to say brilliant
preparations; such as the embellishment of the room with the little
flower-pots which always stood on the window-sill outside, save in
windy weather when they blew into the area; the choice attire of the
day-scholars who were allowed to grace the festival; the unwonted
curls of Miss Jane Wackles who had kept her head during the whole
of the preceding day screwed up tight in a yellow play-bill; and the
solemn gentility and stately bearing of the old lady and her eldest
daughter, which struck Mr Swiveller as being uncommon but made
no further impression upon him.
The truth is--and, as there is no accounting for tastes, even a taste so
strange as this may be recorded without being looked upon as a
wilful and malicious invention--the truth is that neither Mrs Wackles
nor her eldest daughter had at any time greatly favoured the
pretensions of Mr Swiveller, being accustomed to make slight
mention of him as 'a gay young man' and to sigh and shake their
heads ominously whenever his name was mentioned. Mr Swiveller's
conduct in respect to Miss Sophy having been of that vague and
dilitory kind which is usuaully looked upon as betokening no fixed
matrimonial intentions, the young lady herself began in course of
time to deem it highly desirable, that it should be brought to an issue
one way or other. Hence she had at last consented to play off against
Richard Swiveller a stricken market-gardner known to be ready with
his offer on the smallest encouragement, and hence--as this occasion
had been specially assigned for the purpose--that great anxiety on her
part for Richard Swiveller's presence which had occasioned her to
leave the note he has ben seen to receive. 'If he has any expectations
at all or any means of keeping a wife well,' said Mrs Wackles to her
eldest daughter, 'he'll state 'em to us now or never.'--'If he really
cares about me,' thought Miss Sophy, 'he must tell me so, to-night.'
But all these sayings and doings and thinkings being unknown to Mr
Swiveller, affected him not in the least; he was debating in his mind
how he could best turn jealous, and wishing that Sophy were for that
occasion only far less pretty than she was, or that she were her own
sister, which would have served his turn as well, when the company
came, and among them the market-gardener, whose name was
Cheggs. But Mr Cheggs came not alone or unsupported, for he
prudently brought along with him his sister, Miss Cheggs, who
making straight to Miss Sophy and taking her by both hands, and
kissing her on both cheeks, hoped in an audible whisper that they
had not come too early.
'Too early, no!' replied Miss Sophy.
'Oh, my dear,' rejoined Miss Cheggs in the same whisper as before,
'I've been so tormented, so worried, that it's a mercy we were not
here at four o'clock in the afternoon. Alick has been in such a state
of impatience to come! You'd hardly believe that he was dressed
before dinner-time and has been looking at the clock and teasing me
ever since. It's all your fault, you naughty thing.'
Hereupon Miss Sophy blushed, and Mr Cheggs (who was bashful
before ladies) blushed too, and Miss Sophy's mother and sisters, to
prevent Mr Cheggs from blushing more, lavished civilities and
attentions upon him, and left Richard Swiveller to take care of
himself. Here was the very thing he wanted, here was good cause
reason and foundation for pretending to be angry; but having this
cause reason and foundation which he had come expressly to seek,
not expecting to find, Richard Swiveller was angry in sound earnest,
and wondered what the devil Cheggs meant by his impudence.
However, Mr Swiveller had Miss Sophy's hand for the first quadrille
(country-dances being low, were utterly proscribed) and so gained an
advantage over his rival, who sat despondingly in a corner and
contemplated the glorious figure of the young lady as she moved
through the mazy dance. Nor was this the only start Mr Swiveller
had of the market-gardener, for determining to show the family what
quality of man they trifled with, and influenced perhaps by his late
libations, he performed such feats of agility and such spins and twirls
as filled the company with astonishment, and in particular caused a
very long gentleman who was dancing with a very short scholar, to
stand quite transfixed by wonder and admiration. Even Mrs Wackles
forgot for the moment to snubb three small young ladies who were
inclined to be happy, and could not repress a rising thought that to
have such a dancer as that in the family would be a pride indeed.
At this momentous crisis, Miss Cheggs proved herself a vigourous
and useful ally, for not confining herself to expressing by scornful
smiles a contempt for Mr Swiveller's accomplishments, she took
every opportunity of whispering into Miss Sophy's ear expressions
of condolence and sympathy on her being worried by such a
ridiculous creature, declaring that she was frightened to death lest
Alick should fall upon, and beat him, in the fulness of his wrath, and
entreating Miss Sophy to observe how the eyes of the said Alick
gleamed with love and fury; passions, it may be observed, which
being too much for his eyes rushed into his nose also, and suffused it
with a crimson glow.
'You must dance with Miss Chegs,' said Miss Sophy to Dick
Swiviller, after she had herself danced twice with Mr Cheggs and
made great show of encouraging his advances. 'She's a nice girl--and
her brother's quite delightful.'
'Quite delightful, is he?' muttered Dick. 'Quite delighted too, I
should say, from the manner in which he's looking this way.'
Here Miss Jane (previously instructed for the purpose) interposed her
many curls and whispered her sister to observe how jealous Mr
Cheggs was.
'Jealous! Like his impudence!' said Richard Swiviller.
'His impudence, Mr Swiviller!' said Miss Jane, tossing her head.
'Take care he don't hear you, sir, or you may be sorry for it.'
'Oh, pray, Jane --' said Miss Sophy.
'Nonsense!' replied her sister. 'Why shouldn't Mr Cheggs be jealous
if he likes? I like that, certainly. Mr Cheggs has a good a right to be
jealous as anyone else has, and perhaps he may have a better right
soon if he hasn't already. You know best about that, Sophy!'
Though this was a concerted plot between Miss Sophy and her sister,
originating in humane intenions and having for its object the inducing
Mr Swiviller to declare himself in time, it failed in its effect; for
Miss Jane being one of those young ladies who are premeturely shrill
and shrewish, gave such undue importance to her part that Mr
Swiviller retired in dudgeon, resigning his mistress to Mr Cheggs
and converying a definance into his looks which that gentleman
indignantly returned.
'Did you speak to me, sir?' said Mr Cheggs, following him into a
corner. 'Have the kindness to smile, sir, in order that we may not be
suspected. Did you speak to me, sir'?
Mr Swiviller looked with a supercilious smile at Mr Chegg's toes,
then raised his eyes from them to his ankles, from that to his shin,
from that to his knee, and so on very gradually, keeping up his right
leg, until he reached his waistcoat, when he raised his eyes from
button to button until he reached his chin, and travelling straight up
the middle of his nose came at last to his eyes, when he said
abruptly,
'No, sir, I didn't.'
`'Hem!' said Mr Cheggs, glancing over his shoulder, 'have the
goodness to smile again, sir. Perhaps you wished to speak to me,
sir.'
'No, sir, I didn't do that, either.'
'Perhaps you may have nothing to say to me now, sir,' said Mr
Cheggs fiercely.
At these words Richard Swiviller withdrew his eyes from Mr
Chegg's face, and travelling down the middle of his nose and down
his waistcoat and down his right leg, reached his toes again, and
carefully surveyed him; this done, he crossed over, and coming up
the other legt and thence approaching by the waistcoat as before, said
when had got to his eyes, 'No sir, I haven't.:'
'Oh, indeed, sir!' said Mr Cheggs. 'I'm glad to hear it. You know
where I'm to be found, I suppose, sir, in case you should have
anything to say to me?'
'I can easily inquire, sir, when I want to know.'
'There's nothing more we need say, I believe, sir?'
'Nothing more, sir'--With that they closed the tremendous dialog by
frowning mutually. Mr Cheggs hastened to tender his hand to Miss
Sophy, and Mr Swiviller sat himself down in a corner in a very
moody state.
Hard by this corner, Mrs Wackles and Miss Wackles were seated,
looking on at the dance; and unto Mrs and Miss Wackles, Miss
Cheggs occasionally darted when her partner was occupied with his
share of the figure, and made some remark or other which was gall
and wormword to Richard Swiviller's soul. Looking into the eyes of
Mrs and Miss Wackles for encouragement, and sitting very upright
and uncomfortable on a couple of hard stools, were two of the
day-scholars; and when Miss Wackles smiled, and Mrs Wackles smiled,
the two little girls on the stools sought to curry favour by smiling
likewise, in gracious acknowledgement of which attention the old
lady frowned them down instantly, and said that if they dared to be
guilty of such an impertinence again, they should be sent under
convoy to their respective homes. This threat caused one of the
young ladies, she being of a weak and trembling temperament, to
shed tears, and for this offense they were both filed off immediately,
with a dreadful promptitude that struck terror into the souls of all the
pupils.
'I've got such news for you,' said Miss Cheggs approaching once
more, 'Alick has been saying such things to Sophy. Upon my word,
you know, it's quite serious and in earnest, that's clear.'
'What's he been saying, my dear?' demanded Mrs Wackles.
'All manner of things,' replied Miss Cheggs, 'you can't think how
out he has been speaking!'
Richard Swiviller considered it advisable to hear no more, but taking
advantage of a pause in the dancing, and the approach of Mr Cheggs
to pay his court to the old lady, swaggered with an extremely careful
assumption of extreme carelessness toward the door, passing on the
way Miss Jane Wackles, who in all the glory of her curls was
holding a flirtation, (as good practice when no better was to be had)
with a feeble old gentleman who lodged in the parlour. Near the door
sat Miss Sophy, still fluttered and confused by the attentions of Mr
Cheggs, and by her side Richard Swiveller lingered for a moment to
exchange a few parting words.
'My boat is on the shore and my bark is on the sea, but before I pass
this door I will say farewell to thee,' murmured Dick, looking
gloomily upon her.
'Are you going?' said Miss Sophy, whose heart sank within her at
the result of her stratagem, but who affected a light indifference
notwithstanding.
'Am I going!' echoed Dick bitterly. 'Yes, I am. What then?'
'Nothing, except that it's very early,' said Miss Sophy; 'but you are
your own master, of course.'
'I would that I had been my own mistress too,' said Dick, 'before I
had ever entertained a thought of you. Miss Wackles, I believed you
true, and I was blest in so believing, but now I mourn that e'er I
knew, a girl so fair yet so deceiving.'
Miss Sophy bit her lip and affected to look with great interest after
Mr Cheggs, who was quaffing lemonade in the distance.
'I came here,' said Dick, rather oblivious of the purpose with which
he had really come, 'with my bosom expanded, my heart dilated, and
my sentiments of a corresponding description. I go away with
feelings that may be conceived but cannot be described, feeling
within myself that desolating truth that my best affections have
experienced this night a stifler!'
'I am sure I don't know what you mean, Mr Swiviller,' said Miss
Sophy with downcast eyes. 'I'm very sorry if--'
'Sorry, Ma'am!' said Dick, 'sorry in the possession of a Cheegs! But
I wish you a very good night, concluding with this slight remark,
that there is a young lady growing up at this present moment for me,
who has not only great personal attractions but great wealth, and
who has requested her next of kin to propose for my hand, which,
having a regard for some members of her family, I have consented to
promise. It's a gratifying circumstance which you'll be glad to hear,
that a young and lovely girl is growing into a woman expressly on
my account, and is now saving up for me. I thought I'd mention it. I
have now merely to apologize for trespassing so long upon your
attention. Good night.'
'There's one good thing springs out of all this,' said Richard
Swiviller to himself when he had reached home and was hanging
over the candle with the extinguisher in his hand, 'which is, that I
now go heart and soul, neck and heels, with Fred in all his scheme
about little Nelly, and right glad he'll be to find me so strong upon
it. He shall know all about that to-morrow, and in the mean time, as
it's rather late, I'll try and get a wink of the balmy.'
'The balmy' came almost as soon as it was courted. In a very few
minutes Mr Swiviller was fast asleep, dreaming that he had married
Nelly Trent and come into the property, and that his first act of
power was to lay waste the market-garden of Mr Cheggs and turn it
into a brick-field.
CHAPTER 9
The child, in her confidence with Mrs Quilp, had but feebly
described the sadness and sorrow of her thoughts, or the heaviness
of the cloud which overhung her home, and cast dark shadows on its
hearth. Besides that it was very difficult to impart to any person
not intimately acquainted with the life she led, an adequate sense
of its gloom and loneliness, a constant fear of in some way
committing or injuring the old man to whom she was so tenderly
attached, had restrained her, even in the midst of her heart's
overflowing, and made her timid of allusion to the main cause of
her anxiety and distress.
For, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by variety and
uncheered by pleasant companionship, it was not the dark dreary
evenings or the long solitary nights, it was not the absence of
every slight and easy pleasure for which young hearts beat high, or
the knowing nothing of childhood but its weakness and its easily
wounded spirit, that had wrung such tears from Nell. To see the old
man struck down beneath the pressure of some hidden grief, to mark
his wavering and unsettled state, to be agitated at times with a
dreadful fear that his mind was wandering, and to trace in his
words and looks the dawning of despondent madness; to watch and
wait and listen for confirmation of these things day after day, and
to feel and know that, come what might, they were alone in the
world with no one to help or advise or care about them--these were
causes of depression and anxiety that might have sat heavily on an
older breast with many influences at work to cheer and gladden it,
but how heavily on the mind of a young child to whom they were ever
present, and who was constantly surrounded by all that could keep
such thoughts in restless action!
And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same. When he
could, for a moment, disengage his mind from the phantom that
haunted and brooded on it always, there was his young companion
with the same smile for him, the same earnest words, the same merry
laugh, the same love and care that, sinking deep into his soul,
seemed to have been present to him through his whole life. And so
he went on, content to read the book of her heart from the page
first presented to him, little dreaming of the story that lay
hidden in its other leaves, and murmuring within himself that at
least the child was happy.
She had been once. She had gone singing through the dim rooms, and
moving with gay and lightsome step among their dusty treasures,
making them older by her young life, and sterner and more grim by
her gay and cheerful presence. But, now, the chambers were cold and
gloomy, and when she left her own little room to while away the
tedious hours, and sat in one of them, she was still and motionless
as their inanimate occupants, and had no heart to startle the
echoes--hoarse from their long silence--with her voice.
In one of these rooms, was a window looking into the street, where
the child sat, many and many a long evening, and often far into the
night, alone and thoughtful. None are so anxious as those who watch
and wait; at these times, mournful fancies came flocking on her
mind, in crowds.
She would take her station here, at dusk, and watch the people as
they passed up and down the street, or appeared at the windows of
the opposite houses; wondering whether those rooms were as lonesome
as that in which she sat, and whether those people felt it company
to see her sitting there, as she did only to see them look out and
draw in their heads again. There was a crooked stack of chimneys on
one of the roofs, in which, by often looking at them, she had
fancied ugly faces that were frowning over at her and trying to
peer into the room; and she felt glad when it grew too dark to make
them out, though she was sorry too, when the man came to light the
lamps in the street--for it made it late, and very dull inside.
Then, she would draw in her head to look round the room and see
that everything was in its place and hadn't moved; and looking out
into the street again, would perhaps see a man passing with a
coffin on his back, and two or three others silently following him
to a house where somebody lay dead; which made her shudder and
think of such things until they suggested afresh the old man's
altered face and manner, and a new train of fears and speculations.
If he were to die--if sudden illness had happened to him, and he
were never to come home again, alive--if, one night, he should
come home, and kiss and bless her as usual, and after she had gone
to bed and had fallen asleep and was perhaps dreaming pleasantly,
and smiling in her sleep, he should kill himself and his blood come
creeping, creeping, on the ground to her own bed-room door! These
thoughts were too terrible to dwell upon, and again she would have
recourse to the street, now trodden by fewer feet, and darker and
more silent than before. The shops were closing fast, and lights
began to shine from the upper windows, as the neighbours went to
bed. By degrees, these dwindled away and disappeared or were
replaced, here and there, by a feeble rush-candle which was to burn
all night. Still, there was one late shop at no great distance
which sent forth a ruddy glare upon the pavement even yet, and
looked bright and companionable. But, in a little time, this
closed, the light was extinguished, and all was gloomy and quiet,
except when some stray footsteps sounded on the pavement, or a
neighbour, out later than his wont, knocked lustily at his
house-door to rouse the sleeping inmates.
When the night had worn away thus far (and seldom now until it had)
the child would close the window, and steal softly down stairs,
thinking as she went that if one of those hideous faces below,
which often mingled with her dreams, were to meet her by the way,
rendering itself visible by some strange light of its own, how
terrified she would be. But these fears vanished before a
well-trimmed lamp and the familiar aspect of her own room. After
praying fervently, and with many bursting tears, for the old man,
and the restoration of his peace of mind and the happiness they had
once enjoyed, she would lay her head upon the pillow and sob
herself to sleep: often starting up again, before the day-light
came, to listen for the bell and respond to the imaginary summons
which had roused her from her slumber.
One night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs Quilp, the
old man, who had been weak and ill all day, said he should not
leave home. The child's eyes sparkled at the intelligence, but her
joy subsided when they reverted to his worn and sickly face.
'Two days,' he said, 'two whole, clear, days have passed, and there
is no reply. What did he tell thee, Nell?'
'Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed.'
'True,' said the old man, faintly. 'Yes. But tell me again, Nell.
My head fails me. What was it that he told thee? Nothing more than
that he would see me to-morrow or next day? That was in the note.'
'Nothing more,' said the child. 'Shall I go to him again tomorrow,
dear grandfather? Very early? I will be there and back,
before breakfast.'
The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully, drew her
towards him.
''Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But if he deserts
me, Nell, at this moment--if he deserts me now, when I should,
with his assistance, be recompensed for all the time and money I
have lost, and all the agony of mind I have undergone, which makes
me what you see, I am ruined, and--worse, far worse than that--
have ruined thee, for whom I ventured all. If we are beggars--!'
'What if we are?' said the child boldly. 'Let us be beggars, and be
happy.'
'Beggars--and happy!' said the old man. 'Poor child!'
'Dear grandfather,' cried the girl with an energy which shone in
her flushed face, trembling voice, and impassioned gesture, 'I am
not a child in that I think, but even if I am, oh hear me pray that
we may beg, or work in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty
living, rather than live as we do now.'
'Nelly!' said the old man.
'Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now,' the child repeated, more
earnestly than before. 'If you are sorrowful, let me know why and
be sorrowful too; if you waste away and are paler and weaker every
day, let me be your nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor,
let us be poor together; but let me be with you, do let me be with
you; do not let me see such change and not know why, or I shall
break my heart and die. Dear grandfather, let us leave this sad
place to-morrow, and beg our way from door to door.'
The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid it in the
pillow of the couch on which he lay.
'Let us be beggars,' said the child passing an arm round his neck,
'I have no fear but we shall have enough, I am sure we shall. Let
us walk through country places, and sleep in fields and under
trees, and never think of money again, or anything that can make
you sad, but rest at nights, and have the sun and wind upon our
faces in the day, and thank God together! Let us never set foot in
dark rooms or melancholy houses, any more, but wander up and down
wherever we like to go; and when you are tired, you shall stop to
rest in the pleasantest place that we can find, and I will go and
beg for both.'
The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon the old
man's neck; nor did she weep alone.
These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene for other
eyes. And yet other ears and eyes were there and greedily taking in
all that passed, and moreover they were the ears and eyes of no
less a person than Mr Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when
the child first placed herself at the old man's side, refrained--
actuated, no doubt, by motives of the purest delicacy--from
interrupting the conversation, and stood looking on with his
accustomed grin. Standing, however, being a tiresome attitude to a
gentleman already fatigued with walking, and the dwarf being one of
that kind of persons who usually make themselves at home, he soon
cast his eyes upon a chair, into which he skipped with uncommon
agility, and perching himself on the back with his feet upon the
seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater comfort
to himself, besides gratifying at the same time that taste for
doing something fantastic and monkey-like, which on all occasions
had strong possession of him. Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked
carelessly over the other, his chin resting on the palm of his
hand, his head turned a little on one side, and his ugly features
twisted into a complacent grimace. And in this position the old
man, happening in course of time to look that way, at length
chanced to see him: to his unbounded astonishment.
The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding this agreeable
figure; in their first surprise both she and the old man, not
knowing what to say, and half doubting its reality, looked
shrinkingly at it. Not at all disconcerted by this reception,
Daniel Quilp preserved the same attitude, merely nodding twice or
thrice with great condescension. At length, the old man pronounced
his name, and inquired how he came there.
'Through the door,' said Quilp pointing over his shoulder with his
thumb. 'I'm not quite small enough to get through key-holes. I
wish I was. I want to have some talk with you, particularly, and in
private. With nobody present, neighbour. Good-bye, little Nelly.'
Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire, and kissed
her cheek.
'Ah!' said the dwarf, smacking his lips, 'what a nice kiss that was--
just upon the rosy part. What a capital kiss!'
Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark. Quilp
looked after her with an admiring leer, and when she had closed the
door, fell to complimenting the old man upon her charms.
'Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbour,' said Quilp,
nursing his short leg, and making his eyes twinkle very much; 'such
a chubby, rosy, cosy, little Nell!'
The old man answered by a forced smile, and was plainly struggling
with a feeling of the keenest and most exquisite impatience. It was
not lost upon Quilp, who delighted in torturing him, or indeed
anybody else, when he could.
'She's so,' said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and feigning to be
quite absorbed in the subject, 'so small, so compact, so
beautifully modelled, so fair, with such blue veins and such a
transparent skin, and such little feet, and such winning ways--
but bless me, you're nervous! Why neighbour, what's the matter? I
swear to you,' continued the dwarf dismounting from the chair and
sitting down in it, with a careful slowness of gesture very
different from the rapidity with which he had sprung up unheard, 'I
swear to you that I had no idea old blood ran so fast or kept so
warm. I thought it was sluggish in its course, and cool, quite
cool. I am pretty sure it ought to be. Yours must be out of order,
neighbour.'
'I believe it is,' groaned the old man, clasping his head with both
hands. 'There's burning fever here, and something now and then to
which I fear to give a name.'
The dwarf said never a word, but watched his companion as he paced
restlessly up and down the room, and presently returned to his
seat. Here he remained, with his head bowed upon his breast for
some time, and then suddenly raising it, said,
'Once, and once for all, have you brought me any money?'
'No!' returned Quilp.
'Then,' said the old man, clenching his hands desperately, and
looking upwards, 'the child and I are lost!'
'Neighbour,' said Quilp glancing sternly at him, and beating his
hand twice or thrice upon the table to attract his wandering
attention, 'let me be plain with you, and play a fairer game than
when you held all the cards, and I saw but the backs and nothing
more. You have no secret from me now.'
The old man looked up, trembling.
'You are surprised,' said Quilp. 'Well, perhaps that's natural. You
have no secret from me now, I say; no, not one. For now, I know,
that all those sums of money, that all those loans, advances, and
supplies that you have had from me, have found their way to--shall
I say the word?'
'Aye!' replied the old man, 'say it, if you will.'
'To the gaming-table,' rejoined Quilp, 'your nightly haunt. This
was the precious scheme to make your fortune, was it; this was the
secret certain source of wealth in which I was to have sunk my
money (if I had been the fool you took me for); this was your
inexhaustible mine of gold, your El Dorado, eh?'
'Yes,' cried the old man, turning upon him with gleaming eyes, 'it
was. It is. It will be, till I die.'
'That I should have been blinded,' said Quilp looking
contemptuously at him, 'by a mere shallow gambler!'
'I am no gambler,' cried the old man fiercely. 'I call Heaven to
witness that I never played for gain of mine, or love of play; that
at every piece I staked, I whispered to myself that orphan's name
and called on Heaven to bless the venture;--which it never did.
Whom did it prosper? Who were those with whom I played? Men who
lived by plunder, profligacy, and riot; squandering their gold in
doing ill, and propagating vice and evil. My winnings would have
been from them, my winnings would have been bestowed to the last
farthing on a young sinless child whose life they would have
sweetened and made happy. What would they have contracted? The
means of corruption, wretchedness, and misery. Who would not have
hoped in such a cause? Tell me that! Who would not have hoped as I
did?'
'When did you first begin this mad career?' asked Quilp, his
taunting inclination subdued, for a moment, by the old man's grief
and wildness.
'When did I first begin?' he rejoined, passing his hand across his
brow. 'When was it, that I first began? When should it be, but when
I began to think how little I had saved, how long a time it took to
save at all, how short a time I might have at my age to live, and
how she would be left to the rough mercies of the world, with
barely enough to keep her from the sorrows that wait on poverty;
then it was that I began to think about it.'
'After you first came to me to get your precious grandson packed
off to sea?' said Quilp.
'Shortly after that,' replied the old man. 'I thought of it a long
time, and had it in my sleep for months. Then I began. I found no
pleasure in it, I expected none. What has it ever brought me but
anxious days and sleepless nights; but loss of health and peace of
mind, and gain of feebleness and sorrow!'
'You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then came to me.
While I thought you were making your fortune (as you said you were)
you were making yourself a beggar, eh? Dear me! And so it comes to
pass that I hold every security you could scrape together, and a
bill of sale upon the--upon the stock and property,' said Quilp
standing up and looking about him, as if to assure himself that
none of it had been taken away. 'But did you never win?'
'Never!' groaned the old man. 'Never won back my loss!'
'I thought,' sneered the dwarf, 'that if a man played long enough
he was sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not to come off a
loser.'
'And so he is,' cried the old man, suddenly rousing himself from
his state of despondency, and lashed into the most violent
excitement, 'so he is; I have felt that from the first, I have
always known it, I've seen it, I never felt it half so strongly as
I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed, three nights, of winning the
same large sum, I never could dream that dream before, though I
have often tried. Do not desert me, now I have this chance. I have
no resource but you, give me some help, let me try this one last
hope.'
The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
'See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp,' said the old man, drawing
some scraps of paper from his pocket with a trembling hand, and
clasping the dwarf's arm, 'only see here. Look at these figures,
the result of long calculation, and painful and hard experience. I
MUST win. I only want a little help once more, a few pounds, but
two score pounds, dear Quilp.'
'The last advance was seventy,' said the dwarf; 'and it went in one
night.'
'I know it did,' answered the old man, 'but that was the very worst
fortune of all, and the time had not come then. Quilp, consider,
consider,' the old man cried, trembling so much the while, that the
papers in his hand fluttered as if they were shaken by the wind,
'that orphan child! If I were alone, I could die with gladness--
perhaps even anticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally:
coming, as it does, on the proud and happy in their strength, and
shunning the needy and afflicted, and all who court it in their
despair--but what I have done, has been for her. Help me for her
sake I implore you; not for mine; for hers!'
'I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city,' said Quilp,
looking at his watch with perfect self-possession, 'or I should
have been very glad to have spent half an hour with you while you
composed yourself, very glad.'
'Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,' gasped the old man, catching at his
skirts, 'you and I have talked together, more than once, of her
poor mother's story. The fear of her coming to poverty has perhaps
been bred in me by that. Do not be hard upon me, but take that into
account. You are a great gainer by me. Oh spare me the money for
this one last hope!'
'I couldn't do it really,' said Quilp with unusual politeness,
'though I tell you what--and this is a circumstance worth bearing
in mind as showing how the sharpest among us may be taken in
sometimes--I was so deceived by the penurious way in which you
lived, alone with Nelly--'
'All done to save money for tempting fortune, and to make her
triumph greater,' cried the old man.
'Yes, yes, I understand that now,' said Quilp; 'but I was going to
say, I was so deceived by that, your miserly way, the reputation
you had among those who knew you of being rich, and your repeated
assurances that you would make of my advances treble and quadruple
the interest you paid me, that I'd have advanced you, even now,
what you want, on your simple note of hand, if I hadn't
unexpectedly become acquainted with your secret way of life.'
'Who is it,' retorted the old man desperately, 'that,
notwithstanding all my caution, told you? Come. Let me know the
name--the person.'
The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up the child
would lead to the disclosure of the artifice he had employed,
which, as nothing was to be gained by it, it was well to conceal,
stopped short in his answer and said, 'Now, who do you think?'
'It was Kit, it must have been the boy; he played the spy, and you
tampered with him?' said the old man.
'How came you to think of him?' said the dwarf in a tone of great
commiseration. 'Yes, it was Kit. Poor Kit!'
So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took his leave:
stopping when he had passed the outer door a little distance, and
grinning with extraordinary delight.
'Poor Kit!' muttered Quilp. 'I think it was Kit who said I was an
uglier dwarf than could be seen anywhere for a penny, wasn't it. Ha
ha ha! Poor Kit!' And with that he went his way, still chuckling as
he went.
CHAPTER 10
Daniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's house,
unobserved. In the shadow of an archway nearly opposite, leading to
one of the many passages which diverged from the main street, there
lingered one, who, having taken up his position when the twilight
first came on, still maintained it with undiminished patience, and
leaning against the wall with the manner of a person who had a long
time to wait, and being well used to it was quite resigned,
scarcely changed his attitude for the hour together.
This patient lounger attracted little attention from any of those
who passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His eyes were
constantly directed towards one object; the window at which the
child was accustomed to sit. If he withdrew them for a moment, it
was only to glance at a clock in some neighbouring shop, and then
to strain his sight once more in the old quarter with increased
earnestness and attention.
It had been remarked that this personage evinced no weariness in
his place of concealment; nor did he, long as his waiting was. But
as the time went on, he manifested some anxiety and surprise,
glancing at the clock more frequently and at the window less
hopefully than before. At length, the clock was hidden from his
sight by some envious shutters, then the church steeples proclaimed
eleven at night, then the quarter past, and then the conviction
seemed to obtrude itself on his mind that it was no use tarrying
there any longer.
That the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he was by no
means willing to yield to it, was apparent from his reluctance to
quit the spot; from the tardy steps with which he often left it,
still looking over his shoulder at the same window; and from the
precipitation with which he as often returned, when a fancied noise
or the changing and imperfect light induced him to suppose it had
been softly raised. At length, he gave the matter up, as hopeless
for that night, and suddenly breaking into a run as though to force
himself away, scampered off at his utmost speed, nor once ventured
to look behind him lest he should be tempted back again.
Without relaxing his pace, or stopping to take breath, this
mysterious individual dashed on through a great many alleys and
narrow ways until he at length arrived in a square paved court,
when he subsided into a walk, and making for a small house from the
window of which a light was shining, lifted the latch of the door
and passed in.
'Bless us!' cried a woman turning sharply round, 'who's that? Oh!
It's you, Kit!'
'Yes, mother, it's me.'
'Why, how tired you look, my dear!'
'Old master an't gone out to-night,' said Kit; 'and so she hasn't
been at the window at all.' With which words, he sat down by the
fire and looked very mournful and discontented.
The room in which Kit sat himself down, in this condition, was an
extremely poor and homely place, but with that air of comfort about
it, nevertheless, which--or the spot must be a wretched one indeed--
cleanliness and order can always impart in some degree. Late as
the Dutch clock' showed it to be, the poor woman was still hard at
work at an ironing-table; a young child lay sleeping in a cradle
near the fire; and another, a sturdy boy of two or three years old,
very wide awake, with a very tight night-cap on his head, and a
night-gown very much too small for him on his body, was sitting
bolt upright in a clothes-basket, staring over the rim with his
great round eyes, and looking as if he had thoroughly made up his
mind never to go to sleep any more; which, as he had already
declined to take his natural rest and had been brought out of bed
in consequence, opened a cheerful prospect for his relations and
friends. It was rather a queer-looking family: Kit, his mother, and
the children, being all strongly alike.
Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us are too
often--but he looked at the youngest child who was sleeping
soundly, and from him to his other brother in the clothes-basket,
and from him to their mother, who had been at work without
complaint since morning, and thought it would be a better and
kinder thing to be good-humoured. So he rocked the cradle with his
foot; made a face at the rebel in the clothes-basket, which put him
in high good-humour directly; and stoutly determined to be
talkative and make himself agreeable.
'Ah, mother!' said Kit, taking out his clasp-knife, and falling
upon a great piece of bread and meat which she had had ready for
him, hours before, 'what a one you are! There an't many such as
you, I know.'
'I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit,' said Mrs Nubbles;
'and that there are, or ought to be, accordin' to what the parson
at chapel says.'
'Much he knows about it,' returned Kit contemptuously. 'Wait till
he's a widder and works like you do, and gets as little, and does
as much, and keeps his spirit up the same, and then I'll ask him
what's o'clock and trust him for being right to half a second.'
'Well,' said Mrs Nubbles, evading the point, 'your beer's down
there by the fender, Kit.'
'I see,' replied her son, taking up the porter pot, 'my love to
you, mother. And the parson's health too if you like. I don't bear
him any malice, not I!'
'Did you tell me, just now, that your master hadn't gone out
to-night?' inquired Mrs Nubbles.
'Yes,' said Kit, 'worse luck!'
'You should say better luck, I think,' returned his mother,
'because Miss Nelly won't have been left alone.'
'Ah!' said Kit, 'I forgot that. I said worse luck, because I've
been watching ever since eight o'clock, and seen nothing of her.'
'I wonder what she'd say,' cried his mother, stopping in her work
and looking round, 'if she knew that every night, when she--poor
thing--is sitting alone at that window, you are watching in the
open street for fear any harm should come to her, and that you
never leave the place or come home to your bed though you're ever
so tired, till such time as you think she's safe in hers.'
'Never mind what she'd say,' replied Kit, with something like a
blush on his uncouth face; 'she'll never know nothing, and
consequently, she'll never say nothing.'
Mrs Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or two, and coming
to the fireplace for another iron, glanced stealthily at Kit while
she rubbed it on a board and dusted it with a duster, but said
nothing until she had returned to her table again: when, holding
the iron at an alarmingly short distance from her cheek, to test
its temperature, and looking round with a smile, she observed:
'I know what some people would say, Kit--'
'Nonsense,' interposed Kit with a perfect apprehension of what was
to follow.
'No, but they would indeed. Some people would say that you'd fallen
in love with her, I know they would.'
To this, Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother 'get
out,' and forming sundry strange figures with his legs and arms,
accompanied by sympathetic contortions of his face. Not deriving
from these means the relief which he sought, he bit off an immense
mouthful from the bread and meat, and took a quick drink of the
porter; by which artificial aids he choked himself and effected a
diversion of the subject.
'Speaking seriously though, Kit,' said his mother, taking up the
theme afresh, after a time, 'for of course I was only in joke just
now, it's very good and thoughtful, and like you, to do this, and
never let anybody know it, though some day I hope she may come to
know it, for I'm sure she would be very grateful to you and feel it
very much. It's a cruel thing to keep the dear child shut up there.
I don't wonder that the old gentleman wants to keep it from you.'
'He don't think it's cruel, bless you,' said Kit, 'and don't mean
it to be so, or he wouldn't do it--I do consider, mother, that he
wouldn't do it for all the gold and silver in the world. No, no,
that he wouldn't. I know him better than that.'
'Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it so close from
you?' said Mrs Nubbles.
'That I don't know,' returned her son. 'If he hadn't tried to keep
it so close though, I should never have found it out, for it was
his getting me away at night and sending me off so much earlier
than he used to, that first made me curious to know what was going
on. Hark! what's that?'
'It's only somebody outside.'
'It's somebody crossing over here,' said Kit, standing up to
listen, 'and coming very fast too. He can't have gone out after I
left, and the house caught fire, mother!'
The boy stood, for a moment, really bereft, by the apprehension he
had conjured up, of the power to move. The footsteps drew nearer,
the door was opened with a hasty hand, and the child herself, pale
and breathless, and hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments,
hurried into the room.
'Miss Nelly! What is the matter!' cried mother and son together.
'I must not stay a moment,' she returned, 'grandfather has been
taken very ill. I found him in a fit upon the floor--'
'I'll run for a doctor'--said Kit, seizing his brimless hat. 'I'll
be there directly, I'll--'
'No, no,' cried Nell, 'there is one there, you're not wanted, you--
you--must never come near us any more!'
'What!' roared Kit.
'Never again,' said the child. 'Don't ask me why, for I don't know.
Pray don't ask me why, pray don't be sorry, pray don't be vexed
with me! I have nothing to do with it indeed!'
Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide; and opened and shut
his mouth a great many times; but couldn't get out one word.
'He complains and raves of you,' said the child, 'I don't know what
you have done, but I hope it's nothing very bad.'
'I done!' roared Kit.
'He cries that you're the cause of all his misery,' returned the
child with tearful eyes; 'he screamed and called for you; they say
you must not come near him or he will die. You must not return to
us any more. I came to tell you. I thought it would be better that
I should come than somebody quite strange. Oh, Kit, what have you
done? You, in whom I trusted so much, and who were almost the only
friend I had!'
The unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder and harder,
and with eyes growing wider and wider, but was perfectly motionless
and silent.
'I have brought his money for the week,' said the child, looking to
the woman and laying it on the table--'and--and--a little more,
for he was always good and kind to me. I hope he will be sorry and
do well somewhere else and not take this to heart too much. It
grieves me very much to part with him like this, but there is no
help. It must be done. Good night!'
With the tears streaming down her face, and her slight figure
trembling with the agitation of the scene she had left, the shock
she had received, the errand she had just discharged, and a
thousand painful and affectionate feelings, the child hastened to
the door, and disappeared as rapidly as she had come.
The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son, but every
reason for relying on his honesty and truth, was staggered,
notwithstanding, by his not having advanced one word in his
defence. Visions of gallantry, knavery, robbery; and of the nightly
absences from home for which he had accounted so strangely, having
been occasioned by some unlawful pursuit; flocked into her brain
and rendered her afraid to question him. She rocked herself upon a
chair, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly, but Kit made no
attempt to comfort her and remained quite bewildered. The baby in
the cradle woke up and cried; the boy in the clothes-basket fell
over on his back with the basket upon him, and was seen no more;
the mother wept louder yet and rocked faster; but Kit, insensible
to all the din and tumult, remained in a state of utter stupefaction.
CHAPTER 11
Quiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted rule no
longer, beneath the roof that sheltered the child. Next morning,
the old man was in a raging fever accompanied with delirium; and
sinking under the influence of this disorder he lay for many weeks
in imminent peril of his life. There was watching enough, now, but
it was the watching of strangers who made a greedy trade of it, and
who, in the intervals in their attendance upon the sick man huddled
together with a ghastly good-fellowship, and ate and drank and made
merry; for disease and death were their ordinary household gods.
Yet, in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the child was
more alone than she had ever been before; alone in spirit, alone in
her devotion to him who was wasting away upon his burning bed;
alone in her unfeigned sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy. Day
after day, and night after night, found her still by the pillow of
the unconscious sufferer, still anticipating his every want, still
listening to those repetitions of her name and those anxieties and
cares for her, which were ever uppermost among his feverish
wanderings.
The house was no longer theirs. Even the sick chamber seemed to be
retained, on the uncertain tenure of Mr Quilp's favour. The old
man's illness had not lasted many days when he took formal
possession of the premises and all upon them, in virtue of certain
legal powers to that effect, which few understood and none presumed
to call in question. This important step secured, with the
assistance of a man of law whom he brought with him for the
purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish himself and his coadjutor
in the house, as an assertion of his claim against all comers; and
then set about making his quarters comfortable, after his own fashion.
To this end, Mr Quilp encamped in the back parlour, having first
put an effectual stop to any further business by shutting up the
shop. Having looked out, from among the old furniture, the
handsomest and most commodious chair he could possibly find (which
he reserved for his own use) and an especially hideous and
uncomfortable one (which he considerately appropriated to the
accommodation of his friend) he caused them to be carried into this
room, and took up his position in great state. The apartment was
very far removed from the old man's chamber, but Mr Quilp deemed it
prudent, as a precaution against infection from fever, and a means
of wholesome fumigation, not only to smoke, himself, without
cessation, but to insist upon it that his legal friend did the
like. Moreover, he sent an express to the wharf for the tumbling
boy, who arriving with all despatch was enjoined to sit himself
down in another chair just inside the door, continually to smoke a
great pipe which the dwarf had provided for the purpose, and to
take it from his lips under any pretence whatever, were it only for
one minute at a time, if he dared. These arrangements completed, Mr
Quilp looked round him with chuckling satisfaction, and remarked
that he called that comfort.
The legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass, might have
called it comfort also but for two drawbacks: one was, that he
could by no exertion sit easy in his chair, the seat of which was
very hard, angular, slippery, and sloping; the other, that
tobacco-smoke always caused him great internal discomposure and
annoyance. But as he was quite a creature of Mr Quilp's and had a
thousand reasons for conciliating his good opinion, he tried to smile,
and nodded his acquiescence with the best grace he could assume.
This Brass was an attorney of no very good repute, from Bevis Marks
in the city of London; he was a tall, meagre man, with a nose like
a wen, a protruding forehead, retreating eyes, and hair of a deep
red. He wore a long black surtout reaching nearly to his ankles,
short black trousers, high shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish
grey. He had a cringing manner, but a very harsh voice; and his
blandest smiles were so extremely forbidding, that to have had his
company under the least repulsive circumstances, one would have
wished him to be out of temper that he might only scowl.
Quilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he was winking
very much in the anguish of his pipe, that he sometimes shuddered
when he happened to inhale its full flavour, and that he constantly
fanned the smoke from him, was quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands
with glee.
'Smoke away, you dog,' said Quilp, turning to the boy; 'fill your
pipe again and smoke it fast, down to the last whiff, or I'll put
the sealing-waxed end of it in the fire and rub it red hot upon
your tongue.'
Luckily the boy was case-hardened, and would have smoked a small
lime-kiln if anybody had treated him with it. Wherefore, he only
muttered a brief defiance of his master, and did as he was ordered.
'Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it fragrant, do you feel like
the Grand Turk?" said Quilp.
Mr Brass thought that if he did, the Grand Turk's feelings were by
no means to be envied, but he said it was famous, and he had no
doubt he felt very like that Potentate.
'This is the way to keep off fever,' said Quilp, 'this is the way
to keep off every calamity of life! We'll never leave off, all the
time we stop here--smoke away, you dog, or you shall swallow the
pipe!'
'Shall we stop here long, Mr Quilp?' inquired his legal friend,
when the dwarf had given his boy this gentle admonition.
'We must stop, I suppose, till the old gentleman up stairs is
dead,' returned Quilp.
'He he he!' laughed Mr Brass, 'oh! very good!'
'Smoke away!' cried Quilp. 'Never stop! You can talk as you smoke.
Don't lose time.'
'He he he!' cried Brass faintly, as he again applied himself to the
odious pipe. 'But if he should get better, Mr Quilp?'
'Then we shall stop till he does, and no longer,' returned the
dwarf.
'How kind it is of you, Sir, to wait till then!' said Brass. 'Some
people, Sir, would have sold or removed the goods--oh dear, the
very instant the law allowed 'em. Some people, Sir, would have been
all flintiness and granite. Some people, sir, would have--'
'Some people would have spared themselves the jabbering of such a
parrot as you,' interposed the dwarf.
'He he he!' cried Brass. 'You have such spirits!'
The smoking sentinel at the door interposed in this place, and
without taking his pipe from his lips, growled,
'Here's the gal a comin' down.'
'The what, you dog?' said Quilp.
'The gal,' returned the boy. 'Are you deaf?'
'Oh!' said Quilp, drawing in his breath with great relish as if he
were taking soup, 'you and I will have such a settling presently;
there's such a scratching and bruising in store for you, my dear
young friend! Aha! Nelly! How is he now, my duck of diamonds?"
'He's very bad,' replied the weeping child.
'What a pretty little Nell!' cried Quilp.
'Oh beautiful, sir, beautiful indeed,' said Brass. 'Quite
charming.'
'Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee,' said the dwarf, in what he
meant to be a soothing tone, 'or is she going to bed in her own
little room inside here? Which is poor Nelly going to do?'
'What a remarkable pleasant way he has with children!' muttered
Brass, as if in confidence between himself and the ceiling; 'upon
my word it's quite a treat to hear him.'
'I'm not going to stay at all,' faltered Nell. 'I want a few things
out of that room, and then I--I--won't come down here any more.'
'And a very nice little room it is!' said the dwarf looking into it
as the child entered. 'Quite a bower! You're sure you're not going
to use it; you're sure you're not coming back, Nelly?'
'No,' replied the child, hurrying away, with the few articles of
dress she had come to remove; 'never again! Never again.'
'She's very sensitive,' said Quilp, looking after her. 'Very
sensitive; that's a pity. The bedstead is much about my size. I
think I shall make it MY little room.'
Mr Brass encouraging this idea, as he would have encouraged any
other emanating from the same source, the dwarf walked in to try
the effect. This he did, by throwing himself on his back upon the
bed with his pipe in his mouth, and then kicking up his legs and
smoking violently. Mr Brass applauding this picture very much, and
the bed being soft and comfortable, Mr Quilp determined to use it,
both as a sleeping place by night and as a kind of Divan by day;
and in order that it might be converted to the latter purpose at
once, remained where he was, and smoked his pipe out. The legal
gentleman being by this time rather giddy and perplexed in his
ideas (for this was one of the operations of the tobacco on his
nervous system), took the opportunity of slinking away into the
open air, where, in course of time, he recovered sufficiently to
return with a countenance of tolerable composure. He was soon led
on by the malicious dwarf to smoke himself into a relapse, and in
that state stumbled upon a settee where he slept till morning.
Such were Mr Quilp's first proceedings on entering upon his new
property. He was, for some days, restrained by business from
performing any particular pranks, as his time was pretty well
occupied between taking, with the assistance of Mr Brass, a minute
inventory of all the goods in the place, and going abroad upon his
other concerns which happily engaged him for several hours at a
time. His avarice and caution being, now, thoroughly awakened,
however, he was never absent from the house one night; and his
eagerness for some termination, good or bad, to the old man's
disorder, increasing rapidly, as the time passed by, soon began to
vent itself in open murmurs and exclamations of impatience.
Nell shrank timidly from all the dwarf's advances towards
conversation, and fled from the very sound of his voice; nor were
the lawyer's smiles less terrible to her than Quilp's grimaces. She
lived in such continual dread and apprehension of meeting one or
other of them on the stairs or in the passages if she stirred from
her grandfather's chamber, that she seldom left it, for a moment,
until late at night, when the silence encouraged her to venture
forth and breathe the purer air of some empty room.
One night, she had stolen to her usual window, and was sitting
there very sorrowfully--for the old man had been worse that day--
when she thought she heard her name pronounced by a voice in the
street. Looking down, she recognised Kit, whose endeavours to
attract her attention had roused her from her sad reflections.
'Miss Nell!' said the boy in a low voice.
'Yes,' replied the child, doubtful whether she ought to hold any
communication with the supposed culprit, but inclining to her old
favourite still; 'what do you want?'
'I have wanted to say a word to you, for a long time,' the boy
replied, 'but the people below have driven me away and wouldn't let
me see you. You don't believe--I hope you don't really believe--
that I deserve to be cast off as I have been; do you, miss?'
'I must believe it,' returned the child. 'Or why would grandfather
have been so angry with you?'
'I don't know,' replied Kit. 'I'm sure I never deserved it from
him, no, nor from you. I can say that, with a true and honest
heart, any way. And then to be driven from the door, when I only
came to ask how old master was--!'
'They never told me that,' said the child. 'I didn't know it
indeed. I wouldn't have had them do it for the world.'
'Thank'ee, miss,' returned Kit, 'it's comfortable to hear you say
that. I said I never would believe that it was your doing.'
'That was right!' said the child eagerly.
'Miss Nell,' cried the boy coming under the window, and speaking in
a lower tone, 'there are new masters down stairs. It's a change for
you.'
'It is indeed,' replied the child.
'And so it will be for him when he gets better,' said the boy,
pointing towards the sick room.
'--If he ever does,' added the child, unable to restrain her tears.
'Oh, he'll do that, he'll do that,' said Kit. 'I'm sure he will.
You mustn't be cast down, Miss Nell. Now don't be, pray!'
These words of encouragement and consolation were few and roughly
said, but they affected the child and made her, for the moment,
weep the more.
'He'll be sure to get better now,' said the boy anxiously, 'if you
don't give way to low spirits and turn ill yourself, which would
make him worse and throw him back, just as he was recovering. When
he does, say a good word--say a kind word for me, Miss Nell!'
'They tell me I must not even mention your name to him for a long,
long time,' rejoined the child, 'I dare not; and even if I might,
what good would a kind word do you, Kit? We shall be very poor. We
shall scarcely have bread to eat.'
'It's not that I may be taken back,' said the boy, 'that I ask the
favour of you. It isn't for the sake of food and wages that I've
been waiting about so long in hopes to see you. Don't think that
I'd come in a time of trouble to talk of such things as them.'
The child looked gratefully and kindly at him, but waited that he
might speak again.
'No, it's not that,' said Kit hesitating, 'it's something very
different from that. I haven't got much sense, I know, but if he
could be brought to believe that I'd been a faithful servant to
him, doing the best I could, and never meaning harm, perhaps he
mightn't--'
Here Kit faltered so long that the child entreated him to speak
out, and quickly, for it was very late, and time to shut the
window.
'Perhaps he mightn't think it over venturesome of me to say--well
then, to say this,' cried Kit with sudden boldness. 'This home is
gone from you and him. Mother and I have got a poor one, but that's
better than this with all these people here; and why not come
there, till he's had time to look about, and find a better!'
The child did not speak. Kit, in the relief of having made his
proposition, found his tongue loosened, and spoke out in its favour
with his utmost eloquence.
'You think,' said the boy, 'that it's very small and inconvenient.
So it is, but it's very clean. Perhaps you think it would be noisy,
but there's not a quieter court than ours in all the town. Don't be
afraid of the children; the baby hardly ever cries, and the other
one is very good--besides, I'd mind 'em. They wouldn't vex you
much, I'm sure. Do try, Miss Nell, do try. The little front room up
stairs is very pleasant. You can see a piece of the church-clock,
through the chimneys, and almost tell the time; mother says it
would be just the thing for you, and so it would, and you'd have
her to wait upon you both, and me to run of errands. We don't mean
money, bless you; you're not to think of that! Will you try him,
Miss Nell? Only say you'll try him. Do try to make old master come,
and ask him first what I have done. Will you only promise that,
Miss Nell?'
Before the child could reply to this earnest solicitation, the
street-door opened, and Mr Brass thrusting out his night-capped
head called in a surly voice, 'Who's there!' Kit immediately glided
away, and Nell, closing the window softly, drew back into the room.
Before Mr Brass had repeated his inquiry many times, Mr Quilp, also
embellished with a night-cap, emerged from the same door and looked
carefully up and down the street, and up at all the windows of the
house, from the opposite side. Finding that there was nobody in
sight, he presently returned into the house with his legal friend,
protesting (as the child heard from the staircase), that there was
a league and plot against him; that he was in danger of being
robbed and plundered by a band of conspirators who prowled about
the house at all seasons; and that he would delay no longer but
take immediate steps for disposing of the property and returning to
his own peaceful roof. Having growled forth these, and a great many
other threats of the same nature, he coiled himself once more in
the child's little bed, and Nell crept softly up the stairs.
It was natural enough that her short and unfinished dialogue with
Kit should leave a strong impression on her mind, and influence her
dreams that night and her recollections for a long, long time.
Surrounded by unfeeling creditors, and mercenary attendants upon
the sick, and meeting in the height of her anxiety and sorrow with
little regard or sympathy even from the women about her, it is not
surprising that the affectionate heart of the child should have
been touched to the quick by one kind and generous spirit, however
uncouth the temple in which it dwelt. Thank Heaven that the temples
of such spirits are not made with hands, and that they may be even more
worthily hung with poor patch-work than with purple and fine linen!
CHAPTER 12
At length, the crisis of the old man's disorder was past, and he
began to mend. By very slow and feeble degrees his consciousness
came back; but the mind was weakened and its functions were
impaired. He was patient, and quiet; often sat brooding, but not
despondently, for a long space; was easily amused, even by a
sun-beam on the wall or ceiling; made no complaint that the days
were long, or the nights tedious; and appeared indeed to have lost
all count of time, and every sense of care or weariness. He would
sit, for hours together, with Nell's small hand in his, playing
with the fingers and stopping sometimes to smooth her hair or kiss
her brow; and, when he saw that tears were glistening in her eyes,
would look, amazed, about him for the cause, and forget his wonder
even while he looked.
The child and he rode out; the old man propped up with pillows, and
the child beside him. They were hand in hand as usual. The noise
and motion in the streets fatigued his brain at first, but he was
not surprised, or curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked
if he remembered this, or that. 'O yes,' he said, 'quite well--why
not?' Sometimes he turned his head, and looked, with earnest gaze
and outstretched neck, after some stranger in the crowd, until he
disappeared from sight; but, to the question why he did this, he
answered not a word.
He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon a stool
beside him, when a man outside the door inquired if he might enter.
'Yes,' he said without emotion, 'it was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was
master there. Of course he might come in.' And so he did.
'I'm glad to see you well again at last, neighbour,' said the
dwarf, sitting down opposite him. 'You're quite strong now?'
'Yes,' said the old man feebly, 'yes.'
'I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbour,' said the dwarf,
raising his voice, for the old man's senses were duller than they
had been; 'but, as soon as you can arrange your future proceedings,
the better.'
'Surely,' said the old man. 'The better for all parties.'
'You see,' pursued Quilp after a short pause, 'the goods being once
removed, this house would be uncomfortable; uninhabitable in fact.'
'You say true,' returned the old man. 'Poor Nell too, what would
she do?'
'Exactly,' bawled the dwarf nodding his head; 'that's very well
observed. Then will you consider about it, neighbour?'
'I will, certainly,' replied the old man. 'We shall not stop here.'
'So I supposed,' said the dwarf. 'I have sold the things. They have
not yielded quite as much as they might have done, but pretty well--
pretty well. To-day's Tuesday. When shall they be moved? There's
no hurry--shall we say this afternoon?'
'Say Friday morning,' returned the old man.
'Very good,' said the dwarf. 'So be it--with the understanding
that I can't go beyond that day, neighbour, on any account.'
'Good,' returned the old man. 'I shall remember it.'
Mr Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even spiritless way
in which all this was said; but as the old man nodded his head and
repeated 'on Friday morning. I shall remember it,' he had no excuse
for dwelling on the subject any further, and so took a friendly
leave with many expressions of good-will and many compliments to
his friend on his looking so remarkably well; and went below stairs
to report progress to Mr Brass.
All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in this state.
He wandered up and down the house and into and out of the various
rooms, as if with some vague intent of bidding them adieu, but he
referred neither by direct allusions nor in any other manner to the
interview of the morning or the necessity of finding some other
shelter. An indistinct idea he had, that the child was desolate and
in want of help; for he often drew her to his bosom and bade her be
of good cheer, saying that they would not desert each other; but he
seemed unable to contemplate their real position more distinctly,
and was still the listless, passionless creature that suffering of
mind and body had left him.
We call this a state of childishness, but it is the same poor
hollow mockery of it, that death is of sleep. Where, in the dull
eyes of doating men, are the laughing light and life of childhood,
the gaiety that has known no check, the frankness that has felt no
chill, the hope that has never withered, the joys that fade in
blossoming? Where, in the sharp lineaments of rigid and unsightly
death, is the calm beauty of slumber, telling of rest for the
waking hours that are past, and gentle hopes and loves for those
which are to come? Lay death and sleep down, side by side, and say
who shall find the two akin. Send forth the child and childish man
together, and blush for the pride that libels our own old happy
state, and gives its title to an ugly and distorted image.
Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the old man. But
a change came upon him that evening as he and the child sat
silently together.
In a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree--green and
flourishing enough, for such a place--and as the air stirred among
its leaves, it threw a rippling shadow on the white wall. The old
man sat watching the shadows as they trembled in this patch of
light, until the sun went down; and when it was night, and the moon
was slowly rising, he still sat in the same spot.
To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long, even these
few green leaves and this tranquil light, although it languished
among chimneys and house-tops, were pleasant things. They suggested
quiet places afar off, and rest, and peace. The child thought, more
than once that he was moved: and had forborne to speak. But now he
shed tears--tears that it lightened her aching heart to see--and
making as though he would fall upon his knees, besought her to
forgive him.
'Forgive you--what?' said Nell, interposing to prevent his
purpose. 'Oh grandfather, what should I forgive?'
'All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all that was
done in that uneasy dream,' returned the old man.
'Do not talk so,' said the child. 'Pray do not. Let us speak of
something else.'
'Yes, yes, we will,' he rejoined. 'And it shall be of what we
talked of long ago--many months--months is it, or weeks, or days?
which is it Nell?'
'I do not understand you,' said the child.
'It has come back upon me to-day, it has all come back since we
have been sitting here. I bless thee for it, Nell!'
'For what, dear grandfather?'
'For what you said when we were first made beggars, Nell. Let us
speak softly. Hush! for if they knew our purpose down stairs, they
would cry that I was mad and take thee from me. We will not stop
here another day. We will go far away from here.'
'Yes, let us go,' said the child earnestly. 'Let us begone from
this place, and never turn back or think of it again. Let us wander
barefoot through the world, rather than linger here.'
'We will,' answered the old man, 'we will travel afoot through the
fields and woods, and by the side of rivers, and trust ourselves to
God in the places where He dwells. It is far better to lie down at
night beneath an open sky like that yonder--see how bright it is--
than to rest in close rooms which are always full of care and
weary dreams. Thou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and happy
yet, and learn to forget this time, as if it had never been.'
'We will be happy,' cried the child. 'We never can be here.'
'No, we never can again--never again--that's truly said,'
rejoined the old man. 'Let us steal away to-morrow morning--early
and softly, that we may not be seen or heard--and leave no trace
or track for them to follow by. Poor Nell! Thy cheek is pale, and
thy eyes are heavy with watching and weeping for me--I know--for
me; but thou wilt be well again, and merry too, when we are far
away. To-morrow morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this scene
of sorrow, and be as free and happy as the birds.'
And then the old man clasped his hands above her head, and said, in
a few broken words, that from that time forth they would wander up
and down together, and never part more until Death took one or
other of the twain.
The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence. She had no
thought of hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering. She saw in
this, but a return of the simple pleasures they had once enjoyed,
a relief from the gloomy solitude in which she had lived, an escape
from the heartless people by whom she had been surrounded in her
late time of trial, the restoration of the old man's health and
peace, and a life of tranquil happiness. Sun, and stream, and
meadow, and summer days, shone brightly in her view, and there was
no dark tint in all the sparkling picture.
The old man had slept, for some hours, soundly in his bed, and she
was yet busily engaged in preparing for their flight. There were a
few articles of clothing for herself to carry, and a few for him;
old garments, such as became their fallen fortunes, laid out to
wear; and a staff to support his feeble steps, put ready for his
use. But this was not all her task; for now she must visit the old
rooms for the last time.
And how different the parting with them was, from any she had
expected, and most of all from that which she had oftenest pictured
to herself. How could she ever have thought of bidding them
farewell in triumph, when the recollection of the many hours she
had passed among them rose to her swelling heart, and made her feel
the wish a cruelty: lonely and sad though many of those hours had
been! She sat down at the window where she had spent so many
evenings--darker far than this--and every thought of hope or
cheerfulness that had occurred to her in that place came vividly
upon her mind, and blotted out all its dull and mournful
associations in an instant.
Her own little room too, where she had so often knelt down and
prayed at night--prayed for the time which she hoped was dawning
now--the little room where she had slept so peacefully, and
dreamed such pleasant dreams! It was hard not to be able to glance
round it once more, and to be forced to leave it without one kind
look or grateful tear. There were some trifles there--poor useless
things--that she would have liked to take away; but that was
impossible.
This brought to mind her bird, her poor bird, who hung there yet.
She wept bitterly for the loss of this little creature--until the
idea occurred to her--she did not know how, or why, it came into
her head--that it might, by some means, fall into the hands of Kit
who would keep it for her sake, and think, perhaps, that she had
left it behind in the hope that he might have it, and as an
assurance that she was grateful to him. She was calmed and
comforted by the thought, and went to rest with a lighter heart.
From many dreams of rambling through light and sunny places, but
with some vague object unattained which ran indistinctly through
them all, she awoke to find that it was yet night, and that the
stars were shining brightly in the sky. At length, the day began to
glimmer, and the stars to grow pale and dim. As soon as she was
sure of this, she arose, and dressed herself for the journey.
The old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to disturb
him, she left him to slumber on, until the sun rose. He was anxious
that they should leave the house without a minute's loss of time,
and was soon ready.
The child then took him by the hand, and they trod lightly and
cautiously down the stairs, trembling whenever a board creaked, and
often stopping to listen. The old man had forgotten a kind of
wallet which contained the light burden he had to carry; and the
going back a few steps to fetch it seemed an interminable delay.
At last they reached the passage on the ground floor, where the
snoring of Mr Quilp and his legal friend sounded more terrible in
their ears than the roars of lions. The bolts of the door were
rusty, and difficult to unfasten without noise. When they were all
drawn back, it was found to be locked, and worst of all, the key
was gone. Then the child remembered, for the first time, one of the
nurses having told her that Quilp always locked both the housedoors
at night, and kept the keys on the table in his bedroom.
It was not without great fear and trepidation that little Nell
slipped off her shoes and gliding through the store-room of old
curiosities, where Mr Brass--the ugliest piece of goods in all the
stock--lay sleeping on a mattress, passed into her own little
chamber.
Here she stood, for a few moments, quite transfixed with terror at
the sight of Mr Quilp, who was hanging so far out of bed that he
almost seemed to be standing on his head, and who, either from the
uneasiness of this posture, or in one of his agreeable habits, was
gasping and growling with his mouth wide open, and the whites (or
rather the dirty yellows) of his eyes distinctly visible. It was no
time, however, to ask whether anything ailed him; so, possessing
herself of the key after one hasty glance about the room, and
repassing the prostrate Mr Brass, she rejoined the old man in
safety. They got the door open without noise, and passing into the
street, stood still.
'Which way?' said the child.
The old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first at her, then
to the right and left, then at her again, and shook his head. It
was plain that she was thenceforth his guide and leader. The child
felt it, but had no doubts or misgiving, and putting her hand in
his, led him gently away.
It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied
by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were, as
yet, nearly free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed,
and the healthy air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the
sleeping town.
The old man and the child passed on through the glad silence, elate
with hope and pleasure. They were alone together, once again; every
object was bright and fresh; nothing reminded them, otherwise than
by contrast, of the monotony and constraint they had left behind;
church towers and steeples, frowning and dark at other times, now
shone in the sun; each humble nook and corner rejoiced in light;
and the sky, dimmed only by excessive distance, shed its placid
smile on everything beneath.
Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the two poor
adventurers, wandering they knew not whither.
CHAPTER 13
Daniel Quilp of Tower Hill, and Sampson Brass of Bevis Marks in the
city of London, Gentleman, one of her Majesty's attornies of the
Courts of the King's Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster and a
solicitor of the High Court of Chancery, slumbered on, unconscious
and unsuspicious of any mischance, until a knocking on the street
door, often repeated and gradually mounting up from a modest single
rap to a perfect battery of knocks, fired in long discharges with
a very short interval between, caused the said Daniel Quilp to
struggle into a horizontal position, and to stare at the ceiling
with a drowsy indifference, betokening that he heard the noise and
rather wondered at the same, and couldn't be at the trouble of
bestowing any further thought upon the subject.
As the knocking, however, instead of accommodating itself to his
lazy state, increased in vigour and became more importunate, as if
in earnest remonstrance against his falling asleep again, now that
he had once opened his eyes, Daniel Quilp began by degrees to
comprehend the possibility of there being somebody at the door; and
thus he gradually came to recollect that it was Friday morning, and
he had ordered Mrs Quilp to be in waiting upon him at an early
hour.
Mr Brass, after writhing about, in a great many strange attitudes,
and often twisting his face and eyes into an expression like that
which is usually produced by eating gooseberries very early in the
season, was by this time awake also. Seeing that Mr Quilp invested
himself in his every-day garments, he hastened to do the like,
putting on his shoes before his stockings, and thrusting his legs
into his coat sleeves, and making such other small mistakes in his
toilet as are not uncommon to those who dress in a hurry, and
labour under the agitation of having been suddenly roused.
While the attorney was thus engaged, the dwarf was groping under
the table, muttering desperate imprecations on himself, and mankind
in general, and all inanimate objects to boot, which suggested to
Mr Brass the question, 'what's the matter?'
'The key,' said the dwarf, looking viciously about him, 'the
door-key--that's the matter. D'ye know anything of it?'
'How should I know anything of it, sir?' returned Mr Brass.
'How should you?' repeated Quilp with a sneer. 'You're a nice
lawyer, an't you? Ugh, you idiot!'
Not caring to represent to the dwarf in his present humour, that
the loss of a key by another person could scarcely be said to
affect his (Brass's) legal knowledge in any material degree, Mr
Brass humbly suggested that it must have been forgotten over night,
and was, doubtless, at that moment in its native key-hole.
Notwithstanding that Mr Quilp had a strong conviction to the
contrary, founded on his recollection of having carefully taken it
out, he was fain to admit that this was possible, and therefore
went grumbling to the door where, sure enough, he found it.
Now, just as Mr Quilp laid his hand upon the lock, and saw with
great astonishment that the fastenings were undone, the knocking
came again with the most irritating violence, and the daylight
which had been shining through the key-hole was intercepted on the
outside by a human eye. The dwarf was very much exasperated, and
wanting somebody to wreak his ill-humour upon, determined to dart
out suddenly, and favour Mrs Quilp with a gentle acknowledgment of
her attention in making that hideous uproar.
With this view, he drew back the lock very silently and softly, and
opening the door all at once, pounced out upon the person on the
other side, who had at that moment raised the knocker for another
application, and at whom the dwarf ran head first: throwing out his
hands and feet together, and biting the air in the fulness of his
malice.
So far, however, from rushing upon somebody who offered no
resistance and implored his mercy, Mr Quilp was no sooner in the
arms of the individual whom he had taken for his wife than he found
himself complimented with two staggering blows on the head, and two
more, of the same quality, in the chest; and closing with his
assailant, such a shower of buffets rained down upon his person as
sufficed to convince him that he was in skilful and experienced
hands. Nothing daunted by this reception, he clung tight to his
opponent, and bit and hammered away with such good-will and
heartiness, that it was at least a couple of minutes before he was
dislodged. Then, and not until then, Daniel Quilp found himself,
all flushed and dishevelled, in the middle of the street, with Mr
Richard Swiveller performing a kind of dance round him and
requiring to know 'whether he wanted any more?'
'There's plenty more of it at the same shop,' said Mr Swiveller, by
turns advancing and retreating in a threatening attitude, 'a large
and extensive assortment always on hand--country orders executed
with promptitude and despatch--will you have a little more, Sir--
don't say no, if you'd rather not.'
'I thought it was somebody else,' said Quilp, rubbing his
shoulders, 'why didn't you say who you were?'
'Why didn't you say who YOU were?' returned Dick, 'instead of
flying out of the house like a Bedlamite ?'
'It was you that--that knocked,' said the dwarf, getting up with
a short groan, 'was it?'
'Yes, I am the man,' replied Dick. 'That lady had begun when I
came, but she knocked too soft, so I relieved her.' As he said
this, he pointed towards Mrs Quilp, who stood trembling at a little
distance.
'Humph!' muttered the dwarf, darting an angry look at his wife, 'I
thought it was your fault! And you, sir--don't you know there has
been somebody ill here, that you knock as if you'd beat the door
down?'
'Damme!' answered Dick, 'that's why I did it. I thought there was
somebody dead here.'
'You came for some purpose, I suppose,' said Quilp. 'What is it you
want?'
'I want to know how the old gentleman is,' rejoined Mr Swiveller,
'and to hear from Nell herself, with whom I should like to have a
little talk. I'm a friend of the family, sir--at least I'm the
friend of one of the family, and that's the same thing.'
'You'd better walk in then,' said the dwarf. 'Go on, sir, go on.
Now, Mrs Quilp--after you, ma'am.'
Mrs Quilp hesitated, but Mr Quilp insisted. And it was not a
contest of politeness, or by any means a matter of form, for she
knew very well that her husband wished to enter the house in this
order, that he might have a favourable opportunity of inflicting a
few pinches on her arms, which were seldom free from impressions of
his fingers in black and blue colours. Mr Swiveller, who was not in
the secret, was a little surprised to hear a suppressed scream,
and, looking round, to see Mrs Quilp following him with a sudden
jerk; but he did not remark on these appearances, and soon forgot
them.
'Now, Mrs Quilp,' said the dwarf when they had entered the shop,
'go you up stairs, if you please, to Nelly's room, and tell her
that she's wanted.'
'You seem to make yourself at home here,' said Dick, who was
unacquainted with Mr Quilp's authority.
'I AM at home, young gentleman,' returned the dwarf.
Dick was pondering what these words might mean, and still more what
the presence of Mr Brass might mean, when Mrs Quilp came hurrying
down stairs, declaring that the rooms above were empty.
'Empty, you fool!' said the dwarf.
'I give you my word, Quilp,' answered his trembling wife, 'that I
have been into every room and there's not a soul in any of them.'
'And that,' said Mr Brass, clapping his hands once, with an
emphasis, 'explains the mystery of the key!'
Quilp looked frowningly at him, and frowningly at his wife, and
frowningly at Richard Swiveller; but, receiving no enlightenment
from any of them, hurried up stairs, whence he soon hurried down
again, confirming the report which had already been made.
'It's a strange way of going,' he said, glancing at Swiveller,
'very strange not to communicate with me who am such a close and
intimate friend of his! Ah! he'll write to me no doubt, or he'll
bid Nelly write--yes, yes, that's what he'll do. Nelly's very fond
of me. Pretty Nell!'
Mr Swiveller looked, as he was, all open-mouthed astonishment.
Still glancing furtively at him, Quilp turned to Mr Brass and
observed, with assumed carelessness, that this need not interfere
with the removal of the goods.
'For indeed,' he added, 'we knew that they'd go away to-day, but
not that they'd go so early, or so quietly. But they have their
reasons, they have their reasons.'
'Where in the devil's name are they gone?' said the wondering Dick.
Quilp shook his head, and pursed up his lips, in a manner which
implied that he knew very well, but was not at liberty to say.
'And what,' said Dick, looking at the confusion about him, 'what do
you mean by moving the goods?'
'That I have bought 'em, Sir,' rejoined Quilp. 'Eh? What then?'
'Has the sly old fox made his fortune then, and gone to live in a
tranquil cot in a pleasant spot with a distant view of the changing
sea?' said Dick, in great bewilderment.
'Keeping his place of retirement very close, that he may not be
visited too often by affectionate grandsons and their devoted
friends, eh?' added the dwarf, rubbing his hands hard; 'I say
nothing, but is that your meaning?'
Richard Swiveller was utterly aghast at this unexpected alteration
of circumstances, which threatened the complete overthrow of the
project in which he bore so conspicuous a part, and seemed to nip
his prospects in the bud. Having only received from Frederick
Trent, late on the previous night, information of the old man's
illness, he had come upon a visit of condolence and inquiry to
Nell, prepared with the first instalment of that long train of
fascinations which was to fire her heart at last. And here, when he
had been thinking of all kinds of graceful and insinuating
approaches, and meditating on the fearful retaliation which was
slowly working against Sophy Wackles--here were Nell, the old man,
and all the money gone, melted away, decamped he knew not whither,
as if with a fore-knowledge of the scheme and a resolution to
defeat it in the very outset, before a step was taken.
In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both surprised and troubled
by the flight which had been made. It had not escaped his keen eye
that some indispensable articles of clothing were gone with the
fugitives, and knowing the old man's weak state of mind, he
marvelled what that course of proceeding might be in which he had
so readily procured the concurrence of the child. It must not be
supposed (or it would be a gross injustice to Mr Quilp) that he was
tortured by any disinterested anxiety on behalf of either. His
uneasiness arose from a misgiving that the old man had some secret
store of money which he had not suspected; and the idea of its
escaping his clutches, overwhelmed him with mortification and
self-reproach.
In this frame of mind, it was some consolation to him to find that
Richard Swiveller was, for different reasons, evidently irritated
and disappointed by the same cause. It was plain, thought the
dwarf, that he had come there, on behalf of his friend, to cajole
or frighten the old man out of some small fraction of that wealth
of which they supposed him to have an abundance. Therefore, it was
a relief to vex his heart with a picture of the riches the old man
hoarded, and to expatiate on his cunning in removing himself even
beyond the reach of importunity.
'Well,' said Dick, with a blank look, 'I suppose it's of no use my
staying here.'
'Not the least in the world,' rejoined the dwarf.
'You'll mention that I called, perhaps?' said Dick.
Mr Quilp nodded, and said he certainly would, the very first time
he saw them.
'And say,' added Mr Swiveller, 'say, sir, that I was wafted here
upon the pinions of concord; that I came to remove, with the rake
of friendship, the seeds of mutual violence and heart-burning, and
to sow in their place, the germs of social harmony. Will you have
the goodness to charge yourself with that commission, Sir?'
'Certainly!' rejoined Quilp.
'Will you be kind enough to add to it, Sir,' said Dick, producing
a very small limp card, 'that that is my address, and that I am to
be found at home every morning. Two distinct knocks, sir, will
produce the slavey at any time. My particular friends, Sir, are
accustomed to sneeze when the door is opened, to give her to
understand that they ARE my friends and have no interested motives
in asking if I'm at home. I beg your pardon; will you allow me to
look at that card again?'
'Oh! by all means,' rejoined Quilp.
'By a slight and not unnatural mistake, sir,' said Dick,
substituting another in its stead, 'I had handed you the passticket
of a select convivial circle called the Glorious Apollers of
which I have the honour to be Perpetual Grand. That is the proper
document, Sir. Good morning.'
Quilp bade him good day; the perpetual Grand Master of the Glorious
Apollers, elevating his hat in honour of Mrs Quilp, dropped it
carelessly on the side of his head again, and disappeared with a
flourish.
By this time, certain vans had arrived for the conveyance of the
goods, and divers strong men in caps were balancing chests of
drawers and other trifles of that nature upon their heads, and
performing muscular feats which heightened their complexions
considerably. Not to be behind-hand in the bustle, Mr Quilp went to
work with surprising vigour; hustling and driving the people about,
like an evil spirit; setting Mrs Quilp upon all kinds of arduous
and impracticable tasks; carrying great weights up and down, with
no apparent effort; kicking the boy from the wharf, whenever he
could get near him; and inflicting, with his loads, a great many
sly bumps and blows on the shoulders of Mr Brass, as he stood upon
the door-steps to answer all the inquiries of curious neighbours,
which was his department. His presence and example diffused such
alacrity among the persons employed, that, in a few hours, the
house was emptied of everything, but pieces of matting, empty
porter-pots, and scattered fragments of straw.
Seated, like an African chief, on one of these pieces of matting,
the dwarf was regaling himself in the parlour, with bread and
cheese and beer, when he observed without appearing to do so, that
a boy was prying in at the outer door. Assured that it was Kit,
though he saw little more than his nose, Mr Quilp hailed him by his
name; whereupon Kit came in and demanded what he wanted.
'Come here, you sir,' said the dwarf. 'Well, so your old master and
young mistress have gone?'
'Where?' rejoined Kit, looking round.
'Do you mean to say you don't know where?' answered Quilp sharply.
'Where have they gone, eh?'
'I don't know,' said Kit.
'Come,' retorted Quilp, 'let's have no more of this! Do you mean to
say that you don't know they went away by stealth, as soon as it
was light this morning?'
'No,' said the boy, in evident surprise.
'You don't know that?' cried Quilp. 'Don't I know that you were
hanging about the house the other night, like a thief, eh? Weren't
you told then?'
'No,' replied the boy.
'You were not?' said Quilp. 'What were you told then; what were you
talking about?'
Kit, who knew no particular reason why he should keep the matter
secret now, related the purpose for which he had come on that
occasion, and the proposal he had made.
'Oh!' said the dwarf after a little consideration. 'Then, I think
they'll come to you yet.'
'Do you think they will?' cried Kit eagerly.
'Aye, I think they will,' returned the dwarf. 'Now, when they do,
let me know; d'ye hear? Let me know, and I'll give you something.
I want to do 'em a kindness, and I can't do 'em a kindness unless
I know where they are. You hear what I say?'
Kit might have returned some answer which would not have been
agreeable to his irascible questioner, if the boy from the wharf,
who had been skulking about the room in search of anything that
might have been left about by accident, had not happened to cry,
'Here's a bird! What's to be done with this?'
'Wring its neck,' rejoined Quilp.
'Oh no, don't do that,' said Kit, stepping forward. 'Give it to me.'
'Oh yes, I dare say,' cried the other boy. 'Come! You let the cage
alone, and let me wring its neck will you? He said I was to do it.
You let the cage alone will you.'
'Give it here, give it to me, you dogs,' roared Quilp. 'Fight for
it, you dogs, or I'll wring its neck myself!'
Without further persuasion, the two boys fell upon each other,
tooth and nail, while Quilp, holding up the cage in one hand, and
chopping the ground with his knife in an ecstasy, urged them on by
his taunts and cries to fight more fiercely. They were a pretty
equal match, and rolled about together, exchanging blows which were
by no means child's play, until at length Kit, planting a
well-directed hit in his adversary's chest, disengaged himself,
sprung nimbly up, and snatching the cage from Quilp's hands made
off with his prize.
He did not stop once until he reached home, where his bleeding face
occasioned great consternation, and caused the elder child to howl
dreadfully.
'Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter, what have you been
doing?' cried Mrs Nubbles.
'Never you mind, mother,' answered her son, wiping his face on the
jack-towel behind the door. 'I'm not hurt, don't you be afraid for
me. I've been a fightin' for a bird and won him, that's all. Hold
your noise, little Jacob. I never see such a naughty boy in all my
days!'
'You have been fighting for a bird!' exclaimed his mother.
'Ah! Fightin' for a bird!' replied Kit, 'and here he is--Miss
Nelly's bird, mother, that they was agoin' to wring the neck of! I
stopped that though--ha ha ha! They wouldn't wring his neck and me
by, no, no. It wouldn't do, mother, it wouldn't do at all. Ha ha
ha!'
Kit laughing so heartily, with his swoln and bruised face looking
out of the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and then his mother
laughed. and then the baby crowed and kicked with great glee, and
then they all laughed in concert: partly because of Kit's triumph,
and partly because they were very fond of each other. When this fit
was over, Kit exhibited the bird to both children, as a great and
precious rarity--it was only a poor linnet--and looking about the
wall for an old nail, made a scaffolding of a chair and table and
twisted it out with great exultation.
'Let me see,' said the boy, 'I think I'll hang him in the winder,
because it's more light and cheerful, and he can see the sky there,
if he looks up very much. He's such a one to sing, I can tell you!'
So, the scaffolding was made again, and Kit, climbing up with the
poker for a hammer, knocked in the nail and hung up the cage, to
the immeasurable delight of the whole family. When it had been
adjusted and straightened a great many times, and he had walked
backwards into the fire-place in his admiration of it, the
arrangement was pronounced to be perfect.
'And now, mother,' said the boy, 'before I rest any more, I'll go
out and see if I can find a horse to hold, and then I can buy some
birdseed, and a bit of something nice for you, into the bargain.'
CHAPTER 14
As it was very easy for Kit to persuade himself that the old house
was in his way, his way being anywhere, he tried to look upon his
passing it once more as a matter of imperative and disagreeable
necessity, quite apart from any desire of his own, to which he
could not choose but yield. It is not uncommon for people who are
much better fed and taught than Christopher Nubbles had ever been,
to make duties of their inclinations in matters of more doubtful
propriety, and to take great credit for the self-denial with which
they gratify themselves.
There was no need of any caution this time, and no fear of being
detained by having to play out a return match with Daniel Quilp's
boy. The place was entirely deserted, and looked as dusty and dingy
as if it had been so for months. A rusty padlock was fastened on
the door, ends of discoloured blinds and curtains flapped drearily
against the half-opened upper windows, and the crooked holes cut in
the closed shutters below, were black with the darkness of the
inside. Some of the glass in the window he had so often watched,
had been broken in the rough hurry of the morning, and that room
looked more deserted and dull than any. A group of idle urchins had
taken possession of the door-steps; some were plying the knocker
and listening with delighted dread to the hollow sounds it spread
through the dismantled house; others were clustered about the
keyhole, watching half in jest and half in earnest for 'the ghost,'
which an hour's gloom, added to the mystery that hung about the
late inhabitants, had already raised. Standing all alone in the
midst of the business and bustle of the street, the house looked a
picture of cold desolation; and Kit, who remembered the cheerful
fire that used to burn there on a winter's night and the no less
cheerful laugh that made the small room ring, turned quite
mournfully away.
It must be especially observed in justice to poor Kit that he was
by no means of a sentimental turn, and perhaps had never heard that
adjective in all his life. He was only a soft-hearted grateful
fellow, and had nothing genteel or polite about him; consequently,
instead of going home again, in his grief, to kick the children and
abuse his mother (for, when your finely strung people are out of
sorts, they must have everybody else unhappy likewise), he turned
his thoughts to the vulgar expedient of making them more
comfortable if he could.
Bless us, what a number of gentlemen on horseback there were riding
up and down, and how few of them wanted their horses held! A good
city speculator or a parliamentary commissioner could have told to
a fraction, from the crowds that were cantering about, what sum of
money was realised in London, in the course of a year, by holding
horses alone. And undoubtedly it would have been a very large one,
if only a twentieth part of the gentlemen without grooms had had
occasion to alight; but they had not; and it is often an
ill-natured circumstance like this, which spoils the most ingenious
estimate in the world.
Kit walked about, now with quick steps and now with slow; now
lingering as some rider slackened his horse's pace and looked about
him; and now darting at full speed up a bye-street as he caught a
glimpse of some distant horseman going lazily up the shady side of
the road, and promising to stop, at every door. But on they all
went, one after another, and there was not a penny stirring. 'I
wonder,' thought the boy, 'if one of these gentlemen knew there was
nothing in the cupboard at home, whether he'd stop on purpose, and
make believe that he wanted to call somewhere, that I might earn a
trifle?'
He was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say nothing of
repeated disappointments, and was sitting down upon a step to rest,
when there approached towards him a little clattering jingling
four-wheeled chaise' drawn by a little obstinate-looking
rough-coated pony, and driven by a little fat placid-faced old
gentleman. Beside the little old gentleman sat a little old lady,
plump and placid like himself, and the pony was coming along at his
own pace and doing exactly as he pleased with the whole concern. If
the old gentleman remonstrated by shaking the reins, the pony
replied by shaking his head. It was plain that the utmost the pony
would consent to do, was to go in his own way up any street that
the old gentleman particularly wished to traverse, but that it was
an understanding between them that he must do this after his own
fashion or not at all.
As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at the little
turn-out, that the old gentleman looked at him. Kit rising and
putting his hand to his hat, the old gentleman intimated to the
pony that he wished to stop, to which proposal the pony (who seldom
objected to that part of his duty) graciously acceded.
'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Kit. 'I'm sorry you stopped, sir. I
only meant did you want your horse minded.'
'I'm going to get down in the next street,' returned the old
gentleman. 'If you like to come on after us, you may have the job.'
Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The pony ran off at a sharp
angle to inspect a lamp-post on the opposite side of the way, and
then went off at a tangent to another lamp-post on the other side.
Having satisfied himself that they were of the same pattern and
materials, he came to a stop apparently absorbed in meditation.
'Will you go on, sir,' said the old gentleman, gravely, 'or are we
to wait here for you till it's too late for our appointment?'
The pony remained immoveable.
'Oh you naughty Whisker,' said the old lady. 'Fie upon you! I'm
ashamed of such conduct.'
The pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his feelings, for
he trotted on directly, though in a sulky manner, and stopped no
more until he came to a door whereon was a brass plate with the
words 'Witherden--Notary.' Here the old gentleman got out and
helped out the old lady, and then took from under the seat a
nosegay resembling in shape and dimensions a full-sized warming-pan
with the handle cut short off. This, the old lady carried into the
house with a staid and stately air, and the old gentleman (who had
a club-foot) followed close upon her.
They went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of their voices,
into the front parlour, which seemed to be a kind of office. The
day being very warm and the street a quiet one, the windows were
wide open; and it was easy to hear through the Venetian blinds all
that passed inside.
At first there was a great shaking of hands and shuffling of feet,
succeeded by the presentation of the nosegay; for a voice, supposed
by the listener to be that of Mr Witherden the Notary, was heard to
exclaim a great many times, 'oh, delicious!' 'oh, fragrant,
indeed!' and a nose, also supposed to be the property of that
gentleman, was heard to inhale the scent with a snuffle of
exceeding pleasure.
'I brought it in honour of the occasion, Sir,' said the old lady.
'Ah! an occasion indeed, ma'am, an occasion which does honour to
me, ma'am, honour to me,' rejoined Mr Witherden, the notary. 'I
have had many a gentleman articled to me, ma'am, many a one. Some
of them are now rolling in riches, unmindful of their old companion
and friend, ma'am, others are in the habit of calling upon me to
this day and saying, "Mr Witherden, some of the pleasantest hours
I ever spent in my life were spent in this office--were spent,
Sir, upon this very stool"; but there was never one among the
number, ma'am, attached as I have been to many of them, of whom I
augured such bright things as I do of your only son.'
'Oh dear!' said the old lady. 'How happy you do make us when you
tell us that, to be sure!'
'I tell you, ma'am,' said Mr Witherden, 'what I think as an honest
man, which, as the poet observes, is the noblest work of God. I
agree with the poet in every particular, ma'am. The mountainous
Alps on the one hand, or a humming-bird on the other, is nothing,
in point of workmanship, to an honest man--or woman--or woman.'
'Anything that Mr Witherden can say of me,' observed a small quiet
voice, 'I can say, with interest, of him, I am sure.'
'It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circumstance,' said the
Notary, 'to happen too upon his eight-and-twentieth birthday, and
I hope I know how to appreciate it. I trust, Mr Garland, my dear
Sir, that we may mutually congratulate each other upon this
auspicious occasion.'
To this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured they might.
There appeared to be another shaking of hands in consequence, and
when it was over, the old gentleman said that, though he said it
who should not, he believed no son had ever been a greater comfort
to his parents than Abel Garland had been to his.
'Marrying as his mother and I did, late in life, sir, after waiting
for a great many years, until we were well enough off--coming
together when we were no longer young, and then being blessed with
one child who has always been dutiful and affectionate--why, it's
a source of great happiness to us both, sir.'
'Of course it is, I have no doubt of it,' returned the Notary in a
sympathising voice. 'It's the contemplation of this sort of thing,
that makes me deplore my fate in being a bachelor. There was a
young lady once, sir, the daughter of an outfitting warehouse of
the first respectability--but that's a weakness. Chuckster, bring
in Mr Abel's articles.'
'You see, Mr Witherden,' said the old lady, 'that Abel has not been
brought up like the run of young men. He has always had a pleasure
in our society, and always been with us. Abel has never been absent
from us, for a day; has he, my dear?'
'Never, my dear,' returned the old gentleman, 'except when he went
to Margate one Saturday with Mr Tomkinley that had been a teacher
at that school he went to, and came back upon the Monday; but he
was very ill after that, you remember, my dear; it was quite a
dissipation.'
'He was not used to it, you know,' said the old lady, 'and he
couldn't bear it, that's the truth. Besides he had no comfort in
being there without us, and had nobody to talk to or enjoy himself
with.'
'That was it, you know,' interposed the same small quiet voice that
had spoken once before. 'I was quite abroad, mother, quite
desolate, and to think that the sea was between us--oh, I never
shall forget what I felt when I first thought that the sea was
between us!'
'Very natural under the circumstances,' observed the Notary. 'Mr
Abel's feelings did credit to his nature, and credit to your
nature, ma'am, and his father's nature, and human nature. I trace
the same current now, flowing through all his quiet and unobtrusive
proceedings.---I am about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot
of the articles which Mr Chuckster will witness; and placing my
finger upon this blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I am
constrained to remark in a distinct tone of voice--don't be
alarmed, ma'am, it is merely a form of law--that I deliver this,
as my act and deed. Mr Abel will place his name against the other
wafer, repeating the same cabalistic words, and the business is
over. Ha ha ha! You see how easily these things are done!'
There was a short silence, apparently, while Mr Abel went through
the prescribed form, and then the shaking of hands and shuffling of
feet were renewed, and shortly afterwards there was a clinking of
wine-glasses and a great talkativeness on the part of everybody. In
about a quarter of an hour Mr Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear
and his face inflamed with wine) appeared at the door, and
condescending to address Kit by the jocose appellation of 'Young
Snob,' informed him that the visitors were coming out.
Out they came forthwith; Mr Witherden, who was short, chubby,
fresh-coloured, brisk, and pompous, leading the old lady with
extreme politeness, and the father and son following them, arm in
arm. Mr Abel, who had a quaint old-fashioned air about him, looked
nearly of the same age as his father, and bore a wonderful
resemblance to him in face and figure, though wanting something of
his full, round, cheerfulness, and substituting in its place a
timid reserve. In all other respects, in the neatness of the dress,
and even in the club-foot, he and the old gentleman were precisely
alike.
Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted in the
arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which formed an
indispensable portion of her equipage, Mr Abel got into a little
box behind which had evidently been made for his express
accommodation, and smiled at everybody present by turns, beginning
with his mother and ending with the pony. There was then a great
to-do to make the pony hold up his head that the bearing-rein might
be fastened; at last even this was effected; and the old gentleman,
taking his seat and the reins, put his hand in his pocket to find
a sixpence for Kit.
He had no sixpence, neither had the old lady, nor Mr Abel, nor the
Notary, nor Mr Chuckster. The old gentleman thought a shilling too
much, but there was no shop in the street to get change at, so he
gave it to the boy.
'There,' he said jokingly, 'I'm coming here again next Monday at
the same time, and mind you're here, my lad, to work it out.'
'Thank you, Sir,' said Kit. 'I'll be sure to be here.'
He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at his saying
so, especially Mr Chuckster, who roared outright and appeared to
relish the joke amazingly. As the pony, with a presentiment that he
was going home, or a determination that he would not go anywhere
else (which was the same thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had
no time to justify himself, and went his way also. Having expended
his treasure in such purchases as he knew would be most acceptable
at home, not forgetting some seed for the wonderful bird, he
hastened back as fast as he could, so elated with his success and
great good fortune, that he more than half expected Nell and the
old man would have arrived before him.
CHAPTER 15
Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of the town on
the morning of their departure, the child trembled with a mingled
sensation of hope and fear as in some far-off figure imperfectly
seen in the clear distance, her fancy traced a likeness to honest
Kit. But although she would gladly have given him her hand and
thanked him for what he had said at their last meeting, it was
always a relief to find, when they came nearer to each other, that
the person who approached was not he, but a stranger; for even if
she had not dreaded the effect which the sight of him might have
wrought upon her fellow-traveller, she felt that to bid farewell to
anybody now, and most of all to him who had been so faithful and so
true, was more than she could bear. It was enough to leave dumb
things behind, and objects that were insensible both to her love
and sorrow. To have parted from her only other friend upon the
threshold of that wild journey, would have wrung her heart indeed.
Why is it that we can better bear to part in spirit than in body,
and while we have the fortitude to act farewell have not the nerve
to say it? On the eve of long voyages or an absence of many years,
friends who are tenderly attached will separate with the usual
look, the usual pressure of the hand, planning one final interview
for the morrow, while each well knows that it is but a poor feint
to save the pain of uttering that one word, and that the meeting
will never be. Should possibilities be worse to bear than
certainties? We do not shun our dying friends; the not having
distinctly taken leave of one among them, whom we left in all
kindness and affection, will often embitter the whole remainder of
a life.
The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly
and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling
sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind
and curtain before sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and
chased away the shadows of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered
up close and dark, felt it was morning, and chafed and grew
restless in their little cells; bright-eyed mice crept back to
their tiny homes and nestled timidly together; the sleek house-cat,
forgetful of her prey, sat winking at the rays of sun starting
through keyhole and cranny in the door, and longed for her stealthy
run and warm sleek bask outside. The nobler beasts confined in
dens, stood motionless behind their bars and gazed on fluttering
boughs, and sunshine peeping through some little window, with eyes
in which old forests gleamed--then trod impatiently the track
their prisoned feet had worn--and stopped and gazed again. Men in
their dungeons stretched their cramp cold limbs and cursed the
stone that no bright sky could warm. The flowers that sleep by
night, opened their gentle eyes and turned them to the day. The
light, creation's mind, was everywhere, and all things owned its
power.
The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or exchanging
a smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in silence. Bright and
happy as it was, there was something solemn in the long, deserted
streets, from which, like bodies without souls, all habitual
character and expression had departed, leaving but one dead uniform
repose, that made them all alike. All was so still at that early
hour, that the few pale people whom they met seemed as much
unsuited to the scene, as the sickly lamp which had been here and
there left burning, was powerless and faint in the full glory of
the sun.
Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth of men's
abodes which yet lay between them and the outskirts, this aspect
began to melt away, and noise and bustle to usurp its place. Some
straggling carts and coaches rumbling by, first broke the charm,
then others came, then others yet more active, then a crowd. The
wonder was, at first, to see a tradesman's window open, but it was
a rare thing soon to see one closed; then, smoke rose slowly from
the chimneys, and sashes were thrown up to let in air, and doors
were opened, and servant girls, looking lazily in all directions
but their brooms, scattered brown clouds of dust into the eyes of
shrinking passengers, or listened disconsolately to milkmen who
spoke of country fairs, and told of waggons in the mews, with
awnings and all things complete, and gallant swains to boot, which
another hour would see upon their journey.
This quarter passed, they came upon the haunts of commerce and
great traffic, where many people were resorting, and business was
already rife. The old man looked about him with a startled and
bewildered gaze, for these were places that he hoped to shun. He
pressed his finger on his lip, and drew the child along by narrow
courts and winding ways, nor did he seem at ease until they had
left it far behind, often casting a backward look towards it,
murmuring that ruin and self-murder were crouching in every street,
and would follow if they scented them; and that they could not fly
too fast.
Again this quarter passed, they came upon a straggling
neighbourhood, where the mean houses parcelled off in rooms, and
windows patched with rags and paper, told of the populous poverty
that sheltered there. The shops sold goods that only poverty could
buy, and sellers and buyers were pinched and griped alike. Here
were poor streets where faded gentility essayed with scanty space
and shipwrecked means to make its last feeble stand, but
tax-gatherer and creditor came there as elsewhere, and the poverty
that yet faintly struggled was hardly less squalid and manifest
than that which had long ago submitted and given up the game.
This was a wide, wide track--for the humble followers of the camp
of wealth pitch their tents round about it for many a mile--but
its character was still the same. Damp rotten houses, many to let,
many yet building, many half-built and mouldering away--lodgings,
where it would be hard to tell which needed pity most, those who
let or those who came to take--children, scantily fed and clothed,
spread over every street, and sprawling in the dust--scolding
mothers, stamping their slipshod feet with noisy threats upon the
pavement--shabby fathers, hurrying with dispirited looks to the
occupation which brought them 'daily bread' and little more--
mangling-women, washer-women, cobblers, tailors, chandlers,
driving their trades in parlours and kitchens and back room and
garrets, and sometimes all of them under the same roof--
brick-fields skirting gardens paled with staves of old casks, or
timber pillaged from houses burnt down, and blackened and blistered
by the flames--mounds of dock-weed, nettles, coarse grass and
oyster-shells, heaped in rank confusion--small dissenting chapels
to teach, with no lack of illustration, the miseries of Earth, and
plenty of new churches, erected with a little superfluous wealth,
to show the way to Heaven.
At length these streets becoming more straggling yet, dwindled and
dwindled away, until there were only small garden patches bordering
the road, with many a summer house innocent of paint and built of
old timber or some fragments of a boat, green as the tough
cabbage-stalks that grew about it, and grottoed at the seams with
toad-stools and tight-sticking snails. To these succeeded pert
cottages, two and two with plots of ground in front, laid out in
angular beds with stiff box borders and narrow paths between, where
footstep never strayed to make the gravel rough. Then came the
public-house, freshly painted in green and white, with tea-gardens
and a bowling green, spurning its old neighbour with the
horse-trough where the waggons stopped; then, fields; and then,
some houses, one by one, of goodly size with lawns, some even with
a lodge where dwelt a porter and his wife. Then came a turnpike;
then fields again with trees and hay-stacks; then, a hill, and on
the top of that, the traveller might stop, and--looking back at
old Saint Paul's looming through the smoke, its cross peeping above
the cloud (if the day were clear), and glittering in the sun; and
casting his eyes upon the Babel out of which it grew until he
traced it down to the furthest outposts of the invading army of
bricks and mortar whose station lay for the present nearly at his
feet--might feel at last that he was clear of London.
Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old man and
his little guide (if guide she were, who knew not whither they were
bound) sat down to rest. She had had the precaution to furnish her
basket with some slices of bread and meat, and here they made their
frugal breakfast.
The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the beauty of
the waving grass, the deep green leaves, the wild flowers, and the
thousand exquisite scents and sounds that floated in the air--
deep joys to most of us, but most of all to those whose life is in
a crowd or who live solitarily in great cities as in the bucket of
a human well--sunk into their breasts and made them very glad.
The child had repeated her artless prayers once that morning, more
earnestly perhaps than she had ever done in all her life, but as
she felt all this, they rose to her lips again. The old man took
off his hat--he had no memory for the words--but he said amen,
and that they were very good.
There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress, with strange
plates, upon a shelf at home, over which she had often pored whole
evenings, wondering whether it was true in every word, and where
those distant countries with the curious names might be. As she
looked back upon the place they had left, one part of it came
strongly on her mind.
'Dear grandfather,' she said, 'only that this place is prettier and
a great deal better than the real one, if that in the book is like
it, I feel as if we were both Christian, and laid down on this
grass all the cares and troubles we brought with us; never to take
them up again.'
'No--never to return--never to return'--replied the old man,
waving his hand towards the city. 'Thou and I are free of it now,
Nell. They shall never lure us back.'
'Are you tired?' said the child, 'are you sure you don't feel ill
from this long walk?'
'I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away,' was his
reply. 'Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be further away--a long,
long way further. We are too near to stop, and be at rest. Come!'
There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which the child
laved her hands and face, and cooled her feet before setting forth
to walk again. She would have the old man refresh himself in this
way too, and making him sit down upon the grass, cast the water on
him with her hands, and dried it with her simple dress.
'I can do nothing for myself, my darling,' said the grandfather; 'I
don't know how it is, I could once, but the time's gone. Don't
leave me, Nell; say that thou'lt not leave me. I loved thee all the
while, indeed I did. If I lose thee too, my dear, I must die!'
He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned piteously. The time
had been, and a very few days before, when the child could not have
restrained her tears and must have wept with him. But now she
soothed him with gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking
they could ever part, and rallied him cheerfully upon the jest. He
was soon calmed and fell asleep, singing to himself in a low voice,
like a little child.
He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey. The road was
pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures and fields of corn,
about which, poised high in the clear blue sky, the lark trilled
out her happy song. The air came laden with the fragrance it caught
upon its way, and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed
forth their drowsy satisfaction as they floated by.
They were now in the open country; the houses were very few and
scattered at long intervals, often miles apart. Occasionally they
came upon a cluster of poor cottages, some with a chair or low
board put across the open door to keep the scrambling children from
the road, others shut up close while all the family were working in
the fields. These were often the commencement of a little village:
and after an interval came a wheelwright's shed or perhaps a
blacksmith's forge; then a thriving farm with sleepy cows lying
about the yard, and horses peering over the low wall and scampering
away when harnessed horses passed upon the road, as though in
triumph at their freedom. There were dull pigs too, turning up the
ground in search of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous
grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed each other in their
quest; plump pigeons skimming round the roof or strutting on the
eaves; and ducks and geese, far more graceful in their own conceit,
waddling awkwardly about the edges of the pond or sailing glibly on
its surface. The farm-yard passed, then came the little inn; the
humbler beer-shop; and the village tradesman's; then the lawyer's
and the parson's, at whose dread names the beer-shop trembled; the
church then peeped out modestly from a clump of trees; then there
were a few more cottages; then the cage, and pound, and not
unfrequently, on a bank by the way-side, a deep old dusty well.
Then came the trim-hedged fields on either hand, and the open road
again.
They walked all day, and slept that night at a small cottage where
beds were let to travellers. Next morning they were afoot again,
and though jaded at first, and very tired, recovered before long
and proceeded briskly forward.
They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space at a time,
and still kept on, having had but slight refreshment since the
morning. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, when drawing
near another cluster of labourers' huts, the child looked wistfully
in each, doubtful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile,
and buy a draught of milk.
It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and fearful of
being repulsed. Here was a crying child, and there a noisy wife. In
this, the people seemed too poor; in that, too many. At length she
stopped at one where the family were seated round the table--
chiefly because there was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair
beside the hearth, and she thought he was a grandfather and would
feel for hers.
There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three young
sturdy children, brown as berries. The request was no sooner
preferred, than granted. The eldest boy ran out to fetch some milk,
the second dragged two stools towards the door, and the youngest
crept to his mother's gown, and looked at the strangers from
beneath his sunburnt hand.
'God save you, master,' said the old cottager in a thin piping
voice; 'are you travelling far?'
'Yes, Sir, a long way'--replied the child; for her grandfather
appealed to her.
'From London?' inquired the old man.
The child said yes.
Ah! He had been in London many a time--used to go there often
once, with waggons. It was nigh two-and-thirty year since he had
been there last, and he did hear say there were great changes. Like
enough! He had changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year
was a long time and eighty-four a great age, though there was some
he had known that had lived to very hard upon a hundred--and not
so hearty as he, neither--no, nothing like it.
'Sit thee down, master, in the elbow chair,' said the old man,
knocking his stick upon the brick floor, and trying to do so
sharply. 'Take a pinch out o' that box; I don't take much myself,
for it comes dear, but I find it wakes me up sometimes, and ye're
but a boy to me. I should have a son pretty nigh as old as you if
he'd lived, but they listed him for a so'ger--he come back home
though, for all he had but one poor leg. He always said he'd be
buried near the sun-dial he used to climb upon when he was a baby,
did my poor boy, and his words come true--you can see the place
with your own eyes; we've kept the turf up, ever since.'
He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with watery eyes,
said she needn't be afraid that he was going to talk about that,
any more. He didn't wish to trouble nobody, and if he had troubled
anybody by what he said, he asked pardon, that was all.
The milk arrived, and the child producing her little basket, and
selecting its best fragments for her grandfather, they made a
hearty meal. The furniture of the room was very homely of course--
a few rough chairs and a table, a corner cupboard with their little
stock of crockery and delf, a gaudy tea-tray, representing a lady
in bright red, walking out with a very blue parasol, a few common,
coloured scripture subjects in frames upon the wall and chimney, an
old dwarf clothes-press and an eight-day clock, with a few bright
saucepans and a kettle, comprised the whole. But everything was
clean and neat, and as the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil
air of comfort and content to which she had long been unaccustomed.
'How far is it to any town or village?' she asked of the husband.
'A matter of good five mile, my dear,' was the reply, 'but you're
not going on to-night?'
'Yes, yes, Nell,' said the old man hastily, urging her too by
signs. 'Further on, further on, darling, further away if we walk
till midnight.'
'There's a good barn hard by, master,' said the man, 'or there's
travellers' lodging, I know, at the Plow an' Harrer. Excuse me, but
you do seem a little tired, and unless you're very anxious to get
on--'
'Yes, yes, we are,' returned the old man fretfully. 'Further away,
dear Nell, pray further away.'
'We must go on, indeed,' said the child, yielding to his restless
wish. 'We thank you very much, but we cannot stop so soon. I'm
quite ready, grandfather.'
But the woman had observed, from the young wanderer's gait, that
one of her little feet was blistered and sore, and being a woman
and a mother too, she would not suffer her to go until she had
washed the place and applied some simple remedy, which she did so
carefully and with such a gentle hand--rough-grained and hard
though it was, with work--that the child's heart was too full to
admit of her saying more than a fervent 'God bless you!' nor could
she look back nor trust herself to speak, until they had left the
cottage some distance behind. When she turned her head, she saw
that the whole family, even the old grandfather, were standing in
the road watching them as they went, and so, with many waves of the
hand, and cheering nods, and on one side at least not without
tears, they parted company.
They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than they had done
yet, for another mile or thereabouts, when they heard the sound of
wheels behind them, and looking round observed an empty cart
approaching pretty briskly. The driver on coming up to them stopped
his horse and looked earnestly at Nell.
'Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder?' he said.
'Yes, sir,' replied the child.
'Ah! They asked me to look out for you,' said the man. 'I'm going
your way. Give me your hand--jump up, master.'
This was a great relief, for they were very much fatigued and could
scarcely crawl along. To them the jolting cart was a luxurious
carriage, and the ride the most delicious in the world. Nell had
scarcely settled herself on a little heap of straw in one corner,
when she fell asleep, for the first time that day.
She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which was about to
turn up a bye-lane. The driver kindly got down to help her out, and
pointing to some trees at a very short distance before them, said
that the town lay there, and that they had better take the path
which they would see leading through the churchyard. Accordingly,
towards this spot, they directed their weary steps.
CHAPTER 16
The sun was setting when they reached the wicket-gate at which the
path began, and, as the rain falls upon the just and unjust alike,
it shed its warm tint even upon the resting-places of the dead, and
bade them be of good hope for its rising on the morrow. The church
was old and grey, with ivy clinging to the walls, and round the
porch. Shunning the tombs, it crept about the mounds, beneath which
slept poor humble men: twining for them the first wreaths they had
ever won, but wreaths less liable to wither and far more lasting in
their kind, than some which were graven deep in stone and marble,
and told in pompous terms of virtues meekly hidden for many a year,
and only revealed at last to executors and mourning legatees.
The clergyman's horse, stumbling with a dull blunt sound among the
graves, was cropping the grass; at once deriving orthodox
consolation from the dead parishioners, and enforcing last Sunday's
text that this was what all flesh came to; a lean ass who had
sought to expound it also, without being qualified and ordained,
was pricking his ears in an empty pound hard by, and looking with
hungry eyes upon his priestly neighbour.
The old man and the child quitted the gravel path, and strayed
among the tombs; for there the ground was soft, and easy to their
tired feet. As they passed behind the church, they heard voices
near at hand, and presently came on those who had spoken.
They were two men who were seated in easy attitudes upon the grass,
and so busily engaged as to be at first unconscious of intruders.
It was not difficult to divine that they were of a class of
itinerant showmen--exhibitors of the freaks of Punch--for,
perched cross-legged upon a tombstone behind them, was a figure of
that hero himself, his nose and chin as hooked and his face as
beaming as usual. Perhaps his imperturbable character was never
more strikingly developed, for he preserved his usual equable smile
notwithstanding that his body was dangling in a most uncomfortable
position, all loose and limp and shapeless, while his long peaked
cap, unequally balanced against his exceedingly slight legs,
threatened every instant to bring him toppling down.
In part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two men, and
in part jumbled together in a long flat box, were the other persons
of the Drama. The hero's wife and one child, the hobby-horse, the
doctor, the foreign gentleman who not being familiar with the
language is unable in the representation to express his ideas
otherwise than by the utterance of the word 'Shallabalah' three
distinct times, the radical neighbour who will by no means admit
that a tin bell is an organ, the executioner, and the devil, were
all here. Their owners had evidently come to that spot to make some
needful repairs in the stage arrangements, for one of them was
engaged in binding together a small gallows with thread, while the
other was intent upon fixing a new black wig, with the aid of a
small hammer and some tacks, upon the head of the radical
neighbour, who had been beaten bald.
They raised their eyes when the old man and his young companion
were close upon them, and pausing in their work, returned their
looks of curiosity. One of them, the actual exhibitor no doubt, was
a little merry-faced man with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who
seemed to have unconsciously imbibed something of his hero's
character. The other--that was he who took the money--had rather
a careful and cautious look, which was perhaps inseparable from his
occupation also.
The merry man was the first to greet the strangers with a nod; and
following the old man's eyes, he observed that perhaps that was the
first time he had ever seen a Punch off the stage. (Punch, it may
be remarked, seemed to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a
most flourishing epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his
heart.)
'Why do you come here to do this?' said the old man, sitting down
beside them, and looking at the figures with extreme delight.
'Why you see,' rejoined the little man, 'we're putting up for
to-night at the public-house yonder, and it wouldn't do to let 'em
see the present company undergoing repair.'
'No!' cried the old man, making signs to Nell to listen, 'why not,
eh? why not?'
'Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take away all the
interest, wouldn't it?' replied the little man. 'Would you care a
ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if you know'd him in private and
without his wig?---certainly not.'
'Good!' said the old man, venturing to touch one of the puppets,
and drawing away his hand with a shrill laugh. 'Are you going to
show 'em to-night? are you?'
'That is the intention, governor,' replied the other, 'and unless
I'm much mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a calculating at this minute
what we've lost through your coming upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it
can't be much.'
The little man accompanied these latter words with a wink,
expressive of the estimate he had formed of the travellers'
finances.
To this Mr Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner, replied, as
he twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung him into the box,
'I don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free. If
you stood in front of the curtain and see the public's faces as I
do, you'd know human natur' better.'
'Ah! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking to that
branch,' rejoined his companion. 'When you played the ghost in the
reg'lar drama in the fairs, you believed in everything--except
ghosts. But now you're a universal mistruster. I never see a man so
changed.'
'Never mind,' said Mr Codlin, with the air of a discontented
philosopher. 'I know better now, and p'raps I'm sorry for it.'
Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew and despised
them, Mr Codlin drew one forth and held it up for the inspection of
his friend:
'Look here; here's all this judy's clothes falling to pieces again.
You haven't got a needle and thread I suppose?'
The little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully as he
contemplated this severe indisposition of a principal performer.
Seeing that they were at a loss, the child said timidly:
'I have a needle, Sir, in my basket, and thread too. Will you let
me try to mend it for you? I think I could do it neater than you
could.'
Even Mr Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so
seasonable. Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was soon busily
engaged in her task, and accomplishing it to a miracle.
While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked at her with
an interest which did not appear to be diminished when he glanced
at her helpless companion. When she had finished her work he
thanked her, and inquired whither they were travelling.
'N--no further to-night, I think,' said the child, looking towards
her grandfather.
'If you're wanting a place to stop at,' the man remarked, 'I should
advise you to take up at the same house with us. That's it. The
long, low, white house there. It's very cheap.'
The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have remained in
the churchyard all night if his new acquaintances had remained
there too. As he yielded to this suggestion a ready and rapturous
assent, they all rose and walked away together; he keeping close to
the box of puppets in which he was quite absorbed, the merry little
man carrying it slung over his arm by a strap attached to it for
the purpose, Nelly having hold of her grandfather's hand, and Mr
Codlin sauntering slowly behind, casting up at the church tower and
neighbouring trees such looks as he was accustomed in town-practice
to direct to drawing-room and nursery windows, when seeking for a
profitable spot on which to plant the show.
The public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady who
made no objection to receiving their new guests, but praised
Nelly's beauty and were at once prepossessed in her behalf. There
was no other company in the kitchen but the two showmen, and the
child felt very thankful that they had fallen upon such good
quarters. The landlady was very much astonished to learn that they
had come all the way from London, and appeared to have no little
curiosity touching their farther destination. The child parried her
inquiries as well as she could, and with no great trouble, for
finding that they appeared to give her pain, the old lady desisted.
'These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an hour's time,' she
said, taking her into the bar; 'and your best plan will be to sup
with them. Meanwhile you shall have a little taste of something
that'll do you good, for I'm sure you must want it after all you've
gone through to-day. Now, don't look after the old gentleman,
because when you've drank that, he shall have some too.'
As nothing could induce the child to leave him alone, however, or
to touch anything in which he was not the first and greatest
sharer, the old lady was obliged to help him first. When they had
been thus refreshed, the whole house hurried away into an empty
stable where the show stood, and where, by the light of a few
flaring candles stuck round a hoop which hung by a line from the
ceiling, it was to be forthwith exhibited.
And now Mr Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after blowing away at
the Pan's pipes until he was intensely wretched, took his station
on one side of the checked drapery which concealed the mover of the
figures, and putting his hands in his pockets prepared to reply to
all questions and remarks of Punch, and to make a dismal feint of
being his most intimate private friend, of believing in him to the
fullest and most unlimited extent, of knowing that he enjoyed day
and night a merry and glorious existence in that temple, and that
he was at all times and under every circumstance the same
intelligent and joyful person that the spectators then beheld him.
All this Mr Codlin did with the air of a man who had made up his
mind for the worst and was quite resigned; his eye slowly wandering
about during the briskest repartee to observe the effect upon the
audience, and particularly the impression made upon the landlord
and landlady, which might be productive of very important results
in connexion with the supper.
Upon this head, however, he had no cause for any anxiety, for the
whole performance was applauded to the echo, and voluntary
contributions were showered in with a liberality which testified
yet more strongly to the general delight. Among the laughter none
was more loud and frequent than the old man's. Nell's was unheard,
for she, poor child, with her head drooping on his shoulder, had
fallen asleep, and slept too soundly to be roused by any of his
efforts to awaken her to a participation in his glee.
The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat, and yet
would not leave the old man until she had kissed him in his bed.
He, happily insensible to every care and anxiety, sat listening
with a vacant smile and admiring face to all that his new friend
said; and it was not until they retired yawning to their room, that
he followed the child up stairs.
It was but a loft partitioned into two compartments, where they
were to rest, but they were well pleased with their lodging and had
hoped for none so good. The old man was uneasy when he had lain
down, and begged that Nell would come and sit at his bedside as she
had done for so many nights. She hastened to him, and sat there
till he slept.
There was a little window, hardly more than a chink in the wall, in
her room, and when she left him, she opened it, quite wondering at
the silence. The sight of the old church, and the graves about it
in the moonlight, and the dark trees whispering among themselves,
made her more thoughtful than before. She closed the window again,
and sitting down upon the bed, thought of the life that was before them.
She had a little money, but it was very little, and when that was
gone, they must begin to beg. There was one piece of gold among it,
and an emergency might come when its worth to them would be
increased a hundred fold. It would be best to hide this coin, and
never produce it unless their case was absolutely desperate, and no
other resource was left them.
Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into her dress,
and going to bed with a lighter heart sunk into a deep slumber.
CHAPTER 17
Another bright day shining in through the small casement, and
claiming fellowship with the kindred eyes of the child, awoke her.
At sight of the strange room and its unaccustomed objects she
started up in alarm, wondering how she had been moved from the
familiar chamber in which she seemed to have fallen asleep last
night, and whither she had been conveyed. But, another glance
around called to her mind all that had lately passed, and she
sprung from her bed, hoping and trustful.
It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she walked
out into the churchyard, brushing the dew from the long grass with
her feet, and often turning aside into places where it grew longer
than in others, that she might not tread upon the graves. She felt
a curious kind of pleasure in lingering among these houses of the
dead, and read the inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a
great number of good people were buried there), passing on from one
to another with increasing interest.
It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be, save for the
cawing of the rooks who had built their nests among the branches of
some tall old trees, and were calling to one another, high up in
the air. First, one sleek bird, hovering near his ragged house as
it swung and dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by
chance as it would seem, and in a sober tone as though he were but
talking to himself. Another answered, and he called again, but
louder than before; then another spoke and then another; and each
time the first, aggravated by contradiction, insisted on his case
more strongly. Other voices, silent till now, struck in from boughs
lower down and higher up and midway, and to the right and left, and
from the tree-tops; and others, arriving hastily from the grey
church turrets and old belfry window, joined the clamour which rose
and fell, and swelled and dropped again, and still went on; and all
this noisy contention amidst a skimming to and fro, and lighting on
fresh branches, and frequent change of place, which satirised the
old restlessness of those who lay so still beneath the moss and
turf below, and the strife in which they had worn away their lives.
Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these sounds came
down, and feeling as though they made the place more quiet than
perfect silence would have done, the child loitered from grave to
grave, now stopping to replace with careful hands the bramble which
had started from some green mound it helped to keep in shape, and
now peeping through one of the low latticed windows into the
church, with its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and baize of
whitened-green mouldering from the pew sides and leaving the naked
wood to view. There were the seats where the poor old people sat,
worn spare, and yellow like themselves; the rugged font where
children had their names, the homely altar where they knelt in
after life, the plain black tressels that bore their weight on
their last visit to the cool old shady church. Everything told of
long use and quiet slow decay; the very bell-rope in the porch was
frayed into a fringe, and hoary with old age.
She was looking at a humble stone which told of a young man who had
died at twenty-three years old, fifty-five years ago, when she
heard a faltering step approaching, and looking round saw a feeble
woman bent with the weight of years, who tottered to the foot of
that same grave and asked her to read the writing on the stone. The
old woman thanked her when she had done, saying that she had had
the words by heart for many a long, long year, but could not see
them now.
'Were you his mother?' said the child.
'I was his wife, my dear.'
She the wife of a young man of three-and-twenty! Ah, true! It was
fifty-five years ago.
'You wonder to hear me say that,' remarked the old woman, shaking
her head. 'You're not the first. Older folk than you have wondered
at the same thing before now. Yes, I was his wife. Death doesn't
change us more than life, my dear.'
'Do you come here often?' asked the child.
'I sit here very often in the summer time,' she answered, 'I used
to come here once to cry and mourn, but that was a weary while ago,
bless God!'
'I pluck the daisies as they grow, and take them home,' said the
old woman after a short silence. 'I like no flowers so well as
these, and haven't for five-and-fifty years. It's a long time, and
I'm getting very old.'
Then growing garrulous upon a theme which was new to one listener
though it were but a child, she told her how she had wept and
moaned and prayed to die herself, when this happened; and how when
she first came to that place, a young creature strong in love and
grief, she had hoped that her heart was breaking as it seemed to
be. But that time passed by, and although she continued to be sad
when she came there, still she could bear to come, and so went on
until it was pain no longer, but a solemn pleasure, and a duty she
had learned to like. And now that five-and-fifty years were gone,
she spoke of the dead man as if he had been her son or grandson,
with a kind of pity for his youth, growing out of her own old age,
and an exalting of his strength and manly beauty as compared with
her own weakness and decay; and yet she spoke about him as her
husband too, and thinking of herself in connexion with him, as she
used to be and not as she was now, talked of their meeting in
another world, as if he were dead but yesterday, and she, separated
from her former self, were thinking of the happiness of that comely
girl who seemed to have died with him.
The child left her gathering the flowers that grew upon the grave,
and thoughtfully retraced her steps.
The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr Codlin, still
doomed to contemplate the harsh realities of existence, was packing
among his linen the candle-ends which had been saved from the
previous night's performance; while his companion received the
compliments of all the loungers in the stable-yard, who, unable to
separate him from the master-mind of Punch, set him down as next in
importance to that merry outlaw, and loved him scarcely less. When
he had sufficiently acknowledged his popularity he came in to
breakfast, at which meal they all sat down together.
'And where are you going to-day?' said the little man, addressing
himself to Nell.
'Indeed I hardly know--we have not determined yet,' replied the child.
'We're going on to the races,' said the little man. 'If that's your
way and you like to have us for company, let us travel together. If
you prefer going alone, only say the word and you'll find that we
shan't trouble you.'
'We'll go with you,' said the old man. 'Nell--with them, with them.'
The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that she must
shortly beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at a better place
than where crowds of rich ladies and gentlemen were assembled
together for purposes of enjoyment and festivity, determined to
accompany these men so far. She therefore thanked the little man
for his offer, and said, glancing timidly towards his friend, that
if there was no objection to their accompanying them as far as the
race town--
'Objection!' said the little man. 'Now be gracious for once, Tommy,
and say that you'd rather they went with us. I know you would. Be
gracious, Tommy.'
'Trotters,' said Mr Codlin, who talked very slowly and ate very
greedily, as is not uncommon with philosophers and misanthropes;
'you're too free.'
'Why what harm can it do?' urged the other. 'No harm at all in this
particular case, perhaps,' replied Mr Codlin; 'but the principle's
a dangerous one, and you're too free I tell you.'
'Well, are they to go with us or not?'
'Yes, they are,' said Mr Codlin; 'but you might have made a favour
of it, mightn't you?'
The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had gradually
merged into the less euphonious one of Trotters, which, with the
prefatory adjective, Short, had been conferred upon him by reason
of the small size of his legs. Short Trotters however, being a
compound name, inconvenient of use in friendly dialogue, the
gentleman on whom it had been bestowed was known among his
intimates either as 'Short,' or 'Trotters,' and was seldom accosted
at full length as Short Trotters, except in formal conversations
and on occasions of ceremony.
Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader pleases, returned unto the
remonstrance of his friend Mr Thomas Codlin a jocose answer
calculated to turn aside his discontent; and applying himself with
great relish to the cold boiled beef, the tea, and bread and
butter, strongly impressed upon his companions that they should do
the like. Mr Codlin indeed required no such persuasion, as he had
already eaten as much as he could possibly carry and was now
moistening his clay with strong ale, whereof he took deep draughts
with a silent relish and invited nobody to partake--thus again
strongly indicating his misanthropical turn of mind.
Breakfast being at length over, Mr Codlin called the bill, and
charging the ale to the company generally (a practice also
savouring of misanthropy) divided the sum-total into two fair and
equal parts, assigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the
other to Nelly and her grandfather. These being duly discharged and
all things ready for their departure, they took farewell of the
landlord and landlady and resumed their journey.
And here Mr Codlin's false position in society and the effect it
wrought upon his wounded spirit, were strongly illustrated; for
whereas he had been last night accosted by Mr Punch as 'master,'
and had by inference left the audience to understand that he
maintained that individual for his own luxurious entertainment and
delight, here he was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of
that same Punch's temple, and bearing it bodily upon his shoulders
on a sultry day and along a dusty road. In place of enlivening his
patron with a constant fire of wit or the cheerful rattle of his
quarter-staff on the heads of his relations and acquaintance, here
was that beaming Punch utterly devoid of spine, all slack and
drooping in a dark box, with his legs doubled up round his neck,
and not one of his social qualities remaining.
Mr Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or two at intervals
with Short, and stopping to rest and growl occasionally. Short led
the way; with the flat box, the private luggage (which was not
extensive) tied up in a bundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his
shoulder-blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next him on either
hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the rear.
When they came to any town or village, or even to a detached house
of good appearance, Short blew a blast upon the brazen trumpet and
carolled a fragment of a song in that hilarious tone common to
Punches and their consorts. If people hurried to the windows, Mr
Codlin pitched the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and
concealing Short therewith, flourished hysterically on the pipes
and performed an air. Then the entertainment began as soon as might
be; Mr Codlin having the responsibility of deciding on its length
and of protracting or expediting the time for the hero's final
triumph over the enemy of mankind, according as he judged that the
after-crop of half-pence would be plentiful or scant. When it had
been gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his load and on
they went again.
Sometimes they played out the toll across a bridge or ferry, and
once exhibited by particular desire at a turnpike, where the
collector, being drunk in his solitude, paid down a shilling to
have it to himself. There was one small place of rich promise in
which their hopes were blighted, for a favourite character in the
play having gold-lace upon his coat and being a meddling
wooden-headed fellow was held to be a libel on the beadle, for
which reason the authorities enforced a quick retreat; but they
were generally well received, and seldom left a town without a
troop of ragged children shouting at their heels.
They made a long day's journey, despite these interruptions, and
were yet upon the road when the moon was shining in the sky. Short
beguiled the time with songs and jests, and made the best of
everything that happened. Mr Codlin on the other hand, cursed his
fate, and all the hollow things of earth (but Punch especially),
and limped along with the theatre on his back, a prey to the
bitterest chagrin.
They had stopped to rest beneath a finger-post where four roads
met, and Mr Codlin in his deep misanthropy had let down the drapery
and seated himself in the bottom of the show, invisible to mortal
eyes and disdainful of the company of his fellow creatures, when
two monstrous shadows were seen stalking towards them from a
turning in the road by which they had come. The child was at first
quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt giants--for such they
looked as they advanced with lofty strides beneath the shadow of
the trees--but Short, telling her there was nothing to fear, blew
a blast upon the trumpet, which was answered by a cheerful shout.
'It's Grinder's lot, an't it?' cried Mr Short in a loud key.
'Yes,' replied a couple of shrill voices.
'Come on then,' said Short. 'Let's have a look at you. I thought it
was you.'
Thus invited, 'Grinder's lot' approached with redoubled speed and
soon came up with the little party.
Mr Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted of a young
gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr Grinder himself, who
used his natural legs for pedestrian purposes and carried at his
back a drum. The public costume of the young people was of the
Highland kind, but the night being damp and cold, the young
gentleman wore over his kilt a man's pea jacket reaching to his
ankles, and a glazed hat; the young lady too was muffled in an old
cloth pelisse and had a handkerchief tied about her head. Their
Scotch bonnets, ornamented with plumes of jet black feathers, Mr
Grinder carried on his instrument.
'Bound for the races, I see,' said Mr Grinder coming up out of
breath. 'So are we. How are you, Short?' With that they shook hands
in a very friendly manner. The young people being too high up for
the ordinary salutations, saluted Short after their own fashion.
The young gentleman twisted up his right stilt and patted him on
the shoulder, and the young lady rattled her tambourine.
'Practice?' said Short, pointing to the stilts.
'No,' returned Grinder. 'It comes either to walkin' in 'em or
carryin' of 'em, and they like walkin' in 'em best. It's wery
pleasant for the prospects. Which road are you takin'? We go the
nighest.'
'Why, the fact is,' said Short, 'that we are going the longest way,
because then we could stop for the night, a mile and a half on. But
three or four mile gained to-night is so many saved to-morrow, and
if you keep on, I think our best way is to do the same.'
'Where's your partner?' inquired Grinder.
'Here he is,' cried Mr Thomas Codlin, presenting his head and face
in the proscenium of the stage, and exhibiting an expression of
countenance not often seen there; 'and he'll see his partner boiled
alive before he'll go on to-night. That's what he says.'
'Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which is dewoted
to something pleasanter,' urged Short. 'Respect associations,
Tommy, even if you do cut up rough.'
'Rough or smooth,' said Mr Codlin, beating his hand on the little
footboard where Punch, when suddenly struck with the symmetry of
his legs and their capacity for silk stockings, is accustomed to
exhibit them to popular admiration, 'rough or smooth, I won't go
further than the mile and a half to-night. I put up at the Jolly
Sandboys and nowhere else. If you like to come there, come there.
If you like to go on by yourself, go on by yourself, and do without
me if you can.'
So saying, Mr Codlin disappeared from the scene and immediately
presented himself outside the theatre, took it on his shoulders at
a jerk, and made off with most remarkable agility.
Any further controversy being now out of the question, Short was
fain to part with Mr Grinder and his pupils and to follow his
morose companion. After lingering at the finger-post for a few
minutes to see the stilts frisking away in the moonlight and the
bearer of the drum toiling slowly after them, he blew a few notes
upon the trumpet as a parting salute, and hastened with all speed
to follow Mr Codlin. With this view he gave his unoccupied hand to
Nell, and bidding her be of good cheer as they would soon be at the
end of their journey for that night, and stimulating the old man
with a similar assurance, led them at a pretty swift pace towards
their destination, which he was the less unwilling to make for, as
the moon was now overcast and the clouds were threatening rain.
CHAPTER 18
The Jolly Sandboys was a small road-side inn of pretty ancient
date, with a sign, representing three Sandboys increasing their
jollity with as many jugs of ale and bags of gold, creaking and
swinging on its post on the opposite side of the road. As the
travellers had observed that day many indications of their drawing
nearer and nearer to the race town, such as gipsy camps, carts
laden with gambling booths and their appurtenances, itinerant
showmen of various kinds, and beggars and trampers of every degree,
all wending their way in the same direction, Mr Codlin was fearful
of finding the accommodations forestalled; this fear increasing as
he diminished the distance between himself and the hostelry, he
quickened his pace, and notwithstanding the burden he had to carry,
maintained a round trot until he reached the threshold. Here he had
the gratification of finding that his fears were without
foundation, for the landlord was leaning against the door-post
looking lazily at the rain, which had by this time begun to descend
heavily, and no tinkling of cracked bell, nor boisterous shout, nor
noisy chorus, gave note of company within.
'All alone?' said Mr Codlin, putting down his burden and wiping his
forehead.
'All alone as yet,' rejoined the landlord, glancing at the sky,
'but we shall have more company to-night I expect. Here one of you
boys, carry that show into the barn. Make haste in out of the wet,
Tom; when it came on to rain I told 'em to make the fire up, and
there's a glorious blaze in the kitchen, I can tell you.'
Mr Codlin followed with a willing mind, and soon found that the
landlord had not commended his preparations without good reason. A
mighty fire was blazing on the hearth and roaring up the wide
chimney with a cheerful sound, which a large iron cauldron,
bubbling and simmering in the heat, lent its pleasant aid to swell.
There was a deep red ruddy blush upon the room, and when the
landlord stirred the fire, sending the flames skipping and leaping
up--when he took off the lid of the iron pot and there rushed out
a savoury smell, while the bubbling sound grew deeper and more
rich, and an unctuous steam came floating out, hanging in a
delicious mist above their heads--when he did this, Mr Codlin's
heart was touched. He sat down in the chimney-corner and smiled.
Mr Codlin sat smiling in the chimney-corner, eyeing the landlord as
with a roguish look he held the cover in his hand, and, feigning
that his doing so was needful to the welfare of the cookery,
suffered the delightful steam to tickle the nostrils of his guest.
The glow of the fire was upon the landlord's bald head, and upon
his twinkling eye, and upon his watering mouth, and upon his
pimpled face, and upon his round fat figure. Mr Codlin drew his
sleeve across his lips, and said in a murmuring voice, 'What is
it?'
'It's a stew of tripe,' said the landlord smacking his lips, 'and
cow-heel,' smacking them again, 'and bacon,' smacking them once
more, 'and steak,' smacking them for the fourth time, 'and peas,
cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up
together in one delicious gravy.' Having come to the climax, he
smacked his lips a great many times, and taking a long hearty sniff
of the fragrance that was hovering about, put on the cover again
with the air of one whose toils on earth were over.
'At what time will it be ready?' asked Mr Codlin faintly.
'It'll be done to a turn,' said the landlord looking up to the
clock--and the very clock had a colour in its fat white face, and
looked a clock for jolly Sandboys to consult--'it'll be done to a
turn at twenty-two minutes before eleven.'
'Then,' said Mr Codlin, 'fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don't let
nobody bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time
arrives.'
Nodding his approval of this decisive and manly course of
procedure, the landlord retired to draw the beer, and presently
returning with it, applied himself to warm the same in a small tin
vessel shaped funnel-wise, for the convenience of sticking it far
down in the fire and getting at the bright places. This was soon
done, and he handed it over to Mr Codlin with that creamy froth
upon the surface which is one of the happy circumstances attendant
on mulled malt.
Greatly softened by this soothing beverage, Mr Codlin now bethought
him of his companions, and acquainted mine host of the Sandboys
that their arrival might be shortly looked for. The rain was
rattling against the windows and pouring down in torrents,
and such was Mr Codlin's extreme amiability of mind, that
he more than once expressed his earnest hope that they would not be
so foolish as to get wet.
At length they arrived, drenched with the rain and presenting a
most miserable appearance, notwithstanding that Short had sheltered
the child as well as he could under the skirts of his own coat, and
they were nearly breathless from the haste they had made. But their
steps were no sooner heard upon the road than the landlord, who had
been at the outer door anxiously watching for their coming, rushed
into the kitchen and took the cover off. The effect was electrical.
They all came in with smiling faces though the wet was dripping
from their clothes upon the floor, and Short's first remark was,
'What a delicious smell!'
It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the side of a
cheerful fire, and in a bright room. They were furnished with
slippers and such dry garments as the house or their own bundles
afforded, and ensconcing themselves, as Mr Codlin had already done,
in the warm chimney-corner, soon forgot their late troubles or only
remembered them as enhancing the delights of the present time.
Overpowered by the warmth and comfort and the fatigue they had
undergone, Nelly and the old man had not long taken their seats
here, when they fell asleep.
'Who are they?' whispered the landlord. Short shook his head, and
wished he knew himself. 'Don't you know?' asked the host, turning
to Mr Codlin. 'Not I,' he replied. 'They're no good, I suppose.'
'They're no harm,' said Short. 'Depend upon that. I tell you what--
it's plain that the old man an't in his right mind--'
'If you haven't got anything newer than that to say,' growled Mr
Codlin, glancing at the clock, 'you'd better let us fix our minds
upon the supper, and not disturb us.'
'Here me out, won't you?' retorted his friend. 'It's very plain to
me, besides, that they're not used to this way of life. Don't tell
me that that handsome child has been in the habit of prowling about
as she's done these last two or three days. I know better.'
'Well, who DOES tell you she has?' growled Mr Codlin, again
glancing at the clock and from it to the cauldron, 'can't you think
of anything more suitable to present circumstances than saying
things and then contradicting 'em?'
'I wish somebody would give you your supper,' returned Short, 'for
there'll be no peace till you've got it. Have you seen how anxious
the old man is to get on--always wanting to be furder away--
furder away. Have you seen that?'
'Ah! what then?' muttered Thomas Codlin.
'This, then,' said Short. 'He has given his friends the slip. Mind
what I say--he has given his friends the slip, and persuaded this
delicate young creetur all along of her fondness for him to be his
guide and travelling companion--where to, he knows no more than
the man in the moon. Now I'm not a going to stand that.'
'YOU'RE not a going to stand that!' cried Mr Codlin, glancing at
the clock again and pulling his hair with both hands in a kind of
frenzy, but whether occasioned by his companion's observation or
the tardy pace of Time, it was difficult to determine. 'Here's a
world to live in!'
'I,' repeated Short emphatically and slowly, 'am not a-going to
stand it. I am not a-going to see this fair young child a falling
into bad hands, and getting among people that she's no more fit
for, than they are to get among angels as their ordinary chums.
Therefore when they dewelope an intention of parting company from
us, I shall take measures for detaining of 'em, and restoring 'em
to their friends, who I dare say have had their disconsolation
pasted up on every wall in London by this time.'
'Short,' said Mr Codlin, who with his head upon his hands, and his
elbows on his knees, had been shaking himself impatiently from side
to side up to this point and occasionally stamping on the ground,
but who now looked up with eager eyes; 'it's possible that there
may be uncommon good sense in what you've said. If there is, and
there should be a reward, Short, remember that we're partners in
everything!'
His companion had only time to nod a brief assent to this position,
for the child awoke at the instant. They had drawn close together
during the previous whispering, and now hastily separated and were
rather awkwardly endeavouring to exchange some casual remarks in
their usual tone, when strange footsteps were heard without, and
fresh company entered.
These were no other than four very dismal dogs, who came pattering
in one after the other, headed by an old bandy dog of particularly
mournful aspect, who, stopping when the last of his followers had
got as far as the door, erected himself upon his hind legs and
looked round at his companions, who immediately stood upon their
hind legs, in a grave and melancholy row. Nor was this the only
remarkable circumstance about these dogs, for each of them wore a
kind of little coat of some gaudy colour trimmed with tarnished
spangles, and one of them had a cap upon his head, tied very
carefully under his chin, which had fallen down upon his nose and
completely obscured one eye; add to this, that the gaudy coats were
all wet through and discoloured with rain, and that the wearers
were splashed and dirty, and some idea may be formed of the unusual
appearance of these new visitors to the Jolly Sandboys.
Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin, however, was in
the least surprised, merely remarking that these were Jerry's dogs
and that Jerry could not be far behind. So there the dogs stood,
patiently winking and gaping and looking extremely hard at the
boiling pot, until Jerry himself appeared, when they all dropped
down at once and walked about the room in their natural manner.
This posture it must be confessed did not much improve their
appearance, as their own personal tails and their coat tails--both
capital things in their way--did not agree together.
Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall blackwhiskered
man in a velveteen coat, who seemed well known to the
landlord and his guests and accosted them with great cordiality.
Disencumbering himself of a barrel organ which he placed upon a
chair, and retaining in his hand a small whip wherewith to awe his
company of comedians, he came up to the fire to dry himself, and
entered into conversation.
'Your people don't usually travel in character, do they?' said
Short, pointing to the dresses of the dogs. 'It must come expensive
if they do?'
'No,' replied Jerry, 'no, it's not the custom with us. But we've
been playing a little on the road to-day, and we come out with a
new wardrobe at the races, so I didn't think it worth while to stop
to undress. Down, Pedro!'
This was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who being a new
member of the company, and not quite certain of his duty, kept his
unobscured eye anxiously on his master, and was perpetually
starting upon his hind legs when there was no occasion, and falling
down again.
'I've got a animal here,' said Jerry, putting his hand into the
capacious pocket of his coat, and diving into one corner as if he
were feeling for a small orange or an apple or some such article,
'a animal here, wot I think you know something of, Short.'
'Ah!' cried Short, 'let's have a look at him.'
'Here he is,' said Jerry, producing a little terrier from his
pocket. 'He was once a Toby of yours, warn't he!'
In some versions of the great drama of Punch there is a small dog--
a modern innovation--supposed to be the private property of that
gentleman, whose name is always Toby. This Toby has been stolen in
youth from another gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the
confiding hero, who having no guile himself has no suspicion that
it lurks in others; but Toby, entertaining a grateful recollection
of his old master, and scorning to attach himself to any new
patrons, not only refuses to smoke a pipe at the bidding of Punch,
but to mark his old fidelity more strongly, seizes him by the nose
and wrings the same with violence, at which instance of canine
attachment the spectators are deeply affected. This was the
character which the little terrier in question had once sustained;
if there had been any doubt upon the subject he would speedily have
resolved it by his conduct; for not only did he, on seeing Short,
give the strongest tokens of recognition, but catching sight of the
flat box he barked so furiously at the pasteboard nose which he
knew was inside, that his master was obliged to gather him up and
put him into his pocket again, to the great relief of the whole
company.
The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in which
process Mr Codlin obligingly assisted by setting forth his own
knife and fork in the most convenient place and establishing
himself behind them. When everything was ready, the landlord took
off the cover for the last time, and then indeed there burst forth
such a goodly promise of supper, that if he had offered to put it
on again or had hinted at postponement, he would certainly have
been sacrificed on his own hearth.
However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead thereof assisted
a stout servant girl in turning the contents of the cauldron into
a large tureen; a proceeding which the dogs, proof against various
hot splashes which fell upon their noses, watched with terrible
eagerness. At length the dish was lifted on the table, and mugs of
ale having been previously set round, little Nell ventured to say
grace, and supper began.
At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their hind
legs quite surprisingly; the child, having pity on them, was about
to cast some morsels of food to them before she tasted it herself,
hungry though she was, when their master interposed.
'No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand but mine if you
please. That dog,' said Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the
troop, and speaking in a terrible voice, 'lost a halfpenny to-day.
He goes without his supper.'
The unfortunate creature dropped upon his fore-legs directly,
wagged his tail, and looked imploringly at his master.
'You must be more careful, Sir,' said Jerry, walking coolly to the
chair where he had placed the organ, and setting the stop. 'Come
here. Now, Sir, you play away at that, while we have supper, and
leave off if you dare.'
The dog immediately began to grind most mournful music. His master
having shown him the whip resumed his seat and called up the
others, who, at his directions, formed in a row, standing upright
as a file of soldiers.
'Now, gentlemen,' said Jerry, looking at them attentively. 'The dog
whose name's called, eats. The dogs whose names an't called, keep
quiet. Carlo!'
The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped up the morsel
thrown towards him, but none of the others moved a muscle. In this
manner they were fed at the discretion of their master. Meanwhile
the dog in disgrace ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick
time, sometimes in slow, but never leaving off for an instant. When
the knives and forks rattled very much, or any of his fellows got
an unusually large piece of fat, he accompanied the music with a
short howl, but he immediately checked it on his master looking
round, and applied himself with increased diligence to the Old
Hundredth.
CHAPTER 19
Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the Jolly Sandboys
two more travellers bound for the same haven as the rest, who had
been walking in the rain for some hours, and came in shining and
heavy with water. One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and
a little lady without legs or arms, who had jogged forward in a
van; the other, a silent gentleman who earned his living by showing
tricks upon the cards, and who had rather deranged the natural
expression of his countenance by putting small leaden lozenges into
his eyes and bringing them out at his mouth, which was one of his
professional accomplishments. The name of the first of these
newcomers was Vuffin; the other, probably as a pleasant satire upon
his ugliness, was called Sweet William. To render them as
comfortable as he could, the landlord bestirred himself nimbly, and
in a very short time both gentlemen were perfectly at their ease.
'How's the Giant?' said Short, when they all sat smoking round the
fire.
'Rather weak upon his legs,' returned Mr Vuffin. 'I begin to be
afraid he's going at the knees.'
'That's a bad look-out,' said Short.
'Aye! Bad indeed,' replied Mr Vuffin, contemplating the fire with
a sigh. 'Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and the public care no
more about him than they do for a dead cabbage stalk.'
'What becomes of old giants?' said Short, turning to him again
after a little reflection.
'They're usually kept in carawans to wait upon the dwarfs,' said Mr
Vuffin.
'The maintaining of 'em must come expensive, when they can't be
shown, eh?' remarked Short, eyeing him doubtfully.
'It's better that, than letting 'em go upon the parish or about the
streets," said Mr Vuffin. 'Once make a giant common and giants will
never draw again. Look at wooden legs. If there was only one man
with a wooden leg what a property he'd be!'
'So he would!' observed the landlord and Short both together.
'That's very true.'
'Instead of which,' pursued Mr Vuffin, 'if you was to advertise
Shakspeare played entirely by wooden legs,' it's my belief you
wouldn't draw a sixpence.'
'I don't suppose you would,' said Short. And the landlord said so
too.
'This shows, you see,' said Mr Vuffin, waving his pipe with an
argumentative air, 'this shows the policy of keeping the used-up
giants still in the carawans, where they get food and lodging for
nothing, all their lives, and in general very glad they are to stop
there. There was one giant--a black 'un--as left his carawan some
year ago and took to carrying coach-bills about London, making
himself as cheap as crossing-sweepers. He died. I make no
insinuation against anybody in particular,' said Mr Vuffin, looking
solemnly round, 'but he was ruining the trade;--and he died.'
The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the
dogs, who nodded and said gruffly that he remembered.
'I know you do, Jerry,' said Mr Vuffin with profound meaning. 'I
know you remember it, Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it
served him right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had
three-and-twenty wans--I remember the time when old Maunders had
in his cottage in Spa Fields in the winter time, when the season
was over, eight male and female dwarfs setting down to dinner every
day, who was waited on by eight old giants in green coats, red
smalls, blue cotton stockings, and high-lows: and there was one
dwarf as had grown elderly and wicious who whenever his giant
wasn't quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs,
not being able to reach up any higher. I know that's a fact, for
Maunders told it me himself.'
'What about the dwarfs when they get old?' inquired the landlord.
'The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,' returned Mr Vuffin;
'a grey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But
a giant weak in the legs and not standing upright!--keep him in
the carawan, but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion
that can be offered.'
While Mr Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled
the time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat
in a warm corner, swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth
of halfpence for practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and
rehearsing other feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying
any regard whatever to the company, who in their turn left him
utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child prevailed upon her
grandfather to retire, and they withdrew, leaving the company yet
seated round the fire, and the dogs fast asleep at a humble
distance.
After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor
garret, but had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped
at. She opened it directly, and was a little startled by the sight
of Mr Thomas Codlin, whom she had left, to all appearance, fast
asleep down stairs.
'What is the matter?' said the child.
'Nothing's the matter, my dear,' returned her visitor. 'I'm your
friend. Perhaps you haven't thought so, but it's me that's your
friend--not him.'
'Not who?' the child inquired.
'Short, my dear. I tell you what,' said Codlin, 'for all his having
a kind of way with him that you'd be very apt to like, I'm the
real, open-hearted man. I mayn't look it, but I am indeed.'
The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken
effect upon Mr Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was
the consequence.
'Short's very well, and seems kind,' resumed the misanthrope, 'but
he overdoes it. Now I don't.'
Certainly if there were any fault in Mr Codlin's usual deportment,
it was that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him,
than overdid it. But the child was puzzled, and could not tell what
to say.
'Take my advice,' said Codlin: 'don't ask me why, but take it.
As long as you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don't
offer to leave us--not on any account--but always stick to me and
say that I'm your friend. Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and
always say that it was me that was your friend?'
'Say so where--and when?' inquired the child innocently.
'O, nowhere in particular,' replied Codlin, a little put out as it
seemed by the question; 'I'm only anxious that you should think me
so, and do me justice. You can't think what an interest I have in
you. Why didn't you tell me your little history--that about you
and the poor old gentleman? I'm the best adviser that ever was, and
so interested in you--so much more interested than Short. I think
they're breaking up down stairs; you needn't tell Short, you know,
that we've had this little talk together. God bless you. Recollect
the friend. Codlin's the friend, not Short. Short's very well as
far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin--not Short.'
Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and
protecting looks and great fervour of manner, Thomas Codlin stole
away on tiptoe, leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise.
She was still ruminating upon his curious behaviour, when the floor
of the crazy stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the
other travellers who were passing to their beds. When they had all
passed, and the sound of their footsteps had died away, one of them
returned, and after a little hesitation and rustling in the
passage, as if he were doubtful what door to knock at, knocked at
hers.
'Yes,' said the child from within.
'It's me--Short'--a voice called through the keyhole. 'I only
wanted to say that we must be off early to-morrow morning, my dear,
because unless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the
villages won't be worth a penny. You'll be sure to be stirring
early and go with us? I'll call you.'
The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his 'good
night' heard him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the
anxiety of these men, increased by the recollection of their
whispering together down stairs and their slight confusion when she
awoke, nor was she quite free from a misgiving that they were not
the fittest companions she could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness,
however, was nothing, weighed against her fatigue; and she soon
forgot it in sleep. Very early next morning, Short fulfilled his
promise, and knocking softly at her door, entreated that she would
get up directly, as the proprietor of the dogs was still snoring,
and if they lost no time they might get a good deal in advance both
of him and the conjuror, who was talking in his sleep, and from
what he could be heard to say, appeared to be balancing a donkey in
his dreams. She started from her bed without delay, and roused the
old man with so much expedition that they were both ready as soon
as Short himself, to that gentleman's unspeakable gratification and
relief.
After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast, of which the
staple commodities were bacon and bread, and beer, they took leave
of the landlord and issued from the door of the jolly Sandboys. The
morning was fine and warm, the ground cool to the feet after the
late rain, the hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and
everything fresh and healthful. Surrounded by these influences,
they walked on pleasantly enough.
They had not gone very far, when the child was again struck by the
altered behaviour of Mr Thomas Codlin, who instead of plodding on
sulkily by himself as he had heretofore done, kept close to her,
and when he had an opportunity of looking at her unseen by his
companion, warned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head
not to put any trust in Short, but to reserve all confidences for
Codlin. Neither did he confine himself to looks and gestures, for
when she and her grandfather were walking on beside the aforesaid
Short, and that little man was talking with his accustomed
cheerfulness on a variety of indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin
testified his jealousy and distrust by following close at her
heels, and occasionally admonishing her ankles with the legs of the
theatre in a very abrupt and painful manner.
All these proceedings naturally made the child more watchful and
suspicious, and she soon observed that whenever they halted to
perform outside a village alehouse or other place, Mr Codlin while
he went through his share of the entertainments kept his eye
steadily upon her and the old man, or with a show of great
friendship and consideration invited the latter to lean upon his
arm, and so held him tight until the representation was over and
they again went forward. Even Short seemed to change in this
respect, and to mingle with his good-nature something of a desire
to keep them in safe custody. This increased the child's
misgivings, and made her yet more anxious and uneasy.
Meanwhile, they were drawing near the town where the races were to
begin next day; for, from passing numerous groups of gipsies and
trampers on the road, wending their way towards it, and straggling
out from every by-way and cross-country lane, they gradually fell
into a stream of people, some walking by the side of covered carts,
others with horses, others with donkeys, others toiling on with
heavy loads upon their backs, but all tending to the same point.
The public-houses by the wayside, from being empty and noiseless as
those in the remoter parts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts
and clouds of smoke; and, from the misty windows, clusters of broad
red faces looked down upon the road. On every piece of waste or
common ground, some small gambler drove his noisy trade, and
bellowed to the idle passersby to stop and try their chance; the
crowd grew thicker and more noisy; gilt gingerbread in
blanket-stalls exposed its glories to the dust; and often a
four-horse carriage, dashing by, obscured all objects in the gritty
cloud it raised, and left them, stunned and blinded, far behind.
It was dark before they reached the town itself, and long indeed
the few last miles had been. Here all was tumult and confusion; the
streets were filled with throngs of people--many strangers were
there, it seemed, by the looks they cast about--the church-bells
rang out their noisy peals, and flags streamed from windows and
house-tops. In the large inn-yards waiters flitted to and fro and
ran against each other, horses clattered on the uneven stones,
carriage steps fell rattling down, and sickening smells from many
dinners came in a heavy lukewarm breath upon the sense. In the
smaller public-houses, fiddles with all their might and main were
squeaking out the tune to staggering feet; drunken men, oblivious
of the burden of their song, joined in a senseless howl, which
drowned the tinkling of the feeble bell and made them savage for
their drink; vagabond groups assembled round the doors to see the
stroller woman dance, and add their uproar to the shrill flageolet
and deafening drum.
Through this delirious scene, the child, frightened and repelled by
all she saw, led on her bewildered charge, clinging close to her
conductor, and trembling lest in the press she should be separated
from him and left to find her way alone. Quickening their steps to
get clear of all the roar and riot, they at length passed through
the town and made for the race-course, which was upon an open
heath, situated on an eminence, a full mile distant from its
furthest bounds.
Although there were many people here, none of the best favoured or
best clad, busily erecting tents and driving stakes in the ground,
and hurrying to and fro with dusty feet and many a grumbled oath--
although there were tired children cradled on heaps of straw
between the wheels of carts, crying themselves to sleep--and poor
lean horses and donkeys just turned loose, grazing among the men
and women, and pots and kettles, and half-lighted fires, and ends
of candles flaring and wasting in the air--for all this, the child
felt it an escape from the town and drew her breath more freely.
After a scanty supper, the purchase of which reduced her little
stock so low, that she had only a few halfpence with which to buy
a breakfast on the morrow, she and the old man lay down to rest in
a corner of a tent, and slept, despite the busy preparations that
were going on around them all night long.
And now they had come to the time when they must beg their bread.
Soon after sunrise in the morning she stole out from the tent, and
rambling into some fields at a short distance, plucked a few wild
roses and such humble flowers, purposing to make them into little
nosegays and offer them to the ladies in the carriages when the
company arrived. Her thoughts were not idle while she was thus
employed; when she returned and was seated beside the old man in
one corner of the tent, tying her flowers together, while the two
men lay dozing in another corner, she plucked him by the sleeve,
and slightly glancing towards them, said, in a low voice--
'Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't seem as if
I spoke of anything but what I am about. What was that you told me
before we left the old house? That if they knew what we were going
to do, they would say that you were mad, and part us?'
The old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror; but she
checked him by a look, and bidding him hold some flowers while she
tied them up, and so bringing her lips closer to his ear, said--
'I know that was what you told me. You needn't speak, dear. I
recollect it very well. It was not likely that I should forget it.
Grandfather, these men suspect that we have secretly left our
friends, and mean to carry us before some gentleman and have us
taken care of and sent back. If you let your hand tremble so, we
can never get away from them, but if you're only quiet now, we
shall do so, easily.'
'How?' muttered the old man. 'Dear Nelly, how? They will shut me up
in a stone room, dark and cold, and chain me up to the wall, Nell--
flog me with whips, and never let me see thee more!'
'You're trembling again,' said the child. 'Keep close to me all
day. Never mind them, don't look at them, but me. I shall find a
time when we can steal away. When I do, mind you come with me, and
do not stop or speak a word. Hush! That's all.'
'Halloa! what are you up to, my dear?' said Mr Codlin, raising his
head, and yawning. Then observing that his companion was fast
asleep, he added in an earnest whisper, 'Codlin's the friend,
remember--not Short.'
'Making some nosegays,' the child replied; 'I am going to try and
sell some, these three days of the races. Will you have one--as a
present I mean?'
Mr Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child hurried
towards him and placed it in his hand. He stuck it in his
buttonhole with an air of ineffable complacency for a misanthrope,
and leering exultingly at the unconscious Short, muttered, as he
laid himself down again, 'Tom Codlin's the friend, by G--!'
As the morning wore on, the tents assumed a gayer and more
brilliant appearance, and long lines of carriages came rolling
softly on the turf. Men who had lounged about all night in
smock-frocks and leather leggings, came out in silken vests and
hats and plumes, as jugglers or mountebanks; or in gorgeous
liveries as soft-spoken servants at gambling booths; or in sturdy
yeoman dress as decoys at unlawful games. Black-eyed gipsy girls,
hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to tell fortunes, and
pale slender women with consumptive faces lingered upon the
footsteps of ventriloquists and conjurors, and counted the
sixpences with anxious eyes long before they were gained. As many
of the children as could be kept within bounds, were stowed away,
with all the other signs of dirt and poverty, among the donkeys,
carts, and horses; and as many as could not be thus disposed of ran
in and out in all intricate spots, crept between people's legs and
carriage wheels, and came forth unharmed from under horses' hoofs.
The dancing-dogs, the stilts, the little lady and the tall man, and
all the other attractions, with organs out of number and bands
innumerable, emerged from the holes and corners in which they had
passed the night, and flourished boldly in the sun.
Along the uncleared course, Short led his party, sounding the
brazen trumpet and revelling in the voice of Punch; and at his
heels went Thomas Codlin, bearing the show as usual, and keeping
his eye on Nelly and her grandfather, as they rather lingered in
the rear. The child bore upon her arm the little basket with her
flowers, and sometimes stopped, with timid and modest looks, to
offer them at some gay carriage; but alas! there were many bolder
beggars there, gipsies who promised husbands, and other adepts in
their trade, and although some ladies smiled gently as they shook
their heads, and others cried to the gentlemen beside them 'See,
what a pretty face!' they let the pretty face pass on, and never
thought that it looked tired or hungry.
There was but one lady who seemed to understand the child, and she
was one who sat alone in a handsome carriage, while two young men
in dashing clothes, who had just dismounted from it, talked and
laughed loudly at a little distance, appearing to forget her,
quite. There were many ladies all around, but they turned their
backs, or looked another way, or at the two young men (not
unfavourably at them), and left her to herself. She motioned away
a gipsy-woman urgent to tell her fortune, saying that it was told
already and had been for some years, but called the child towards
her, and taking her flowers put money into her trembling hand, and
bade her go home and keep at home for God's sake.
Many a time they went up and down those long, long lines, seeing
everything but the horses and the race; when the bell rang to clear
the course, going back to rest among the carts and donkeys, and not
coming out again until the heat was over. Many a time, too, was
Punch displayed in the full zenith of his humour, but all this
while the eye of Thomas Codlin was upon them, and to escape without
notice was impracticable.
At length, late in the day, Mr Codlin pitched the show in a
convenient spot, and the spectators were soon in the very triumph
of the scene. The child, sitting down with the old man close behind
it, had been thinking how strange it was that horses who were such
fine honest creatures should seem to make vagabonds of all the men
they drew about them, when a loud laugh at some extemporaneous
witticism of Mr Short's, having allusion to the circumstances of
the day, roused her from her meditation and caused her to look
around.
If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very moment.
Short was plying the quarter-staves vigorously and knocking the
characters in the fury of the combat against the sides of the show,
the people were looking on with laughing faces, and Mr Codlin had
relaxed into a grim smile as his roving eye detected hands going
into waistcoat pockets and groping secretly for sixpences. If they
were ever to get away unseen, that was the very moment. They seized
it, and fled.
They made a path through booths and carriages and throngs of
people, and never once stopped to look behind. The bell was ringing
and the course was cleared by the time they reached the ropes, but
they dashed across it insensible to the shouts and screeching that
assailed them for breaking in upon its sanctity, and creeping under
the brow of the hill at a quick pace, made for the open fields.
CHAPTER 20
Day after day as he bent his steps homeward, returning from some
new effort to procure employment, Kit raised his eyes to the window
of the little room he had so much commended to the child, and hoped
to see some indication of her presence. His own earnest wish,
coupled with the assurance he had received from Quilp, filled him
with the belief that she would yet arrive to claim the humble
shelter he had offered, and from the death of each day's hope
another hope sprung up to live to-morrow.
'I think they must certainly come to-morrow, eh mother?' said Kit,
laying aside his hat with a weary air and sighing as he spoke.
'They have been gone a week. They surely couldn't stop away more
than a week, could they now?'
The mother shook her head, and reminded him how often he had been
disappointed already.
'For the matter of that,' said Kit, 'you speak true and sensible
enough, as you always do, mother. Still, I do consider that a week
is quite long enough for 'em to be rambling about; don't you say
so?'
'Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they may not come
back for all that.'
Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed by this contradiction,
and not the less so from having anticipated it in his own mind and
knowing how just it was. But the impulse was only momentary, and
the vexed look became a kind one before it had crossed the room.
'Then what do you think, mother, has become of 'em? You don't think
they've gone to sea, anyhow?'
'Not gone for sailors, certainly,' returned the mother with a
smile. 'But I can't help thinking that they have gone to some
foreign country.'
'I say,' cried Kit with a rueful face, 'don't talk like that,
mother.'
'I am afraid they have, and that's the truth,' she said. 'It's the
talk of all the neighbours, and there are some even that know of
their having been seen on board ship, and can tell you the name of
the place they've gone to, which is more than I can, my dear, for
it's a very hard one.'
'I don't believe it,' said Kit. 'Not a word of it. A set of idle
chatterboxes, how should they know!'
'They may be wrong of course,' returned the mother, 'I can't tell
about that, though I don't think it's at all unlikely that they're
in the right, for the talk is that the old gentleman had put by a
little money that nobody knew of, not even that ugly little man you
talk to me about--what's his name--Quilp; and that he and Miss
Nell have gone to live abroad where it can't be taken from them,
and they will never be disturbed. That don't seem very far out of
the way now, do it?'
Kit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant admission that it
did not, and clambering up to the old nail took down the cage and
set himself to clean it and to feed the bird. His thoughts
reverting from this occupation to the little old gentleman who had
given him the shilling, he suddenly recollected that that was the
very day--nay, nearly the very hour--at which the little old
gentleman had said he should be at the Notary's house again. He no
sooner remembered this, than he hung up the cage with great
precipitation, and hastily explaining the nature of his errand,
went off at full speed to the appointed place.
It was some two minutes after the time when he reached the spot,
which was a considerable distance from his home, but by great good
luck the little old gentleman had not yet arrived; at least there
was no pony-chaise to be seen, and it was not likely that he had
come and gone again in so short a space. Greatly relieved to find
that he was not too late, Kit leant against a lamp-post to take
breath, and waited the advent of the pony and his charge.
Sure enough, before long the pony came trotting round the corner of
the street, looking as obstinate as pony might, and picking his
steps as if he were spying about for the cleanest places, and would
by no means dirty his feet or hurry himself inconveniently. Behind
the pony sat the little old gentleman, and by the old gentleman's
side sat the little old lady, carrying just such a nosegay as she
had brought before.
The old gentleman, the old lady, the pony, and the chaise, came up
the street in perfect unanimity, until they arrived within some
half a dozen doors of the Notary's house, when the pony, deceived
by a brass-plate beneath a tailor's knocker, came to a halt, and
maintained by a sturdy silence, that that was the house they
wanted.
'Now, Sir, will you ha' the goodness to go on; this is not the
place,' said the old gentleman.
The pony looked with great attention into a fire-plug which was
near him, and appeared to be quite absorbed in contemplating it.
'Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker" cried the old lady. 'After being
so good too, and coming along so well! I am quite ashamed of him.
I don't know what we are to do with him, I really don't.'
The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the nature and
properties of the fire-plug, looked into the air after his old
enemies the flies, and as there happened to be one of them tickling
his ear at that moment he shook his head and whisked his tail,
after which he appeared full of thought but quite comfortable and
collected. The old gentleman having exhausted his powers of
persuasion, alighted to lead him; whereupon the pony, perhaps
because he held this to be a sufficient concession, perhaps because
he happened to catch sight of the other brass-plate, or perhaps
because he was in a spiteful humour, darted off with the old lady
and stopped at the right house, leaving the old gentleman to come
panting on behind.
It was then that Kit presented himself at the pony's head, and
touched his hat with a smile.
'Why, bless me,' cried the old gentleman, 'the lad is here! My
dear, do you see?'
'I said I'd be here, Sir,' said Kit, patting Whisker's neck. 'I
hope you've had a pleasant ride, sir. He's a very nice little
pony.'
'My dear,' said the old gentleman. 'This is an uncommon lad; a good
lad, I'm sure.'
'I'm sure he is,' rejoined the old lady. 'A very good lad, and I am
sure he is a good son.'
Kit acknowledged these expressions of confidence by touching his
hat again and blushing very much. The old gentleman then handed the
old lady out, and after looking at him with an approving smile,
they went into the house--talking about him as they went, Kit
could not help feeling. Presently Mr Witherden, smelling very hard
at the nosegay, came to the window and looked at him, and after
that Mr Abel came and looked at him, and after that the old
gentleman and lady came and looked at him again, and after that
they all came and looked at him together, which Kit, feeling very
much embarrassed by, made a pretence of not observing. Therefore he
patted the pony more and more; and this liberty the pony most
handsomely permitted.
The faces had not disappeared from the window many moments, when Mr
Chuckster in his official coat, and with his hat hanging on his
head just as it happened to fall from its peg, appeared upon the
pavement, and telling him he was wanted inside, bade him go in and
he would mind the chaise the while. In giving him this direction Mr
Chuckster remarked that he wished that he might be blessed if he
could make out whether he (Kit) was 'precious raw' or 'precious
deep,' but intimated by a distrustful shake of the head, that he
inclined to the latter opinion.
Kit entered the office in a great tremor, for he was not used to
going among strange ladies and gentlemen, and the tin boxes and
bundles of dusty papers had in his eyes an awful and venerable air.
Mr Witherden too was a bustling gentleman who talked loud and fast,
and all eyes were upon him, and he was very shabby.
'Well, boy,' said Mr Witherden, 'you came to work out that
shilling;--not to get another, hey?'
'No indeed, sir,' replied Kit, taking courage to look up. 'I never
thought of such a thing.'
'Father alive?' said the Notary.
'Dead, sir.'
'Mother?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Married again--eh?'
Kit made answer, not without some indignation, that she was a widow
with three children, and that as to her marrying again, if the
gentleman knew her he wouldn't think of such a thing. At this reply
Mr Witherden buried his nose in the flowers again, and whispered
behind the nosegay to the old gentleman that he believed the lad
was as honest a lad as need be.
'Now,' said Mr Garland when they had made some further inquiries of
him, 'I am not going to give you anything--'
'Thank you, sir,' Kit replied; and quite seriously too, for this
announcement seemed to free him from the suspicion which the Notary
had hinted.
'--But,' resumed the old gentleman, 'perhaps I may want to know
something more about you, so tell me where you live, and I'll put
it down in my pocket-book.'
Kit told him, and the old gentleman wrote down the address with his
pencil. He had scarcely done so, when there was a great uproar in
the street, and the old lady hurrying to the window cried that
Whisker had run away, upon which Kit darted out to the rescue, and
the others followed.
It seemed that Mr Chuckster had been standing with his hands in his
pockets looking carelessly at the pony, and occasionally insulting
him with such admonitions as 'Stand still,'--'Be quiet,'--
'Wo-a-a,' and the like, which by a pony of spirit cannot be borne.
Consequently, the pony being deterred by no considerations of duty
or obedience, and not having before him the slightest fear of the
human eye, had at length started off, and was at that moment
rattling down the street--Mr Chuckster, with his hat off and a
pen behind his ear, hanging on in the rear of the chaise and making
futile attempts to draw it the other way, to the unspeakable
admiration of all beholders. Even in running away, however, Whisker
was perverse, for he had not gone very far when he suddenly
stopped, and before assistance could be rendered, commenced backing
at nearly as quick a pace as he had gone forward. By these means Mr
Chuckster was pushed and hustled to the office again, in a most
inglorious manner, and arrived in a state of great exhaustion and
discomfiture.
The old lady then stepped into her seat, and Mr Abel (whom they had
come to fetch) into his. The old gentleman, after reasoning with
the pony on the extreme impropriety of his conduct, and making the
best amends in his power to Mr Chuckster, took his place also, and
they drove away, waving a farewell to the Notary and his clerk, and
more than once turning to nod kindly to Kit as he watched them from
the road.
CHAPTER 21
Kit turned away and very soon forgot the pony, and the chaise, and
the little old lady, and the little old gentleman, and the little
young gentleman to boot, in thinking what could have become of his
late master and his lovely grandchild, who were the fountain-head
of all his meditations. Still casting about for some plausible
means of accounting for their non-appearance, and of persuading
himself that they must soon return, he bent his steps
towards home, intending to finish the task which the sudden
recollection of his contract had interrupted, and then to sally
forth once more to seek his fortune for the day.
When he came to the corner of the court in which he lived, lo and
behold there was the pony again! Yes, there he was, looking more
obstinate than ever; and alone in the chaise, keeping a steady
watch upon his every wink, sat Mr Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by
chance and seeing Kit pass by, nodded to him as though he would
have nodded his head off.
Kit wondered to see the pony again, so near his own home too, but
it never occurred to him for what purpose the pony might have come
there, or where the old lady and the old gentleman had gone, until
he lifted the latch of the door, and walking in, found them seated
in the room in conversation with his mother, at which unexpected
sight he pulled off his hat and made his best bow in some
confusion.
'We are here before you, you see, Christopher,' said Mr Garland
smiling.
'Yes, sir,' said Kit; and as he said it, he looked towards his
mother for an explanation of the visit.
'The gentleman's been kind enough, my dear,' said she, in reply to
this mute interrogation, 'to ask me whether you were in a good
place, or in any place at all, and when I told him no, you were not
in any, he was so good as to say that--'
'--That we wanted a good lad in our house,' said the old gentleman
and the old lady both together, 'and that perhaps we might think of
it, if we found everything as we would wish it to be.'
As this thinking of it, plainly meant the thinking of engaging Kit,
he immediately partook of his mother's anxiety and fell into a
great flutter; for the little old couple were very methodical and
cautious, and asked so many questions that he began to be afraid
there was no chance of his success.
'You see, my good woman,' said Mrs Garland to Kit's mother, 'that
it's necessary to be very careful and particular in such a matter
as this, for we're only three in family, and are very quiet regular
folks, and it would be a sad thing if we made any kind of mistake,
and found things different from what we hoped and expected.'
To this, Kit's mother replied, that certainly it was quite true,
and quite right, and quite proper, and Heaven forbid that she
should shrink, or have cause to shrink, from any inquiry into her
character or that of her son, who was a very good son though she
was his mother, in which respect, she was bold to say, he took
after his father, who was not only a good son to HIS mother, but
the best of husbands and the best of fathers besides, which Kit
could and would corroborate she knew, and so would little Jacob and
the baby likewise if they were old enough, which unfortunately they
were not, though as they didn't know what a loss they had had,
perhaps it was a great deal better that they should be as young as
they were; and so Kit's mother wound up a long story by wiping her
eyes with her apron, and patting little Jacob's head, who was
rocking the cradle and staring with all his might at the strange
lady and gentleman.
When Kit's mother had done speaking, the old lady struck in again,
and said that she was quite sure she was a very honest and very
respectable person or she never would have expressed herself in
that manner, and that certainly the appearance of the children and
the cleanliness of the house deserved great praise and did her the
utmost credit, whereat Kit's mother dropped a curtsey and became
consoled. Then the good woman entered in a long and minute account
of Kit's life and history from the earliest period down to that
time, not omitting to make mention of his miraculous fall out of a
back-parlour window when an infant of tender years, or his uncommon
sufferings in a state of measles, which were illustrated by correct
imitations of the plaintive manner in which he called for toast and
water, day and night, and said, 'don't cry, mother, I shall soon be
better;' for proof of which statements reference was made to Mrs
Green, lodger, at the cheesemonger's round the corner, and divers
other ladies and gentlemen in various parts of England and Wales
(and one Mr Brown who was supposed to be then a corporal in the
East Indies, and who could of course be found with very little
trouble), within whose personal knowledge the circumstances had
occurred. This narration ended, Mr Garland put some questions to
Kit respecting his qualifications and general acquirements, while
Mrs Garland noticed the children, and hearing from Kit's mother
certain remarkable circumstances which had attended the birth of
each, related certain other remarkable circumstances which had
attended the birth of her own son, Mr Abel, from which it appeared
that both Kit's mother and herself had been, above and beyond all
other women of what condition or age soever, peculiarly hemmed in
with perils and dangers. Lastly, inquiry was made into the nature
and extent of Kit's wardrobe, and a small advance being made to
improve the same, he was formally hired at an annual income of Six
Pounds, over and above his board and lodging, by Mr and Mrs
Garland, of Abel Cottage, Finchley.
It would be difficult to say which party appeared most pleased with
this arrangement, the conclusion of which was hailed with nothing
but pleasant looks and cheerful smiles on both sides. It was
settled that Kit should repair to his new abode on the next day but
one, in the morning; and finally, the little old couple, after
bestowing a bright half-crown on little Jacob and another on the
baby, took their leaves; being escorted as far as the street by
their new attendant, who held the obdurate pony by the bridle while
they took their seats, and saw them drive away with a lightened
heart.
'Well, mother,' said Kit, hurrying back into the house, 'I think my
fortune's about made now.'
'I should think it was indeed, Kit,' rejoined his mother. 'Six
pound a year! Only think!'
'Ah!' said Kit, trying to maintain the gravity which the
consideration of such a sum demanded, but grinning with delight in
spite of himself. 'There's a property!'
Kit drew a long breath when he had said this, and putting his hands
deep into his pockets as if there were one year's wages at least in
each, looked at his mother, as though he saw through her, and down
an immense perspective of sovereigns beyond.
'Please God we'll make such a lady of you for Sundays, mother! such
a scholar of Jacob, such a child of the baby, such a room of the
one up stairs! Six pound a year!'
'Hem!' croaked a strange voice. 'What's that about six pound a
year? What about six pound a year?' And as the voice made this
inquiry, Daniel Quilp walked in with Richard Swiveller at his
heels.
'Who said he was to have six pound a year?' said Quilp, looking
sharply round. 'Did the old man say it, or did little Nell say it?
And what's he to have it for, and where are they, eh!' The good
woman was so much alarmed by the sudden apparition of this unknown
piece of ugliness, that she hastily caught the baby from its cradle
and retreated into the furthest corner of the room; while little
Jacob, sitting upon his stool with his hands on his knees, looked
full at him in a species of fascination, roaring lustily all the
time. Richard Swiveller took an easy observation of the family over
Mr Quilp's head, and Quilp himself, with his hands in his pockets,
smiled in an exquisite enjoyment of the commotion he occasioned.
'Don't be frightened, mistress,' said Quilp, after a pause. 'Your
son knows me; I don't eat babies; I don't like 'em. It will be as
well to stop that young screamer though, in case I should be
tempted to do him a mischief. Holloa, sir! Will you be quiet?'
Little Jacob stemmed the course of two tears which he was squeezing
out of his eyes, and instantly subsided into a silent horror.
'Mind you don't break out again, you villain,' said Quilp, looking
sternly at him, 'or I'll make faces at you and throw you into fits,
I will. Now you sir, why haven't you been to me as you promised?'
'What should I come for?' retorted Kit. 'I hadn't any business with
you, no more than you had with me.'
'Here, mistress,' said Quilp, turning quickly away, and appealing
from Kit to his mother. 'When did his old master come or send here
last? Is he here now? If not, where's he gone?'
'He has not been here at all,' she replied. 'I wish we knew where
they have gone, for it would make my son a good deal easier in his
mind, and me too. If you're the gentleman named Mr Quilp, I should
have thought you'd have known, and so I told him only this very
day.'
'Humph!' muttered Quilp, evidently disappointed to believe that
this was true. 'That's what you tell this gentleman too, is it?'
'If the gentleman comes to ask the same question, I can't tell him
anything else, sir; and I only wish I could, for our own sakes,'
was the reply.
Quilp glanced at Richard Swiveller, and observed that having met
him on the threshold, he assumed that he had come in search of some
intelligence of the fugitives. He supposed he was right?
'Yes,' said Dick, 'that was the object of the present expedition.
I fancied it possible--but let us go ring fancy's knell. I'll
begin it.'
'You seem disappointed,' observed Quilp.
'A baffler, Sir, a baffler, that's all,' returned Dick. 'I have
entered upon a speculation which has proved a baffler; and a Being
of brightness and beauty will be offered up a sacrifice at Cheggs's
altar. That's all, sir.'
The dwarf eyed Richard with a sarcastic smile, but Richard, who had
been taking a rather strong lunch with a friend, observed him not,
and continued to deplore his fate with mournful and despondent
looks. Quilp plainly discerned that there was some secret reason
for this visit and his uncommon disappointment, and, in the hope
that there might be means of mischief lurking beneath it, resolved
to worm it out. He had no sooner adopted this resolution, than he
conveyed as much honesty into his face as it was capable of
expressing, and sympathised with Mr Swiveller exceedingly.
'I am disappointed myself,' said Quilp, 'out of mere friendly
feeling for them; but you have real reasons, private reasons I have
no doubt, for your disappointment, and therefore it comes heavier
than mine.'
'Why, of course it does,' Dick observed, testily.
'Upon my word, I'm very sorry, very sorry. I'm rather cast down
myself. As we are companions in adversity, shall we be companions
in the surest way of forgetting it? If you had no particular
business, now, to lead you in another direction,' urged Quilp,
plucking him by the sleeve and looking slyly up into his face out
of the corners of his eyes, 'there is a house by the water-side
where they have some of the noblest Schiedam--reputed to be
smuggled, but that's between ourselves--that can be got in all the
world. The landlord knows me. There's a little summer-house
overlooking the river, where we might take a glass of this
delicious liquor with a whiff of the best tobacco--it's in this
case, and of the rarest quality, to my certain knowledge--and be
perfectly snug and happy, could we possibly contrive it; or is
there any very particular engagement that peremptorily takes you
another way, Mr Swiveller, eh?'
As the dwarf spoke, Dick's face relaxed into a compliant smile, and
his brows slowly unbent. By the time he had finished, Dick was
looking down at Quilp in the same sly manner as Quilp was looking
up at him, and there remained nothing more to be done but to set
out for the house in question. This they did, straightway. The
moment their backs were turned, little Jacob thawed, and resumed
his crying from the point where Quilp had frozen him.
The summer-house of which Mr Quilp had spoken was a rugged wooden
box, rotten and bare to see, which overhung the river's mud, and
threatened to slide down into it. The tavern to which it belonged
was a crazy building, sapped and undermined by the rats, and only
upheld by great bars of wood which were reared against its walls,
and had propped it up so long that even they were decaying and
yielding with their load, and of a windy night might be heard to
creak and crack as if the whole fabric were about to come toppling
down. The house stood--if anything so old and feeble could be said
to stand--on a piece of waste ground, blighted with the unwholesome
smoke of factory chimneys, and echoing the clank of iron wheels and
rush of troubled water. Its internal accommodations amply fulfilled
the promise of the outside. The rooms were low and damp, the clammy
walls were pierced with chinks and holes, the rotten floors had sunk
from their level, the very beams started from their places and warned
the timid stranger from their neighbourhood.
To this inviting spot, entreating him to observe its beauties as
they passed along, Mr Quilp led Richard Swiveller, and on the table
of the summer-house, scored deep with many a gallows and initial
letter, there soon appeared a wooden keg, full of the vaunted
liquor. Drawing it off into the glasses with the skill of a
practised hand, and mixing it with about a third part of water, Mr
Quilp assigned to Richard Swiveller his portion, and lighting his
pipe from an end of a candle in a very old and battered lantern,
drew himself together upon a seat and puffed away.
'Is it good?' said Quilp, as Richard Swiveller smacked his lips,
'is it strong and fiery? Does it make you wink, and choke, and your
eyes water, and your breath come short--does it?'
'Does it?' cried Dick, throwing away part of the contents of his
glass, and filling it up with water, 'why, man, you don't mean to
tell me that you drink such fire as this?'
'No!' rejoined Quilp, 'Not drink it! Look here. And here. And here
again. Not drink it!'
As he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off and drank three small glassfuls
of the raw spirit, and then with a horrible grimace took a great
many pulls at his pipe, and swallowing the smoke, discharged it in
a heavy cloud from his nose. This feat accomplished he drew himself
together in his former position, and laughed excessively.
'Give us a toast!' cried Quilp, rattling on the table in a
dexterous manner with his fist and elbow alternately, in a kind of
tune, 'a woman, a beauty. Let's have a beauty for our toast and
empty our glasses to the last drop. Her name, come!'
'If you want a name,' said Dick, 'here's Sophy Wackles.'
'Sophy Wackles,' screamed the dwarf, 'Miss Sophy Wackles that is--
Mrs Richard Swiveller that shall be--that shall be--ha ha ha!'
'Ah!' said Dick, 'you might have said that a few weeks ago, but it
won't do now, my buck. Immolating herself upon the shrine of Cheggs--'
'Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs's ears off,' rejoined Quilp. 'I won't
hear of Cheggs. Her name is Swiveller or nothing. I'll drink her
health again, and her father's, and her mother's; and to all her
sisters and brothers--the glorious family of the Wackleses--all
the Wackleses in one glass--down with it to the dregs!'
'Well,' said Richard Swiveller, stopping short in the act of
raising the glass to his lips and looking at the dwarf in a species
of stupor as he flourished his arms and legs about: 'you're a jolly
fellow, but of all the jolly fellows I ever saw or heard of, you
have the queerest and most extraordinary way with you, upon my life
you have.'
This candid declaration tended rather to increase than restrain Mr
Quilp's eccentricities, and Richard Swiveller, astonished to see
him in such a roystering vein, and drinking not a little himself,
for company--began imperceptibly to become more companionable and
confiding, so that, being judiciously led on by Mr Quilp, he grew
at last very confiding indeed. Having once got him into this mood,
and knowing now the key-note to strike whenever he was at a loss,
Daniel Quilp's task was comparatively an easy one, and he was
soon in possession of the whole details of the scheme contrived
between the easy Dick and his more designing friend.
'Stop!' said Quilp. 'That's the thing, that's the thing. It can be
brought about, it shall be brought about. There's my hand upon it;
I am your friend from this minute.'
'What! do you think there's still a chance?' inquired Dick, in
surprise at this encouragement.
'A chance!' echoed the dwarf, 'a certainty! Sophy Wackles may
become a Cheggs or anything else she likes, but not a Swiveller.
Oh you lucky dog! He's richer than any Jew alive; you're a
made man. I see in you now nothing but Nelly's husband, rolling
in gold and silver. I'll help you. It shall be done. Mind my words,
it shall be done.'
'But how?' said Dick.
'There's plenty of time,' rejoined the dwarf, 'and it shall be
done. We'll sit down and talk it over again all the way through.
Fill your glass while I'm gone. I shall be back directly--
directly.' With these hasty words, Daniel Quilp withdrew into a
dismantled skittle-ground behind the public-house, and, throwing
himself upon the ground actually screamed and rolled about in
uncontrollable delight.
'Here's sport!' he cried, 'sport ready to my hand, all invented and
arranged, and only to be enjoyed. It was this shallow-pated fellow
who made my bones ache t'other day, was it? It was his friend and
fellow-plotter, Mr Trent, that once made eyes at Mrs Quilp, and
leered and looked, was it? After labouring for two or three years
in their precious scheme, to find that they've got a beggar at
last, and one of them tied for life. Ha ha ha! He shall marry
Nell. He shall have her, and I'll be the first man, when the
knot's tied hard and fast, to tell 'em what they've gained and
what I've helped 'em to. Here will be a clearing of old scores,
here will be a time to remind 'em what a capital friend I was, and
how I helped them to the heiress. Ha ha ha!'
In the height of his ecstasy, Mr Quilp had like to have met with a
disagreeable check, for rolling very near a broken dog-kennel,
there leapt forth a large fierce dog, who, but that his chain was
of the shortest, would have given him a disagreeable salute. As it
was, the dwarf remained upon his back in perfect safety, taunting
the dog with hideous faces, and triumphing over him in his
inability to advance another inch, though there were not a couple
of feet between them.
'Why don't you come and bite me, why don't you come and tear me to
pieces, you coward?' said Quilp, hissing and worrying the animal
till he was nearly mad. 'You're afraid, you bully, you're afraid,
you know you are.'
The dog tore and strained at his chain with starting eyes and
furious bark, but there the dwarf lay, snapping his fingers with
gestures of defiance and contempt. When he had sufficiently
recovered from his delight, he rose, and with his arms a-kimbo,
achieved a kind of demon-dance round the kennel, just without
the limits of the chain, driving the dog quite wild. Having by this
means composed his spirits and put himself in a pleasant train, he
returned to his unsuspicious companion, whom he found looking at
the tide with exceeding gravity, and thinking of that same gold and
silver which Mr Quilp had mentioned.
CHAPTER 22
The remainder of that day and the whole of the next were a busy
time for the Nubbles family, to whom everything connected with
Kit's outfit and departure was matter of as great moment as if he
had been about to penetrate into the interior of Africa, or to take
a cruise round the world. It would be difficult to suppose that
there ever was a box which was opened and shut so many times within
four-and-twenty hours, as that which contained his wardrobe and
necessaries; and certainly there never was one which to two small
eyes presented such a mine of clothing, as this mighty chest with
its three shirts and proportionate allowance of stockings and
pocket-handkerchiefs, disclosed to the astonished vision of little
Jacob. At last it was conveyed to the carrier's, at whose house at
Finchley Kit was to find it next day; and the box being gone, there
remained but two questions for consideration: firstly, whether the
carrier would lose, or dishonestly feign to lose, the box upon the
road; secondly, whether Kit's mother perfectly understood how to
take care of herself in the absence of her son.
'I don't think there's hardly a chance of his really losing it, but
carriers are under great temptation to pretend they lose things, no
doubt,' said Mrs Nubbles apprehensively, in reference to the first
point.
'No doubt about it,' returned Kit, with a serious look; 'upon my
word, mother, I don't think it was right to trust it to itself.
Somebody ought to have gone with it, I'm afraid.'
'We can't help it now,' said his mother; 'but it was foolish and
wrong. People oughtn't to be tempted.'
Kit inwardly resolved that he would never tempt a carrier any more,
save with an empty box; and having formed this Christian
determination, he turned his thoughts to the second question.
'YOU know you must keep up your spirits, mother, and not be
lonesome because I'm not at home. I shall very often be able to
look in when I come into town I dare say, and I shall send you a
letter sometimes, and when the quarter comes round, I can get a
holiday of course; and then see if we don't take little Jacob to
the play, and let him know what oysters means.'
'I hope plays mayn't be sinful, Kit, but I'm a'most afraid,' said
Mrs Nubbles.
'I know who has been putting that in your head,' rejoined her son
disconsolately; 'that's Little Bethel again. Now I say, mother,
pray don't take to going there regularly, for if I was to see your
good-humoured face that has always made home cheerful, turned into
a grievous one, and the baby trained to look grievous too, and to
call itself a young sinner (bless its heart) and a child of the
devil (which is calling its dead father names); if I was to see
this, and see little Jacob looking grievous likewise, I should so
take it to heart that I'm sure I should go and list for a soldier,
and run my head on purpose against the first cannon-ball I saw
coming my way.'
'Oh, Kit, don't talk like that.'
'I would, indeed, mother, and unless you want to make me
feel very wretched and uncomfortable, you'll keep that bow on your
bonnet, which you'd more than half a mind to pull off last week.
Can you suppose there's any harm in looking as cheerful and being
as cheerful as our poor circumstances will permit? Do I see
anything in the way I'm made, which calls upon me to be a
snivelling, solemn, whispering chap, sneaking about as if I
couldn't help it, and expressing myself in a most unpleasant
snuffle? on the contrary, don't I see every reason why I shouldn't?
just hear this! Ha ha ha! An't that as nat'ral as walking, and as
good for the health? Ha ha ha! An't that as nat'ral as a sheep's
bleating, or a pig's grunting, or a horse's neighing, or a bird's
singing? Ha ha ha! Isn't it, mother?'
There was something contagious in Kit's laugh, for his mother, who
had looked grave before, first subsided into a smile, and then fell
to joining in it heartily, which occasioned Kit to say that he knew
it was natural, and to laugh the more. Kit and his mother, laughing
together in a pretty loud key, woke the baby, who, finding that
there was something very jovial and agreeable in progress, was no
sooner in its mother's arms than it began to kick and laugh, most
vigorously. This new illustration of his argument so tickled Kit,
that he fell backward in his chair in a state of exhaustion,
pointing at the baby and shaking his sides till he rocked again.
After recovering twice or thrice, and as often relapsing, he wiped
his eyes and said grace; and a very cheerful meal their scanty
supper was.
With more kisses, and hugs, and tears, than many young gentlemen
who start upon their travels, and leave well-stocked homes behind
them, would deem within the bounds of probability (if matter so low
could be herein set down), Kit left the house at an early hour next
morning, and set out to walk to Finchley; feeling a sufficient
pride in his appearance to have warranted his excommunication from
Little Bethel from that time forth, if he had ever been one of that
mournful congregation.
Lest anybody should feel a curiosity to know how Kit was clad, it
may be briefly remarked that he wore no livery, but was dressed in
a coat of pepper-and-salt with waistcoat of canary colour, and
nether garments of iron-grey; besides these glories, he shone in
the lustre of a new pair of boots and an extremely stiff and shiny
hat, which on being struck anywhere with the knuckles, sounded like
a drum. And in this attire, rather wondering that he attracted so
little attention, and attributing the circumstance to the insensibility
of those who got up early, he made his way towards Abel Cottage.
Without encountering any more remarkable adventure on the road,
than meeting a lad in a brimless hat, the exact counterpart of his
old one, on whom he bestowed half the sixpence he possessed, Kit
arrived in course of time at the carrier's house, where, to the
lasting honour of human nature, he found the box in safety.
Receiving from the wife of this immaculate man, a direction to Mr
Garland's, he took the box upon his shoulder and repaired thither
directly.
To be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage with a thatched roof
and little spires at the gable-ends, and pieces of stained glass in
some of the windows, almost as large as pocket-books. On one side
of the house was a little stable, just the size for the pony, with
a little room over it, just the size for Kit. White curtains were
fluttering, and birds in cages that looked as bright as if they
were made of gold, were singing at the windows; plants were
arranged on either side of the path, and clustered about the door;
and the garden was bright with flowers in full bloom, which shed a
sweet odour all round, and had a charming and elegant appearance.
Everything within the house and without, seemed to be the
perfection of neatness and order. In the garden there was not a
weed to be seen, and to judge from some dapper gardening-tools, a
basket, and a pair of gloves which were lying in one of the walks,
old Mr Garland had been at work in it that very morning.
Kit looked about him, and admired, and looked again, and this a
great many times before he could make up his mind to turn his head
another way and ring the bell. There was abundance of time to look
about him again though, when he had rung it, for nobody came, so
after ringing it twice or thrice he sat down upon his box, and
waited.
He rang the bell a great many times, and yet nobody came. But at
last, as he was sitting upon the box thinking about giants'
castles, and princesses tied up to pegs by the hair of their heads,
and dragons bursting out from behind gates, and other incidents of
the like nature, common in story-books to youths of low degree on
their first visit to strange houses, the door was gently opened,
and a little servant-girl, very tidy, modest, and demure, but very
pretty too, appeared. 'I suppose you're Christopher,sir,' said the
servant-girl.
Kit got off the box, and said yes, he was.
'I'm afraid you've rung a good many times perhaps,' she rejoined,
'but we couldn't hear you, because we've been catching the pony.'
Kit rather wondered what this meant, but as he couldn't stop there,
asking questions, he shouldered the box again and followed the girl
into the hall, where through a back-door he descried Mr Garland
leading Whisker in triumph up the garden, after that self-willed
pony had (as he afterwards learned) dodged the family round a small
paddock in the rear, for one hour and three quarters.
The old gentleman received him very kindly and so did the old lady,
whose previous good opinion of him was greatly enhanced by his
wiping his boots on the mat until the soles of his feet burnt
again. He was then taken into the parlour to be inspected in his
new clothes; and when he had been surveyed several times, and had
afforded by his appearance unlimited satisfaction, he was taken
into the stable (where the pony received him with uncommon
complaisance); and thence into the little chamber he had already
observed, which was very clean and comfortable: and thence into the
garden, in which the old gentleman told him he would be taught to
employ himself, and where he told him, besides, what great things
he meant to do to make him comfortable, and happy, if he found he
deserved it. All these kindnesses, Kit acknowledged with various
expressions of gratitude, and so many touches of the new hat, that
the brim suffered considerably. When the old gentleman had said all
he had to say in the way of promise and advice, and Kit had said
all he had to say in the way of assurance and thankfulness, he was
handed over again to the old lady, who, summoning the little
servant-girl (whose name was Barbara) instructed her to take him
down stairs and give him something to eat and drink, after his
walk.
Down stairs, therefore, Kit went; and at the bottom of the stairs
there was such a kitchen as was never before seen or heard of out
of a toy-shop window, with everything in it as bright and glowing,
and as precisely ordered too, as Barbara herself. And in this
kitchen, Kit sat himself down at a table as white as a tablecloth,
to eat cold meat, and drink small ale, and use his knife and fork
the more awkwardly, because there was an unknown Barbara looking on
and observing him.
It did not appear, however, that there was anything remarkably
tremendous about this strange Barbara, who having lived a very
quiet life, blushed very much and was quite as embarrassed and
uncertain what she ought to say or do, as Kit could possibly be.
When he had sat for some little time, attentive to the ticking of
the sober clock, he ventured to glance curiously at the dresser,
and there, among the plates and dishes, were Barbara's little
work-box with a sliding lid to shut in the balls of cotton, and
Barbara's prayer-book, and Barbara's hymn-book, and Barbara's
Bible. Barbara's little looking-glass hung in a good light near the
window, and Barbara's bonnet was on a nail behind the door. From
all these mute signs and tokens of her presence, he
naturally glanced at Barbara herself, who sat as mute as they,
shelling peas into a dish; and just when Kit was looking at her
eyelashes and wondering--quite in the simplicity of his heart--
what colour her eyes might be, it perversely happened that Barbara
raised her head a little to look at him, when both pair
of eyes were hastily withdrawn, and Kit leant over his plate, and
Barbara over her pea-shells, each in extreme confusion at having
been detected by the other.
CHAPTER 23
Mr Richard Swiveller wending homeward from the Wilderness (for such
was the appropriate name of Quilp's choice retreat), after a
sinuous and corkscrew fashion, with many checks and stumbles; after
stopping suddenly and staring about him, then as suddenly running
forward for a few paces, and as suddenly halting again and shaking
his head; doing everything with a jerk and nothing by
premeditation;--Mr Richard Swiveller wending his way homeward
after this fashion, which is considered by evil-minded men to be
symbolical of intoxication, and is not held by such persons to
denote that state of deep wisdom and reflection in which the actor
knows himself to be, began to think that possibly he had misplaced
his confidence and that the dwarf might not be precisely the sort
of person to whom to entrust a secret of such delicacy and
importance. And being led and tempted on by this remorseful thought
into a condition which the evil-minded class before referred to
would term the maudlin state or stage of drunkenness, it occurred
to Mr Swiveller to cast his hat upon the ground, and moan, crying
aloud that he was an unhappy orphan, and that if he had not been an
unhappy orphan things had never come to this.
'Left an infant by my parents, at an early age,' said Mr Swiveller,
bewailing his hard lot, 'cast upon the world in my tenderest
period, and thrown upon the mercies of a deluding dwarf, who can
wonder at my weakness! Here's a miserable orphan for you. Here,'
said Mr Swiveller raising his voice to a high pitch, and looking
sleepily round, 'is a miserable orphan!'
'Then,' said somebody hard by, 'let me be a father to you.'
Mr Swiveller swayed himself to and fro to preserve his balance,
and, looking into a kind of haze which seemed to surround him, at
last perceived two eyes dimly twinkling through the mist, which he
observed after a short time were in the neighbourhood of a nose and
mouth. Casting his eyes down towards that quarter in which, with
reference to a man's face, his legs are usually to be found, he
observed that the face had a body attached; and when he looked more
intently he was satisfied that the person was Mr Quilp, who indeed
had been in his company all the time, but whom he had some vague
idea of having left a mile or two behind.
'You have deceived an orphan, Sir,' said Mr Swiveller solemnly.'
'I! I'm a second father to you,' replied Quilp.
'You my father, Sir!' retorted Dick. 'Being all right myself, Sir,
I request to be left alone--instantly, Sir.'
'What a funny fellow you are!' cried Quilp.
'Go, Sir,' returned Dick, leaning against a post and waving his
hand. 'Go, deceiver, go, some day, Sir, p'r'aps you'll waken, from
pleasure's dream to know, the grief of orphans forsaken. Will you
go, Sir?'
The dwarf taking no heed of this adjuration, Mr Swiveller advanced
with the view of inflicting upon him condign chastisement. But
forgetting his purpose or changing his mind before he came close to
him, he seized his hand and vowed eternal friendship, declaring
with an agreeable frankness that from that time forth they were
brothers in everything but personal appearance. Then he told his
secret over again, with the addition of being pathetic on the
subject of Miss Wackles, who, he gave Mr Quilp to understand, was
the occasion of any slight incoherency he might observe in his
speech at that moment, which was attributable solely to the
strength of his affection and not to rosy wine or other fermented
liquor. And then they went on arm-in-arm, very lovingly together.
'I'm as sharp,' said Quilp to him, at parting, 'as sharp as a
ferret, and as cunning as a weazel. You bring Trent to me; assure
him that I'm his friend though i fear he a little distrusts me (I
don't know why, I have not deserved it); and you've both of you
made your fortunes--in perspective.'
'That's the worst of it,' returned Dick. 'These fortunes in
perspective look such a long way off.'
'But they look smaller than they really are, on that account,' said
Quilp, pressing his arm. 'You'll have no conception of the value of
your prize until you draw close to it. Mark that.'
'D'ye think not?' said Dick.
'Aye, I do; and I am certain of what I say, that's better,'
returned the dwarf. 'You bring Trent to me. Tell him I am his
friend and yours--why shouldn't I be?'
'There's no reason why you shouldn't, certainly,' replied Dick,
'and perhaps there are a great many why you should--at least there
would be nothing strange in your wanting to be my friend, if you
were a choice spirit, but then you know you're not a choice
spirit.'
'I not a choice spirit?' cried Quilp.
'Devil a bit,sir,' returned Dick. 'A man of your appearance
couldn't be. If you're any spirit at all,sir, you're an evil
spirit. Choice spirits,' added Dick, smiting himself on the breast,
'are quite a different looking sort of people, you may take your
oath of that,sir.'
Quilp glanced at his free-spoken friend with a mingled expression
of cunning and dislike, and wringing his hand almost at the same
moment, declared that he was an uncommon character and had his
warmest esteem. With that they parted; Mr Swiveller to make the
best of his way home and sleep himself sober; and Quilp to cogitate
upon the discovery he had made, and exult in the prospect of the
rich field of enjoyment and reprisal it opened to him.
It was not without great reluctance and misgiving that Mr
Swiveller, next morning, his head racked by the fumes of the
renowned Schiedam, repaired to the lodging of his friend Trent
(which was in the roof of an old house in an old ghostly inn), and
recounted by very slow degrees what had yesterday taken place
between him and Quilp. Nor was it without great surprise and much
speculation on Quilp's probable motives, nor without many bitter
comments on Dick Swiveller's folly, that his friend received the
tale.
'I don't defend myself, Fred,' said the penitent Richard; 'but the
fellow has such a queer way with him and is such an artful dog,
that first of all he set me upon thinking whether there was any
harm in telling him, and while I was thinking, screwed it out of
me. If you had seen him drink and smoke, as I did, you couldn't
have kept anything from him. He's a Salamander you know, that's
what he is.'
Without inquiring whether Salamanders were of necessity good
confidential agents, or whether a fire-proof man was as a matter of
course trustworthy, Frederick Trent threw himself into a chair,
and, burying his head in his hands, endeavoured to fathom the
motives which had led Quilp to insinuate himself into Richard
Swiveller's confidence;--for that the disclosure was of his
seeking, and had not been spontaneously revealed by Dick, was
sufficiently plain from Quilp's seeking his company and enticing
him away.
The dwarf had twice encountered him when he was endeavouring to
obtain intelligence of the fugitives. This, perhaps, as he had not
shown any previous anxiety about them, was enough to awaken
suspicion in the breast of a creature so jealous and distrustful by
nature, setting aside any additional impulse to curiosity that he
might have derived from Dick's incautious manner. But knowing the
scheme they had planned, why should he offer to assist it? This was
a question more difficult of solution; but as knaves generally
overreach themselves by imputing their own designs to others, the
idea immediately presented itself that some circumstances of
irritation between Quilp and the old man, arising out of their
secret transactions and not unconnected perhaps with his sudden
disappearance, now rendered the former desirous of revenging
himself upon him by seeking to entrap the sole object of his love
and anxiety into a connexion of which he knew he had a dread and
hatred. As Frederick Trent himself, utterly regardless of his
sister, had this object at heart, only second to the hope of gain,
it seemed to him the more likely to be Quilp's main principle of
action. Once investing the dwarf with a design of his own in
abetting them, which the attainment of their purpose would serve,
it was easy to believe him sincere and hearty in the cause; and as
there could be no doubt of his proving a powerful and useful
auxiliary, Trent determined to accept his invitation and go to his
house that night, and if what he said and did confirmed him in the
impression he had formed, to let him share the labour of their
plan, but not the profit.
Having revolved these things in his mind and arrived at this
conclusion, he communicated to Mr Swiveller as much of his
meditations as he thought proper (Dick would have been perfectly
satisfied with less), and giving him the day to recover himself
from his late salamandering, accompanied him at evening to Mr
Quilp's house.
Mighty glad Mr Quilp was to see them, or mightily glad he seemed to
be; and fearfully polite Mr Quilp was to Mrs Quilp and Mrs jiniwin;
and very sharp was the look he cast on his wife to observe how she
was affected by the recognition of young Trent. Mrs Quilp was as
innocent as her own mother of any emotion, painful or pleasant,
which the sight of him awakened, but as her husband's glance made
her timid and confused, and uncertain what to do or what was
required of her, Mr Quilp did not fail to assign her embarrassment
to the cause he had in his mind, and while he chuckled at his
penetration was secretly exasperated by his jealousy.
Nothing of this appeared, however. On the contrary, Mr Quilp was
all blandness and suavity, and presided over the case-bottle of rum
with extraordinary open-heartedness.
'Why, let me see,' said Quilp. 'It must be a matter of nearly two
years since we were first acquainted.'
'Nearer three, I think,' said Trent.
'Nearer three!' cried Quilp. 'How fast time flies. Does it seem as
long as that to you, Mrs Quilp?'
'Yes, I think it seems full three years, Quilp,' was the
unfortunate reply.
'Oh indeed, ma'am,' thought Quilp, 'you have been pining, have you?
Very good, ma'am.'
'It seems to me but yesterday that you went out to Demerara in the
Mary Anne,' said Quilp; 'but yesterday, I declare. Well, I like a
little wildness. I was wild myself once.'
Mr Quilp accompanied this admission with such an awful wink,
indicative of old rovings and backslidings, that Mrs Jiniwin was
indignant, and could not forbear from remarking under her breath
that he might at least put off his confessions until his wife was
absent; for which act of boldness and insubordination Mr Quilp
first stared her out of countenance and then drank her health
ceremoniously.
'I thought you'd come back directly, Fred. I always thought that,'
said Quilp setting down his glass. 'And when the Mary Anne returned
with you on board, instead of a letter to say what a contrite heart
you had, and how happy you were in the situation that had been
provided for you, I was amused--exceedingly amused. Ha ha ha!'
The young man smiled, but not as though the theme was the most
agreeable one that could have been selected for his entertainment;
and for that reason Quilp pursued it.
'I always will say,' he resumed, 'that when a rich relation having
two young people--sisters or brothers, or brother and sister--
dependent on him, attaches himself exclusively to one, and casts
off the other, he does wrong.'
The young man made a movement of impatience, but Quilp went on as
calmly as if he were discussing some abstract question in which
nobody present had the slightest personal interest.
'It's very true,' said Quilp, 'that your grandfather urged repeated
forgiveness, ingratitude, riot, and extravagance, and all that; but
as I told him "these are common faults." "But he's a scoundrel,"
said he. "Granting that," said I (for the sake of argument of
course), "a great many young noblemen and gentlemen are scoundrels
too!" But he wouldn't be convinced.'
'I wonder at that, Mr Quilp,' said the young man sarcastically.
'Well, so did I at the time,' returned Quilp, 'but he was always
obstinate. He was in a manner a friend of mine, but he was always
obstinate and wrong-headed. Little Nell is a nice girl, a charming
girl, but you're her brother, Frederick. You're her brother after
all; as you told him the last time you met, he can't alter that.'
'He would if he could, confound him for that and all other
kindnesses,' said the young man impatiently. 'But nothing can come
of this subject now, and let us have done with it in the Devil's
name.'
'Agreed,' returned Quilp, 'agreed on my part readily. Why have I
alluded to it? Just to show you, Frederick, that I have always
stood your friend. You little knew who was your friend, and who
your foe; now did you? You thought I was against you, and so there
has been a coolness between us; but it was all on your side,
entirely on your side. Let's shake hands again, Fred.'
With his head sunk down between his shoulders, and a hideous grin
over-spreading his face, the dwarf stood up and stretched his short
arm across the table. After a moment's hesitation, the young man
stretched out his to meet it; Quilp clutched his fingers in a grip
that for the moment stopped the current of the blood within them,
and pressing his other hand upon his lip and frowning towards the
unsuspicious Richard, released them and sat down.
This action was not lost upon Trent, who, knowing that Richard
Swiveller was a mere tool in his hands and knew no more of his
designs than he thought proper to communicate, saw that the dwarf
perfectly understood their relative position, and fully entered
into the character of his friend. It is something to be
appreciated, even in knavery. This silent homage to his superior
abilities, no less than a sense of the power with which the dwarf's
quick perception had already invested him, inclined the young man
towards that ugly worthy, and determined him to profit by his aid.
It being now Mr Quilp's cue to change the subject with all
convenient expedition, lest Richard Swiveller in his heedlessness
should reveal anything which it was inexpedient for the women to
know, he proposed a game at four-handed cribbage, and partners
being cut for, Mrs Quilp fell to Frederick Trent, and Dick himself
to Quilp. Mrs Jiniwin being very fond of cards was carefully
excluded by her son-in-law from any participation in the game, and
had assigned to her the duty of occasionally replenishing the
glasses from the case-bottle; Mr Quilp from that moment keeping one
eye constantly upon her, lest she should by any means procure a
taste of the same, and thereby tantalising the wretched old lady
(who was as much attached to the case-bottle as the cards) in a
double degree and most ingenious manner.
But it was not to Mrs Jiniwin alone that Mr Quilp's attention was
restricted, as several other matters required his constant
vigilance. Among his various eccentric habits he had a humorous one
of always cheating at cards, which rendered necessary on his part,
not only a close observance of the game, and a sleight-of-hand in
counting and scoring, but also involved the constant correction, by
looks, and frowns, and kicks under the table, of Richard Swiveller,
who being bewildered by the rapidity with which his cards were
told, and the rate at which the pegs travelled down the board,
could not be prevented from sometimes expressing his surprise and
incredulity. Mrs Quilp too was the partner of young Trent, and for
every look that passed between them, and every word they spoke, and
every card they played, the dwarf had eyes and ears; not occupied
alone with what was passing above the table, but with signals that
might be exchanging beneath it, which he laid all kinds of traps to
detect; besides often treading on his wife's toes to see whether
she cried out or remained silent under the infliction, in which
latter case it would have been quite clear that Trent had been
treading on her toes before. Yet, in the most of all these
distractions, the one eye was upon the old lady always, and if she
so much as stealthily advanced a tea-spoon towards a neighbouring
glass (which she often did), for the purpose of abstracting but one
sup of its sweet contents, Quilp's hand would overset it in the
very moment of her triumph, and Quilp's mocking voice implore her
to regard her precious health. And in any one of these his many
cares, from first to last, Quilp never flagged nor faltered.
At length, when they had played a great many rubbers and drawn
pretty freely upon the case-bottle, Mr Quilp warned his lady to
retire to rest, and that submissive wife complying, and being
followed by her indignant mother, Mr Swiveller fell asleep. The
dwarf beckoning his remaining companion to the other end of the
room, held a short conference with him in whispers.
'It's as well not to say more than one can help before our worthy
friend,' said Quilp, making a grimace towards the slumbering Dick.
'Is it a bargain between us, Fred? Shall he marry little rosy Nell
by-and-by?'
'You have some end of your own to answer, of course,' returned the
other.
'Of course I have, dear Fred,' said Quilp, grinning to think how
little he suspected what the real end was. 'It's retaliation
perhaps; perhaps whim. I have influence, Fred, to help or oppose.
Which way shall I use it? There are a pair of scales, and it goes
into one.'
'Throw it into mine then,' said Trent.
'It's done, Fred,' rejoined Quilp, stretching out his clenched hand
and opening it as if he had let some weight fall out. 'It's in the
scale from this time, and turns it, Fred. Mind that.'
'Where have they gone?' asked Trent.
Quilp shook his head, and said that point remained to be
discovered, which it might be, easily. When it was, they would
begin their preliminary advances. He would visit the old man, or
even Richard Swiveller might visit him, and by affecting a deep
concern in his behalf, and imploring him to settle in some worthy
home, lead to the child's remembering him with gratitude and
favour. Once impressed to this extent, it would be easy, he said,
to win her in a year or two, for she supposed the old man to be
poor, as it was a part of his jealous policy (in common with many
other misers) to feign to be so, to those about him.
'He has feigned it often enough to me, of late,' said Trent.
'Oh! and to me too!' replied the dwarf. 'Which is more
extraordinary, as I know how rich he really is.'
'I suppose you should,' said Trent.
'I think I should indeed,' rejoined the dwarf; and in that, at
least, he spoke the truth.
After a few more whispered words, they returned to the table, and
the young man rousing Richard Swiveller informed him that he was
waiting to depart. This was welcome news to Dick, who started up
directly. After a few words of confidence in the result of their
project had been exchanged, they bade the grinning Quilp good
night.
Quilp crept to the window as they passed in the street below, and
listened. Trent was pronouncing an encomium upon his wife, and they
were both wondering by what enchantment she had been brought to
marry such a misshapen wretch as he. The dwarf after watching their
retreating shadows with a wider grin than his face had yet
displayed, stole softly in the dark to bed.
In this hatching of their scheme, neither Trent nor Quilp had had
one thought about the happiness or misery of poor innocent Nell. It
would have been strange if the careless profligate, who was the
butt of both, had been harassed by any such consideration; for his
high opinion of his own merits and deserts rendered the project
rather a laudable one than otherwise; and if he had been visited by
so unwonted a guest as reflection, he would--being a brute only in
the gratification of his appetites--have soothed his conscience
with the plea that he did not mean to beat or kill his wife, and
would therefore, after all said and done, be a very tolerable,
average husband.
CHAPTER 24
It was not until they were quite exhausted and could no longer
maintain the pace at which they had fled from the race-ground, that
the old man and the child ventured to stop, and sit down to rest
upon the borders of a little wood. Here, though the course was
hidden from their view, they could yet faintly distinguish the
noise of distant shouts, the hum of voices, and the beating of
drums. Climbing the eminence which lay between them and the spot
they had left, the child could even discern the fluttering flags
and white tops of booths; but no person was approaching towards
them, and their resting-place was solitary and still.
Some time elapsed before she could reassure her trembling
companion, or restore him to a state of moderate tranquillity. His
disordered imagination represented to him a crowd of persons
stealing towards them beneath the cover of the bushes, lurking in
every ditch, and peeping from the boughs of every rustling tree. He
was haunted by apprehensions of being led captive to some gloomy
place where he would be chained and scourged, and worse than all,
where Nell could never come to see him, save through iron bars and
gratings in the wall. His terrors affected the child. Separation
from her grandfather was the greatest evil she could dread; and
feeling for the time as though, go where they would, they were to
be hunted down, and could never be safe but in hiding, her heart
failed her, and her courage drooped.
In one so young, and so unused to the scenes in which she had
lately moved, this sinking of the spirit was not surprising. But,
Nature often enshrines gallant and noble hearts in weak bosoms--
oftenest, God bless her, in female breasts--and when the child,
casting her tearful eyes upon the old man, remembered how weak he
was, and how destitute and helpless he would be if she failed him,
her heart swelled within her, and animated her with new strength
and fortitude.
'We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear indeed, dear
grandfather,' she said.
'Nothing to fear!' returned the old man. 'Nothing to fear if they
took me from thee! Nothing to fear if they parted us! Nobody is
true to me. No, not one. Not even Nell!'
'Oh! do not say that,' replied the child, 'for if ever anybody was
true at heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure you know I am.'
'Then how,' said the old man, looking fearfully round, 'how can you
bear to think that we are safe, when they are searching for me
everywhere, and may come here, and steal upon us, even while we're
talking?'
'Because I'm sure we have not been followed,' said the child.
'Judge for yourself, dear grandfather: look round, and see how
quiet and still it is. We are alone together, and may ramble where
we like. Not safe! Could I feel easy--did I feel at ease--when
any danger threatened you?'
'True, too,' he answered, pressing her hand, but still looking
anxiously about. 'What noise was that?'
'A bird,' said the child, 'flying into the wood, and leading the
way for us to follow.' You remember that we said we would walk in
woods and fields, and by the side of rivers, and how happy we would
be--you remember that? But here, while the sun shines above our
heads, and everything is bright and happy, we are sitting sadly
down, and losing time. See what a pleasant path; and there's the
bird--the same bird--now he flies to another tree, and stays to
sing. Come!'
When they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which
led them through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny
footsteps in the moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure
and gave it back as mirrors throw off breath; and thus she lured
the old man on, with many a backward look and merry beck, now
pointing stealthily to some lone bird as it perched and twittered
on a branch that strayed across their path, now stopping to listen
to the songs that broke the happy silence, or watch the sun as it
trembled through the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied trunks
of stout old trees, opened long paths of light. As they passed
onward, parting the boughs that clustered in their way, the
serenity which the child had first assumed, stole into her breast
in earnest; the old man cast no longer fearful looks behind, but
felt at ease and cheerful, for the further they passed into the
deep green shade, the more they felt that the tranquil mind of God
was there, and shed its peace on them.
At length the path becoming clearer and less intricate, brought
them to the end of the wood, and into a public road. Taking their
way along it for a short distance, they came to a lane, so shaded
by the trees on either hand that they met together over-head, and
arched the narrow way. A broken finger-post announced that this led
to a village three miles off; and thither they resolved to bend
their steps.
The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must
have missed their road. But at last, to their great joy, it led
downwards in a steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the
footpaths led; and the clustered houses of the village peeped from
the woody hollow below.
It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket
on the green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered
up and down, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was
but one old man in the little garden before his cottage, and him
they were timid of approaching, for he was the schoolmaster, and
had 'School' written up over his window in black letters on a white
board. He was a pale, simple-looking man, of a spare and meagre
habit, and sat among his flowers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in
the little porch before his door.
'Speak to him, dear,' the old man whispered.
'I am almost afraid to disturb him,' said the child timidly. 'He
does not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look
this way.'
They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards them, and
still sat, thoughtful and silent, in the little porch. He had a
kind face. In his plain old suit of black, he looked pale and
meagre. They fancied, too, a lonely air about him and his house,
but perhaps that was because the other people formed a merry
company upon the green, and he seemed the only solitary man in all
the place.
They were very tired, and the child would have been bold enough to
address even a schoolmaster, but for something in his manner which
seemed to denote that he was uneasy or distressed. As they stood
hesitating at a little distance, they saw that he sat for a few
minutes at a time like one in a brown study, then laid aside his
pipe and took a few turns in his garden, then approached the gate
and looked towards the green, then took up his pipe again with a
sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as before.
As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length
took courage, and when he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured
to draw near, leading her grandfather by the hand. The slight noise
they made in raising the latch of the wicket-gate, caught his
attention. He looked at them kindly but seemed disappointed too,
and slightly shook his head.
Nell dropped a curtsey, and told him they were poor travellers who
sought a shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so
far as their means allowed. The schoolmaster looked earnestly at
her as she spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose up directly.
'If you could direct us anywhere,sir,' said the child, 'we should
take it very kindly.'
'You have been walking a long way,' said the schoolmaster.
'A long way, Sir,' the child replied.
'You're a young traveller, my child,' he said, laying his hand
gently on her head. 'Your grandchild, friend? '
'Aye, Sir,' cried the old man, 'and the stay and comfort of my
life.'
'Come in,' said the schoolmaster.
Without further preface he conducted them into his little
school-room, which was parlour and kitchen likewise, and told them
that they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning.
Before they had done thanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth
upon the table, with knives and platters; and bringing out some
bread and cold meat and a jug of beer, besought them to eat and
drink.
The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a
couple of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal
desk perched on four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few
dog's-eared books upon a high shelf; and beside them a motley
collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles,
half-eaten apples, and other confiscated property of idle urchins.
Displayed on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were the
cane and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own, the
dunce's cap, made of old newspapers and decorated with glaring
wafers of the largest size. But, the great ornaments of the walls
were certain moral sentences fairly copied in good round text, and
well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently
achieved by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted all round
the room: for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing
testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy
emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.
'Yes,' said the old schoolmaster, observing that her attention was
caught by these latter specimens. 'That's beautiful writing, my
dear.'
'Very, Sir,' replied the child modestly, 'is it yours?'
'Mine!' he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on,
to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart. 'I
couldn't write like that, now-a-days. No. They're all done by one
hand; a little hand it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one.'
As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had
been thrown on one of the copies, so he took a penknife from his
pocket, and going up to the wall, carefully scraped it out. When he
had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring
it as one might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something
of sadness in his voice and manner which quite touched the child,
though she was unacquainted with its cause.
'A little hand indeed,' said the poor schoolmaster. 'Far beyond all
his companions, in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever
come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but
that he should love me--' and there the schoolmaster stopped, and
took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.
'I hope there is nothing the matter,sir,' said Nell anxiously.
'Not much, my dear,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I hoped to have
seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them.
But he'll be there to-morrow.'
'Has he been ill?' asked the child, with a child's quick sympathy.
'Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear
boy, and so they said the day before. But that's a part of that
kind of disorder; it's not a bad sign--not at all a bad sign.'
The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully
out. The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.
'If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come to me, I know,'
he said, returning into the room. 'He always came into the garden
to say good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a
favourable turn, and it's too late for him to come out, for it's
very damp and there's a heavy dew. it's much better he shouldn't
come to-night.'
The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the window-shutter,
and closed the door. But after he had done this, and sat silent a
little time, he took down his hat, and said he would go and satisfy
himself, if Nell would sit up till he returned. The child readily
complied, and he went out.
She sat there half-an-hour or more, feeling the place very strange
and lonely, for she had prevailed upon the old man to go to bed,
and there was nothing to be heard but the ticking of an old clock,
and the whistling of the wind among the trees. When he returned, he
took his seat in the chimney corner, but remained silent for a long
time. At length he turned to her, and speaking very gently, hoped
she would say a prayer that night for a sick child.
'My favourite scholar!' said the poor schoolmaster, smoking a pipe
he had forgotten to light, and looking mournfully round upon the
walls. 'It is a little hand to have done all that, and waste away
with sickness. It is a very, very little hand!'
CHAPTER 25
After a sound night's rest in a chamber in the thatched roof, in
which it seemed the sexton had for some years been a lodger, but
which he had lately deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own,
the child rose early in the morning and descended to the room where
she had supped last night. As the schoolmaster had already left his
bed and gone out, she bestirred herself to make it neat and
comfortable, and had just finished its arrangement when the kind
host returned.
He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who usually
did such offices for him had gone to nurse the little scholar whom
he had told her of. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was
better.
'No,' rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sorrowfully, 'no
better. They even say he is worse.'
'I am very sorry for that, Sir,' said the child.
The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her earnest
manner, but yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he added hastily
that anxious people often magnified an evil and thought it greater
than it was; 'for my part,' he said, in his quiet, patient way, 'I
hope it's not so. I don't think he can be worse.'
The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and her grandfather
coming down stairs, they all three partook of it together. While
the meal was in progress, their host remarked that the old man
seemed much fatigued, and evidently stood in need of rest.
'If the journey you have before you is a long one,' he said, 'and
don't press you for one day, you're very welcome to pass another
night here. I should really be glad if you would, friend.'
He saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain whether to accept
or decline his offer; and added,
'I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day.
If you can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the
same time, do so. If you must proceed upon your journey, I wish you
well through it, and will walk a little way with you before school
begins.'
'What are we to do, Nell?' said the old man irresolutely, 'say what
we're to do, dear.'
It required no great persuasion to induce the child to answer that
they had better accept the invitation and remain. She was happy to
show her gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busying herself in
the performance of such household duties as his little cottage
stood in need of. When these were done, she took some needle-work
from her basket, and sat herself down upon a stool beside the
lattice, where the honeysuckle and woodbine entwined their tender
stems, and stealing into the room filled it with their delicious
breath. Her grandfather was basking in the sun outside, breathing
the perfume of the flowers, and idly watching the clouds as they
floated on before the light summer wind.
As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in due order,
took his seat behind his desk and made other preparations for
school, the child was apprehensive that she might be in the way,
and offered to withdraw to her little bedroom. But this he would
not allow, and as he seemed pleased to have her there, she
remained, busying herself with her work.
'Have you many scholars, sir?' she asked.
The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that they barely
filled the two forms.
'Are the others clever, sir?' asked the child, glancing at the
trophies on the wall.
'Good boys,' returned the schoolmaster, 'good boys enough, my dear,
but they'll never do like that.'
A small white-headed boy with a sunburnt face appeared at the door
while he was speaking, and stopping there to make a rustic bow,
came in and took his seat upon one of the forms. The white-headed
boy then put an open book, astonishingly dog's-eared upon his
knees, and thrusting his hands into his pockets began counting the
marbles with which they were filled; displaying in the expression
of his face a remarkable capacity of totally abstracting his mind
from the spelling on which his eyes were fixed. Soon afterwards
another white-headed little boy came straggling in, and after him
a red-headed lad, and after him two more with white heads, and then
one with a flaxen poll, and so on until the forms were occupied by
a dozen boys or thereabouts, with heads of every colour but grey,
and ranging in their ages from four years old to fourteen years or
more; for the legs of the youngest were a long way from the floor
when he sat upon the form, and the eldest was a heavy good-tempered
foolish fellow, about half a head taller than the schoolmaster.
At the top of the first form--the post of honour in the school--
was the vacant place of the little sick scholar, and at the head of
the row of pegs on which those who came in hats or caps were wont
to hang them up, one was left empty. No boy attempted to violate
the sanctity of seat or peg, but many a one looked from the empty
spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered his idle neighbour behind
his hand.
Then began the hum of conning over lessons and getting them by
heart, the whispered jest and stealthy game, and all the noise and
drawl of school; and in the midst of the din sat the poor
schoolmaster, the very image of meekness and simplicity, vainly
attempting to fix his mind upon the duties of the day, and to
forget his little friend. But the tedium of his office reminded him
more strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were
rambling from his pupils--it was plain.
None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, growing bolder
with impunity, waxed louder and more daring; playing odd-or-even
under the master's eye, eating apples openly and without rebuke,
pinching each other in sport or malice without the least reserve,
and cutting their autographs in the very legs of his desk. The
puzzled dunce, who stood beside it to say his lesson out of book,
looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten words, but drew
closer to the master's elbow and boldly cast his eye upon the page;
the wag of the little troop squinted and made grimaces (at the
smallest boy of course), holding no book before his face, and his
approving audience knew no constraint in their delight. If the
master did chance to rouse himself and seem alive to what was going
on, the noise subsided for a moment and no eyes met his but wore a
studious and a deeply humble look; but the instant he relapsed
again, it broke out afresh, and ten times louder than before.
Oh! how some of those idle fellows longed to be outside, and how
they looked at the open door and window, as if they half
meditated rushing violently out, plunging into the woods, and being
wild boys and savages from that time forth. What rebellious
thoughts of the cool river, and some shady bathing-place beneath
willow trees with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting and
urging that sturdy boy, who, with his shirt-collar unbuttoned and
flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning his flushed face with
a spelling-book, wishing himself a whale, or a tittlebat, or a fly,
or anything but a boy at school on that hot, broiling day! Heat!
ask that other boy, whose seat being nearest to the door gave him
opportunities of gliding out into the garden and driving his
companions to madness by dipping his face into the bucket of the
well and then rolling on the grass--ask him if there were ever
such a day as that, when even the bees were diving deep down into
the cups of flowers and stopping there, as if they had made up
their minds to retire from business and be manufacturers of honey
no more. The day was made for laziness, and lying on one's back in
green places, and staring at the sky till its brightness forced one
to shut one's eyes and go to sleep; and was this a time to be
poring over musty books in a dark room, slighted by the very sun
itself? Monstrous!
Nell sat by the window occupied with her work, but attentive still
to all that passed, though sometimes rather timid of the boisterous
boys. The lessons over, writing time began; and there being but one
desk and that the master's, each boy sat at it in turn and laboured
at his crooked copy, while the master walked about. This was a
quieter time; for he would come and look over the writer's
shoulder, and tell him mildly to observe how such a letter was
turned in such a copy on the wall, praise such an up-stroke here
and such a down-stroke there, and bid him take it for his model.
Then he would stop and tell them what the sick child had said last
night, and how he had longed to be among them once again; and such
was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and affectionate manner, that
the boys seemed quite remorseful that they had worried him so much,
and were absolutely quiet; eating no apples, cutting no names,
inflicting no pinches, and making no grimaces, for full two minutes
afterwards.
'I think, boys,' said the schoolmaster when the clock struck
twelve, 'that I shall give an extra half-holiday this afternoon.'
At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the tall boy,
raised a great shout, in the midst of which the master was seen to
speak, but could not be heard. As he held up his hand, however, in
token of his wish that they should be silent, they were considerate
enough to leave off, as soon as the longest-winded among them were
quite out of breath.
'You must promise me first,' said the schoolmaster, 'that you'll
not be noisy, or at least, if you are, that you'll go away and be
so--away out of the village I mean. I'm sure you wouldn't disturb
your old playmate and companion.'
There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sincere one, for
they were but boys) in the negative; and the tall boy, perhaps as
sincerely as any of them, called those about him to witness that he
had only shouted in a whisper.
'Then pray don't forget, there's my dear scholars,' said the
schoolmaster, 'what I have asked you, and do it as a favour to me.
Be as happy as you can, and don't be unmindful that you are blessed
with health. Good-bye all!'
'Thank'ee, Sir,' and 'good-bye, Sir,' were said a good many times
in a variety of voices, and the boys went out very slowly and
softly. But there was the sun shining and there were the birds
singing, as the sun only shines and the birds only sing on holidays
and half-holidays; there were the trees waving to all free boys to
climb and nestle among their leafy branches; the hay, entreating
them to come and scatter it to the pure air; the green corn, gently
beckoning towards wood and stream; the smooth ground, rendered
smoother still by blending lights and shadows, inviting to runs and
leaps, and long walks God knows whither. It was more than boy could
bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole cluster took to their heels
and spread themselves about, shouting and laughing as they went.
'It's natural, thank Heaven!' said the poor schoolmaster, looking
after them. 'I'm very glad they didn't mind me!'
It is difficult, however, to please everybody, as most of us would
have discovered, even without the fable which bears that moral, and
in the course of the afternoon several mothers and aunts of pupils
looked in to express their entire disapproval of the schoolmaster's
proceeding. A few confined themselves to hints, such as politely
inquiring what red-letter day or saint's day the almanack said it
was; a few (these were the profound village politicians) argued
that it was a slight to the throne and an affront to church and
state, and savoured of revolutionary principles, to grant a
half-holiday upon any lighter occasion than the birthday of the
Monarch; but the majority expressed their displeasure on private
grounds and in plain terms, arguing that to put the pupils on this
short allowance of learning was nothing but an act of downright
robbery and fraud: and one old lady, finding that she could not
inflame or irritate the peaceable schoolmaster by talking to him,
bounced out of his house and talked at him for half-an-hour outside
his own window, to another old lady, saying that of course he would
deduct this half-holiday from his weekly charge, or of course he
would naturally expect to have an opposition started against him;
there was no want of idle chaps in that neighbourhood (here the old
lady raised her voice), and some chaps who were too idle even to be
schoolmasters, might soon find that there were other chaps put over
their heads, and so she would have them take care, and look pretty
sharp about them. But all these taunts and vexations failed to
elicit one word from the meek schoolmaster, who sat with the child
by his side--a little more dejected perhaps, but quite silent and
uncomplaining.
Towards night an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily
as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was
to go to Dame West's directly, and had best run on before her. He
and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk,
and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away,
leaving the messenger to follow as she might.
They stopped at a cottage-door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly
at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They
entered a room where a little group of women were gathered about
one, older than the rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat
wringing her hands and rocking herself to and fro.
'Oh, dame!' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her chair, 'is it
so bad as this?'
'He's going fast,' cried the old woman; 'my grandson's dying. It's
all along of you. You shouldn't see him now, but for his being so
earnest on it. This is what his learning has brought him to. Oh
dear, dear, dear, what can I do!'
'Do not say that I am in any fault,' urged the gentle schoolmaster.
'I am not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in great distress of
mind, and don't mean what you say. I am sure you don't.'
'I do,' returned the old woman. 'I mean it all. If he hadn't been
poring over his books out of fear of you, he would have been well
and merry now, I know he would.'
The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women as if to entreat
some one among them to say a kind word for him, but they shook
their heads, and murmured to each other that they never thought
there was much good in learning, and that this convinced them.
Without saying a word in reply, or giving them a look of reproach,
he followed the old woman who had summoned him (and who had now
rejoined them) into another room, where his infant friend,
half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.
He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung
in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their
light was of Heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside
him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy
sprung up, stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted
arms round his neck, crying out that he was his dear kind friend.
'I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,' said the poor
schoolmaster.
'Who is that?' said the boy, seeing Nell. 'I am afraid to kiss her,
lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.' The
sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in
hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him
gently down.
'You remember the garden, Harry,' whispered the schoolmaster,
anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the
child, 'and how pleasant it used to be in the evening time? You
must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers
have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will
come soon, my dear, very soon now--won't you?'
The boy smiled faintly--so very, very faintly--and put his hand
upon his friend's grey head. He moved his lips too, but no voice
came from them; no, not a sound.
In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices borne upon
the evening air came floating through the open window. 'What's
that?' said the sick child, opening his eyes.
'The boys at play upon the green.'
He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above
his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down.
'Shall I do it?' said the schoolmaster.
'Please wave it at the window,' was the faint reply. 'Tie it to the
lattice. Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they'll think of
me, and look this way.'
He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his
idle bat, that lay with slate and book and other boyish property
upon a table in the room. And then he laid him softly down once more,
and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.
She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the
coverlet. The two old friends and companions--for such they were,
though they were man and child--held each other in a long embrace,
and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and
fell asleep.
The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small cold
hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child.
He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.
CHAPTER 26
Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the schoolmaster from the
bedside and returned to his cottage. In the midst of her grief and
tears she was yet careful to conceal their real cause from the old
man, for the dead boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged
relative to mourn his premature decay.
She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when she was
alone, gave free vent to the sorrow with which her breast was
overcharged. But the sad scene she had witnessed, was not without
its lesson of content and gratitude; of content with the lot which
left her health and freedom; and gratitude that she was spared to
the one relative and friend she loved, and to live and move in a
beautiful world, when so many young creatures--as young and full
of hope as she--were stricken down and gathered to their graves.
How many of the mounds in that old churchyard where she had lately
strayed, grew green above the graves of children! And though she
thought as a child herself, and did not perhaps sufficiently
consider to what a bright and happy existence those who die young
are borne, and how in death they lose the pain of seeing others die
around them, bearing to the tomb some strong affection of their
hearts (which makes the old die many times in one long life), still
she thought wisely enough, to draw a plain and easy moral from what
she had seen that night, and to store it, deep in her mind.
Her dreams were of the little scholar: not coffined and covered up,
but mingling with angels, and smiling happily. The sun darting his
cheerful rays into the room, awoke her; and now there remained but
to take leave of the poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more.
By the time they were ready to depart, school had begun. In the
darkened room, the din of yesterday was going on again: a little
sobered and softened down, perhaps, but only a very little, if at
all. The schoolmaster rose from his desk and walked with them to
the gate.
It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the child held out
to him the money which the lady had given her at the races for her
flowers: faltering in her thanks as she thought how small the sum
was, and blushing as she offered it. But he bade her put it up,
and stooping to kiss her cheek, turned back into his house.
They had not gone half-a-dozen paces when he was at the door again;
the old man retraced his steps to shake hands, and the child did
the same.
'Good fortune and happiness go with you!' said the poor
schoolmaster. 'I am quite a solitary man now. If you ever pass
this way again, you'll not forget the little village-school.'
'We shall never forget it, sir,' rejoined Nell; 'nor ever forget to
be grateful to you for your kindness to us.'
'I have heard such words from the lips of children very often,'
said the schoolmaster, shaking his head, and smiling thoughtfully,
'but they were soon forgotten. I had attached one young friend to
me, the better friend for being young--but that's over--God bless
you!'
They bade him farewell very many times, and turned away, walking
slowly and often looking back, until they could see him no more.
At length they had left the village far behind, and even lost sight
of the smoke among the trees. They trudged onward now, at a
quicker pace, resolving to keep the main road, and go wherever it
might lead them.
But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the exception of two
or three inconsiderable clusters of cottages which they passed,
without stopping, and one lonely road-side public-house where they
had some bread and cheese, this highway had led them to nothing--
late in the afternoon--and still lengthened out, far in the
distance, the same dull, tedious, winding course, that they had
been pursuing all day. As they had no resource, however, but to go
forward, they still kept on, though at a much slower pace, being
very weary and fatigued.
The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful evening, when they
arrived at a point where the road made a sharp turn and struck
across a common. On the border of this common, and close to the
hedge which divided it from the cultivated fields, a caravan was
drawn up to rest; upon which, by reason of its situation, they came
so suddenly that they could not have avoided it if they would.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart little house
upon wheels, with white dimity curtains festooning the windows, and
window-shutters of green picked out with panels of a staring red,
in which happily-contrasted colours the whole concern shone
brilliant. Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey
or emaciated horse, for a pair of horses in pretty
good condition were released from the shafts and grazing on the
frouzy grass. Neither was it a gipsy caravan, for at the open door
(graced with a bright brass knocker) sat a Christian lady, stout
and comfortable to look upon, who wore a large bonnet trembling
with bows. And that it was not an unprovided or destitute caravan
was clear from this lady's occupation, which was the very pleasant
and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea-things, including a
bottle of rather suspicious character and a cold knuckle of ham,
were set forth upon a drum, covered with a white napkin; and there,
as if at the most convenient round-table in all the world, sat
this roving lady, taking her tea and enjoying the prospect.
It happened that at that moment the lady of the caravan had her cup
(which, that everything about her might be of a stout and
comfortable kind, was a breakfast cup) to her lips, and that having
her eyes lifted to the sky in her enjoyment of the full flavour of
the tea, not unmingled possibly with just the slightest
dash or gleam of something out of the suspicious bottle--but this
is mere speculation and not distinct matter of history--it
happened that being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the
travellers when they first came up. It was not until she was in
the act of getting down the cup, and drawing a long breath after
the exertion of causing its contents to disappear, that the lady of
the caravan beheld an old man and a young child walking slowly by,
and glancing at her proceedings with eyes of modest but hungry
admiration.
'Hey!' cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the crumbs out of
her lap and swallowing the same before wiping her lips. 'Yes, to
be sure--Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate, child?'
'Won what, ma'am?' asked Nell.
'The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child--the plate that was
run for on the second day.'
'On the second day, ma'am?'
'Second day! Yes, second day,' repeated the lady with an air of
impatience. 'Can't you say who won the Helter-Skelter Plate when
you're asked the question civilly?'
'I don't know, ma'am.'
'Don't know!' repeated the lady of the caravan; 'why, you were
there. I saw you with my own eyes.'
Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that the lady
might be intimately acquainted with the firm of Short and Codlin;
but what followed tended to reassure her.
'And very sorry I was,' said the lady of the caravan, 'to see you
in company with a Punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch, that
people should scorn to look at.'
'I was not there by choice,' returned the child; 'we didn't know
our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel
with them. Do you--do you know them, ma'am?'
'Know 'em, child!' cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of
shriek. 'Know them! But you're young and inexperienced, and
that's your excuse for asking sich a question. Do I look as if I
know'd 'em, does the caravan look as if it know'd 'em?'
'No, ma'am, no,' said the child, fearing she had committed some
grievous fault. 'I beg your pardon.'
It was granted immediately, though the lady still appeared much
ruffled and discomposed by the degrading supposition. The child
then explained that they had left the races on the first day, and
were travelling to the next town on that road, where they purposed
to spend the night. As the countenance of the stout lady began to
clear up, she ventured to inquire how far it was. The reply--which
the stout lady did not come to, until she had thoroughly explained
that she went to the races on the first day in a gig, and as an
expedition of pleasure, and that her presence there had no
connexion with any matters of business or profit--was, that the
town was eight miles off.
This discouraging information a little dashed the child, who could
scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the darkening road.
Her grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily as he
leaned upon his staff, and vainly tried to pierce the dusty
distance.
The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her tea
equipage together preparatory to clearing the table, but noting the
child's anxious manner she hesitated and stopped. The child
curtseyed, thanked her for her information, and giving her hand to
the old man had already got some fifty yards or so away, when the
lady of the caravan called to her to return.
'Come nearer, nearer still,' said she, beckoning to her to ascend
the steps. 'Are you hungry, child?'
'Not very, but we are tired, and it's--it IS a long way.'
'Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,' rejoined her
new acquaintance. 'I suppose you are agreeable to that, old
gentleman?'
The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The
lady of the caravan then bade him come up the steps likewise, but
the drum proving an inconvenient table for two, they descended
again, and sat upon the grass, where she handed down to them the
tea-tray, the bread and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short
everything of which she had partaken herself, except the bottle
which she had already embraced an opportunity of slipping into her
pocket.
'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place,'
said their friend, superintending the arrangements from above.
'Now hand up the teapot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of
fresh tea, and then both of you eat and drink as much as you can,
and don't spare anything; that's all I ask of you.'
They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if it had been
less freely expressed, or even if it had not been expressed at all.
But as this direction relieved them from any shadow of delicacy or
uneasiness, they made a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost.
While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan alighted
on the earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large
bonnet trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured
tread and very stately manner, surveying the caravan from time to
time with an air of calm delight, and deriving particular
gratification from the red panels and the brass knocker. When she
had taken this gentle exercise for some time, she sat down upon the
steps and called 'George'; whereupon a man in a carter's frock, who
had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this time as to see
everything that passed without being seen himself, parted the twigs
that concealed him, and appeared in a sitting attitude, supporting
on his legs a baking-dish and a half-gallon stone bottle, and
bearing in his right hand a knife, and in his left a fork.
'Yes, Missus,' said George.
'How did you find the cold pie, George?'
'It warn't amiss, mum.'
'And the beer,' said the lady of the caravan, with an appearance of
being more interested in this question than the last; 'is it
passable, George?'
'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it
an't so bad for all that.'
To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting
in quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and
then smacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head. No
doubt with the same amiable desire, he immediately resumed his
knife and fork, as a practical assurance that the beer had wrought
no bad effect upon his appetite.
The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time, and
then said,
'Have you nearly finished?'
'Wery nigh, mum.' And indeed, after scraping the dish all round
with his knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth,
and after taking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that,
by degrees almost imperceptible to the sight, his head went further
and further back until he lay nearly at his full length upon the
ground, this gentleman declared himself quite disengaged, and came
forth from his retreat.
'I hope I haven't hurried you, George,' said his mistress, who
appeared to have a great sympathy with his late pursuit.
'If you have,' returned the follower, wisely reserving himself
for any favourable contingency that might occur, 'we must make up
for it next time, that's all.'
'We are not a heavy load, George?'
'That's always what the ladies say,' replied the man, looking a
long way round, as if he were appealing to Nature in general
against such monstrous propositions. 'If you see a woman a
driving, you'll always perceive that she never will keep her whip
still; the horse can't go fast enough for her. If cattle have got
their proper load, you never can persuade a woman that they'll not
bear something more. What is ' the cause of this here?'
'Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses, if
we took them with us?' asked his mistress, offering no reply to the
philosophical inquiry, and pointing to Nell and the old man, who
were painfully preparing to resume their journey on foot.
'They'd make a difference in course,' said George doggedly.
'Would they make much difference?' repeated his mistress. 'They
can't be very heavy.'
'The weight o' the pair, mum,' said George, eyeing them with the
look of a man who was calculating within half an ounce or so,
'would be a trifle under that of Oliver Cromwell."
Nell was very much surprised that the man should be so accurately
acquainted with the weight of one whom she had read of in books as
having lived considerably before their time, but speedily forgot
the subject in the joy of hearing that they were to go forward in
the caravan, for which she thanked its lady with unaffected
earnestness. She helped with great readiness and alacrity to put
away the tea-things and other matters that were lying about, and,
the horses being by that time harnessed, mounted into the vehicle,
followed by her delighted grandfather. Their patroness then shut
the door and sat herself down by her drum at an open window; and,
the steps being struck by George and stowed under the carriage,
away they went, with a great noise of flapping and creaking and
straining, and the bright brass knocker, which nobody ever knocked
at, knocking one perpetual double knock of its own accord as they
jolted heavily along.
CHAPTER 27
When they had travelled slowly forward for some short distance,
Nell ventured to steal a look round the caravan and observe it more
closely. One half of it--that moiety in which the comfortable
proprietress was then seated--was carpeted, and so partitioned off
at the further end as to accommodate a sleeping-place, constructed
after the fashion of a berth on board ship, which was shaded, like
the little windows, with fair white curtains, and looked
comfortable enough, though by what kind of gymnastic exercise the
lady of the caravan ever contrived to get into it, was an
unfathomable mystery. The other half served for a kitchen, and was
fitted up with a stove whose small chimney passed through the roof.
It held also a closet or larder, several chests, a great pitcher of
water, and a few cooking-utensils and articles of crockery. These
latter necessaries hung upon the walls, which, in that portion of
the establishment devoted to the lady of the caravan, were
ornamented with such gayer and lighter decorations as a triangle
and a couple of well-thumbed tambourines.
The lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the pride and
poetry of the musical instruments, and little Nell and her
grandfather sat at the other in all the humility of the kettle and
saucepans, while the machine jogged on and shifted the darkening
prospect very slowly. At first the two travellers spoke little,
and only in whispers, but as they grew more familiar with the place
they ventured to converse with greater freedom, and talked about
the country through which they were passing, and the different
objects that presented themselves, until the old man fell asleep;
which the lady of the caravan observing, invited Nell to come and
sit beside her.
'Well, child,' she said, 'how do you like this way of travelling?'
Nell replied that she thought it was very pleasant indeed, to which
the lady assented in the case of people who had their spirits. For
herself, she said, she was troubled with a lowness in that respect
which required a constant stimulant; though whether the aforesaid
stimulant was derived from the suspicious bottle of which mention
has been already made or from other sources, she did not say.
'That's the happiness of you young people,' she continued. 'You
don't know what it is to be low in your feelings. You always have
your appetites too, and what a comfort that is.'
Nell thought that she could sometimes dispense with her own
appetite very conveniently; and thought, moreover, that there was
nothing either in the lady's personal appearance or in her manner
of taking tea, to lead to the conclusion that her natural relish
for meat and drink had at all failed her. She silently assented,
however, as in duty bound, to what the lady had said, and waited
until she should speak again.
Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the child for a
long time in silence, and then getting up, brought out from a
corner a large roll of canvas about a yard in width, which she laid
upon the floor and spread open with her foot until it nearly
reached from one end of the caravan to the other.
'There, child,' she said, 'read that.'
Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous black letters, the
inscription, 'Jarley's WAX-WORK.'
'Read it again,' said the lady, complacently.
'Jarley's Wax-Work,' repeated Nell.
'That's me,' said the lady. 'I am Mrs Jarley.'
Giving the child an encouraging look, intended to reassure her and
let her know, that, although she stood in the presence of the
original Jarley, she must not allow herself to be utterly
overwhelmed and borne down, the lady of the caravan unfolded
another scroll, whereon was the inscription, 'One hundred figures
the full size of life,' and then another scroll, on which was
written, 'The only stupendous collection of real wax-work in the
world,' and then several smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as
'Now exhibiting within'--'The genuine and only Jarley'--'Jarley's
unrivalled collection'--'Jarley is the delight of the Nobility and
Gentry'--'The Royal Family are the patrons of Jarley.' When she
had exhibited these leviathans of public announcement to the
astonished child, she brought forth specimens of the lesser fry in
the shape of hand-bills, some of which were couched in the form of
parodies on popular melodies, as 'Believe me if all Jarley's
wax-work so rare'--'I saw thy show in youthful prime'--'Over the
water to Jarley;' while, to consult all tastes, others were
composed with a view to the lighter and more facetious spirits, as
a parody on the favourite air of 'If I had a donkey,' beginning
If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go
To see Mrs JARLEY'S wax-work show,
Do you think I'd acknowledge him? Oh no no!
Then run to Jarley's--
--besides several compositions in prose, purporting to be dialogues
between the Emperor of China and an oyster, or the Archbishop of
Canterbury and a dissenter on the subject of church-rates, but all
having the same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to
Jarley's, and that children and servants were admitted at
half-price. When she had brought all these testimonials of her
important position in society to bear upon her young companion, Mrs
Jarley rolled them up, and having put them carefully away, sat down
again, and looked at the child in triumph.
'Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any more,' said Mrs
Jarley, 'after this.'
'I never saw any wax-work, ma'am,' said Nell. 'Is it funnier than Punch?'
'Funnier!' said Mrs Jarley in a shrill voice. 'It is not funny at all.'
'Oh!' said Nell, with all possible humility.
'It isn't funny at all,' repeated Mrs Jarley. 'It's calm and--
what's that word again--critical? --no--classical, that's it--
it's calm and classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no
jokings and squeakings like your precious Punches, but always the
same, with a constantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility;
and so like life, that if wax-work only spoke and walked about,
you'd hardly know the difference. I won't go so far as to say,
that, as it is, I've seen wax-work quite like life, but I've
certainly seen some life that was exactly like wax-work.'
'Is it here, ma'am?' asked Nell, whose curiosity was awakened by
this description.
'Is what here, child?'
'The wax-work, ma'am.'
'Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? How could such
a collection be here, where you see everything except the inside of
one little cupboard and a few boxes? It's gone on in the other
wans to the assembly-rooms, and there it'll be exhibited the day
after to-morrow. You are going to the same town, and you'll see it
I dare say. It's natural to expect that you'll see
it, and I've no doubt you will. I suppose you couldn't stop away
if you was to try ever so much.'
'I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am,' said the child.
'Not there!' cried Mrs Jarley. 'Then where will you be?'
'I--I--don't quite know. I am not certain.'
'You don't mean to say that you're travelling about the country
without knowing where you're going to?' said the lady of the
caravan. 'What curious people you are! What line are you in? You
looked to me at the races, child, as if you were quite out of your
element, and had got there by accident.'
'We were there quite by accident,' returned Nell, confused by this
abrupt questioning. 'We are poor people, ma'am, and are only
wandering about. We have nothing to do;--I wish we had.'
'You amaze me more and more,' said Mrs Jarley, after remaining for
some time as mute as one of her own figures. 'Why, what do you
call yourselves? Not beggars?'
'Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are,' returned the child.
'Lord bless me,' said the lady of the caravan. 'I never heard of
such a thing. Who'd have thought it!'
She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that Nell
feared she felt her having been induced to bestow her protection
and conversation upon one so poor, to be an outrage upon her
dignity that nothing could repair. This persuasion was rather
confirmed than otherwise by the tone in which she at length broke
silence and said,
'And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn't wonder?'
'Yes, ma'am,' said the child, fearful of giving new offence by the
confession.
'Well, and what a thing that is,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'I can't!'
Nell said 'indeed' in a tone which might imply, either that she was
reasonably surprised to find the genuine and only Jarley, who was
the delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the peculiar pet of the
Royal Family, destitute of these familiar arts; or that she
presumed so great a lady could scarcely stand in need of such
ordinary accomplishments. In whatever way Mrs Jarley received the
response, it did not provoke her to further questioning, or tempt
her into any more remarks at the time, for she relapsed into a
thoughtful silence, and remained in that state so long that Nell
withdrew to the other window and rejoined her grandfather, who was
now awake.
At length the lady of the caravan shook off her fit of meditation,
and, summoning the driver to come under the window at which she was
seated, held a long conversation with him in a low tone of voice,
as if she were asking his advice on an important point, and
discussing the pros and cons of some very weighty matter. This
conference at length concluded, she drew in her head again, and
beckoned Nell to approach.
'And the old gentleman too,' said Mrs Jarley; 'for I want to have
a word with him. Do you want a good situation for your
grand-daughter, master? If you do, I can put her in the way of
getting one. What do you say?'
'I can't leave her,' answered the old man. 'We can't separate.
What would become of me without her?'
'I should have thought you were old enough to take care of
yourself, if you ever will be,' retorted Mrs Jarley sharply.
'But he never will be,' said the child in an earnest whisper. 'I
fear he never will be again. Pray do not speak harshly to him. We
are very thankful to you,' she added aloud; 'but neither of us
could part from the other if all the wealth of the world were
halved between us.'
Mrs Jarley was a little disconcerted by this reception of her
proposal, and looked at the old man, who tenderly took Nell's hand
and detained it in his own, as if she could have very well
dispensed with his company or even his earthly existence. After an
awkward pause, she thrust her head out of the window again, and had
another conference with the driver upon some point on which they
did not seem to agree quite so readily as on their former topic of
discussion; but they concluded at last, and she addressed the
grandfather again.
'If you're really disposed to employ yourself,' said Mrs Jarley,
'there would be plenty for you to do in the way of helping to dust
the figures, and take the checks, and so forth. What I want your
grand-daughter for, is to point 'em out to the company; they would
be soon learnt, and she has a way with her that people wouldn't
think unpleasant, though she does come after me; for I've been
always accustomed to go round with visitors myself, which I should
keep on doing now, only that my spirits make a little ease
absolutely necessary. It's not a common offer, bear in mind,' said
the lady, rising into the tone and manner in
which she was accustomed to address her audiences; 'it's Jarley's
wax-work, remember. The duty's very light and genteel, the company
particularly select, the exhibition takes place in assembly-rooms,
town-halls, large rooms at inns, or auction galleries. There is
none of your open-air wagrancy at Jarley's, recollect; there is no
tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's, remember. Every expectation
held out in the handbills is realised to the utmost, and the whole
forms an effect of imposing brilliancy hitherto unrivalled in this
kingdom. Remember that the price of admission is only sixpence,
and that this is an opportunity which may never occur again!'
Descending from the sublime when she had reached this point, to the
details of common life, Mrs Jarley remarked that with reference to
salary she could pledge herself to no specific sum until she had
sufficiently tested Nell's abilities, and narrowly watched her in
the performance of her duties. But board and lodging, both for her
and her grandfather, she bound herself to provide, and she
furthermore passed her word that the board should always be good in
quality, and in quantity plentiful.
Nell and her grandfather consulted together, and while they were so
engaged, Mrs Jarley with her hands behind her walked up and down
the caravan, as she had walked after tea on the dull earth, with
uncommon dignity and self-esteem. Nor will this appear so slight
a circumstance as to be unworthy of mention, when it is remembered
that the caravan was in uneasy motion all the time, and that none
but a person of great natural stateliness and acquired grace could
have forborne to stagger.
'Now, child?' cried Mrs Jarley, coming to a halt as Nell turned
towards her.
'We are very much obliged to you, ma'am,' said Nell, 'and
thankfully accept your offer.'
'And you'll never be sorry for it,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'I'm
pretty sure of that. So as that's all settled, let us have a bit
of supper.'
In the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on as if it too had been
drinking strong beer and was drowsy, and came at last upon the
paved streets of a town which were clear of passengers, and quiet,
for it was by this time near midnight, and the townspeople were all
abed. As it was too late an hour to repair to the exhibition room,
they turned aside into a piece of waste ground that lay just within
the old town-gate, and drew up there for the night, near to another
caravan, which, notwithstanding that it bore on the lawful panel
the great name of Jarley, and was employed besides in conveying
from place to place the wax-work which was its country's pride,
was designated by a grovelling stamp-office as a 'Common Stage
Waggon,' and numbered too--seven thousand odd hundred--as though
its precious freight were mere flour or coals!
This ill-used machine being empty (for it had deposited its burden
at the place of exhibition, and lingered here until its services
were again required) was assigned to the old man as his
sleeping-place for the night; and within its wooden walls, Nell
made him up the best bed she could, from the materials at hand.
For herself, she was to sleep in Mrs Jarley's own travellingcarriage,
as a signal mark of that lady's favour and confidence.
She had taken leave of her grandfather and was returning to the
other waggon, when she was tempted by the coolness of the night to
linger for a little while in the air. The moon was shining down
upon the old gateway of the town, leaving the low archway very
black and dark; and with a mingled sensation of curiosity and fear,
she slowly approached the gate, and stood still to look up at it,
wondering to see how dark, and grim, and old, and cold, it looked.
There was an empty niche from which some old statue had fallen or
been carried away hundreds of years ago, and she was thinking what
strange people it must have looked down upon when it stood there,
and how many hard struggles might have taken place, and how many
murders might have been done, upon that silent spot, when there
suddenly emerged from the black shade of the arch, a man. The
instant he appeared, she recognised him--Who could have failed to
recognise, in that instant, the ugly misshapen Quilp!
The street beyond was so narrow, and the shadow of the houses on
one side of the way so deep, that he seemed to have risen out of
the earth. But there he was. The child withdrew into a dark
corner, and saw him pass close to her. He had a stick in his hand,
and, when he had got clear of the shadow of the gateway, he leant
upon it, looked back--directly, as it seemed, towards where she
stood--and beckoned.
To her? oh no, thank God, not to her; for as she stood, in an
extremity of fear, hesitating whether to scream for help, or come
from her hiding-place and fly, before he should draw nearer,
there issued slowly forth from the arch another figure--that of a
boy--who carried on his back a trunk.
'Faster, sirrah!' cried Quilp, looking up at the old gateway, and
showing in the moonlight like some monstrous image that had come
down from its niche and was casting a backward glance at its old
house, 'faster!'
'It's a dreadful heavy load, Sir,' the boy pleaded. 'I've come on
very fast, considering.'
'YOU have come fast, considering!' retorted Quilp; 'you creep, you
dog, you crawl, you measure distance like a worm. There are the
chimes now, half-past twelve.'
He stopped to listen, and then turning upon the boy with a
suddenness and ferocity that made him start, asked at what hour
that London coach passed the corner of the road. The boy replied,
at one.
'Come on then,' said Quilp, 'or I shall be too late. Faster--do
you hear me? Faster.'
The boy made all the speed he could, and Quilp led onward,
constantly turning back to threaten him, and urge him to greater
haste. Nell did not dare to move until they were out of sight and
hearing, and then hurried to where she had left her grandfather,
feeling as if the very passing of the dwarf so near him must have
filled him with alarm and terror. But he was sleeping soundly, and
she softly withdrew.
As she was making her way to her own bed, she determined to say
nothing of this adventure, as upon whatever errand the dwarf had
come (and she feared it must have been in search of them) it was
clear by his inquiry about the London coach that he was on his way
homeward, and as he had passed through that place, it was but
reasonable to suppose that they were safer from his inquiries
there, than they could be elsewhere. These reflections did not
remove her own alarm, for she had been too much terrified to be
easily composed, and felt as if she were hemmed in by a legion of
Quilps, and the very air itself were filled with them.
The delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the patronised of
Royalty had, by some process of self-abridgment known only to
herself, got into her travelling bed, where she was snoring
peacefully, while the large bonnet, carefully disposed upon the
drum, was revealing its glories by the light of a dim lamp that
swung from the roof. The child's bed was already made upon the
floor, and it was a great comfort to her to hear the steps removed
as soon as she had entered, and to know that all easy communication
between persons outside and the brass knocker was by this means
effectually prevented. Certain guttural sounds, too, which from
time to time ascended through the floor of the caravan, and a
rustling of straw in the same direction, apprised her that the
driver was couched upon the ground beneath, and gave her an
additional feeling of security.
Notwithstanding these protections, she could get none but broken
sleep by fits and starts all night, for fear of Quilp, who
throughout her uneasy dreams was somehow connected with the
wax-work, or was wax-work himself, or was Mrs Jarley and wax-work
too, or was himself, Mrs Jarley, wax-work, and a barrel organ all
in one, and yet not exactly any of them either. At length, towards
break of day, that deep sleep came upon her which succeeds to
weariness and over-watching, and which has no consciousness
but one of overpowering and irresistible enjoyment.
CHAPTER 28
Sleep hung upon the eyelids of the child so long, that, when she
awoke, Mrs Jarley was already decorated with her large bonnet, and
actively engaged in preparing breakfast. She received Nell's
apology for being so late with perfect good humour, and said that
she should not have roused her if she had slept on until noon.
'Because it does you good,' said the lady of the caravan, 'when
you're tired, to sleep as long as ever you can, and get the fatigue
quite off; and that's another blessing of your time of life--you
can sleep so very sound.'
'Have you had a bad night, ma'am?' asked Nell.
'I seldom have anything else, child,' replied Mrs Jarley, with the
air of a martyr. 'I sometimes wonder how I bear it.'
Remembering the snores which had proceeded from that cleft in the
caravan in which the proprietress of the wax-work passed the night,
Nell rather thought she must have been dreaming of lying awake.
However, she expressed herself very sorry to hear such a dismal
account of her state of health, and shortly afterwards sat down
with her grandfather and Mrs Jarley to breakfast. The meal
finished, Nell assisted to wash the cups and saucers, and put them
in their proper places, and these household duties performed, Mrs
Jarley arrayed herself in an exceedingly bright shawl for the
purpose of making a progress through the streets of the town.
'The wan will come on to bring the boxes,' said Mrs Jarley, and you
had better come in it, child. I am obliged to walk, very much
against my will; but the people expect it of me, and public
characters can't be their own masters and mistresses in such
matters as these. How do I look, child?'
Nell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs Jarley, after sticking
a great many pins into various parts of her figure, and making
several abortive attempts to obtain a full view of her own back,
was at last satisfied with her appearance, and went forth
majestically.
The caravan followed at no great distance. As it went jolting
through the streets, Nell peeped from the window, curious to see in
what kind of place they were, and yet fearful of encountering at
every turn the dreaded face of Quilp. It was a pretty large town,
with an open square which they were crawling slowly across, and in
the middle of which was the Town-Hall, with a clock-tower and a
weather-cock. There were houses of stone, houses of red brick,
houses of yellow brick, houses of lath and plaster; and houses of
wood, many of them very old, with withered faces carved upon the
beams, and staring down into the street. These had very little
winking windows, and low-arched doors, and, in some of the narrower
ways, quite overhung the pavement. The streets were very clean,
very sunny, very empty, and very dull. A few idle men lounged
about the two inns, and the empty market-place, and the tradesmen's
doors, and some old people were dozing in chairs outside an
alms-house wall; but scarcely any passengers who seemed bent on
going anywhere, or to have any object in view, went by; and if
perchance some straggler did, his footsteps echoed on the hot
bright pavement for minutes afterwards. Nothing seemed to be going
on but the clocks, and they had such drowzy faces, such heavy lazy
hands, and such cracked voices that they surely must have been too
slow. The very dogs were all asleep, and the flies, drunk with
moist sugar in the grocer's shop, forgot their wings and briskness,
and baked to death in dusty corners of the window.
Rumbling along with most unwonted noise, the caravan stopped at
last at the place of exhibition, where Nell dismounted amidst an
admiring group of children, who evidently supposed her to be an
important item of the curiosities, and were fully impressed with
the belief that her grandfather was a cunning device in wax. The
chests were taken out with all convenient despatch, and taken in to
be unlocked by Mrs Jarley, who, attended by George and another man
in velveteen shorts and a drab hat ornamented with turnpike
tickets, were waiting to dispose their contents (consisting of red
festoons and other ornamental devices in upholstery work) to the
best advantage in the decoration of the room.
They all got to work without loss of time, and very busy they were.
As the stupendous collection were yet concealed by cloths, lest the
envious dust should injure their complexions, Nell bestirred
herself to assist in the embellishment of the room, in which her
grandfather also was of great service. The two men being well used
to it, did a great deal in a short time; and Mrs Jarley served out
the tin tacks from a linen pocket like a toll-collector's which she
wore for the purpose, and encouraged her assistants to renewed
exertion.
While they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman with a hook nose
and black hair, dressed in a military surtout very short and tight
in the sleeves, and which had once been frogged and braided all
over, but was now sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare--
dressed too in ancient grey pantaloons fitting tight to the leg,
and a pair of pumps in the winter of their existence--looked in at
the door and smiled affably. Mrs Jarley's back being then towards
him, the military gentleman shook his forefinger as a sign that her
myrmidons were not to apprise her of his presence, and stealing up
close behind her, tapped her on the neck, and cried playfully
'Boh!'
'What, Mr Slum!' cried the lady of the wax-work. 'Lot! who'd have
thought of seeing you here!'
''Pon my soul and honour,' said Mr Slum, 'that's a good remark.
'Pon my soul and honour that's a wise remark. Who would have
thought it! George, my faithful feller, how are you?'
George received this advance with a surly indifference, observing
that he was well enough for the matter of that, and hammering
lustily all the time.
'I came here,' said the military gentleman turning to Mrs Jarley--
''pon my soul and honour I hardly know what I came here for. It
would puzzle me to tell you, it would by Gad. I wanted a little
inspiration, a little freshening up, a little change of ideas, and--
'Pon my soul and honour,' said the military gentleman, checking
himself and looking round the room, 'what a devilish classical
thing this is! by Gad, it's quite Minervian.'
'It'll look well enough when it comes to be finished,' observed Mrs Jarley.
'Well enough!' said Mr Slum. 'Will you believe me when I say it's
the delight of my life to have dabbled in poetry, when I think I've
exercised my pen upon this charming theme? By the way--any
orders? Is there any little thing I can do for you?'
'It comes so very expensive, sir,' replied Mrs Jarley, 'and I
really don't think it does much good.'
'Hush! No, no!' returned Mr Slum, elevating his hand. 'No fibs.
I'll not hear it. Don't say it don't do good. Don't say it. I
know better!'
'I don't think it does,' said Mrs Jarley.
'Ha, ha!' cried Mr Slum, 'you're giving way, you're coming down.
Ask the perfumers, ask the blacking-makers, ask the hatters, ask
the old lottery-office-keepers--ask any man among 'em what my
poetry has done for him, and mark my words, he blesses the name of
Slum. If he's an honest man, he raises his eyes to heaven, and
blesses the name of Slum--mark that! You are acquainted with
Westminster Abbey, Mrs Jarley?'
'Yes, surely.'
'Then upon my soul and honour, ma'am, you'll find in a certain
angle of that dreary pile, called Poets' Corner, a few smaller
names than Slum,' retorted that gentleman, tapping himself
expressively on the forehead to imply that there was some slight
quantity of brain behind it. 'I've got a little trifle here, now,'
said Mr Slum, taking off his hat which was full of scraps of paper,
'a little trifle here, thrown off in the heat of the moment, which
I should say was exactly the thing you wanted to set this place on
fire with. It's an acrostic--the name at this moment is Warren,
and the idea's a convertible one, and a positive inspiration for
Jarley. Have the acrostic.'
'I suppose it's very dear,' said Mrs Jarley.
'Five shillings,' returned Mr Slum, using his pencil as a
toothpick. 'Cheaper than any prose.'
'I couldn't give more than three,' said Mrs Jarley.
'--And six,' retorted Slum. 'Come. Three-and-six.'
Mrs Jarley was not proof against the poet's insinuating manner, and
Mr Slum entered the order in a small note-book as a
three-and-sixpenny one. Mr Slum then withdrew to alter the
acrostic, after taking a most affectionate leave of his patroness,
and promising to return, as soon as he possibly could, with a fair
copy for the printer.
As his presence had not interfered with or interrupted the
preparations, they were now far advanced, and were completed
shortly after his departure. When the festoons were all put up as
tastily as they might be, the stupendous collection was uncovered,
and there were displayed, on a raised platform some two feet from
the floor, running round the room and parted from the rude public
by a crimson rope breast high, divers sprightly effigies of
celebrated characters, singly and in groups, clad in glittering
dresses of various climes and times, and standing more or less
unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very wide open, and
their nostrils very much inflated, and the muscles of their legs
and arms very strongly developed, and all their countenances
expressing great surprise. All the gentlemen were very
pigeon-breasted and very blue about the beards; and all the ladies
were miraculous figures; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen
were looking intensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary
earnestness at nothing.
When Nell had exhausted her first raptures at this glorious sight,
Mrs Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and
the child, and, sitting herself down in an arm-chair in the centre,
formally invested Nell with a willow wand, long used by herself for
pointing out the characters, and was at great pains to instruct her
in her duty.
'That,' said Mrs Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell touched a
figure at the beginning of the platform, 'is an unfortunate Maid of
Honour in the Time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her
finger in consequence of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood
which is trickling from her finger; also the gold-eyed needle of
the period, with which she is at work.'
All this, Nell repeated twice or thrice: pointing to the finger and
the needle at the right times: and then passed on to the next.
'That, ladies and gentlemen,' said Mrs Jarley, 'is jasper
Packlemerton of atrocious memory, who courted and married fourteen
wives, and destroyed them all, by tickling the soles of their feet
when they were sleeping in the consciousness of innocence and
virtue. On being brought to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry
for what he had done, he replied yes, he was sorry for having let
'em off so easy, and hoped all Christian husbands would pardon him
the offence. Let this be a warning to all young ladies to be
particular in the character of the gentlemen of their choice.
Observe that his fingers are curled as if in the act of tickling,
and that his face is represented with a wink, as he appeared when
committing his barbarous murders.'
When Nell knew all about Mr Packlemerton, and could say it without
faltering, Mrs Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the
thin man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of
dancing at a hundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, the
woman who poisoned fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and
other historical characters and interesting but misguided
individuals. And so well did Nell profit by her instructions, and
so apt was she to remember them, that by the time they had been
shut up together for a couple of hours, she was in full possession
of the history of the whole establishment, and perfectly competent
to the enlightenment of visitors.
Mrs Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at this happy
result, and carried her young friend and pupil to inspect the
remaining arrangements within doors, by virtue of which the passage
had been already converted into a grove of green-baize hung with
the inscription she had already seen (Mr Slum's productions), and
a highly ornamented table placed at the upper end for Mrs Jarley
herself, at which she was to preside and take the money, in company
with his Majesty King George the Third, Mr Grimaldi as clown, Mary
Queen of Scots, an anonymous gentleman of the Quaker persuasion,
and Mr Pitt holding in his hand a correct model of the bill for the
imposition of the window duty. The preparations without doors had
not been neglected either; a nun of great personal attractions was
telling her beads on the little portico over the door; and a
brigand with the blackest possible head of hair, and the clearest
possible complexion, was at that moment going round the town in a
cart, consulting the miniature of a lady.
It now only remained that Mr Slum's compositions should be
judiciously distributed; that the pathetic effusions should find
their way to all private houses and tradespeople; and that the
parody commencing 'If I know'd a donkey,' should be confined to the
taverns, and circulated only among the lawyers' clerks and choice
spirits of the place. When this had been done, and Mrs Jarley had
waited upon the boarding-schools in person, with a handbill
composed expressly for them, in which it was distinctly proved that
wax-work refined the mind, cultivated the taste, and enlarged the
sphere of the human understanding, that indefatigable lady sat down
to dinner, and drank out of the suspicious bottle to a flourishing
campaign.
CHAPTER 29
Unquestionably Mrs Jarley had an inventive genius. In the midst of
the various devices for attracting visitors to the exhibition,
little Nell was not forgotten. The light cart in which the Brigand
usually made his perambulations being gaily dressed with flags and
streamers, and the Brigand placed therein, contemplating the
miniature of his beloved as usual, Nell was accommodated with a
seat beside him, decorated with artificial flowers, and in this
state and ceremony rode slowly through the town every morning,
dispersing handbills from a basket, to the sound of drum and
trumpet. The beauty of the child, coupled with her gentle and
timid bearing, produced quite a sensation in the little country
place. The Brigand, heretofore a source of exclusive interest in
the streets, became a mere secondary consideration, and to be
important only as a part of the show of which she was the chief
attraction. Grown-up folks began to be interested in the
bright-eyed girl, and some score of little boys fell desperately in
love, and constantly left enclosures of nuts and apples, directed
in small-text, at the wax-work door.
This desirable impression was not lost on Mrs Jarley, who, lest
Nell should become too cheap, soon sent the Brigand out alone
again, and kept her in the exhibition room, where she described the
figures every half-hour to the great satisfaction of admiring
audiences. And these audiences were of a very superior
description, including a great many young ladies' boarding-schools,
whose favour Mrs Jarley had been at great pains to conciliate, by
altering the face and costume of Mr Grimaldi as clown to represent
Mr Lindley Murray as he appeared when engaged in the composition of
his English Grammar, and turning a murderess of great renown into
Mrs Hannah More--both of which likenesses were admitted by Miss
Monflathers, who was at the head of the head Boarding and Day
Establishment in the town, and who condescended to take a Private
View with eight chosen young ladies, to be quite startling from
their extreme correctness. Mr Pitt in a nightcap and bedgown, and
without his boots, represented the poet Cowper with perfect
exactness; and Mary Queen of Scots in a dark wig, white
shirt-collar, and male attire, was such a complete image of Lord
Byron that the young ladies quite screamed when they saw it. Miss
Monflathers, however, rebuked this enthusiasm, and took occasion to
reprove Mrs Jarley for not keeping her collection more select:
observing that His Lordship had held certain opinions quite
incompatible with wax-work honours, and adding something about a
Dean and Chapter, which Mrs Jarley did not understand.
Although her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell found in the
lady of the caravan a very kind and considerate person, who had not
only a peculiar relish for being comfortable herself, but for
making everybody about her comfortable also; which latter taste, it
may be remarked, is, even in persons who live in much finer places
than caravans, a far more rare and uncommon one than the first, and
is not by any means its necessary consequence. As her popularity
procured her various little fees from the visitors on which her
patroness never demanded any toll, and as her grandfather too was
well-treated and useful, she had no cause of anxiety in connexion
with the wax-work, beyond that which sprung from her recollection
of Quilp, and her fears that he might return and one day suddenly
encounter them.
Quilp indeed was a perpetual night-mare to the child, who was
constantly haunted by a vision of his ugly face and stunted figure.
She slept, for their better security, in the room where the
wax-work figures were, and she never retired to this place at night
but she tortured herself--she could not help it--with imagining
a resemblance, in some one or other of their death-like faces, to
the dwarf, and this fancy would sometimes so gain upon her that she
would almost believe he had removed the figure and stood within the
clothes. Then there were so many of them with their great glassy
eyes--and, as they stood one behind the other all about her bed,
they looked so like living creatures, and yet so unlike in their
grim stillness and silence, that she had a kind of terror of them
for their own sakes, and would often lie watching their dusky
figures until she was obliged to rise and light a candle, or go and
sit at the open window and feel a companionship in the bright
stars. At these times, she would recall the old house and the
window at which she used to sit alone; and then she would think of
poor Kit and all his kindness, until the tears came into her eyes,
and she would weep and smile together.
Often and anxiously at this silent hour, her thoughts reverted to
her grandfather, and she would wonder how much he remembered of
their former life, and whether he was ever really mindful of the
change in their condition and of their late helplessness and
destitution. When they were wandering about, she seldom thought of
this, but now she could not help considering what would become of
them if he fell sick, or her own strength were to fail her. He was
very patient and willing, happy to execute any little task, and
glad to be of use; but he was in the same listless state, with no
prospect of improvement--a mere child--a poor, thoughtless,
vacant creature--a harmless fond old man, susceptible of tender
love and regard for her, and of pleasant and painful impressions,
but alive to nothing more. It made her very sad to know that this
was so--so sad to see it that sometimes when he sat idly by,
smiling and nodding to her when she looked round, or when he
caressed some little child and carried it to and fro, as he was
fond of doing by the hour together, perplexed by its simple
questions, yet patient under his own infirmity, and seeming almost
conscious of it too, and humbled even before the mind of an infant--
so sad it made her to see him thus, that she would burst into
tears, and, withdrawing into some secret place, fall down upon her
knees and pray that he might be restored.
But, the bitterness of her grief was not in beholding him in this
condition, when he was at least content and tranquil, nor in her
solitary meditations on his altered state, though these were trials
for a young heart. Cause for deeper and heavier sorrow was yet to
come.
One evening, a holiday night with them, Nell and her grandfather
went out to walk. They had been rather closely confined for some
days, and the weather being warm, they strolled a long distance.
Clear of the town, they took a footpath which struck through some
pleasant fields, judging that it would terminate in the road they
quitted and enable them to return that way. It made, however, a
much wider circuit than they had supposed, and thus they were
tempted onward until sunset, when they reached the track of which
they were in search, and stopped to rest.
It had been gradually getting overcast, and now the sky was dark
and lowering, save where the glory of the departing sun piled up
masses of gold and burning fire, decaying embers of which gleamed
here and there through the black veil, and shone redly down upon
the earth. The wind began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun
went down carrying glad day elsewhere; and a train of dull clouds
coming up against it, menaced thunder and lightning. Large drops
of rain soon began to fall, and, as the storm clouds came sailing
onward, others supplied the void they left behind and spread over
all the sky. Then was heard the low rumbling of distant thunder,
then the lightning quivered, and then the darkness of an hour
seemed to have gathered in an instant.
Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the old man and
the child hurried along the high road, hoping to find some house in
which they could seek a refuge from the storm, which had now burst
forth in earnest, and every moment increased in violence. Drenched
with the pelting rain, confused by the deafening thunder, and
bewildered by the glare of the forked lightning, they would have
passed a solitary house without being aware of its vicinity, had
not a man, who was standing at the door, called lustily to them to
enter.
'Your ears ought to be better than other folks' at any rate, if you
make so little of the chance of being struck blind,' he said,
retreating from the door and shading his eyes with his hands as the
jagged lightning came again. 'What were you going past for, eh?'
he added, as he closed the door and led the way along a passage to
a room behind.
'We didn't see the house, sir, till we heard you calling,' Nell
replied.
'No wonder,' said the man, 'with this lightning in one's eyes,
by-the-by. You had better stand by the fire here, and dry
yourselves a bit. You can call for what you like if you want
anything. If you don't want anything, you are not obliged to give
an order. Don't be afraid of that. This is a public-house, that's
all. The Valiant Soldier is pretty well known hereabouts.'
'Is this house called the Valiant Soldier, Sir?' asked Nell.
'I thought everybody knew that,' replied the landlord. 'Where have
you come from, if you don't know the Valiant Soldier as well as the
church catechism? This is the Valiant Soldier, by James Groves--
Jem Groves--honest Jem Groves, as is a man of unblemished moral
character, and has a good dry skittle-ground. If any man has got
anything to say again Jem Groves, let him say it TO Jem Groves, and
Jem Groves can accommodate him with a customer on any terms from
four pound a side to forty.
With these words, the speaker tapped himself on the waistcoat to
intimate that he was the Jem Groves so highly eulogized; sparred
scientifically at a counterfeit Jem Groves, who was sparring at
society in general from a black frame over the chimney-piece; and,
applying a half-emptied glass of spirits and water to his lips,
drank Jem Groves's health.
The night being warm, there was a large screen drawn across the
room, for a barrier against the heat of the fire. It seemed as if
somebody on the other side of this screen had been insinuating
doubts of Mr Groves's prowess, and had thereby given rise to these
egotistical expressions, for Mr Groves wound up his defiance by
giving a loud knock upon it with his knuckles and pausing for a
reply from the other side.
'There an't many men,' said Mr Groves, no answer being returned,
'who would ventur' to cross Jem Groves under his own roof. There's
only one man, I know, that has nerve enough for that, and that
man's not a hundred mile from here neither. But he's worth a dozen
men, and I let him say of me whatever he likes in consequence--he
knows that.'
In return for this complimentary address, a very gruff hoarse voice
bade Mr Groves 'hold his noise and light a candle.' And the same
voice remarked that the same gentleman 'needn't waste his breath in
brag, for most people knew pretty well what sort of stuff he was
made of.'
'Nell, they're--they're playing cards,' whispered the old man,
suddenly interested. 'Don't you hear them?'
'Look sharp with that candle,' said the voice; 'it's as much as I
can do to see the pips on the cards as it is; and get this shutter
closed as quick as you can, will you? Your beer will be the worse
for to-night's thunder I expect. --Game! Seven-and-sixpence to
me, old Isaac. Hand over.'
'Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them?' whispered the old man again,
with increased earnestness, as the money chinked upon the table.
'I haven't seen such a storm as this,' said a sharp cracked voice
of most disagreeable quality, when a tremendous peal of thunder had
died away, 'since the night when old Luke Withers won thirteen
times running on the red. We all said he had the Devil's luck and
his own, and as it was the kind of night for the Devil to be out
and busy, I suppose he was looking over his shoulder, if anybody
could have seen him.'
'Ah!' returned the gruff voice; 'for all old Luke's winning through
thick and thin of late years, I remember the time when he was the
unluckiest and unfortunatest of men. He never took a dice-box in
his hand, or held a card, but he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned
out completely.'
'Do you hear what he says?' whispered the old man. 'Do you hear
that, Nell?'
The child saw with astonishment and alarm that his whole appearance
had undergone a complete change. His face was flushed and eager,
his eyes were strained, his teeth set, his breath came short and
thick, and the hand he laid upon her arm trembled so violently that
she shook beneath its grasp.
'Bear witness,' he muttered, looking upward, 'that I always said
it; that I knew it, dreamed of it, felt it was the truth, and that
it must be so! What money have we, Nell? Come! I saw you with
money yesterday. What money have we? Give it to me.'
'No, no, let me keep it, grandfather,' said the frightened child.
'Let us go away from here. Do not mind the rain. Pray let us go.'
'Give it to me, I say,' returned the old man fiercely. 'Hush,
hush, don't cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear, I didn't mean it.
It's for thy good. I have wronged thee, Nell, but I will right
thee yet, I will indeed. Where is the money?'
'Do not take it,' said the child. 'Pray do not take it, dear. For
both our sakes let me keep it, or let me throw it away--better let
me throw it away, than you take it now. Let us go; do let us go.'
'Give me the money,' returned the old man, 'I must have it. There--
there--that's my dear Nell. I'll right thee one day, child,
I'll right thee, never fear!'
She took from her pocket a little purse. He seized it with the
same rapid impatience which had characterised his speech, and
hastily made his way to the other side of the screen. It was
impossible to restrain him, and the trembling child followed close
behind.
The landlord had placed a light upon the table, and was engaged in
drawing the curtain of the window. The speakers whom they had
heard were two men, who had a pack of cards and some silver money
between them, while upon the screen itself the games they had
played were scored in chalk. The man with the rough voice was a
burly fellow of middle age, with large black whiskers, broad
cheeks, a coarse wide mouth, and bull neck, which was pretty freely
displayed as his shirt collar was only confined by a loose red
neckerchief. He wore his hat, which was of a brownish-white, and
had beside him a thick knotted stick. The other man, whom his
companion had called Isaac, was of a more slender figure--
stooping, and high in the shoulders--with a very ill-favoured
face, and a most sinister and villainous squint.
'Now old gentleman,' said Isaac, looking round. 'Do you know
either of us? This side of the screen is private, sir.'
'No offence, I hope,' returned the old man.
'But by G--, sir, there is offence,' said the other, interrupting
him, 'when you intrude yourself upon a couple of gentlemen who are
particularly engaged.'
'I had no intention to offend,' said the old man, looking anxiously
at the cards. 'I thought that--'
'But you had no right to think, sir,' retorted the other. 'What
the devil has a man at your time of life to do with thinking?'
'Now bully boy,' said the stout man, raising his eyes from his
cards for the first time, 'can't you let him speak?'
The landlord, who had apparently resolved to remain neutral until
he knew which side of the question the stout man would espouse,
chimed in at this place with 'Ah, to be sure, can't you let him
speak, Isaac List?'
'Can't I let him speak,' sneered Isaac in reply, mimicking as
nearly as he could, in his shrill voice, the tones of the landlord.
'Yes, I can let him speak, Jemmy Groves.'
'Well then, do it, will you?' said the landlord.
Mr List's squint assumed a portentous character, which seemed to
threaten a prolongation of this controversy, when his companion,
who had been looking sharply at the old man, put a timely stop to
it.
'Who knows,' said he, with a cunning look, 'but the gentleman may
have civilly meant to ask if he might have the honour to take a
hand with us!'
'I did mean it,' cried the old man. 'That is what I mean. That is
what I want now!'
'I thought so,' returned the same man. 'Then who knows but the
gentleman, anticipating our objection to play for love, civilly
desired to play for money?'
The old man replied by shaking the little purse in his eager hand,
and then throwing it down upon the table, and gathering up the
cards as a miser would clutch at gold.
'Oh! That indeed,' said Isaac; 'if that's what the gentleman
meant, I beg the gentleman's pardon. Is this the gentleman's
little purse? A very pretty little purse. Rather a light purse,'
added Isaac, throwing it into the air and catching it dexterously,
'but enough to amuse a gentleman for half an hour or so.'
'We'll make a four-handed game of it, and take in Groves,' said the
stout man. 'Come, Jemmy.'
The landlord, who conducted himself like one who was well used to
such little parties, approached the table and took his seat. The
child, in a perfect agony, drew her grandfather aside, and implored
him, even then, to come away.
'Come; and we may be so happy,' said the child.
'We WILL be happy,' replied the old man hastily. 'Let me go, Nell.
The means of happiness are on the cards and the dice. We must rise
from little winnings to great. There's little to be won here; but
great will come in time. I shall but win back my own, and it's all
for thee, my darling.'
'God help us!' cried the child. 'Oh! what hard fortune brought us
here?'
'Hush!' rejoined the old man laying his hand upon her mouth,
'Fortune will not bear chiding. We must not reproach her, or she
shuns us; I have found that out.'
'Now, mister,' said the stout man. 'If you're not coming yourself,
give us the cards, will you?'
'I am coming,' cried the old man. 'Sit thee down, Nell, sit thee
down and look on. Be of good heart, it's all for thee--all--
every penny. I don't tell them, no, no, or else they wouldn't
play, dreading the chance that such a cause must give me. Look at
them. See what they are and what thou art. Who doubts that we
must win!'
'The gentleman has thought better of it, and isn't coming,' said
Isaac, making as though he would rise from the table. 'I'm sorry
the gentleman's daunted--nothing venture, nothing have--but the
gentleman knows best.'
'Why I am ready. You have all been slow but me,' said the old man.
'I wonder who is more anxious to begin than I.'
As he spoke he drew a chair to the table; and the other three
closing round it at the same time, the game commenced.
The child sat by, and watched its progress with a troubled mind.
Regardless of the run of luck, and mindful only of the desperate
passion which had its hold upon her grandfather, losses and gains
were to her alike. Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast down by
a defeat, there he sat so wild and restless, so feverishly and
intensely anxious, so terribly eager, so ravenous for the paltry
stakes, that she could have almost better borne to see him dead.
And yet she was the innocent cause of all this torture, and he,
gambling with such a savage thirst for gain as the most insatiable
gambler never felt, had not one selfish thought!
On the contrary, the other three--knaves and gamesters by their
trade--while intent upon their game, were yet as cool and quiet as
if every virtue had been centered in their breasts. Sometimes one
would look up to smile to another, or to snuff the feeble candle,
or to glance at the lightning as it shot through the open window
and fluttering curtain, or to listen to some louder peal of thunder
than the rest, with a kind of momentary impatience, as if it put
him out; but there they sat, with a calm indifference to everything
but their cards, perfect philosophers in appearance, and with no
greater show of passion or excitement than if they had been
made of stone.
The storm had raged for full three hours; the lightning had grown
fainter and less frequent; the thunder, from seeming to roll and
break above their heads, had gradually died away into a deep hoarse
distance; and still the game went on, and still the anxious child
was quite forgotten.
CHAPTER 30
At length the play came to an end, and Mr Isaac List rose the only
winner. Mat and the landlord bore their losses with professional
fortitude. Isaac pocketed his gains with the air of a man who had
quite made up his mind to win, all along, and was neither surprised
nor pleased.
Nell's little purse was exhausted; but although it lay empty by his
side, and the other players had now risen from the table, the old
man sat poring over the cards, dealing them as they had been dealt
before, and turning up the different hands to see what each man
would have held if they had still been playing. He was quite
absorbed in this occupation, when the child drew near and laid her
hand upon his shoulder, telling him it was near midnight.
'See the curse of poverty, Nell,' he said, pointing to the packs he
had spread out upon the table. 'If I could have gone on a little
longer, only a little longer, the luck would have turned on my
side. Yes, it's as plain as the marks upon the cards. See here--
and there--and here again.'
'Put them away,' urged the child. 'Try to forget them.'
'Try to forget them!' he rejoined, raising his haggard face to
hers, and regarding her with an incredulous stare. 'To forget
them! How are we ever to grow rich if I forget them?'
The child could only shake her head.
'No, no, Nell,' said the old man, patting her cheek; 'they must not
be forgotten. We must make amends for this as soon as we can.
Patience--patience, and we'll right thee yet, I promise thee.
Lose to-day, win to-morrow. And nothing can be won without anxiety
and care--nothing. Come, I am ready.'
'Do you know what the time is?' said Mr Groves, who was smoking
with his friends. 'Past twelve o'clock--'
'--And a rainy night,' added the stout man.
'The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves. Good beds. Cheap
entertainment for man and beast,' said Mr Groves, quoting his
sign-board. 'Half-past twelve o'clock.'
'It's very late,' said the uneasy child. 'I wish we had gone
before. What will they think of us! It will be two o'clock by the
time we get back. What would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?'
'Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper and beer one shilling;
total two shillings and sixpence,' replied the Valiant Soldier.
Now, Nell had still the piece of gold sewn in her dress; and when
she came to consider the lateness of the hour, and the somnolent
habits of Mrs Jarley, and to imagine the state of consternation in
which they would certainly throw that good lady by knocking her up
in the middle of the night--and when she reflected, on the other
hand, that if they remained where they were, and rose early in the
morning, they might get back before she awoke, and could plead the
violence of the storm by which they had been overtaken, as a good
apology for their absence--she decided, after a great deal of
hesitation, to remain. She therefore took her grandfather aside,
and telling him that she had still enough left to defray the cost
of their lodging, proposed that they should stay there for the
night.
'If I had had but that money before--If I had only known of it a
few minutes ago!' muttered the old man.
'We will decide to stop here if you please,' said Nell, turning
hastily to the landlord.
'I think that's prudent,' returned Mr Groves. 'You shall have your
suppers directly.'
Accordingly, when Mr Groves had smoked his pipe out, knocked out
the ashes, and placed it carefully in a corner of the fire-place,
with the bowl downwards, he brought in the bread and cheese, and
beer, with many high encomiums upon their excellence, and bade his
guests fall to, and make themselves at home. Nell and her
grandfather ate sparingly, for both were occupied with their own
reflections; the other gentlemen, for whose constitutions beer was
too weak and tame a liquid, consoled themselves with spirits and
tobacco.
As they would leave the house very early in the morning, the child
was anxious to pay for their entertainment before they retired to
bed. But as she felt the necessity of concealing her
little hoard from her grandfather, and had to change the piece of
gold, she took it secretly from its place of concealment, and
embraced an opportunity of following the landlord when he went out
of the room, and tendered it to him in the little bar.
'Will you give me the change here, if you please?' said the child.
Mr James Groves was evidently surprised, and looked at the money,
and rang it, and looked at the child, and at the money again, as
though he had a mind to inquire how she came by it. The coin being
genuine, however, and changed at his house, he probably felt, like
a wise landlord, that it was no business of his. At any rate, he
counted out the change, and gave it her. The child was returning
to the room where they had passed the evening, when she fancied she
saw a figure just gliding in at the door. There was nothing but a
long dark passage between this door and the place where she had
changed the money, and, being very certain that no person had
passed in or out while she stood there, the thought struck her that
she had been watched.
But by whom? When she re-entered the room, she found its inmates
exactly as she had left them. The stout fellow lay upon two
chairs, resting his head on his hand, and the squinting man reposed
in a similar attitude on the opposite side of the table. Between
them sat her grandfather, looking intently at the winner with a
kind of hungry admiration, and hanging upon his words as if he were
some superior being. She was puzzled for a moment, and looked
round to see if any else were there. No. Then she asked her
grandfather in a whisper whether anybody had left the room while
she was absent. 'No,' he said, 'nobody.'
It must have been her fancy then; and yet it was strange, that,
without anything in her previous thoughts to lead to it, she should
have imagined this figure so very distinctly. She was still
wondering and thinking of it, when a girl came to light her to bed.
The old man took leave of the company at the same time, and they
went up stairs together. It was a great, rambling house, with dull
corridors and wide staircases which the flaring candles seemed to
make more gloomy. She left her grandfather in his chamber, and
followed her guide to another, which was at the end of a passage,
and approached by some half-dozen crazy steps. This was prepared
for her. The girl lingered a little while to talk, and tell her
grievances. She had not a good place, she said; the wages were
low, and the work was hard. She was going to leave it in a
fortnight; the child couldn't recommend her to another, she
supposed? Instead she was afraid another would be difficult to
get after living there, for the house had a very indifferent
character; there was far too much card-playing, and such like.
She was very much mistaken if some of the people who
came there oftenest were quite as honest as they might be, but she
wouldn't have it known that she had said so, for the world. Then
there were some rambling allusions to a rejected sweetheart, who
had threatened to go a soldiering--a final promise of knocking at
the door early in the morning--and 'Good night.'
The child did not feel comfortable when she was left alone. She
could not help thinking of the figure stealing through the passage
down stairs; and what the girl had said did not tend to reassure
her. The men were very ill-looking. They might get their living
by robbing and murdering travellers. Who could tell?
Reasoning herself out of these fears, or losing sight of them for
a little while, there came the anxiety to which the adventures of
the night gave rise. Here was the old passion awakened again in
her grandfather's breast, and to what further distraction it might
tempt him Heaven only knew. What fears their absence might have
occasioned already! Persons might be seeking for them even then.
Would they be forgiven in the morning, or turned adrift again! Oh!
why had they stopped in that strange place? It would have been
better, under any circumstances, to have gone on!
At last, sleep gradually stole upon her--a broken, fitful sleep,
troubled by dreams of falling from high towers, and waking with a
start and in great terror. A deeper slumber followed this--and
then--What! That figure in the room.
A figure was there. Yes, she had drawn up the blind to admit the
light when it should be dawn, and there, between the foot of the
bed and the dark casement, it crouched and slunk along, groping its
way with noiseless hands, and stealing round the bed. She had no
voice to cry for help, no power to move, but lay still, watching
it.
On it came--on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's head. The
breath so near her pillow, that she shrunk back into it, lest those
wandering hands should light upon her face. Back again it stole to
the window--then turned its head towards her.
The dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter darkness of the
room, but she saw the turning of the head, and felt and knew how
the eyes looked and the ears listened. There it remained,
motionless as she. At length, still keeping the face towards her,
it busied its hands in something, and she heard the chink of money.
Then, on it came again, silent and stealthy as before, and
replacing the garments it had taken from the bedside, dropped upon
its hands and knees, and crawled away. How slowly it seemed to
move, now that she could hear but not see it, creeping along the
floor! It reached the door at last, and stood upon its feet. The
steps creaked beneath its noiseless tread, and it was gone.
The first impulse of the child was to fly from the terror of being
by herself in that room--to have somebody by--not to be alone--
and then her power of speech would be restored. With no
consciousness of having moved, she gained the door.
There was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the bottom of the steps.
She could not pass it; she might have done so, perhaps, in the
darkness without being seized, but her blood curdled at the
thought. The figure stood quite still, and so did she; not boldly,
but of necessity; for going back into the room was hardly less
terrible than going on.
The rain beat fast and furiously without, and ran down in plashing
streams from the thatched roof. Some summer insect, with no escape
into the air, flew blindly to and fro, beating its body against the
walls and ceiling, and filling the silent place with murmurs. The
figure moved again. The child involuntarily did the same. Once in
her grandfather's room, she would be safe.
It crept along the passage until it came to the very door she
longed so ardently to reach. The child, in the agony of being so
near, had almost darted forward with the design of bursting into
the room and closing it behind her, when the figure stopped again.
The idea flashed suddenly upon her--what if it entered there, and
had a design upon the old man's life! She turned faint and sick.
It did. It went in. There was a light inside. The figure was now
within the chamber, and she, still dumb--quite dumb, and almost
senseless--stood looking on.
The door was partly open. Not knowing what she meant to do, but
meaning to preserve him or be killed herself, she staggered forward
and looked in.
What sight was that which met her view!
The bed had not been lain on, but was smooth and empty. And at a
table sat the old man himself; the only living creature there; his
white face pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made his
eyes unnaturally bright--counting the money of which his hands had
robbed her.
CHAPTER 31
With steps more faltering and unsteady than those with which she
had approached the room, the child withdrew from the door, and
groped her way back to her own chamber. The terror she had lately
felt was nothing compared with that which now oppressed her. No
strange robber, no treacherous host conniving at the plunder of his
guests, or stealing to their beds to kill them in their sleep, no
nightly prowler, however terrible and cruel, could have awakened in
her bosom half the dread which the recognition of her silent
visitor inspired. The grey-headed old man gliding like a ghost
into her room and acting the thief while he supposed her fast
asleep, then bearing off his prize and hanging over it with the
ghastly exultation she had witnessed, was worse--immeasurably
worse, and far more dreadful, for the moment, to reflect upon--
than anything her wildest fancy could have suggested. If he should
return--there was no lock or bolt upon the door, and if,
distrustful of having left some money yet behind, he should come
back to seek for more--a vague awe and horror surrounded the idea
of his slinking in again with stealthy tread, and turning his face
toward the empty bed, while she shrank down close at his feet to
avoid his touch, which was almost insupportable. She sat and
listened. Hark! A footstep on the stairs, and now the door was
slowly opening. It was but imagination, yet imagination had all
the terrors of reality; nay, it was worse, for the reality would
have come and gone, and there an end, but in imagination it was
always coming, and never went away.
The feeling which beset the child was one of dim uncertain horror.
She had no fear of the dear old grandfather, in whose
love for her this disease of the brain had been engendered; but the
man she had seen that night, wrapt in the game of chance, lurking
in her room, and counting the money by the glimmering light, seemed
like another creature in his shape, a monstrous distortion of his
image, a something to recoil from, and be the more afraid of,
because it bore a likeness to him, and kept close about her, as he
did. She could scarcely connect her own affectionate companion,
save by his loss, with this old man, so like yet so unlike him.
She had wept to see him dull and quiet. How much greater cause she
had for weeping now!
The child sat watching and thinking of these things, until the
phantom in her mind so increased in gloom and terror, that she felt
it would be a relief to hear the old man's voice, or, if he were
asleep, even to see him, and banish some of the fears that
clustered round his image. She stole down the stairs and passage
again. The door was still ajar as she had left it, and the candle
burning as before.
She had her own candle in her hand, prepared to say, if he were
waking, that she was uneasy and could not rest, and had come to see
if his were still alight. Looking into the room, she saw him lying
calmly on his bed, and so took courage to enter.
Fast asleep. No passion in the face, no avarice, no anxiety, no
wild desire; all gentle, tranquil, and at peace. This was not the
gambler, or the shadow in her room; this was not even the worn and
jaded man whose face had so often met her own in the grey morning
light; this was her dear old friend, her harmless fellowtraveller,
her good, kind grandfather.
She had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering features, but she
had a deep and weighty sorrow, and it found its relief in tears.
'God bless him!' said the child, stooping softly to kiss his placid
cheek. 'I see too well now, that they would indeed part us if they
found us out, and shut him up from the light of the sun and sky.
He has only me to help him. God bless us both!'
Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had come,
and, gaining her own room once more, sat up during the remainder of
that long, long, miserable night.
At last the day turned her waning candle pale, and she fell asleep.
She was quickly roused by the girl who had shown her up to bed;
and, as soon as she was dressed, prepared to go down
to her grandfather. But first she searched her pocket and found
that her money was all gone--not a sixpence remained.
The old man was ready, and in a few seconds they were on their
road. The child thought he rather avoided her eye, and appeared to
expect that she would tell him of her loss. She felt she must do
that, or he might suspect the truth.
'Grandfather,' she said in a tremulous voice, after they had walked
about a mile in silence, 'do you think they are honest people at
the house yonder?'
'Why?' returned the old man trembling. 'Do I think them honest--
yes, they played honestly.'
'I'll tell you why I ask,' rejoined Nell. 'I lost some money last
night--out of my bedroom, I am sure. Unless it was taken by
somebody in jest--only in jest, dear grandfather, which would make
me laugh heartily if I could but know it--'
'Who would take money in jest?' returned the old man in a hurried manner.
'Those who take money, take it to keep. Don't talk of jest.'
'Then it was stolen out of my room, dear,' said the child, whose
last hope was destroyed by the manner of this reply.
'But is there no more, Nell?' said the old man; 'no more anywhere?
Was it all taken--every farthing of it--was there nothing left?'
'Nothing,' replied the child.
'We must get more,' said the old man, 'we must earn it, Nell, hoard
it up, scrape it together, come by it somehow. Never mind this
loss. Tell nobody of it, and perhaps we may regain it. Don't ask
how;--we may regain it, and a great deal more;--but tell nobody,
or trouble may come of it. And so they took it out of thy room,
when thou wert asleep!' he added in a compassionate tone, very
different from the secret, cunning way in which he had spoken
until now. 'Poor Nell, poor little Nell!'
The child hung down her head and wept. The sympathising tone in
which he spoke, was quite sincere; she was sure of that. It was not
the lightest part of her sorrow to know that this was done for her.
'Not a word about it to any one but me,' said the old man, 'no, not
even to me,' he added hastily, 'for it can do no good. All the
losses that ever were, are not worth tears from thy eyes, darling.
Why should they be, when we will win them back?'
'Let them go,' said the child looking up. 'Let them go, once and
for ever, and I would never shed another tear if every penny had
been a thousand pounds.'
'Well, well,' returned the old man, checking himself as some
impetuous answer rose to his lips, 'she knows no better. I ought
to be thankful of it.'
'But listen to me,' said the child earnestly, 'will you listen to me?'
'Aye, aye, I'll listen,' returned the old man, still without
looking at her; 'a pretty voice. It has always a sweet sound to
me. It always had when it was her mother's, poor child.'
'Let me persuade you, then--oh, do let me persuade you,' said the
child, 'to think no more of gains or losses, and to try no fortune
but the fortune we pursue together.'
'We pursue this aim together,' retorted her grandfather, still
looking away and seeming to confer with himself. 'Whose image
sanctifies the game?'
'Have we been worse off,' resumed the child, 'since you forgot
these cares, and we have been travelling on together? Have we not
been much better and happier without a home to shelter us, than
ever we were in that unhappy house, when they were on your mind?'
'She speaks the truth,' murmured the old man in the same tone as
before. 'It must not turn me, but it is the truth; no doubt it
is.'
'Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we
turned our backs upon it for the last time,' said Nell, 'only
remember what we have been since we have been free of all those
miseries--what peaceful days and quiet nights we have had--what
pleasant times we have known--what happiness we have enjoyed. If
we have been tired or hungry, we have been soon refreshed, and
slept the sounder for it. Think what beautiful things we have
seen, and how contented we have felt. And why was this blessed
change?'
He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him
no more just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her
cheek, still motioning her to silence, and walked on, looking far
before him, and sometimes stopping and gazing with a puckered brow
upon the ground, as if he were painfully trying to collect his
disordered thoughts. Once she saw tears in his eyes. When he had
gone on thus for some time, he took her hand in his as he was
accustomed to do, with nothing of the violence or animation of his
late manner; and so, by degrees so fine that the child could not
trace them, he settled down into his usual quiet way, and suffered
her to lead him where she would.
When they presented themselves in the midst of the stupendous
collection, they found, as Nell had anticipated, that Mrs Jarley
was not yet out of bed, and that, although she had suffered some
uneasiness on their account overnight, and had indeed sat up for
them until past eleven o'clock, she had retired in the persuasion,
that, being overtaken by storm at some distance from home, they had
sought the nearest shelter, and would not return before morning.
Nell immediately applied herself with great assiduity to the
decoration and preparation of the room, and had the satisfaction of
completing her task, and dressing herself neatly, before the
beloved of the Royal Family came down to breakfast.
'We haven't had,' said Mrs Jarley when the meal was over, 'more
than eight of Miss Monflathers's young ladies all the time we've
been here, and there's twenty-six of 'em, as I was told by the cook
when I asked her a question or two and put her on the free-list.
We must try 'em with a parcel of new bills, and you shall take it,
my dear, and see what effect that has upon 'em.'
The proposed expedition being one of paramount importance, Mrs
Jarley adjusted Nell's bonnet with her own hands, and declaring
that she certainly did look very pretty, and reflected credit on
the establishment, dismissed her with many commendations, and
certain needful directions as to the turnings on the right which
she was to take, and the turnings on the left which she was to
avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had no difficulty in finding out Miss
Monflathers's Boarding and Day Establishment, which was a large
house, with a high wall, and a large garden-gate with a large brass
plate, and a small grating through which Miss Monflathers's
parlour-maid inspected all visitors before admitting them; for
nothing in the shape of a man--no, not even a milkman--was
suffered, without special license, to pass that gate. Even the
tax-gatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a
broad-brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating. More
obdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this gate of Miss
Monflathers's frowned on all mankind. The very butcher respected
it as a gate of mystery, and left off whistling when he rang the
bell.
As Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon its hinges
with a creaking noise, and, forth from the solemn grove beyond,
came a long file of young ladies, two and two, all with open books
in their hands, and some with parasols likewise. And last of the
goodly procession came Miss Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol
of lilac silk, and supported by two smiling teachers, each mortally
envious of the other, and devoted unto Miss Monflathers.
Confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell stood with
downcast eyes and suffered the procession to pass on, until Miss
Monflathers, bringing up the rear, approached her, when she
curtseyed and presented her little packet; on receipt whereof Miss
Monflathers commanded that the line should halt.
'You're the wax-work child, are you not?' said Miss Monflathers.
'Yes, ma'am,' replied Nell, colouring deeply, for the young ladies
had collected about her, and she was the centre on which all eyes
were fixed.
'And don't you think you must be a very wicked little child,' said
Miss Monflathers, who was of rather uncertain temper, and lost no
opportunity of impressing moral truths upon the tender minds of the
young ladies, 'to be a wax-work child at all?'
Poor Nell had never viewed her position in this light, and not
knowing what to say, remained silent, blushing more deeply than
before.
'Don't you know,' said Miss Monflathers, 'that it's very naughty
and unfeminine, and a perversion of the properties wisely and
benignantly transmitted to us, with expansive powers to be roused
from their dormant state through the medium of cultivation?'
The two teachers murmured their respectful approval of this
home-thrust, and looked at Nell as though they would have said that
there indeed Miss Monflathers had hit her very hard. Then they
smiled and glanced at Miss Monflathers, and then, their eyes
meeting, they exchanged looks which plainly said that each
considered herself smiler in ordinary to Miss Monflathers, and
regarded the other as having no right to smile, and that her so
doing was an act of presumption and impertinence.
'Don't you feel how naughty it is of you,' resumed Miss
Monflathers, 'to be a wax-work child, when you might have the proud
consciousness of assisting, to the extent of your infant powers,
the manufactures of your country; of improving your mind by the
constant contemplation of the steam-engine; and of earning a
comfortable and independent subsistence of from two-and-ninepence
to three shillings per week? Don't you know that the harder you
are at work, the happier you are?'
'"How doth the little--"' murmured one of the teachers, in
quotation from Doctor Watts.
'Eh?' said Miss Monflathers, turning smartly round. 'Who said
that?'
Of course the teacher who had not said it, indicated the rival who
had, whom Miss Monflathers frowningly requested to hold her peace;
by that means throwing the informing teacher into raptures of joy.
'The little busy bee,' said Miss Monflathers, drawing herself up,
'is applicable only to genteel children.
"In books, or work, or healthful play"
is quite right as far as they are concerned; and the work means
painting on velvet, fancy needle-work, or embroidery. In such
cases as these,' pointing to Nell, with her parasol, 'and in the
case of all poor people's children, we should read it thus:
"In work, work, work. In work alway
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for ev'ry day
Some good account at last."'
A deep hum of applause rose not only from the two teachers, but
from all the pupils, who were equally astonished to hear Miss
Monflathers improvising after this brilliant style; for although
she had been long known as a politician, she had never appeared
before as an original poet. Just then somebody happened to
discover that Nell was crying, and all eyes were again turned
towards her.
There were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out her
handkerchief to brush them away, she happened to let it fall.
Before she could stoop to pick it up, one young lady of about
fifteen or sixteen, who had been standing a little apart from the
others, as though she had no recognised place among them, sprang
forward and put it in her hand. She was gliding timidly away
again, when she was arrested by the governess.
'It was Miss Edwards who did that, I KNOW,' said Miss Monflathers
predictively. 'Now I am sure that was Miss Edwards.'
It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss Edwards, and
Miss Edwards herself admitted that it was.
'Is it not,' said Miss Monflathers, putting down her parasol to
take a severer view of the offender, 'a most remarkable thing, Miss
Edwards, that you have an attachment to the lower classes which
always draws you to their sides; or, rather, is it not a most
extraordinary thing that all I say and do will not wean you from
propensities which your original station in life have unhappily
rendered habitual to you, you extremely vulgar-minded girl?'
'I really intended no harm, ma'am,' said a sweet voice. 'It was a
momentary impulse, indeed.'
'An impulse!' repeated Miss Monflathers scornfully. 'I wonder that
you presume to speak of impulses to me'--both the teachers assented--
'I am astonished'--both the teachers were astonished--'I suppose
it is an impulse which induces you to take the part of every
grovelling and debased person that comes in your way'--both the
teachers supposed so too.
'But I would have you know, Miss Edwards,' resumed the governess in
a tone of increased severity, 'that you cannot be permitted--if it
be only for the sake of preserving a proper example and decorum in
this establishment--that you cannot be permitted, and that you
shall not be permitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in
this exceedingly gross manner. If you have no reason to feel a
becoming pride before wax-work children, there are young ladies
here who have, and you must either defer to those young ladies or
leave the establishment, Miss Edwards.'
This young lady, being motherless and poor, was apprenticed at the
school--taught for nothing--teaching others what she learnt, for
nothing--boarded for nothing--lodged for nothing--and set down
and rated as something immeasurably less than nothing, by all the
dwellers in the house. The servant-maids felt her inferiority, for
they were better treated; free to come and go, and regarded in
their stations with much more respect. The teachers were
infinitely superior, for they had paid to go to school in their
time, and were paid now. The pupils cared little for a companion
who had no grand stories to tell about home; no friends to come
with post-horses, and be received in all humility, with cake and
wine, by the governess; no deferential servant to attend and bear
her home for the holidays; nothing genteel to talk about, and
nothing to display. But why was Miss Monflathers always vexed and
irritated with the poor apprentice--how did that come to pass?
Why, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's cap, and the
brightest glory of Miss Monflathers's school, was a baronet's
daughter--the real live daughter of a real live baronet--who, by
some extraordinary reversal of the Laws of Nature, was not only
plain in features but dull in intellect, while the poor apprentice
had both a ready wit, and a handsome face and figure. It seems
incredible. Here was Miss Edwards, who only paid a small premium
which had been spent long ago, every day outshining and excelling
the baronet's daughter, who learned all the extras (or was taught
them all) and whose half-yearly bill came to double that of any
other young lady's in the school, making no account of the honour
and reputation of her pupilage. Therefore, and because she was a
dependent, Miss Monflathers had a great dislike to Miss Edwards,
and was spiteful to her, and aggravated by her, and, when she had
compassion on little Nell, verbally fell upon and maltreated her as
we have already seen.
'You will not take the air to-day, Miss Edwards,' said Miss
Monflathers. 'Have the goodness to retire to your own room, and
not to leave it without permission.'
The poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was suddenly, in
nautical phrase, 'brought to' by a subdued shriek from Miss
Monflathers.
'She has passed me without any salute!' cried the governess,
raising her eyes to the sky. 'She has actually passed me without
the slightest acknowledgment of my presence!'
The young lady turned and curtsied. Nell could see that she raised
her dark eyes to the face of her superior, and that their
expression, and that of her whole attitude for the instant, was one
of mute but most touching appeal against this ungenerous usage.
Miss Monflathers only tossed her head in reply, and the great gate
closed upon a bursting heart.
'As for you, you wicked child,' said Miss Monflathers, turning to
Nell, 'tell your mistress that if she presumes to take the liberty
of sending to me any more, I will write to the legislative
authorities and have her put in the stocks, or compelled to do
penance in a white sheet; and you may depend upon it that you shall
certainly experience the treadmill if you dare to come here again.
Now ladies, on.'
The procession filed off, two and two, with the books and parasols,
and Miss Monflathers, calling the Baronet's daughter to walk with
her and smooth her ruffled feelings, discarded the two teachers--
who by this time had exchanged their smiles for looks of sympathy--
and left them to bring up the rear, and hate each other a little
more for being obliged to walk together.
CHAPTER 32
Mrs Jarley's wrath on first learning that she had been threatened
with the indignity of Stocks and Penance, passed all description.
The genuine and only Jarley exposed to public scorn, jeered by
children, and flouted by beadles! The delight of the Nobility and
Gentry shorn of a bonnet which a Lady Mayoress might have sighed to
wear, and arrayed in a white sheet as a spectacle of mortification
and humility! And Miss Monflathers, the audacious creature who
presumed, even in the dimmest and remotest distance of her
imagination, to conjure up the degrading picture, 'I am a'most
inclined,' said Mrs Jarley, bursting with the fulness of her anger
and the weakness of her means of revenge, 'to turn atheist when I
think of it!'
But instead of adopting this course of retaliation, Mrs Jarley, on
second thoughts, brought out the suspicious bottle, and ordering
glasses to be set forth upon her favourite drum, and sinking into
a chair behind it, called her satellites about her, and to them
several times recounted, word for word, the affronts she had
received. This done, she begged them in a kind of deep despair to
drink; then laughed, then cried, then took a little sip herself,
then laughed and cried again, and took a little more; and so, by
degrees, the worthy lady went on, increasing in smiles and
decreasing in tears, until at last she could not laugh enough at
Miss Monflathers, who, from being an object of dire vexation,
became one of sheer ridicule and absurdity.
'For which of us is best off, I wonder,' quoth Mrs Jarley, 'she or
me! It's only talking, when all is said and done, and if she talks
of me in the stocks, why I can talk of her in the stocks, which is
a good deal funnier if we come to that. Lord, what does it matter,
after all!'
Having arrived at this comfortable frame of mind (to which she had
been greatly assisted by certain short interjectional remarks of
the philosophical George), Mrs Jarley consoled Nell with many kind
words, and requested as a personal favour that whenever she thought
of Miss Monflathers, she would do nothing else but laugh at her,
all the days of her life.
So ended Mrs Jarley's wrath, which subsided long before the going
down of the sun. Nell's anxieties, however, were of a deeper kind,
and the checks they imposed upon her cheerfulness were not so
easily removed.
That evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole away, and
did not come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she
was, and fatigued in mind and body, she sat up alone, counting the
minutes, until he returned--penniless, broken-spirited, and
wretched, but still hotly bent upon his infatuation.
'Get me money,' he said wildly, as they parted for the night. 'I
must have money, Nell. It shall be paid thee back with gallant
interest one day, but all the money that comes into thy hands, must
be mine--not for myself, but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to
use for thee!'
What could the child do with the knowledge she had, but give him
every penny that came into her hands, lest he should be tempted on
to rob their benefactress? If she told the truth (so thought the
child) he would be treated as a madman; if she did not supply him
with money, he would supply himself; supplying him, she fed the
fire that burnt him up, and put him perhaps beyond recovery.
Distracted by these thoughts, borne down by the weight of the
sorrow which she dared not tell, tortured by a crowd of
apprehensions whenever the old man was absent, and dreading alike
his stay and his return, the colour forsook her cheek, her eye grew
dim, and her heart was oppressed and heavy. All her old sorrows
had come back upon her, augmented by new fears and doubts; by day
they were ever present to her mind; by night they hovered round her
pillow, and haunted her in dreams.
It was natural that, in the midst of her affliction, she should
often revert to that sweet young lady of whom she had only caught
a hasty glance, but whose sympathy, expressed in one slight brief
action, dwelt in her memory like the kindnesses of years. She
would often think, if she had such a friend as that to whom to tell
her griefs, how much lighter her heart would be--that if she were
but free to hear that voice, she would be happier. Then she would
wish that she were something better, that she were not quite so
poor and humble, that she dared address her without fearing a
repulse; and then feel that there was an immeasurable distance
between them, and have no hope that the young lady thought of her
any more.
It was now holiday-time at the schools, and the young ladies had
gone home, and Miss Monflathers was reported to be flourishing in
London, and damaging the hearts of middle-aged gentlemen, but
nobody said anything about Miss Edwards, whether she had gone home,
or whether she had any home to go to, whether she was still at the
school, or anything about her. But one evening, as Nell was
returning from a lonely walk, she happened to pass the inn where
the stage-coaches stopped, just as one drove up, and there was the
beautiful girl she so well remembered, pressing forward to embrace
a young child whom they were helping down from the roof.
Well, this was her sister, her little sister, much younger than
Nell, whom she had not seen (so the story went afterwards) for five
years, and to bring whom to that place on a short visit, she had
been saving her poor means all that time. Nell felt as if her
heart would break when she saw them meet. They went a little apart
from the knot of people who had congregated about the coach, and
fell upon each other's neck, and sobbed, and wept with joy. Their
plain and simple dress, the distance which the child had come
alone, their agitation and delight, and the tears they shed, would
have told their history by themselves.
They became a little more composed in a short time, and went away,
not so much hand in hand as clinging to each other. 'Are you sure
you're happy, sister?' said the child as they passed where Nell was
standing. 'Quite happy now,' she answered. 'But always?' said the
child. 'Ah, sister, why do you turn away your face?'
Nell could not help following at a little distance. They went to
the house of an old nurse, where the elder sister had engaged a
bed-room for the child. 'I shall come to you early every morning,'
she said, 'and we can be together all the day.-'-'Why not at
night-time too? Dear sister, would they be angry with you for
that?'
Why were the eyes of little Nell wet, that night, with tears like
those of the two sisters? Why did she bear a grateful heart
because they had met, and feel it pain to think that they would
shortly part? Let us not believe that any selfish reference--
unconscious though it might have been--to her own trials awoke
this sympathy, but thank God that the innocent joys of others can
strongly move us, and that we, even in our fallen nature, have one
source of pure emotion which must be prized in Heaven!
By morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still by evening's gentle
light, the child, with a respect for the short and happy
intercourse of these two sisters which forbade her to approach and
say a thankful word, although she yearned to do so, followed them
at a distance in their walks and rambles, stopping when they
stopped, sitting on the grass when they sat down, rising when they
went on, and feeling it a companionship and delight to be so near
them. Their evening walk was by a river's side. Here, every
night, the child was too, unseen by them, unthought of, unregarded;
but feeling as if they were her friends, as if they had confidences
and trusts together, as if her load were lightened and less hard to
bear; as if they mingled their sorrows, and found mutual
consolation. It was a weak fancy perhaps, the childish fancy of a
young and lonely creature; but night after night, and still the
sisters loitered in the same place, and still the child followed
with a mild and softened heart.
She was much startled, on returning home one night, to find that
Mrs Jarley had commanded an announcement to be prepared, to the
effect that the stupendous collection would only remain in its
present quarters one day longer; in fulfilment of which threat (for
all announcements connected with public amusements are well known
to be irrevocable and most exact), the stupendous collection shut
up next day.
'Are we going from this place directly, ma'am?' said Nell.
'Look here, child,' returned Mrs Jarley. 'That'll inform you.'
And so saying Mrs Jarley produced another announcement, wherein it
was stated, that, in consequence of numerous inquiries at the
wax-work door, and in consequence of crowds having been
disappointed in obtaining admission, the Exhibition would be
continued for one week longer, and would re-open next day.
'For now that the schools are gone, and the regular sight-seers
exhausted,' said Mrs Jarley, 'we come to the General Public, and
they want stimulating.'
Upon the following day at noon, Mrs Jarley established herself
behind the highly-ornamented table, attended by the distinguished
effigies before mentioned, and ordered the doors to be thrown open
for the readmission of a discerning and enlightened public. But
the first day's operations were by no means of a successful
character, inasmuch as the general public, though they manifested
a lively interest in Mrs Jarley personally, and such of her waxen
satellites as were to be seen for nothing, were not affected by any
impulses moving them to the payment of sixpence a head. Thus,
notwithstanding that a great many people continued to stare at the
entry and the figures therein displayed; and remained there with
great perseverance, by the hour at a time, to hear the barrel-organ
played and to read the bills; and notwithstanding that they were
kind enough to recommend their friends to patronise the exhibition
in the like manner, until the door-way was regularly blockaded by
half the population of the town, who, when they went off duty, were
relieved by the other half; it was not found that the treasury was
any the richer, or that the prospects of the establishment were at
all encouraging.
In this depressed state of the classical market, Mrs Jarley made
extraordinary efforts to stimulate the popular taste, and whet the
popular curiosity. Certain machinery in the body of the nun on the
leads over the door was cleaned up and put in motion, so that the
figure shook its head paralytically all day long, to the great
admiration of a drunken, but very Protestant, barber over the way,
who looked upon the said paralytic motion as typical of the
degrading effect wrought upon the human mind by the ceremonies of
the Romish Church and discoursed upon that theme with great
eloquence and morality. The two carters constantly passed in and
out of the exhibition-room, under various disguises, protesting
aloud that the sight was better worth the money than anything they
had beheld in all their lives, and urging the bystanders, with
tears in their eyes, not to neglect such a brilliant gratification.
Mrs Jarley sat in the pay-place, chinking silver moneys from noon
till night, and solemnly calling upon the crowd to take notice that
the price of admission was only sixpence, and that the departure of
the whole collection, on a short tour among the Crowned Heads of
Europe, was positively fixed for that day week.
'So be in time, be in time, be in time,' said Mrs Jarley at the
close of every such address. 'Remember that this is Jarley's
stupendous collection of upwards of One Hundred Figures, and that
it is the only collection in the world; all others being imposters
and deceptions. Be in time, be in time, be in time!'
CHAPTER 33
As the course of this tale requires that we should become
acquainted, somewhere hereabouts, with a few particulars connected
with the domestic economy of Mr Sampson Brass, and as a more
convenient place than the present is not likely to occur for that
purpose, the historian takes the friendly reader by the hand, and
springing with him into the air, and cleaving the same at a greater
rate than ever Don Cleophas Leandro Perez Zambullo and his familiar
travelled through that pleasant region in company, alights with him
upon the pavement of Bevis Marks.
The intrepid aeronauts alight before a small dark house, once the
residence of Mr Sampson Brass.
In the parlour window of this little habitation, which is so close
upon the footway that the passenger who takes the wall brushes the
dim glass with his coat sleeve--much to its improvement, for it is
very dirty--in this parlour window in the days of its occupation
by Sampson Brass, there hung, all awry and slack, and discoloured
by the sun, a curtain of faded green, so threadbare from long
service as by no means to intercept the view of the little dark
room, but rather to afford a favourable medium through which to
observe it accurately. There was not much to look at. A rickety
table, with spare bundles of papers, yellow and ragged from long
carriage in the pocket, ostentatiously displayed upon its top; a
couple of stools set face to face on opposite sides of this crazy
piece of furniture; a treacherous old chair by the fire-place,
whose withered arms had hugged full many a client and helped to
squeeze him dry; a second-hand wig box, used as a depository for
blank writs and declarations and other small forms of law, once the
sole contents of the head which belonged to the wig which belonged
to the box, as they were now of the box itself; two or three common
books of practice; a jar of ink, a pounce box, a stunted
hearth-broom, a carpet trodden to shreds but still clinging with
the tightness of desperation to its tacks--these, with the yellow
wainscot of the walls, the smoke-discoloured ceiling, the dust and
cobwebs, were among the most prominent decorations of the office of
Mr Sampson Brass.
But this was mere still-life, of no greater importance than the
plate, 'BRASS, Solicitor,' upon the door, and the bill, 'First
floor to let to a single gentleman,' which was tied to the knocker.
The office commonly held two examples of animated nature, more to
the purpose of this history, and in whom it has a stronger interest
and more particular concern.
Of these, one was Mr Brass himself, who has already appeared in
these pages. The other was his clerk, assistant, housekeeper,
secretary, confidential plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill of
cost increaser, Miss Brass--a kind of amazon at common law, of
whom it may be desirable to offer a brief description.
Miss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of thirty-five or thereabouts,
of a gaunt and bony figure, and a resolute bearing, which if it
repressed the softer emotions of love, and kept admirers at a
distance, certainly inspired a feeling akin to awe in the breasts
of those male strangers who had the happiness to approach her. In
face she bore a striking resemblance to her brother, Sampson--so
exact, indeed, was the likeness between them, that had it consorted
with Miss Brass's maiden modesty and gentle womanhood to have
assumed her brother's clothes in a frolic and sat down beside him,
it would have been difficult for the oldest friend of the family to
determine which was Sampson and which Sally, especially as the lady
carried upon her upper lip certain reddish demonstrations, which,
if the imagination had been assisted by her attire, might have been
mistaken for a beard. These were, however, in all probability,
nothing more than eyelashes in a wrong place, as the eyes of Miss
Brass were quite free from any such natural impertinencies. In
complexion Miss Brass was sallow--rather a dirty sallow, so to
speak--but this hue was agreeably relieved by the healthy glow
which mantled in the extreme tip of her laughing nose. Her voice
was exceedingly impressive--deep and rich in quality, and, once
heard, not easily forgotten. Her usual dress was a green gown, in
colour not unlike the curtain of the office window, made tight to
the figure, and terminating at the throat, where it was fastened
behind by a peculiarly large and massive button. Feeling, no
doubt, that simplicity and plainness are the soul of elegance, Miss
Brass wore no collar or kerchief except upon her head, which was
invariably ornamented with a brown gauze scarf, like the wing of
the fabled vampire, and which, twisted into any form that happened
to suggest itself, formed an easy and graceful head-dress.
Such was Miss Brass in person. In mind, she was of a strong and
vigorous turn, having from her earliest youth devoted herself with
uncommon ardour to the study of law; not wasting her speculations
upon its eagle flights, which are rare, but tracing it attentively
through all the slippery and eel-like crawlings in which it
commonly pursues its way. Nor had she, like many persons of great
intellect, confined herself to theory, or stopped short where
practical usefulness begins; inasmuch as she could ingross,
fair-copy, fill up printed forms with perfect accuracy, and, in
short, transact any ordinary duty of the office down to pouncing a
skin of parchment or mending a pen. It is difficult to understand
how, possessed of these combined attractions, she should remain
Miss Brass; but whether she had steeled her heart against mankind,
or whether those who might have wooed and won her, were deterred by
fears that, being learned in the law, she might have too near her
fingers' ends those particular statutes which regulate what are
familiarly termed actions for breach, certain it is that she was
still in a state of celibacy, and still in daily occupation of her
old stool opposite to that of her brother Sampson. And equally
certain it is, by the way, that between these two stools a great
many people had come to the ground.
One morning Mr Sampson Brass sat upon his stool copying some legal
process, and viciously digging his pen deep into the paper, as if
he were writing upon the very heart of the party against whom it
was directed; and Miss Sally Brass sat upon her stool making a new
pen preparatory to drawing out a little bill, which was her
favourite occupation; and so they sat in silence for a long time,
until Miss Brass broke silence.
'Have you nearly done, Sammy?' said Miss Brass; for in her mild and
feminine lips, Sampson became Sammy, and all things were softened
down.
'No,' returned her brother. 'It would have been all done though,
if you had helped at the right time.'
'Oh yes, indeed,' cried Miss Sally; 'you want my help, don't you? --
YOU, too, that are going to keep a clerk!'
'Am I going to keep a clerk for my own pleasure, or because of my
own wish, you provoking rascal!' said Mr Brass, putting his pen in
his mouth, and grinning spitefully at his sister. 'What do you
taunt me about going to keep a clerk for?'
It may be observed in this place, lest the fact of Mr Brass calling
a lady a rascal, should occasion any wonderment or surprise, that
he was so habituated to having her near him in a man's capacity,
that he had gradually accustomed himself to talk to her as though
she were really a man. And this feeling was so perfectly
reciprocal, that not only did Mr Brass often call Miss Brass a
rascal, or even put an adjective before the rascal, but Miss Brass
looked upon it as quite a matter of course, and was as little moved
as any other lady would be by being called an angel.
'What do you taunt me, after three hours' talk last night, with
going to keep a clerk for?' repeated Mr Brass, grinning again with
the pen in his mouth, like some nobleman's or gentleman's crest.
Is it my fault?'
'All I know is,' said Miss Sally, smiling drily, for she delighted
in nothing so much as irritating her brother, 'that if every one of
your clients is to force us to keep a clerk, whether we want to or
not, you had better leave off business, strike yourself off the
roll, and get taken in execution, as soon as you can.'
'Have we got any other client like him?' said Brass. 'Have we got
another client like him now--will you answer me that?'
'Do you mean in the face!' said his sister.
'Do I mean in the face!' sneered Sampson Brass, reaching over to
take up the bill-book, and fluttering its leaves rapidly. 'Look
here--Daniel Quilp, Esquire--Daniel Quilp, Esquire--Daniel Quilp,
Esquire--all through. Whether should I take a clerk that he
recommends, and says, "this is the man for you," or lose all this,
eh?'
Miss Sally deigned to make no reply, but smiled again, and went on
with her work.
'But I know what it is,' resumed Brass after a short silence.
'You're afraid you won't have as long a finger in the business as
you've been used to have. Do you think I don't see through that?'
'The business wouldn't go on very long, I expect, without me,'
returned his sister composedly. 'Don't you be a fool and provoke
me, Sammy, but mind what you're doing, and do it.'
Sampson Brass, who was at heart in great fear of his sister,
sulkily bent over his writing again, and listened as she said:
'If I determined that the clerk ought not to come, of course he
wouldn't be allowed to come. You know that well enough, so don't
talk nonsense.'
Mr Brass received this observation with increased meekness, merely
remarking, under his breath, that he didn't like that kind of
joking, and that Miss Sally would be 'a much better fellow' if she
forbore to aggravate him. To this compliment Miss Sally replied,
that she had a relish for the amusement, and had no intention to
forego its gratification. Mr Brass not caring, as it seemed, to
pursue the subject any further, they both plied their pens at a
great pace, and there the discussion ended.
While they were thus employed, the window was suddenly darkened, as
by some person standing close against it. As Mr Brass and Miss
Sally looked up to ascertain the cause, the top sash was nimbly
lowered from without, and Quilp thrust in his head.
'Hallo!' he said, standing on tip-toe on the window-sill, and
looking down into the room. 'is there anybody at home? Is there
any of the Devil's ware here? Is Brass at a premium, eh?'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the lawyer in an affected ecstasy. 'Oh, very
good, Sir! Oh, very good indeed! Quite eccentric! Dear me, what
humour he has!'
'Is that my Sally?' croaked the dwarf, ogling the fair Miss Brass.
'Is it Justice with the bandage off her eyes, and without the sword
and scales? Is it the Strong Arm of the Law? Is it the Virgin of
Bevis?'
'What an amazing flow of spirits!' cried Brass. 'Upon my word,
it's quite extraordinary!'
'Open the door,' said Quilp, 'I've got him here. Such a clerk for
you, Brass, such a prize, such an ace of trumps. Be quick and open
the door, or if there's another lawyer near and he should happen to
look out of window, he'll snap him up before your eyes, he will.'
It is probable that the loss of the phoenix of clerks, even to a
rival practitioner, would not have broken Mr Brass's heart; but,
pretending great alacrity, he rose from his seat, and going to the
door, returned, introducing his client, who led by the hand no less
a person than Mr Richard Swiveller.
'There she is,' said Quilp, stopping short at the door, and
wrinkling up his eyebrows as he looked towards Miss Sally; 'there
is the woman I ought to have married--there is the beautiful Sarah--
there is the female who has all the charms of her sex and none of
their weaknesses. Oh Sally, Sally!'
To this amorous address Miss Brass briefly responded 'Bother!'
'Hard-hearted as the metal from which she takes her name,' said
Quilp. 'Why don't she change it--melt down the brass, and take
another name?'
'Hold your nonsense, Mr Quilp, do,' returned Miss Sally, with a
grim smile. 'I wonder you're not ashamed of yourself before a
strange young man.'
'The strange young man,' said Quilp, handing Dick Swiveller
forward, 'is too susceptible himself not to understand me well.
This is Mr Swiveller, my intimate friend--a gentleman of good
family and great expectations, but who, having rather involved
himself by youthful indiscretion, is content for a time to fill the
humble station of a clerk--humble, but here most enviable. What
a delicious atmosphere!'
If Mr Quilp spoke figuratively, and meant to imply that the air
breathed by Miss Sally Brass was sweetened and rarefied by that
dainty creature, he had doubtless good reason for what he said.
But if he spoke of the delights of the atmosphere of Mr Brass's
office in a literal sense, he had certainly a peculiar taste, as it
was of a close and earthy kind, and, besides being frequently
impregnated with strong whiffs of the second-hand wearing apparel
exposed for sale in Duke's Place and Houndsditch, had a decided
flavour of rats and mice, and a taint of mouldiness. Perhaps some
doubts of its pure delight presented themselves to Mr Swiveller, as
he gave vent to one or two short abrupt sniffs, and looked
incredulously at the grinning dwarf.
'Mr Swiveller,' said Quilp, 'being pretty well accustomed to the
agricultural pursuits of sowing wild oats, Miss Sally, prudently
considers that half a loaf is better than no bread. To be out of
harm's way he prudently thinks is something too, and therefore he
accepts your brother's offer. Brass, Mr Swiveller is yours.'
'I am very glad, Sir,' said Mr Brass, 'very glad indeed. Mr
Swiveller, Sir, is fortunate enough to have your friendship. You
may be very proud, Sir, to have the friendship of Mr Quilp.'
Dick murmured something about never wanting a friend or a bottle to
give him, and also gasped forth his favourite allusion to the wing
of friendship and its never moulting a feather; but his faculties
appeared to be absorbed in the contemplation of Miss Sally Brass,
at whom he stared with blank and rueful looks, which delighted the
watchful dwarf beyond measure. As to the divine Miss Sally
herself, she rubbed her hands as men of business do, and took a few
turns up and down the office with her pen behind her ear.
'I suppose,' said the dwarf, turning briskly to his legal friend,
'that Mr Swiveller enters upon his duties at once? It's Monday
morning.'
'At once, if you please, Sir, by all means,' returned Brass.
'Miss Sally will teach him law, the delightful study of the law,'
said Quilp; 'she'll be his guide, his friend, his companion, his
Blackstone, his Coke upon Littleton, his Young Lawyer's Best
Companion.'
'He is exceedingly eloquent,' said Brass, like a man abstracted,
and looking at the roofs of the opposite houses, with his hands in
his pockets; 'he has an extraordinary flow of language. Beautiful,
really.'
'With Miss Sally,' Quilp went on, 'and the beautiful fictions of
the law, his days will pass like minutes. Those charming creations
of the poet, John Doe and Richard Roe, when they first dawn upon
him, will open a new world for the enlargement of his mind and the
improvement of his heart.'
'Oh, beautiful, beautiful! Beau-ti-ful indeed!' cried Brass.
'It's a treat to hear him!'
'Where will Mr Swiveller sit?' said Quilp, looking round.
'Why, we'll buy another stool, sir,' returned Brass. 'We hadn't
any thoughts of having a gentleman with us, sir, until you were
kind enough to suggest it, and our accommodation's not extensive.
We'll look about for a second-hand stool, sir. In the meantime, if
Mr Swiveller will take my seat, and try his hand at a fair copy of
this ejectment, as I shall be out pretty well all the morning--'
'Walk with me,' said Quilp. 'I have a word or two to say to you on
points of business. Can you spare the time?'
'Can I spare the time to walk with you, sir? You're joking, sir,
you're joking with me,' replied the lawyer, putting on his hat.
'I'm ready, sir, quite ready. My time must be fully occupied
indeed, sir, not to leave me time to walk with you. It's not
everybody, sir, who has an opportunity of improving himself by the
conversation of Mr Quilp.'
The dwarf glanced sarcastically at his brazen friend, and, with a
short dry cough, turned upon his heel to bid adieu to Miss Sally.
After a very gallant parting on his side, and a very cool and
gentlemanly sort of one on hers, he nodded to Dick Swiveller, and
withdrew with the attorney.
Dick stood at the desk in a state of utter stupefaction, staring
with all his might at the beauteous Sally, as if she had been some
curious animal whose like had never lived. When the dwarf got into
the street, he mounted again upon the window-sill, and looked into
the office for a moment with a grinning face, as a man might peep
into a cage. Dick glanced upward at him, but without any token of
recognition; and long after he had disappeared, still stood gazing
upon Miss Sally Brass, seeing or thinking of nothing else, and
rooted to the spot.
Miss Brass being by this time deep in the bill of costs, took no
notice whatever of Dick, but went scratching on, with a noisy pen,
scoring down the figures with evident delight, and working like a
steam-engine. There stood Dick, gazing now at the green gown, now
at the brown head-dress, now at the face, and now at the rapid pen,
in a state of stupid perplexity, wondering how he got into the
company of that strange monster, and whether it was a dream and he
would ever wake. At last he heaved a deep sigh, and began slowly
pulling off his coat.
Mr Swiveller pulled off his coat, and folded it up with great
elaboration, staring at Miss Sally all the time; then put on a blue
jacket with a double row of gilt buttons, which he had originally
ordered for aquatic expeditions, but had brought with him that
morning for office purposes; and, still keeping his eye upon her,
suffered himself to drop down silently upon Mr Brass's stool. Then
he underwent a relapse, and becoming powerless again, rested his
chin upon his hand, and opened his eyes so wide, that it appeared
quite out of the question that he could ever close them any more.
When he had looked so long that he could see nothing, Dick took his
eyes off the fair object of his amazement, turned over the leaves
of the draft he was to copy, dipped his pen into the inkstand, and
at last, and by slow approaches, began to write. But he had not
written half-a-dozen words when, reaching over to the inkstand to
take a fresh dip, he happened to raise his eyes. There was the
intolerable brown head-dress--there was the green gown--there, in
short, was Miss Sally Brass, arrayed in all her charms, and more
tremendous than ever.
This happened so often, that Mr Swiveller by degrees began to feel
strange influences creeping over him--horrible desires to
annihilate this Sally Brass--mysterious promptings to knock her
head-dress off and try how she looked without it. There was a very
large ruler on the table; a large, black, shining ruler. Mr
Swiveller took it up and began to rub his nose with it.
From rubbing his nose with the ruler, to poising it in his hand and
giving it an occasional flourish after the tomahawk manner, the
transition was easy and natural. In some of these flourishes it
went close to Miss Sally's head; the ragged edges of the headdress
fluttered with the wind it raised; advance it but an inch,
and that great brown knot was on the ground: yet still the
unconscious maiden worked away, and never raised her eyes.
Well, this was a great relief. It was a good thing to write
doggedly and obstinately until he was desperate, and then snatch up
the ruler and whirl it about the brown head-dress with the
consciousness that he could have it off if he liked. It was a good
thing to draw it back, and rub his nose very hard with it, if he
thought Miss Sally was going to look up, and to recompense himself
with more hardy flourishes when he found she was still absorbed.
By these means Mr Swiveller calmed the agitation of his feelings,
until his applications to the ruler became less fierce and
frequent, and he could even write as many as half-a-dozen
consecutive lines without having recourse to it--which was a
great victory.
CHAPTER 34
In course of time, that is to say, after a couple of hours or so,
of diligent application, Miss Brass arrived at the conclusion of
her task, and recorded the fact by wiping her pen upon the green
gown, and taking a pinch of snuff from a little round tin box which
she carried in her pocket. Having disposed of this temperate
refreshment, she arose from her stool, tied her papers into a
formal packet with red tape, and taking them under her arm, marched
out of the office.
Mr Swiveller had scarcely sprung off his seat and commenced the
performance of a maniac hornpipe, when he was interrupted, in the
fulness of his joy at being again alone, by the opening of the
door, and the reappearance of Miss Sally's head.
'I am going out,' said Miss Brass.
'Very good, ma'am,' returned Dick. 'And don't hurry yourself on my
account to come back, ma'am,' he added inwardly.
'If anybody comes on office business, take their messages, and say
that the gentleman who attends to that matter isn't in at present,
will you?' said Miss Brass.
'I will, ma'am,' replied Dick.
'I shan't be very long,' said Miss Brass, retiring.
'I'm sorry to hear it, ma'am,' rejoined Dick when she had shut the
door. 'I hope you may be unexpectedly detained, ma'am. If you
could manage to be run over, ma'am, but not seriously, so much the
better.'
Uttering these expressions of good-will with extreme gravity, Mr
Swiveller sat down in the client's chair and pondered; then took a
few turns up and down the room and fell into the chair again.
'So I'm Brass's clerk, am I?' said Dick. 'Brass's clerk, eh? And
the clerk of Brass's sister--clerk to a female Dragon. Very good,
very good! What shall I be next? Shall I be a convict in a felt
hat and a grey suit, trotting about a dockyard with my number
neatly embroidered on my uniform, and the order of the garter on my
leg, restrained from chafing my ankle by a twisted belcher
handkerchief? Shall I be that? Will that do, or is it too
genteel? Whatever you please, have it your own way, of course.'
As he was entirely alone, it may be presumed that, in these
remarks, Mr Swiveller addressed himself to his fate or destiny,
whom, as we learn by the precedents, it is the custom of heroes to
taunt in a very bitter and ironical manner when they find
themselves in situations of an unpleasant nature. This is the more
probable from the circumstance of Mr Swiveller directing his
observations to the ceiling, which these bodily personages are
usually supposed to inhabit--except in theatrical cases, when they
live in the heart of the great chandelier.
'Quilp offers me this place, which he says he can insure me,'
resumed Dick after a thoughtful silence, and telling off the
circumstances of his position, one by one, upon his fingers; 'Fred,
who, I could have taken my affidavit, would not have heard of such
a thing, backs Quilp to my astonishment, and urges me to take it
also--staggerer, number one! My aunt in the country stops the
supplies, and writes an affectionate note to say that she has made
a new will, and left me out of it--staggerer, number two. No
money; no credit; no support from Fred, who seems to turn steady
all at once; notice to quit the old lodgings--staggerers, three,
four, five, and six! Under an accumulation of staggerers, no man
can be considered a free agent. No man knocks himself down; if his
destiny knocks him down, his destiny must pick him up again. Then
I'm very glad that mine has brought all this upon itself, and I
shall be as careless as I can, and make myself quite at home to
spite it. So go on my buck,' said Mr Swiveller, taking his leave
of the ceiling with a significant nod, 'and let us see which of us
will be tired first!'
Dismissing the subject of his downfall with these reflections,
which were no doubt very profound, and are indeed not altogether
unknown in certain systems of moral philosophy, Mr Swiveller shook
off his despondency and assumed the cheerful ease of an
irresponsible clerk.
As a means towards his composure and self-possession, he entered
into a more minute examination of the office than he had yet had
time to make; looked into the wig-box, the books, and ink-bottle;
untied and inspected all the papers; carved a few devices on the
table with a sharp blade of Mr Brass's penknife; and wrote his name
on the inside of the wooden coal-scuttle. Having, as it were,
taken formal possession of his clerkship in virtue of these
proceedings, he opened the window and leaned negligently out of it
until a beer-boy happened to pass, whom he commanded to set down
his tray and to serve him with a pint of mild porter, which he
drank upon the spot and promptly paid for, with the view of
breaking ground for a system of future credit and opening a
correspondence tending thereto, without loss of time. Then, three
or four little boys dropped in, on legal errands from three or four
attorneys of the Brass grade: whom Mr Swiveller received and
dismissed with about as professional a manner, and as correct and
comprehensive an understanding of their business, as would have
been shown by a clown in a pantomime under similar circumstances.
These things done and over, he got upon his stool again and tried
his hand at drawing caricatures of Miss Brass with a pen and ink,
whistling very cheerfully all the time.
He was occupied in this diversion when a coach stopped near the
door, and presently afterwards there was a loud double-knock. As
this was no business of Mr Swiveller's, the person not ringing the
office bell, he pursued his diversion with perfect composure,
notwithstanding that he rather thought there was nobody else in the
house.
In this, however, he was mistaken; for, after the knock had been
repeated with increased impatience, the door was opened, and
somebody with a very heavy tread went up the stairs and into the
room above. Mr Swiveller was wondering whether this might be
another Miss Brass, twin sister to the Dragon, when there came a
rapping of knuckles at the office door.
'Come in!' said Dick. 'Don't stand upon ceremony. The business
will get rather complicated if I've many more customers. Come in!'
'Oh, please,' said a little voice very low down in the doorway,
'will you come and show the lodgings?'
Dick leant over the table, and descried a small slipshod girl in a
dirty coarse apron and bib, which left nothing of her visible but
her face and feet. She might as well have been dressed in a
violin-case.
'Why, who are you?' said Dick.
To which the only reply was, 'Oh, please will you come and show the
lodgings?'
There never was such an old-fashioned child in her looks and
manner. She must have been at work from her cradle. She seemed as
much afraid of Dick, as Dick was amazed at her.
'I hav'n't got anything to do with the lodgings,' said Dick. 'Tell
'em to call again.'
'Oh, but please will you come and show the lodgings,' returned the
girl; 'It's eighteen shillings a week and us finding plate and
linen. Boots and clothes is extra, and fires in winter-time is
eightpence a day.'
'Why don't you show 'em yourself? You seem to know all about 'em,'
said Dick.
'Miss Sally said I wasn't to, because people wouldn't believe the
attendance was good if they saw how small I was first.'
'Well, but they'll see how small you are afterwards, won't they?'
said Dick.
'Ah! But then they'll have taken 'em for a fortnight certain,'
replied the child with a shrewd look; 'and people don't like moving
when they're once settled.'
'This is a queer sort of thing,' muttered Dick, rising. 'What do
you mean to say you are--the cook?'
'Yes, I do plain cooking;' replied the child. 'I'm housemaid too;
I do all the work of the house.'
'I suppose Brass and the Dragon and I do the dirtiest part of it,'
thought Dick. And he might have thought much more, being in a
doubtful and hesitating mood, but that the girl again urged her
request, and certain mysterious bumping sounds on the passage and
staircase seemed to give note of the applicant's impatience.
Richard Swiveller, therefore, sticking a pen behind each ear, and
carrying another in his mouth as a token of his great importance
and devotion to business, hurried out to meet and treat with the
single gentleman.
He was a little surprised to perceive that the bumping sounds were
occasioned by the progress up-stairs of the single gentleman's
trunk, which, being nearly twice as wide as the staircase, and
exceedingly heavy withal, it was no easy matter for the united
exertions of the single gentleman and the coachman to convey up the
steep ascent. But there they were, crushing each other, and
pushing and pulling with all their might, and getting the trunk
tight and fast in all kinds of impossible angles, and to pass them
was out of the question; for which sufficient reason, Mr Swiveller
followed slowly behind, entering a new protest on every stair
against the house of Mr Sampson Brass being thus taken by storm.
To these remonstrances, the single gentleman answered not a word,
but when the trunk was at last got into the bed-room, sat down upon
it and wiped his bald head and face with his handkerchief. He was
very warm, and well he might be; for, not to mention the exertion
of getting the trunk up stairs, he was closely muffled in winter
garments, though the thermometer had stood all day at eighty-one in
the shade.
'I believe, sir,' said Richard Swiveller, taking his pen out of his
mouth, 'that you desire to look at these apartments. They are very
charming apartments, sir. They command an uninterrupted view of--
of over the way, and they are within one minute's walk of--of the
corner of the street. There is exceedingly mild porter, sir, in
the immediate vicinity, and the contingent advantages are
extraordinary.'
'What's the rent?' said the single gentleman.
'One pound per week,' replied Dick, improving on the terms.
'I'll take 'em.'
'The boots and clothes are extras,' said Dick; 'and the fires in
winter time are--'
'Are all agreed to,' answered the single gentleman.
'Two weeks certain,' said Dick, 'are the--'
'Two weeks!' cried the single gentleman gruffly, eyeing him from
top to toe. 'Two years. I shall live here for two years. Here.
Ten pounds down. The bargain's made.'
'Why you see,' said Dick, 'my name is not Brass, and--'
'Who said it was? My name's not Brass. What then?'
'The name of the master of the house is,' said Dick.
'I'm glad of it,' returned the single gentleman; 'it's a good name
for a lawyer. Coachman, you may go. So may you, Sir.'
Mr Swiveller was so much confounded by the single gentleman riding
roughshod over him at this rate, that he stood looking at him
almost as hard as he had looked at Miss Sally. The single
gentleman, however, was not in the slightest degree affected by
this circumstance, but proceeded with perfect composure to unwind
the shawl which was tied round his neck, and then to pull off his
boots. Freed of these encumbrances, he went on to divest himself
of his other clothing, which he folded up, piece by piece, and
ranged in order on the trunk. Then, he pulled down the
window-blinds, drew the curtains, wound up his watch, and, quite
leisurely and methodically, got into bed.
'Take down the bill,' were his parting words, as he looked out from
between the curtains; 'and let nobody call me till I ring the
bell.'
With that the curtains closed, and he seemed to snore immediately.
'This is a most remarkable and supernatural sort of house!' said Mr
Swiveller, as he walked into the office with the bill in his hand.
'She-dragons in the business, conducting themselves like
professional gentlemen; plain cooks of three feet high appearing
mysteriously from under ground; strangers walking in and going to
bed without leave or licence in the middle of the day! If he
should be one of the miraculous fellows that turn up now and then,
and has gone to sleep for two years, I shall be in a pleasant
situation. It's my destiny, however, and I hope Brass may like it.
I shall be sorry if he don't. But it's no business of mine--I
have nothing whatever to do with it!'
CHAPTER 35
Mr Brass on returning home received the report of his clerk with
much complacency and satisfaction, and was particular in inquiring
after the ten-pound note, which, proving on examination to be a
good and lawful note of the Governor and Company of the Bank of
England, increased his good-humour considerably. Indeed he so
overflowed with liberality and condescension, that, in the fulness
of his heart, he invited Mr Swiveller to partake of a bowl of punch
with him at that remote and indefinite period which is currently
denominated 'one of these days,' and paid him many handsome
compliments on the uncommon aptitude for business which his conduct
on the first day of his devotion to it had so plainly evinced.
It was a maxim with Mr Brass that the habit of paying compliments
kept a man's tongue oiled without any expense; and, as that useful
member ought never to grow rusty or creak in turning on its hinges
in the case of a practitioner of the law, in whom it should be
always glib and easy, he lost few opportunities of improving
himself by the utterance of handsome speeches and eulogistic
expressions. And this had passed into such a habit with him, that,
if he could not be correctly said to have his tongue at his
fingers' ends, he might certainly be said to have it anywhere but
in his face: which being, as we have already seen, of a harsh and
repulsive character, was not oiled so easily, but frowned above all
the smooth speeches--one of nature's beacons, warning off those
who navigated the shoals and breakers of the World, or of that
dangerous strait the Law, and admonishing them to seek less
treacherous harbours and try their fortune elsewhere.
While Mr Brass by turns overwhelmed his clerk with compliments and
inspected the ten-pound note, Miss Sally showed little emotion and
that of no pleasurable kind, for as the tendency of her legal
practice had been to fix her thoughts on small gains and gripings,
and to whet and sharpen her natural wisdom, she was not a little
disappointed that the single gentleman had obtained the lodgings at
such an easy rate, arguing that when he was seen to have set his
mind upon them, he should have been at the least charged double or
treble the usual terms, and that, in exact proportion as he pressed
forward, Mr Swiveller should have hung back. But neither the good
opinion of Mr Brass, nor the dissatisfaction of Miss Sally, wrought
any impression upon that young gentleman, who, throwing the
responsibility of this and all other acts and deeds thereafter to
be done by him, upon his unlucky destiny, was quite resigned and
comfortable: fully prepared for the worst, and philosophically
indifferent to the best.
'Good morning, Mr Richard,' said Brass, on the second day of Mr
Swiveller's clerkship. 'Sally found you a second-hand stool, Sir,
yesterday evening, in Whitechapel. She's a rare fellow at a
bargain, I can tell you, Mr Richard. You'll find that a first-rate
stool, Sir, take my word for it.'
'It's rather a crazy one to look at,' said Dick.
'You'll find it a most amazing stool to sit down upon, you may
depend,' returned Mr Brass. 'It was bought in the open street just
opposite the hospital, and as it has been standing there a month of
two, it has got rather dusty and a little brown from being in the
sun, that's all.'
'I hope it hasn't got any fevers or anything of that sort in it,'
said Dick, sitting himself down discontentedly, between Mr Sampson
and the chaste Sally. 'One of the legs is longer than the others.'
'Then we get a bit of timber in, Sir,' retorted Brass. 'Ha, ha,
ha! We get a bit of timber in, Sir, and that's another advantage
of my sister's going to market for us. Miss Brass, Mr Richard is
the--'
'Will you keep quiet?' interrupted the fair subject of these
remarks, looking up from her papers. 'How am I to work if you keep
on chattering?'
'What an uncertain chap you are!' returned the lawyer. 'Sometimes
you're all for a chat. At another time you're all for work. A man
never knows what humour he'll find you in.'
'I'm in a working humour now,' said Sally, 'so don't disturb me, if
you please. And don't take him,' Miss Sally pointed with the
feather of her pen to Richard, 'off his business. He won't do more
than he can help, I dare say.'
Mr Brass had evidently a strong inclination to make an angry reply,
but was deterred by prudent or timid considerations, as he only
muttered something about aggravation and a vagabond; not
associating the terms with any individual, but mentioning them as
connected with some abstract ideas which happened to occur to him.
They went on writing for a long time in silence after this--in
such a dull silence that Mr Swiveller (who required excitement) had
several times fallen asleep, and written divers strange words in an
unknown character with his eyes shut, when Miss Sally at length
broke in upon the monotony of the office by pulling out the little
tin box, taking a noisy pinch of snuff, and then expressing her
opinion that Mr Richard Swiveller had 'done it.'
'Done what, ma'am?' said Richard.
'Do you know,' returned Miss Brass, 'that the lodger isn't up yet--
that nothing has been seen or heard of him since he went to bed
yesterday afternoon?'
'Well, ma'am,' said Dick, 'I suppose he may sleep his ten pound
out, in peace and quietness, if he likes.'
'Ah! I begin to think he'll never wake,' observed Miss Sally.
'It's a very remarkable circumstance,' said Brass, laying down his
pen; 'really, very remarkable. Mr Richard, you'll remember, if
this gentleman should be found to have hung himself to the
bed-post, or any unpleasant accident of that kind should happen--
you'll remember, Mr Richard, that this ten pound note was given to
you in part payment of two years' rent? You'll bear that in mind,
Mr Richard; you had better make a note of it, sir, in case you
should ever be called upon to give evidence.'
Mr Swiveller took a large sheet of foolscap, and with a countenance
of profound gravity, began to make a very small note in one corner.
'We can never be too cautious,' said Mr Brass. 'There is a deal of
wickedness going about the world, a deal of wickedness. Did the
gentleman happen to say, Sir--but never mind that at present, sir;
finish that little memorandum first.'
Dick did so, and handed it to Mr Brass, who had dismounted from his
stool, and was walking up and down the office.
'Oh, this is the memorandum, is it?' said Brass, running his eye
over the document. 'Very good. Now, Mr Richard, did the gentleman
say anything else?'
'No.'
'Are you sure, Mr Richard,' said Brass, solemnly, 'that the
gentleman said nothing else?'
'Devil a word, Sir,' replied Dick.
'Think again, Sir,' said Brass; 'it's my duty, Sir, in the position
in which I stand, and as an honourable member of the legal
profession--the first profession in this country, Sir, or in any
other country, or in any of the planets that shine above us at
night and are supposed to be inhabited--it's my duty, Sir, as an
honourable member of that profession, not to put to you a leading
question in a matter of this delicacy and importance. Did the
gentleman, Sir, who took the first floor of you yesterday
afternoon, and who brought with him a box of property--a box of
property--say anything more than is set down in this memorandum?'
'Come, don't be a fool,' said Miss Sally.
Dick looked at her, and then at Brass, and then at Miss Sally
again, and still said 'No.'
'Pooh, pooh! Deuce take it, Mr Richard, how dull you are!' cried
Brass, relaxing into a smile. 'Did he say anything about his
property? --there!'
'That's the way to put it,' said Miss Sally, nodding to her
brother.
'Did he say, for instance,' added Brass, in a kind of comfortable,
cozy tone--'I don't assert that he did say so, mind; I only ask
you, to refresh your memory--did he say, for instance, that he was
a stranger in London--that it was not his humour or within his
ability to give any references--that he felt we had a right to
require them--and that, in case anything should happen to him, at
any time, he particularly desired that whatever property he had
upon the premises should be considered mine, as some slight
recompense for the trouble and annoyance I should sustain--and
were you, in short,' added Brass, still more comfortably and cozily
than before, 'were you induced to accept him on my behalf, as a
tenant, upon those conditions?'
'Certainly not,' replied Dick.
'Why then, Mr Richard,' said Brass, darting at him a supercilious
and reproachful look, 'it's my opinion that you've mistaken your
calling, and will never make a lawyer.'
'Not if you live a thousand years,' added Miss Sally. Whereupon
the brother and sister took each a noisy pinch of snuff from the
little tin box, and fell into a gloomy thoughtfulness.
Nothing further passed up to Mr Swiveller's dinner-time, which was
at three o'clock, and seemed about three weeks in coming. At the
first stroke of the hour, the new clerk disappeared. At the last
stroke of five, he reappeared, and the office, as if by magic,
became fragrant with the smell of gin and water and lemon-peel.
'Mr Richard,' said Brass, 'this man's not up yet. Nothing will
wake him, sir. What's to be done?'
'I should let him have his sleep out,' returned Dick.
'Sleep out!' cried Brass; 'why he has been asleep now, sixand-
twenty hours. We have been moving chests of drawers over his
head, we have knocked double knocks at the street-door, we have
made the servant-girl fall down stairs several times (she's a light
weight, and it don't hurt her much,) but nothing wakes him.'
'Perhaps a ladder,' suggested Dick, 'and getting in at the firstfloor
window--'
'But then there's a door between; besides, the neighbours would be
up in arms,' said Brass.
'What do you say to getting on the roof of the house through the
trap-door, and dropping down the chimney?' suggested Dick.
'That would be an excellent plan,' said Brass, 'if anybody would
be--' and here he looked very hard at Mr Swiveller--'would be kind,
and friendly, and generous enough, to undertake it. I dare say it
would not be anything like as disagreeable as one supposes.'
Dick had made the suggestion, thinking that the duty might possibly
fall within Miss Sally's department. As he said nothing further,
and declined taking the hint, Mr Brass was fain to propose that
they should go up stairs together, and make a last effort to awaken
the sleeper by some less violent means, which, if they failed on
this last trial, must positively be succeeded by stronger measures.
Mr Swiveller, assenting, armed himself with his stool and the large
ruler, and repaired with his employer to the scene of action, where
Miss Brass was already ringing a hand-bell with all her might, and
yet without producing the smallest effect upon their mysterious
lodger.
'There are his boots, Mr Richard!' said Brass.
'Very obstinate-looking articles they are too,' quoth Richard
Swiveller. And truly, they were as sturdy and bluff a pair of
boots as one would wish to see; as firmly planted on the ground as
if their owner's legs and feet had been in them; and seeming, with
their broad soles and blunt toes, to hold possession of their place
by main force.
'I can't see anything but the curtain of the bed,' said Brass,
applying his eye to the keyhole of the door. 'Is he a strong man,
Mr Richard?'
Very,' answered Dick.
It would be an extremely unpleasant circumstance if he was to
bounce out suddenly,' said Brass. 'Keep the stairs clear. I
should be more than a match for him, of course, but I'm the master
of the house, and the laws of hospitality must be respected. --
Hallo there! Hallo, hallo!'
While Mr Brass, with his eye curiously twisted into the keyhole,
uttered these sounds as a means of attracting the lodger's
attention, and while Miss Brass plied the hand-bell, Mr Swiveller
put his stool close against the wall by the side of the door, and
mounting on the top and standing bolt upright, so that if the
lodger did make a rush, he would most probably pass him in its
onward fury, began a violent battery with the ruler upon the upper
panels of the door. Captivated with his own ingenuity, and
confident in the strength of his position, which he had taken up
after the method of those hardy individuals who open the pit and
gallery doors of theatres on crowded nights, Mr Swiveller rained
down such a shower of blows, that the noise of the bell was
drowned; and the small servant, who lingered on the stairs below,
ready to fly at a moment's notice, was obliged to hold her ears
lest she should be rendered deaf for life.
Suddenly the door was unlocked on the inside, and flung violently
open. The small servant flew to the coal-cellar; Miss Sally dived
into her own bed-room; Mr Brass, who was not remarkable for
personal courage, ran into the next street, and finding that nobody
followed him, armed with a poker or other offensive weapon, put his
hands in his pockets, walked very slowly all at once, and whistled.
Meanwhile, Mr Swiveller, on the top of the stool, drew himself into
as flat a shape as possible against the wall, and looked, not
unconcernedly, down upon the single gentleman, who appeared at the
door growling and cursing in a very awful manner, and, with the
boots in his hand, seemed to have an intention of hurling them down
stairs on speculation. This idea, however, he abandoned. He was
turning into his room again, still growling vengefully, when his
eyes met those of the watchful Richard.
'Have YOU been making that horrible noise?' said the single
gentleman.
'I have been helping, sir,' returned Dick, keeping his eye upon
him, and waving the ruler gently in his right hand, as an
indication of what the single gentleman had to expect if he
attempted any violence.
'How dare you then,' said the lodger, 'Eh?'
To this, Dick made no other reply than by inquiring whether the
lodger held it to be consistent with the conduct and character of
a gentleman to go to sleep for six-and-twenty hours at a stretch,
and whether the peace of an amiable and virtuous family was to
weigh as nothing in the balance.
'Is my peace nothing?' said the single gentleman.
'Is their peace nothing, sir?' returned Dick. 'I don't wish to
hold out any threats, sir--indeed the law does not allow of
threats, for to threaten is an indictable offence--but if ever you
do that again, take care you're not sat upon by the coroner and
buried in a cross road before you wake. We have been distracted
with fears that you were dead, Sir,' said Dick, gently sliding to
the ground, 'and the short and the long of it is, that we cannot
allow single gentlemen to come into this establishment and sleep
like double gentlemen without paying extra for it.'
'Indeed!' cried the lodger.
'Yes, Sir, indeed,' returned Dick, yielding to his destiny and
saying whatever came uppermost; 'an equal quantity of slumber was
never got out of one bed and bedstead, and if you're going to sleep
in that way, you must pay for a double-bedded room.' .
Instead of being thrown into a greater passion by these remarks,
the lodger lapsed into a broad grin and looked at Mr Swiveller with
twinkling eyes. He was a brown-faced sun-burnt man, and appeared
browner and more sun-burnt from having a white nightcap on. As it
was clear that he was a choleric fellow in some respects, Mr
Swiveller was relieved to find him in such good humour, and, to
encourage him in it, smiled himself.
The lodger, in the testiness of being so rudely roused, had pushed
his nightcap very much on one side of his bald head. This gave him
a rakish eccentric air which, now that he had leisure to observe
it, charmed Mr Swiveller exceedingly; therefore, by way of
propitiation, he expressed his hope that the gentleman was going to
get up, and further that he would never do so any more.
'Come here, you impudent rascal!' was the lodger's answer as he
re-entered his room.
Mr Swiveller followed him in, leaving the stool outside, but
reserving the ruler in case of a surprise. He rather congratulated
himself on his prudence when the single gentleman, without notice
or explanation of any kind, double-locked the door.
'Can you drink anything?' was his next inquiry.
Mr Swiveller replied that he had very recently been assuaging the
pangs of thirst, but that he was still open to 'a modest quencher,'
if the materials were at hand. Without another word spoken on
either side, the lodger took from his great trunk, a kind of
temple, shining as of polished silver, and placed it carefully on
the table.
Greatly interested in his proceedings, Mr Swiveller observed him
closely. Into one little chamber of this temple, he dropped an
egg; into another some coffee; into a third a compact piece of raw
steak from a neat tin case; into a fourth, he poured some water.
Then, with the aid of a phosphorus-box and some matches, he
procured a light and applied it to a spirit-lamp which had a place
of its own below the temple; then, he shut down the lids of all the
little chambers; then he opened them; and then, by some wonderful
and unseen agency, the steak was done, the egg was boiled, the
coffee was accurately prepared, and his breakfast was ready.
'Hot water--' said the lodger, handing it to Mr Swiveller with as
much coolness as if he had a kitchen fire before him--
'extraordinary rum--sugar--and a travelling glass. Mix for
yourself. And make haste.'
Dick complied, his eyes wandering all the time from the temple on
the table, which seemed to do everything, to the great trunk which
seemed to hold everything. The lodger took his breakfast like a
man who was used to work these miracles, and thought nothing of
them.
'The man of the house is a lawyer, is he not?' said the lodger.
Dick nodded. The rum was amazing.
'The woman of the house--what's she?'
'A dragon,' said Dick.
The single gentleman, perhaps because he had met with such things
in his travels, or perhaps because he WAS a single gentleman,
evinced no surprise, but merely inquired 'Wife or Sister?'--
'Sister,' said Dick.--'So much the better,' said the single
gentleman, 'he can get rid of her when he likes.'
'I want to do as I like, young man,' he added after a short
silence; 'to go to bed when I like, get up when I like, come in
when I like, go out when I like--to be asked no questions and be
surrounded by no spies. In this last respect, servants are the
devil. There's only one here.'
'And a very little one,' said Dick.
'And a very little one,' repeated the lodger. 'Well, the place
will suit me, will it?'
'Yes,' said Dick.
'Sharks, I suppose?' said the lodger.
Dick nodded assent, and drained his glass.
'Let them know my humour,' said the single gentleman, rising. 'If
they disturb me, they lose a good tenant. If they know me to be
that, they know enough. If they try to know more, it's a notice to
quit. It's better to understand these things at once. Good day.'
'I beg your pardon,' said Dick, halting in his passage to the door,
which the lodger prepared to open. 'When he who adores thee has
left but the name--'
'What do you mean?'
'--But the name,' said Dick--'has left but the name--in case of
letters or parcels--'
'I never have any,' returned the lodger.
'Or in the case anybody should call.'
'Nobody ever calls on me.'
'If any mistake should arise from not having the name, don't say it
was my fault, Sir,' added Dick, still lingering.--'Oh blame
not the bard--'
'I'll blame nobody,' said the lodger, with such irascibility that
in a moment Dick found himself on the staircase, and the locked
door between them.
Mr Brass and Miss Sally were lurking hard by, having been, indeed,
only routed from the keyhole by Mr Swiveller's abrupt exit. As
their utmost exertions had not enabled them to overhear a word of
the interview, however, in consequence of a quarrel for precedence,
which, though limited of necessity to pushes and pinches and such
quiet pantomime, had lasted the whole time, they hurried him down
to the office to hear his account of the conversation.
This Mr Swiveller gave them--faithfully as regarded the wishes and
character of the single gentleman, and poetically as concerned the
great trunk, of which he gave a description more remarkable for
brilliancy of imagination than a strict adherence to truth; declaring,
with many strong asseverations, that it contained a specimen of
every kind of rich food and wine, known in these times, and in
particular that it was of a self-acting kind and served up whatever
was required, as he supposed by clock-work. He also gave them
to understand that the cooking apparatus roasted a fine piece of
sirloin of beef, weighing about six pounds avoir-dupoise, in two
minutes and a quarter, as he had himself witnessed, and proved
by his sense of taste; and further, that, however the effect was
produced, he had distinctly seen water boil and bubble up when
the single gentleman winked; from which facts he (Mr Swiveller)
was led to infer that the lodger was some great conjuror or chemist,
or both, whose residence under that roof could not fail at some
future days to shed a great credit and distinction on the name of
Brass, and add a new interest to the history of Bevis Marks.
There was one point which Mr Swiveller deemed it unnecessary to
enlarge upon, and that was the fact of the modest quencher, which,
by reason of its intrinsic strength and its coming close upon the
heels of the temperate beverage he had discussed at dinner,
awakened a slight degree of fever, and rendered necessary two or